40 Vivsections and Lists
Acolyte Walys sat on the beach outside the Citadel, the wind measurably cooler than previous records, carefully prying off the shell as he continued vivisecting a small crab with an unusually large pincer that he'd found, his half-eaten orange resting on an empty, clean shell. He absently cut along the muscle to expose what was underneath while his mind wandered, remembering his cousins Maartin and Prunella... ahh, Pru. Their mother had moved to the Riverlands when she was married; there she'd borne Prunella, beautiful and delicate, and his betrothed. She'd loved going to the beach and picking flowers, had been looking forward to moving to the Crownlands her ancestors had come from when they married, before... before.
He'd seen her only a week before they'd heard; he'd just returned home from visiting her to prepare for the wedding when they'd gotten the raven. He'd tried everything he could, after. He'd gone to his father, his uncles; he'd packed to go north and investigate himself, to... To get himself killed, his father had said. There were no witnesses, no matter how horrible what had been found in the field of flowers had been. With Lord Tully imprisoned and the Lannisters ruling, no one would dare accuse the Rootes of anything; they had been one of Walder Frey's biggest supporters, and in close with the Lannisters as well. His father had taken his bag, given him two guards and the best horses in the stable, and in no uncertain terms told him that he was to ride South and join the Maesters, immediately.
His father had been warned by a family friend that his son's angry tirades in the local tavern had attracted attention; the powers were not happy at a boy causing trouble, and that trouble was going to be stopped. After the Sparrows had taken over and were in Cersei's pocket, the Faith wasn't safe, either. So, he was packed off to Oldtown, far from any chance at justice, and there he'd stewed... until he'd been contacted. There was more than one means of getting justice, and this one had sought him out, had promised him everything he wanted in exchange for his obedience and his life, a small price he was happy to pay; what good was his life without Pru?
A note, left in his homework parchments, with instructions on it... and a promise of vengeance. He'd followed those instructions, no matter how disturbing some of them were, because he believed in the promise he'd been given; he'd been met by an agent, only once, but that man had promised him vengeance, and the look in the agent's eyes... it would have scared him, before, but now, now it only gave him satisfaction.
He'd finished with his work after a pair of novices with fishing rods came past and saw his vivisection of the crab, carefully wrapped up the two differently sized claws in waxed canvas, and set them gently in his bag. That done, he cleaned his tools meticulously, finished his orange, and then took a second look at the distinctively patterned shell under it. It was definitely the shell he'd been told of, and so he picked it up, turned it over a couple times in case anyone was watching, and casually wrapped it and added it to his sample case. He'd never tried to find out who dropped off the messages for him, nor did he ever try to see who picked up the information he dropped off in turn, and he never would. The Rootes would pay for what they did! Not by his hand, but by his actions nonetheless would Pru be avenged.
Once back in his room at the Citadel, he laid the claws out carefully, using the top sheet in his stack of written reprimands for experiments the instructors and Archmaesters had deemed were a step or two too far to keep his desk clean of the liquid leaking from his sample, and then carefully reached inside the shell with a hooked needle, withdrawing the scrap of parchment, too small even for a raven, reading the instructions. It seemed it was time; he was to arrange to be caught in an experiment that would get him expelled, and board a ship north; his passage would be accepted if he asked the master of the Pinta's Folly using the phrase in the note. Popping the scrap of parchment in his mouth and chewing absently, he gathered the tools he would need for the experiment, and headed out to be expelled.
He didn't think he'd be of much use much longer in whatever plan he was advancing, but that was all right. He'd prayed to the Stranger, and he would do as he'd promised. His betrothed, his cousins would be avenged, and the Rootes would never kill another man's second cousins; not their first nor third cousins, not their siblings... not their betrothed. Not just one of the Rootes, but all three – more than he'd ever hoped for, even if everyone knew they went around together all the time. And, well, while the experiments he'd been doing were disgusting and despicable, he had in fact learned thinks not known to anyone else in the Citadel, so... there was that, too.
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No One set down the wet rag, straightening from washing the cold body of one of the last of the soldiers she'd killed the other day, drying her hands as the door in the small room outside the washing nook shut behind the light footsteps and rapid heartbeats of the servant girl who'd entered; the girl had been asking questions, and it appeared had worked up her courage. She adjusted her clothes, applied a quick brushing of makeup to the inside of her hands where the wet rag had changed the color, and strode out noiselessly, the girl kneeling in front of the icon of the Stranger.
The girl had her eyes closed, tears running down her cheeks as her hands clenched the rough cloak she wore even inside the Twins. No One knelt next to her and spoke somberly and quietly, "Valar morghulis."
"What?" asked the girl, startled as she whipped her head around to the old man in black and white that had come in while she was praying.
"It is a greeting in Essos; it means all men must die, or more correctly, all must die. The response is Valar dohaeris, all men must serve – or, again, all must serve."
"Valar dohares. Are... are you the priest?" asked the girl, biting her lip nervously before continuing, "The Faceless Man? Lady Deranna said the priest would be here, wearing black and white."
"I am. Are you here to pray?" asked No One, her voice that of an old man to match her face; not quite identical to Walder's, but close. This girl needed quiet sympathy, not boisterous lechery; she was here to better understand and come to terms with death, and that she could help with. No One waited patiently as the girl looked back at the icon of the Stranger, and closed her eyes for a time before speaking in a broken voice.
"Timos; Shella said he was brought here earlier. His name was Timos; he came here with Lord Jamie's soldiers. He was nice, and kind, and funny. He didn't really want to fight; he wanted to raise goats! For milking! When we were off duty, we'd go out and sit in the fields together. He was sweet, and patient, and then he left when Lord Jamie left. When he came back after the Freys were killed, we kept meeting, talking. He had such soft lips, and he never touched another woman, not once... only me. I talked to my ma an' pa, brought him to meet my family. My father talked to a tinker who promised he'd talk to his family in the west; when his father agreed, we'd be betrothed! And then she came and butchered him and all his friends! He wasn't even at the gates, wasn't supposed to have duty then, and she just killed him! He didn't even have his sword drawn, wasn't a threat to her, and she slaughtered him," said the girl between sobs, her face streaked with tears, her back shuddering as she could no longer talk.
No One wrapped an arm around her, comforting her gently, letting her cry on his shoulder as he recalled the most relevant passages, murmuring softly to the grieving girl, "In the book of the Stranger, verse 31, the Seven Pointed Star teaches us that lives are like candle flames, easily snuffed out by errant winds. He'll be waiting for you in the Seven Heavens. He endures no pain, for now he is without suffering, for Timos has received the Stranger's gift, and is in the Stranger's arms."
No One turned his head to the icon, reciting a prayer from the Seven Pointed Star quietly while the girl calmed down, and was silent until her breathing had evened out again before speaking quietly, her voice somber.
"I was washing him when you came in; you can see him one last time, if you like," offered No One.
"Yes," said the girl, without hesitation, straightening up and adjusting her dress, wiping at her cheeks quickly, first with her hands and then with a clean, dry cloth No One gave her.
No One stood slowly, painfully, and said, "Wait here a moment," before going back to the nook and raising the blanket up to Timos's shoulders, covering up the wound under the armpit and the ugly bruising on his chest, folding his hands across his belly. Once his body was presentable, she called out, "Come in."
No One watched the girl come around the corner and gasp when she saw the body, though this time she didn't cry. She looked at him for a time, silently, then said "Goodbye, Timos. I love you," and went back into the small room outside, without a word.
Following her quietly, feeling her grief and anger, the priest spoke, "You are welcome to pray here, together or alone, as long as you wish, as often as you wish. Do you want the one that killed him dead?"
"What?"
"Do you want the one who killed him to die? The House of Black and White in Westeros deals only in just vengeance, while my compatriots at the House of Black and White in Braavos deal only in names. For a price, Death is available... a high price, always, but one you can pay if you choose."
"She's a Lady! Highborn! Sister to the Queen!" hissed the girl, suddenly terrified.
"All must die; birds and beasts, priests and heretics, highborn and smallfolk, it makes no difference to the Stranger. This is a house of worship; I will not judge your words, nor repeat them to any."
Glancing nervously at the door, the girl spoke in a harsh whisper, "I wished her dead! I did! I wished a high lady dead!"
"If you wish to pay the price, I can arrange for you to go to Essos," said No One, holding up a small iron coin, "With this, anyone in the Winter Kingdoms, anyone from Braavos will bring you to the House of Black and White in Braavos, where No One will hear the name you have to speak and accept the price; I cannot but see that price as your life, but it would be their decision. The House of Black and White in Westeros cannot do the deed; the one who killed Timos was at war, and gave him death in the way of wars; there is vengeance to be found, but no justice. But a name... a name you have, and a name is all the House of Black and White in Braavos requires."
"An assassin already tried to kill her; she saw through him across a room and made him drink his own poison!"
"That was a pathetic excuse for a killer, not a Faceless Man. If you pay the price and hire the Faceless Men then death is certain, even if the time is not."
"If anyone tried, the Starks would be furious."
"Most families are, at the death of one of their own, just as you are. Few truly understand the gift of death."
The girl shook her head, suddenly, "My family would suffer."
"The future, I cannot see. This is your choice, and every choice has consequences. Do you truly pray for the gift of death to be given, or is your true prayer for something other than death? There is no answer that is right; only what you truly wish of the Stranger matters," replied No One, falling into silence with the girl until she spoke.
"No. It would only make everything worse, and what I truly wish is to have Timos back."
"The Stranger cannot give back those she has gathered into her embrace. I would be happy to pray with you; would you like to pray together?"
The girl thought for a moment, then raised her head to the kind old priest who'd offered to send her all the way across the Narrow Sea, and answered as another tear ran down her cheek, "Yes, please."
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"Thank you, Princess Meera. Queen Daenerys, when you were commanded to Reed ring three, which you had just passed. Rather than turn around and commence another attack on the ground forces, you continued on for nearly half the way around the castle, necessitating a second signal. Why?" asked Brienne, meeting the slender woman's gaze directly. This wasn't exactly what she'd thought being Lady Commander of the Queensguard would be like, but here she was, conducting the after-drill review while the Night King and his army continued to besiege the castle. Not only this, but she'd have to go over it all again with Pod later and see what he'd noticed while standing behind her.
"We heard the first signal to turn, but this time of the evening for the past three days there's been a downdraft near the castle on that side; since Drogon and Rhaegal were already nearly at ground level from the first attack; we only had two choices, continue ahead or turn the other way, which would take us over the Night King's army," replied Daenerys after a brief moment of biting back anger at being questioned. Lady Brienne's tone was curt, but Brienne's tone was almost always curt; she'd been asking, not accusing, not judging. She'd expected the errant bolt that had ended the exercise to have come up first, but she'd wait until the end of the meeting, to give the Lady Commander time to address it.
"I see. Good thinking. Pod, get together with Lord Snow and mark up the map with how the winds have changed," replied Brienne with a quick nod, looking around, "Anything else before we get to the elephant on the battlefield? No? All right. Fjornal, one of your crews loosed a bolt that was nearly a hundred yards too close to the dragons, rather than anywhere near the target that Drogon was towing. This was an exercise with live shafts, there's no excuse for that. What happened?"
"Crew that fuck up, this was their first exercise as marksman; a young crew, spent nine month as massed siege engine crew. I thought they good crew, accurate, good discipline, make good archers in new duty. I was wrong. Crew are idiots; I will move crew lead, archer to night soil duty for rest of war," replied the commander of siege engines, "We should go and see what happen as a group, all together; show we are unified. I am no Snabbis to be able to smell lie, but I can see well enough," replied Fjornal.
"I would be very interested to hear their story myself. I'll send for Varys to meet us. He's very good at finding out what isn't obvious... or what is hidden," replied Queen Daenerys with a nod to Johnna, who immediately raced off to fetch her Master of Whisperers. If there was something strange, if there were lies being told, Varys would notice; and if there wasn't, well, he still had a very keen eye for subtle details and the political effects any action would have.
She'd pay attention, and go over every bit of what he noticed later, not just the conclusions he'd drawn, but exactly what he'd seen and combined with what other knowledge he had led him to those conclusions. No man was infallible, and she needed to be able to know and see more herself. It wasn't any fun, wasn't what she had expected when she'd dreamed about conquering Westeros and ruling, but it was necessary if she were to be able to match Sansa or Sarella in negotiations... if she were to be able to rule the flight of small-minded, selfish, bickering, greedy fools who were apparently her nobles... and who she depended on to rule vast areas of her kingdom, just as she'd depended on others to rule Astapor and Yunkai while she stayed in Meereen. She'd seen what happened when she wasn't ruling personally with her children right there to inspire fear, and she intended for that to never happen again; she would not only rule, but she would learn to rule well.
"All right; let's go. Pod, Lord Jon, Princess Meera, Qhono, Grey Worm, if you'd be so kind as to join us in a show of unity," answered Brienne, getting up and nodding to Pod, who immediately lifted her shield even as the others took up their own weapons and followed her out of the war room at a brisk trot. Fjornal'd known more about what had happened than she'd expected, given how little time had passed since the... well, yes, the fuckup, and going there with everyone to talk to the idiots who'd done it would let them get to the bottom of it quickly. She was happy that Daenerys was taking the shot like a good soldier; accidents happened to everyone.
Brienne had tried to keep the training as safe as Lady Arya had, she'd tried to keep the training as effective as it had been with Lady Arya; considering the accidents since she'd taken command... she had. This was just another accident to look into and see if anything could be changed to make future training safer while still being as effective. Training that was too safe meant more deaths in battle, and that they couldn't afford - they had to be able to shoot down the wight dragon, and only training with live shafts, not training shafts, would build the instinct of how they'd fly, and with the Night King on his wight dragon not two miles away, training against targets towed by live dragons as they duck and dodge in the air was critical.
A few minutes later, the small party of war leaders were ascending the stairs to the outer wall. As they approached the one crew standing apart from their scorpion, Fjornal lengthened her stride, tightened her fist and smashed the archer who'd aimed and loosed that bolt to the ground with a single blow of her fist before growling, "What happen when you almost kill dragons? Supposed to aim target; target behind dragon tail, two hundred yard!"
Podrick came around from behind Brienne to reach down and pull the boy of seven and ten to his feet, though he said nothing of the boy's split lip. The Free Folk, and the Dothraki, were both tougher on their soldiers than even Brienne was on him. He'd asked Brienne about it, and she'd told him that not everyone grew up as they had, in a castle, with safety assured almost all the time.
"I slipped," answered the boy, his hands deliberately kept down, away from his face, "It was an accident! I wasn't trying to hit the dragon! I swear!"
"And we believe you, my boy," said Varys kindly, tilting his head slightly, "Perhaps you and your crew could show us just what happened? Everyone, please, stand where you were at the time, do exactly what you did? Without an actual bolt, naturally, but winch the scorpion and loose like you do when training with an empty weapon."
"No bolts here anymore; leader of this wall section had all removed," said Fjornal, nodding sharply to the crew, "Do it. Now. I say what happening, you show what you do when you fuck up, try give Night King second wight dragon."
The crew jostled around for a moment, then sprang into place, one winching crew working frantically under the eyes of the commanders while the other awkwardly lounged where they had been... though without the crate of shafts some had been sitting on it wasn't as easy as it could have been.
"Dragons coming around, east to west, thirty and three hundred yards away, two hundred yard up. Target two hundred yard behind, one hundred fifty yard up," dictated Fjornal as the archer took the handles in his thick mittens and raised the scorpion accordingly "Target passing Umber... pass Royce... approach Manderly."
With that, the aimer continued smoothly moving the big scorpion to the left looked down, placed his left foot deliberately on a small patch of stone that was just a bit darker than the rest, and let it slide suddenly out, his body twisting and his hands tightening as he lost his balance.
TWANG.
"Why ice not cleared or sanded? Slick ice dangerous! Teach all that many time, again and again! You watch where feet go, all the time! You see ice, you put sand on it, rub hard," demanded Fjornal angrily, glaring at the aimer before transferring that glare to the crew lead... accompanied by another wicked punch, sending him down to the cold, hard stone, "Where ice come from? Why not cleaned off or sanded till rough? You leader, you in charge area of your weapon! Look at smooth ice, now your face is close enough! See it? Touch it! Lick it! Is smooth! No dangerous ice anywhere else! No other crew have slick ice on stone! Other crew not have head up ass, can use eyes to see, feet and hands to feel!"
"I don't know!" replied the young man, his face tight, "I don't know where it came from! It wasn't here before!"
Fjornal glared, stalking around the mount, inspecting each object and crew member carefully, then suddenly reached out to the aimer, not to punch, but to pull his folded-over cloak open and look at the hem, a small bit of the furs shinier than the rest, down by the inner hem, "There! Why have ice there? When last had water?"
Daenerys watched as Varys interceded with gentler questions and between his questions and the Free Folk leader's, the story came out. The crew had properly verified their position was clear when they'd come on watch, they'd properly cleared it after the snow flurries earlier in the day, but the young man had, with great shame and embarrassment, admitted he was sweet on one of the wincher girls and had been watching her when they'd eaten lunch a few yards away. He'd spilled a little water down his chin at the end of the meal and checked, but there was no puddle below him so he thought it had landed in his cloak and would be fine, so he returned to his position to take over from the relief crew as normal. From there, unbeknownst to any, a little water had made its way down the inside of his furs, then dripped down, forming a small, nearly invisible patch of ice... and the rest was history.
She'd been furious when it had happened, though the siege engine training had been broken off immediately with gongs and drums from the castle signaling a halt to all loosing, arrow or bolt, and the silver horns signaling immediate evasion and landing for Drogon and Rhaegal. She'd had to yank on the rope three times to get the slipknot to release the towed target; Jon, well behind her, had only had to yank once. If she hadn't been training so much with the staff, she might not have been able to pull hard enough at all; she was much stronger now than she had been, especially her arms.
Watching the boy answer yet another variation on the same questions, the girl he was sweet on glaring at him along with the rest of their crew, she interrupted, "Lord Varys, are you satisfied with the truth of the story?"
"I am, my Queen."
"Then I am as well. Shall we return to the meeting room and continue the discussion, Lady Commander?" asked Daenerys calmly. That was something everyone she'd seen agreed on; decisions are to be made in private and then announced in public, not made and announced instantly. Jon had been... eloquent on some of the things he'd done as King that he'd later come to wish he had done differently.
Once they'd returned and settled into their chairs, Brienne started, "An accident, but one that could have easily injured or killed Drogon, and one that could have been avoided if either the archer or the crew leader had done their jobs properly. I believe they require punishment. Queen Daenerys, you and Drogon were put at risk by this; what say you?"
"Training is dangerous; training with live bolts is especially so, but the training bolts don't fly the same – I can see that clearly when they're loosed. All soldiers risk themselves in battle and training both, and I am no different. I will not ask my men, or my allies, to take risks that I won't take myself. I would move for punishment, but not one that is permanent; mercy and justice are called for," said Dany, reaching out to squeeze Jon's hand, and continuing with a small smile, "And I've seen worse from the Second Sons when trying to impress a woman."
"Fjornal?" asked Brienne.
"Aimer, crew lead removed, put on night soil duty six month. Both put on different crew after; aimer never fight near girl again. Wall section leaders look for ice after meal, ask about spill after meal. No drinking except at meal."
Much later, after the usual late dinner, Sansa had arrived at the First Keep and asked to see Daenerys. Once they were alone, Sansa had apologized.
"I must be plain with you, Daenerys; I'm very sorry about the training accident. I assure you, it was in no way an assassination attempt by any of my people, and while my Master of Whisperers is not here to investigate herself, I do not believe it was deliberate or an assassination attempt by anyone else. If you feel that reparations are required or appropriate, please tell me now."
"An assassination attempt?" said Dany, laughing, "I'll admit, in the moment, with the bolt flying up towards me, I had thought briefly it might be the start of an assassination attempt, but only very briefly. You'd never have tried something so clumsy, nor with the Dothraki mounted behind the Yi Ti soldiers, where your Northern and Vale forces would have to deal with their confusion if you struck. I have no doubt that if it was an assassination attempt, it would have either been a single perfectly aimed bolt from below where Drogon and I would not see it coming, or so many shafts they would have blotted out the sun. It was a foolish accident, nothing more. Thank you for coming; while you're here, I've had ravens arrive from Valyria. Would you have time to discuss the provisioning of food supplies next year over tea or water, before the meeting with everyone tomorrow?"
"Of course I have time. I'm pleased to hear of your great faith in our assassins," answered Sansa with a small smile, sitting primly in the chair next to the one Daenerys was in while servants came in with water; both cups had their contents carefully swirled around and then sipped from by the guard who had volunteered as a food taster for the related Queen. Arya and Varys had, in absolute unity, insisted to both Queens that they could not afford to forego that service any longer. That she was able to sit with Queen Daenerys as equals and very cordially drink with her while discussing how the Dragon Queen could provide food during the harshest winter in eight thousand years... that was not something she'd imagined, so long ago when she'd heard Jon had bent the knee and was returning North. And yet... here she was, with Arya gone South again.
"It seems I am required to have great faith in your assassins; I hired one, after all," replied Daenerys with a similar small smile, "Now, I'd like to request space on the next dogsled caravan to White Harbor for Tyrion, Ser Davos, six guards, three glassblowers from Myr and their two assistants, two members of the Red Priest delegation who hail from the Shadow Lands and have experience with poisoned water, and one Dornish irrigation expert the Princess Sarella has provided, plus his guard. At White Harbor, permission to purchase as much of whatever supplies as the glassblowers deem appropriate as well as large amounts of the seeds Tyrion thinks will grow best, and then a naval escort for my ships, which Ser Davos assures me are indefensible tubs, to Old Valyria, to remain until Queen Yara can take over naval defense and patrols."
"Done; Howland and Tyrion can work out the details. And the food?"
"Right now, Tyrion believes the first and smallest yield will be between..."
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Kitty looked out over the by now well organized camps; the initial moats were now at least wide enough to serve as a hindrance, if not deep enough yet, the towers in the first ring had scorpions mounted and Lady Mormont was drilling the crews mercilessly while Arya was doing the same with the archers.
"Cunts are starting to learn. Still not good enough," grumbled the Hound, standing next to her as the sounds of the outer watchtower drums rolled in; the small caravan that was approaching had reached the edge of trebuchet range... not that they had enough trebuchets to make a difference, yet. He'd be training the infantry once the ranged fuckers were done. No point getting set on fire by accident; he figured it'd be maybe a fortnight before training the entire army together was safe.
"They will be; they're well motivated. Lady Mormont has earned their respect, and you and Arya terrify them," said Kitty with a grin. Her people had never been great warriors, but the most promising of those who had come had been kept; the rest sent outwards. The Twins would have an accompanying walled town in time, but for now, it was merely a castle and a bridge, and there was only so much space the camps could fit in people and the mounds of supplies required, especially with the river to worry about.
"Bunch of women, can't protect themselves."
"Arya and Brienne are women; are you saying they can't protect themselves," asked Kitty with an overblown incredulous tone.
"Fuck. World's full of shite when a couple of fucking women are some of the toughest fighters in it," groused Sandor, to the sound of Kitty's merry laughter.
"Are your quarters all right?" she asked, gently. She'd thought hard on the trip down about what kind of quarters he'd appreciate. Arya may not care about the trappings of power and status, but she'd want to be with her troupe, have easy access to a window, to corridors and secret passages, and to be near a place she can make a temple to her god; all that was easy enough. Her 'Uncle' Sandor, he was much more difficult. He also didn't care about the trappings of power, and he'd hate to share with anyone else, but he hated not just the cold but also fire. She'd ended up having an interior room on the back side of one of the main kitchen chimneys turned into a combination of his quarters and a storeroom for arrowshafts, so he wouldn't need to be interrupted when he was inside, and he would stay quite warm without needing a fire or any other flame he didn't want for light. The sounds of the kitchen wouldn't bother him, she hoped.
The Hound looked down at the young woman and smiled slightly; she was no wolf bitch, but she'd thrown herself into training sessions the same as the rest of them. Starks and the people they collected were fucking strange, he supposed, but they'd offered him a place in the world that he didn't have to do stupid shite for, and they weren't like the Lannisters. They wouldn't tolerate someone like his brother, and they wouldn't stand by all afraid like his father had... nor would the others they'd somehow adopted. They didn't try to give him sermons, either.
"Aye, they are," he replied, a touch of warmth in his voice. Looking back out over the exercises, he shook his head; some of those shafts were getting too damned close to the incoming travelers, who had crossed the outer moat... he squinted, then pulled out the damned far-eye the wolf bitch had foisted on him to get a better look.
"Ah, fuck. It's that Red Woman cunt. Come on, girl, you're going to want to get there before the wolf bitch does."
"Why?" asked Kitty, breaking into a quick jog behind him, hefting her crossbow so it didn't bang on her hip, a few guards racing ahead, the rest of the guards and the pages following behind.
"Because she's on her little list. Melisandre, the cunt's name is."
By the time they'd arrived at the entrance just inside the great gates, the pages Kitty had sent racing ahead had delivered the messages, and four more units of guards had already taken position arrived, as well as a long table and a chair which she sat in, her crossbow atop the table, a vicious broadhead quarrel ready to loose, every bit of bread, salt, and wine having been removed from the courtyard.
Kitty waited while she observed her liege lady, silent and still, dressed not as a Faceless Man but as Lady Winter, arrived armed and armored, a direwolf and four other great wolves prowled up to sit around her, equally silently. She remembered what had happened the last time a party from the Red God had arrived, and while she hadn't understood the history behind that conversation, nor much of the hidden conversation within, there had clearly been an accord reached about Melisandre. She didn't expect she'd have much of a role to play, but she would do what her liege lady bid, and she would start by withholding guest right.
Melisandre approached the castle, the deep shadows within hiding nothing from her eyes. The reception was not what she had expected, nor the activity, but none of that was her concern. Princess Arya Stark, of king's blood, was waiting in fine armor, already grown into a young woman who had learned patience; a far cry from the impetuous girl who had accosted her a few short years ago, and wolves the Lord of Light's favor had granted her around her. The young grew up so quickly, then grew old and died nearly as quickly... as did their children and their grandchildren. As she had for the past two years, she looked around, seeing with eyes the world made fresh again by her approaching death; she had seen generation after generation come and go, but no more; the Lord of Light had only a few last parts for her to play in his great plan... but her end would not be here.
A quick inspection showed that while the girl waiting for her and the other servants of the Lord of Light was carrying plenty of steel, she was not carrying the Valyrian dagger that R'hllor had used to put his plan for the Iron Throne in motion, nor either blade Tobho Mott had reforged, nor any other blade of Valyrian steel in Westeros, and without Valyrian steel, well... a wolf without teeth could do naught but bark at a servant of R'hllor. No One was nothing without proper tools or magic, and lacking those tools, a young one with weak magic was no threat when in front of her in plain sight. Behind the Princess was a young woman she did not recognize, but the change in heraldry was of a kind with the attitudes of the two and those around them; she was of no import, it was Azor Ahai's cousin, a King and a Queen's sister, full of king's blood, who held the power here.
She had faith that the Lord of Light would soon show her the path she would follow, be it over the bridge or along the Kingsroad, but for now, she had the pleasure of another foretold conversation to attend to, even if it was with unbelievers.
"I told you we'd meet again," greeted Melisandre casually, "Darkness has fallen heavy upon the world; the cold breath of winter is freezing the seas, and the dead have risen. Now we must help Azor Ahai to take up Lightbringer. May I have permissions to travel across this bridge in service of the Warrior of Light?"
"Oh? I've spoken with Ser Davos; he said you'd already had the 'Warrior of Light' Stannis Barathon draw a burning sword from a burning effigy. How'd that work out for you?" asked Arya, derisively, grey eyes staring into blue. The Red Woman had a retinue of perhaps three and twenty, mixed Westerosi and Essosi; but she couldn't sense anyone of note. Melisandre had managed to avoid Bran's notice, but she also didn't fit anything Bran should be searching for specifically and he was quite occupied with their current enemies and situations, so that was no great feat... and she was here, now; one of the names on her list that she'd have thought she'd have to seek out after spring had come once again, if she herself survived. Her retinue could be almost certainly handled by the archers in the courtyard; the Red Woman herself doubtless had magic no less dangerous than Kinvara, but she was alone, and arrogant in her faith.
"That was my mistake; I am fallible, and while the Lord of Light showed me true, I failed to interpret the vision properly," said Melisandre, her voice betraying her failures to the Princess Arya, though she could see that none of the others noticed the tremor.
"You fail a lot, and your failures bring death to many who would otherwise have been given the gift of death later. Why are you here?"
"I came here to die, Princess Arya," replied the Red Woman, her voice steady and certain. Her part in the plan of the Lord of Light was nearly done; she was glad to be of service one last time, here and now, during the last war against the Great Other.
"I can help you with that," answered Arya with a sharp baring of her teeth.
"You cannot; I will first see a First Servant of the Lord of Light; that much I know."
"You believe you will see a High Priest before you die? Very well, I can help you with that, too," replied Arya, striding towards the Red Woman, flipping her cloak back to bare her sword and reveal the vestments inside, stopping just out of range of a lunge, "Here I stand; No One, First Faceless Man of Westeros, Right Hand of Death. There is only one god; the Lord of Light is one of his many faces. See me, Servant of R'hllor, that you may die believing you have fulfilled your vision."
"You are a priest of a false god, Princess Arya, different from the so-called High Septon only by a handful of parlour tricks. I serve the one true god of good, the Lord of Light, and he has let powers flow through me, powers I could not have imagined having, all in service of his plan."
"There is only one god, and his name is Death. R'hllor is a god, yes, as each of the gods is merely one of his many faces. Your god's face is one that grants power, yes, but other faces grant powers, too; not the Seven, but faces like the Old Gods and Saagael grant their own magics. You and I both serve the one true god, but you serve only one face, a powerful face... but a face with many priests who foolishly believe he grants perfect knowledge of the future, not just pale shadows of what might be. Death is the only true certainty... no matter how long you have told Death not today, the day comes when you can do so no longer. Today, for instance."
"There are but two gods, the Lord of Light, and the Great Other. Let me pass, or not; I have a little way left to travel before I die; I have seen it clearly in the flames."
"A very little way. You killed Shireen Baratheon; burned an innocent girl alive and listened to her screams. I have Ser Davos's sworn and witnessed statement on this, and heard his testimony myself," said Arya steadily, laying out her first accusation, drawing out the arguments the ancient woman across from her would use to defend herself. Today, her list would be one name shorter, and that thought filled her with anticipation and joy.
"Your half-brother, the King in the North, has already sentenced me for that crime; you cannot sentence me a second time," replied Melisandre easily. The girl knew Azor Ahai was her cousin, but that was news that the Lord of Light would reveal when it served his great plan, and not before.
"My brother did, yes. You also killed Renly Baratheon with shadow magic. I have sworn and witnessed statements from both Ser Davos, who witnessed you birth the shadow assassin, and from Brienne of Tarth, who witnessed the shadow assassin killing Renly. The description of the shadow assassin was strikingly similar, and the timing was in line," replied Arya, tossing out the next bait. The Red Woman wasn't leaving here alive, but Sansa would skin her alive if she didn't have good political cover first. And, of course, the Shadow Flame would need the same kind of political cover to keep providing the level of aid against the Night King she was without facing significant unrest. The young wolf had seen in the crypts how dangerous, and useful, that magic could be.
"We were at war, and you seem to be unusually hypocritical and ungrateful... or are you an assassin who has never assassinated anyone yourself and who bears no gratitude for my small part in asking the Lord of Light to return your... brother... to life? In addition, that was in the Stormlands; we are in the Riverlands, and you have no authority over what happens in a kingdom not part of yours... that's what happens when you declare independence from the Iron Throne," asked the Red Woman with a small smirk. She could not die yet, no matter how much the Princess wanted her dead.
"Very well. This is still the Riverlands, or part of it, and it was in the Riverlands that I personally witnessed you engaging in the slave trade, buying a member of the Brotherhood without Banners, my brother by choice Gendry, from Beric Dondarrion and Thoros of Myr for two bags of coin which your guard handed to Beric. I have, in addition, Gendry's sworn and witnessed statement," said Arya, satisfied that the Red Woman had already claimed the raising of her brother, her voice tinged with satisfaction as she laid down her best accusation.
"It was the only way," started Melisandre, continuing apologetically, "Or so I thought at the time. All I have done, I did to prepare for the Long Night, when the dead rise up, as they have. I have no selfish purpose, I gained nothing myself. I have spent longer than you can understand preparing for the evil that has come seeking to extinguish the light of the world. I am but a servant, and I have made mistakes, terrible mistakes, but have you not also made mistakes?"
"My mistakes don't involve buying people to sacrifice, and slavery is a capital crime in all of Westeros, from Dorne to beyond the Wall," replied Arya while Kitty unrolled the scroll a page had handed her, raising her voice so it would be heard clearly by all around them, "Princess Bridges, Lady Paramount of the Northern Riverlands, I do accuse Melisandre, foreigner, of buying a slave in Westeros. My evidence is that statement by Gendry, and my having personally witnessed this crime."
Behind Arya, Kitty stood, holding the unrolled scroll high, and proclaimed clearly and loudly, "I have heard the accusation; Lady Winter's word is above reproach. I have read the statement; I recognize the signatures of the witnesses and I know Gendry to be an honorable man. I have heard Melisandre admit her own guilt. Melisdandre, Priestess of R'hllor, I judge you guilty of capital crimes against the Riverlands and the man known as Gendry."
Lady Mormont stood even as Kitty sat, her own battlefield voice carrying easily, "I am Master of Law; to those of you who are unfamiliar with our ways, it is law and custom in the Winter Kingdoms that the one who passes judgment on capital crimes cannot also be the one to pass the sentence; not even Queen Sansa has that power. Happily, we have with us Lady Winter, who in her capacity as Justice in the North, the Vale, and the Northern Riverlands, is empowered to pass sentence."
Melisandre watched as the young women played their little game through to the end; they lacked the grandeur of the courts of Volantis, the pomp of the courts of the dragonlords of Valyria or the terrible majesty of the great courts of Asshai, though they tried. The Lord of Light wasn't done with her yet; a few girls were of no consequence, only getting Azor Ahai to Lightbringer to stop the darkness and the terrors within mattered. She smirked condescendingly at the girl.
"Death," said Arya Stark, having watched the Red Woman very carefully; as she'd anticipated, the foreign priestess still wore the same hexagonal gem, and unlike their last meeting, she could now sense the many deaths bound to it, just as deaths had been bound to the gems Kinvara and the other priestesses had worn... and that gem was simply one end of a single perfect line passing through the Red Woman's windpipe and ending in her spine.
Melisandre smirked, she'd spent centuries traveling; this wasn't the first time she'd been attacked. She called on fire and shadow as the girl with eyes full of death took a long, quick step forward and then drew her sword in a bravo's lunge, as fast as she'd expected... and her magic was snuffed out as if it had never been! That was Valyrian steel! As the stone around her neck and the glamour she'd bound to it both shattered, pain flaring through her neck, she felt her ancient body crumpling to the ground amidst the shards of the gem she'd poured so much of the Lord of Light's power into that she might serve him longer.
Her eyes locked onto the sword her killer was holding, her own blood dripping from it; it was impossible! When had that been made? There had been two Valyrian steel blades of similar make, but the Lord of Light had shown her long ago that one had been lost in the Doom and she'd seen the other in the flames, safe in Qohor almost a fortnight ago, when she'd heard Princess Arya Stark was a First Sword! How had it come here, and who had put a new hilt on it; there hadn't been any smiths capable of forging Valyrian steel in Westeros since Tobho Mott died! The Lord of Light wasn't done with her yet! This wasn't, shouldn't be possible! She was to meet the...
Arya ignored the gasps of awe and shock at the glamour's dissipation and simply wiped her blade down with a rag while she watched the light leave the Red Woman's eyes, the Valyrian steel again shedding blood and flesh easily before she sheathed it economically, saying, "Valar Morghulis."
With a casual sweep, she swirled her cloak around to hide the leather and fully display the vestments of No One with the hood up to hide her young face, speaking in a deep, rough, wavering voice, eyes boring into those who had come with the now-dead woman, "Select from among you those who will bring her to the rooms of the House of Black and White. The rest of you may go to the forest and cut wood for a small pyre. She was sincere about a desire to fight the Night King and the Long Night, in spite of all the evil she did in the process. I will prepare her body to be burned in the way of the Red God."
************************
Sansa flicked her needle quickly back and forth, knitting absently as she read the scroll placed before her. Somewhat to her surprise, the Sealord of Braavos had written her back immediately. His advice wasn't entirely useful; she should have the best guards available, particularly those who can see through glamours, food and wine tasters, wandering oversight of the guards, and other things she already had. Amusingly, none of that was to protect her against Faceless Men, only to raise the price and protect against lesser assassins. There were some notes about one Sealord who had attempted to outlaw the assassins; they hadn't struck at him, but few guards would try to enforce that law, and none of those survived their attempt, no more than the few, mostly foreign sellswords who had been tempted by the bounty he'd tried to put on them. He'd suddenly found himself bereft of trade partners, had outstanding loans called in without warning, and then been publicly killed by his rivals, the law repealed immediately by his successor.
Protection against the Faceless Men of Braavos was both as easy as picking up a bravo's blade and as impossible as defeating every challenger forever, he wrote; the only two protections are not have any name that can be named, even a nickname or casual appellation, or to never be named by someone who can and will pay the price. She looked down, snipping that piece of yarn and swapping out to the next color in the pattern before taking up her steel needles and continuing. There it was; he'd replied immediately because he wanted to ask for details about the 'just vengeance' of the Faceless Men of Westeros, and how that was different than the Faceless Men he was familiar with. It would be a good trade and good politics; she'd reply with all due care, and soon.
He also noted the Faceless Men had never cared about anyone trying to find out who hired them, though they themselves were never the source of that information. Those attempting to investigate, violate, or spy on their temple, or arrest or even inconvenience No One or any novice or acolyte of their god vanished, never to be seen or heard from again. Those investigating those with a motive to want a perfectly assassinated person dead were never interfered with. Other killings or acts of retribution for a hire were never interfered with; as the price of hiring a Faceless Man was so high, those who did so were, when the price wasn't their life in the first place, often quite obvious. Braavosi guards arresting or killing those who upset the balance of power by giving names and payment to the Faceless Men helped reduce the temptation of hiring one for politics or greed.
Needles clicking, she thought; Arya had always had a strong sense of justice, of what was right. It wasn't the same as what Septa Mordane had taught, nor mother, nor father, but it was there, and had always been there in her sister. Now that very sense of justice could decide the fate of rulers and nations; could help people gain vengeance on those who hid in the shadows, like the men who had killed all of Gendry's half-brothers and half-sisters.
"My Queen, it's time," said the guard at the door.
"Thank you, Jafer."
Standing, she took up her spear and headed to Bran's room, where upon entering a single look at Meera and even Bran was enough to confirm what she had suspected; Grand Maester Wolkan had confirmed Meera was pregnant just a few minutes before. Sansa set her spear in the rack and enfolded her sister by law in a hug, her smile brilliant.
"Congratulations!" exclaimed Sansa, squeezing tight before releasing Meera so she can turn to her brother, seeing not just a flicker of joy in his eyes, but a smile that lasted even as she leaned down and enfolded him in a hug while the guards opened the door again behind her, "Congratulations! I'm so happy for you!"
"You wanted babies so much," said Bran, his tone again flat and his face once again expressionless.
"That was a long time ago," replied Sansa, giving him one last squeeze before letting the others get to her brother.
"Babies?" asked Samwell, while in his arms, little Sam chimed in with "Be? Be?"
"Meera! Bran! I'm so happy for you both," said Gilly as she joined in the general round of hugs.
Sansa stepped back to give Jon and Gendry room to enter Bran's rooms and join in the celebration, smiling quietly to herself as she watched her family celebrate. She remembered, just barely, a similar scene many years ago when mother had found out about Rickon; a time of pure joy during the long summer, untempered by the spectre of war and death. Over Jon's shoulder, she caught Meera's eye as they hugged, and saw that Meera's own smile gained a tinge of sadness, too; probably remembering her mother and Jojen, as Sansa was remembering Rickon, and Robb, and her own parents.
The moment passed, and Sansa let the sadness slip away again as she stepped back to write and seal a raven scroll, and then out of the room for a moment to instruct a page to have it flown to the Twins at once. Having provided grist for the rumor-mill that would be confirmed at the official announcement that the Princess Stark was with child, she re-entered the room, ordered all the guards out, and barred the door. She returned to the group and rubbed Meera's back; between Jon and Meera and the rest of the family she needed no guards no matter who might attack suddenly, even without Arya present.
"I'm glad you'll be my niece or nephew's mother," said Sansa softly, her tone tinged with melancholy before she pushed the sadness down and allowed her mischievousness to bubble up, "I'm sorry I can't give you the kind of advice you'll need... but I understand you've found the best midwife in Westeros?"
Meera followed Sansa's gaze to a smiling babe, a happy Gilly and a proud Samwell, teasingly replying, "I have; she's teaching an acolyte of the New Citadel the... practical aspects. Isn't she?"
"I am," said Gilly, looking up at a furiously blushing Sam with a warm grin, "He learns quickly... when he practices enough!"
Sansa smiled, letting the teasing and joy flow back and forth around her, pouring water of of the jar she hadn't let out of her sight since the food taster drank from it and passing it out before taking her usual seat against the warmed wall. Not long after, she again checked the water clock; it wasn't a twin to the one in the Twins, being actually quite a different design, but Samwell's experiments had shown this one was the closest timekeeper when using the oil the Maesters had determined was best in the temperatures they expected. The time shown was just at the point they'd agreed before Arya had left, as adjusted by Bran, who could see the setting each was exactly at dawn, even when dawn was coming so much earlier in the South.
"All right; come, everyone, sit. Arya should be ready shortly," said Sansa after she clapped her hands once. She turned her head to the empty seat next to her by habit, and then realized again that Arya wasn't in Winterfell to sit with her anymore. Arya wasn't even in the North; she was in the place Robb and their mother and the sister-by-law she'd never met had been killed, and she was going further south, to the place their father and household and Septa Mordane had been killed.
Sansa blinked as Gilly held little Sam out to her after taking the seat next to her, Samwell on her other side.
"Here; you'll need the practice, right?" asked Gilly with a warm grin. Growing up, she'd expected to live and die with her father. Escaping with Sam, she'd expected to live and die in Moletown, looked down on by the Watch and the southrons even as Shireen welcomed her and taught her to read. She'd gone farther South than perhaps any Free Folk had ever been, seen fields full of grass and trees and felt the hot sun on her face, and been rejected by Sam's father. Sam's mother, his sister, they'd been just as kind and welcoming as her Sam was, but Sam had taken her on to the southron Reach, where she was just as unwelcome in Citadel or city alike, and it was beastly hot besides... though it was still far better than being with her father. She'd practiced her reading, collected the books that Sam brought her and read them all, every last one, a little faster each time.
Then they'd gone North again, back to where it wasn't so hot, and she'd finally been welcomed. She'd been welcomed by Jon's family, she'd been welcome in the library tower, she'd even been welcomed by the Maesters here, very differently from the disdain from the Maesters in the citadel. They'd asked her for every detail about the White Walker that had attacked them, paced out exactly its walking speed, the length of its stride, exactly how it had frozen and shattered when Sam stabbed it. When she'd helped with delivering a babe, they'd told her how it was done here in the South... and then they'd asked why she did it differently, if it was due to lack of materials or the cold or if there were other reasons. She'd insisted on writing out her accounts herself, not letting a Maester transcribe them, and they'd helped with her writing.
She wasn't welcomed only for her experience with babes, either, though Meera had asked her to help her with the new little Stark first! She'd taught classes, taught other children to read with all the patience that Shireen had used teaching her, children from all over Westeros! And then the Night King had come, and she'd been in charge of the eastern ravenry, with Sam in charge of the western ravenry. She shuddered; she'd had a good view of the battle, between making sure the Maesters and scribes were writing out the messages the pages sent accurately and that they were sent to the right places, checking the map to see if her ravenry was the primary for a particular destination or if she needed to wait and hear if Sam's raven had gotten past the Night King's army... or if Sam had been killed and his ravenry destroyed, with her ravens the only chance at getting the last messages out. But that was in the past; now was not a time for fear or sadness.
Gilly smiled and tucked the fur around little Sam while he smiled up at Sansa and tugged on her braid; she'd been welcomed here, and they'd even brought Talla and Melessa from the south. She'd help Meera with her pregnancy; the Maesters had been quite impressed with the number of pregnancies and births she'd helped her poor sisters with. But, right now, Meera was fine, and it was Sansa that needed her help.
"Arya says Hello everyone. Kitty says Hello everyone. Sandor grunts. Lyanna says Your Grace," interrupted Bran in dead, flat tones, his eyes white, "Kitty says Two more of Cersei's spies and one of Qyburn's have been found..."
Almost nine hundred miles south as the raven flies, in the back of a small room at the very bottom of the bridge, four people sat, the biggest hunched over almost double, talking softly, but not to each other.
"Kitty rooted one out by herself and confirmed the other two. There's some resentment, particular among the highborn who were either favored by Walder or were gaining advantage after his death; the smallfolk are content enough," said Arya to empty air.
"Scared; scared of war, scared of the fucking wights. Soldiers're more scared of the wolf bitch than the wights, they'll not turn on us," added Sandor gruffly, "Should be, too; wolf bitch took the fuckin' castle by herself. Rest of us didn't get a chance to kill anyone. Greedy bitch."
"Not my fault you're too slow, Uncle Hound," japed Arya, continuing, "Seagard's existing two moats have been expanded, they're filling in the rest. You've probably gotten the raven from Moat Cailin, they're nearly done with their own fifth moat. Gulltown's only half done with their fifth moat; the soil's only a few feet deep, but their other four are fully enlarged. Three thousand Dornish soldiers, mixed spears and archers docked at Seagard earlier today, another two thousand are on their way here, they brought three year's supplies and another fifty and two hundred thousand ancient arrowshafts. Thank Sarella... preferably before the raven arrives. The river's not that difficult to keep running free, not yet, but it takes a detail of children to keep the ice from spreading."
Kitty spoke next, equally quietly, "Most of my smallfolk and all the summer supplies have been removed and sent away to Seagard and Gulltown; please thank Lord Royce for the hospitality of the Vale; we've finished stocking the castle as best we can; we've hung nets underneath and filled them with supplies; if they fall, the barrels will at least float. Lady Mormont's been very busy; she can tell you about it."
"We're raising towers atop the castle, with tall ballista towers over the main supports which have space for storing supplies below the archers. Southron forces will expect us to attack on the move from here on out; they've got a decent wildfire stockpile here, and much, much more in the south. The officers and crews are well drilled against ground forces, even moving ones, but only when they can see, and they'd never trained against flying targets. They're learning quickly, very quickly," said Lyanna Mormont.
"I think Qyburn was using the Twins as an experiment in siege engines," said Arya, "They'll be improving in the South now; we've caught four scouts on patrols in the woods, and at least one got away – an excellent rider, the day before last, spotted just at sundown when there was a glint, possibly off the lens of a Myrish far-eye. Bran, check to find out what they saw..."
When she finished speaking, she turned to Sandor with a nod.
"Army's all right. Lannister army, just like every other Lannister army. Good discipline, good veterans, but full of green boys. Riverlands soldiers have no experience; Lannister soldiers don't like the women and girls fighting, but they quit complaining out loud after the little girls did better in the first exercise. And nobody taller than the little wolf bitch and the bear should be here. Fucking hallways are full of barrels; a man's got to bend over double and crawl on top of all that shite," growled the Hound.
"Only because you're freakishly tall," retorted Arya, to Kitty's soft giggle.
"Like your sister?"
"She's freakishly tall too."
"So I'm of normal height, then?" chimed in the Scorpion Bear, "First time I've heard that!"
"Least you didn't fall off your horse like the wolf bitch here; thought you could ride, girl. You wanted a pony bad enough," growled Sandor light-heartedly.
"It wasn't like that, I didn't just fall off," retorted Arya sharply, with a grin, "I'd already hit three targets while standing on my mount bareback; turning at a gallop is different than turning at an amble when I'm that high up! People aren't supposed to be that far off the ground; you should know that!"
"Aye, and and you still fell off!"
"Into a snowdrift. Another four times," chimed in Kitty with a grin before continuing more seriously, "Another priestess of R'hllor showed up. Briefly."
"Jon, you can tell Davos that the bitch that burned Shireen alive and bought Gendry as a slave is dead," said Arya, deep satisfaction in her voice, "Most of her companions are still heading North to help; I've sent them to Moat Cailin and from there they'll go to Winterfell to meet up with the Shadow Flame. A couple of them are staying here; apparently watching her die confused didn't help their faith any."
Sandor snorted; that was one way to put it.
Kitty took up the conversation, "And then there was the... lovely... excitement at lunch today, when the staff finally broke through the door of the room of three of my bannermen who hadn't been seen since the previous night, only to startle half the castle with their screams. It seems that somehow, despite a door locked and barred from the inside of a windowless room, someone had removed their heads and cut them, root and stem."
"And shoved the stem down their open throats!" exclaimed the Hound with a rough laugh, "Rootes were a bunch of cunts anyway."
"People lose their heads all the time, rapers the same as anyone else," said Arya blandly, giving no response whatsoever to Lyanna's rolling her eyes. She'd have sent an acolyte to give them the gift long ago if there had been a contract with the House of Black and White, but there wasn't. She'd taken that contract personally in her Arya face, for personal reasons, just as she'd taken Daenerys's contract the same way... and several other for Cersei, from people all over her sister's kingdoms, including here, and so it had to wait until she arrived. That delay had meant another two victims, though, as with the other victims she'd been able to verify as they'd been dying, the girls had already accepted the Many-Faced God's great gift. She listened as the small bear spoke
"There's no evidence of who might have killed them... but when the room was searched, there was a hidden cache of trinkets discovered. Little baubles, five of which were positively identified by a blind sketch as having belonged to girls and women who had vanished in the past nine years, and two of which were likewise identified as belonging to girls whose bodies had been found after they'd been raped and then drawn and quartered. A variety of testimony was provided after their deaths were made public, and another three and twenty trinkets have yet to be identified. The Princess Bridges judged them posthumously guilty of capital crimes, so there is no lawful need to seek out their killer... who, given the lack of evidence, was likely a Faceless Man, and who certainly dispensed just vengeance," said the Master of Laws, tilting her head to stare right at Lady Winter, who merely shrugged at her.
"Plenty of Faceless Men in Westeros, and many more killers, some of whom are slightly less blindingly obvious and deafeningly loud than Uncle Hound is," said the Faceless Man, ducking an awkward swipe from the big man.
A little while later, the news had been conveyed, goodbyes had been said, and they were exiting the little room, Lyanna asked, "Does her dying mean you really are a High Priest of the Red God?"
"The Many-Faced God gives no answers; his only gift is death. Like Sandor's friend Ray said, I cannot know, though I believe that yes, they are all the same thing, and I am a High Priest of the Many-Faced God. Since the Red God is but one more face of Death, I am a High Priest of R'hllor; I study that face the same as I study every other face of the Many-Faced God. What do you think a Maester might say?"
"A Maester would say it's possible, but that it was much more likely she was wrong, that she had no true visions."
"Correct; it's certainly true that many people lie to themselves. I lied to myself about Uncle Sandor for a long time, even," answered Arya.
An hour later, Arya slipped back into the little room, by herself. As soon as she'd opened the door, a squirrel scrambled in behind her; she furred and barred the door behind her, setting out an inkpot, a quill, a stack of parchment, and a map.
Back in Winterfell, Sansa slipped back into Bran and Meera's room; the guards had again been banished from the room, and it was just the three of them.
"I told Arya Meera is pregnant. Arya says I knew that, give it, Sansa," said Bran, with a flicker of warmth as he turned his head to gaze at his wife, who had seated herself in his lap.
"I expected she might say that," replied Sansa, reaching into her cloak and withdrawing a small rectangular box with a simple catch, which she handed to Meera. She waited patiently while her sister by law wiggled as she reached out for it; she didn't know exactly what Arya had done – she's promised not to find out what was inside – but she thought she had a good idea.
Meera held the box where Bran could see it too, then flicked the catch and flipped the lid open, taking out the gift inside... it was firm but squishy, made of fine, thick canvas, with strong but uneven and ugly stitching, "A stuffed toy sword. Of course you'd give a babe a toy sword, Arya, without even knowing if it's a boy or a girl."
"Arya says all babes need something to hit people with."
Meera thumped her husband on the head with the rough-looking, crude toy, squeezing it in her hand experimentally, then shook her head and traded resigned glances with Sansa, "Our child is going to be given dozens of fine, respectable toys... and yet I fear it is this one that the babe will hold tight to, and scream when anyone tries to take it away."
"Arya says you need to teach the babe to hit instead of scream."
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He'd seen her only a week before they'd heard; he'd just returned home from visiting her to prepare for the wedding when they'd gotten the raven. He'd tried everything he could, after. He'd gone to his father, his uncles; he'd packed to go north and investigate himself, to... To get himself killed, his father had said. There were no witnesses, no matter how horrible what had been found in the field of flowers had been. With Lord Tully imprisoned and the Lannisters ruling, no one would dare accuse the Rootes of anything; they had been one of Walder Frey's biggest supporters, and in close with the Lannisters as well. His father had taken his bag, given him two guards and the best horses in the stable, and in no uncertain terms told him that he was to ride South and join the Maesters, immediately.
His father had been warned by a family friend that his son's angry tirades in the local tavern had attracted attention; the powers were not happy at a boy causing trouble, and that trouble was going to be stopped. After the Sparrows had taken over and were in Cersei's pocket, the Faith wasn't safe, either. So, he was packed off to Oldtown, far from any chance at justice, and there he'd stewed... until he'd been contacted. There was more than one means of getting justice, and this one had sought him out, had promised him everything he wanted in exchange for his obedience and his life, a small price he was happy to pay; what good was his life without Pru?
A note, left in his homework parchments, with instructions on it... and a promise of vengeance. He'd followed those instructions, no matter how disturbing some of them were, because he believed in the promise he'd been given; he'd been met by an agent, only once, but that man had promised him vengeance, and the look in the agent's eyes... it would have scared him, before, but now, now it only gave him satisfaction.
He'd finished with his work after a pair of novices with fishing rods came past and saw his vivisection of the crab, carefully wrapped up the two differently sized claws in waxed canvas, and set them gently in his bag. That done, he cleaned his tools meticulously, finished his orange, and then took a second look at the distinctively patterned shell under it. It was definitely the shell he'd been told of, and so he picked it up, turned it over a couple times in case anyone was watching, and casually wrapped it and added it to his sample case. He'd never tried to find out who dropped off the messages for him, nor did he ever try to see who picked up the information he dropped off in turn, and he never would. The Rootes would pay for what they did! Not by his hand, but by his actions nonetheless would Pru be avenged.
Once back in his room at the Citadel, he laid the claws out carefully, using the top sheet in his stack of written reprimands for experiments the instructors and Archmaesters had deemed were a step or two too far to keep his desk clean of the liquid leaking from his sample, and then carefully reached inside the shell with a hooked needle, withdrawing the scrap of parchment, too small even for a raven, reading the instructions. It seemed it was time; he was to arrange to be caught in an experiment that would get him expelled, and board a ship north; his passage would be accepted if he asked the master of the Pinta's Folly using the phrase in the note. Popping the scrap of parchment in his mouth and chewing absently, he gathered the tools he would need for the experiment, and headed out to be expelled.
He didn't think he'd be of much use much longer in whatever plan he was advancing, but that was all right. He'd prayed to the Stranger, and he would do as he'd promised. His betrothed, his cousins would be avenged, and the Rootes would never kill another man's second cousins; not their first nor third cousins, not their siblings... not their betrothed. Not just one of the Rootes, but all three – more than he'd ever hoped for, even if everyone knew they went around together all the time. And, well, while the experiments he'd been doing were disgusting and despicable, he had in fact learned thinks not known to anyone else in the Citadel, so... there was that, too.
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No One set down the wet rag, straightening from washing the cold body of one of the last of the soldiers she'd killed the other day, drying her hands as the door in the small room outside the washing nook shut behind the light footsteps and rapid heartbeats of the servant girl who'd entered; the girl had been asking questions, and it appeared had worked up her courage. She adjusted her clothes, applied a quick brushing of makeup to the inside of her hands where the wet rag had changed the color, and strode out noiselessly, the girl kneeling in front of the icon of the Stranger.
The girl had her eyes closed, tears running down her cheeks as her hands clenched the rough cloak she wore even inside the Twins. No One knelt next to her and spoke somberly and quietly, "Valar morghulis."
"What?" asked the girl, startled as she whipped her head around to the old man in black and white that had come in while she was praying.
"It is a greeting in Essos; it means all men must die, or more correctly, all must die. The response is Valar dohaeris, all men must serve – or, again, all must serve."
"Valar dohares. Are... are you the priest?" asked the girl, biting her lip nervously before continuing, "The Faceless Man? Lady Deranna said the priest would be here, wearing black and white."
"I am. Are you here to pray?" asked No One, her voice that of an old man to match her face; not quite identical to Walder's, but close. This girl needed quiet sympathy, not boisterous lechery; she was here to better understand and come to terms with death, and that she could help with. No One waited patiently as the girl looked back at the icon of the Stranger, and closed her eyes for a time before speaking in a broken voice.
"Timos; Shella said he was brought here earlier. His name was Timos; he came here with Lord Jamie's soldiers. He was nice, and kind, and funny. He didn't really want to fight; he wanted to raise goats! For milking! When we were off duty, we'd go out and sit in the fields together. He was sweet, and patient, and then he left when Lord Jamie left. When he came back after the Freys were killed, we kept meeting, talking. He had such soft lips, and he never touched another woman, not once... only me. I talked to my ma an' pa, brought him to meet my family. My father talked to a tinker who promised he'd talk to his family in the west; when his father agreed, we'd be betrothed! And then she came and butchered him and all his friends! He wasn't even at the gates, wasn't supposed to have duty then, and she just killed him! He didn't even have his sword drawn, wasn't a threat to her, and she slaughtered him," said the girl between sobs, her face streaked with tears, her back shuddering as she could no longer talk.
No One wrapped an arm around her, comforting her gently, letting her cry on his shoulder as he recalled the most relevant passages, murmuring softly to the grieving girl, "In the book of the Stranger, verse 31, the Seven Pointed Star teaches us that lives are like candle flames, easily snuffed out by errant winds. He'll be waiting for you in the Seven Heavens. He endures no pain, for now he is without suffering, for Timos has received the Stranger's gift, and is in the Stranger's arms."
No One turned his head to the icon, reciting a prayer from the Seven Pointed Star quietly while the girl calmed down, and was silent until her breathing had evened out again before speaking quietly, her voice somber.
"I was washing him when you came in; you can see him one last time, if you like," offered No One.
"Yes," said the girl, without hesitation, straightening up and adjusting her dress, wiping at her cheeks quickly, first with her hands and then with a clean, dry cloth No One gave her.
No One stood slowly, painfully, and said, "Wait here a moment," before going back to the nook and raising the blanket up to Timos's shoulders, covering up the wound under the armpit and the ugly bruising on his chest, folding his hands across his belly. Once his body was presentable, she called out, "Come in."
No One watched the girl come around the corner and gasp when she saw the body, though this time she didn't cry. She looked at him for a time, silently, then said "Goodbye, Timos. I love you," and went back into the small room outside, without a word.
Following her quietly, feeling her grief and anger, the priest spoke, "You are welcome to pray here, together or alone, as long as you wish, as often as you wish. Do you want the one that killed him dead?"
"What?"
"Do you want the one who killed him to die? The House of Black and White in Westeros deals only in just vengeance, while my compatriots at the House of Black and White in Braavos deal only in names. For a price, Death is available... a high price, always, but one you can pay if you choose."
"She's a Lady! Highborn! Sister to the Queen!" hissed the girl, suddenly terrified.
"All must die; birds and beasts, priests and heretics, highborn and smallfolk, it makes no difference to the Stranger. This is a house of worship; I will not judge your words, nor repeat them to any."
Glancing nervously at the door, the girl spoke in a harsh whisper, "I wished her dead! I did! I wished a high lady dead!"
"If you wish to pay the price, I can arrange for you to go to Essos," said No One, holding up a small iron coin, "With this, anyone in the Winter Kingdoms, anyone from Braavos will bring you to the House of Black and White in Braavos, where No One will hear the name you have to speak and accept the price; I cannot but see that price as your life, but it would be their decision. The House of Black and White in Westeros cannot do the deed; the one who killed Timos was at war, and gave him death in the way of wars; there is vengeance to be found, but no justice. But a name... a name you have, and a name is all the House of Black and White in Braavos requires."
"An assassin already tried to kill her; she saw through him across a room and made him drink his own poison!"
"That was a pathetic excuse for a killer, not a Faceless Man. If you pay the price and hire the Faceless Men then death is certain, even if the time is not."
"If anyone tried, the Starks would be furious."
"Most families are, at the death of one of their own, just as you are. Few truly understand the gift of death."
The girl shook her head, suddenly, "My family would suffer."
"The future, I cannot see. This is your choice, and every choice has consequences. Do you truly pray for the gift of death to be given, or is your true prayer for something other than death? There is no answer that is right; only what you truly wish of the Stranger matters," replied No One, falling into silence with the girl until she spoke.
"No. It would only make everything worse, and what I truly wish is to have Timos back."
"The Stranger cannot give back those she has gathered into her embrace. I would be happy to pray with you; would you like to pray together?"
The girl thought for a moment, then raised her head to the kind old priest who'd offered to send her all the way across the Narrow Sea, and answered as another tear ran down her cheek, "Yes, please."
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"Thank you, Princess Meera. Queen Daenerys, when you were commanded to Reed ring three, which you had just passed. Rather than turn around and commence another attack on the ground forces, you continued on for nearly half the way around the castle, necessitating a second signal. Why?" asked Brienne, meeting the slender woman's gaze directly. This wasn't exactly what she'd thought being Lady Commander of the Queensguard would be like, but here she was, conducting the after-drill review while the Night King and his army continued to besiege the castle. Not only this, but she'd have to go over it all again with Pod later and see what he'd noticed while standing behind her.
"We heard the first signal to turn, but this time of the evening for the past three days there's been a downdraft near the castle on that side; since Drogon and Rhaegal were already nearly at ground level from the first attack; we only had two choices, continue ahead or turn the other way, which would take us over the Night King's army," replied Daenerys after a brief moment of biting back anger at being questioned. Lady Brienne's tone was curt, but Brienne's tone was almost always curt; she'd been asking, not accusing, not judging. She'd expected the errant bolt that had ended the exercise to have come up first, but she'd wait until the end of the meeting, to give the Lady Commander time to address it.
"I see. Good thinking. Pod, get together with Lord Snow and mark up the map with how the winds have changed," replied Brienne with a quick nod, looking around, "Anything else before we get to the elephant on the battlefield? No? All right. Fjornal, one of your crews loosed a bolt that was nearly a hundred yards too close to the dragons, rather than anywhere near the target that Drogon was towing. This was an exercise with live shafts, there's no excuse for that. What happened?"
"Crew that fuck up, this was their first exercise as marksman; a young crew, spent nine month as massed siege engine crew. I thought they good crew, accurate, good discipline, make good archers in new duty. I was wrong. Crew are idiots; I will move crew lead, archer to night soil duty for rest of war," replied the commander of siege engines, "We should go and see what happen as a group, all together; show we are unified. I am no Snabbis to be able to smell lie, but I can see well enough," replied Fjornal.
"I would be very interested to hear their story myself. I'll send for Varys to meet us. He's very good at finding out what isn't obvious... or what is hidden," replied Queen Daenerys with a nod to Johnna, who immediately raced off to fetch her Master of Whisperers. If there was something strange, if there were lies being told, Varys would notice; and if there wasn't, well, he still had a very keen eye for subtle details and the political effects any action would have.
She'd pay attention, and go over every bit of what he noticed later, not just the conclusions he'd drawn, but exactly what he'd seen and combined with what other knowledge he had led him to those conclusions. No man was infallible, and she needed to be able to know and see more herself. It wasn't any fun, wasn't what she had expected when she'd dreamed about conquering Westeros and ruling, but it was necessary if she were to be able to match Sansa or Sarella in negotiations... if she were to be able to rule the flight of small-minded, selfish, bickering, greedy fools who were apparently her nobles... and who she depended on to rule vast areas of her kingdom, just as she'd depended on others to rule Astapor and Yunkai while she stayed in Meereen. She'd seen what happened when she wasn't ruling personally with her children right there to inspire fear, and she intended for that to never happen again; she would not only rule, but she would learn to rule well.
"All right; let's go. Pod, Lord Jon, Princess Meera, Qhono, Grey Worm, if you'd be so kind as to join us in a show of unity," answered Brienne, getting up and nodding to Pod, who immediately lifted her shield even as the others took up their own weapons and followed her out of the war room at a brisk trot. Fjornal'd known more about what had happened than she'd expected, given how little time had passed since the... well, yes, the fuckup, and going there with everyone to talk to the idiots who'd done it would let them get to the bottom of it quickly. She was happy that Daenerys was taking the shot like a good soldier; accidents happened to everyone.
Brienne had tried to keep the training as safe as Lady Arya had, she'd tried to keep the training as effective as it had been with Lady Arya; considering the accidents since she'd taken command... she had. This was just another accident to look into and see if anything could be changed to make future training safer while still being as effective. Training that was too safe meant more deaths in battle, and that they couldn't afford - they had to be able to shoot down the wight dragon, and only training with live shafts, not training shafts, would build the instinct of how they'd fly, and with the Night King on his wight dragon not two miles away, training against targets towed by live dragons as they duck and dodge in the air was critical.
A few minutes later, the small party of war leaders were ascending the stairs to the outer wall. As they approached the one crew standing apart from their scorpion, Fjornal lengthened her stride, tightened her fist and smashed the archer who'd aimed and loosed that bolt to the ground with a single blow of her fist before growling, "What happen when you almost kill dragons? Supposed to aim target; target behind dragon tail, two hundred yard!"
Podrick came around from behind Brienne to reach down and pull the boy of seven and ten to his feet, though he said nothing of the boy's split lip. The Free Folk, and the Dothraki, were both tougher on their soldiers than even Brienne was on him. He'd asked Brienne about it, and she'd told him that not everyone grew up as they had, in a castle, with safety assured almost all the time.
"I slipped," answered the boy, his hands deliberately kept down, away from his face, "It was an accident! I wasn't trying to hit the dragon! I swear!"
"And we believe you, my boy," said Varys kindly, tilting his head slightly, "Perhaps you and your crew could show us just what happened? Everyone, please, stand where you were at the time, do exactly what you did? Without an actual bolt, naturally, but winch the scorpion and loose like you do when training with an empty weapon."
"No bolts here anymore; leader of this wall section had all removed," said Fjornal, nodding sharply to the crew, "Do it. Now. I say what happening, you show what you do when you fuck up, try give Night King second wight dragon."
The crew jostled around for a moment, then sprang into place, one winching crew working frantically under the eyes of the commanders while the other awkwardly lounged where they had been... though without the crate of shafts some had been sitting on it wasn't as easy as it could have been.
"Dragons coming around, east to west, thirty and three hundred yards away, two hundred yard up. Target two hundred yard behind, one hundred fifty yard up," dictated Fjornal as the archer took the handles in his thick mittens and raised the scorpion accordingly "Target passing Umber... pass Royce... approach Manderly."
With that, the aimer continued smoothly moving the big scorpion to the left looked down, placed his left foot deliberately on a small patch of stone that was just a bit darker than the rest, and let it slide suddenly out, his body twisting and his hands tightening as he lost his balance.
TWANG.
"Why ice not cleared or sanded? Slick ice dangerous! Teach all that many time, again and again! You watch where feet go, all the time! You see ice, you put sand on it, rub hard," demanded Fjornal angrily, glaring at the aimer before transferring that glare to the crew lead... accompanied by another wicked punch, sending him down to the cold, hard stone, "Where ice come from? Why not cleaned off or sanded till rough? You leader, you in charge area of your weapon! Look at smooth ice, now your face is close enough! See it? Touch it! Lick it! Is smooth! No dangerous ice anywhere else! No other crew have slick ice on stone! Other crew not have head up ass, can use eyes to see, feet and hands to feel!"
"I don't know!" replied the young man, his face tight, "I don't know where it came from! It wasn't here before!"
Fjornal glared, stalking around the mount, inspecting each object and crew member carefully, then suddenly reached out to the aimer, not to punch, but to pull his folded-over cloak open and look at the hem, a small bit of the furs shinier than the rest, down by the inner hem, "There! Why have ice there? When last had water?"
Daenerys watched as Varys interceded with gentler questions and between his questions and the Free Folk leader's, the story came out. The crew had properly verified their position was clear when they'd come on watch, they'd properly cleared it after the snow flurries earlier in the day, but the young man had, with great shame and embarrassment, admitted he was sweet on one of the wincher girls and had been watching her when they'd eaten lunch a few yards away. He'd spilled a little water down his chin at the end of the meal and checked, but there was no puddle below him so he thought it had landed in his cloak and would be fine, so he returned to his position to take over from the relief crew as normal. From there, unbeknownst to any, a little water had made its way down the inside of his furs, then dripped down, forming a small, nearly invisible patch of ice... and the rest was history.
She'd been furious when it had happened, though the siege engine training had been broken off immediately with gongs and drums from the castle signaling a halt to all loosing, arrow or bolt, and the silver horns signaling immediate evasion and landing for Drogon and Rhaegal. She'd had to yank on the rope three times to get the slipknot to release the towed target; Jon, well behind her, had only had to yank once. If she hadn't been training so much with the staff, she might not have been able to pull hard enough at all; she was much stronger now than she had been, especially her arms.
Watching the boy answer yet another variation on the same questions, the girl he was sweet on glaring at him along with the rest of their crew, she interrupted, "Lord Varys, are you satisfied with the truth of the story?"
"I am, my Queen."
"Then I am as well. Shall we return to the meeting room and continue the discussion, Lady Commander?" asked Daenerys calmly. That was something everyone she'd seen agreed on; decisions are to be made in private and then announced in public, not made and announced instantly. Jon had been... eloquent on some of the things he'd done as King that he'd later come to wish he had done differently.
Once they'd returned and settled into their chairs, Brienne started, "An accident, but one that could have easily injured or killed Drogon, and one that could have been avoided if either the archer or the crew leader had done their jobs properly. I believe they require punishment. Queen Daenerys, you and Drogon were put at risk by this; what say you?"
"Training is dangerous; training with live bolts is especially so, but the training bolts don't fly the same – I can see that clearly when they're loosed. All soldiers risk themselves in battle and training both, and I am no different. I will not ask my men, or my allies, to take risks that I won't take myself. I would move for punishment, but not one that is permanent; mercy and justice are called for," said Dany, reaching out to squeeze Jon's hand, and continuing with a small smile, "And I've seen worse from the Second Sons when trying to impress a woman."
"Fjornal?" asked Brienne.
"Aimer, crew lead removed, put on night soil duty six month. Both put on different crew after; aimer never fight near girl again. Wall section leaders look for ice after meal, ask about spill after meal. No drinking except at meal."
Much later, after the usual late dinner, Sansa had arrived at the First Keep and asked to see Daenerys. Once they were alone, Sansa had apologized.
"I must be plain with you, Daenerys; I'm very sorry about the training accident. I assure you, it was in no way an assassination attempt by any of my people, and while my Master of Whisperers is not here to investigate herself, I do not believe it was deliberate or an assassination attempt by anyone else. If you feel that reparations are required or appropriate, please tell me now."
"An assassination attempt?" said Dany, laughing, "I'll admit, in the moment, with the bolt flying up towards me, I had thought briefly it might be the start of an assassination attempt, but only very briefly. You'd never have tried something so clumsy, nor with the Dothraki mounted behind the Yi Ti soldiers, where your Northern and Vale forces would have to deal with their confusion if you struck. I have no doubt that if it was an assassination attempt, it would have either been a single perfectly aimed bolt from below where Drogon and I would not see it coming, or so many shafts they would have blotted out the sun. It was a foolish accident, nothing more. Thank you for coming; while you're here, I've had ravens arrive from Valyria. Would you have time to discuss the provisioning of food supplies next year over tea or water, before the meeting with everyone tomorrow?"
"Of course I have time. I'm pleased to hear of your great faith in our assassins," answered Sansa with a small smile, sitting primly in the chair next to the one Daenerys was in while servants came in with water; both cups had their contents carefully swirled around and then sipped from by the guard who had volunteered as a food taster for the related Queen. Arya and Varys had, in absolute unity, insisted to both Queens that they could not afford to forego that service any longer. That she was able to sit with Queen Daenerys as equals and very cordially drink with her while discussing how the Dragon Queen could provide food during the harshest winter in eight thousand years... that was not something she'd imagined, so long ago when she'd heard Jon had bent the knee and was returning North. And yet... here she was, with Arya gone South again.
"It seems I am required to have great faith in your assassins; I hired one, after all," replied Daenerys with a similar small smile, "Now, I'd like to request space on the next dogsled caravan to White Harbor for Tyrion, Ser Davos, six guards, three glassblowers from Myr and their two assistants, two members of the Red Priest delegation who hail from the Shadow Lands and have experience with poisoned water, and one Dornish irrigation expert the Princess Sarella has provided, plus his guard. At White Harbor, permission to purchase as much of whatever supplies as the glassblowers deem appropriate as well as large amounts of the seeds Tyrion thinks will grow best, and then a naval escort for my ships, which Ser Davos assures me are indefensible tubs, to Old Valyria, to remain until Queen Yara can take over naval defense and patrols."
"Done; Howland and Tyrion can work out the details. And the food?"
"Right now, Tyrion believes the first and smallest yield will be between..."
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Kitty looked out over the by now well organized camps; the initial moats were now at least wide enough to serve as a hindrance, if not deep enough yet, the towers in the first ring had scorpions mounted and Lady Mormont was drilling the crews mercilessly while Arya was doing the same with the archers.
"Cunts are starting to learn. Still not good enough," grumbled the Hound, standing next to her as the sounds of the outer watchtower drums rolled in; the small caravan that was approaching had reached the edge of trebuchet range... not that they had enough trebuchets to make a difference, yet. He'd be training the infantry once the ranged fuckers were done. No point getting set on fire by accident; he figured it'd be maybe a fortnight before training the entire army together was safe.
"They will be; they're well motivated. Lady Mormont has earned their respect, and you and Arya terrify them," said Kitty with a grin. Her people had never been great warriors, but the most promising of those who had come had been kept; the rest sent outwards. The Twins would have an accompanying walled town in time, but for now, it was merely a castle and a bridge, and there was only so much space the camps could fit in people and the mounds of supplies required, especially with the river to worry about.
"Bunch of women, can't protect themselves."
"Arya and Brienne are women; are you saying they can't protect themselves," asked Kitty with an overblown incredulous tone.
"Fuck. World's full of shite when a couple of fucking women are some of the toughest fighters in it," groused Sandor, to the sound of Kitty's merry laughter.
"Are your quarters all right?" she asked, gently. She'd thought hard on the trip down about what kind of quarters he'd appreciate. Arya may not care about the trappings of power and status, but she'd want to be with her troupe, have easy access to a window, to corridors and secret passages, and to be near a place she can make a temple to her god; all that was easy enough. Her 'Uncle' Sandor, he was much more difficult. He also didn't care about the trappings of power, and he'd hate to share with anyone else, but he hated not just the cold but also fire. She'd ended up having an interior room on the back side of one of the main kitchen chimneys turned into a combination of his quarters and a storeroom for arrowshafts, so he wouldn't need to be interrupted when he was inside, and he would stay quite warm without needing a fire or any other flame he didn't want for light. The sounds of the kitchen wouldn't bother him, she hoped.
The Hound looked down at the young woman and smiled slightly; she was no wolf bitch, but she'd thrown herself into training sessions the same as the rest of them. Starks and the people they collected were fucking strange, he supposed, but they'd offered him a place in the world that he didn't have to do stupid shite for, and they weren't like the Lannisters. They wouldn't tolerate someone like his brother, and they wouldn't stand by all afraid like his father had... nor would the others they'd somehow adopted. They didn't try to give him sermons, either.
"Aye, they are," he replied, a touch of warmth in his voice. Looking back out over the exercises, he shook his head; some of those shafts were getting too damned close to the incoming travelers, who had crossed the outer moat... he squinted, then pulled out the damned far-eye the wolf bitch had foisted on him to get a better look.
"Ah, fuck. It's that Red Woman cunt. Come on, girl, you're going to want to get there before the wolf bitch does."
"Why?" asked Kitty, breaking into a quick jog behind him, hefting her crossbow so it didn't bang on her hip, a few guards racing ahead, the rest of the guards and the pages following behind.
"Because she's on her little list. Melisandre, the cunt's name is."
By the time they'd arrived at the entrance just inside the great gates, the pages Kitty had sent racing ahead had delivered the messages, and four more units of guards had already taken position arrived, as well as a long table and a chair which she sat in, her crossbow atop the table, a vicious broadhead quarrel ready to loose, every bit of bread, salt, and wine having been removed from the courtyard.
Kitty waited while she observed her liege lady, silent and still, dressed not as a Faceless Man but as Lady Winter, arrived armed and armored, a direwolf and four other great wolves prowled up to sit around her, equally silently. She remembered what had happened the last time a party from the Red God had arrived, and while she hadn't understood the history behind that conversation, nor much of the hidden conversation within, there had clearly been an accord reached about Melisandre. She didn't expect she'd have much of a role to play, but she would do what her liege lady bid, and she would start by withholding guest right.
Melisandre approached the castle, the deep shadows within hiding nothing from her eyes. The reception was not what she had expected, nor the activity, but none of that was her concern. Princess Arya Stark, of king's blood, was waiting in fine armor, already grown into a young woman who had learned patience; a far cry from the impetuous girl who had accosted her a few short years ago, and wolves the Lord of Light's favor had granted her around her. The young grew up so quickly, then grew old and died nearly as quickly... as did their children and their grandchildren. As she had for the past two years, she looked around, seeing with eyes the world made fresh again by her approaching death; she had seen generation after generation come and go, but no more; the Lord of Light had only a few last parts for her to play in his great plan... but her end would not be here.
A quick inspection showed that while the girl waiting for her and the other servants of the Lord of Light was carrying plenty of steel, she was not carrying the Valyrian dagger that R'hllor had used to put his plan for the Iron Throne in motion, nor either blade Tobho Mott had reforged, nor any other blade of Valyrian steel in Westeros, and without Valyrian steel, well... a wolf without teeth could do naught but bark at a servant of R'hllor. No One was nothing without proper tools or magic, and lacking those tools, a young one with weak magic was no threat when in front of her in plain sight. Behind the Princess was a young woman she did not recognize, but the change in heraldry was of a kind with the attitudes of the two and those around them; she was of no import, it was Azor Ahai's cousin, a King and a Queen's sister, full of king's blood, who held the power here.
She had faith that the Lord of Light would soon show her the path she would follow, be it over the bridge or along the Kingsroad, but for now, she had the pleasure of another foretold conversation to attend to, even if it was with unbelievers.
"I told you we'd meet again," greeted Melisandre casually, "Darkness has fallen heavy upon the world; the cold breath of winter is freezing the seas, and the dead have risen. Now we must help Azor Ahai to take up Lightbringer. May I have permissions to travel across this bridge in service of the Warrior of Light?"
"Oh? I've spoken with Ser Davos; he said you'd already had the 'Warrior of Light' Stannis Barathon draw a burning sword from a burning effigy. How'd that work out for you?" asked Arya, derisively, grey eyes staring into blue. The Red Woman had a retinue of perhaps three and twenty, mixed Westerosi and Essosi; but she couldn't sense anyone of note. Melisandre had managed to avoid Bran's notice, but she also didn't fit anything Bran should be searching for specifically and he was quite occupied with their current enemies and situations, so that was no great feat... and she was here, now; one of the names on her list that she'd have thought she'd have to seek out after spring had come once again, if she herself survived. Her retinue could be almost certainly handled by the archers in the courtyard; the Red Woman herself doubtless had magic no less dangerous than Kinvara, but she was alone, and arrogant in her faith.
"That was my mistake; I am fallible, and while the Lord of Light showed me true, I failed to interpret the vision properly," said Melisandre, her voice betraying her failures to the Princess Arya, though she could see that none of the others noticed the tremor.
"You fail a lot, and your failures bring death to many who would otherwise have been given the gift of death later. Why are you here?"
"I came here to die, Princess Arya," replied the Red Woman, her voice steady and certain. Her part in the plan of the Lord of Light was nearly done; she was glad to be of service one last time, here and now, during the last war against the Great Other.
"I can help you with that," answered Arya with a sharp baring of her teeth.
"You cannot; I will first see a First Servant of the Lord of Light; that much I know."
"You believe you will see a High Priest before you die? Very well, I can help you with that, too," replied Arya, striding towards the Red Woman, flipping her cloak back to bare her sword and reveal the vestments inside, stopping just out of range of a lunge, "Here I stand; No One, First Faceless Man of Westeros, Right Hand of Death. There is only one god; the Lord of Light is one of his many faces. See me, Servant of R'hllor, that you may die believing you have fulfilled your vision."
"You are a priest of a false god, Princess Arya, different from the so-called High Septon only by a handful of parlour tricks. I serve the one true god of good, the Lord of Light, and he has let powers flow through me, powers I could not have imagined having, all in service of his plan."
"There is only one god, and his name is Death. R'hllor is a god, yes, as each of the gods is merely one of his many faces. Your god's face is one that grants power, yes, but other faces grant powers, too; not the Seven, but faces like the Old Gods and Saagael grant their own magics. You and I both serve the one true god, but you serve only one face, a powerful face... but a face with many priests who foolishly believe he grants perfect knowledge of the future, not just pale shadows of what might be. Death is the only true certainty... no matter how long you have told Death not today, the day comes when you can do so no longer. Today, for instance."
"There are but two gods, the Lord of Light, and the Great Other. Let me pass, or not; I have a little way left to travel before I die; I have seen it clearly in the flames."
"A very little way. You killed Shireen Baratheon; burned an innocent girl alive and listened to her screams. I have Ser Davos's sworn and witnessed statement on this, and heard his testimony myself," said Arya steadily, laying out her first accusation, drawing out the arguments the ancient woman across from her would use to defend herself. Today, her list would be one name shorter, and that thought filled her with anticipation and joy.
"Your half-brother, the King in the North, has already sentenced me for that crime; you cannot sentence me a second time," replied Melisandre easily. The girl knew Azor Ahai was her cousin, but that was news that the Lord of Light would reveal when it served his great plan, and not before.
"My brother did, yes. You also killed Renly Baratheon with shadow magic. I have sworn and witnessed statements from both Ser Davos, who witnessed you birth the shadow assassin, and from Brienne of Tarth, who witnessed the shadow assassin killing Renly. The description of the shadow assassin was strikingly similar, and the timing was in line," replied Arya, tossing out the next bait. The Red Woman wasn't leaving here alive, but Sansa would skin her alive if she didn't have good political cover first. And, of course, the Shadow Flame would need the same kind of political cover to keep providing the level of aid against the Night King she was without facing significant unrest. The young wolf had seen in the crypts how dangerous, and useful, that magic could be.
"We were at war, and you seem to be unusually hypocritical and ungrateful... or are you an assassin who has never assassinated anyone yourself and who bears no gratitude for my small part in asking the Lord of Light to return your... brother... to life? In addition, that was in the Stormlands; we are in the Riverlands, and you have no authority over what happens in a kingdom not part of yours... that's what happens when you declare independence from the Iron Throne," asked the Red Woman with a small smirk. She could not die yet, no matter how much the Princess wanted her dead.
"Very well. This is still the Riverlands, or part of it, and it was in the Riverlands that I personally witnessed you engaging in the slave trade, buying a member of the Brotherhood without Banners, my brother by choice Gendry, from Beric Dondarrion and Thoros of Myr for two bags of coin which your guard handed to Beric. I have, in addition, Gendry's sworn and witnessed statement," said Arya, satisfied that the Red Woman had already claimed the raising of her brother, her voice tinged with satisfaction as she laid down her best accusation.
"It was the only way," started Melisandre, continuing apologetically, "Or so I thought at the time. All I have done, I did to prepare for the Long Night, when the dead rise up, as they have. I have no selfish purpose, I gained nothing myself. I have spent longer than you can understand preparing for the evil that has come seeking to extinguish the light of the world. I am but a servant, and I have made mistakes, terrible mistakes, but have you not also made mistakes?"
"My mistakes don't involve buying people to sacrifice, and slavery is a capital crime in all of Westeros, from Dorne to beyond the Wall," replied Arya while Kitty unrolled the scroll a page had handed her, raising her voice so it would be heard clearly by all around them, "Princess Bridges, Lady Paramount of the Northern Riverlands, I do accuse Melisandre, foreigner, of buying a slave in Westeros. My evidence is that statement by Gendry, and my having personally witnessed this crime."
Behind Arya, Kitty stood, holding the unrolled scroll high, and proclaimed clearly and loudly, "I have heard the accusation; Lady Winter's word is above reproach. I have read the statement; I recognize the signatures of the witnesses and I know Gendry to be an honorable man. I have heard Melisandre admit her own guilt. Melisdandre, Priestess of R'hllor, I judge you guilty of capital crimes against the Riverlands and the man known as Gendry."
Lady Mormont stood even as Kitty sat, her own battlefield voice carrying easily, "I am Master of Law; to those of you who are unfamiliar with our ways, it is law and custom in the Winter Kingdoms that the one who passes judgment on capital crimes cannot also be the one to pass the sentence; not even Queen Sansa has that power. Happily, we have with us Lady Winter, who in her capacity as Justice in the North, the Vale, and the Northern Riverlands, is empowered to pass sentence."
Melisandre watched as the young women played their little game through to the end; they lacked the grandeur of the courts of Volantis, the pomp of the courts of the dragonlords of Valyria or the terrible majesty of the great courts of Asshai, though they tried. The Lord of Light wasn't done with her yet; a few girls were of no consequence, only getting Azor Ahai to Lightbringer to stop the darkness and the terrors within mattered. She smirked condescendingly at the girl.
"Death," said Arya Stark, having watched the Red Woman very carefully; as she'd anticipated, the foreign priestess still wore the same hexagonal gem, and unlike their last meeting, she could now sense the many deaths bound to it, just as deaths had been bound to the gems Kinvara and the other priestesses had worn... and that gem was simply one end of a single perfect line passing through the Red Woman's windpipe and ending in her spine.
Melisandre smirked, she'd spent centuries traveling; this wasn't the first time she'd been attacked. She called on fire and shadow as the girl with eyes full of death took a long, quick step forward and then drew her sword in a bravo's lunge, as fast as she'd expected... and her magic was snuffed out as if it had never been! That was Valyrian steel! As the stone around her neck and the glamour she'd bound to it both shattered, pain flaring through her neck, she felt her ancient body crumpling to the ground amidst the shards of the gem she'd poured so much of the Lord of Light's power into that she might serve him longer.
Her eyes locked onto the sword her killer was holding, her own blood dripping from it; it was impossible! When had that been made? There had been two Valyrian steel blades of similar make, but the Lord of Light had shown her long ago that one had been lost in the Doom and she'd seen the other in the flames, safe in Qohor almost a fortnight ago, when she'd heard Princess Arya Stark was a First Sword! How had it come here, and who had put a new hilt on it; there hadn't been any smiths capable of forging Valyrian steel in Westeros since Tobho Mott died! The Lord of Light wasn't done with her yet! This wasn't, shouldn't be possible! She was to meet the...
Arya ignored the gasps of awe and shock at the glamour's dissipation and simply wiped her blade down with a rag while she watched the light leave the Red Woman's eyes, the Valyrian steel again shedding blood and flesh easily before she sheathed it economically, saying, "Valar Morghulis."
With a casual sweep, she swirled her cloak around to hide the leather and fully display the vestments of No One with the hood up to hide her young face, speaking in a deep, rough, wavering voice, eyes boring into those who had come with the now-dead woman, "Select from among you those who will bring her to the rooms of the House of Black and White. The rest of you may go to the forest and cut wood for a small pyre. She was sincere about a desire to fight the Night King and the Long Night, in spite of all the evil she did in the process. I will prepare her body to be burned in the way of the Red God."
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Sansa flicked her needle quickly back and forth, knitting absently as she read the scroll placed before her. Somewhat to her surprise, the Sealord of Braavos had written her back immediately. His advice wasn't entirely useful; she should have the best guards available, particularly those who can see through glamours, food and wine tasters, wandering oversight of the guards, and other things she already had. Amusingly, none of that was to protect her against Faceless Men, only to raise the price and protect against lesser assassins. There were some notes about one Sealord who had attempted to outlaw the assassins; they hadn't struck at him, but few guards would try to enforce that law, and none of those survived their attempt, no more than the few, mostly foreign sellswords who had been tempted by the bounty he'd tried to put on them. He'd suddenly found himself bereft of trade partners, had outstanding loans called in without warning, and then been publicly killed by his rivals, the law repealed immediately by his successor.
Protection against the Faceless Men of Braavos was both as easy as picking up a bravo's blade and as impossible as defeating every challenger forever, he wrote; the only two protections are not have any name that can be named, even a nickname or casual appellation, or to never be named by someone who can and will pay the price. She looked down, snipping that piece of yarn and swapping out to the next color in the pattern before taking up her steel needles and continuing. There it was; he'd replied immediately because he wanted to ask for details about the 'just vengeance' of the Faceless Men of Westeros, and how that was different than the Faceless Men he was familiar with. It would be a good trade and good politics; she'd reply with all due care, and soon.
He also noted the Faceless Men had never cared about anyone trying to find out who hired them, though they themselves were never the source of that information. Those attempting to investigate, violate, or spy on their temple, or arrest or even inconvenience No One or any novice or acolyte of their god vanished, never to be seen or heard from again. Those investigating those with a motive to want a perfectly assassinated person dead were never interfered with. Other killings or acts of retribution for a hire were never interfered with; as the price of hiring a Faceless Man was so high, those who did so were, when the price wasn't their life in the first place, often quite obvious. Braavosi guards arresting or killing those who upset the balance of power by giving names and payment to the Faceless Men helped reduce the temptation of hiring one for politics or greed.
Needles clicking, she thought; Arya had always had a strong sense of justice, of what was right. It wasn't the same as what Septa Mordane had taught, nor mother, nor father, but it was there, and had always been there in her sister. Now that very sense of justice could decide the fate of rulers and nations; could help people gain vengeance on those who hid in the shadows, like the men who had killed all of Gendry's half-brothers and half-sisters.
"My Queen, it's time," said the guard at the door.
"Thank you, Jafer."
Standing, she took up her spear and headed to Bran's room, where upon entering a single look at Meera and even Bran was enough to confirm what she had suspected; Grand Maester Wolkan had confirmed Meera was pregnant just a few minutes before. Sansa set her spear in the rack and enfolded her sister by law in a hug, her smile brilliant.
"Congratulations!" exclaimed Sansa, squeezing tight before releasing Meera so she can turn to her brother, seeing not just a flicker of joy in his eyes, but a smile that lasted even as she leaned down and enfolded him in a hug while the guards opened the door again behind her, "Congratulations! I'm so happy for you!"
"You wanted babies so much," said Bran, his tone again flat and his face once again expressionless.
"That was a long time ago," replied Sansa, giving him one last squeeze before letting the others get to her brother.
"Babies?" asked Samwell, while in his arms, little Sam chimed in with "Be? Be?"
"Meera! Bran! I'm so happy for you both," said Gilly as she joined in the general round of hugs.
Sansa stepped back to give Jon and Gendry room to enter Bran's rooms and join in the celebration, smiling quietly to herself as she watched her family celebrate. She remembered, just barely, a similar scene many years ago when mother had found out about Rickon; a time of pure joy during the long summer, untempered by the spectre of war and death. Over Jon's shoulder, she caught Meera's eye as they hugged, and saw that Meera's own smile gained a tinge of sadness, too; probably remembering her mother and Jojen, as Sansa was remembering Rickon, and Robb, and her own parents.
The moment passed, and Sansa let the sadness slip away again as she stepped back to write and seal a raven scroll, and then out of the room for a moment to instruct a page to have it flown to the Twins at once. Having provided grist for the rumor-mill that would be confirmed at the official announcement that the Princess Stark was with child, she re-entered the room, ordered all the guards out, and barred the door. She returned to the group and rubbed Meera's back; between Jon and Meera and the rest of the family she needed no guards no matter who might attack suddenly, even without Arya present.
"I'm glad you'll be my niece or nephew's mother," said Sansa softly, her tone tinged with melancholy before she pushed the sadness down and allowed her mischievousness to bubble up, "I'm sorry I can't give you the kind of advice you'll need... but I understand you've found the best midwife in Westeros?"
Meera followed Sansa's gaze to a smiling babe, a happy Gilly and a proud Samwell, teasingly replying, "I have; she's teaching an acolyte of the New Citadel the... practical aspects. Isn't she?"
"I am," said Gilly, looking up at a furiously blushing Sam with a warm grin, "He learns quickly... when he practices enough!"
Sansa smiled, letting the teasing and joy flow back and forth around her, pouring water of of the jar she hadn't let out of her sight since the food taster drank from it and passing it out before taking her usual seat against the warmed wall. Not long after, she again checked the water clock; it wasn't a twin to the one in the Twins, being actually quite a different design, but Samwell's experiments had shown this one was the closest timekeeper when using the oil the Maesters had determined was best in the temperatures they expected. The time shown was just at the point they'd agreed before Arya had left, as adjusted by Bran, who could see the setting each was exactly at dawn, even when dawn was coming so much earlier in the South.
"All right; come, everyone, sit. Arya should be ready shortly," said Sansa after she clapped her hands once. She turned her head to the empty seat next to her by habit, and then realized again that Arya wasn't in Winterfell to sit with her anymore. Arya wasn't even in the North; she was in the place Robb and their mother and the sister-by-law she'd never met had been killed, and she was going further south, to the place their father and household and Septa Mordane had been killed.
Sansa blinked as Gilly held little Sam out to her after taking the seat next to her, Samwell on her other side.
"Here; you'll need the practice, right?" asked Gilly with a warm grin. Growing up, she'd expected to live and die with her father. Escaping with Sam, she'd expected to live and die in Moletown, looked down on by the Watch and the southrons even as Shireen welcomed her and taught her to read. She'd gone farther South than perhaps any Free Folk had ever been, seen fields full of grass and trees and felt the hot sun on her face, and been rejected by Sam's father. Sam's mother, his sister, they'd been just as kind and welcoming as her Sam was, but Sam had taken her on to the southron Reach, where she was just as unwelcome in Citadel or city alike, and it was beastly hot besides... though it was still far better than being with her father. She'd practiced her reading, collected the books that Sam brought her and read them all, every last one, a little faster each time.
Then they'd gone North again, back to where it wasn't so hot, and she'd finally been welcomed. She'd been welcomed by Jon's family, she'd been welcome in the library tower, she'd even been welcomed by the Maesters here, very differently from the disdain from the Maesters in the citadel. They'd asked her for every detail about the White Walker that had attacked them, paced out exactly its walking speed, the length of its stride, exactly how it had frozen and shattered when Sam stabbed it. When she'd helped with delivering a babe, they'd told her how it was done here in the South... and then they'd asked why she did it differently, if it was due to lack of materials or the cold or if there were other reasons. She'd insisted on writing out her accounts herself, not letting a Maester transcribe them, and they'd helped with her writing.
She wasn't welcomed only for her experience with babes, either, though Meera had asked her to help her with the new little Stark first! She'd taught classes, taught other children to read with all the patience that Shireen had used teaching her, children from all over Westeros! And then the Night King had come, and she'd been in charge of the eastern ravenry, with Sam in charge of the western ravenry. She shuddered; she'd had a good view of the battle, between making sure the Maesters and scribes were writing out the messages the pages sent accurately and that they were sent to the right places, checking the map to see if her ravenry was the primary for a particular destination or if she needed to wait and hear if Sam's raven had gotten past the Night King's army... or if Sam had been killed and his ravenry destroyed, with her ravens the only chance at getting the last messages out. But that was in the past; now was not a time for fear or sadness.
Gilly smiled and tucked the fur around little Sam while he smiled up at Sansa and tugged on her braid; she'd been welcomed here, and they'd even brought Talla and Melessa from the south. She'd help Meera with her pregnancy; the Maesters had been quite impressed with the number of pregnancies and births she'd helped her poor sisters with. But, right now, Meera was fine, and it was Sansa that needed her help.
"Arya says Hello everyone. Kitty says Hello everyone. Sandor grunts. Lyanna says Your Grace," interrupted Bran in dead, flat tones, his eyes white, "Kitty says Two more of Cersei's spies and one of Qyburn's have been found..."
Almost nine hundred miles south as the raven flies, in the back of a small room at the very bottom of the bridge, four people sat, the biggest hunched over almost double, talking softly, but not to each other.
"Kitty rooted one out by herself and confirmed the other two. There's some resentment, particular among the highborn who were either favored by Walder or were gaining advantage after his death; the smallfolk are content enough," said Arya to empty air.
"Scared; scared of war, scared of the fucking wights. Soldiers're more scared of the wolf bitch than the wights, they'll not turn on us," added Sandor gruffly, "Should be, too; wolf bitch took the fuckin' castle by herself. Rest of us didn't get a chance to kill anyone. Greedy bitch."
"Not my fault you're too slow, Uncle Hound," japed Arya, continuing, "Seagard's existing two moats have been expanded, they're filling in the rest. You've probably gotten the raven from Moat Cailin, they're nearly done with their own fifth moat. Gulltown's only half done with their fifth moat; the soil's only a few feet deep, but their other four are fully enlarged. Three thousand Dornish soldiers, mixed spears and archers docked at Seagard earlier today, another two thousand are on their way here, they brought three year's supplies and another fifty and two hundred thousand ancient arrowshafts. Thank Sarella... preferably before the raven arrives. The river's not that difficult to keep running free, not yet, but it takes a detail of children to keep the ice from spreading."
Kitty spoke next, equally quietly, "Most of my smallfolk and all the summer supplies have been removed and sent away to Seagard and Gulltown; please thank Lord Royce for the hospitality of the Vale; we've finished stocking the castle as best we can; we've hung nets underneath and filled them with supplies; if they fall, the barrels will at least float. Lady Mormont's been very busy; she can tell you about it."
"We're raising towers atop the castle, with tall ballista towers over the main supports which have space for storing supplies below the archers. Southron forces will expect us to attack on the move from here on out; they've got a decent wildfire stockpile here, and much, much more in the south. The officers and crews are well drilled against ground forces, even moving ones, but only when they can see, and they'd never trained against flying targets. They're learning quickly, very quickly," said Lyanna Mormont.
"I think Qyburn was using the Twins as an experiment in siege engines," said Arya, "They'll be improving in the South now; we've caught four scouts on patrols in the woods, and at least one got away – an excellent rider, the day before last, spotted just at sundown when there was a glint, possibly off the lens of a Myrish far-eye. Bran, check to find out what they saw..."
When she finished speaking, she turned to Sandor with a nod.
"Army's all right. Lannister army, just like every other Lannister army. Good discipline, good veterans, but full of green boys. Riverlands soldiers have no experience; Lannister soldiers don't like the women and girls fighting, but they quit complaining out loud after the little girls did better in the first exercise. And nobody taller than the little wolf bitch and the bear should be here. Fucking hallways are full of barrels; a man's got to bend over double and crawl on top of all that shite," growled the Hound.
"Only because you're freakishly tall," retorted Arya, to Kitty's soft giggle.
"Like your sister?"
"She's freakishly tall too."
"So I'm of normal height, then?" chimed in the Scorpion Bear, "First time I've heard that!"
"Least you didn't fall off your horse like the wolf bitch here; thought you could ride, girl. You wanted a pony bad enough," growled Sandor light-heartedly.
"It wasn't like that, I didn't just fall off," retorted Arya sharply, with a grin, "I'd already hit three targets while standing on my mount bareback; turning at a gallop is different than turning at an amble when I'm that high up! People aren't supposed to be that far off the ground; you should know that!"
"Aye, and and you still fell off!"
"Into a snowdrift. Another four times," chimed in Kitty with a grin before continuing more seriously, "Another priestess of R'hllor showed up. Briefly."
"Jon, you can tell Davos that the bitch that burned Shireen alive and bought Gendry as a slave is dead," said Arya, deep satisfaction in her voice, "Most of her companions are still heading North to help; I've sent them to Moat Cailin and from there they'll go to Winterfell to meet up with the Shadow Flame. A couple of them are staying here; apparently watching her die confused didn't help their faith any."
Sandor snorted; that was one way to put it.
Kitty took up the conversation, "And then there was the... lovely... excitement at lunch today, when the staff finally broke through the door of the room of three of my bannermen who hadn't been seen since the previous night, only to startle half the castle with their screams. It seems that somehow, despite a door locked and barred from the inside of a windowless room, someone had removed their heads and cut them, root and stem."
"And shoved the stem down their open throats!" exclaimed the Hound with a rough laugh, "Rootes were a bunch of cunts anyway."
"People lose their heads all the time, rapers the same as anyone else," said Arya blandly, giving no response whatsoever to Lyanna's rolling her eyes. She'd have sent an acolyte to give them the gift long ago if there had been a contract with the House of Black and White, but there wasn't. She'd taken that contract personally in her Arya face, for personal reasons, just as she'd taken Daenerys's contract the same way... and several other for Cersei, from people all over her sister's kingdoms, including here, and so it had to wait until she arrived. That delay had meant another two victims, though, as with the other victims she'd been able to verify as they'd been dying, the girls had already accepted the Many-Faced God's great gift. She listened as the small bear spoke
"There's no evidence of who might have killed them... but when the room was searched, there was a hidden cache of trinkets discovered. Little baubles, five of which were positively identified by a blind sketch as having belonged to girls and women who had vanished in the past nine years, and two of which were likewise identified as belonging to girls whose bodies had been found after they'd been raped and then drawn and quartered. A variety of testimony was provided after their deaths were made public, and another three and twenty trinkets have yet to be identified. The Princess Bridges judged them posthumously guilty of capital crimes, so there is no lawful need to seek out their killer... who, given the lack of evidence, was likely a Faceless Man, and who certainly dispensed just vengeance," said the Master of Laws, tilting her head to stare right at Lady Winter, who merely shrugged at her.
"Plenty of Faceless Men in Westeros, and many more killers, some of whom are slightly less blindingly obvious and deafeningly loud than Uncle Hound is," said the Faceless Man, ducking an awkward swipe from the big man.
A little while later, the news had been conveyed, goodbyes had been said, and they were exiting the little room, Lyanna asked, "Does her dying mean you really are a High Priest of the Red God?"
"The Many-Faced God gives no answers; his only gift is death. Like Sandor's friend Ray said, I cannot know, though I believe that yes, they are all the same thing, and I am a High Priest of the Many-Faced God. Since the Red God is but one more face of Death, I am a High Priest of R'hllor; I study that face the same as I study every other face of the Many-Faced God. What do you think a Maester might say?"
"A Maester would say it's possible, but that it was much more likely she was wrong, that she had no true visions."
"Correct; it's certainly true that many people lie to themselves. I lied to myself about Uncle Sandor for a long time, even," answered Arya.
An hour later, Arya slipped back into the little room, by herself. As soon as she'd opened the door, a squirrel scrambled in behind her; she furred and barred the door behind her, setting out an inkpot, a quill, a stack of parchment, and a map.
Back in Winterfell, Sansa slipped back into Bran and Meera's room; the guards had again been banished from the room, and it was just the three of them.
"I told Arya Meera is pregnant. Arya says I knew that, give it, Sansa," said Bran, with a flicker of warmth as he turned his head to gaze at his wife, who had seated herself in his lap.
"I expected she might say that," replied Sansa, reaching into her cloak and withdrawing a small rectangular box with a simple catch, which she handed to Meera. She waited patiently while her sister by law wiggled as she reached out for it; she didn't know exactly what Arya had done – she's promised not to find out what was inside – but she thought she had a good idea.
Meera held the box where Bran could see it too, then flicked the catch and flipped the lid open, taking out the gift inside... it was firm but squishy, made of fine, thick canvas, with strong but uneven and ugly stitching, "A stuffed toy sword. Of course you'd give a babe a toy sword, Arya, without even knowing if it's a boy or a girl."
"Arya says all babes need something to hit people with."
Meera thumped her husband on the head with the rough-looking, crude toy, squeezing it in her hand experimentally, then shook her head and traded resigned glances with Sansa, "Our child is going to be given dozens of fine, respectable toys... and yet I fear it is this one that the babe will hold tight to, and scream when anyone tries to take it away."
"Arya says you need to teach the babe to hit instead of scream."
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