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Ah, yes, because that's very conversational of you, Dany. Try as she might, she really can't "fit in" among the North.
Lady Winter and the Red Wolf (GoT/ASOIAF)
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Ah, yes, because that's very conversational of you, Dany. Try as she might, she really can't "fit in" among the North.
No, she really can't fit in amongst either the North, or smallfolk. Trying to do so amongst Northern smallfolk is a cause lost before it even starts!
Bear in mind, of course, that that _was_ normal conversation as she grew up with Viserys and whatever patsy Varys had hosting them! It also wouldn't be out of place at the dinner tables of any of the more ambitious Southron highborn families - the Tyrells, Baratheons, etc. There might be a spirited debate, but as normal conversational topics, it'd be up there.
Lower nobility, not so much. Northern nobility of any kind, not at all. Smallfolk in King's Landing, perhaps, that's the propoganda they hear all the time. Smallfolk anywhere else, not at all.
But... it's the topic Viserys and later Dany brought up with Khal Drogo over and over, that she talks with her advisors - the only people she actually talks to that I can see - that she talks with her allies about.
So - she gets a lesson that while she already knew that there were no secret toasts to the Targaryens, she didn't know that they honestly just don't care.
Note that the White Harbor smallfolk don't even care about the Starks, rulers in the North for thousands of years! They care about the rulers right there, in their own city, that keep them alive in the Winter and safe in the Summer, specially since these smallfolk have seen Lady Wylla, in person, week in and week out running the docks. They've seen Lady Leona coming down to manage logistics regularly. Wynafryd, not at all, really, she's the Manderly politician since Lord Manderly's been at Winterfell, but the daughter and the granddaughter? They see those two working on behalf of their people. They see tens of thousands of barrels of food brought in from overseas, arrows, dragonglass, preparations, fair rationing, all overseen by Manderlys.
That matters, to the smallfolk. That the Manderlys are doing it because the Starks arranged it they may, possibly, have heard... but it doesn't matter to them, not really.
That's what I'm trying to convey, at least
. A lot of that comes from logic, a lot from the feudal system, and is supported by the evidence in the show - when a Lord left an army, their (smallfolk) soldiers go with them, they don't stay with the higher liege lord. Karstark leaves, the Karstark forces follow the Karstark, they don't stay with the Stark, King or not.Not at all the same as Meereen, Dany... not at all the same!
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The slow build-up to the coming encounter is so glorious. I love all the world-building and changes shown. Seeing how all the changes in the north look from outside eyes is so much fun and I'm just waiting for them to descend deeper and deeper down the rabbit hole. I'm so happy whenever this story updates.
Thank you very much for the reply! It's always good, and motivating, to hear that my work is enjoyed!
The slow buildup isn't quite intentional, but the worldbuilding and many, many sets of events happening that cause it certainly is!
You're the first to use a reference to descending down the rabbit hole, but it's actualky very apt. Jon left the North (and the Vale) in one condition, and he's returning to find it in really quite another, physically and even socially.
Chapter 20 outline in progress!
Sorry Dany. even if the impending zombie apocalypse wasnt barrelling down on them, No smallfolk gives a shit who sits on the Throne. One fuckers the same as the next.
I am very much liking the "Who gives a shit about politics right now. White Walker gonna kill everyone!" vibe
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I would say no smallfolk outside of Kings Landing, when you are too close to the throne the person sitting on it can have a massive impact
From Jon? Absolutely.
From Cersei? Not in the slightest.
From others? It depends, but if the sisters were only worried about the army of the dead they wouldn't need Moat Cailin or, probably, the Bloody Gates.
The Queen slaughters babies!
As one example. The Sept of Baelor and the armed Sparrows for another.
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- New Jersey, USA
You quoted me from a different thread.
Oops! That's what I get for having two score story windows open, and only scattered smidgeons of time!
20 Departures and Duels
Sansa and Arya strode through the castle easily with guards, Samwell and his family, and other Maesters behind, quickening their pace to pass a group of men and women with wheelbarrows who were waiting to carry half-finished bunk-beds up the stairs to be assembled in the rooms designated for housing the people of the North.
"You've got almost the final counts now, with everyone who isn't going hunting being recalled from the watchtowers with their supplies. How many are going to be left in Winter Town, and will they be able to keep it running?" asked Arya as they made their way towards the main gates to greet their next visitor and the cargo they'd brought with them. She was really quite looking forward to seeing Sansa's reaction to this particular visitor.
The gaggle of Maesters behind them, of course, was interested only in the cargo. They were days behind on the most important research of the millennia, and were eager to catch up to their brethren in White Harbor and Gulltown. That the weather was worsening, causing the caravan to be delayed, hadn't helped any.
"You're leaving the watchtowers empty?" asked Samwell Tarly.
"Not quite, Sam. Northerners and Free Folk have had the tradition of elders, cripples, and anyone who is a drain on the food supply in winter 'going hunting' one last time, heading out to seek their deaths so that the food left behind lasts longer, that their family may live. It comes from the same traditions as guest rights, the sacred bond between host and guest that allows both to live out a night, a blizzard, or even an entire winter together, even were they in the midst of a blood feud with each other," replied Arya.
"Oooh. So, the people left on the watchtowers..."
"Volunteered to give their lives for their people, yes, Sam. They'll be left enough food to last until a week or so after we expect the army of the dead to reach them, just in case. I won't allow them to spend their last days hungry this early in winter," said Sansa quietly as they walked.
This was the task she'd dreaded most as a child, that she hadn't understood then. In the North, when winter came, people died, of starvation, of cold, of disease. Often enough, people had the food they started the winter with, supplemented meagerly by what they could hunt or gather from under and atop the snows.
If all the food was gathered together, and feed to everyone equally, everyone would starve equally, and the North would return to the beasts, so choices had to be made; there was no happy ending for all. Yet now, as the Lady of Winterfell, while she did not enjoy the task, she did it as best she could, reaching out to their new allies for aid, yet knowing that in the Second Long Night, everyone may be facing the same hard decisions the North was used to. Foreign aid couldn't be depended on in future years; without enough sunlight, there wouldn't be enough growing season to feed everyone. She'd asked the Maesters to look into that, too... but a few weeks would make no difference to the long term food supply, while they would make all the difference against the army of the dead, with the Night King past the wall already.
"Could I have a copy of their names, please? I'd like to make sure they're added to the histories. One of the problems we've had is the most of the records of the first Long Night were thought to be fables, or lost. Or both. If future generations have to deal with this again, we should make sure they have as much information as possible, and that it's obviously not a fable or a story of snarks and grumkins, but history that truly happened, and a warning that it can happen again," replied Sam, seriously. He'd spent a lot of time on the trip North thinking about what he'd found, and hadn't found, and about how the Archmaesters had dismissed his warning, Jon's warning. Even if they won, there was no guarantee they'd end the threat forever; their forefathers hadn't, after all, and they'd known much more about the enemy.
"I'll have some of the literate pages sent out to record the names of those who stay when they pick up the rest of the people and supplies. They'll also be helpful offloading the tar - we had a request from one of the watchtowers for enough tar to cover the ground inside the trench, so we're going to supply that much to all of them, now that we've had another shipment come in," answered Arya. She didn't need to say that the intent of the watchtower crew who'd asked for it was to take as many wights with them as possible, while also ensuring their own bodies didn't get desecrated by a White Walker as well.
"To answer your original question, Arya, between far too many people being too stubborn to come in before and finding space for the foreign supplies, we're going to have quite a population left in Winter Town and the camps. We also still need space in the castle to do work in case Winter Town is lost, you know, so we can't pack it as full as we could if we didn't need to keep making arrows and so on. Babes, children, pregnant women, and those with necessary skills for the war and the winter are being brought into Winterfell first. I know the town wall isn't as tall as ours, so we'll have to depend on your fieldworks and the fighters," replied Sansa tiredly.
"The stonemasons finished with the crennelations awhile ago. Those who aren't shoring up siege engine positions or the gatehouses and gates have joined those working on machicolations and towers now. We've got a moat eighteen feet deep around the wall now - that's where a lot of the rock the masons are using came from, that's why it's shallower than the next two rings. I could take fifteen thousand and put them to digging for two or three days, particularly around winter town - we can get maybe another foot overall and top up the stone stockpile at the same time. Maybe more if the Ibbenese share some of their tricks - they're said to use wildfire and ice to fracture rock and pick out the pieces. Or I could put them to felling trees, and we'd be able to top up on raw wood before it becomes too dangerous to go out past the third or fourth ring without a large guard, and only for a short time."
"Your people will be happy to get back to training after two or three days excavating rock or felling trees, won't they?" asked Sansa as she gave her sister a small grin. That, she thought, was something Arya might even have learned from her. It wasn't something she'd said Tywin had done, and it wasn't something Father or Robb had done, but when Sansa asked for things to be done, she tried to make sure there were duties that were relatively pleasant required after the less pleasant duties.
"Why? Do you have a few Lord and Ladies you'd like to send out to wield picks and shovels for a day or three," asked Arya with a teasing smirk, "Another foot of moat isn't going to make a real difference, and the Ibbenese way would use up some of our limited wildfire and not provide stone blocks. The trees are more useful, and more important. Furniture, arrows, bolts, spears, firewood, towers, hoarding repairs... we can put up some more towers on the Winter Town walls, build a few taller building in the middle and clear out some of the buildings next to the walls."
Sansa made the sign for yes as she answered, "Of course not, though I think Lord Glover might find manual labor far more fun than his next council meeting with his bannermen. All right, wood it is - your decision. I'll get Winter Town ready for more changes. You've got another pair of Free Folk marriage duels, by the way. One willing with an outraged father, and one not willing at all."
Sansa hated the Free Folk custom of stealing wives. She didn't understand why the Free Folk women almost entirely actively approved of it, though she suspected it was due to strength being so necessary beyond the Wall. Regardless, she wouldn't stand for it on her watch, but a suitable substitute had to be found, one which let a woman's family, or champions, defend her, and one which let the suitor show off his strength and cunning.
The formally announced marriage challenges were that way; most were handled internal to the Free Folk, but when they 'raided' the Northerners and those of the Vale, she and Arya and the other leaders often had to get involved. Sansa suppressed a chuckle at the memory of the challenge for Chella's hand in marriage; the Vale tribeswoman had soundly trounced the man in single combat, then dragged him off to bed after anyway... and kicked him out the next morning.
"Raped?" asked Arya coldly.
"No. He's followed the rules and announced his intentions, not actually stolen her, nor touched her. I think he's hoping a show of strength will change her mind. It won't work, not with her, but... he's a Thenn, and he's made his intentions public, so his pride is on the line, too," said Sansa. The Thenn had set his eye on the very lovely daughter of an architect. In normal times, of course, he would have stolen her away in the night.
Here and now, in the North and the Vale, she'd put a stop to that months ago. No women would be stolen away while she could prevent it, and she could very certainly do so. To stop it from happening in the first place, rather than punish the guilty after it was too late, she'd spoken with Tormund after they'd retaken Winterfell. The theft of a woman itself wasn't important to the Free Folk, not really, but the fighting, that was very important on both sides. The family to fight for her, to always maintain watchfulness, and the... fiance... to show his intended and her family that he was willing to risk his life for her were he not a great fighter, and to show that he was a great fighter if that was the case, able to protect her and sire strong children, children who had a chance of surviving beyond the wall.
Arya, as Justice in the North, had taken up the role of champion when necessary, on behalf of the women who weren't able to fight on their own, and who didn't have family willing and capable of doing so for them. Just like the stealing, these duels were only to the death in the rarest of cases - the purpose was to show intent, to show capability, and to show off, not to remove more of the scarce population.
"So, one duel on behalf of the young couple against her father, and another to knock a Thenn unconscious. And in both I have to make them look good," said Arya, putting an expression of exasperation on her face as she made the sign for lie, "I should have stayed with Qarro or just gone to the fighting pits in Meereen! At least there's a purse for the winner!"
As they passed into the daylight, Sansa hip-checked her smaller sister, "You know you love it. The father's not even that bad - Chylla said he was barely passable with a staff, so you can have some fun with that. The Thenn likes poleaxes. Please try not to put him down too quickly; his uncle's the Magnar of the Thenn, and needs to have pride in his nephew's strength... if not in his judgment. The Magnar's proud, but he and his people are taking to living here very well, and I'd like to avoid any insult. The boy is following all the customs - he even brought her a present before announcing his intentions."
"What was it?" asked Arya, curious. The Thenns were different than most of the rest of the Free Folk, both more civilized and more brutal, in their own ways. She got along very well with most of the clans of the Free Folk, at least after having fought several of them, and having Meras, Skamund and some of the others of the ice-river clans vouch for her. Beating Tormund didn't hurt, either, of course.
"He'd asked for a writ to go hunting, and once I granted it, he bought a garron and went off to the northeast. He came back with three brace of rabbits, two small deer, and a bear all neatly skinned and butchered on a sled made of frozen deer meat pulled behind the horse, if you can believe it."
"I can believe it - Meras showed me how to make meat sleds on the way back from Moat Cailin, and the Thenns are from even farther north and away from rivers, so they must be great gatherers and hunters to survive. That's actually a very impressive marriage offering, you know, and possibly three less animal wights for us to face to boot. She's sure she doesn't want him?"
"Quite sure. Meera and Kitty talked to them both after I did, and they agree as well. Her father agrees with her, too, so there's no question of the answer, unlike the other couple. That one's father is outraged over his daughter actually wanting a husband of the Free Folk, and willing to take the beating you give him to show his daughter how strongly he feels. She's nine and ten years, a widow from the Boltons, and wants a husband who can and will fight anyone and anything for her, not be taken meekly like her prior husband, who her father chose for her, was," said Sansa.
Sometimes Sansa wished her own father had fought when she claimed to want to be Joffrey's Queen and have his babies - surely he'd seen that she was but a child, with childish songs in her head... but who would he have fought, and what would have been the result? She looked down at her sister again, seeing a faint shadow of a tell Arya had had as a child, and spoke softly.
"Just what mischief are you hatching, Arya? Tell me now and tell me true, and perhaps I won't have your head for treason against sound minds everywhere."
Arya looked up earnestly, her eyes wide and innocent, "I'm not hatching anything! We're just here to meet the Sphinx! Well... you know, not an actual Sphinx Sphinx. The Sphinx isn't actually a magical beast. Not like Bran or me!"
"He's quite a soft-spoken young man, Sansa," interjected Samwell earnestly, "You'll like him."
They were both laughing as they entered the outer bailey, coming to stand by Sam and Gilly while the drawbridge was being lowered, the outer and inner gates swinging open ponderously as both new portcullises were winched up, massive counterweights lowering to allow the small party in and the Maesters out, crossing on the drawbridge with the sound of hearty greetings from the learned men.
"Congratulations, Acolyte Alleras! You have done the Citadel very proud indeed, even if the Archmaesters aren't willing to acknowledge well documented reality. Be a good boy and tell us where they are?"
Alleras handed over a notebook and turned to point, "Three rings out, two radial divisions to the east. I bought back one of the very best wights, and several partial wights. Here's my notes on the behavior of the wights, and on the results of the experiments conducted by the Maesters at White Harbor, as well as those I conducted aboard ship and on the trip here."
"Wonderful, wonderful! This is a great day for science - we will learn more about the higher mysteries than any Maester before us, I have little doubt, and in large part because of your ingenuity and quick thinking! Come find us when Lady Stark is done with you - we practical Maesters value the knowledge gained from real field experience, not like those academics at the Citadel, and you've observed wights in their natural habitat!"
"Thank you, Maester. If you'll excuse me, I see I am keeping Ladies waiting," said Alleras in a clear tenor.
"The small one, with all the weapons; that's Lady Winter. Never call her Lady in any other capacity, though - she doesn't like it. A killer, that one, and the leader of all the armies gathering in the North and the Vale - she misses nothing, young man. Remember!" said Maester Wolkan quietly, glancing back at the young killer briefly. Still as a block of ice once again, that one was.
Alleras raised a hand to the Maesters and replied, "I know she misses nothing very well indeed, Maester, thank you - I had the good fortune to train with her at White Harbor, and she was kind enough to order any assistance I needed to capture the wights, so we must credit her as well. If you'll excuse me..."
"Of course, of course."
Sansa watched the young man approach with a group of others now that the Maesters were on their way. The others, a group of Dornish carrying bows and other dragonglass-tipped weapons in addition to good steel, had all waited while Alleras spoke with the Maesters, then when the acolyte moved, they did as well. Very interesting, that; even Grand Maester Pycelle hadn't had a single guard or assistant, much less a gaggle of them. Beside her, Arya poured a cup of whatever drink was in the odd bottle she'd doubtless bought from one of the foreign traders, into the cup.
Sansa didn't let herself respond, but as the acolyte approached, she noticed more about him - his skin was darker than the other Dornish here or the ones she remembering seeing in King's Landing, the ones who came with Prince Oberyn for Margaery's wedding. He had a sailor's walk, and carried a bow, longer than Arya's new one and of the same material - goldenheart, very rare and valuable, the same wood Loras's lance had been made of. His hair had a prominent widow's peak, which made her think as she looked down into his eyes, eyes very like another set she'd seen years before. She offered the acolyte her platter, gave the sign for you and the new sign for jape to Arya, her voice pitched to carry without seeming to, a trick she'd learned for Lord Baelish.
"Welcome to Winterfell, Alleras the Sphinx. You've done the North, the Vale, the Free Folk, and all the living a great service by not only capturing the wights, but also by working out the means by which it can be done and teaching it to others. You will be welcome to stay in Winterfell as long as you like, and your food will come from our stores or purse. Please, have bread and salt, and be our guest."
Sansa watched the Sphinx eat and drink, now fairly sure, but not yet certain, that she was who she thought she was. Arya, of course, hadn't said anything; probably some courtesy of the Faceless Men about not revealing others who were pretending to be someone else. Suppressing her annoyance, she realized she'd have to rework her plans on where the Sphinx was to be housed and have some of the supplies cleared from another pair of chambers, enough to make space for one person and clear up a certain patch of wall her sister had shown her.
Well, at least she'd get to sew another style of nice dress; she could easily see how to adapt Obern's outfit to work on Sarella's frame, though she'd need to see her inside to be able to fit it to her figure; like all the Southrons and the foreign guests from anywhere except Lorath, Ib, and Braavos, she was bundled up in layers so thick little could be seen of her at all. Smiling internally, she planned just how she'd reveal her knowledge to Alleras, since she was quite sure the acolyte hadn't notice her noticing.
Arya clapped Alleras on the shoulder, then offered the small wooden cup, very like the one Alleras had used in White Harbor, "Good work, Sphinx! You got the wights, and without having to get stranded in the middle of the army of the Night King on foot, too."
"Thank you, Lady Winter. Who would be foolish enough to go after wights on foot? I watched them for hours, and they never stopped, not once. Even if they're slow on the march, we did a time trial on the most intact wight in White Harbor, and they're pretty quick on the run, as fast as a sprinting man of the same build," answered Alleras, taking a small sip from the cup so as to be polite, then a much longer drink as she tasted her preferred Summer Isles wine. Not quite her favorite vintage, not even from the same island, but a taste of her mother's homeland nonetheless, and quite close to what she'd been carrying when Arya had taken her as a cup-bearer.
"Good to see you again, Alleras," greeted Korb, while Connas gave the Sphinx a manly shoulder clap and a wink, "You saw the army of the dead? The real one? Shot some of them with that greatbow of yours?"
"I did, and brought some back! The most intact for study, and the rest to send out to the rulers of the world and the Citadel. Between traveling north and south, we observed more than seven and thirty thousand wights, six and forty wight giants, and three and thirty wight mammoths, without being able to see either the end or the beginning of the column, nor anything not visible through a far-eye from a ship along the coast. We saw zero white walkers and zero dragons, so simple deduction tells us that there are more forces that we didn't see, in unknown quantity," reported Alleras.
"You know Samwell Tarly and his family, of course," said Arya, handing the wine to another guard before bringing Alleras over to Sam and Gilly , "my brother's adopted him, so they're our family now, too. Sam came back to help my brother Jon, to fight the army of the dead."
"Alleras! Arya said you'd come North. Did the Archmaesters send you? Are they mad at me for leaving?" asked Samwell.
"No, I came on my own. You know me - I like seeing with my own eyes. I believe they're rather more angry about the books you stole, Samwell," said Alleras, leaning over little Sam, reaching out with a slim, gloved hand to tickle under his chin as he cooed up at the Sphinx, "Hello there, little Sam, you've gotten bigger, haven't you? Yes you have! You're lucky to have Gilly and Samwell as your mommy and daddy!"
"It's good to see you again, Alleras," said Gilly kindly, "Did you have a good trip? Did you bring back any more books I can read? Look, little Sam's happy to see you!"
Alleras smiled and played with little Sam for a moment. The babe had his face bare to the cold, and was no more red-cheeked than he had been at the Citadel. Gilly was wearing no more than Arya or Lady Stark, while their guards were wearing similar outfits or a single additional thin layer. Samwell, however, was bundled up in layer after layer of thick black cloth. Interestingly, Samwell and especially Gilly were wearing a much higher quality of clothing than they had before, easily the equal of Arya's or Lady Stark's.
Standing again, the archer answered Gilly, "I did, very much so. A scare or two with the wights, a few with icebergs - huge chunks of ice floating, mostly underwater, with just the tip showing! One with a sandbar we almost didn't see until it was too late. Other than that, it was very educational! I got to loose the scorpion, which was fun. Might want to try that again. There's just something to shooting a shaft that big, eh Sam?"
"I've never used one, but Lady Mormont seems to enjoy them," replied Sam, "Will you be staying long? Gilly and I could use some help with the Maesters - you know how the older Maesters get. They need to be kept on track. Maester Wolkan, the Winterfell Maester, he tries, he does, but he's, well... he's a little timid. Maester Russal does a lot better - he's the Bear Island Maester. Those two are the ones who took the measurements that proved that the Long Night is here!"
"All right, little Maesters, enough. If I let you two get started you'll be at it all day, so I'm stepping in now. I would like to know the answer to Sam's question, though - will you be staying long?" asked Arya, smirking and giving Gilly a wink, Sansa coming up to stand with them after the last of Winterfell's new guests had been given bread and salt, spear casually in hand, the elder sister standing so she could keep an eye on the Dornish guards, though she was clearly listening to the Sphinx's answer.
"If you're sure it won't be any trouble, then I'd like to stay. I'm a good archer..."
"A master archer," interrupted Arya.
"... and I'd like to help as best I can, Lady Winter, Lady Stark, and learn what I can while I'm here, if you'll have me," said Alleras, "There's so much new knowledge here, a priceless opportunity to discover, or perhaps re-discover, knowledge known by no-one else in all the world."
"This is the North, Alleras. When we say we'll do a thing, we do it, as Tormund Giants bane once told my brother, so when we say you are welcome, you are. You know Arya already, so she can do her duty as a hostess for once and show you around - you'll want to meet Lady Meera, of course, who is to be our good sister soon - we just announced her engagement to my brother Bran. You can go up the... rigging, I believe it's called, on the tall tower there and see Lady Mormont, if you're interested in the scorpions and ballista. The Maesters are up there often enough. I'm sure she'll be interested in how you catch wights with scorpions," said Sansa, nudging Arya forward gently, but obviously. Arya clearly both liked and respected the master archer, and Sansa had some work to do shifting rooms around and making sure everything was in order.
"Hey! I did my duty as a hostess - I served the wine, remember?" retorted Arya, looking over to wait for a moment when the rest of the Dornish visitors were distracted, "And showed the Sphinx the most exciting entertainments there was in White Harbor, besides! Well, the best before Alleras here upstaged me with actual wights, the cheater. Not fair, Alleras, not fair. Come on, race you to the Scorpion Bear's lair!"
With that, Arya spun and ran for the tallest tower, not at her full speed, but quick enough to press Alleras to her utmost, and make sure they were both beyond a corner before the Dornish guards realized they were in motion. Arya led the other girl up several flights of stairs, through a small window, across the top of the hoardings and roofs, slowing down some when she heard Alleras start to slip, speeding up again after, and then with a flying leap grabbed onto the rigging along the side of the tallest tower, scrambling up twenty feet and then waiting.
A moment later when Alleras joined her, Arya murmured, "One of your so-called guards is very much your enemy, you know. Deal with it quietly before I can offer your little sisters the opportunity to pay for just vengeance."
"Tiilyan, I know," whispered Alleras.
Arya started climbing up the ropes again, calling out, "Guest coming, Lyanna! That archer with the big bow I told you about! Now you get to show her yours is bigger!"
************************
Daenerys and Jon held onto the ropes stretching across the big sled, their backs to barrels and piles of supplies it was carrying as the sled raced through the snow-covered town street towards the opening inner gates, large pulleys lifting cold rolled steel bars four inches in diameter out from the slots they sat in to bar the door as the right-hand ironwood gate ponderously opened in time for the dogsleds to dart through in single file. The left-hand gate was invisible, enormous blocks of ice stacked both in front and behind, formed into a solid mass with hot water, while above them hundreds of men and women with bows and crossbows manned the walls, the stone machicolations on the walls and the wooden hoardings on the towers.
Once through the inner and outer gates, they crossed over a drawbridge over the moat adjacent to the castle walls, black dragonglass visible atop wooden spikes protruding from the inky black bottom of a twenty five foot deep, twenty foot wide moat, a much smaller trench full of a shiny black substance immediately beyond it.
The area just in front of the main gate was clear, other moats perpendicular to the walls on both sides a hundred yards to the left and right of the doors receding into the distance, heading directly away from White Harbor, camps on the other side of those divisions stretching as far as could be seen, while ahead of them a group of guards had slid a long wooden bridge out over the even wider moat of the inner defensive ring, two much narrower, tar-filled trenches on each side.
Reaching above the camps, but not as high as the walls stood wooden towers with a floor for archers, and above that a floor for a scorpion, just as the big towers inside and on the wall had the same setup, but usually with the much larger ballista. Above each was a canvas tarp stretched tight on a wooden frame - when one of the crews swiveled a siege engine, they could see the tarp moved with it, protecting the mechanisms from snow and sleet. They'd passed trebuchets deeper inside the city, visible in glimpses as they passed, through side streets or atop lower roofs, too, so they knew there were more engines than could be seen.
Once they'd passed the bridge, they could see Targaryen banners flying on a large patch of ground in the seventy five yards between the first and second defensive rings, empty except for two enormous piles of firewood in the second ring, a small pyramid of barrels, and two long low 'walls' of stacked logs just inside the trenches running by the moats, dragonglass-tipped spears pointing both out and up, reaching twelve feet forward of the wall, and eight to ten feet up into the air. Past that bridge three more moat rings awaited them at fifty yard intervals, the ground between littered with short hedgehogs of wood covered in pitch, spears with sparkling dragonglass shards planted all over sticking out in every direction, short, thick walls of gleaming ice with yet more spears dividing them further.
"There, Dany, by your banners. Lady Manderly's got wood and water for your army, to keep them warm. They're in good hands; relax. They'll be along as soon as the caravan gets back," said Jon, Dany's head bouncing on his shoulder as the sled bounced over a piece of ice-covered stone just under the snow.
"I wanted to arrive with my army, to show that I'm here to save the North, Jon. I didn't want to arrive like a piece of cargo!"
"I know, I know," he said, squeezing her tight, "You're still going to arrive with two dragons! We haven't seen dragons before, and we know they can burn the dead. And the weather's turned, too. It's not just the cold, but the snow under us now is probably twelve feet deep, maybe twenty, and it'll be higher in drifts. Southron armies just aren't made for the North; your men wouldn't be able to march through it, even if they could find their way. Garron are better suited to winter than other horses, and with White Walkers on the move, it's better to be able to move fast."
"I'm not... oh. Not foreign armies, but Southron armies?" asked the silver-haired woman.
"Southron armies, yes. The North is different - bigger than the other six kingdoms put together, and rougher, even in summer. We get snow in the summer, you know - it melts after a few days or a few weeks, but it's common enough. Southrons don't understand snow - you don't see snow like that south of the Neck. Stannis came North, you know, beat Mance and the Free Folk when they attacked the wall, but that was before the snows came. He was in a hurry, wanted to attack fast, before the snows penned him in. He was smart enough to know he couldn't maneuver or march in the snows, not like Northerners can."
"What happened to him? I didn't hear anything about him, really, so I presume he's dead," replied Daenerys.
"Aye. Most of his army froze to death even before the snows came, and the Boltons killed them of his army didn't die in the cold. That's what Davos said. Didn't seem a happy memory. You feel cold now - imagine what it'd be like for your men if Sansa hadn't sent those clothing designs, if you hadn't had Dragon's Bay make them and ship them in."
On another sled, Grey Worm squinted as he and Missandei faced backwards on the sled they'd been allocated to ride on, the sunlight from the west hitting the city walls and reflecting off the ice even more brightly that it did off of desert sands.
"Steel bars on the gates, two portcullises, bigger than Meereen's. One, two, fifty and two hundred bows, with fit archers on the walls and towers. One, two, three hundred crossbows with elders and children, just on the walls and towers around the gate. Trebuchets, scorpions, blocks of less fit archers inside the walls," said Grey Worm to himself as he inspected the land-side defenses for the first time.
"Six giant moats that can be set on fire," said Missandei.
"On fire?" asked Grey Worm.
"That's what I heard some of the guards say. They were talking about a test burn on the third ring - I believe that's the middle one of those not next to the walls, from the context, and the Maesters were trying a mix of tar and pitch. It sounded as though they were trying different combinations, one at a time," explained Missandei over the swishing noise of the sled moving over snow, peering around the pre-adolescent boy of perhaps one and ten who was driving their sled to see the rest of the caravan form up into three main columns, weaving in and out of the scattered hedgehogs and around interleaved ice towers five to ten feet high.
"Archers and scorpions on sleds," said Grey Worm, grasping the rope as their sled swerved suddenly, tilting to one side before righting itself again, the driver frowning as he overcompensated. A few seconds later, a clump of snow shattered on the back of the boy's head.
"What?" asked the translator.
He pointed out to the left, then the right, "One there. Two there. Maybe more. Smaller than ones on towers. Bows, spears on sleds, smaller, no cargo. Army people looking up, watching for dragon. They no joke, no play like Dothraki. No stare at women like Dothraki. They more like Unsullied, keep formation, mind on job."
"They're scared," replied Missandei. She shivered despite her layers, sliding closer to Grey Worm, who wrapped his left arm around her even as his right rested lightly on the new spear he'd been issued at the Northern city. He had been surprised to see that all the Unsullied had been given spears matching their previous ones very closely, except that instead of the long steel spearhead they were used to was a short, irregular shard of dragonglass. They'd been given a place to pile up their original spears with the promise that those would be returned after the dead were defeated... if the dead were defeated.
At yet another set of drum sounded from somewhere in front of them, Tyrion looked pleadingly at Varys, who rolled his eyes and leaned out carefully to see around the pile of cargo they were laying on and against, "A line of towers, as usual with ballista on top. How far would you say we are from the city walls?"
"A few miles - it's hard to judge when everything's covered by snow, and there aren't even any trees, you know. I would estimate, in my learned opinion, that we are precisely one drum-distance from the city," replied Tyrion, scowling, "That was not entirely what I expected. From Jon Snow's descriptions, the North was in dire straits, desperately needing our Queen's help, bereft of allies and incapable of facing the threat on its own. That's what it sounded like to me, at least. Perhaps I was a bit too drunk at the time."
"That is indeed what it sounded like, and I assure you, he was being quite honest. One of these must be true; he was completely unaware of what was happening while he was King, he is the best liar I've ever encountered, his understanding of how to prepare for a war is very different from what is actually happening, or all of this started after he left for Dragonstone," said the Spider, resettling himself to try and get both more comfortable and more stable as their sled bounced and tilted yet again.
A few miles later, they passed another watchtower, with others visible in the distance, not quite a straight line, but curved in a shape that had White Harbor in the center. In the miles after that, they saw a couple small troops of a dozen horse cavalry trotting atop the snow, then a few pairs of small dogsleds with four to six dogs each... and then there was nothing but snow and ice around them, the land treeless and desolate, like a vast, shining white desert.
On the last sled, Qhono thought about the moats he'd seen. None of the Free Cities had anything quite like that, ditches too wide to jump a horse over, too deep and steep to ride a horse in and out of, and many of them. Those strange walls, some gleaming, some white or of wood, all with spears sticking out, too high to jump over. Many, many archers. The Dothraki had archers, too, but he was an experienced bloodrider, even before the Khaleesi chose everyone as her bloodriders, weak and strong alike, and he'd seen many cities, many settlements, many who thought they could fight a Khalasar.
He'd seen the little man's brother's soldiers on the road with their wagons, seen that they couldn't fight. They were cowards - a little charge, some fire, and they fled like any other city army. How much courage did it take to fight from atop tall walls? Not much. How much courage to use bows that could shoot farther than anything a man could use atop his horse, then hide behind stone? Not much.
Even then, he'd seen the distance, seen the giant bows up high. Good archers on those walls could put arrows past the outermost ditch, and could hide behind the stone whenever they wanted, like the cowards and women and old people they were. Still, if this was what the cities across the poison water were like, what was to be the fate of the Dothraki? Cowards they might be, but they wouldn't flee until a Khalasar was already inside their walls. If the Khalasar couldn't get to the gates, it wouldn't matter. Bribing one or two guards to open a gate wasn't hard, but so many? That wouldn't work.
"Shit," said Qhono quietly. The fate he saw for the Dothraki in this strange cold land across the poison water was not one he wanted for his people.
"Shit," replied Davos. He and Tormund had one spoken on not putting their trust in Kings. Perhaps they'd been right - Jon Snow hadn't been a King then, but after he was made one, well. Yes. Well, he'd give advice as best he could - he'd lived to be a ripe old age, and at least sometimes he was listened to.
He was just thankful that if the fortifications Winterfell had were anything like what White Harbor had, he'd have a pretty good chance of seeing his family again.
Only a few hours later, after several short stops to feed the dogs, night fell, the small dogsleds in the lead lit their torches, and the caravan continued on into the darkness. Hours after that, in the freezing cold, Daenerys waited with Tyrion while the other men of her little group worked to put up the tent she'd brought along. That tent and the five barrels of food that would have to feed them were all the supplies she was traveling with, reminding her a little of Drogo's Khalasar. Well, the food would have to feed all but Jon, until the rest of her supplies arrived. Jon was allowed to draw from the shared stores of the North, being a man of Winterfell, as were Brienne and, for some reason, the Hound, though none of her own people were.
"I appointed you to be my Hand so you could help me succeed. Can you explain to me exactly why I have to send hundreds of men and their horses back to Dragonstone, rather than bring them to Winterfell to fight, as I had intended?" asked Daenerys, huddled close to the fire; she'd taken her gloves off so she could warm up her hands without risking the fur burning. Their guides had provided a beggar's portion of wood, and there were no trees in the valley the frozen river they were traveling on top of went through.
"No, my Queen, because Grey Worm and Qhono both were given the very specific instructions the Lady of Winterfell passed on to me. Grey Worm followed the instructions precisely, and so we have all the Unsullied we brought. Qhono did not, but I am not the man in charge of the Dothraki! I will acknowledge that I should have done a better job keeping the suppliers in Meereen, Astapor, and Yunkai from sending us substandard goods, but I've corrected that mistake," replied Tyrion.
"See that you don't repeat that mistake. At least your former wife seems to have a good head on her shoulders. I don't want my people to freeze to death; it seems a needlessly cruel way to die," said Daenerys, falling into a silence after, watching Tyrion add more snow to the pot over the small fire.
An old man of the clan transporting them had yet again come by, made them close their eyes while he poked each of their fingers, toes, ears, and noses, checked to be sure they were dry all the way through, then he'd given a brief lecture on how to handle the weather at camp, how to melt water and drink before making soup or stew in the same pot, then left them to their own devices.
She'd noted that he'd checked on the other people being transported first, as if she was somehow less important than they were! Maybe being the last to be visited was a sign of honor in their culture, she thought darkly.
Some time later, the tent was finished, and at Jon's insistence snow had been piled high around it, even some spread across the top, to keep them warm, he'd said. As they huddled around the fire, eating the plain boiled grains, Jon cut up three of the lemons from the one barrel of fruits they'd brought based on the ravens Sansa had sent, squeezing the fruit into a cup until it was dry. Jon then passed them out, tilting his head back and draining his cup dry in one long drink. Once the rest of them had tried the surprisingly sour liquid, he'd smiled at their expressions.
Daenerys took a sip of hers to hide her own smirk at Tyrion's expression, then drank hers as she'd seen Jon do. It wasn't nearly as bad as the horse heart she'd eaten, and she was a Khaleesi, not some pampered girl. The drink was quite strong and sour, but not bad, really. She might even like the bite if it were spread over some fish or chicken.
Grey Worm didn't show any reaction, while the rest of them weren't fond of the strange drink. She took another spoonful of the bland porridge they were having for dinner after taking a small bite of her salt pork. Jon was eating from a bowl one of the Free Folk had handed him; his was much darker and more watery than theirs was.
"Is this some kind of Northern delicacy, Jon? Sour fruit juice and bland porridge, or that soup you have?" she asked with a fond smile. She enjoyed teasing him when he was in the mood; he wasn't like Daario, full of humor all the time, but he had his moments, between his bouts of brooding.
"More like a feast, really. It's winter - we need the juice to prevent the winter sickness, scurvy, as Maester Luwin called it. For the food, well, it was either just you and nine barrels of food so you can enjoy what I'm having, or the rest of us and enough food for three months, plus the lemons," said Jon, staring into the fire for a moment, "Sansa always loved lemon cakes. I haven't seen her have one yet, not all the time we were in Winterfell. You can't cook the juice, she said, and that was that. She cares about feeding our people more than herself."
Jon offered Daenerys a bite of his soup; she accepted, finding his meal to have a very sharp bite to it, sharper than she liked. Not hot, but bitter, and the darkness came from what appeared to be moss in the water.
"What do you remember most about your other sister, Arya?" asked Daenerys as she returned to her own porridge, "What do you think she's like now?"
"She was always getting in trouble with Septa Mordane, and with Lady Catelyn. Running around in breeches, trying to get people to teach her to fight, riding horses. She was a great rider, you know. She'd have liked being a horselord, I think," he answered, "Sansa wasn't anything like she used to be. Apologized to me, insisted I forgive her for the way she treated me as a child. I'm not sure what Arya's like - if Sansa changed so much, and Arya was on her own for so many years..."
Lord Varys spoke up quietly, "I did hear a few whispers of Arya, your Grace, Lord Snow, before we departed the port. As we heard on the docks, she arrived at the same time as Lady Winter, and was seen at breakfast in New Castle the next day. The whispers I hear say she is a priest now, of the Braavosi god of Death."
"Excuse me, but don't you mean a priestess, the feminine form?" asked Missandei as she huddled close to the fire even after Grey Worm had fetched her blanket from the tent and draped it over her.
"I wondered as well, but the whispers were quite specific. A priest of death, of the Many-Faced God, as his followers call him. A Faceless Man," replied Varys, "She had the coin, and the whispers of its description were quite specific. There are few certainties in the world... but one is that there are only two possibilities for those claiming to be Faceless Men. Either they are... or they vanish soon after. Or, perhaps, both - the Faceless Men haven't stayed anywhere but Braavos in living memory, that that has changed, or so the whispers say."
"A faceless man? Like Old Nan's stories - assassins who can look like anyone? They're real, like the White Walkers?" asked Jon, his full attention on the Spider. Grey Worm, too, the Queen and her Hand were paying attention now.
Lord Varys took another drink of his lemon juice, carefully not watching those waiting on his answer, letting the anticipation build for a few more seconds before he answered, "The whispers were consistent and specific both; your sister changed her appearance in seconds before the court of the Manderlys, wearing the hooded vestment of the priest of death the whispers say she claimed to be, becoming two inches taller."
"And do you believe them?" asked Tyrion, "That she used magic to change faces?"
"No, my Lord. Any of the actors I grew up with could have done the same. An impressive skill, in one who grew up in a great house and couldn't have started training until only a few years ago when she disappeared, but not a rare skill in the world," replied Lord Varys.
"My sister... is a priest?"
"I do not know that, my Lord. I have only whispers," replied Varys. He didn't say any more; he hadn't survived this many regents and royals without a keen sense of what not to say. Saying that none of the little birds he'd sent to recruit more little birds had been where they should have been wouldn't be wise. Saying that many little birds who had worked for him for years had vanished suddenly the day Arya Stark and this Lady Winter came to town wouldn't be wise. Saying that someone called the Underfoot had a firm grip on the thieves he relied on for some of his whispers wouldn't be wise.
Saying that the one long-perched little bird he'd found had been a frightened wreck after the others had vanished, who knew little because he'd been hiding since the Boltons took the North, who had wanted nothing but to leave the North entirely, that wouldn't have been wise either.
"I don't know much about whispers, my Lord, but I do know taverns, and sailors, and smugglers," said Ser Davos, having finished his meal already, having eaten quickly while he listened, a habit left over from his youth, "I got a drink, talked with some sailors I knew. Word's out the Manderlys are buying dragonglass, they'll pay good silver for high quality, be it raw or weapons, but they won't buy jewelry. The stuff from Dragonston's shit, apparently - breaks easy or something. Pardon, your Grace, that's what I heard."
"You hear about city? About soldiers, army?" asked Grey Worm. While the Unsullied didn't go to bars, and Daario was not someone he trusted, the Second Sons had proven more able to find the Sons of the Harpy than his Unsullied had, and Daario had attributed that to drinking and whoring.
"Well, no. That was the strange thing, really. I'd just gotten another drink when I asked something I prob'ly shouldn't have, and next thing, I heard the serving girl say the Underfoot wouldn't like that, and the tavern keeper said the tavern was closed. Usually that'd cause a big fuss, but not there - all the locals finished their drinks, stood up, and left. Just like that. Weirdest thing I've seen men wanting a drink do. The lads left, too, wouldn't talk to me anymore. Can't say I blame them, they've got to do business, after all," said Davos. He'd asked if the tunnels were still where the locals lived, and that had ended that. He supposed he could understand. These people were prepared for an attack, and he'd come into the city with a bunch of barbarians and soldiers loyal to someone they hadn't seen before.
Jon smiled for a moment, remembering Arya's old nicknames. Underfoot, Horseface... he stared into the fire, reminiscing. It'd been so long since he'd seen Arya, and by the Hound's tales, she'd been very keen on reclaiming Needle. The way he'd described her fighting... that wasn't what he'd wanted for her, but if she was alive, she was alive. Brienne, too, had spoken of how fierce she was, though Brienne didn't have much to say about how Arya and Sansa were getting along. They never had before, he supposed.
"I heard about your sister," said Missandei, with a small smile. She couldn't fight, didn't know things about the rest of the world, but languages... she knew more about languages than anyone else she knew.
"You did? From who?" asked Jon, "Did you talk to Brienne again, or the Hound?"
"No, more recent than that. I was speaking to a Tyroshi guard when the dogs were being fed, the one in bright colors. He's been to Winterfell already, guarding people, and was sent back to make sure the new arrivals were told how things were done and to keep them and their cargo safe. The people he's guarding are working with the northern Maesters, and everything has to be done in a certain way - something important enough to merit the dogsleds. He doesn't speak the local language at all, but when he was in Winterfell, though, he told me the tale of when he saw your sister fight."
"She fight in Winterfell? Fight who?" asked Grey Worm, worried about attacks like the Sons of the Harpy.
Missandei gave him a warm smile and wink; she'd known he would be very interested, and Jon Snow also, so she'd been sure to ask for as many details as she could.
"She fought seven duels in Winterfell, yes, all in one night! Would you like to hear the tale?" asked Missandei.
"Yes," replied Grey Worm and Jon in unison, with even Qhono nodding agreement, prompting Daenerys and Missandei to meet each other's eyes and giggle together
"Men," said Daenerys as she rolled her eyes, then nodded to Missandei, who set her bowl down and sat in Grey Worm's lap, shifting a little... to be comfortable... while she told the tale she had heard. Part of her training had been as a storyteller, and she wanted to do this tale justice. She could tell her Queen wanted to hear it, too, just as much as the men, though for different reasons. Queen Daenerys was quite taken with Jon Snow, and was worried about meeting his family, which Missandei couldn't help her with, not having been taken as a slave at such a young age.
"It starts in Braavos, where the First Sword of the Sealord of Braavos announced that he acknowledged Arya Stark as the First Sword of Westeros, a title which had never been granted before. He sent out ravens far and wide, announcing the new First Sword to the First Swords of all the other Free Cities in Essos and beyond. Some of these respected his judgment, for he was known as a great dancing master, one who sees true. Others had feuded with him in the past, or did not believe girls could deserve such an honor, or did not believe Westeros was deserving of the honor, for Westeros had no bravos, no great dueling traditions. For these reasons and others, pairs of bravos from Tyrosh, Lys, Myr, Ib, and Volantis boarded ship and sailed to Westeros to give challenge to the newly named First Sword."
She paused to take a drink and judge her audience's interest, then continued, falling in to the cadence she'd been taught, giving as many details as she could; the Tyroshi had fancied himself quite a bravo, and had spoken of the duels in great detail, even pantomiming the important bits.
"While they waited to face her, they dueled her only student, who defeated three of them in single combat, but lost to the other seven. Then, one day, the young First Sword came out to accept their challenge. She was but a small young woman dressed in a fine leather tunic and breeches, a white storm cloud with the shape of a direwolf inside it embroidered on the front, wearing a sash covered in knives, with a long leather cloak, and leather arm guards with yet more knives. Her dueling weapons were a long, thin sword and a dagger, with dual rings on their hilts. The least skilled of those who had defeated her student stepped out to challenge her first."
************************
Arya swaggered through the streets of Winter Town and into the town square, her cloak flowing behind her as she approached, wearing the new gear she'd been given in Gendry's workshop, and stopped before the well in the center of the square. Irresso had spent the day spreading the word that she would be by the well at dinnertime. It wasn't as elegant as her training by the Moon Pool with First Sword Qarro had been, nor even the room in the Red Keep she'd trained in with Syrio... but this was the North, and this was how things were done in the North... because she was the First Sword here, and she had decided it to be as close as she'd find to where Syrio and Qarro trained and dueled as she'd find in Winter Town.
As she'd expected, a large crowd had gathered under the moonlight. There were pickpockets working the crowd, and men and women making bets... some of whom were quite attractive indeed. Kitty's work, most of those, though it appears Ser Nicholas had engaged Rosa to accompany him to watch her fight; he'd either been to the Free Cities or heard stories of the courtesans there, then. She'd given Kitty quite a bit of the money she'd returned from Braavos with, to place bets on herself winning all seven matches in the same night. Either she would win, or their family would lose nothing, and betting one oneself was quite normal, and showed confidence.
One of the Mryish bravos was far too intent; he was here for something personal... for vengeance, and for her specifically, as she'd heard. Well, she'd face him when he challenged her, as was right. All but one Volantine had fresh purple feathers in their hair; he had been the winner between them, then, his feather showing faint signs of the wind and winter weather wearing on it.
A Tyroshi strode away from their little pack first, his footsteps quick but loud, footwork not quite right for any style she knew, and not consistent, either - a quarter inch off one step, and an eighth of an inch off the other way the next. She took her cloak off flamboyantly, tossing it to Irresso as she stood sideface to the challenger, her left hand next to her dagger, right next to the new sword, but touching neither. It was not for her to give challenge, but to be challenged. It was, however, for her to taunt someone so obviously unskilled.
"You are not ready, girl," said Arya, her voice carrying to the crowd of Northerners, foreign guards and traders, knights and squires of the Vale, and Free Folk. She could spot Tormund's head above the crowd, and she saw Sansa, Gendry, Kitty, Meera, Bronze Yohn and the Scorpion Bear watching from an upper window of the Smoking Log inn and alehouse. Korb, Connas, and Donovar were all in the crowd as well, dressed as merchants, she was amused to see, and placing bets on her.
"I'm a man, and you don't deserve your title, girl," the Tyroshi retorted, coming to a halt a sword's length away, far too close unless he was extremely fast on the draw.
"You should be a sword, nothing more. Challenge me, then, if you have the balls to fight instead of talk."
Arya watched his eyes, the rest of her senses on alert. Look with your eyes, hear with your ears, taste with your mouth, smell with your nose, feel with your skin. The instant his hand touched his sword, she was in motion, moving forward a good bit below her best speed, right hand already starting to draw her new dagger before her feet had moved, which in turn cued him to start drawing his blade.
He started too late and his feet stayed in place, her left hand clamping down on his wrist and stopping his draw before his sword had fully cleared his scabbard, the tip of her dagger already past his cheek, a one inch long razor-thin cut showing on his skin even as she released his wrist and stepped back, wiping her dagger off with a small cloth and returning it to its sheath quickly.
"Dead. Your footwork is clumsy, and you came far too close to draw a sword of that length against a knife," said Arya factually, giving a quick piece of instruction to one who had challenged her, as Qarro had, as she'd heard Syrio had, as even Brienne did with Pod and the guards she helped train for Winterfell.
"Bring out the real fighters!" called out Tormund's loud voice, "That one's even slower than me, and he's half my size," prompting laughter in many of the crowd, particularly the Westerosi.
Standing exactly where she had before he'd touched his weapon and thus delivered a bravo's challenge, she waited while the less determined Myrish bravo came out and stopped a considerably longer distance from her than the Tyroshi had, an eight inch buckler held in his left hand. His footwork was clumsy as well, and his partner had already lost to Irresso; the First Sword of Myr had been spoken of respectfully by Qarro, so these were probably not his direct students, but simply other bravos looking for fame, with the pockets to buy passage on a ship. He'd turned before moving in a perfectly straight line to his position opposite her, then turned again. A linear style, then.
As he touched his blade, she drew her new sword, advancing directly towards him with a thrust; he stepped back as he drew with a fraction of a second's delay after she'd started her own draw, gaining the distance he needed to complete the draw and counter with a thrust of his own to her face. She stepped back, sword coming up to meet his, then tipped hers down to keep his off-line while she advanced directly towards him and thrust for his left thigh. When he countered, she stepped straight back, and he lunged forward as she'd expected.
Smirking, she stepped to the left side and forward, twisting her body to avoid his blade by a bare inch as her gloved right hand grabbed his blade, yanking him forward as the tip of her sword scored a line across his forehead.
"Dead. Too linear, predictable. And your footwork's sloppy."
She again cleaned her sword and returned it to its scabbard as she returned to her starting position.
The Lysene who hadn't lost to Irresso came forward next, a slender curved blade by his side, his footwork very different than the previous ones, more precise, but of a different, more circular style. He nodded to her briefly, then tapped his hilt with a fingertip, drawing his sword immediately as she drew hers, circling in towards her with a flurry of cuts. The first few she ignored, thrusting at his face, which he deflected in a smooth motion; his sword didn't have the reach to hit her, but it was lighter than her own, and quick besides.
Her own new blade wouldn't be able to cut a man's arm off, but it was over half a foot longer than his, and had one of the most protective quillon she'd ever seen; Mikken had been a genius, to come up with the ring on Needle and make it strong enough to protect her hand. Only a few smiths in the world had made a quillon like that - anything other than a simple straight or slightly curved crossbar was very rare.
She stepped in, tilting her hand to drop her blade and parry his cut to her leg, tilting up to parry a cut to her chest, then she stepped in again as he cut at her head. When he slid his blade down the side of hers, she stepped to the side, keeping his blade against hers, letting the castle-forged steel rings protect her hand from his blade as she kicked him in the knee, instantly freeing her blade and delivering a carefully shallow draw-cut to the his thigh with the edge of her own blade.
"Dead. Be wary of an opponent with a blade that can cut who gets in close," she said, wiping down the edge and returning to her place as she had before, sword sheathed again.
The intense Myrish bravo strode forward next, the other bravos looking on with undisguised interest as he whipped off his cloak, wrapping it once around his arm and letting the rest fall freely. Against the Lysene she'd just fought, he'd have wrapped more of the cloak around his arm, but he didn't believe her sword was a serious cutting sword, so one turn of the thick winter cloak would do.
"My father once sailed to Braavos. Syrio Forel killed him by the Moon Pools, and I will have the blood of his student for that! Only your death will satisfy me, student of Syrio Forel! Acknowledge the terms or show yourself a cowardly girl-child, playing at fighting!" said the man intensely, staring fixedly at Arya, his left hand holding his cloak, right by a sword three inches longer than hers, which was fitting enough, since he was nearly a foot taller, and weighed easily twice as much.
She waved one of the guards over, "Johannes, observe this duel of honor," she said, not looking away from the bravo. His cloak was thick wool, but clearly not armored. Nothing anyone anywhere in the world would bat an eye at, and he moved gracefully, with great determination... but without the look in his eye that the Mountain had had, that the Hound had, that she herself had. He wasn't a killer, not a real one.
He followed the forms well enough for a bravo in a duel to the death, a fingertip flicking the base of his hilt in the same single motion of grabbing and drawing; he was the fastest one yet. As soon as his fingertip had touched his weapon, Arya drew both sword and dagger for the first time during these duels, her sword flicking across and up to deflect his long blade past her head as she took a long, fast step in and lunged with the full power of her body and legs, her slender Valyrian blade punching right through his cloak, his wrist, and out the other side of his cloak as his arm was forced up and back against his chest, her dagger sliding between his ribs into his heart, then withdrew just as quickly as she stepped away from the dying man.
"Valar Morghulis," said No One as she stepped back, sheathing her sword, wiping her dagger off and sheathing it as well while he fell, bleeding out on the dirt. As before, the blood and gore came off unnaturally easily. She watched quietly until he breathed his last, then spoke quietly.
"He fought bravely for his vengeance. Johannes, get his feet, and be careful with him; we'll put his body on the bench for now. I'll care for his body myself, once it's back at the House's chambers," she commanded, squatting to take him under the armpits, moving him where she'd indicated before she took up his sword, handing it hilt-first to the other man from Myr who'd used his buckler against her.
"His sword should go to his next of kin. Tell them he died bravely, fighting for his father's honor, and that the House of Black and White in Westeros cared for his body with respect after he was killed," Arya said. When the man nodded silently, she returned to her spot, raising her voice to speak to the crowds, to teach them what bravo duels were about... to bring the culture of the bravos to the North and the Vale, and make sure it was a true and pure legacy of Syrio's teachings to her.
While Arya spoke, Johannes pulled out a small leather pouch, opening it and selecting a dragonglass flake; too small and thin to be useful even glued to a staff with pitch. He slowly and gravely rolled the corpse's sleeve up and inserted the flake into his arm, pressing it in deep enough it would break before it came out. There would be no chances of wights raised within the walls; not on his watch!
Arya continued steadily, "In the Free Cities, bravos duels are fought at night, between those wearing blades. The duels are swift, and sudden! A simple touch of a weapon with a fingertip is a challenge; there are no words needed. When fighting happens, it is not a time for words! Duels in the Free Cities are often to the death, for honor, for pride, to demonstrate one's skill and bravery, to impress a girl or a boy. In Braavos, many duels are fought, many to the death, to support their political candidates, or to impress the best courtesans, who are often of famous families, for in much of the world that is an honorable, sometimes sacred, profession! In some cities, the streets belong to the bravos and courtesans at night, because it is tradition, and because no bravo ever bothers anyone who is unarmed, nor do they attack without challenge. Any who violate these rules are no true bravos!"
She reached up to point at the feather in her hair, "One difference to remember! In the North and the Vale, a purple feather is required to duel as bravos, and the loser's feather is to be broken. Guardhouses sell the feathers, five silver each!"
Next came the smaller Ibbenese man, dressed in blue; unlike the rest of bravos, the Ibbenese were wearing similar numbers and thicknesses of layers to the Northerners, though, of course, in bright colors. Arya suspected that they'd dyed polar bear fur - one was in a bright green, the other a brilliant light blue.
He nodded respectfully, taking off his cloak and handing it to his taller companion to reveal a long dagger with a simple crossguard opposite his sword, and said, "We have come to test the skill of the one who would be the third First Sword of the north. The First Sword of Ib is well respected. The First Sword of Braavos is well respected. One who knows the taste of true winter who claims to be the First Sword of Westeros must be well respected, as well."
Arya nodded. This one moved well, and quickly; she was finally through the chaff and to the wheat. The corners of her lips curled up slightly as he tapped the pommel and drew both the long, slender thrusting sword and dagger, just as she drew both her own weapons.
A few exchanges later, he blocked her thrust with his dagger as she did his with her dagger. She shoved both his weapons upwards as her boot slammed into his leg just below his knee; as his leg slipped back on the patch of ice just behind his foot, she sidestepped, freeing her sword as he sought to keep his balance, delivering a shallow draw-cut to the side of his neck as she pulled her blade back.
"Dead. Hands aren't the only dangers, and in winter, footing is ever treacherous."
Instead of going back to the starting point, she went to the well, using the long pole to break the ice that had already formed on the surface just since her duels started before lowering and raising the bucket. She took a few drinks of ice-cold water from one of the bowls that were nearby before offering the bucket of water to the rest of the bravos. She was, after all, their host.
She was also in need of a few minutes of rest; the next two opponents would be much more challenging, and while she certainly could fight without rest, she wouldn't be perfectly precise. There was a difference between standing on one toe for hours and fighting at the fullest measures of her speed and power. Syrio Forel had taught her to be swift and sudden on both the attack and the defense. Qarro and the House of Black and White both had continued that trend, for it was what was required to be a dancing master and a master assassin both. Limited targets, limited time, no mistakes, no second chances, no heavy armor to protect your life.
Hers was not the way of the Knight's dance, the battlefield melee, even of the shield-wall. Hers was the way of incredible speed and sudden power without warning, so fast that even the true seeing was insufficient in and of itself, for there was nothing to see until she was already in motion. While she rested, pacing slowly around the area the crowd stayed clear of, she listened to the betting as the odds shifted radically in response to death.
Too, an acolyte and the new novice of the House had appeared with a stretcher and were carefully moving the Myrish corpse over to the stretcher. She murmured "Lay him out and prepare him; I'll wash him myself when I return," in a voice so quiet as to be imperceptible to anyone without the right training.
Once those who had wished had drank, she returned to her starting position. As she'd expected, this custom was attaining the force of ritual. The First Sword of Westeros would stand at this spot, and the challengers would approach, least skilled to most, and issue the challenge in the expectation that she would instantly accept. It was not the same as what the First Sword of the Sealord of Braavos did, but he, too, had a ritual, and those who wished to make challenge followed the steps he presented them.
The taller Ibbenese approached, buckler in his left hand and a sword of medium length on his belt; wide enough to be capable of cutting through flesh and bone both as hers would not, if his was balanced for it... and she was sure it was, by the stance he took.
Again, she drew both blades as soon as he'd touched his sword. This one stepped forward as he drew, that single motion a vicious slash at the tip of her nose which she deflected down with her dagger, while his buckler batted aside her own thrust to his throat; she withdrew the long blade, tilting her blade down to thrust towards his ankle, which he moved as his sword stabbed out at her thigh which she sidestepped entirely, her dagger ensuring he couldn't turn the thrust into a cut and draw her blood.
Four exchanges later, they were standing in each other's starting positions, clashing again. This man was both fast and skilled, moving readily on the cold ground... but he wasn't quite as fast, and his height worked against him, there, his longer arms not quite compensating for the length of her sword; thus, in the end a thrust he deflected from his heart nicked his knuckle through his glove, the simple crossguard failing to protect his hand.
"Hand useless. Every time you strike, you offer your hand and arm to your opponent and your opponent's weapon. This is doubly so when their weapon has more reach than yours," intoned Arya.
He saluted her with his sword, then ceremonially reached up to take the feather from his hair, breaking his feather as each of the others had done much less flamboyantly... and then he offered her the fresh, broken feather.
She took the feather formally, then strode to the well again, taking another short drink, offering water to the senior Volantine, a man of perhaps four and thirty, with a long, slender sword and a dagger, both with a spiral quillon.
He shook his head slowly, and said, "Would you like to take a short rest? I will not have it said that I have fought a duel when my opponent was at a disadvantage; it is known to all that I have always dueled on only the most honorable of terms."
Arya smiled slightly, nodding as she took another drink, then clasped her hands behind her back, standing still as she tensed sets of her muscles for a few seconds each, then relaxed them, one set after the other, replying, "You are the best in Volantis after the First Sword himself, are you not?"
"I have that honor for eight years now. I am proud to say that I can best the First Sword of Volantis one time in seven, and bring him to a draw two in seven! I did not believe a girl from Westeros who hasn't even seen her twentieth nameday could be worthy of the title of First Sword; we shall see if I was wrong. Either way, I see that I must also challenge the First Sword to the Sealord of Braavos, for it is through difficulty that we grow," said the premier challenger to the First Sword of Volantis.
"I agree. Every hurt is a lesson, and every lesson makes you better, as Syrio Forel taught me. Give me three minutes, and then we can continue. Who designed your blades?" said Arya, continuing to cool down and relax her muscles.
"I mean no challenge," said the Volantine as he carefully made a fist, hooking his little finger in his dagger's quillon, drawing and offering the blade to her, "Master-smith Tindak designed and forged these blades for me, and they have served me well for many years. Please, see what you will. Yours, too, are unique; I have rarely seen rings like that, and never on both sides."
Arya took the other man's dagger carefully, drawing her own using only her little finger, as he had, offering it to him in turn, "Master-smith Gendry reforged this for me, and forged my sword; the quillon is an adaptation of my first sword, Needle, which Master-smith Mikken made for me as a child. The two rings are somewhat uncomfortable to carry, like yours, but for a duel, protecting your hand is important. I was made to fight, not to be comfortable like a Lady."
"Protecting your hand is very important!" laughed the Ibbenese, holding up the hand she'd just nicked.
She examined the Volantine dagger's quillon; it was certainly more elegant than her own, perhaps a little more protective on the sides of the blade, though the crosspiece didn't have the sharp curve hers did to easily bind another's blade. The blade was a little thicker, a little heavier than the steel versions of her dagger, but the man was strong and quick both, so that wouldn't impede his use of it.
"Valyrian steel!" exclaimed the Volantine, "Lord of Light, you carry Valyrian steel! No wonder you're so quick."
"Just the dagger; the sword is no different than any other of its type," she said as they carefully traded weapons, again avoiding touching their own with their hands. This showed both that they took the letter and spirit of the code of the bravos seriously, and also made it quite deliberately awkward to use their own weapons without due challenge.
And, Arya knew, she had many more blades easily accessible than he did, never mind the Stark guards and Northern and Vale soldiers in the audience.
Finishing her exercise, she returned to her starting position. The duel started suddenly as he touched his sword, the first two exchanges moving them clockwise, the next three counterclockwise, each advancing and retreating over the measure of a dozen feet until they broke apart for a moment, both selecting a different stance as they gained the measure of the other, then moved in again.
There were no lunges, no high-risk moves, just a blindingly fast series of cautious probes and thrusts, with the occasional quick cut with sword or dagger. Arya saw through his feints, as he saw through hers; he had the true seeing, was fast and skilled, had great footwork, and didn't leave openings. That was good! She hadn't been pressed like this since she'd last trained with Qarro, and she was exhilarated by the challenge. For all Brienne's skill, she was Westerosi, and her hacking and hammering just wasn't the same. This duel, this was the water dance in its purest form... and it was time to end the dance.
Arya blocked one thrust she could have dodged, then bent backwards and to the left suddenly to avoid the next attack, leaving herself in a position where if she dodged again she'd leave an opening; he attacked as she expected and hoped to throat and heart, expecting to force her to commit to the defense with both her blades; from there he'd likely plan to keep her on the defense.
Instead of pulling her right hand back so as to not interfere with her sword, so both could parry effectively, she reached even farther over with the dagger and lowered her sword, blocking and binding his sword with the dagger even as she slid her leg forward, dropping down suddenly while one of the throwing knives in her arm-guard deflected his own dagger's blade, thrusting upwards with the sword until she felt the change in resistance, the tip drawing a drop of blood from his armpit. Had he chosen a different target, she knew she might have been the one who had lost, but he had not, and she had upheld Syrio's legacy and Qarro's belief in her skills.
"Dead. Because I had armor, and a long fucking sword," said Arya, smiling widely, standing up straight and saluting him with her sword as he saluted her in the same fashion before presenting her his broken feather after she'd cleaned and sheathed her blades, likewise smiling, "Well fought. I have no doubt you will someday be First Sword of Volantis."
"Thank you," replied the Volantine, standing straight "It was an honor to duel with you, First Sword."
Arya gestured to the assembled bravos with one hand, the other gesturing to the alehouse, "Come! You have all fought with honor, and I find I've not only skipped my dinner, but also worked up an appetite! I'll buy you each your first round, and your dinner if you haven't eaten yet!"
At the roar of the crowd, Arya called out loudly, "Not you ingrates!. None of you stepped up to duel me. You want me to buy you a round, get yourself a purple feather and beat one of these men in a bravo's duel, then you can challenge me!"
She looked up at where her sister and her party were, beckoning them to come down and join the crowd for the meal.
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"And that is the tale of how the First Sword of Westeros became a title respected by bravos the world over," finished Missandei.
"She killed a man? And just kept going?" asked Jon, still a little stunned at hearing his feisty little sister was killing men not in war, not on the battlefield, but as, as, as some kind of entertainment, almost.
"Is how bravos fight. Only thing... different... is not more killing," said Grey Worm.
"The word you mean is strange," corrected Missandei, "Or unusual."
"I'm afraid Grey Worm is correct. There are bravos in all the Free Cities, and they duel to the death much more often than not. For so many to duel with only one death is quite unusual," added Lord Varys, "Though Westeros has never had bravos duel in the streets before, either, so that's unusual all around. Thank you for a wonderful retelling, Missandei. You are a truly gifted storyteller."
"I'm curious, Missandei. Who was this guard guarding, that they merit a trip on these dogsleds? It's clear that fast passage is valuable," asked the Hand of the Queen.
"He was originally guarding some Myrish pyromancers until he was sent to White Harbor to meet the new Tyroshi and Pentoshi pyromancers, so they can be taught how to work with the Maesters before they arrive. Apparently the Maesters and the pyromancers have come to a mutually beneficial arrangement in Winterfell, and they don't want to see that interrupted. And, it seems, making sure no one bring a flame near the barrels of the substance on the sleds over there," she said as she pointed at the sleds of fur-covered barrels on the other side of the camp.
"Wildfire," said Tyrion, stunned. He'd spoken with pyromancers enough to know they called wildfire 'the substance'.
"Wildfire," said Daenerys smugly, "You didn't know, Lord Tyrion? I knew before we left."
"Do you have any idea how dangerous that is? We could be incinerated at any moment!" said her Hand sharply.
"What do you mean?" asked Daenerys, "I know my father the Mad King burned people with it, but how is a fire over there going to hurt us over here?"
A wide-eyed Tyrion began to explain the many dangerous properties of fire given form, and Ser Davos told of how he'd been literally blown off the deck of his ship as if by an immense wind when the wildfire ship had been ignited, of how other ships had been smashed as if with the brilliant green hammer of the gods.
Looking over and remembering the skill and experience of the drives of the sleds with wildfire, not one of them complained about how young their own drivers were, or how bumpy their ride was for the rest of the journey.
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Following the page to the quarters which had apparently been set aside for herself and her guards, Alleras passed the girl a copper for her troubles and opened the door to a large room, passing by the two Northern guards that were apparently protecting the room. Half the room was full of barrels of supplies, behind which were piles of clothing... light or cotton clothing, she realized, for the summer. The outer half, in particular, based on where she thought she was in the castle, which was interesting. She wondered if it was deliberate, and if so, was that for additional insulative properties?
Though this room had no windows, indicating that that probably wasn't an exterior wall. The rest of the room was nearly filled with one large set of standing shelves, one small chest with its key in the lock, and three bunk beds; two with four beds spaced very close together each, and one with three beds and a little more headroom, and two chairs... one of which was occupied.
"My sisters finally let you go, I see?" said Sansa from her seat in the corner, small skeins of orange, red, and yellow cloth beside her as she finished off a section of the scarf she was knitting, slipping it and the skeins into an embroidered leather bag as she stood gracefully, her spear leaning beside her.
Alleras now understood why there were guards not only at the end of the hallway but also outside this room; they were Lady Sansa's guards... and her own Dornish guards were off getting trained on how to fight the dead, at her own insistence while she was the guest of Gilly and Lady Reed, soon to be Lady Meera Stark. If Sansa had any significant measure of Arya's skill with the spear, she was at Sansa's mercy.
Of course, since she was in the heart of the North, she had quite deliberately assessed that she would be at their mercy anywhere within more than four hundred miles of here, so there was no change to that equation whatsoever. It was still safer for her here than in Dorne... at least until the wights she'd sent home had arrived and been examined. Alleras didn't think Sansa had the nearly unnatural gaze of Arya, but her gaze was intense all the same.
Alleras bowed, "Lady Stark, I'm quite surprised to see you again!"
"Of course. As a special guest of my sisters, a representative of Dorne, and the one who worked out how to safely capture wights, I'd like to make sure you have everything you need that we can provide," said Sansa with a small smile.
Not quite the teasing smile Arya had, thought Alleras, but once again, altogether too knowing for her comfort. The acolyte wondered if that was a trait of all Starks... or, she thought morbidly, if it was a trait of all the Starks who were left alive.
"This will be more than enough; it's all I can expect and more, Lady Stark. Your sisters were both gracious and kind. If you don't mind my asking, I've been wondering if it's a custom of your family to adopt so many others in, or a Northern custom," replies Alleras, starting to get the feeling she was, again, being toyed with. Then again, she had the Lady of Winterfell in a room, alone, after Arya had already clearly given an approving report to her... and, by the looks of it, possibly a quite complete report.
"If you mean Gilly and Meera, they are certainly both. Arya has many other qualities, and I love her, but gracious she is not now, and has never been. The adoptions... well, I suppose you could say they're a Stark custom now," said Sansa with a small smile and a glint in her eye, "I understand there are many customs in Dorne that are foreign to us. I hope that Princess Sarella might someday grace us with her presence, and have had the room down at the end of the corridor set aside for her use. It's nearly full of supplies, of course, but there is a small dresser for anything she might need, and what Arya called a hammock, in case she arrives... suddenly."
Alleras closed her eyes. Of course Arya had told her sister who she was. She hadn't really expected otherwise, but, foolishly, she had hoped otherwise after Sansa hadn't made any sign of knowing at their meeting earlier.
"So, in the case Princess Sarella has some... special need... for an acolyte of the Citadel, I've placed you two rooms down, at the only other entrance to this particular secret passageway, just in case the Princess desires your presence... or not, as she chooses," Sansa continued, her voice tinged with amusement as she now stood in the narrow space left between the end of the stack of barrels and the corner, placing one foot flat against the wall dividing this room from the other and both hands on the second stone down from the ceiling, clearly pressing hard... until the corner of the room opened up to a narrow passage on the wall that ran behind the barrels.
"She told you," said Sarella, her tone resigned as she approached Sansa, peering into the secret passageway. The fairly narrow, and remarkably clean passageway, in which was a sturdy, thick wooden door, which was open, on the other side of which was a three inch thick bar of precisely the length to bar that very door. Past that was a small iron hammer, a shortbow and a quiver on pegs, then another bar and wooden door, then the end of the secret passage, counterweight mechanisms barely visible in the darkness.
Sansa giggled quietly, "No, she didn't; another of her little japes. I saw your father several times before Joffrey's wedding, you know. You have his eyes, his bone structure, his widow's peak, and his intensity, Princess Sarella. I apologize; because my little sister failed to warn me, I haven't been able to prepare for you properly. I'll have a dress suitable for the Princess of Dorne finished soon, certainly before the Dragon Queen arrives with Jon."
"Just Sarella, Princess Sansa," replied the Dornishwoman with a grin of her own, squeezing past Sansa into the secret passageway, noting the arrowslit in the wooden door, then turning to inspect the recently oiled counterweight mechanisms on this side, "Otherwise this will be even more ridiculous than it already is."
Sansa joined her in the passage with a single candle for light, closing the stone door on its cylindrical bronze rollers, gesturing Sarella to the small area of passageway between the wooden doors, closing hers while Sarella did the same. Sansa could see that Sarella also had all of Oberyn Martell's curiosity, though the share he'd directed at what could be found in brothels, she directed elsewhere.
"Then call me Sansa, please. Arya's had several of our secret passages set to rights recently, but this one she had the doors changed on as soon as she returned. I found it curious, at the time, but now I understand; Meera and Arya both agree that you are a master archer. Sarella, you are not now, and never will be a hostage here, not to us, not to any of our bannermen or allies, and not even to your own guards. Arya did mention you would consider directness a greater courtesy, so, tell me, what are your plans, what do you have to offer, how certain are you that your offer will happen as you expect, and what do you need?"
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"You've got almost the final counts now, with everyone who isn't going hunting being recalled from the watchtowers with their supplies. How many are going to be left in Winter Town, and will they be able to keep it running?" asked Arya as they made their way towards the main gates to greet their next visitor and the cargo they'd brought with them. She was really quite looking forward to seeing Sansa's reaction to this particular visitor.
The gaggle of Maesters behind them, of course, was interested only in the cargo. They were days behind on the most important research of the millennia, and were eager to catch up to their brethren in White Harbor and Gulltown. That the weather was worsening, causing the caravan to be delayed, hadn't helped any.
"You're leaving the watchtowers empty?" asked Samwell Tarly.
"Not quite, Sam. Northerners and Free Folk have had the tradition of elders, cripples, and anyone who is a drain on the food supply in winter 'going hunting' one last time, heading out to seek their deaths so that the food left behind lasts longer, that their family may live. It comes from the same traditions as guest rights, the sacred bond between host and guest that allows both to live out a night, a blizzard, or even an entire winter together, even were they in the midst of a blood feud with each other," replied Arya.
"Oooh. So, the people left on the watchtowers..."
"Volunteered to give their lives for their people, yes, Sam. They'll be left enough food to last until a week or so after we expect the army of the dead to reach them, just in case. I won't allow them to spend their last days hungry this early in winter," said Sansa quietly as they walked.
This was the task she'd dreaded most as a child, that she hadn't understood then. In the North, when winter came, people died, of starvation, of cold, of disease. Often enough, people had the food they started the winter with, supplemented meagerly by what they could hunt or gather from under and atop the snows.
If all the food was gathered together, and feed to everyone equally, everyone would starve equally, and the North would return to the beasts, so choices had to be made; there was no happy ending for all. Yet now, as the Lady of Winterfell, while she did not enjoy the task, she did it as best she could, reaching out to their new allies for aid, yet knowing that in the Second Long Night, everyone may be facing the same hard decisions the North was used to. Foreign aid couldn't be depended on in future years; without enough sunlight, there wouldn't be enough growing season to feed everyone. She'd asked the Maesters to look into that, too... but a few weeks would make no difference to the long term food supply, while they would make all the difference against the army of the dead, with the Night King past the wall already.
"Could I have a copy of their names, please? I'd like to make sure they're added to the histories. One of the problems we've had is the most of the records of the first Long Night were thought to be fables, or lost. Or both. If future generations have to deal with this again, we should make sure they have as much information as possible, and that it's obviously not a fable or a story of snarks and grumkins, but history that truly happened, and a warning that it can happen again," replied Sam, seriously. He'd spent a lot of time on the trip North thinking about what he'd found, and hadn't found, and about how the Archmaesters had dismissed his warning, Jon's warning. Even if they won, there was no guarantee they'd end the threat forever; their forefathers hadn't, after all, and they'd known much more about the enemy.
"I'll have some of the literate pages sent out to record the names of those who stay when they pick up the rest of the people and supplies. They'll also be helpful offloading the tar - we had a request from one of the watchtowers for enough tar to cover the ground inside the trench, so we're going to supply that much to all of them, now that we've had another shipment come in," answered Arya. She didn't need to say that the intent of the watchtower crew who'd asked for it was to take as many wights with them as possible, while also ensuring their own bodies didn't get desecrated by a White Walker as well.
"To answer your original question, Arya, between far too many people being too stubborn to come in before and finding space for the foreign supplies, we're going to have quite a population left in Winter Town and the camps. We also still need space in the castle to do work in case Winter Town is lost, you know, so we can't pack it as full as we could if we didn't need to keep making arrows and so on. Babes, children, pregnant women, and those with necessary skills for the war and the winter are being brought into Winterfell first. I know the town wall isn't as tall as ours, so we'll have to depend on your fieldworks and the fighters," replied Sansa tiredly.
"The stonemasons finished with the crennelations awhile ago. Those who aren't shoring up siege engine positions or the gatehouses and gates have joined those working on machicolations and towers now. We've got a moat eighteen feet deep around the wall now - that's where a lot of the rock the masons are using came from, that's why it's shallower than the next two rings. I could take fifteen thousand and put them to digging for two or three days, particularly around winter town - we can get maybe another foot overall and top up the stone stockpile at the same time. Maybe more if the Ibbenese share some of their tricks - they're said to use wildfire and ice to fracture rock and pick out the pieces. Or I could put them to felling trees, and we'd be able to top up on raw wood before it becomes too dangerous to go out past the third or fourth ring without a large guard, and only for a short time."
"Your people will be happy to get back to training after two or three days excavating rock or felling trees, won't they?" asked Sansa as she gave her sister a small grin. That, she thought, was something Arya might even have learned from her. It wasn't something she'd said Tywin had done, and it wasn't something Father or Robb had done, but when Sansa asked for things to be done, she tried to make sure there were duties that were relatively pleasant required after the less pleasant duties.
"Why? Do you have a few Lord and Ladies you'd like to send out to wield picks and shovels for a day or three," asked Arya with a teasing smirk, "Another foot of moat isn't going to make a real difference, and the Ibbenese way would use up some of our limited wildfire and not provide stone blocks. The trees are more useful, and more important. Furniture, arrows, bolts, spears, firewood, towers, hoarding repairs... we can put up some more towers on the Winter Town walls, build a few taller building in the middle and clear out some of the buildings next to the walls."
Sansa made the sign for yes as she answered, "Of course not, though I think Lord Glover might find manual labor far more fun than his next council meeting with his bannermen. All right, wood it is - your decision. I'll get Winter Town ready for more changes. You've got another pair of Free Folk marriage duels, by the way. One willing with an outraged father, and one not willing at all."
Sansa hated the Free Folk custom of stealing wives. She didn't understand why the Free Folk women almost entirely actively approved of it, though she suspected it was due to strength being so necessary beyond the Wall. Regardless, she wouldn't stand for it on her watch, but a suitable substitute had to be found, one which let a woman's family, or champions, defend her, and one which let the suitor show off his strength and cunning.
The formally announced marriage challenges were that way; most were handled internal to the Free Folk, but when they 'raided' the Northerners and those of the Vale, she and Arya and the other leaders often had to get involved. Sansa suppressed a chuckle at the memory of the challenge for Chella's hand in marriage; the Vale tribeswoman had soundly trounced the man in single combat, then dragged him off to bed after anyway... and kicked him out the next morning.
"Raped?" asked Arya coldly.
"No. He's followed the rules and announced his intentions, not actually stolen her, nor touched her. I think he's hoping a show of strength will change her mind. It won't work, not with her, but... he's a Thenn, and he's made his intentions public, so his pride is on the line, too," said Sansa. The Thenn had set his eye on the very lovely daughter of an architect. In normal times, of course, he would have stolen her away in the night.
Here and now, in the North and the Vale, she'd put a stop to that months ago. No women would be stolen away while she could prevent it, and she could very certainly do so. To stop it from happening in the first place, rather than punish the guilty after it was too late, she'd spoken with Tormund after they'd retaken Winterfell. The theft of a woman itself wasn't important to the Free Folk, not really, but the fighting, that was very important on both sides. The family to fight for her, to always maintain watchfulness, and the... fiance... to show his intended and her family that he was willing to risk his life for her were he not a great fighter, and to show that he was a great fighter if that was the case, able to protect her and sire strong children, children who had a chance of surviving beyond the wall.
Arya, as Justice in the North, had taken up the role of champion when necessary, on behalf of the women who weren't able to fight on their own, and who didn't have family willing and capable of doing so for them. Just like the stealing, these duels were only to the death in the rarest of cases - the purpose was to show intent, to show capability, and to show off, not to remove more of the scarce population.
"So, one duel on behalf of the young couple against her father, and another to knock a Thenn unconscious. And in both I have to make them look good," said Arya, putting an expression of exasperation on her face as she made the sign for lie, "I should have stayed with Qarro or just gone to the fighting pits in Meereen! At least there's a purse for the winner!"
As they passed into the daylight, Sansa hip-checked her smaller sister, "You know you love it. The father's not even that bad - Chylla said he was barely passable with a staff, so you can have some fun with that. The Thenn likes poleaxes. Please try not to put him down too quickly; his uncle's the Magnar of the Thenn, and needs to have pride in his nephew's strength... if not in his judgment. The Magnar's proud, but he and his people are taking to living here very well, and I'd like to avoid any insult. The boy is following all the customs - he even brought her a present before announcing his intentions."
"What was it?" asked Arya, curious. The Thenns were different than most of the rest of the Free Folk, both more civilized and more brutal, in their own ways. She got along very well with most of the clans of the Free Folk, at least after having fought several of them, and having Meras, Skamund and some of the others of the ice-river clans vouch for her. Beating Tormund didn't hurt, either, of course.
"He'd asked for a writ to go hunting, and once I granted it, he bought a garron and went off to the northeast. He came back with three brace of rabbits, two small deer, and a bear all neatly skinned and butchered on a sled made of frozen deer meat pulled behind the horse, if you can believe it."
"I can believe it - Meras showed me how to make meat sleds on the way back from Moat Cailin, and the Thenns are from even farther north and away from rivers, so they must be great gatherers and hunters to survive. That's actually a very impressive marriage offering, you know, and possibly three less animal wights for us to face to boot. She's sure she doesn't want him?"
"Quite sure. Meera and Kitty talked to them both after I did, and they agree as well. Her father agrees with her, too, so there's no question of the answer, unlike the other couple. That one's father is outraged over his daughter actually wanting a husband of the Free Folk, and willing to take the beating you give him to show his daughter how strongly he feels. She's nine and ten years, a widow from the Boltons, and wants a husband who can and will fight anyone and anything for her, not be taken meekly like her prior husband, who her father chose for her, was," said Sansa.
Sometimes Sansa wished her own father had fought when she claimed to want to be Joffrey's Queen and have his babies - surely he'd seen that she was but a child, with childish songs in her head... but who would he have fought, and what would have been the result? She looked down at her sister again, seeing a faint shadow of a tell Arya had had as a child, and spoke softly.
"Just what mischief are you hatching, Arya? Tell me now and tell me true, and perhaps I won't have your head for treason against sound minds everywhere."
Arya looked up earnestly, her eyes wide and innocent, "I'm not hatching anything! We're just here to meet the Sphinx! Well... you know, not an actual Sphinx Sphinx. The Sphinx isn't actually a magical beast. Not like Bran or me!"
"He's quite a soft-spoken young man, Sansa," interjected Samwell earnestly, "You'll like him."
They were both laughing as they entered the outer bailey, coming to stand by Sam and Gilly while the drawbridge was being lowered, the outer and inner gates swinging open ponderously as both new portcullises were winched up, massive counterweights lowering to allow the small party in and the Maesters out, crossing on the drawbridge with the sound of hearty greetings from the learned men.
"Congratulations, Acolyte Alleras! You have done the Citadel very proud indeed, even if the Archmaesters aren't willing to acknowledge well documented reality. Be a good boy and tell us where they are?"
Alleras handed over a notebook and turned to point, "Three rings out, two radial divisions to the east. I bought back one of the very best wights, and several partial wights. Here's my notes on the behavior of the wights, and on the results of the experiments conducted by the Maesters at White Harbor, as well as those I conducted aboard ship and on the trip here."
"Wonderful, wonderful! This is a great day for science - we will learn more about the higher mysteries than any Maester before us, I have little doubt, and in large part because of your ingenuity and quick thinking! Come find us when Lady Stark is done with you - we practical Maesters value the knowledge gained from real field experience, not like those academics at the Citadel, and you've observed wights in their natural habitat!"
"Thank you, Maester. If you'll excuse me, I see I am keeping Ladies waiting," said Alleras in a clear tenor.
"The small one, with all the weapons; that's Lady Winter. Never call her Lady in any other capacity, though - she doesn't like it. A killer, that one, and the leader of all the armies gathering in the North and the Vale - she misses nothing, young man. Remember!" said Maester Wolkan quietly, glancing back at the young killer briefly. Still as a block of ice once again, that one was.
Alleras raised a hand to the Maesters and replied, "I know she misses nothing very well indeed, Maester, thank you - I had the good fortune to train with her at White Harbor, and she was kind enough to order any assistance I needed to capture the wights, so we must credit her as well. If you'll excuse me..."
"Of course, of course."
Sansa watched the young man approach with a group of others now that the Maesters were on their way. The others, a group of Dornish carrying bows and other dragonglass-tipped weapons in addition to good steel, had all waited while Alleras spoke with the Maesters, then when the acolyte moved, they did as well. Very interesting, that; even Grand Maester Pycelle hadn't had a single guard or assistant, much less a gaggle of them. Beside her, Arya poured a cup of whatever drink was in the odd bottle she'd doubtless bought from one of the foreign traders, into the cup.
Sansa didn't let herself respond, but as the acolyte approached, she noticed more about him - his skin was darker than the other Dornish here or the ones she remembering seeing in King's Landing, the ones who came with Prince Oberyn for Margaery's wedding. He had a sailor's walk, and carried a bow, longer than Arya's new one and of the same material - goldenheart, very rare and valuable, the same wood Loras's lance had been made of. His hair had a prominent widow's peak, which made her think as she looked down into his eyes, eyes very like another set she'd seen years before. She offered the acolyte her platter, gave the sign for you and the new sign for jape to Arya, her voice pitched to carry without seeming to, a trick she'd learned for Lord Baelish.
"Welcome to Winterfell, Alleras the Sphinx. You've done the North, the Vale, the Free Folk, and all the living a great service by not only capturing the wights, but also by working out the means by which it can be done and teaching it to others. You will be welcome to stay in Winterfell as long as you like, and your food will come from our stores or purse. Please, have bread and salt, and be our guest."
Sansa watched the Sphinx eat and drink, now fairly sure, but not yet certain, that she was who she thought she was. Arya, of course, hadn't said anything; probably some courtesy of the Faceless Men about not revealing others who were pretending to be someone else. Suppressing her annoyance, she realized she'd have to rework her plans on where the Sphinx was to be housed and have some of the supplies cleared from another pair of chambers, enough to make space for one person and clear up a certain patch of wall her sister had shown her.
Well, at least she'd get to sew another style of nice dress; she could easily see how to adapt Obern's outfit to work on Sarella's frame, though she'd need to see her inside to be able to fit it to her figure; like all the Southrons and the foreign guests from anywhere except Lorath, Ib, and Braavos, she was bundled up in layers so thick little could be seen of her at all. Smiling internally, she planned just how she'd reveal her knowledge to Alleras, since she was quite sure the acolyte hadn't notice her noticing.
Arya clapped Alleras on the shoulder, then offered the small wooden cup, very like the one Alleras had used in White Harbor, "Good work, Sphinx! You got the wights, and without having to get stranded in the middle of the army of the Night King on foot, too."
"Thank you, Lady Winter. Who would be foolish enough to go after wights on foot? I watched them for hours, and they never stopped, not once. Even if they're slow on the march, we did a time trial on the most intact wight in White Harbor, and they're pretty quick on the run, as fast as a sprinting man of the same build," answered Alleras, taking a small sip from the cup so as to be polite, then a much longer drink as she tasted her preferred Summer Isles wine. Not quite her favorite vintage, not even from the same island, but a taste of her mother's homeland nonetheless, and quite close to what she'd been carrying when Arya had taken her as a cup-bearer.
"Good to see you again, Alleras," greeted Korb, while Connas gave the Sphinx a manly shoulder clap and a wink, "You saw the army of the dead? The real one? Shot some of them with that greatbow of yours?"
"I did, and brought some back! The most intact for study, and the rest to send out to the rulers of the world and the Citadel. Between traveling north and south, we observed more than seven and thirty thousand wights, six and forty wight giants, and three and thirty wight mammoths, without being able to see either the end or the beginning of the column, nor anything not visible through a far-eye from a ship along the coast. We saw zero white walkers and zero dragons, so simple deduction tells us that there are more forces that we didn't see, in unknown quantity," reported Alleras.
"You know Samwell Tarly and his family, of course," said Arya, handing the wine to another guard before bringing Alleras over to Sam and Gilly , "my brother's adopted him, so they're our family now, too. Sam came back to help my brother Jon, to fight the army of the dead."
"Alleras! Arya said you'd come North. Did the Archmaesters send you? Are they mad at me for leaving?" asked Samwell.
"No, I came on my own. You know me - I like seeing with my own eyes. I believe they're rather more angry about the books you stole, Samwell," said Alleras, leaning over little Sam, reaching out with a slim, gloved hand to tickle under his chin as he cooed up at the Sphinx, "Hello there, little Sam, you've gotten bigger, haven't you? Yes you have! You're lucky to have Gilly and Samwell as your mommy and daddy!"
"It's good to see you again, Alleras," said Gilly kindly, "Did you have a good trip? Did you bring back any more books I can read? Look, little Sam's happy to see you!"
Alleras smiled and played with little Sam for a moment. The babe had his face bare to the cold, and was no more red-cheeked than he had been at the Citadel. Gilly was wearing no more than Arya or Lady Stark, while their guards were wearing similar outfits or a single additional thin layer. Samwell, however, was bundled up in layer after layer of thick black cloth. Interestingly, Samwell and especially Gilly were wearing a much higher quality of clothing than they had before, easily the equal of Arya's or Lady Stark's.
Standing again, the archer answered Gilly, "I did, very much so. A scare or two with the wights, a few with icebergs - huge chunks of ice floating, mostly underwater, with just the tip showing! One with a sandbar we almost didn't see until it was too late. Other than that, it was very educational! I got to loose the scorpion, which was fun. Might want to try that again. There's just something to shooting a shaft that big, eh Sam?"
"I've never used one, but Lady Mormont seems to enjoy them," replied Sam, "Will you be staying long? Gilly and I could use some help with the Maesters - you know how the older Maesters get. They need to be kept on track. Maester Wolkan, the Winterfell Maester, he tries, he does, but he's, well... he's a little timid. Maester Russal does a lot better - he's the Bear Island Maester. Those two are the ones who took the measurements that proved that the Long Night is here!"
"All right, little Maesters, enough. If I let you two get started you'll be at it all day, so I'm stepping in now. I would like to know the answer to Sam's question, though - will you be staying long?" asked Arya, smirking and giving Gilly a wink, Sansa coming up to stand with them after the last of Winterfell's new guests had been given bread and salt, spear casually in hand, the elder sister standing so she could keep an eye on the Dornish guards, though she was clearly listening to the Sphinx's answer.
"If you're sure it won't be any trouble, then I'd like to stay. I'm a good archer..."
"A master archer," interrupted Arya.
"... and I'd like to help as best I can, Lady Winter, Lady Stark, and learn what I can while I'm here, if you'll have me," said Alleras, "There's so much new knowledge here, a priceless opportunity to discover, or perhaps re-discover, knowledge known by no-one else in all the world."
"This is the North, Alleras. When we say we'll do a thing, we do it, as Tormund Giants bane once told my brother, so when we say you are welcome, you are. You know Arya already, so she can do her duty as a hostess for once and show you around - you'll want to meet Lady Meera, of course, who is to be our good sister soon - we just announced her engagement to my brother Bran. You can go up the... rigging, I believe it's called, on the tall tower there and see Lady Mormont, if you're interested in the scorpions and ballista. The Maesters are up there often enough. I'm sure she'll be interested in how you catch wights with scorpions," said Sansa, nudging Arya forward gently, but obviously. Arya clearly both liked and respected the master archer, and Sansa had some work to do shifting rooms around and making sure everything was in order.
"Hey! I did my duty as a hostess - I served the wine, remember?" retorted Arya, looking over to wait for a moment when the rest of the Dornish visitors were distracted, "And showed the Sphinx the most exciting entertainments there was in White Harbor, besides! Well, the best before Alleras here upstaged me with actual wights, the cheater. Not fair, Alleras, not fair. Come on, race you to the Scorpion Bear's lair!"
With that, Arya spun and ran for the tallest tower, not at her full speed, but quick enough to press Alleras to her utmost, and make sure they were both beyond a corner before the Dornish guards realized they were in motion. Arya led the other girl up several flights of stairs, through a small window, across the top of the hoardings and roofs, slowing down some when she heard Alleras start to slip, speeding up again after, and then with a flying leap grabbed onto the rigging along the side of the tallest tower, scrambling up twenty feet and then waiting.
A moment later when Alleras joined her, Arya murmured, "One of your so-called guards is very much your enemy, you know. Deal with it quietly before I can offer your little sisters the opportunity to pay for just vengeance."
"Tiilyan, I know," whispered Alleras.
Arya started climbing up the ropes again, calling out, "Guest coming, Lyanna! That archer with the big bow I told you about! Now you get to show her yours is bigger!"
************************
Daenerys and Jon held onto the ropes stretching across the big sled, their backs to barrels and piles of supplies it was carrying as the sled raced through the snow-covered town street towards the opening inner gates, large pulleys lifting cold rolled steel bars four inches in diameter out from the slots they sat in to bar the door as the right-hand ironwood gate ponderously opened in time for the dogsleds to dart through in single file. The left-hand gate was invisible, enormous blocks of ice stacked both in front and behind, formed into a solid mass with hot water, while above them hundreds of men and women with bows and crossbows manned the walls, the stone machicolations on the walls and the wooden hoardings on the towers.
Once through the inner and outer gates, they crossed over a drawbridge over the moat adjacent to the castle walls, black dragonglass visible atop wooden spikes protruding from the inky black bottom of a twenty five foot deep, twenty foot wide moat, a much smaller trench full of a shiny black substance immediately beyond it.
The area just in front of the main gate was clear, other moats perpendicular to the walls on both sides a hundred yards to the left and right of the doors receding into the distance, heading directly away from White Harbor, camps on the other side of those divisions stretching as far as could be seen, while ahead of them a group of guards had slid a long wooden bridge out over the even wider moat of the inner defensive ring, two much narrower, tar-filled trenches on each side.
Reaching above the camps, but not as high as the walls stood wooden towers with a floor for archers, and above that a floor for a scorpion, just as the big towers inside and on the wall had the same setup, but usually with the much larger ballista. Above each was a canvas tarp stretched tight on a wooden frame - when one of the crews swiveled a siege engine, they could see the tarp moved with it, protecting the mechanisms from snow and sleet. They'd passed trebuchets deeper inside the city, visible in glimpses as they passed, through side streets or atop lower roofs, too, so they knew there were more engines than could be seen.
Once they'd passed the bridge, they could see Targaryen banners flying on a large patch of ground in the seventy five yards between the first and second defensive rings, empty except for two enormous piles of firewood in the second ring, a small pyramid of barrels, and two long low 'walls' of stacked logs just inside the trenches running by the moats, dragonglass-tipped spears pointing both out and up, reaching twelve feet forward of the wall, and eight to ten feet up into the air. Past that bridge three more moat rings awaited them at fifty yard intervals, the ground between littered with short hedgehogs of wood covered in pitch, spears with sparkling dragonglass shards planted all over sticking out in every direction, short, thick walls of gleaming ice with yet more spears dividing them further.
"There, Dany, by your banners. Lady Manderly's got wood and water for your army, to keep them warm. They're in good hands; relax. They'll be along as soon as the caravan gets back," said Jon, Dany's head bouncing on his shoulder as the sled bounced over a piece of ice-covered stone just under the snow.
"I wanted to arrive with my army, to show that I'm here to save the North, Jon. I didn't want to arrive like a piece of cargo!"
"I know, I know," he said, squeezing her tight, "You're still going to arrive with two dragons! We haven't seen dragons before, and we know they can burn the dead. And the weather's turned, too. It's not just the cold, but the snow under us now is probably twelve feet deep, maybe twenty, and it'll be higher in drifts. Southron armies just aren't made for the North; your men wouldn't be able to march through it, even if they could find their way. Garron are better suited to winter than other horses, and with White Walkers on the move, it's better to be able to move fast."
"I'm not... oh. Not foreign armies, but Southron armies?" asked the silver-haired woman.
"Southron armies, yes. The North is different - bigger than the other six kingdoms put together, and rougher, even in summer. We get snow in the summer, you know - it melts after a few days or a few weeks, but it's common enough. Southrons don't understand snow - you don't see snow like that south of the Neck. Stannis came North, you know, beat Mance and the Free Folk when they attacked the wall, but that was before the snows came. He was in a hurry, wanted to attack fast, before the snows penned him in. He was smart enough to know he couldn't maneuver or march in the snows, not like Northerners can."
"What happened to him? I didn't hear anything about him, really, so I presume he's dead," replied Daenerys.
"Aye. Most of his army froze to death even before the snows came, and the Boltons killed them of his army didn't die in the cold. That's what Davos said. Didn't seem a happy memory. You feel cold now - imagine what it'd be like for your men if Sansa hadn't sent those clothing designs, if you hadn't had Dragon's Bay make them and ship them in."
On another sled, Grey Worm squinted as he and Missandei faced backwards on the sled they'd been allocated to ride on, the sunlight from the west hitting the city walls and reflecting off the ice even more brightly that it did off of desert sands.
"Steel bars on the gates, two portcullises, bigger than Meereen's. One, two, fifty and two hundred bows, with fit archers on the walls and towers. One, two, three hundred crossbows with elders and children, just on the walls and towers around the gate. Trebuchets, scorpions, blocks of less fit archers inside the walls," said Grey Worm to himself as he inspected the land-side defenses for the first time.
"Six giant moats that can be set on fire," said Missandei.
"On fire?" asked Grey Worm.
"That's what I heard some of the guards say. They were talking about a test burn on the third ring - I believe that's the middle one of those not next to the walls, from the context, and the Maesters were trying a mix of tar and pitch. It sounded as though they were trying different combinations, one at a time," explained Missandei over the swishing noise of the sled moving over snow, peering around the pre-adolescent boy of perhaps one and ten who was driving their sled to see the rest of the caravan form up into three main columns, weaving in and out of the scattered hedgehogs and around interleaved ice towers five to ten feet high.
"Archers and scorpions on sleds," said Grey Worm, grasping the rope as their sled swerved suddenly, tilting to one side before righting itself again, the driver frowning as he overcompensated. A few seconds later, a clump of snow shattered on the back of the boy's head.
"What?" asked the translator.
He pointed out to the left, then the right, "One there. Two there. Maybe more. Smaller than ones on towers. Bows, spears on sleds, smaller, no cargo. Army people looking up, watching for dragon. They no joke, no play like Dothraki. No stare at women like Dothraki. They more like Unsullied, keep formation, mind on job."
"They're scared," replied Missandei. She shivered despite her layers, sliding closer to Grey Worm, who wrapped his left arm around her even as his right rested lightly on the new spear he'd been issued at the Northern city. He had been surprised to see that all the Unsullied had been given spears matching their previous ones very closely, except that instead of the long steel spearhead they were used to was a short, irregular shard of dragonglass. They'd been given a place to pile up their original spears with the promise that those would be returned after the dead were defeated... if the dead were defeated.
At yet another set of drum sounded from somewhere in front of them, Tyrion looked pleadingly at Varys, who rolled his eyes and leaned out carefully to see around the pile of cargo they were laying on and against, "A line of towers, as usual with ballista on top. How far would you say we are from the city walls?"
"A few miles - it's hard to judge when everything's covered by snow, and there aren't even any trees, you know. I would estimate, in my learned opinion, that we are precisely one drum-distance from the city," replied Tyrion, scowling, "That was not entirely what I expected. From Jon Snow's descriptions, the North was in dire straits, desperately needing our Queen's help, bereft of allies and incapable of facing the threat on its own. That's what it sounded like to me, at least. Perhaps I was a bit too drunk at the time."
"That is indeed what it sounded like, and I assure you, he was being quite honest. One of these must be true; he was completely unaware of what was happening while he was King, he is the best liar I've ever encountered, his understanding of how to prepare for a war is very different from what is actually happening, or all of this started after he left for Dragonstone," said the Spider, resettling himself to try and get both more comfortable and more stable as their sled bounced and tilted yet again.
A few miles later, they passed another watchtower, with others visible in the distance, not quite a straight line, but curved in a shape that had White Harbor in the center. In the miles after that, they saw a couple small troops of a dozen horse cavalry trotting atop the snow, then a few pairs of small dogsleds with four to six dogs each... and then there was nothing but snow and ice around them, the land treeless and desolate, like a vast, shining white desert.
On the last sled, Qhono thought about the moats he'd seen. None of the Free Cities had anything quite like that, ditches too wide to jump a horse over, too deep and steep to ride a horse in and out of, and many of them. Those strange walls, some gleaming, some white or of wood, all with spears sticking out, too high to jump over. Many, many archers. The Dothraki had archers, too, but he was an experienced bloodrider, even before the Khaleesi chose everyone as her bloodriders, weak and strong alike, and he'd seen many cities, many settlements, many who thought they could fight a Khalasar.
He'd seen the little man's brother's soldiers on the road with their wagons, seen that they couldn't fight. They were cowards - a little charge, some fire, and they fled like any other city army. How much courage did it take to fight from atop tall walls? Not much. How much courage to use bows that could shoot farther than anything a man could use atop his horse, then hide behind stone? Not much.
Even then, he'd seen the distance, seen the giant bows up high. Good archers on those walls could put arrows past the outermost ditch, and could hide behind the stone whenever they wanted, like the cowards and women and old people they were. Still, if this was what the cities across the poison water were like, what was to be the fate of the Dothraki? Cowards they might be, but they wouldn't flee until a Khalasar was already inside their walls. If the Khalasar couldn't get to the gates, it wouldn't matter. Bribing one or two guards to open a gate wasn't hard, but so many? That wouldn't work.
"Shit," said Qhono quietly. The fate he saw for the Dothraki in this strange cold land across the poison water was not one he wanted for his people.
"Shit," replied Davos. He and Tormund had one spoken on not putting their trust in Kings. Perhaps they'd been right - Jon Snow hadn't been a King then, but after he was made one, well. Yes. Well, he'd give advice as best he could - he'd lived to be a ripe old age, and at least sometimes he was listened to.
He was just thankful that if the fortifications Winterfell had were anything like what White Harbor had, he'd have a pretty good chance of seeing his family again.
Only a few hours later, after several short stops to feed the dogs, night fell, the small dogsleds in the lead lit their torches, and the caravan continued on into the darkness. Hours after that, in the freezing cold, Daenerys waited with Tyrion while the other men of her little group worked to put up the tent she'd brought along. That tent and the five barrels of food that would have to feed them were all the supplies she was traveling with, reminding her a little of Drogo's Khalasar. Well, the food would have to feed all but Jon, until the rest of her supplies arrived. Jon was allowed to draw from the shared stores of the North, being a man of Winterfell, as were Brienne and, for some reason, the Hound, though none of her own people were.
"I appointed you to be my Hand so you could help me succeed. Can you explain to me exactly why I have to send hundreds of men and their horses back to Dragonstone, rather than bring them to Winterfell to fight, as I had intended?" asked Daenerys, huddled close to the fire; she'd taken her gloves off so she could warm up her hands without risking the fur burning. Their guides had provided a beggar's portion of wood, and there were no trees in the valley the frozen river they were traveling on top of went through.
"No, my Queen, because Grey Worm and Qhono both were given the very specific instructions the Lady of Winterfell passed on to me. Grey Worm followed the instructions precisely, and so we have all the Unsullied we brought. Qhono did not, but I am not the man in charge of the Dothraki! I will acknowledge that I should have done a better job keeping the suppliers in Meereen, Astapor, and Yunkai from sending us substandard goods, but I've corrected that mistake," replied Tyrion.
"See that you don't repeat that mistake. At least your former wife seems to have a good head on her shoulders. I don't want my people to freeze to death; it seems a needlessly cruel way to die," said Daenerys, falling into a silence after, watching Tyrion add more snow to the pot over the small fire.
An old man of the clan transporting them had yet again come by, made them close their eyes while he poked each of their fingers, toes, ears, and noses, checked to be sure they were dry all the way through, then he'd given a brief lecture on how to handle the weather at camp, how to melt water and drink before making soup or stew in the same pot, then left them to their own devices.
She'd noted that he'd checked on the other people being transported first, as if she was somehow less important than they were! Maybe being the last to be visited was a sign of honor in their culture, she thought darkly.
Some time later, the tent was finished, and at Jon's insistence snow had been piled high around it, even some spread across the top, to keep them warm, he'd said. As they huddled around the fire, eating the plain boiled grains, Jon cut up three of the lemons from the one barrel of fruits they'd brought based on the ravens Sansa had sent, squeezing the fruit into a cup until it was dry. Jon then passed them out, tilting his head back and draining his cup dry in one long drink. Once the rest of them had tried the surprisingly sour liquid, he'd smiled at their expressions.
Daenerys took a sip of hers to hide her own smirk at Tyrion's expression, then drank hers as she'd seen Jon do. It wasn't nearly as bad as the horse heart she'd eaten, and she was a Khaleesi, not some pampered girl. The drink was quite strong and sour, but not bad, really. She might even like the bite if it were spread over some fish or chicken.
Grey Worm didn't show any reaction, while the rest of them weren't fond of the strange drink. She took another spoonful of the bland porridge they were having for dinner after taking a small bite of her salt pork. Jon was eating from a bowl one of the Free Folk had handed him; his was much darker and more watery than theirs was.
"Is this some kind of Northern delicacy, Jon? Sour fruit juice and bland porridge, or that soup you have?" she asked with a fond smile. She enjoyed teasing him when he was in the mood; he wasn't like Daario, full of humor all the time, but he had his moments, between his bouts of brooding.
"More like a feast, really. It's winter - we need the juice to prevent the winter sickness, scurvy, as Maester Luwin called it. For the food, well, it was either just you and nine barrels of food so you can enjoy what I'm having, or the rest of us and enough food for three months, plus the lemons," said Jon, staring into the fire for a moment, "Sansa always loved lemon cakes. I haven't seen her have one yet, not all the time we were in Winterfell. You can't cook the juice, she said, and that was that. She cares about feeding our people more than herself."
Jon offered Daenerys a bite of his soup; she accepted, finding his meal to have a very sharp bite to it, sharper than she liked. Not hot, but bitter, and the darkness came from what appeared to be moss in the water.
"What do you remember most about your other sister, Arya?" asked Daenerys as she returned to her own porridge, "What do you think she's like now?"
"She was always getting in trouble with Septa Mordane, and with Lady Catelyn. Running around in breeches, trying to get people to teach her to fight, riding horses. She was a great rider, you know. She'd have liked being a horselord, I think," he answered, "Sansa wasn't anything like she used to be. Apologized to me, insisted I forgive her for the way she treated me as a child. I'm not sure what Arya's like - if Sansa changed so much, and Arya was on her own for so many years..."
Lord Varys spoke up quietly, "I did hear a few whispers of Arya, your Grace, Lord Snow, before we departed the port. As we heard on the docks, she arrived at the same time as Lady Winter, and was seen at breakfast in New Castle the next day. The whispers I hear say she is a priest now, of the Braavosi god of Death."
"Excuse me, but don't you mean a priestess, the feminine form?" asked Missandei as she huddled close to the fire even after Grey Worm had fetched her blanket from the tent and draped it over her.
"I wondered as well, but the whispers were quite specific. A priest of death, of the Many-Faced God, as his followers call him. A Faceless Man," replied Varys, "She had the coin, and the whispers of its description were quite specific. There are few certainties in the world... but one is that there are only two possibilities for those claiming to be Faceless Men. Either they are... or they vanish soon after. Or, perhaps, both - the Faceless Men haven't stayed anywhere but Braavos in living memory, that that has changed, or so the whispers say."
"A faceless man? Like Old Nan's stories - assassins who can look like anyone? They're real, like the White Walkers?" asked Jon, his full attention on the Spider. Grey Worm, too, the Queen and her Hand were paying attention now.
Lord Varys took another drink of his lemon juice, carefully not watching those waiting on his answer, letting the anticipation build for a few more seconds before he answered, "The whispers were consistent and specific both; your sister changed her appearance in seconds before the court of the Manderlys, wearing the hooded vestment of the priest of death the whispers say she claimed to be, becoming two inches taller."
"And do you believe them?" asked Tyrion, "That she used magic to change faces?"
"No, my Lord. Any of the actors I grew up with could have done the same. An impressive skill, in one who grew up in a great house and couldn't have started training until only a few years ago when she disappeared, but not a rare skill in the world," replied Lord Varys.
"My sister... is a priest?"
"I do not know that, my Lord. I have only whispers," replied Varys. He didn't say any more; he hadn't survived this many regents and royals without a keen sense of what not to say. Saying that none of the little birds he'd sent to recruit more little birds had been where they should have been wouldn't be wise. Saying that many little birds who had worked for him for years had vanished suddenly the day Arya Stark and this Lady Winter came to town wouldn't be wise. Saying that someone called the Underfoot had a firm grip on the thieves he relied on for some of his whispers wouldn't be wise.
Saying that the one long-perched little bird he'd found had been a frightened wreck after the others had vanished, who knew little because he'd been hiding since the Boltons took the North, who had wanted nothing but to leave the North entirely, that wouldn't have been wise either.
"I don't know much about whispers, my Lord, but I do know taverns, and sailors, and smugglers," said Ser Davos, having finished his meal already, having eaten quickly while he listened, a habit left over from his youth, "I got a drink, talked with some sailors I knew. Word's out the Manderlys are buying dragonglass, they'll pay good silver for high quality, be it raw or weapons, but they won't buy jewelry. The stuff from Dragonston's shit, apparently - breaks easy or something. Pardon, your Grace, that's what I heard."
"You hear about city? About soldiers, army?" asked Grey Worm. While the Unsullied didn't go to bars, and Daario was not someone he trusted, the Second Sons had proven more able to find the Sons of the Harpy than his Unsullied had, and Daario had attributed that to drinking and whoring.
"Well, no. That was the strange thing, really. I'd just gotten another drink when I asked something I prob'ly shouldn't have, and next thing, I heard the serving girl say the Underfoot wouldn't like that, and the tavern keeper said the tavern was closed. Usually that'd cause a big fuss, but not there - all the locals finished their drinks, stood up, and left. Just like that. Weirdest thing I've seen men wanting a drink do. The lads left, too, wouldn't talk to me anymore. Can't say I blame them, they've got to do business, after all," said Davos. He'd asked if the tunnels were still where the locals lived, and that had ended that. He supposed he could understand. These people were prepared for an attack, and he'd come into the city with a bunch of barbarians and soldiers loyal to someone they hadn't seen before.
Jon smiled for a moment, remembering Arya's old nicknames. Underfoot, Horseface... he stared into the fire, reminiscing. It'd been so long since he'd seen Arya, and by the Hound's tales, she'd been very keen on reclaiming Needle. The way he'd described her fighting... that wasn't what he'd wanted for her, but if she was alive, she was alive. Brienne, too, had spoken of how fierce she was, though Brienne didn't have much to say about how Arya and Sansa were getting along. They never had before, he supposed.
"I heard about your sister," said Missandei, with a small smile. She couldn't fight, didn't know things about the rest of the world, but languages... she knew more about languages than anyone else she knew.
"You did? From who?" asked Jon, "Did you talk to Brienne again, or the Hound?"
"No, more recent than that. I was speaking to a Tyroshi guard when the dogs were being fed, the one in bright colors. He's been to Winterfell already, guarding people, and was sent back to make sure the new arrivals were told how things were done and to keep them and their cargo safe. The people he's guarding are working with the northern Maesters, and everything has to be done in a certain way - something important enough to merit the dogsleds. He doesn't speak the local language at all, but when he was in Winterfell, though, he told me the tale of when he saw your sister fight."
"She fight in Winterfell? Fight who?" asked Grey Worm, worried about attacks like the Sons of the Harpy.
Missandei gave him a warm smile and wink; she'd known he would be very interested, and Jon Snow also, so she'd been sure to ask for as many details as she could.
"She fought seven duels in Winterfell, yes, all in one night! Would you like to hear the tale?" asked Missandei.
"Yes," replied Grey Worm and Jon in unison, with even Qhono nodding agreement, prompting Daenerys and Missandei to meet each other's eyes and giggle together
"Men," said Daenerys as she rolled her eyes, then nodded to Missandei, who set her bowl down and sat in Grey Worm's lap, shifting a little... to be comfortable... while she told the tale she had heard. Part of her training had been as a storyteller, and she wanted to do this tale justice. She could tell her Queen wanted to hear it, too, just as much as the men, though for different reasons. Queen Daenerys was quite taken with Jon Snow, and was worried about meeting his family, which Missandei couldn't help her with, not having been taken as a slave at such a young age.
"It starts in Braavos, where the First Sword of the Sealord of Braavos announced that he acknowledged Arya Stark as the First Sword of Westeros, a title which had never been granted before. He sent out ravens far and wide, announcing the new First Sword to the First Swords of all the other Free Cities in Essos and beyond. Some of these respected his judgment, for he was known as a great dancing master, one who sees true. Others had feuded with him in the past, or did not believe girls could deserve such an honor, or did not believe Westeros was deserving of the honor, for Westeros had no bravos, no great dueling traditions. For these reasons and others, pairs of bravos from Tyrosh, Lys, Myr, Ib, and Volantis boarded ship and sailed to Westeros to give challenge to the newly named First Sword."
She paused to take a drink and judge her audience's interest, then continued, falling in to the cadence she'd been taught, giving as many details as she could; the Tyroshi had fancied himself quite a bravo, and had spoken of the duels in great detail, even pantomiming the important bits.
"While they waited to face her, they dueled her only student, who defeated three of them in single combat, but lost to the other seven. Then, one day, the young First Sword came out to accept their challenge. She was but a small young woman dressed in a fine leather tunic and breeches, a white storm cloud with the shape of a direwolf inside it embroidered on the front, wearing a sash covered in knives, with a long leather cloak, and leather arm guards with yet more knives. Her dueling weapons were a long, thin sword and a dagger, with dual rings on their hilts. The least skilled of those who had defeated her student stepped out to challenge her first."
************************
Arya swaggered through the streets of Winter Town and into the town square, her cloak flowing behind her as she approached, wearing the new gear she'd been given in Gendry's workshop, and stopped before the well in the center of the square. Irresso had spent the day spreading the word that she would be by the well at dinnertime. It wasn't as elegant as her training by the Moon Pool with First Sword Qarro had been, nor even the room in the Red Keep she'd trained in with Syrio... but this was the North, and this was how things were done in the North... because she was the First Sword here, and she had decided it to be as close as she'd find to where Syrio and Qarro trained and dueled as she'd find in Winter Town.
As she'd expected, a large crowd had gathered under the moonlight. There were pickpockets working the crowd, and men and women making bets... some of whom were quite attractive indeed. Kitty's work, most of those, though it appears Ser Nicholas had engaged Rosa to accompany him to watch her fight; he'd either been to the Free Cities or heard stories of the courtesans there, then. She'd given Kitty quite a bit of the money she'd returned from Braavos with, to place bets on herself winning all seven matches in the same night. Either she would win, or their family would lose nothing, and betting one oneself was quite normal, and showed confidence.
One of the Mryish bravos was far too intent; he was here for something personal... for vengeance, and for her specifically, as she'd heard. Well, she'd face him when he challenged her, as was right. All but one Volantine had fresh purple feathers in their hair; he had been the winner between them, then, his feather showing faint signs of the wind and winter weather wearing on it.
A Tyroshi strode away from their little pack first, his footsteps quick but loud, footwork not quite right for any style she knew, and not consistent, either - a quarter inch off one step, and an eighth of an inch off the other way the next. She took her cloak off flamboyantly, tossing it to Irresso as she stood sideface to the challenger, her left hand next to her dagger, right next to the new sword, but touching neither. It was not for her to give challenge, but to be challenged. It was, however, for her to taunt someone so obviously unskilled.
"You are not ready, girl," said Arya, her voice carrying to the crowd of Northerners, foreign guards and traders, knights and squires of the Vale, and Free Folk. She could spot Tormund's head above the crowd, and she saw Sansa, Gendry, Kitty, Meera, Bronze Yohn and the Scorpion Bear watching from an upper window of the Smoking Log inn and alehouse. Korb, Connas, and Donovar were all in the crowd as well, dressed as merchants, she was amused to see, and placing bets on her.
"I'm a man, and you don't deserve your title, girl," the Tyroshi retorted, coming to a halt a sword's length away, far too close unless he was extremely fast on the draw.
"You should be a sword, nothing more. Challenge me, then, if you have the balls to fight instead of talk."
Arya watched his eyes, the rest of her senses on alert. Look with your eyes, hear with your ears, taste with your mouth, smell with your nose, feel with your skin. The instant his hand touched his sword, she was in motion, moving forward a good bit below her best speed, right hand already starting to draw her new dagger before her feet had moved, which in turn cued him to start drawing his blade.
He started too late and his feet stayed in place, her left hand clamping down on his wrist and stopping his draw before his sword had fully cleared his scabbard, the tip of her dagger already past his cheek, a one inch long razor-thin cut showing on his skin even as she released his wrist and stepped back, wiping her dagger off with a small cloth and returning it to its sheath quickly.
"Dead. Your footwork is clumsy, and you came far too close to draw a sword of that length against a knife," said Arya factually, giving a quick piece of instruction to one who had challenged her, as Qarro had, as she'd heard Syrio had, as even Brienne did with Pod and the guards she helped train for Winterfell.
"Bring out the real fighters!" called out Tormund's loud voice, "That one's even slower than me, and he's half my size," prompting laughter in many of the crowd, particularly the Westerosi.
Standing exactly where she had before he'd touched his weapon and thus delivered a bravo's challenge, she waited while the less determined Myrish bravo came out and stopped a considerably longer distance from her than the Tyroshi had, an eight inch buckler held in his left hand. His footwork was clumsy as well, and his partner had already lost to Irresso; the First Sword of Myr had been spoken of respectfully by Qarro, so these were probably not his direct students, but simply other bravos looking for fame, with the pockets to buy passage on a ship. He'd turned before moving in a perfectly straight line to his position opposite her, then turned again. A linear style, then.
As he touched his blade, she drew her new sword, advancing directly towards him with a thrust; he stepped back as he drew with a fraction of a second's delay after she'd started her own draw, gaining the distance he needed to complete the draw and counter with a thrust of his own to her face. She stepped back, sword coming up to meet his, then tipped hers down to keep his off-line while she advanced directly towards him and thrust for his left thigh. When he countered, she stepped straight back, and he lunged forward as she'd expected.
Smirking, she stepped to the left side and forward, twisting her body to avoid his blade by a bare inch as her gloved right hand grabbed his blade, yanking him forward as the tip of her sword scored a line across his forehead.
"Dead. Too linear, predictable. And your footwork's sloppy."
She again cleaned her sword and returned it to its scabbard as she returned to her starting position.
The Lysene who hadn't lost to Irresso came forward next, a slender curved blade by his side, his footwork very different than the previous ones, more precise, but of a different, more circular style. He nodded to her briefly, then tapped his hilt with a fingertip, drawing his sword immediately as she drew hers, circling in towards her with a flurry of cuts. The first few she ignored, thrusting at his face, which he deflected in a smooth motion; his sword didn't have the reach to hit her, but it was lighter than her own, and quick besides.
Her own new blade wouldn't be able to cut a man's arm off, but it was over half a foot longer than his, and had one of the most protective quillon she'd ever seen; Mikken had been a genius, to come up with the ring on Needle and make it strong enough to protect her hand. Only a few smiths in the world had made a quillon like that - anything other than a simple straight or slightly curved crossbar was very rare.
She stepped in, tilting her hand to drop her blade and parry his cut to her leg, tilting up to parry a cut to her chest, then she stepped in again as he cut at her head. When he slid his blade down the side of hers, she stepped to the side, keeping his blade against hers, letting the castle-forged steel rings protect her hand from his blade as she kicked him in the knee, instantly freeing her blade and delivering a carefully shallow draw-cut to the his thigh with the edge of her own blade.
"Dead. Be wary of an opponent with a blade that can cut who gets in close," she said, wiping down the edge and returning to her place as she had before, sword sheathed again.
The intense Myrish bravo strode forward next, the other bravos looking on with undisguised interest as he whipped off his cloak, wrapping it once around his arm and letting the rest fall freely. Against the Lysene she'd just fought, he'd have wrapped more of the cloak around his arm, but he didn't believe her sword was a serious cutting sword, so one turn of the thick winter cloak would do.
"My father once sailed to Braavos. Syrio Forel killed him by the Moon Pools, and I will have the blood of his student for that! Only your death will satisfy me, student of Syrio Forel! Acknowledge the terms or show yourself a cowardly girl-child, playing at fighting!" said the man intensely, staring fixedly at Arya, his left hand holding his cloak, right by a sword three inches longer than hers, which was fitting enough, since he was nearly a foot taller, and weighed easily twice as much.
She waved one of the guards over, "Johannes, observe this duel of honor," she said, not looking away from the bravo. His cloak was thick wool, but clearly not armored. Nothing anyone anywhere in the world would bat an eye at, and he moved gracefully, with great determination... but without the look in his eye that the Mountain had had, that the Hound had, that she herself had. He wasn't a killer, not a real one.
He followed the forms well enough for a bravo in a duel to the death, a fingertip flicking the base of his hilt in the same single motion of grabbing and drawing; he was the fastest one yet. As soon as his fingertip had touched his weapon, Arya drew both sword and dagger for the first time during these duels, her sword flicking across and up to deflect his long blade past her head as she took a long, fast step in and lunged with the full power of her body and legs, her slender Valyrian blade punching right through his cloak, his wrist, and out the other side of his cloak as his arm was forced up and back against his chest, her dagger sliding between his ribs into his heart, then withdrew just as quickly as she stepped away from the dying man.
"Valar Morghulis," said No One as she stepped back, sheathing her sword, wiping her dagger off and sheathing it as well while he fell, bleeding out on the dirt. As before, the blood and gore came off unnaturally easily. She watched quietly until he breathed his last, then spoke quietly.
"He fought bravely for his vengeance. Johannes, get his feet, and be careful with him; we'll put his body on the bench for now. I'll care for his body myself, once it's back at the House's chambers," she commanded, squatting to take him under the armpits, moving him where she'd indicated before she took up his sword, handing it hilt-first to the other man from Myr who'd used his buckler against her.
"His sword should go to his next of kin. Tell them he died bravely, fighting for his father's honor, and that the House of Black and White in Westeros cared for his body with respect after he was killed," Arya said. When the man nodded silently, she returned to her spot, raising her voice to speak to the crowds, to teach them what bravo duels were about... to bring the culture of the bravos to the North and the Vale, and make sure it was a true and pure legacy of Syrio's teachings to her.
While Arya spoke, Johannes pulled out a small leather pouch, opening it and selecting a dragonglass flake; too small and thin to be useful even glued to a staff with pitch. He slowly and gravely rolled the corpse's sleeve up and inserted the flake into his arm, pressing it in deep enough it would break before it came out. There would be no chances of wights raised within the walls; not on his watch!
Arya continued steadily, "In the Free Cities, bravos duels are fought at night, between those wearing blades. The duels are swift, and sudden! A simple touch of a weapon with a fingertip is a challenge; there are no words needed. When fighting happens, it is not a time for words! Duels in the Free Cities are often to the death, for honor, for pride, to demonstrate one's skill and bravery, to impress a girl or a boy. In Braavos, many duels are fought, many to the death, to support their political candidates, or to impress the best courtesans, who are often of famous families, for in much of the world that is an honorable, sometimes sacred, profession! In some cities, the streets belong to the bravos and courtesans at night, because it is tradition, and because no bravo ever bothers anyone who is unarmed, nor do they attack without challenge. Any who violate these rules are no true bravos!"
She reached up to point at the feather in her hair, "One difference to remember! In the North and the Vale, a purple feather is required to duel as bravos, and the loser's feather is to be broken. Guardhouses sell the feathers, five silver each!"
Next came the smaller Ibbenese man, dressed in blue; unlike the rest of bravos, the Ibbenese were wearing similar numbers and thicknesses of layers to the Northerners, though, of course, in bright colors. Arya suspected that they'd dyed polar bear fur - one was in a bright green, the other a brilliant light blue.
He nodded respectfully, taking off his cloak and handing it to his taller companion to reveal a long dagger with a simple crossguard opposite his sword, and said, "We have come to test the skill of the one who would be the third First Sword of the north. The First Sword of Ib is well respected. The First Sword of Braavos is well respected. One who knows the taste of true winter who claims to be the First Sword of Westeros must be well respected, as well."
Arya nodded. This one moved well, and quickly; she was finally through the chaff and to the wheat. The corners of her lips curled up slightly as he tapped the pommel and drew both the long, slender thrusting sword and dagger, just as she drew both her own weapons.
A few exchanges later, he blocked her thrust with his dagger as she did his with her dagger. She shoved both his weapons upwards as her boot slammed into his leg just below his knee; as his leg slipped back on the patch of ice just behind his foot, she sidestepped, freeing her sword as he sought to keep his balance, delivering a shallow draw-cut to the side of his neck as she pulled her blade back.
"Dead. Hands aren't the only dangers, and in winter, footing is ever treacherous."
Instead of going back to the starting point, she went to the well, using the long pole to break the ice that had already formed on the surface just since her duels started before lowering and raising the bucket. She took a few drinks of ice-cold water from one of the bowls that were nearby before offering the bucket of water to the rest of the bravos. She was, after all, their host.
She was also in need of a few minutes of rest; the next two opponents would be much more challenging, and while she certainly could fight without rest, she wouldn't be perfectly precise. There was a difference between standing on one toe for hours and fighting at the fullest measures of her speed and power. Syrio Forel had taught her to be swift and sudden on both the attack and the defense. Qarro and the House of Black and White both had continued that trend, for it was what was required to be a dancing master and a master assassin both. Limited targets, limited time, no mistakes, no second chances, no heavy armor to protect your life.
Hers was not the way of the Knight's dance, the battlefield melee, even of the shield-wall. Hers was the way of incredible speed and sudden power without warning, so fast that even the true seeing was insufficient in and of itself, for there was nothing to see until she was already in motion. While she rested, pacing slowly around the area the crowd stayed clear of, she listened to the betting as the odds shifted radically in response to death.
Too, an acolyte and the new novice of the House had appeared with a stretcher and were carefully moving the Myrish corpse over to the stretcher. She murmured "Lay him out and prepare him; I'll wash him myself when I return," in a voice so quiet as to be imperceptible to anyone without the right training.
Once those who had wished had drank, she returned to her starting position. As she'd expected, this custom was attaining the force of ritual. The First Sword of Westeros would stand at this spot, and the challengers would approach, least skilled to most, and issue the challenge in the expectation that she would instantly accept. It was not the same as what the First Sword of the Sealord of Braavos did, but he, too, had a ritual, and those who wished to make challenge followed the steps he presented them.
The taller Ibbenese approached, buckler in his left hand and a sword of medium length on his belt; wide enough to be capable of cutting through flesh and bone both as hers would not, if his was balanced for it... and she was sure it was, by the stance he took.
Again, she drew both blades as soon as he'd touched his sword. This one stepped forward as he drew, that single motion a vicious slash at the tip of her nose which she deflected down with her dagger, while his buckler batted aside her own thrust to his throat; she withdrew the long blade, tilting her blade down to thrust towards his ankle, which he moved as his sword stabbed out at her thigh which she sidestepped entirely, her dagger ensuring he couldn't turn the thrust into a cut and draw her blood.
Four exchanges later, they were standing in each other's starting positions, clashing again. This man was both fast and skilled, moving readily on the cold ground... but he wasn't quite as fast, and his height worked against him, there, his longer arms not quite compensating for the length of her sword; thus, in the end a thrust he deflected from his heart nicked his knuckle through his glove, the simple crossguard failing to protect his hand.
"Hand useless. Every time you strike, you offer your hand and arm to your opponent and your opponent's weapon. This is doubly so when their weapon has more reach than yours," intoned Arya.
He saluted her with his sword, then ceremonially reached up to take the feather from his hair, breaking his feather as each of the others had done much less flamboyantly... and then he offered her the fresh, broken feather.
She took the feather formally, then strode to the well again, taking another short drink, offering water to the senior Volantine, a man of perhaps four and thirty, with a long, slender sword and a dagger, both with a spiral quillon.
He shook his head slowly, and said, "Would you like to take a short rest? I will not have it said that I have fought a duel when my opponent was at a disadvantage; it is known to all that I have always dueled on only the most honorable of terms."
Arya smiled slightly, nodding as she took another drink, then clasped her hands behind her back, standing still as she tensed sets of her muscles for a few seconds each, then relaxed them, one set after the other, replying, "You are the best in Volantis after the First Sword himself, are you not?"
"I have that honor for eight years now. I am proud to say that I can best the First Sword of Volantis one time in seven, and bring him to a draw two in seven! I did not believe a girl from Westeros who hasn't even seen her twentieth nameday could be worthy of the title of First Sword; we shall see if I was wrong. Either way, I see that I must also challenge the First Sword to the Sealord of Braavos, for it is through difficulty that we grow," said the premier challenger to the First Sword of Volantis.
"I agree. Every hurt is a lesson, and every lesson makes you better, as Syrio Forel taught me. Give me three minutes, and then we can continue. Who designed your blades?" said Arya, continuing to cool down and relax her muscles.
"I mean no challenge," said the Volantine as he carefully made a fist, hooking his little finger in his dagger's quillon, drawing and offering the blade to her, "Master-smith Tindak designed and forged these blades for me, and they have served me well for many years. Please, see what you will. Yours, too, are unique; I have rarely seen rings like that, and never on both sides."
Arya took the other man's dagger carefully, drawing her own using only her little finger, as he had, offering it to him in turn, "Master-smith Gendry reforged this for me, and forged my sword; the quillon is an adaptation of my first sword, Needle, which Master-smith Mikken made for me as a child. The two rings are somewhat uncomfortable to carry, like yours, but for a duel, protecting your hand is important. I was made to fight, not to be comfortable like a Lady."
"Protecting your hand is very important!" laughed the Ibbenese, holding up the hand she'd just nicked.
She examined the Volantine dagger's quillon; it was certainly more elegant than her own, perhaps a little more protective on the sides of the blade, though the crosspiece didn't have the sharp curve hers did to easily bind another's blade. The blade was a little thicker, a little heavier than the steel versions of her dagger, but the man was strong and quick both, so that wouldn't impede his use of it.
"Valyrian steel!" exclaimed the Volantine, "Lord of Light, you carry Valyrian steel! No wonder you're so quick."
"Just the dagger; the sword is no different than any other of its type," she said as they carefully traded weapons, again avoiding touching their own with their hands. This showed both that they took the letter and spirit of the code of the bravos seriously, and also made it quite deliberately awkward to use their own weapons without due challenge.
And, Arya knew, she had many more blades easily accessible than he did, never mind the Stark guards and Northern and Vale soldiers in the audience.
Finishing her exercise, she returned to her starting position. The duel started suddenly as he touched his sword, the first two exchanges moving them clockwise, the next three counterclockwise, each advancing and retreating over the measure of a dozen feet until they broke apart for a moment, both selecting a different stance as they gained the measure of the other, then moved in again.
There were no lunges, no high-risk moves, just a blindingly fast series of cautious probes and thrusts, with the occasional quick cut with sword or dagger. Arya saw through his feints, as he saw through hers; he had the true seeing, was fast and skilled, had great footwork, and didn't leave openings. That was good! She hadn't been pressed like this since she'd last trained with Qarro, and she was exhilarated by the challenge. For all Brienne's skill, she was Westerosi, and her hacking and hammering just wasn't the same. This duel, this was the water dance in its purest form... and it was time to end the dance.
Arya blocked one thrust she could have dodged, then bent backwards and to the left suddenly to avoid the next attack, leaving herself in a position where if she dodged again she'd leave an opening; he attacked as she expected and hoped to throat and heart, expecting to force her to commit to the defense with both her blades; from there he'd likely plan to keep her on the defense.
Instead of pulling her right hand back so as to not interfere with her sword, so both could parry effectively, she reached even farther over with the dagger and lowered her sword, blocking and binding his sword with the dagger even as she slid her leg forward, dropping down suddenly while one of the throwing knives in her arm-guard deflected his own dagger's blade, thrusting upwards with the sword until she felt the change in resistance, the tip drawing a drop of blood from his armpit. Had he chosen a different target, she knew she might have been the one who had lost, but he had not, and she had upheld Syrio's legacy and Qarro's belief in her skills.
"Dead. Because I had armor, and a long fucking sword," said Arya, smiling widely, standing up straight and saluting him with her sword as he saluted her in the same fashion before presenting her his broken feather after she'd cleaned and sheathed her blades, likewise smiling, "Well fought. I have no doubt you will someday be First Sword of Volantis."
"Thank you," replied the Volantine, standing straight "It was an honor to duel with you, First Sword."
Arya gestured to the assembled bravos with one hand, the other gesturing to the alehouse, "Come! You have all fought with honor, and I find I've not only skipped my dinner, but also worked up an appetite! I'll buy you each your first round, and your dinner if you haven't eaten yet!"
At the roar of the crowd, Arya called out loudly, "Not you ingrates!. None of you stepped up to duel me. You want me to buy you a round, get yourself a purple feather and beat one of these men in a bravo's duel, then you can challenge me!"
She looked up at where her sister and her party were, beckoning them to come down and join the crowd for the meal.
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"And that is the tale of how the First Sword of Westeros became a title respected by bravos the world over," finished Missandei.
"She killed a man? And just kept going?" asked Jon, still a little stunned at hearing his feisty little sister was killing men not in war, not on the battlefield, but as, as, as some kind of entertainment, almost.
"Is how bravos fight. Only thing... different... is not more killing," said Grey Worm.
"The word you mean is strange," corrected Missandei, "Or unusual."
"I'm afraid Grey Worm is correct. There are bravos in all the Free Cities, and they duel to the death much more often than not. For so many to duel with only one death is quite unusual," added Lord Varys, "Though Westeros has never had bravos duel in the streets before, either, so that's unusual all around. Thank you for a wonderful retelling, Missandei. You are a truly gifted storyteller."
"I'm curious, Missandei. Who was this guard guarding, that they merit a trip on these dogsleds? It's clear that fast passage is valuable," asked the Hand of the Queen.
"He was originally guarding some Myrish pyromancers until he was sent to White Harbor to meet the new Tyroshi and Pentoshi pyromancers, so they can be taught how to work with the Maesters before they arrive. Apparently the Maesters and the pyromancers have come to a mutually beneficial arrangement in Winterfell, and they don't want to see that interrupted. And, it seems, making sure no one bring a flame near the barrels of the substance on the sleds over there," she said as she pointed at the sleds of fur-covered barrels on the other side of the camp.
"Wildfire," said Tyrion, stunned. He'd spoken with pyromancers enough to know they called wildfire 'the substance'.
"Wildfire," said Daenerys smugly, "You didn't know, Lord Tyrion? I knew before we left."
"Do you have any idea how dangerous that is? We could be incinerated at any moment!" said her Hand sharply.
"What do you mean?" asked Daenerys, "I know my father the Mad King burned people with it, but how is a fire over there going to hurt us over here?"
A wide-eyed Tyrion began to explain the many dangerous properties of fire given form, and Ser Davos told of how he'd been literally blown off the deck of his ship as if by an immense wind when the wildfire ship had been ignited, of how other ships had been smashed as if with the brilliant green hammer of the gods.
Looking over and remembering the skill and experience of the drives of the sleds with wildfire, not one of them complained about how young their own drivers were, or how bumpy their ride was for the rest of the journey.
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Following the page to the quarters which had apparently been set aside for herself and her guards, Alleras passed the girl a copper for her troubles and opened the door to a large room, passing by the two Northern guards that were apparently protecting the room. Half the room was full of barrels of supplies, behind which were piles of clothing... light or cotton clothing, she realized, for the summer. The outer half, in particular, based on where she thought she was in the castle, which was interesting. She wondered if it was deliberate, and if so, was that for additional insulative properties?
Though this room had no windows, indicating that that probably wasn't an exterior wall. The rest of the room was nearly filled with one large set of standing shelves, one small chest with its key in the lock, and three bunk beds; two with four beds spaced very close together each, and one with three beds and a little more headroom, and two chairs... one of which was occupied.
"My sisters finally let you go, I see?" said Sansa from her seat in the corner, small skeins of orange, red, and yellow cloth beside her as she finished off a section of the scarf she was knitting, slipping it and the skeins into an embroidered leather bag as she stood gracefully, her spear leaning beside her.
Alleras now understood why there were guards not only at the end of the hallway but also outside this room; they were Lady Sansa's guards... and her own Dornish guards were off getting trained on how to fight the dead, at her own insistence while she was the guest of Gilly and Lady Reed, soon to be Lady Meera Stark. If Sansa had any significant measure of Arya's skill with the spear, she was at Sansa's mercy.
Of course, since she was in the heart of the North, she had quite deliberately assessed that she would be at their mercy anywhere within more than four hundred miles of here, so there was no change to that equation whatsoever. It was still safer for her here than in Dorne... at least until the wights she'd sent home had arrived and been examined. Alleras didn't think Sansa had the nearly unnatural gaze of Arya, but her gaze was intense all the same.
Alleras bowed, "Lady Stark, I'm quite surprised to see you again!"
"Of course. As a special guest of my sisters, a representative of Dorne, and the one who worked out how to safely capture wights, I'd like to make sure you have everything you need that we can provide," said Sansa with a small smile.
Not quite the teasing smile Arya had, thought Alleras, but once again, altogether too knowing for her comfort. The acolyte wondered if that was a trait of all Starks... or, she thought morbidly, if it was a trait of all the Starks who were left alive.
"This will be more than enough; it's all I can expect and more, Lady Stark. Your sisters were both gracious and kind. If you don't mind my asking, I've been wondering if it's a custom of your family to adopt so many others in, or a Northern custom," replies Alleras, starting to get the feeling she was, again, being toyed with. Then again, she had the Lady of Winterfell in a room, alone, after Arya had already clearly given an approving report to her... and, by the looks of it, possibly a quite complete report.
"If you mean Gilly and Meera, they are certainly both. Arya has many other qualities, and I love her, but gracious she is not now, and has never been. The adoptions... well, I suppose you could say they're a Stark custom now," said Sansa with a small smile and a glint in her eye, "I understand there are many customs in Dorne that are foreign to us. I hope that Princess Sarella might someday grace us with her presence, and have had the room down at the end of the corridor set aside for her use. It's nearly full of supplies, of course, but there is a small dresser for anything she might need, and what Arya called a hammock, in case she arrives... suddenly."
Alleras closed her eyes. Of course Arya had told her sister who she was. She hadn't really expected otherwise, but, foolishly, she had hoped otherwise after Sansa hadn't made any sign of knowing at their meeting earlier.
"So, in the case Princess Sarella has some... special need... for an acolyte of the Citadel, I've placed you two rooms down, at the only other entrance to this particular secret passageway, just in case the Princess desires your presence... or not, as she chooses," Sansa continued, her voice tinged with amusement as she now stood in the narrow space left between the end of the stack of barrels and the corner, placing one foot flat against the wall dividing this room from the other and both hands on the second stone down from the ceiling, clearly pressing hard... until the corner of the room opened up to a narrow passage on the wall that ran behind the barrels.
"She told you," said Sarella, her tone resigned as she approached Sansa, peering into the secret passageway. The fairly narrow, and remarkably clean passageway, in which was a sturdy, thick wooden door, which was open, on the other side of which was a three inch thick bar of precisely the length to bar that very door. Past that was a small iron hammer, a shortbow and a quiver on pegs, then another bar and wooden door, then the end of the secret passage, counterweight mechanisms barely visible in the darkness.
Sansa giggled quietly, "No, she didn't; another of her little japes. I saw your father several times before Joffrey's wedding, you know. You have his eyes, his bone structure, his widow's peak, and his intensity, Princess Sarella. I apologize; because my little sister failed to warn me, I haven't been able to prepare for you properly. I'll have a dress suitable for the Princess of Dorne finished soon, certainly before the Dragon Queen arrives with Jon."
"Just Sarella, Princess Sansa," replied the Dornishwoman with a grin of her own, squeezing past Sansa into the secret passageway, noting the arrowslit in the wooden door, then turning to inspect the recently oiled counterweight mechanisms on this side, "Otherwise this will be even more ridiculous than it already is."
Sansa joined her in the passage with a single candle for light, closing the stone door on its cylindrical bronze rollers, gesturing Sarella to the small area of passageway between the wooden doors, closing hers while Sarella did the same. Sansa could see that Sarella also had all of Oberyn Martell's curiosity, though the share he'd directed at what could be found in brothels, she directed elsewhere.
"Then call me Sansa, please. Arya's had several of our secret passages set to rights recently, but this one she had the doors changed on as soon as she returned. I found it curious, at the time, but now I understand; Meera and Arya both agree that you are a master archer. Sarella, you are not now, and never will be a hostage here, not to us, not to any of our bannermen or allies, and not even to your own guards. Arya did mention you would consider directness a greater courtesy, so, tell me, what are your plans, what do you have to offer, how certain are you that your offer will happen as you expect, and what do you need?"
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Huh, you know, I never had thought about it before this, but Dany wouldn't have really known what Wildfire could do. It never really came up and unless something happened "off-screen", no one would have explained it to her.
Exactly my thought process! While she's apparently literate, her education was sadly lacking... and given that her bubble had to be burst on the 'lies' told about her father by Ser Barristan the Bold himself on the show, I have to think that Varys and his patsies made very sure wildfire was no part of her education at all.
And with that... there's no way she could know! You light wood, or pitch, or tar, or grass, or grease, or oil, or fat, or hay on fire way over there, and what happens? You get a fire over there. Nothing more. Gunpowder isn't something we see in the series, not even once, and I recall no mention of it whatsoever.
Dragonfire doesn't make things explode in S1 through S7, either - take a look at Harrenhal, the fighting pit attack, and even the loot train attack. Varying levels of burned, from "my clothes and hair are on fire" to "pillar of ash", but the latter is clearly the most effect we see from dragonfire... and it directly contradicts any explosive or blast effect. Likewise Drogon trying to roast Jamie - the surface of the river doesn't even ripple significantly.
Thus, the only thing left I can think of that might possibly give Dany the slightest context would be a grain dust/flour/grain elevator explosion, and in this fic, she'd never really heard of those, either. Not great farmers, Targaryens!
That's why she didn't react last chapter when she heard it was wildfire!
One bowl of gruel for paying attention, and thank you for the reply! They help keep me motivated to write more.
Chapter 21 outline in progress.
21 Beasts and Blizzards
"There! Lookit, the Fenn's coming out with 'em! There them are! I told ye, I told ye! That's the Stark, the Red Wolf herself, see the hair under her helmet? And Lady Winter, with the sword and all them knives! Ooohhh... theys with the Bronze Yohn and the Scorpion Bear, the little one, too! They's comin' too! 'et's go, 'et's go, we can meets them, see that Valyrian steel they's got. I told ye they'd come through again when the chief says the dead are past the Wall, didn' I? Told ye they'd see our goats, drink our milk, din' I?" said Adog, rememberin' not to point at the chieftain lady while he made his way through the goats towards where the bridge between the inner and second ring was waiting. He also remembered to keep his trap shut about the word he'd heard that Lady Winter would be by the well again; Umman had already agreed to watch the flock while Adog went into Winter Town to trade.
Umman wasn't all that bright, but he was good with the flocks of goats the Flint clan kept, ever since they'd been children together in the Northern mountains, just south of the Gift and the Wall. Adog resolved to give him both their rations of ale when he got back from Winter Town, since he wouldn't have a chance to see the fight. They'd missed the first one, out shovelin' snow so the goats could eat what was underneath until the army of the dead came, and gatherin' up anythin' that the goats could eat that would last until later in the winter.
He didn't know much about the army of the dead, but he did know how tough wildlings were, and anythin' that scared though fuckers was somethin' he was glad to be on this side of the wall for. They were past the wall now, it was said, but he could look out and see that the Stark hadn't been sittin' around jabberin, she'd been makin' all this happen. Now she were comin' here, probly to see the goats.
"Hey, Adog, get some milk! They's gots ta want fresh milk!" said Umman excitedly.
Sansa strode out side by side with her sister; she'd put the crannogmen of House Fenn and the mountain clan of House Flint in the same section of the inner ring, since their home lands were so far apart that they'd never feuded. The crannogmen, too, were very practical people, as were the mountain clans, and those who trod the treacherous narrow paths of the mountain cliffs didn't look down on the small men of the Neck.
Here, among these clansmen and clanswomen, she was called the Stark, of clan Stark, by their custom, while their leader was in turn called Lord Flint of House Flint, by the custom of the Kings in the North. These little titles, these courtesies between liege lord and bannermen, these, too, were the legacy of the ancient Kings of Winter. A legacy of granting the proud mountain clans the respect of their own titles, and accepting their own ways of addressing their own leaders in turn, even making it their own to the extent of her family referring to whichever of them was 'the Stark' in Winterfell. Her ancestors had been proud, had conquered, but hadn't tried to replace all they ways of those conquered, their religion, their leaders, and their pride, and in turn, they'd been Kings in the North for generation after generation, with few rebellions compared to other kingdoms.
She continued into the Flint camp with Arya, Lord Royce separating to speak with their cavalry and infantry, Lady Mormont already scrambling nimbly up the rigging on the outside of one of the camp's scorpion towers. The Stark in Winterfell spoke loudly, her voice strong, knowing that with these people, softness was seen as weakness, but rudeness was also unwise, "I wish to meet with Lord Flint!"
"Aye, I'm the Flint," said an old man, coming out from under one of the tents. The Flints, like many of the mountain clans, had piled up blocks of snow and ice to surround their tents, protecting them from the weather. As with every camp, the tents were sheltered under pitch-covered wood roofs, to protect them from not just months or years of winter weather, but also arrows falling short and other battle debris. Also like many of those she was visiting now, the bows they gave in respect were both deeper and much more sincere now than they had been the first time she'd met them.
"Thank you for calling in the rest of your clan and your herds, Lord Flint. I came to see you to pass on some news, and to make sure you had what you needed. Your clan has contributed much more than only three years of winter stores; you should be very proud of that, and in turn, you are entitled to the fullest measures of supplies from the central stores," said Sansa. They were one of the few houses to have contributed so much food, fodder, and so many animals.
"Eh, some more combs. My stupid brother-in-law didn't bring the basket, and the goats, it's past time some of them need to be combed."
"Of course; I'll have combs made immediately, so you can gather the wool as soon as possible," said Sansa, making the signs for you and question for Arya, who returned the sign for no, "Would you mind providing a sample comb, strong and simple? I'm afraid I don't know enough about combing goats to know what will work best."
"Not really differen' than combing sheep," he replied easily, then, at the shake of her head, he squinted at her oddly, "You never done combed goats or sheep? Not even once? I heard the Stark was a great needlewoman. How'd you know you gots good cloth if you don't feel the wool yourself? You don' sew that foreign silk shit, do you?"
Sansa ignored the faint hint of a smirk from Arya, replying easily, "I'm afraid I start with cloth, leather, thread, and yarn, though I do have a gift for you in my saddlebags, to show my personal appreciation of you and your clan's diligent preparation for the winter, and your outstanding contributions to all of our survival. Before that, though, the comb?"
He waved her on, striding away from the castle with her, his clansmen ahead of them taking up the handles on the long wooden bridge and sliding it out over the fire trenches and the moat between the inner rings and the second ring on wooden rollers, heavy counterweights keeping it from falling into the moat. On the other side, a pair of the clan's shepherds were staring at the two Starks crossing the bridge behind their chieftain with excitement... at her face, and her spear, and her dress, she noted, even more than they stared at Arya.
Adog approached with an entire set of combs, which he used one at a time, showing Sansa and Arya how to use each, then giving them that comb so they could do so themselves. Sansa followed the instruction politely, mildly interested in the different kinds of wool which came even from the same goat, and how that translated to different quantities and qualities of cloth on a personal level, as well as with keen interest for her new role as a facilitator of trade. Arya, of course, was paying close attention, getting along with the clansmen easily.
Patting the new goat, Bessie, that Adog had brought her, Sansa carefully pulled the comb through, this one made to gather and the undercoat in particular. She took a few strokes, then looked at the wool she'd gathered more carefully; she held it up and brushed it against her cheek, her eyes closed as she did so; it was indeed different than the other wool she'd combed, the top of her comb held a different type of much softer, finer hairs than the rest.
Umman smiled widely, having come back with two rough cups of goat's milk, "Ooooh; tha's Bessie, all righ'! She's got the sofes' undercoa' in the east flock, she does! 'Ere, hav sum o' Caeri's milk! 'est in the North, it is!"
As Arya intercepted the cups, smelling them and pouring the milk back and forth between cups, swirling them to ensure she'd notice any poison on the cup itself before she took a sip and then handed Sansa her cup. Sansa ran a gloved finger through the softer hairs caught on one part of the comb; even in the clump she'd pulled out, they were still mixed with the longer, coarser ones, but she knew her fabrics, knew them well, and the fine ones were the finest she'd ever seen, which gave her an idea based on her many hours of listening to trade agreements and brokering deals, so she took a drink of her milk, noting that she'd have to make sure to arrange for some Flints to speak to Tormund about fermenting goat's milk, and spoke.
"Thank you, Umman. Lord Flint, if your clan can separate out only these fine hairs, and only from Bessie and the other sheep with very soft undercoats, then I believe you can sell these for a very considerably higher price than the undercoats of your other sheep. This is, truly, exceptional wool. I would also like the opportunity to make an offer for the final fabric after you've heard other offers, to use for my personal projects."
"More? Like twice? Three times?" asked the Flint.
"If it's made into woolen cloth and yarn that retains this softness after it's dyed, ten times or more," replied Sansa. Luxury exports, especially ones from both sharply limited and living sources like goats, rather than limited like gold mines, would strengthen the North in the future. She continued, praising the clan's goat with much more sincerity than she'd once praised hairstyles and dresses in King's Landing, "Bessie's undercoat is truly exceptional, a credit to your clan."
Once they'd finished, Adog handed her the entire set of combs, some of wood, some finer ones of metal, and the Flint spoke again, "There; sets like these. Four o' those to three o' these to one o' those for a set. We gots ourselves good and snug, if'n the dead don't get to us, so we don't need more from the Stark. We've prepared proper, we have!"
With a look at Arya, he continued, shifting topics to the military, "Only thing, men, soldiers need better leaders. Still doing stupid shit in trainin', gettin' in the way. My clansmen'll be killed doing stupid shit like askin' for archer te shoot and then sum other bastard walkin' right where they's landin'."
Arya glanced at her sister, who made the sign for you. As was their habit in these matters, Arya answered first, "Is that primarily the infantry? Not the archers, the cavalry, the Free Folk?"
"Aye, the foot soldiers ain't got good leaders."
Arya nodded, "Agreed. As we speak, two more leaders are heading towards us that I believe will resolve the situation. Jamie Lannister was trained by the same man whose table I learned large-scale warfare at, Tywin Lannister. He faced Dothraki and dragons both, and not only held his ground with his men, but also made a lance charge on horseback against a dragon grounded by a scorpion bolt when the battle was lost."
"The Kingslayer! A Lannister!" exclaimed the Flint.
Sansa took up the conversation, "Men of your tribe owe him your life. When you were fighting with my father and Robert Baratheon, you defeated Rhaegar Targaryen and were entering King's Landing, where the Mad King had put wildfire under the city, and as he ordered his pyromancers to 'Burn them all!' just before Jamie Lannister killed the pyromancer and then killed the Mad King."
Sansa watched the clansmen's faces; she'd been telling this story to every House of the North and the Vale and every clan of the Free Folk, and universally there were winces and shudders here. The men and women in and around Winterfell had all seen wildfire tests, all seen the results, all been warned in the most vigorous - and violent - terms to keep fire and heat of all kinds well away from the Substance. To hear it had been planted under a city they or their fathers or grandfathers, uncles or brothers or sons had been in or even near... that wasn't something to generate happiness. It was, however, something to generate gratitude to mitigate decades of hatred and scorn.
"The Three-Eyed Raven saw it?" asked the Flint, "He said so?"
"Yes, he did," answered Sansa, "We do not trust Ser Jamie the way Brienne of Tarth does, so we will test him, and watch him, but if he passes our tests, he should be trusted as much as any Southron from south of the Vale. The other coming is the Hound, Lord Sandor Clegane, who we trust much more. He came back out into a riot from safety, alone and without orders, and saved me from rapers during a riot in King's Landing when Joffrey was King. When he broke with Cersei and Joffrey during the Battle of Blackwater, he risked himself to offer to take me with him."
Arya continued, "The Hound taught me how to survive during a war, alone in the country, taught me about killing and surviving being hunted, about how the world really works, how so many men and women really are. He put himself between me and those who would have killed or harmed me, when I was still just a girl with a small sword, shared his food with me when we were both hungry, even when neither of us got enough. He won't admit it, but he tried to do his best for me - tried to sell me, but only ever to family, never to Cersei, never to Walder Frey, even though we arrived at the Twins during the Red Wedding; he got me out again, unharmed and unnoticed. He's one of the greatest Westerosi swordsmen, and trained as a leader in warfare besides."
Upon Arya's receiving a terse nod, Sansa continued, "I have also made final arrangements for space and housing within Winterfell and Winter Town. Based on the supplies your House has provided to the central stores, in addition to those of your clan who are already living behind the walls, there are an additional six places within Winterfell, and eight in Winter Town, for whichever of your House you wish to send. Please send whichever you believe will be able to best rebuild your clan if the camps are overrun, even if either Winterfell or Winter Town falls. I urge you to split your people between the two with care; Winter Town's walls are shorter, while Winterfell may be a more attractive target for the wight dragon."
Sansa didn't mention the many camps of people, outside all the walls, or the flocks and herds outside even the camps, all at far greater risk than those inside the walls. The sisters watched the man take in a breath, trying to hide his relief. He'd clearly been worried about the survival of his clan, as all the Houses were concerned. Unwilling to admit it, of course, but fearing all the same. This was the best she could do - there was only so much space, only so much food behind walls even stacking people in four high bunk beds to make more space for supplies, only so many places they could defend against a siege that included giants, mammoths, and dragons.
In the end, after discussion with Lord Reed, Lord Royce, Lady Meera, Lord Manderly, Lady Mormont, Kitty, and Arya, she'd decided her first instinct was indeed correct - the places remaining after babes, children, pregnant women, and those with necessary skills for the war and the winter were taken in would be allocated to the houses solely based on food contribution. The Flints thus got more places behind walls than some Houses twice their size; something they'd argued in conclave yesterday, and something she could only hope to be arguing in conclave for many years to come, for it would mean they lived.
Thankfully, she'd been able to set things up with the food-gathering caravans such that those poorer houses which wouldn't have been able to make the required contributions had their gathering parties alongside those houses willing to give them loans, or with the Iron Bank, and the richer houses who had failed to contribute enough had found themselves next to the many foreign traders who had brought in nonperishable foodstuffs to sell at meals. No house of the North or the Vale, no clan of the Free Folk had, in the end, failed to contribute at least three years of supplies, even after years of war. The Sealord of Braavos had even cut a deal with some of the Free Folk for sled designs and trainers to help the city out when the fresh water supply froze, as was expected.
The clan leader gathered himself to ask, "Bessie? The other goats with the softest undercoats? Flocks in second ring. Before rest of clan gone, flocks gone first. Without flocks, no future for the clan. Whoever left will need the best of our goats to rebuild with."
Suppressing a wholly inappropriate giggle at the thought of what her younger self might have thought at the prospect of arranging shelter for the right goats to rebuild a House with, Sansa replied calmly, "Certainly. I'll see to it that three of the sheep inside the walls in Winterfell, and three in Winter Town are moved out to the flocks to make room for six of your clan's goats. Put a necklace with your clan's sigil on them, so all know to eat them last."
"Valar Morghulis," said the Flint.
"Valar Dohaeris," said Sansa. More of the Northerners and those of the Vale had picked the expression up both in conclave from Lady Winter, and from the many discussions and deals made with foreign merchants. She'd heard the Flint himself had thought it darkly appropriate to their current grave situation, and even heard Lord Mollen and Lord Whitehill using it to greet each other; by the rather vicious undertones, she suspected they felt it was more appropriate to their feeling toward the other house than wishing each other well in any capacity, and as a common greeting, it was an almost Southron means of wishing ill on the other.
Arya put her fingers to her lips and let out a complex whistle in the same pattern as the horn calls for 'Prepare to advance', at which Lord Royce began to make his goodbyes, while atop a different tower a small figure in black strode calmly off the edge of the upper platform, wrapping an arm around a single hanging rope and sliding quickly down, cloak flying out behind her, as smooth as any sailor descending from the crow's nest. Landing solidly on the cleared ground of the camps, she jogged up to the Flint.
"Melaane and Jaycobb; they can plot trajectories," she said, then restated it for those not as familiar with the arcane language of siege engines and master archers, "They could use the setting circles at different ranges even before the Maesters made the more detailed charts."
"Yes! They are very smart; know their numbers, and have fighting instinct too!" said the Flint proudly.
"Send them into Winterfell on the morrow; they will report to Gilly for classes. I want them taught to read and write better, and taught the mathematics to create the setting circles and the charts," said the Scorpion Bear, "We don't have enough Maesters, and every difference in the siege engine or the ammunition needs either a Maester to create a new chart, or someone who knows to work it out on their own."
"I will have them there after they break their fast," said the Flint with a smile. When their clan returned to the mountains, they would be stronger than they left, and smarter, however many fewer they were. War was becoming harder with these new weapons, and the clan would rise to the challenge. They were Flints! But... that was not enough, not anymore. These new weapons were wondrous and terrible for those with the skills to use them, but there was more to a clan than that, "Maesters study many things; will they teach more, too? Healing? Building?"
After the details were quickly worked out, Sansa presented Lord Flint with the leather breastplate she'd made in recognition of his and his clan's efforts and loyalty, then mounted her horse and trotted over the narrow strip of land between the radial division moat and the ring moats.
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Sansa murmured quietly, so only their immediate party could hear, "I hear the Night's Watch is to hold elections tonight, after they swear in their new recruits. Strange that the endless jobs and training you've been scheduling for them suddenly had a break in it."
Arya murmured back, "It's not strange; we had work that needed doing. Now we have less, and Edd's been moaning about not wanting to be Acting Lord Commander ever since he got here. Pure happenstance."
"Mmm," was Sansa's reply, barely audible over Kitty's quiet giggle.
Arya stood on Sansa's right, hands behind her back, hidden under her cloak, throwing knife half out of its sheath in one hand, blowgun likewise in the other, both Valyrian. Their best intelligence reports all said that the newest arrivals were entirely genuine, but even the best information could be flawed. That intelligence, after all, only reflect what people, warged animals, and Three-Eyed Ravens saw, so a diligent person could fool them all simply by never taking off their false face of helpfulness.
No Faceless Man using a face from the Hall of Faces would be caught by anything they could do, since a Faceless man wouldn't take their face off, either the magic or the mental face. A glamoured face depending on the magical skill of the person, of course, while mummery needed to be touched up quite often; Bran would have seen that easily enough.
She could hear the unusual quiet in the courtyard; the archers on the walls the normal crews - the wall was reserved for their best sharpshooters, and Meera herself was looking down, bow in hand, Valyrian plate cutter arrow nocked. The towers that could see into the courtyard likewise - their crossbowmen on the platforms below the siege engines were always among the best. The ballista crews, though, had been supplemented by Lyanna on the left-hand gatehouse and Fjornel on the inner scorpion with a courtyard view to the rear and on the right.
Hidden, of course, were additional units of the best archers and spearmen they had, though Arya doubted that any treachery would require them. The siege engines were very accurate indeed, and even normal crossbows and warbows with the right arrows could punch through armor often enough at this range. Their best archers, and Fjornel, weren't using normal plate cutters, though; the ancestral Valyrian bolts and arrows of the Starks had been distributed already.
Patrek Mallister approached first, the others waiting at the gates. When he'd left, he'd thought Seagard to be a well defended castle. They had the normal moat by the walls and one additional moat with a wooden palisade behind it, and had constructed four ballista and five scorpions for the towers and gatehouses of their castle, but this, this was another level entirely, as Moat Cailin had been, and there were people everywhere logging and working and training, smallfolk and highborn alike.
He could barely imagine the entirety of the undertaking. They'd needed thousands of men working for weeks to dig Seagard's second moat, to build their palisade, and it was a far cry from the fieldworks he saw here. Feeding the workers, too, had been challenging, and they'd had to deal with dysentery in the workforce and the soldiers alike.
Then, Patrek thought, there was the welcoming party. Lady Stark was in what he thought was armor like the Blackfish had worn, but in the shape of a ladies gown, with a fine boiled leather helmet in place of a fur hat. She was accompanied by a young woman with the Stark look, wearing a ridiculous number of blades. He didn't know why - maybe she was like he'd heard some of the Northern women were like, or the Dornish, and was showing she thought she could fight. Throwing knives wasn't honorable; no true man would fight like that! And... well, he'd tried as a boy, and it wasn't anything you could use for real, either.
Sansa watched him approach, offering him bread and salt as Kitty again offered wine, Leriah on Kitty's other side, Lady Keath behind her, as Korb and Connas were behind Arya and herself, just in case.
Should Jamie or the Freys prove false, her own job was to hold the large, heavy platter in front of her face and neck while moving backwards to the gatehouse as fast as possible. The platter was quite heavy - castle-forged steel, direwolves running around the rim, with a thin layer of silver disguising what was really a small steel shield as a decorated serving dish. She wore only a thin cloak, the thick padded backing to her armored dress keeping her warm enough while she was sheltered from the winds. It certainly impressed some of the men, too - either the thinness of the cloak, or her wearing true armor, the same as they were.
"Welcome to Winterfell, Lord Patrek. The stories of the brave men and women of Seagard defying Walder Frey and Cersei Baratheon have reached the North. Please have bread and salt, and be our guest," said Sansa with her best courtly smile as she curtsied, offering the platter steadily. Heavy for its size it might be, she'd been training with much larger shields for long enough to grow used to them.
"Thank you, my Lady. I bring one hundred barrels of wheat, and one hundred more of salt beef. Were we not prepared for siege ourselves, we would have sent more food and men besides, but we're barely seventy miles from the Lannister forces at the Twins, and must defend our home," replied the heir to Seagard as he took a small piece of bread, rubbing it into the salt and eating. He hadn't really seen guest rights taken quite so seriously as they were in the North, though with the rumors he'd heard in Seagard, and worse, what he'd heard from his traveling companions, he supposed he could understand taking such things seriously. No one wanted Lady Winter coming for their house, whoever or whatever that was. Every Frey who'd participated in the Red Wedding, dead in a single night, no one knowing how. The why was obvious, of course - the North remembers. Well, that was why he was here - the North did remember, so answering the raven they'd received would be remembered, too.
"I thank you for your generous gift, Lord Patrek. This is my sister Arya. She's quite adamant about not wanting or liking to be called Lady Stark or Lady Arya, so you may address her as Lady Winter," said Sansa in a carrying voice, gesturing to Arya, who gave a small nod as not only Patrek but also the Freys froze for a moment, their eyes drawn to the small Stark. Jamie, too, was looking at Arya, but with more interest than fear.
Patrek looked at the short young woman; he'd thought the armguards, the bow, the thin sword and the many knives to be an affectation, but now, looking into her cold, amused eyes, he thought he could imagine her carving through more than two score men. Probably while she smiled. Well... good riddance to bad Freys, and a curse upon them for all they'd done, and all they'd failed to do. He wouldn't want to marry the girl, certainly... but that was his father's decision, not his, and he'd do as he was bid.
With a deep nod, he spoke, "It is an honor to meet you, Lady Winter. You have done the Riverlands a great service, one which can never be truly repaid, by removing the Late Walder Frey and the men he raised to follow in his dishonor. You've done Seagard a great service with that same act; with the Lannisters needing to garrison the Twins, and the Frey armies vanishing as far as the Lannisters know, well, other than Lord Jamie, Seagard has gained a reprieve."
Gesturing to her left, Sansa continued the introductions, "You know of our sister by choice, the Lady of the Crossing, of course."
He accepted a sip of wine from Lady Frey, "A pleasure to meet you, Lady Frey. I'm glad to see you've prospered in the North."
Sansa gestured to the castle, "You're welcome to take a meal in the Great Hall; I would be pleased to meet with you in my solar after dinner and learn what brought you so far from Seagard at this critical time."
"Thank you, my Lady," said Lord Patrek with a deep bow, heading in as she'd indicated, a messenger girl rushing to intercept and lead him.
Too deep, Sansa thought, for the circumstances as she knew them. Something more was happening with the Mallisters. Well, she'd find out soon enough, one way or another.
Jamie Lannister approached next, with the sign for you from Sansa, Arya strode forward as they'd planned, intercepting him before he got within lunging range of Sansa. He wasn't nearly as dangerous with one hand as he'd once been with both, but he was still a dangerous opponent, and losing his overconfidence had reduced one of his main weaknesses.
"Jamie Lannister, thank you for coming North as you said you would. What are your intentions here?" asked Arya, her voice flat.
"To fight for the living," says Jamie immediately, then looked back at the Riverlanders he'd traveled with. He'd had ample time to listen to them on the big dogsled they'd been put on, and what they'd said and planned had made him think, too, of his own honor, of what Brienne saw in him, and of what he admired in her. Returning his gaze to the Stark that got away, the one who'd approached with her hands behind her back, and excellent footwork. Braavosi footwork, quick and precise. None of the Freys were good soldiers, and most of them had been old by any standard but Walder's and Olenna's, but still, to kill them all in one night was a feat. One Cersei would have loved to perform herself, once upon a time.
Arya waited, still and quiet, simply assessing the man with every measure of her skill. He had more to say, more he wanted to say, and she'd make sure he said it.
"And to return what is yours," continued the Kingslayer, unbuckling his swordbelt and offering Widow's Wail to the warrior woman before him, holding only the sheath in his left hand. After coming all this way, he'd rather not be shot by some skittish guardsman mistaking his gesture as an attack. Guardsmen who hated him for what he'd done, for what Cersei had done, well, nothing he could do about that.
With a lightning quick step, she'd taken the blade from him by the sheath with her right hand, holding it out as a boy ran up, taking the sword and darting off deeper into the castle. Still, she said nothing, waiting without interrupting him, without prompting him. Brienne had been eloquent in her praise, and she'd make sure all those listening would hear what he said of his own free will.
He looked down for a moment, then at Sansa's cold gaze, and Arya's colder one. He knew what Brienne would say to him, had heard it in his head the entire trip up. Well, if he was to die for it, at least he'd die with some honor, tarnished may it be, "And to apologize for pushing your brother out the window, for crippling him."
Arya spoke, her voice without inflection, without warmth or feeling of any kind, "Bran forgave you."
Jamie looked down at his golden right hand for a second, "He's a better man than I am. I'm glad he lived. Am I to die, now? If so, let's just get on with it."
"What will you do if you are not?" asked Arya, betraying nothing.
With a deep breath, Jamie straightened up fully, pride in his posture again, though without the arrogance that had once been so obvious. He'd come to this conclusion days ago, and now, prepared to say it out loud, not knowing if he'll live or die... well, at least he'd regain some portion of his honor.
"I will join the Night's Watch, and fight for the living," said Jamie Lannister.
"And what can a right-handed man without a right hand offer them?" asked Lady Winter.
"My life. A poor left-handed swordsman, now without a sword. My father did try to teach me war, you know, so there's that. Well, he tried to teach me a lot of things, but war was the only one I really learned."
"Oh? Then why did you have nothing but a shield-wall only one line deep, a single line of spearmen, and a single line of archers when the Dothraki charged?" asked Arya without inflection.
"My orders were to get the gold to King's Landing as fast as possible. The food was... not very important to my sister. The best troops, the best scouts all went ahead with the gold. The food column was a lot longer, and with green troops, stretched out. To keep it tighter would have meant halting the lead elements, or letting Randall whip everyone. The gold made it. I fulfilled my orders."
"And after your lines were breaking, why did you gather archers and lead them to fire on the dragon, causing it to abort its attack run because Queen Daenerys didn't want to be pierced?"
"Because I'd forgotten we had the scorpion until after," said Jamie, pointedly looking up at the gatehouses and towers around him, "Which I can see was a mistake. You really have been busy."
"True, but I meant you'd already seen the dragon burn your men alive, less than a hundred yards from you. Why were you still fighting instead of running? You had a horse; you had a better chance at escaping than nearly any of your men," continued Arya, giving no hint of her feelings on the matter. The audience needed to hear this, needed to know that he really did face a dragon with nothing but a few archers, instead of running. Those rumors would spread, would let him be effective, as she needed him to be.
"I won't abandon my army. I gave the orders, it was my responsibility," said Jamie, remembering the screams of men as they burned to death; something he'd hoped not to hear again after he killed the Mad King. All fire burned the same, it seemed.
"And after Bronn grounded Drogon, why did you mount a horse and charge its rider with a spear?"
Jamie held his golden hand up, smiling wryly, "Because it's hard to shoot a bow with only one hand."
At Arya's sign for you, Sansa spoke, "After our mother captured Tyrion Lannister, you attacked our father. Killed Jory in combat, fought our father in single combat until one of your guards speared him from behind. Why didn't you finish our father off then?"
"It wouldn't have been clean," said Jamie, looking down for a moment, then up into Sansa's eyes, "I wanted to fight him, man to man. It wouldn't have been honorable after he was wounded by a soldier who disobeyed his orders."
"Yes, you struck your soldier to chastise him, after. You weren't wearing your plate armor when you fought our father, either. Why not?" asked the eldest Stark.
Jamie cocked his head, a little puzzled by the way the questioning had gone. He'd imagined far worse on the long ride north, "Lord Stark didn't go around the city wearing armor. It wouldn't have been clean if I was the only one in full armor. Your father was an honorable warrior; he deserved an honorable battle. I suppose, too, I was fighting because my brother had been taken, so wearing the King's armor seemed... wrong."
Looking around the courtyard, at the men and women watching, Sansa saw what she'd expected. As much as the Northerners and many of the Vale loved her father, fighting man to man was a long tradition; it was the old way, as Jon had said when he offered single combat to Ramsay. For Jamie to offer single combat in return for her mother's taking his brother... that was different than an ambush.
Arya held out her right hand casually, at which sign a page rushed out to place a sword-belt in it with a sword in a plain black scabbard on the right, and a wooden dagger with dragonglass shards on the left. She held it out to him; the sword had a simple, functional hilt. The blade itself was castle-forged steel, a copy of the blade of Widow's Wail made by Gendry based on Bran's drawing.
Arya spoke, her voice warmer, now, welcoming, "You'll need the dagger, if you're to join the Night's Watch. Don't bother with the sword against wights or White Walkers, it'll be no good. You'll need the sword, though, if you're ever to fight a duel. Try not to lose; left-handed swordfighters don't need that kind of stain on their reputation."
She returned to her sister's side, and Sansa now held out the platter of bread to Jamie Lannister with a small nod, "Have bread and salt, and be welcome in our home, Ser Jamie Lannister. Hurry; Micah here will take you to the Night's Watch. They're gathering in the Godswood, and Lady Meera will need it back for archery training soon enough."
Jamie put on the sword-belt, then took and ate a piece of bread with salt, took a large drink of wine, turned to leave, then turned back for just a moment, to say, "I'm sorry."
As Jamie broke into a jog of his own as the boy ran off towards where the Night's Watch was about to induct new members before the election, the last group approached, the smallfolk from the northern Riverlands, lands which had been under the control of the Twins.
Kitty Frey strode forward, weirwood crossbow on her back, smiling widely, "Welcome to Winterfell. On behalf of Lady Stark, the Red Wolf, thank you for answering my ravens, for coming north, for bringing men and provisions. Please, come and have bread and salt and be guests of the Lady of Winterfell; Leriah will take you to the Night's Watch after you've accepted guest right."
They still looked scared, but approached slowly, keeping their heads down and bowing before they started moving, glancing up at Sansa, who gave a small welcoming smile, and especially looking at Arya, who simply nodded and gestured them forward.
************************
Two days later, they'd already long passed a fork in the river that Jon had said led to the Lonely Hills. Daenerys looked up as she bounced along as the dogsled she was riding on once again swerved suddenly. She was tired, not having slept well in the cold, heavy air of their campsite, and now the winds were even higher than they'd been before. They'd endured the old man's angry tirade at how slow they were to pack up her tent; as a result, they were at the very end of the caravan today, having had to catch up. The main caravan had left without her!
On the other hand, their new rear position was quite far from the wildfire. She shuddered a little. Hearing about that hellish substance had been an unpleasant revelation! She hoped they wouldn't have to use it; her children were far less likely to suddenly burn everything in sight! Yes, her children were much safer. They didn't have to be treated so gently, be kept far from heat and flame.
She turned to look at Jon, who was pensively looking up into the low clouds moving quickly above them, "Jon? Did you see Drogon or Rhaegal?"
"Aye; they flew west a few minutes ago, and I think they landed on that hill over there."
"That's a hill? It looks like a mound of snow. Everything here looks like a mound of snow," complained Daenerys.
"Aye, but that's a hill" chuckled Jon, then pointing to another mound of snow, "Over there, that's a snowdrift."
Dany gave a huff, then smiled, "You're feeling better? You looked... lost in thought."
"Not really. I was just thinking that it smells like snow."
"Of course it smells like snow, Jon. There's snow everywhere!"
"No, I mean it smells like it's going to snow. You know, like you can smell when a storm's coming? Like that."
"A snow storm?" asked the silver-haired woman.
"Aye. We could end up buried in snow, you know," replied Jon, grinning, "Old Nan said there were snows more than a hundred feet deep, in winter, you know. Even Drogon could be buried so deep he had to dig his way out!"
"That sounds awful," replied Dany, giggling at the thought of a sour-faced Drogon emerging from a white landscape, shaking himself like a horse, snow flying everywhere like water off a horse's mane after fording a deep river, "How do you Northerners survive weather like that?"
"It's actually quite cozy, if you have decent shelter first," he said.
"And if you don't?" she asked. She expected she knew the answer - it'd be no different than getting caught in a sandstorm in the Red Wastes. The lands here were just as barren - she'd seen some of the Free Folk chopping through the ice to set fishing lines, just as a few of the Dothraki with desert experience had been able to catch a lizard here or there, or find a plant to eat and get juice from.
"Then you freeze to death," Jon answered seriously, confirming her expectation.
"Ah," she said quietly, then changed the subject entirely. Death by cold, being kept away from the warmth of life, that sounded like the worst possible way to die to her, "Are you all right, after hearing about Arya?"
"It was a bit of a shock, I'll admit. Not the duels themselves; she'd talked about fighting in a tourney, so that's no surprise. Her killing someone, just like that... that was a shock. I've fought people, killed people, but I never liked it. Never enjoyed it. Never did it for fun," said Jon quietly. He knew he was good at fighting... at killing... but it wasn't what he wanted to do. Arya'd always wanted to learn to fight, and it sounded like their father'd found her a good teacher; a great teacher, even. Though what kind of man was he, if a man had come to Westeros to challenge his sister in a fight to the death over being his student?
Daenerys replied, her voice soft and thoughtful, "I've seen bravos, growing up, you know. Missandei's story is right - they aren't dangerous to anyone but their own, and all over Essos, they follow their own code of honor. I even saw a duel once! Viserys didn't allow me out often, but sometimes, when we were moving between houses, I was able to be outside more. We were in Norvos; I remember because the views of the hills were amazing. I was late getting home, and two bravos met in front of me; one touched his sword, and then they were fighting, right there. Once the one hit the other in the arm, they were done, and they both left. Neither threatened me, nor did any other bravo I ever saw."
"So, they're like knights?" asked Jon.
Daenerys laughed, "No! They don't run around in armor, or fight in big battles, or get anointed by some particular god. They're... bravos, who like to fight."
"I've never been to Essos. The only times I've been south of Winterfell is to see you, or with you, even! You've seen so much; tell me, what were the hills around Norvos like?"
"They were steep and tall; I imagined flying over them on a dragon! Well, I thought I did; actually riding on a dragon is the most amazing feeling, to see the world stretching out below you, the wind on your face, flying through clouds. Or above them, even - they stretch out below you in an unending sea of white," said Daenerys, her voice full of remembered joy.
"You really love flying on Drogon, don't you?"
"I do. Perhaps I'll have to bring you along; you missed the ride to Eastwatch, after all," she said with a teasing smile, then shifted again as the caravan slowed, coming to a halt on the frozen river, between the shelter of two small hills, once again beginning the process of feeding the dogs, small one-man dogsleds getting the first of the food for their dogs, then darting off in pairs to check the area, a considerable distance between the members of each pair.
While most of the dogs were finishing their meals, a high-pitched, staccato drumbeat sounded faintly across the quiet landscape from a hill to the north, followed by two tiny specks descending the hill quickly and a loud shout from the caravan's leader.
"Snostorm inkommande! Full fart mot stenhalan!"
Immediately, more than half the entire caravan started moving out without hesitation, the rest, including their own sled, simply loading the sleds with anything that someone could hold in place by hand. The old man who gave the passengers instructions came to them after they'd started, coming into place besides them.
"Blizzard coming, and fast! We go to Rocky Hollow, wait it out! You dig in, do not use stupid tent! You Night's Watch, yes? Been in North?"
"I was!" said Jon, "To the Fist of the First Men!"
"Good! This real Northern storm! You dig, dig as small as you fit in, fit very tight together! Use dark man spear for air, four holes, four times each hour, or you die! Use canvas line hole! Small fire only if lots air!"
"Aye," said Jon, watching the small dogsled move off again.
"Jon?" asked Daenerys, worried.
"You know that snowstorm I was worried about? We're getting one, a big one. We'll all have to sleep together for warmth; all of us. He wants us to use Grey Worm's spear to poke air holes and keep them clear," said Jon.
"Air holes?"
"You can't breathe through snow, Dany. We'll need to have someone awake all the time to keep the air holes clear."
"I'm sure we can all stay awake for a few hours, Jon."
Jon chuckled wryly, "I hope it's only a few hours. More like a few days. Could be a few weeks, even, though it seems awful early for that. Winter is here."
"Weeks!"
"That's what Father said, and the men of the Night's Watch. Deep in Winter, the storms last for days and weeks. You didn't think Sansa said carrying at least three months of food was required to leave a city for nothing, did you?" asked Jon, "She's the Lady of Winterfell. It's the Lady's duty to manage the supplies and keep everyone in Winterfell fed and warm for as long as she can in winter, just like it was Lady Catelyn's duty before her. Just like it's Lady Manderly's duty in White Harbor."
As they moved north, the sky before them turned black even as they could still see the sun setting in the west. The caravan split, then, some sleds staying atop the river, while the rest went up a steep hillside on the shore to a very rough plateau, crowned with great boulders and rock formations around what turned out to be a basin, covered in thick snow.
Jon saw an sled pulled by eight dogs moving slowly up the hillside, uncoiling a rope that stretched down to the sleds down on the river, already turned on their sides and partly buried to make a windbreak.
The old man came by again, accompanying a large cargo sled, which dropped off a small pile of wood, a barrel of pitch, a package of dried foods for Jon, and a small kettle. They stuck a stake with a wide, deep set of fins at the end and in the middle deep into the snow, looping the middle of a long rope around it, one knot in the rope on the right of their entrance they'd come from, and two on the left side.
"You Southrons, dig deeper! Pack snow, like this," said Meras as he took up a piece of wood from the pile, showing them briefly how to dig, how to pack the snow on the walls and into large bricks, "Make walls. Make turn at entrance, keep wind out. Put furs or canvas over entrance. Keep warmth in! Air holes here, here, here, here. Bigger! Feel sleepy, put fire out! Angle like this. Use wood when got air, when need to dry. Bring food in. Bring all furs, all cloth in. Sleep in pile, like dogs, stay warm. Stay dry! Keep rope at entrance! Piss, shit on right, one knot, five paces! Keep hand on rope or die! Use kettle, melt snow from left, two knots!"
The old man left them to it.
As the sky darkened quickly above them, all around, Tyrion could see clansmen were digging quickly, much more quickly than their group. Fifteen or so yards away, he saw a small, pinched-faced girl of perhaps three and ten dive into their hole with a flatter piece of wood, followed by a scarred young woman of perhaps one and twenty who started handing snow blocks to a rather hideous, wart-covered middle-aged woman who set them around the entrance.
Tyrion selected a flat, short piece of wood, and said, "I'll go in first and start the hole. Grey Worm, Qhono, if you could come in after me and enlarge the hole? Jon, Lord Varys, pack the snow and make walls. We might be here for some time. At least it'll smell better than the sewers, even if it's smaller."
Daenerys looked up, then smiled as Drogon and Rhaegal came in for a landing next to them, Drogon's tail carefully held inside the boulders that were behind them, one wing stretching over their small party as the wind began to blow snow as well as air.
"Or we could ask my children to help, rather than having to dig so deep," said Daenerys, rubbing Drogon's cheek fondly.
************************
Theon stepped out of the small boat, followed by his crew. Euron had part of his fleet patrolling the entrance to Blackwater Bay quite vigorously, so he was going to portage around the patrols. They were far enough out he didn't think the Lannisters would have many people here, so he could sneak in to rescue Yara, or die trying. Yara'd come for him, so he was going to come for her... that was the least he could do, after running when Euron boarded their ship.
He jerked, startled, as a whisper cut through the darkness ahead of him, "The lone wolf dies."
"Who's there?" demanded Theon in a harsh whisper as his crew drew their weapons behind him.
"The lone wolf dies," came a repeat of the saying... but with a clear question in the tone, not a threat.
"But the pack survives," whispered Theon, hoping he was right. He'd heard that, often enough growing up... and so he hoped. A man emerged from the darkness before him, striding over the cold ground with a bag on his back, walking very carefully, dressed as a sailor.
"You the Greyjoy? Theon?" asked the man.
"I am. Sansa sent you?" asked Theon.
"No One sent me, but I reckon Lady Stark's the one what wanted you to get some help. Gods, boy, you think carryin' boats ain't gonna be noticed? Put that shite down. Got three boats in a cove, mile down along the coast. Look for a cave near three gnarled trees in a line. Here, take this shite - be careful! You gots some Lannister armor in there, can make as captured spies, if'n you be seen. Here, gots a map - you look at it in the cave, don' be lightin' up in the open. Gots your Uncle's patrols... and his passwords, too. Might change, might not, but good tonight, I 'eard em myself. You Iron Islanders are awful loud, you know. Half of you don't know nuthin', looks like."
Theon took the sealed leather tube the man was offering, while the man took the time to set the bag down carefully, "Thank you, and tell Sansa thank you."
"Ye saved her from the Boltons. She's gots Bran and Arya back, now. I figure she wants you to have your family back, too. You be careful with this bag, you hear! Them bottles, all wrapped up? That's wildfire, that is, ifn' you boys ain't any more quiet than them aboard those ships," said the man, "I gots to go. If'n you get stopped, whichever of yous in the Lannister armor, the Lannister password is 'Mines of Casterly Rock'. Old gods help you."
With that, the man faded back into the darkness, leaving behind the tube of papers and the bag.
************************
Late at night, Sansa was sewing as Arya strode by Sansa with a feather-duster, saying, "Pardon me, m'lady" as she passed. Once she'd passed Sansa's line of sight, the assassin dropped the duster, reaching up under the thick layers of the dress she was wearing to draw a slender, blunt training knife, striking for Sansa's back and missing as Sansa'd dropped her sewing project and used her long legs to open the distance, keeping the heavy wooden chair between them as she went for the set of emergency gear across the room with a quietly murmured, "Screaming."
Arya stepped over the discarded sewing project and launched herself off the chair towards Sansa, knife leading as Sansa deflected with a steel knitting needle and a push to shove Arya off course; by the time Arya, using a reduced measure of her speed, had come up, Sansa was already jabbing a spear with a blunt training head at her carefully, yanking it back before Arya's left hand could grasp the haft below the blade. A few exchanges later, and Sansa's spearblade poked Arya in the side after Arya 'fell' for her feint.
"Good feint, good use of your precision. You're getting a little quicker, too, sister, and your footwork was solid. Good placement when you threw your sewing down, right where I'd rather have stepped. Why didn't you go for the crossbow? You and Kitty always keep one ready, now, as hard as that is on the string." asked Arya quietly.
"It's only one shot; if I miss, or even hit without doing enough damage, both my hands are occupied; I'm not fast enough to recover from that," replied Sansa easily.
"Good! Your freakish reach is an advantage; using a medium spear like that makes it very hard to close the distance intact, as long as you don't let it get grabbed," smiled Arya, hiking her dress up to replace the blunt.
Sansa struck suddenly, one finger reaching out for Arya's shoulder, and missing as her sister ducked, while they giggled together before settling down on the divan, Arya pulling the dress up again so Sansa could adjust the thigh strap.
"How are the new knitting needles?" asked Arya. She and Gendry knew weapons well enough, but using needles was not her skill, and she was quite sure Gendry had never even tried.
"They're good; they catch less than the wooden ones, though they're a bit heavy. If I hadn't been working on leather armor so much, it might have been harder to use these," said Sansa, steppiung back and spinning the heavy needle through her fingers gracefully before tugging the 'sheath' part of it off, revealing the training blunt inside.
"Well, I'm glad they work for your knitting as well. People will question them less that way, and it's very easy to overlook something used in plain sight, if it's used the way you expect. What did Bran mean earlier, when he said the Manderly ladies liked the gloves?"
"You remember Bessie Flint, the goat? Well, I'd found some wool, almost as soft as hers, but just a bit in mixed colors, so I made up gloves for the Manderly ladies. They've done very well for us, so a bit of personal attention is the least I could do. You met them; what would they want from us?" asked Sansa. She knew very well she needed to pay attention to her bannermen, to all the people in the North and the Vale. She'd learned about fear from Cersei, about uncertainty from Littlefinger, about maneuvering and politics from them and others... but she'd learned about fostering loyalty from her father, and from her mother, and that was a tradition she intended to continue.
Arya considered; she'd spoken with the girls, and heard more about them, both here and on her journey, "More than anything, Wylla and Wynafryd want to make sure White Harbor stays in Manderly hands, and under the Manderly name. They're shrewd, all three of them, in their own ways. Wynafryd's definitely her grandfather's heir, but I don't think she'd mind if it was Wylla who kept the name. They follow the Seven, but only to a point - Wynafryd had a bunch of young men with her when they first met me, and then mostly young women at breakfast when I joined them the next morning! All loyal to House Manderly, of course."
Sansa laughed, nudging her sister, "And did any of them catch your eye, Arya?"
Arya glared at Sansa, "Do you think me an addled idiot? No, I'm not going to respond to bait in a trap like that. Marriage isn't for me; the Many-Faced God is who I've made my commitment to serve, not some man or woman who wants my loyalty given to them."
Sansa held up her hands palms out in mock surrender, "All right, all right, who am I to offend such a dedicated priest, unwilling to even entertain the prospect of marriage. If you're done deflecting..."
Arya smirked, "Drat. Foiled in my cunning plan to distract you from your evil purpose of consolidating all power in your own hands. They'll want to see if Jon's interested in them, of course - a highborn Stark bastard would be exactly what they wanted, letting them keep their own name and rule White Harbor, now that he'd not King anymore. Without him, they'll keep looking, so if you can arrange a match with a good bastard, or a Free Folk or smallfolk man who wants to settle down here in the South. Maybe even a second or third highborn son willing to give up his name, though I suspect they're both too strong-willed for that to work out well."
"So, like Gendry?" mused Sansa.
"Hmm... he might like Wylla. She'd certainly keep him on his toes, and she's got that same simple honor. They aren't ready for the Mormont way"
"Oh? Just don't say anything about the father of their children? Maybe in a few years; for now, they're likely still too invested in the Seven, so they'll want a good marriage."
Arya nodded. Sansa was the Lady in the family, so she'd leave arranging marriages to her, "Well, if you're going to appoint a Master of Ships, once we're ready to run caravans through the army of the dead, we can have Wylla up with a dogsled team along with a Braavosi representative, since the Braavosi are leading the naval side of things. Introduce her to Gendry, see if she catches his interest. Maybe even send the Scorpion Bear back with her to inspect White Harbor's siege engines; I bet they'll get along well."
"Well, we'll see what happens," said Sansa, "We're really ready for the dead? White Harbor's going to start stockpiling now; Jon's the last dogsled caravan in, and there's only the one horse caravan north of Moat Cailin. Gulltown's taking over supply of Moat Cailin and the Vale; they're still far enough from the dead, and Cersei's dealing with the loss of the Reach's food and lords to Daenerys. We've got the herds and flocks in, the hunters have taken anything they can which they can't drive south."
"We are, as much as we can be right now. We've got a solid set of fieldworks, Lyanna's crews can loose even in snow and fog, the archers too. The camps are as good as we can manage; they've got solid walls and roofs to protect against the weather and bolts or arrows that fall short. The animals in the second ring are the most at risk," said Arya, "We can always learn more lessons, but we're as good as we're going to be until we have to deal with untrained new forces, and we've got plans for that."
"The Long Night worries me. We've got as many edible mushrooms and sprouts growing in the crypt tunnels as the Maesters identified and the hunters and foragers could find, but that's not nearly enough to really cut down on the rate we're eating through our supplies," said Sansa with concern. The new glass gardens that were under construction would help, but being under siege, in winter, perhaps without enough sunlight to grow crops anywhere, all for years at a time?
Arya nudged her sister, "Cheer up, Sansa. All the peoples of the world have stories of the Long Night. We may not have the kind of magic they once did other than the Three-Eyed Raven and the wargs, but we do have things they didn't; foreign allies, modern siege engines, wildfire and Valyrian steel and two thirds of the dragons in the world."
Sansa's lips quirked upwards slightly, "Stay with me tonight?"
"Of course," replied Arya. She, too, was concerned about their chances, but they'd done everything they could in the time they had. They would win, or they would die... but they would not die alone, and what they'd set in motion would continue after their deaths, in the North, in the Vale, in Braavos and Dorne and many other great cities and nations across the world, so she was quite comfortable with either outcome. All must die... but she would tell her god not today once again, as best she could, for herself, and her sister, and her family and peoples.
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Umman wasn't all that bright, but he was good with the flocks of goats the Flint clan kept, ever since they'd been children together in the Northern mountains, just south of the Gift and the Wall. Adog resolved to give him both their rations of ale when he got back from Winter Town, since he wouldn't have a chance to see the fight. They'd missed the first one, out shovelin' snow so the goats could eat what was underneath until the army of the dead came, and gatherin' up anythin' that the goats could eat that would last until later in the winter.
He didn't know much about the army of the dead, but he did know how tough wildlings were, and anythin' that scared though fuckers was somethin' he was glad to be on this side of the wall for. They were past the wall now, it was said, but he could look out and see that the Stark hadn't been sittin' around jabberin, she'd been makin' all this happen. Now she were comin' here, probly to see the goats.
"Hey, Adog, get some milk! They's gots ta want fresh milk!" said Umman excitedly.
Sansa strode out side by side with her sister; she'd put the crannogmen of House Fenn and the mountain clan of House Flint in the same section of the inner ring, since their home lands were so far apart that they'd never feuded. The crannogmen, too, were very practical people, as were the mountain clans, and those who trod the treacherous narrow paths of the mountain cliffs didn't look down on the small men of the Neck.
Here, among these clansmen and clanswomen, she was called the Stark, of clan Stark, by their custom, while their leader was in turn called Lord Flint of House Flint, by the custom of the Kings in the North. These little titles, these courtesies between liege lord and bannermen, these, too, were the legacy of the ancient Kings of Winter. A legacy of granting the proud mountain clans the respect of their own titles, and accepting their own ways of addressing their own leaders in turn, even making it their own to the extent of her family referring to whichever of them was 'the Stark' in Winterfell. Her ancestors had been proud, had conquered, but hadn't tried to replace all they ways of those conquered, their religion, their leaders, and their pride, and in turn, they'd been Kings in the North for generation after generation, with few rebellions compared to other kingdoms.
She continued into the Flint camp with Arya, Lord Royce separating to speak with their cavalry and infantry, Lady Mormont already scrambling nimbly up the rigging on the outside of one of the camp's scorpion towers. The Stark in Winterfell spoke loudly, her voice strong, knowing that with these people, softness was seen as weakness, but rudeness was also unwise, "I wish to meet with Lord Flint!"
"Aye, I'm the Flint," said an old man, coming out from under one of the tents. The Flints, like many of the mountain clans, had piled up blocks of snow and ice to surround their tents, protecting them from the weather. As with every camp, the tents were sheltered under pitch-covered wood roofs, to protect them from not just months or years of winter weather, but also arrows falling short and other battle debris. Also like many of those she was visiting now, the bows they gave in respect were both deeper and much more sincere now than they had been the first time she'd met them.
"Thank you for calling in the rest of your clan and your herds, Lord Flint. I came to see you to pass on some news, and to make sure you had what you needed. Your clan has contributed much more than only three years of winter stores; you should be very proud of that, and in turn, you are entitled to the fullest measures of supplies from the central stores," said Sansa. They were one of the few houses to have contributed so much food, fodder, and so many animals.
"Eh, some more combs. My stupid brother-in-law didn't bring the basket, and the goats, it's past time some of them need to be combed."
"Of course; I'll have combs made immediately, so you can gather the wool as soon as possible," said Sansa, making the signs for you and question for Arya, who returned the sign for no, "Would you mind providing a sample comb, strong and simple? I'm afraid I don't know enough about combing goats to know what will work best."
"Not really differen' than combing sheep," he replied easily, then, at the shake of her head, he squinted at her oddly, "You never done combed goats or sheep? Not even once? I heard the Stark was a great needlewoman. How'd you know you gots good cloth if you don't feel the wool yourself? You don' sew that foreign silk shit, do you?"
Sansa ignored the faint hint of a smirk from Arya, replying easily, "I'm afraid I start with cloth, leather, thread, and yarn, though I do have a gift for you in my saddlebags, to show my personal appreciation of you and your clan's diligent preparation for the winter, and your outstanding contributions to all of our survival. Before that, though, the comb?"
He waved her on, striding away from the castle with her, his clansmen ahead of them taking up the handles on the long wooden bridge and sliding it out over the fire trenches and the moat between the inner rings and the second ring on wooden rollers, heavy counterweights keeping it from falling into the moat. On the other side, a pair of the clan's shepherds were staring at the two Starks crossing the bridge behind their chieftain with excitement... at her face, and her spear, and her dress, she noted, even more than they stared at Arya.
Adog approached with an entire set of combs, which he used one at a time, showing Sansa and Arya how to use each, then giving them that comb so they could do so themselves. Sansa followed the instruction politely, mildly interested in the different kinds of wool which came even from the same goat, and how that translated to different quantities and qualities of cloth on a personal level, as well as with keen interest for her new role as a facilitator of trade. Arya, of course, was paying close attention, getting along with the clansmen easily.
Patting the new goat, Bessie, that Adog had brought her, Sansa carefully pulled the comb through, this one made to gather and the undercoat in particular. She took a few strokes, then looked at the wool she'd gathered more carefully; she held it up and brushed it against her cheek, her eyes closed as she did so; it was indeed different than the other wool she'd combed, the top of her comb held a different type of much softer, finer hairs than the rest.
Umman smiled widely, having come back with two rough cups of goat's milk, "Ooooh; tha's Bessie, all righ'! She's got the sofes' undercoa' in the east flock, she does! 'Ere, hav sum o' Caeri's milk! 'est in the North, it is!"
As Arya intercepted the cups, smelling them and pouring the milk back and forth between cups, swirling them to ensure she'd notice any poison on the cup itself before she took a sip and then handed Sansa her cup. Sansa ran a gloved finger through the softer hairs caught on one part of the comb; even in the clump she'd pulled out, they were still mixed with the longer, coarser ones, but she knew her fabrics, knew them well, and the fine ones were the finest she'd ever seen, which gave her an idea based on her many hours of listening to trade agreements and brokering deals, so she took a drink of her milk, noting that she'd have to make sure to arrange for some Flints to speak to Tormund about fermenting goat's milk, and spoke.
"Thank you, Umman. Lord Flint, if your clan can separate out only these fine hairs, and only from Bessie and the other sheep with very soft undercoats, then I believe you can sell these for a very considerably higher price than the undercoats of your other sheep. This is, truly, exceptional wool. I would also like the opportunity to make an offer for the final fabric after you've heard other offers, to use for my personal projects."
"More? Like twice? Three times?" asked the Flint.
"If it's made into woolen cloth and yarn that retains this softness after it's dyed, ten times or more," replied Sansa. Luxury exports, especially ones from both sharply limited and living sources like goats, rather than limited like gold mines, would strengthen the North in the future. She continued, praising the clan's goat with much more sincerity than she'd once praised hairstyles and dresses in King's Landing, "Bessie's undercoat is truly exceptional, a credit to your clan."
Once they'd finished, Adog handed her the entire set of combs, some of wood, some finer ones of metal, and the Flint spoke again, "There; sets like these. Four o' those to three o' these to one o' those for a set. We gots ourselves good and snug, if'n the dead don't get to us, so we don't need more from the Stark. We've prepared proper, we have!"
With a look at Arya, he continued, shifting topics to the military, "Only thing, men, soldiers need better leaders. Still doing stupid shit in trainin', gettin' in the way. My clansmen'll be killed doing stupid shit like askin' for archer te shoot and then sum other bastard walkin' right where they's landin'."
Arya glanced at her sister, who made the sign for you. As was their habit in these matters, Arya answered first, "Is that primarily the infantry? Not the archers, the cavalry, the Free Folk?"
"Aye, the foot soldiers ain't got good leaders."
Arya nodded, "Agreed. As we speak, two more leaders are heading towards us that I believe will resolve the situation. Jamie Lannister was trained by the same man whose table I learned large-scale warfare at, Tywin Lannister. He faced Dothraki and dragons both, and not only held his ground with his men, but also made a lance charge on horseback against a dragon grounded by a scorpion bolt when the battle was lost."
"The Kingslayer! A Lannister!" exclaimed the Flint.
Sansa took up the conversation, "Men of your tribe owe him your life. When you were fighting with my father and Robert Baratheon, you defeated Rhaegar Targaryen and were entering King's Landing, where the Mad King had put wildfire under the city, and as he ordered his pyromancers to 'Burn them all!' just before Jamie Lannister killed the pyromancer and then killed the Mad King."
Sansa watched the clansmen's faces; she'd been telling this story to every House of the North and the Vale and every clan of the Free Folk, and universally there were winces and shudders here. The men and women in and around Winterfell had all seen wildfire tests, all seen the results, all been warned in the most vigorous - and violent - terms to keep fire and heat of all kinds well away from the Substance. To hear it had been planted under a city they or their fathers or grandfathers, uncles or brothers or sons had been in or even near... that wasn't something to generate happiness. It was, however, something to generate gratitude to mitigate decades of hatred and scorn.
"The Three-Eyed Raven saw it?" asked the Flint, "He said so?"
"Yes, he did," answered Sansa, "We do not trust Ser Jamie the way Brienne of Tarth does, so we will test him, and watch him, but if he passes our tests, he should be trusted as much as any Southron from south of the Vale. The other coming is the Hound, Lord Sandor Clegane, who we trust much more. He came back out into a riot from safety, alone and without orders, and saved me from rapers during a riot in King's Landing when Joffrey was King. When he broke with Cersei and Joffrey during the Battle of Blackwater, he risked himself to offer to take me with him."
Arya continued, "The Hound taught me how to survive during a war, alone in the country, taught me about killing and surviving being hunted, about how the world really works, how so many men and women really are. He put himself between me and those who would have killed or harmed me, when I was still just a girl with a small sword, shared his food with me when we were both hungry, even when neither of us got enough. He won't admit it, but he tried to do his best for me - tried to sell me, but only ever to family, never to Cersei, never to Walder Frey, even though we arrived at the Twins during the Red Wedding; he got me out again, unharmed and unnoticed. He's one of the greatest Westerosi swordsmen, and trained as a leader in warfare besides."
Upon Arya's receiving a terse nod, Sansa continued, "I have also made final arrangements for space and housing within Winterfell and Winter Town. Based on the supplies your House has provided to the central stores, in addition to those of your clan who are already living behind the walls, there are an additional six places within Winterfell, and eight in Winter Town, for whichever of your House you wish to send. Please send whichever you believe will be able to best rebuild your clan if the camps are overrun, even if either Winterfell or Winter Town falls. I urge you to split your people between the two with care; Winter Town's walls are shorter, while Winterfell may be a more attractive target for the wight dragon."
Sansa didn't mention the many camps of people, outside all the walls, or the flocks and herds outside even the camps, all at far greater risk than those inside the walls. The sisters watched the man take in a breath, trying to hide his relief. He'd clearly been worried about the survival of his clan, as all the Houses were concerned. Unwilling to admit it, of course, but fearing all the same. This was the best she could do - there was only so much space, only so much food behind walls even stacking people in four high bunk beds to make more space for supplies, only so many places they could defend against a siege that included giants, mammoths, and dragons.
In the end, after discussion with Lord Reed, Lord Royce, Lady Meera, Lord Manderly, Lady Mormont, Kitty, and Arya, she'd decided her first instinct was indeed correct - the places remaining after babes, children, pregnant women, and those with necessary skills for the war and the winter were taken in would be allocated to the houses solely based on food contribution. The Flints thus got more places behind walls than some Houses twice their size; something they'd argued in conclave yesterday, and something she could only hope to be arguing in conclave for many years to come, for it would mean they lived.
Thankfully, she'd been able to set things up with the food-gathering caravans such that those poorer houses which wouldn't have been able to make the required contributions had their gathering parties alongside those houses willing to give them loans, or with the Iron Bank, and the richer houses who had failed to contribute enough had found themselves next to the many foreign traders who had brought in nonperishable foodstuffs to sell at meals. No house of the North or the Vale, no clan of the Free Folk had, in the end, failed to contribute at least three years of supplies, even after years of war. The Sealord of Braavos had even cut a deal with some of the Free Folk for sled designs and trainers to help the city out when the fresh water supply froze, as was expected.
The clan leader gathered himself to ask, "Bessie? The other goats with the softest undercoats? Flocks in second ring. Before rest of clan gone, flocks gone first. Without flocks, no future for the clan. Whoever left will need the best of our goats to rebuild with."
Suppressing a wholly inappropriate giggle at the thought of what her younger self might have thought at the prospect of arranging shelter for the right goats to rebuild a House with, Sansa replied calmly, "Certainly. I'll see to it that three of the sheep inside the walls in Winterfell, and three in Winter Town are moved out to the flocks to make room for six of your clan's goats. Put a necklace with your clan's sigil on them, so all know to eat them last."
"Valar Morghulis," said the Flint.
"Valar Dohaeris," said Sansa. More of the Northerners and those of the Vale had picked the expression up both in conclave from Lady Winter, and from the many discussions and deals made with foreign merchants. She'd heard the Flint himself had thought it darkly appropriate to their current grave situation, and even heard Lord Mollen and Lord Whitehill using it to greet each other; by the rather vicious undertones, she suspected they felt it was more appropriate to their feeling toward the other house than wishing each other well in any capacity, and as a common greeting, it was an almost Southron means of wishing ill on the other.
Arya put her fingers to her lips and let out a complex whistle in the same pattern as the horn calls for 'Prepare to advance', at which Lord Royce began to make his goodbyes, while atop a different tower a small figure in black strode calmly off the edge of the upper platform, wrapping an arm around a single hanging rope and sliding quickly down, cloak flying out behind her, as smooth as any sailor descending from the crow's nest. Landing solidly on the cleared ground of the camps, she jogged up to the Flint.
"Melaane and Jaycobb; they can plot trajectories," she said, then restated it for those not as familiar with the arcane language of siege engines and master archers, "They could use the setting circles at different ranges even before the Maesters made the more detailed charts."
"Yes! They are very smart; know their numbers, and have fighting instinct too!" said the Flint proudly.
"Send them into Winterfell on the morrow; they will report to Gilly for classes. I want them taught to read and write better, and taught the mathematics to create the setting circles and the charts," said the Scorpion Bear, "We don't have enough Maesters, and every difference in the siege engine or the ammunition needs either a Maester to create a new chart, or someone who knows to work it out on their own."
"I will have them there after they break their fast," said the Flint with a smile. When their clan returned to the mountains, they would be stronger than they left, and smarter, however many fewer they were. War was becoming harder with these new weapons, and the clan would rise to the challenge. They were Flints! But... that was not enough, not anymore. These new weapons were wondrous and terrible for those with the skills to use them, but there was more to a clan than that, "Maesters study many things; will they teach more, too? Healing? Building?"
After the details were quickly worked out, Sansa presented Lord Flint with the leather breastplate she'd made in recognition of his and his clan's efforts and loyalty, then mounted her horse and trotted over the narrow strip of land between the radial division moat and the ring moats.
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Sansa murmured quietly, so only their immediate party could hear, "I hear the Night's Watch is to hold elections tonight, after they swear in their new recruits. Strange that the endless jobs and training you've been scheduling for them suddenly had a break in it."
Arya murmured back, "It's not strange; we had work that needed doing. Now we have less, and Edd's been moaning about not wanting to be Acting Lord Commander ever since he got here. Pure happenstance."
"Mmm," was Sansa's reply, barely audible over Kitty's quiet giggle.
Arya stood on Sansa's right, hands behind her back, hidden under her cloak, throwing knife half out of its sheath in one hand, blowgun likewise in the other, both Valyrian. Their best intelligence reports all said that the newest arrivals were entirely genuine, but even the best information could be flawed. That intelligence, after all, only reflect what people, warged animals, and Three-Eyed Ravens saw, so a diligent person could fool them all simply by never taking off their false face of helpfulness.
No Faceless Man using a face from the Hall of Faces would be caught by anything they could do, since a Faceless man wouldn't take their face off, either the magic or the mental face. A glamoured face depending on the magical skill of the person, of course, while mummery needed to be touched up quite often; Bran would have seen that easily enough.
She could hear the unusual quiet in the courtyard; the archers on the walls the normal crews - the wall was reserved for their best sharpshooters, and Meera herself was looking down, bow in hand, Valyrian plate cutter arrow nocked. The towers that could see into the courtyard likewise - their crossbowmen on the platforms below the siege engines were always among the best. The ballista crews, though, had been supplemented by Lyanna on the left-hand gatehouse and Fjornel on the inner scorpion with a courtyard view to the rear and on the right.
Hidden, of course, were additional units of the best archers and spearmen they had, though Arya doubted that any treachery would require them. The siege engines were very accurate indeed, and even normal crossbows and warbows with the right arrows could punch through armor often enough at this range. Their best archers, and Fjornel, weren't using normal plate cutters, though; the ancestral Valyrian bolts and arrows of the Starks had been distributed already.
Patrek Mallister approached first, the others waiting at the gates. When he'd left, he'd thought Seagard to be a well defended castle. They had the normal moat by the walls and one additional moat with a wooden palisade behind it, and had constructed four ballista and five scorpions for the towers and gatehouses of their castle, but this, this was another level entirely, as Moat Cailin had been, and there were people everywhere logging and working and training, smallfolk and highborn alike.
He could barely imagine the entirety of the undertaking. They'd needed thousands of men working for weeks to dig Seagard's second moat, to build their palisade, and it was a far cry from the fieldworks he saw here. Feeding the workers, too, had been challenging, and they'd had to deal with dysentery in the workforce and the soldiers alike.
Then, Patrek thought, there was the welcoming party. Lady Stark was in what he thought was armor like the Blackfish had worn, but in the shape of a ladies gown, with a fine boiled leather helmet in place of a fur hat. She was accompanied by a young woman with the Stark look, wearing a ridiculous number of blades. He didn't know why - maybe she was like he'd heard some of the Northern women were like, or the Dornish, and was showing she thought she could fight. Throwing knives wasn't honorable; no true man would fight like that! And... well, he'd tried as a boy, and it wasn't anything you could use for real, either.
Sansa watched him approach, offering him bread and salt as Kitty again offered wine, Leriah on Kitty's other side, Lady Keath behind her, as Korb and Connas were behind Arya and herself, just in case.
Should Jamie or the Freys prove false, her own job was to hold the large, heavy platter in front of her face and neck while moving backwards to the gatehouse as fast as possible. The platter was quite heavy - castle-forged steel, direwolves running around the rim, with a thin layer of silver disguising what was really a small steel shield as a decorated serving dish. She wore only a thin cloak, the thick padded backing to her armored dress keeping her warm enough while she was sheltered from the winds. It certainly impressed some of the men, too - either the thinness of the cloak, or her wearing true armor, the same as they were.
"Welcome to Winterfell, Lord Patrek. The stories of the brave men and women of Seagard defying Walder Frey and Cersei Baratheon have reached the North. Please have bread and salt, and be our guest," said Sansa with her best courtly smile as she curtsied, offering the platter steadily. Heavy for its size it might be, she'd been training with much larger shields for long enough to grow used to them.
"Thank you, my Lady. I bring one hundred barrels of wheat, and one hundred more of salt beef. Were we not prepared for siege ourselves, we would have sent more food and men besides, but we're barely seventy miles from the Lannister forces at the Twins, and must defend our home," replied the heir to Seagard as he took a small piece of bread, rubbing it into the salt and eating. He hadn't really seen guest rights taken quite so seriously as they were in the North, though with the rumors he'd heard in Seagard, and worse, what he'd heard from his traveling companions, he supposed he could understand taking such things seriously. No one wanted Lady Winter coming for their house, whoever or whatever that was. Every Frey who'd participated in the Red Wedding, dead in a single night, no one knowing how. The why was obvious, of course - the North remembers. Well, that was why he was here - the North did remember, so answering the raven they'd received would be remembered, too.
"I thank you for your generous gift, Lord Patrek. This is my sister Arya. She's quite adamant about not wanting or liking to be called Lady Stark or Lady Arya, so you may address her as Lady Winter," said Sansa in a carrying voice, gesturing to Arya, who gave a small nod as not only Patrek but also the Freys froze for a moment, their eyes drawn to the small Stark. Jamie, too, was looking at Arya, but with more interest than fear.
Patrek looked at the short young woman; he'd thought the armguards, the bow, the thin sword and the many knives to be an affectation, but now, looking into her cold, amused eyes, he thought he could imagine her carving through more than two score men. Probably while she smiled. Well... good riddance to bad Freys, and a curse upon them for all they'd done, and all they'd failed to do. He wouldn't want to marry the girl, certainly... but that was his father's decision, not his, and he'd do as he was bid.
With a deep nod, he spoke, "It is an honor to meet you, Lady Winter. You have done the Riverlands a great service, one which can never be truly repaid, by removing the Late Walder Frey and the men he raised to follow in his dishonor. You've done Seagard a great service with that same act; with the Lannisters needing to garrison the Twins, and the Frey armies vanishing as far as the Lannisters know, well, other than Lord Jamie, Seagard has gained a reprieve."
Gesturing to her left, Sansa continued the introductions, "You know of our sister by choice, the Lady of the Crossing, of course."
He accepted a sip of wine from Lady Frey, "A pleasure to meet you, Lady Frey. I'm glad to see you've prospered in the North."
Sansa gestured to the castle, "You're welcome to take a meal in the Great Hall; I would be pleased to meet with you in my solar after dinner and learn what brought you so far from Seagard at this critical time."
"Thank you, my Lady," said Lord Patrek with a deep bow, heading in as she'd indicated, a messenger girl rushing to intercept and lead him.
Too deep, Sansa thought, for the circumstances as she knew them. Something more was happening with the Mallisters. Well, she'd find out soon enough, one way or another.
Jamie Lannister approached next, with the sign for you from Sansa, Arya strode forward as they'd planned, intercepting him before he got within lunging range of Sansa. He wasn't nearly as dangerous with one hand as he'd once been with both, but he was still a dangerous opponent, and losing his overconfidence had reduced one of his main weaknesses.
"Jamie Lannister, thank you for coming North as you said you would. What are your intentions here?" asked Arya, her voice flat.
"To fight for the living," says Jamie immediately, then looked back at the Riverlanders he'd traveled with. He'd had ample time to listen to them on the big dogsled they'd been put on, and what they'd said and planned had made him think, too, of his own honor, of what Brienne saw in him, and of what he admired in her. Returning his gaze to the Stark that got away, the one who'd approached with her hands behind her back, and excellent footwork. Braavosi footwork, quick and precise. None of the Freys were good soldiers, and most of them had been old by any standard but Walder's and Olenna's, but still, to kill them all in one night was a feat. One Cersei would have loved to perform herself, once upon a time.
Arya waited, still and quiet, simply assessing the man with every measure of her skill. He had more to say, more he wanted to say, and she'd make sure he said it.
"And to return what is yours," continued the Kingslayer, unbuckling his swordbelt and offering Widow's Wail to the warrior woman before him, holding only the sheath in his left hand. After coming all this way, he'd rather not be shot by some skittish guardsman mistaking his gesture as an attack. Guardsmen who hated him for what he'd done, for what Cersei had done, well, nothing he could do about that.
With a lightning quick step, she'd taken the blade from him by the sheath with her right hand, holding it out as a boy ran up, taking the sword and darting off deeper into the castle. Still, she said nothing, waiting without interrupting him, without prompting him. Brienne had been eloquent in her praise, and she'd make sure all those listening would hear what he said of his own free will.
He looked down for a moment, then at Sansa's cold gaze, and Arya's colder one. He knew what Brienne would say to him, had heard it in his head the entire trip up. Well, if he was to die for it, at least he'd die with some honor, tarnished may it be, "And to apologize for pushing your brother out the window, for crippling him."
Arya spoke, her voice without inflection, without warmth or feeling of any kind, "Bran forgave you."
Jamie looked down at his golden right hand for a second, "He's a better man than I am. I'm glad he lived. Am I to die, now? If so, let's just get on with it."
"What will you do if you are not?" asked Arya, betraying nothing.
With a deep breath, Jamie straightened up fully, pride in his posture again, though without the arrogance that had once been so obvious. He'd come to this conclusion days ago, and now, prepared to say it out loud, not knowing if he'll live or die... well, at least he'd regain some portion of his honor.
"I will join the Night's Watch, and fight for the living," said Jamie Lannister.
"And what can a right-handed man without a right hand offer them?" asked Lady Winter.
"My life. A poor left-handed swordsman, now without a sword. My father did try to teach me war, you know, so there's that. Well, he tried to teach me a lot of things, but war was the only one I really learned."
"Oh? Then why did you have nothing but a shield-wall only one line deep, a single line of spearmen, and a single line of archers when the Dothraki charged?" asked Arya without inflection.
"My orders were to get the gold to King's Landing as fast as possible. The food was... not very important to my sister. The best troops, the best scouts all went ahead with the gold. The food column was a lot longer, and with green troops, stretched out. To keep it tighter would have meant halting the lead elements, or letting Randall whip everyone. The gold made it. I fulfilled my orders."
"And after your lines were breaking, why did you gather archers and lead them to fire on the dragon, causing it to abort its attack run because Queen Daenerys didn't want to be pierced?"
"Because I'd forgotten we had the scorpion until after," said Jamie, pointedly looking up at the gatehouses and towers around him, "Which I can see was a mistake. You really have been busy."
"True, but I meant you'd already seen the dragon burn your men alive, less than a hundred yards from you. Why were you still fighting instead of running? You had a horse; you had a better chance at escaping than nearly any of your men," continued Arya, giving no hint of her feelings on the matter. The audience needed to hear this, needed to know that he really did face a dragon with nothing but a few archers, instead of running. Those rumors would spread, would let him be effective, as she needed him to be.
"I won't abandon my army. I gave the orders, it was my responsibility," said Jamie, remembering the screams of men as they burned to death; something he'd hoped not to hear again after he killed the Mad King. All fire burned the same, it seemed.
"And after Bronn grounded Drogon, why did you mount a horse and charge its rider with a spear?"
Jamie held his golden hand up, smiling wryly, "Because it's hard to shoot a bow with only one hand."
At Arya's sign for you, Sansa spoke, "After our mother captured Tyrion Lannister, you attacked our father. Killed Jory in combat, fought our father in single combat until one of your guards speared him from behind. Why didn't you finish our father off then?"
"It wouldn't have been clean," said Jamie, looking down for a moment, then up into Sansa's eyes, "I wanted to fight him, man to man. It wouldn't have been honorable after he was wounded by a soldier who disobeyed his orders."
"Yes, you struck your soldier to chastise him, after. You weren't wearing your plate armor when you fought our father, either. Why not?" asked the eldest Stark.
Jamie cocked his head, a little puzzled by the way the questioning had gone. He'd imagined far worse on the long ride north, "Lord Stark didn't go around the city wearing armor. It wouldn't have been clean if I was the only one in full armor. Your father was an honorable warrior; he deserved an honorable battle. I suppose, too, I was fighting because my brother had been taken, so wearing the King's armor seemed... wrong."
Looking around the courtyard, at the men and women watching, Sansa saw what she'd expected. As much as the Northerners and many of the Vale loved her father, fighting man to man was a long tradition; it was the old way, as Jon had said when he offered single combat to Ramsay. For Jamie to offer single combat in return for her mother's taking his brother... that was different than an ambush.
Arya held out her right hand casually, at which sign a page rushed out to place a sword-belt in it with a sword in a plain black scabbard on the right, and a wooden dagger with dragonglass shards on the left. She held it out to him; the sword had a simple, functional hilt. The blade itself was castle-forged steel, a copy of the blade of Widow's Wail made by Gendry based on Bran's drawing.
Arya spoke, her voice warmer, now, welcoming, "You'll need the dagger, if you're to join the Night's Watch. Don't bother with the sword against wights or White Walkers, it'll be no good. You'll need the sword, though, if you're ever to fight a duel. Try not to lose; left-handed swordfighters don't need that kind of stain on their reputation."
She returned to her sister's side, and Sansa now held out the platter of bread to Jamie Lannister with a small nod, "Have bread and salt, and be welcome in our home, Ser Jamie Lannister. Hurry; Micah here will take you to the Night's Watch. They're gathering in the Godswood, and Lady Meera will need it back for archery training soon enough."
Jamie put on the sword-belt, then took and ate a piece of bread with salt, took a large drink of wine, turned to leave, then turned back for just a moment, to say, "I'm sorry."
As Jamie broke into a jog of his own as the boy ran off towards where the Night's Watch was about to induct new members before the election, the last group approached, the smallfolk from the northern Riverlands, lands which had been under the control of the Twins.
Kitty Frey strode forward, weirwood crossbow on her back, smiling widely, "Welcome to Winterfell. On behalf of Lady Stark, the Red Wolf, thank you for answering my ravens, for coming north, for bringing men and provisions. Please, come and have bread and salt and be guests of the Lady of Winterfell; Leriah will take you to the Night's Watch after you've accepted guest right."
They still looked scared, but approached slowly, keeping their heads down and bowing before they started moving, glancing up at Sansa, who gave a small welcoming smile, and especially looking at Arya, who simply nodded and gestured them forward.
************************
Two days later, they'd already long passed a fork in the river that Jon had said led to the Lonely Hills. Daenerys looked up as she bounced along as the dogsled she was riding on once again swerved suddenly. She was tired, not having slept well in the cold, heavy air of their campsite, and now the winds were even higher than they'd been before. They'd endured the old man's angry tirade at how slow they were to pack up her tent; as a result, they were at the very end of the caravan today, having had to catch up. The main caravan had left without her!
On the other hand, their new rear position was quite far from the wildfire. She shuddered a little. Hearing about that hellish substance had been an unpleasant revelation! She hoped they wouldn't have to use it; her children were far less likely to suddenly burn everything in sight! Yes, her children were much safer. They didn't have to be treated so gently, be kept far from heat and flame.
She turned to look at Jon, who was pensively looking up into the low clouds moving quickly above them, "Jon? Did you see Drogon or Rhaegal?"
"Aye; they flew west a few minutes ago, and I think they landed on that hill over there."
"That's a hill? It looks like a mound of snow. Everything here looks like a mound of snow," complained Daenerys.
"Aye, but that's a hill" chuckled Jon, then pointing to another mound of snow, "Over there, that's a snowdrift."
Dany gave a huff, then smiled, "You're feeling better? You looked... lost in thought."
"Not really. I was just thinking that it smells like snow."
"Of course it smells like snow, Jon. There's snow everywhere!"
"No, I mean it smells like it's going to snow. You know, like you can smell when a storm's coming? Like that."
"A snow storm?" asked the silver-haired woman.
"Aye. We could end up buried in snow, you know," replied Jon, grinning, "Old Nan said there were snows more than a hundred feet deep, in winter, you know. Even Drogon could be buried so deep he had to dig his way out!"
"That sounds awful," replied Dany, giggling at the thought of a sour-faced Drogon emerging from a white landscape, shaking himself like a horse, snow flying everywhere like water off a horse's mane after fording a deep river, "How do you Northerners survive weather like that?"
"It's actually quite cozy, if you have decent shelter first," he said.
"And if you don't?" she asked. She expected she knew the answer - it'd be no different than getting caught in a sandstorm in the Red Wastes. The lands here were just as barren - she'd seen some of the Free Folk chopping through the ice to set fishing lines, just as a few of the Dothraki with desert experience had been able to catch a lizard here or there, or find a plant to eat and get juice from.
"Then you freeze to death," Jon answered seriously, confirming her expectation.
"Ah," she said quietly, then changed the subject entirely. Death by cold, being kept away from the warmth of life, that sounded like the worst possible way to die to her, "Are you all right, after hearing about Arya?"
"It was a bit of a shock, I'll admit. Not the duels themselves; she'd talked about fighting in a tourney, so that's no surprise. Her killing someone, just like that... that was a shock. I've fought people, killed people, but I never liked it. Never enjoyed it. Never did it for fun," said Jon quietly. He knew he was good at fighting... at killing... but it wasn't what he wanted to do. Arya'd always wanted to learn to fight, and it sounded like their father'd found her a good teacher; a great teacher, even. Though what kind of man was he, if a man had come to Westeros to challenge his sister in a fight to the death over being his student?
Daenerys replied, her voice soft and thoughtful, "I've seen bravos, growing up, you know. Missandei's story is right - they aren't dangerous to anyone but their own, and all over Essos, they follow their own code of honor. I even saw a duel once! Viserys didn't allow me out often, but sometimes, when we were moving between houses, I was able to be outside more. We were in Norvos; I remember because the views of the hills were amazing. I was late getting home, and two bravos met in front of me; one touched his sword, and then they were fighting, right there. Once the one hit the other in the arm, they were done, and they both left. Neither threatened me, nor did any other bravo I ever saw."
"So, they're like knights?" asked Jon.
Daenerys laughed, "No! They don't run around in armor, or fight in big battles, or get anointed by some particular god. They're... bravos, who like to fight."
"I've never been to Essos. The only times I've been south of Winterfell is to see you, or with you, even! You've seen so much; tell me, what were the hills around Norvos like?"
"They were steep and tall; I imagined flying over them on a dragon! Well, I thought I did; actually riding on a dragon is the most amazing feeling, to see the world stretching out below you, the wind on your face, flying through clouds. Or above them, even - they stretch out below you in an unending sea of white," said Daenerys, her voice full of remembered joy.
"You really love flying on Drogon, don't you?"
"I do. Perhaps I'll have to bring you along; you missed the ride to Eastwatch, after all," she said with a teasing smile, then shifted again as the caravan slowed, coming to a halt on the frozen river, between the shelter of two small hills, once again beginning the process of feeding the dogs, small one-man dogsleds getting the first of the food for their dogs, then darting off in pairs to check the area, a considerable distance between the members of each pair.
While most of the dogs were finishing their meals, a high-pitched, staccato drumbeat sounded faintly across the quiet landscape from a hill to the north, followed by two tiny specks descending the hill quickly and a loud shout from the caravan's leader.
"Snostorm inkommande! Full fart mot stenhalan!"
Immediately, more than half the entire caravan started moving out without hesitation, the rest, including their own sled, simply loading the sleds with anything that someone could hold in place by hand. The old man who gave the passengers instructions came to them after they'd started, coming into place besides them.
"Blizzard coming, and fast! We go to Rocky Hollow, wait it out! You dig in, do not use stupid tent! You Night's Watch, yes? Been in North?"
"I was!" said Jon, "To the Fist of the First Men!"
"Good! This real Northern storm! You dig, dig as small as you fit in, fit very tight together! Use dark man spear for air, four holes, four times each hour, or you die! Use canvas line hole! Small fire only if lots air!"
"Aye," said Jon, watching the small dogsled move off again.
"Jon?" asked Daenerys, worried.
"You know that snowstorm I was worried about? We're getting one, a big one. We'll all have to sleep together for warmth; all of us. He wants us to use Grey Worm's spear to poke air holes and keep them clear," said Jon.
"Air holes?"
"You can't breathe through snow, Dany. We'll need to have someone awake all the time to keep the air holes clear."
"I'm sure we can all stay awake for a few hours, Jon."
Jon chuckled wryly, "I hope it's only a few hours. More like a few days. Could be a few weeks, even, though it seems awful early for that. Winter is here."
"Weeks!"
"That's what Father said, and the men of the Night's Watch. Deep in Winter, the storms last for days and weeks. You didn't think Sansa said carrying at least three months of food was required to leave a city for nothing, did you?" asked Jon, "She's the Lady of Winterfell. It's the Lady's duty to manage the supplies and keep everyone in Winterfell fed and warm for as long as she can in winter, just like it was Lady Catelyn's duty before her. Just like it's Lady Manderly's duty in White Harbor."
As they moved north, the sky before them turned black even as they could still see the sun setting in the west. The caravan split, then, some sleds staying atop the river, while the rest went up a steep hillside on the shore to a very rough plateau, crowned with great boulders and rock formations around what turned out to be a basin, covered in thick snow.
Jon saw an sled pulled by eight dogs moving slowly up the hillside, uncoiling a rope that stretched down to the sleds down on the river, already turned on their sides and partly buried to make a windbreak.
The old man came by again, accompanying a large cargo sled, which dropped off a small pile of wood, a barrel of pitch, a package of dried foods for Jon, and a small kettle. They stuck a stake with a wide, deep set of fins at the end and in the middle deep into the snow, looping the middle of a long rope around it, one knot in the rope on the right of their entrance they'd come from, and two on the left side.
"You Southrons, dig deeper! Pack snow, like this," said Meras as he took up a piece of wood from the pile, showing them briefly how to dig, how to pack the snow on the walls and into large bricks, "Make walls. Make turn at entrance, keep wind out. Put furs or canvas over entrance. Keep warmth in! Air holes here, here, here, here. Bigger! Feel sleepy, put fire out! Angle like this. Use wood when got air, when need to dry. Bring food in. Bring all furs, all cloth in. Sleep in pile, like dogs, stay warm. Stay dry! Keep rope at entrance! Piss, shit on right, one knot, five paces! Keep hand on rope or die! Use kettle, melt snow from left, two knots!"
The old man left them to it.
As the sky darkened quickly above them, all around, Tyrion could see clansmen were digging quickly, much more quickly than their group. Fifteen or so yards away, he saw a small, pinched-faced girl of perhaps three and ten dive into their hole with a flatter piece of wood, followed by a scarred young woman of perhaps one and twenty who started handing snow blocks to a rather hideous, wart-covered middle-aged woman who set them around the entrance.
Tyrion selected a flat, short piece of wood, and said, "I'll go in first and start the hole. Grey Worm, Qhono, if you could come in after me and enlarge the hole? Jon, Lord Varys, pack the snow and make walls. We might be here for some time. At least it'll smell better than the sewers, even if it's smaller."
Daenerys looked up, then smiled as Drogon and Rhaegal came in for a landing next to them, Drogon's tail carefully held inside the boulders that were behind them, one wing stretching over their small party as the wind began to blow snow as well as air.
"Or we could ask my children to help, rather than having to dig so deep," said Daenerys, rubbing Drogon's cheek fondly.
************************
Theon stepped out of the small boat, followed by his crew. Euron had part of his fleet patrolling the entrance to Blackwater Bay quite vigorously, so he was going to portage around the patrols. They were far enough out he didn't think the Lannisters would have many people here, so he could sneak in to rescue Yara, or die trying. Yara'd come for him, so he was going to come for her... that was the least he could do, after running when Euron boarded their ship.
He jerked, startled, as a whisper cut through the darkness ahead of him, "The lone wolf dies."
"Who's there?" demanded Theon in a harsh whisper as his crew drew their weapons behind him.
"The lone wolf dies," came a repeat of the saying... but with a clear question in the tone, not a threat.
"But the pack survives," whispered Theon, hoping he was right. He'd heard that, often enough growing up... and so he hoped. A man emerged from the darkness before him, striding over the cold ground with a bag on his back, walking very carefully, dressed as a sailor.
"You the Greyjoy? Theon?" asked the man.
"I am. Sansa sent you?" asked Theon.
"No One sent me, but I reckon Lady Stark's the one what wanted you to get some help. Gods, boy, you think carryin' boats ain't gonna be noticed? Put that shite down. Got three boats in a cove, mile down along the coast. Look for a cave near three gnarled trees in a line. Here, take this shite - be careful! You gots some Lannister armor in there, can make as captured spies, if'n you be seen. Here, gots a map - you look at it in the cave, don' be lightin' up in the open. Gots your Uncle's patrols... and his passwords, too. Might change, might not, but good tonight, I 'eard em myself. You Iron Islanders are awful loud, you know. Half of you don't know nuthin', looks like."
Theon took the sealed leather tube the man was offering, while the man took the time to set the bag down carefully, "Thank you, and tell Sansa thank you."
"Ye saved her from the Boltons. She's gots Bran and Arya back, now. I figure she wants you to have your family back, too. You be careful with this bag, you hear! Them bottles, all wrapped up? That's wildfire, that is, ifn' you boys ain't any more quiet than them aboard those ships," said the man, "I gots to go. If'n you get stopped, whichever of yous in the Lannister armor, the Lannister password is 'Mines of Casterly Rock'. Old gods help you."
With that, the man faded back into the darkness, leaving behind the tube of papers and the bag.
************************
Late at night, Sansa was sewing as Arya strode by Sansa with a feather-duster, saying, "Pardon me, m'lady" as she passed. Once she'd passed Sansa's line of sight, the assassin dropped the duster, reaching up under the thick layers of the dress she was wearing to draw a slender, blunt training knife, striking for Sansa's back and missing as Sansa'd dropped her sewing project and used her long legs to open the distance, keeping the heavy wooden chair between them as she went for the set of emergency gear across the room with a quietly murmured, "Screaming."
Arya stepped over the discarded sewing project and launched herself off the chair towards Sansa, knife leading as Sansa deflected with a steel knitting needle and a push to shove Arya off course; by the time Arya, using a reduced measure of her speed, had come up, Sansa was already jabbing a spear with a blunt training head at her carefully, yanking it back before Arya's left hand could grasp the haft below the blade. A few exchanges later, and Sansa's spearblade poked Arya in the side after Arya 'fell' for her feint.
"Good feint, good use of your precision. You're getting a little quicker, too, sister, and your footwork was solid. Good placement when you threw your sewing down, right where I'd rather have stepped. Why didn't you go for the crossbow? You and Kitty always keep one ready, now, as hard as that is on the string." asked Arya quietly.
"It's only one shot; if I miss, or even hit without doing enough damage, both my hands are occupied; I'm not fast enough to recover from that," replied Sansa easily.
"Good! Your freakish reach is an advantage; using a medium spear like that makes it very hard to close the distance intact, as long as you don't let it get grabbed," smiled Arya, hiking her dress up to replace the blunt.
Sansa struck suddenly, one finger reaching out for Arya's shoulder, and missing as her sister ducked, while they giggled together before settling down on the divan, Arya pulling the dress up again so Sansa could adjust the thigh strap.
"How are the new knitting needles?" asked Arya. She and Gendry knew weapons well enough, but using needles was not her skill, and she was quite sure Gendry had never even tried.
"They're good; they catch less than the wooden ones, though they're a bit heavy. If I hadn't been working on leather armor so much, it might have been harder to use these," said Sansa, steppiung back and spinning the heavy needle through her fingers gracefully before tugging the 'sheath' part of it off, revealing the training blunt inside.
"Well, I'm glad they work for your knitting as well. People will question them less that way, and it's very easy to overlook something used in plain sight, if it's used the way you expect. What did Bran mean earlier, when he said the Manderly ladies liked the gloves?"
"You remember Bessie Flint, the goat? Well, I'd found some wool, almost as soft as hers, but just a bit in mixed colors, so I made up gloves for the Manderly ladies. They've done very well for us, so a bit of personal attention is the least I could do. You met them; what would they want from us?" asked Sansa. She knew very well she needed to pay attention to her bannermen, to all the people in the North and the Vale. She'd learned about fear from Cersei, about uncertainty from Littlefinger, about maneuvering and politics from them and others... but she'd learned about fostering loyalty from her father, and from her mother, and that was a tradition she intended to continue.
Arya considered; she'd spoken with the girls, and heard more about them, both here and on her journey, "More than anything, Wylla and Wynafryd want to make sure White Harbor stays in Manderly hands, and under the Manderly name. They're shrewd, all three of them, in their own ways. Wynafryd's definitely her grandfather's heir, but I don't think she'd mind if it was Wylla who kept the name. They follow the Seven, but only to a point - Wynafryd had a bunch of young men with her when they first met me, and then mostly young women at breakfast when I joined them the next morning! All loyal to House Manderly, of course."
Sansa laughed, nudging her sister, "And did any of them catch your eye, Arya?"
Arya glared at Sansa, "Do you think me an addled idiot? No, I'm not going to respond to bait in a trap like that. Marriage isn't for me; the Many-Faced God is who I've made my commitment to serve, not some man or woman who wants my loyalty given to them."
Sansa held up her hands palms out in mock surrender, "All right, all right, who am I to offend such a dedicated priest, unwilling to even entertain the prospect of marriage. If you're done deflecting..."
Arya smirked, "Drat. Foiled in my cunning plan to distract you from your evil purpose of consolidating all power in your own hands. They'll want to see if Jon's interested in them, of course - a highborn Stark bastard would be exactly what they wanted, letting them keep their own name and rule White Harbor, now that he'd not King anymore. Without him, they'll keep looking, so if you can arrange a match with a good bastard, or a Free Folk or smallfolk man who wants to settle down here in the South. Maybe even a second or third highborn son willing to give up his name, though I suspect they're both too strong-willed for that to work out well."
"So, like Gendry?" mused Sansa.
"Hmm... he might like Wylla. She'd certainly keep him on his toes, and she's got that same simple honor. They aren't ready for the Mormont way"
"Oh? Just don't say anything about the father of their children? Maybe in a few years; for now, they're likely still too invested in the Seven, so they'll want a good marriage."
Arya nodded. Sansa was the Lady in the family, so she'd leave arranging marriages to her, "Well, if you're going to appoint a Master of Ships, once we're ready to run caravans through the army of the dead, we can have Wylla up with a dogsled team along with a Braavosi representative, since the Braavosi are leading the naval side of things. Introduce her to Gendry, see if she catches his interest. Maybe even send the Scorpion Bear back with her to inspect White Harbor's siege engines; I bet they'll get along well."
"Well, we'll see what happens," said Sansa, "We're really ready for the dead? White Harbor's going to start stockpiling now; Jon's the last dogsled caravan in, and there's only the one horse caravan north of Moat Cailin. Gulltown's taking over supply of Moat Cailin and the Vale; they're still far enough from the dead, and Cersei's dealing with the loss of the Reach's food and lords to Daenerys. We've got the herds and flocks in, the hunters have taken anything they can which they can't drive south."
"We are, as much as we can be right now. We've got a solid set of fieldworks, Lyanna's crews can loose even in snow and fog, the archers too. The camps are as good as we can manage; they've got solid walls and roofs to protect against the weather and bolts or arrows that fall short. The animals in the second ring are the most at risk," said Arya, "We can always learn more lessons, but we're as good as we're going to be until we have to deal with untrained new forces, and we've got plans for that."
"The Long Night worries me. We've got as many edible mushrooms and sprouts growing in the crypt tunnels as the Maesters identified and the hunters and foragers could find, but that's not nearly enough to really cut down on the rate we're eating through our supplies," said Sansa with concern. The new glass gardens that were under construction would help, but being under siege, in winter, perhaps without enough sunlight to grow crops anywhere, all for years at a time?
Arya nudged her sister, "Cheer up, Sansa. All the peoples of the world have stories of the Long Night. We may not have the kind of magic they once did other than the Three-Eyed Raven and the wargs, but we do have things they didn't; foreign allies, modern siege engines, wildfire and Valyrian steel and two thirds of the dragons in the world."
Sansa's lips quirked upwards slightly, "Stay with me tonight?"
"Of course," replied Arya. She, too, was concerned about their chances, but they'd done everything they could in the time they had. They would win, or they would die... but they would not die alone, and what they'd set in motion would continue after their deaths, in the North, in the Vale, in Braavos and Dorne and many other great cities and nations across the world, so she was quite comfortable with either outcome. All must die... but she would tell her god not today once again, as best she could, for herself, and her sister, and her family and peoples.
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- Pronouns
- They/Them
You've got cut-offs. Other than that, awesome chapter, but I'm starting to think you're messing with us on purpose with this delaying!
You've got cut-offs. Other than that, awesome chapter, but I'm starting to think you're messing with us on purpose with this delaying!
Thank you for pointing the cutoff out! I'll fix it in the next few days, along with some other typos and mistakes I've noticed.
What do you mean, delays? I'm not delaying on purpose - every means of travel is subject to weather delays of one type or other, from being becalmed to dragonriders grounded due to poor visibility!
Not my fault the weather was bad - blame the Old Gods!
Everyone's in motion as best they can - unlike late show, there is no teleporter - medieval travel takes time, and lots of it. Stannis knew that - lost anyway, yes, because he didn't send any scouts out, but he knew the snows would pen him in.
Thank you for the reply!
You've got cut-offs. Other than that, awesome chapter, but I'm starting to think you're messing with us on purpose with this delaying!
Surprise! Fixed that and another, some minor typos, and clarified that the Flints are from just south of the Gift and the Wall - they're the mountain clans of the North, not the mountain clans of the Vale. Completely different!
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22 Breakfasts and Wights
Arya felt Sansa wake the next morning, taking off the face of No One and standing smoothly, handing Sansa a cup of water, greeting her sister brightly, "Lady Stark, I hope you enjoyed sleeping in so late while the rest of us were slaving away to serve you! If you'd grant your glorious permission, I'll call in two dozen maids to help you dress."
"You are the most annoying sister in the world," complained Sansa, making the sign for jape, taking the chill water and nearly draining it. She hadn't even lit the hearth last night; a candle was enough for her to train with, and the chambermaids telling tales of the Red Wolf's being perfectly comfortable without a fire was both amusing and useful. She stood, stretching, then poured the last bit of water carefully onto a scrap of cloth, washing her face vigorously.
"I can't be. You exist, after all," replied Arya with a grin, settling down and lighting a candle before taking a stack of raven scrolls from one of the many bookshelves, glancing through the reports from the other strongholds, reading the military ones and setting the civilian and political ones aside for Sansa.
"Oh? I happen to have heard some strange things, you know. While you were out traveling the kingdoms, it seems Lord Stout died, tragically," said Sansa leadingly, wiping herself down with the rag and dressing. She wouldn't have done that with anyone else present, but her sister, she felt safe with. Arya, too, knew enough to have busied herself looking at papers, rather than at her scars, and she was grateful.
"Oh? Was he very old?" asked Arya blandly, showing no sign of interest, or knowledge, whatsoever, "Did he challenge a bravo to a duel to the death?"
"He drowned after falling in the privy, upside down and stuck, after spilling his ale and slipping," said Sansa equally blandly, watching her sister closely, seeing nothing.
"Perhaps he should have drank less. His heir... that was Robert Stout, wasn't it? Do you like him better?" asked Arya, a trace of boredom in her voice as it usually was when discussing highborn politics with her sister.
"Strangely enough, Robert disappeared. The younger son, Edward Stout is Lord now. He seems to be doing well for losing so much of his family in such short order," replied Sansa, moving closer so Arya could help lace up her armored dress in the back. Arya clearly wasn't going to give anything away, so all she had were suspicions... and a little more.
"Father dead, brother vanished. Should I pay my respects?" replied Arya, rubbing Sansa's scarred back gently before starting to lace her up carefully. As she'd expected, No One hadn't left any evidence behind; No One was well on the path to being a full priest of the Many-Faced God.
"And his mother, who died just before you left. Apparently of sickness, according to her husband, though I did hear he'd had her body burned with... very commendable speed," said Sansa dryly, sitting down and starting on her own stack of raven scrolls, continuing.
"The vanished Robert Stout, though, you should remember. He bore quite a resemblance to the young man of the House of Black and White who took away that bravo from Myr you killed. Strange, that."
"The world is full of strange things, Sansa. You should see more of it; Braavos, at least - it's farther North than most of the Vale, and you don't mind that," replied Arya. Westeros was just going to have to get used to the way the House of Black and White in Westeros did things, and avenging a mother who was beaten to death was very much the kind of just vengeance the House was here to provide... for a price. That both sons have loved their mother, and that the elder son had truly wished to grow up and be Lord was good; the price of devoting his life to the House of Black and White was heavy enough.
"That's a discussion for summer, Arya. Robert Stout wasn't a great fighter, not even a good one; I've seen him train, even beaten him in training matches myself. He wasn't very bright, either, for all that he was a better man than his father... far better, from what I hear, but his father's bannermen didn't respect him. They respect his little brother even less, and are making trouble," said Sansa, getting to the core of what she needed to tell her sister, making the sign for truth. Killing monsters was well and good, but there were real consequences to it, and not just for the monsters and their victims.
"Summer travels it is, my provincial sister. Valar Dohaeris; his bannermen must serve. They can respect the lad or not, as long as they don't show it on their faces, but if they're being a problem... I'll pair him up with Lord Glover for awhile. Unless you think Lady Winter should pay them a visit?" asked Arya.
"Gods no! Lord Glover will do fine. I just wish there was some way I could have a warning when I'm about to have a mess like that on my hands, Arya! You were away, Lady Stout had been burned two weeks before, then suddenly the man was dead and the boy was missing. If the younger son had been the one missing, I'd have been dealing with his bannermen accusing Robert of assassinating his father to become Lord! As it is, it's still too close to kinslaying for comfort."
"Valar Morghulis, Sansa. Valar Morghulis. There is a price to be paid for everything. Perhaps you should send a raven to the Sealord; he might have some advice you'd find useful."
Sansa glared at Arya, angry at her sister's immediate dismissal of not just the trouble the actions her men, women, whatever had done were causing Sansa, but at the time she'd have to waste now, the tensions that this kind of thing would cause, now and in the future. Watching Arya's calmness, Sansa closed her eyes and pondered the rest of what Arya had said.
Everything had a price; that included the trade with Braavos, free of tax and tariff for that part of the trade that was part of the war against the dead. They'd bought a small fleet of ships, and the Sealord had voluntarily given up quite a lot of money with his decision. The Faceless Men had gifted enough Valyrian Steel to make dozens of the 'Death's Head' scorpion bolts, as they'd been named. Her sister was alive, and well, and an enormously capable assassin... who did, in fact, assassinate people, and have them assassinated.
Even when it was inconvenient for her elder sister.
Sansa crumpled up the raven scrolls she was done with, crushing them tight in her hand, suppressing her anger, letting it diminish and be overwhelmed by her love for her sister, her gratitude... and her simple exasperation, as she flung the entire handful at Arya, whose dodge turned into a cartwheel, then with a wicked grin Arya took up a lightly padded staff, twirling it around as she stepped into the center of the room, "Cheater! I wasn't ready!"
"That's not my fault," said Sansa as she let her own grin show, exasperation falling away as she took up a training staff with a precisely controlled twirl of her own, then slipped it through her leading hand, striking at the maximum extension of her reach at Arya's face, conveniently on the level of her shoulder.
Some time later, as the eastern skies were a bare shade less black than in the west, they walked through dark streets to the brothel's dining room together with a large group, guards following behind.
Sansa led the procession, greeting many of those they passed by name, highborn and smallfolk alike, as did Arya.
Meera paid attention, watching how natural Sansa's greetings were, how Arya asked about family members. Meera exchanged a glance and a small smile with Lyanna Mormont, who she'd found to also be a keen observer of the Starks, though more of Arya, just as Meera herself paid more attention to Sansa. She watched as Arya took Alleras aside with a wave and a promise to join them shortly, the two disappearing down an alley while the rest of the group approached the brothel.
They ascended the stone steps, Kitty opening the door, decorated with an engraving of a platter of roast chicken, just as they reached it and greeting each person with a broad smile. Meera could easily see where she'd picked that up from; the influence of the Stark sisters was everywhere, if you knew what to look for.
"Sansa, Meera, welcome back! You'll be in the large table in the back. Lord Reed, it's good to see you again. Lord Royce, a pleasure to have you with us. Lady Mormont, welcome to the dining room; we hope you enjoy your breakfast. Lord Manderly, we have a wonderful new recipe for eggs in a spicy Braavosi sauce I think you'll enjoy, if you'd like to try it. Maester Wolkan, thank you for seeing Petunia, she's doing much better now," said Lady Frey, ushering them in one at a time, then joining them at the table, food already coming out on individual plates, each meal tailored to each person's tastes.
Meera looked at her own plate, then the others, and realized that this, too, was an application of Sansa's spy network, and a subtle warning just as much as it was a reward and a kind gesture from their liege lady. She was supplying, though Kitty's hands, favorite meals, which was good. She also knew what their favorite meals were, and that was, now that she really thought about it, something she was done deliberately to show her knowledge, what Sansa would call the power of her knowledge.
Meeting Sansa's eyes, Meera saw a flicker of a wink. Kitty gave her a subtle nod, and her own father tipped his cup to her slightly. Lord Manderly and Lord Royce looked at each other, then both smiled at her! Was she really nearly the last to figure this out, and that obvious about it besides? Or were they all that good?
Well, at least she beat the girl of three and ten and the Maester, she supposed. Meera carefully tried to even out her expression again as Sansa had been teaching her, taking a drink and starting on her breakfast as Sansa asked the merman about taxes, wondering if everyone in King's Landing was this good, and what that said about Southron politics.
Lord Manderly savored a small bite of egg he had lavishly dipped in the sauce provided, closing his eyes to savor the new flavors as he ate, then answered Lady Stark, "The Keyholder has confirmed that our payment arrived; our interest rates remain steady. I believe taxes will be easy enough to collect, as long as they're what people brought with them. There's no telling what the army of the dead, or the other armies will do while they're in the North or the Vale, so we may have quite substantial rebuilding after the winter."
The large man patted his belly, his clothes clearly loose on his frame, and laughed, "We will have substantial rebuilding indeed! As will I!"
"Lady Mormont. I believe you are investigating the history of abdications of Kings in the North, and the laws and customs of bending the knee?"
"I am, Lady Stark. I've found three Kings in the North who abdicated their thrones to join the Night's Watch; the records the Night's Watch brought with them corroborate the other records, showing two to have become the Lord Commander. The only recorded instance where a King in the North ever bent the knee, of course, was Torrhen Stark, son of Theon Stark. There are clear records that he, facing the combined might of the South and three dragons with experienced riders, and having no scorpions or ballista, no Valyrian steel bolts or arrows, put his left knee on the ground, and presented his bared sword, as is custom," replied Lady Mormont strongly.
Meera listened to the normal speaking tones they were all using, in a public room, and compared them to the slow, careful way Arya had paced around the room in Winterfell, doing whatever it was beyond just listening and smelling and feeling the air that she did, to the low voiced they'd used even then, behind a door covered in furs to muffle sound. Meera knew herself to be an exceptional hunter - she could sneak up on game, had even been able to sneak up on Osha, but Arya seemed to have something beyond that, and those abilities had been used for minutes before they discussed dangerous, secret matters.
Having these discussions here, in public... this was training from Sansa, to her, too, in how to lead, to rule, to manage spies and rumors, in how to be the Lady of Winterfell. Sansa wanted these conversations known, spread by rumor and word of mouth. She wanted spies to hear of them, and Lord and Ladies personally, and even the serving staff... serving staff who worked for her. She supposed this was a little like baiting a game trail in the Neck, to encourage the game to come to where it was easier to hunt.
Meera knew Sansa could have made announcements, could have ordered messengers to call out to the people what she wanted them to know, could have organized spectacles. Even used spectacles that were already happening - the military meetings, the trips through the camps, Arya's bravo duels. But Sansa chose to do this instead, to let rumors spreads, to use them for her own purposes. To show that she did not do everything in secret, that she listened to many people - particularly to show the Lords and Ladies of the Vale that she, not just Arya, included Lord Royce. To show that she shared the concerns of their people about food, about the winter to come, and to show that they had many allies, that they were not alone.
So many messages in a single act! If this was what the South was like, then it was a complex place indeed.
"Maester Wolkan, how about the Long Night?" asked Sansa, her voice even and controlled.
"My lady, we've had confirmation from all six strongholds of the North and the Vale as well as Braavos, Lorath, Pentos, Seagard, and Darry. Every response confirms the days are too short, though there is a clear North to South effect; the father North, the shorter the days, just as is normally true, though not, of course, as short as now. We also received ravens from White Harbor; a fleet from Asshai has offloaded not only Red Priests and sorcerers to join the fight against the Night King, but also large supplies of food which grows in near complete or complete darkness; mushrooms, edible moss and other fungus, sprouts, some seaweeds, and cave fish."
"Please make sure No One is informed of the Red Priests and sorcerers; as long as they are truly here to help against the army of the dead, they are welcome; bringing exactly the food we believe we will need, as they are, they are very welcome," said Lady Stark, her voice pitched for their table... and for anyone else in the rapidly filling dining room who was listening carefully.
Sansa continued, "Meera, you visited the new glass gardens the Myrish glassblowers are helping us build yesterday. How are they coming?"
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Arya led Alleras through the alleys of Winter Town unerringly in the dark, lit only by the three-quarters full moon high above, speaking quietly, "So, Archmaester Marywn, Marwyn the Mage, was starting to have more success in the past few years?"
"Yes; he was very excited about it - he's a great Maester, though the higher mysteries aren't respected as a field of study, even before the Citadel heard about Qyburn's continuing research into the forbidden field of necromancy," replied Alleras, looking around eagerly. She'd been out in Sunspear, and Oldtown, and even the Summer Isles, Tyrosh, and other port cities many times, and in each place the nightlife was different.
Here was an interesting study in how cultures change - there were obvious signs of old Northern winter culture, when most of the outlying settlements packed up and moved to the great Northern hubs, like Winter Town, Barrowton, and others she'd heard of. The winter was a time for gossiping with neighbors, for seeing distant friends and extended family again, and for shared hardship.
Like a veteran fleet's crew, being together and suffering the same hardships forged strong bonds, not just within each ship or House, but between the Houses or ships as well. The bonds varied, of course, there were rivalries aplenty as well as friendships and kin-bonds, but compared to the vitriol of many other lands she'd been in, it was different.
Too, there were many signs of other cultures - she could see that the many newly constructed buildings were different - taller, like some of great cities of Essos, constrained by their walls, though the construction itself was quite different - much sturdier, built to shed snow, to be easy to sweep the roof clean, or, in the tallest of the new construction, to bear up under the weight of scorpions or ballista and their crews. She'd heard that some of the architecture had been influenced by the Free Folk, from beyond the Wall, where there were even harsher winters than these.
They continued on, Arya continuing her line of questions about the Citadel, and the Maesters, and the Quill and Tankard, and everything about her time in Oldtown, twice interrupted by meeting a bravo in the streets, as if Winter Town had been a city in the far north of Essos! The bravos had each looked at her, and seeing no weapons but her greatbow, ignored her entirely. Arya, on the other hand, they'd dipped their heads to with a mutter of, "First Sword," and continued on.
"Is there anything more you've remembered about Qyburn?" asked Arya, continuing her line of questions, nodding and greeting people as they passed, from guards to beggars.
"No, nothing. I am curious, though, how many titles do you have?" asked Alleras of her companion with a wink.
"Too many," answered Arya with a grin, "Far too many, and each title or name has a meaning all its own, doesn't it, Alleras, The Sphinx, Acolyte of the Citadel, Captain... and so on?"
Alleras grinned back, "I don't think I'm an acolyte anymore, Arya, so that one, at least, doesn't count. I've been away too long, was too obvious in leaving, surely they'll have heard by now," replied Alleras, turning serious after a laugh, "I wish I could, of course. It was a great time, and some of the Archmaesters are wonderful teachers! I have other responsibilities, now, so the point is moot."
"Perhaps, and perhaps not. Enjoy your time with the Maesters here, while you can. You're a favorite of theirs, you know - and they believe you'll be a truly excellent Maester in the field, once you have a few more links. Things are changing, with the Maesters, you know."
"They do? Many of the Maesters at the Citadel seemed to look down on some of the Maesters that went out to serve in holdfasts and castles... especially the ones in the North, and at the Wall, who didn't do much research. Most of them didn't want to be away from the great library, to be away from the Archmaesters... but they didn't want to do anything truly novel, either, or risk themselves - I remember Samwell talking about how he'd cured a man of greyscale! Greyscale, even advanced greyscale, can be cured! But because it's risky, the Maesters won't do it. Not even Archmaester Killaen."
"Cersei doesn't risk herself, either. Nor did Joffrey, or the Mad King. Tywin did; he rode to battle with his men. Even Maester Wolkan, here, as scared as he is, he acts. Foolishly, sometimes, but he stood right by the scorpion on the very first wildfire test, taking measurements. Some research should be encouraged - death by greyscale is a face of god, the same as others, but it does cause great suffering in others. Necromancy, like Qyburn studied, is forbidden by man and god both, like kinslaying and breaking guest rights," replied Arya, coming to a halt quietly in an alley, a dozen yards before the alley opened up to a much larger, well traveled street.
Alleras came to a stop with her host, and looked around with interest; there was little enough here, no side-doors opening on the alley, nothing before them but the bustle of a very busy city coming to life, of the night-shift guards and soldiers getting off duty and heading to eat, sleep, drink, work, whore, or see their families as they could before their next shift, just as any crew members with only a few hours of liberty in their home port did.
"What's here? Why did you stop? Is there a secret door? Is there a danger?" asked Alleras, sto;; using the deeper tenor tones she used in this guise.
"Your teacher is coming; behold, even now he approaches, majestic in his finery!" replied Arya seriously, without a hint of a jape.
Across from them, an old, maimed beggar was crossing the busy street in front of a scorpion crew heading to the tavern, the old man spotting them only once he'd entered the entrance to the alley himself. He greeted them enthusiastically.
"You again!" exclaimed One-armed Harry, pointing at Arya.
"Not me. This one," replied Arya shortly, jerking a thumb at Alleras.
"What about her? Youse puttin' her in my spot? Leavin' me to starve?" asked the beggar acerbically.
"No. Just introducing you. Alleras, this is One-armed Harry, a fully paid up beggar of the beggar's guild who has earned the rights to a prime spot. One-armed Harry, Alleras the Sphinx, acolyte of the Citadel, master archer."
"Hello," said Alleras, looking back and forth between the two, then inspecting the beggar more carefully. She took a half-step forward, looking at his sores; they weren't real! She recalled that Archmaester Killaen had gone over that precise type of lesion, and the flesh beneath shouldn't look quite like that... the color was a little off, too, now that she looked more carefully, even adjusting for the quality of moonlight in the alley.
"Piss off," growled One-armed Harry, "I ain't gonna get any coin with youse girls jabberin' all day."
Alleras reached up to start to point at his 'sore', so she could comment on the flaws when Arya clamped a hand firmly over her wrist, stopping her from pointing with a shake of her head. Arya spoke quietly, "Alleras here is pretending to be a man, you see."
"No she ain't. I's seen thieves. I's seen beggars. I's seen those likes run the con," assessed the professional beggar, then looked at Arya, "I's even seen the Underfoot, I has, them's that can look like anyone! She ain't pretendin' ta be a man."
"Exactly," replied Arya, unruffled, "Which is why she needs a teacher."
"A gold dragon a day, for the best teacher," said One-armed Harry, then rethought at a sudden glare from Arya, "One of the best teachers in Winter Town."
"Ridiculous! You can't be worth more than a copper penny a week, look how smooth your skin is," replied Alleras sharply. She'd been in more than enough ports to know when someone was trying to take advantage of a foreign sailor, and this man? A gold a day? Someone thought she was as rich as the Lannisters... of course, she was in high-quality clothes, accompanying Arya Stark, so he may have been using well-reasoned judgment for his starting bid, after all.
"You two work it out between yourselves. I have breakfast to attend," said Arya, turning and jogging off down the main street, back to the brothel, grinning as the two continued haggling behind her.
"Twenty silver moons a day! I's the best teacher youse ever find, better than youse deserve!"
"A halfpenny every two days; you'll die of inflated ego within the fortnight! You couldn't teach the greatest student in Westeros to tie their laces!"
"Seventy silver stags a day! Youse voice is risin' already, youse gonna need lessons until youse grandchildren got grandchildren!"
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Mariya swapped the melt water bowls in the main chamber of their little shelter gracefully, passing it to Emilee and Deranna after drinking her fill. They'd managed to create quite the little shelter in the past three days, a double-dogleg entrance just big enough to crawl through keeping the wind and snow out, a pile of supplies set to fall over and give warning if anyone else tried entering, some of the bells Arya'd given them mixed in, others on white yarn stretched across the path before lines of slender, lightweight dragonglass shard stakes set in the packed snow, all of which had to be taken apart and then reset every time they went in or out.
Their main chamber was larger than any the three of them had used before, requiring considerable time from Emilee to keep it maintained properly, but they had their entire team of fourteen dogs and all their gear in here with them, so it was still quite warm and cozy. The small, thin bronze kettle they had was just starting to bubble merrily over the lamp. Deranna'd added not just a little fish from her trip down the safety rope to the river, but also some of their salt pork and a bit of spices Mariya had gotten as a present from one of the pyromancers two days ago, so they'd have another good meal soon, hot, tasty and filling.
Deranna and Emilee were working on preparing the fish for the dogs, carefully putting some of the fat to the side to use; the dogs didn't need to eat as much, particularly not as much fat and meat when they weren't working, so Mariya left them to it and started the process of clearing the passage to bring the dogs out one or two at a time to relieve themselves, depending on how well behaved each dog was. At least she didn't have to worry about getting lost if she failed to keep hold of the guide rope, not when she had one of the dogs with her.
"You need anything else before I listen again?" asked Mariya quietly once she was done and all the dogs were back in and settled, snow brushed from their fur between the two doglegs in the entry tunnel so they stayed dry. Receiving two headshakes, she scritched and patted the dogs as she moved them out of the way, then pulled the packed snow blocks at the back of the shelter out of the way, carefully folding the thin cloth that prevented them from sticking together as she opened it up.
She then squeezed into the small tunnel, crawling forward as the flicker of the lamp behind her cut off when Deranna put the blocks back in place, all but one for air. By feel, she turned down the dogleg and continued slowly down and forward until she reached the end, even the constant howling and occasional sounds of thunder from the outside world fading away as she crept deeper.
She picked up a spear shaft, found the rough notch for her hand that indicated the correct length, and felt the wall, finding the hole immediately, and poked the spear carefully up at the correct angle, clearing it out again as quietly as she could until she could just hear voices coming from the Dragon Queen's shelter. They'd gotten lucky - the dragons had favored the opposite side of the dragon queen's shelter, by the boulders, for their landing spot. She hadn't wanted to die by being stepped on by a careless dragon, after all.
In the next shelter over, Tyrion was complaining, "Why didn't we pack more wine? If I'm to die, suffocated and frozen and crushed under a ton of snow, then I'd at least like to die drunk."
"Must you?" asked Varys.
"I must! I've had nothing but water and cold gruel for three days, trapped in this tent. I'd prefer the wheelhouse, I think," replied Tyrion, "But, again, why is there nothing to drink?"
"There is drink," said Missandei, "Just not for you. Two score barrels of it. Meralyn's Rum, I believe it was."
"Meralyn's? Meralyn's! That's not a drink, that's liquid fire! It'll turn you blind, besides - that's why it's so cheap. Why is the North buying Meralyn's? I thought they drank ale!"
"Enough!" said Daenerys, cuddled up with Jon on one side, the Dothraki leader up against her other arm. There wasn't enough room to move, not even enough to sit. They'd tried making a bigger hole, and then Rhaegal had moved and it had collapsed, so now they did as they'd been advised and stuck together in a small shelter dug into the snow.
Tyrion had started bickering first, Varys had responded to him, then Grey Worm had started sniping at her Hand, and Missandei, of course, had joined in with him. She was glad for Jon and Qhono; Jon was simply matter of fact about the whole experience, even if he was brooding some of the time, and Qhono was treating this as a sandstorm, something to be waited out patiently until it was time to act again.
Jon had been a wondrous blessing to her! Not only was he able to keep her warm, but as long as she stopped her advisors from asking him the same questions over and over, he was calm and collected. Moreover, he was the only one of them with any ability to cook with the tiny amount of firewood they were allotted, which he did for them. While the food was bland at best and bitter at worst, it wasn't undercooked, it wasn't burned, and the fire rarely grew high enough they got sleepy.
Had she been alone with him in the shelter, she supposed she could have quite enjoyed herself, as she had with Drogo so long ago. She didn't need the trappings of wealth she'd become used to in Meereen; she needed a family. Children of her body may be denied her, unless Jon was right and the witch had lied... and Daario had been unable to father children too... but she had Missandei, and Jon, and Drogon, and Rhaegal. And she'd meet Jon's sisters, soon! Drogo hadn't had any relatives, nor had Daario, so she was looking forward to spending time with his sisters and brother. Jon's stories of them gave her hope; perhaps, just perhaps, she might have good sisters and a good brother someday.
She was jostled as Qhono shifted, taking up Grey Worm's spear and starting to clear the air-holes again without a word, then she shifted herself, pulling her cloaks tighter around herself, crawling around the tiny fire and out the entrance, emerging under Drogon's wing, the sounds of the blizzard much louder, here. She leaned against her son's neck, stroking his scales, feeling the heat of his body, smiling at his eye opened lazily to look at her.
She'd stay here for a little while, she thought. None of this trip had gone as she'd wanted, but she had Jon, she had Missandei, she had Drogon and Rhaegal and Grey Worm, she had Ser Jorah with the portion of her army she'd brought and been allowed to keep here. Allowed!
Daenerys listened to the howling wind, remembered how she'd been cold on the dogsleds, in the wind, even in the additional clothes Sansa had sent. How Grey Worm had been stoically ignoring the cold, even in the 'Northern' Unsullied uniform. Her dragons, even, weren't happy in the cold, lethargic and sleepy in the blizzard, even after eating well at White Harbor.
Three days the blizzard had raged, and no one knew how long it would keep raging. Had she brought her entire army, by ship or by land, without any preparation, as if the North in winter was no worse than a cool Pentoshi day, or a night on the great grass sea, the Dothraki would be eating their horses now, dying and being maimed by frostbite.
Had she flown, and gotten caught in weather like this? She'd have had to fly higher, and it got cold up there; she'd have been looking down at an endless expanse of cloud-tops. That... might not have ended well, either, if the blizzard extended out over the sea; she'd never have even been able to find the coast. If she descended into the blizzard over water, Drogon might have hit the surface. While her dragon might be fine diving into the frozen Northern ocean, she would not; that much had been made abundantly clear to her by experiencing what it was like to get damp in real cold.
She owed Sansa Stark a boon, it seemed, and Lady Manderly and her daughters as well. They'd done a better job of advising her than her own advisors had! Perhaps she could replace Tyrion with his former wife... but no, Sansa wouldn't know how to advise her on how to take back the Iron Throne, not as well as Tyrion, though that hadn't been working out as she'd wanted.
She'd at least had the chance to see Rhaegal play with Jon, which had been quite amusing to her, watching him nuzzle his cheek up against Jon's belly, looking up plaintively. Drogon wasn't so happy with Jon, but Rhaegal was happy to to nuzzle up to him and beg for scritches; Jon's expression the first time that had happened had been priceless. She was happy she'd gotten the chance to see that - bringing it up with him was fun, too.
It gave her hope for, perhaps, having a family again, as she'd had with Drogo - a supportive family, not like Viserys had been. She missed Drogo and what they'd had, sometimes. Viserys had seemed good, when she was a small child, but as she grew... perhaps he changed, or perhaps she hadn't seen him for what he was, as she hadn't seen that evil witch for what she was, which had cost her Drogo.
The next day, Dany woke, cramped, her knee smacking Jon and her other foot hitting Qhono as she tried to stretch in the tight confines, with Qhono's knee in her back. She'd been cooped up in this miserable hole for four days! Four days of howling winds, cramped quarters, endless grumbling... wait a minute, that wasn't the wind. There was no wind; the faint rumbling sound of Drogon snoring, but no more than that.
"... an hour!" came the voice of the old Free Folk man, clear in the unfamiliar quiet.
"Your Grace, we're to continue the journey to Winterfell in less than an hour," said Varys softly, "The storm ended just a little while ago; they seem quite eager to get back on the road."
"As am I," proclaimed Daenerys, poking Jon in the side with a subtle tickle, then reaching over to shake Missandei awake, "Wake up, time to pack! We leave in less than an hour, and I don't want to be left behind again."
She snugged her winter gear tight, making sure her ears were well covered, and crawled out as quickly as she could, eliciting a squawk from Tyrion as she pushed his leg aside to get past. Once she emerged from the entrance tunnel she stood, rubbing Drogon under his wing-root where he was soft and warm, then spoke, "Drogon, Rhaegal, jioragon be!"
When they didn't move, she ducked down to stay under his wing, shoving at his head until he finally woke up. They weren't going to be able to move until her lazy children got up, and they needed to stretch their wings, anyway.
"Jioragon be!"
The dragons opened their eyes, slowly moving their heads; she'd scolded them quite severely when they'd brought the shelter down, and they'd been more careful after that. Daenerys gestured up, and they raised their heads, opening their jaws wide in a yawn before getting carefully to their feet with a mighty crackle as the rivulets of ice on their wings near their body cracked; their backs were clear of snow, the dragonfire inside keeping them warm, but their wings were another matter entirely, and the dragons twitched a few times, wings not moving.
With a mighty roar, Drogon and Rhaegal suddenly flipped their wings high to clear them, then tucked them in and looked down at her, pleased.
Until the many feet of snow that had accumulated atop their stretched out wings came down on the dragons, Daenerys, and Jon, who'd just come out behind her... and who was laughing at her as he came up to brush snow off her.
"What's this? You're trying to invent a new Northern fashion, Dany?"
She scraped snow off her face, glaring at him sourly, "You think this is funny, Jon Snow?"
With that, she pounced, smearing her handful of snow into his face.
Later that day, after the sun was high in the sky, they were again bouncing around on the sled, wind rushing over them, though Daenerys was still in a good mood. They had managed to pack up more quickly this time, not having any dogs to care for, and were only in the rear third of the center column of the caravan.
She'd had time to recover, holed up in the shelter, and had had quite a lot of time to think. There were no decisions to be made, no endless streams of petitioners, not even planning for war. The times she'd spent with Drogon during the blizzard had been peaceful; sometimes Jon had joined her, and that had been nice.
The cramped quarters full of endless bickering had not; the lack of any time alone with Jon had not, but she could imagine years of this; endless snows and winter, with no great activities, just waiting it out. Her Northern subjects did have reason to be different, if this was half their lives. She would be protecting them soon, and she could hope they'd see she deserved their love for it.
Suddenly a shout came, even as a horn started sounding the first of three long notes.
"Gengangare hoger! Gengangare hoger! Valnad kolla!"
Jon had drawn Longclaw and sat up, looking around frantically and grabbing a rope as their sled sped up, jerking as it turned sharply to the left, their young driver intent on his duty. Behind them, three medium sized sleds carrying Free Folk and only a few supplies sped up and peeled off to the right, the passengers standing easily despite how fast the sleds were going, long spears pointed out at the front and back, archers pulling white cloth off their bows and crossbows, arrows with tiny dragonglass heads nocked as those dogsleds moved forward and to the right, disappearing from her sight behind a snowdrift... or a hill, she couldn't tell.
"Where are they?" asked Jon frantically, keeping Longclaw pointed out over the side of the sled, complex horn calls echoing before and behind them as the caravan reacted, "Where are the White Walkers?"
"I don't know! Where are my dragons?" replied Daenerys. In the sled behind her she could see Grey Worm's spear was out and ready, even from his seated position, and Missandei had a little wood and dragonglass dagger out on the other side, poking past the barrels. Belatedly, she pulled out her own dragonglass dagger; there hadn't been time for her to get herself a better one, not and leave with the dogsleds, but she wouldn't go down without a fight.
Looking up, she spotted her children, flying in happy circles far behind them, well and truly out of earshot. She sat, then grabbed Jon's shoulder tightly in a gloved hand and stood, bending her legs as she'd seen the Free Folk do, waving her free arm rapidly, shouting anyway, "Drogon! Rhaegal! Mazigon kesir! Mazigon kesir!"
They were too far away to hear, so she stopped shouting, continuing to wave, trying to get their attention so she could get into the fight. Three notes meant the army of the dead was attacking; she had no armies here, no Unsullied shield-wall, no Dothraki archers, only her dragons. She needed them to protect the caravan, to come here so she could mount Drogon and burn the dead! Unless this was a trap for them...
"Do you see the Night King? Viserion?" she asked, suddenly worried even as faint sounds of crossbows twanging echoed over the snow. Her children were out there, riderless, vulnerable to the Night King's thrown spears, to poor Viserion's body, controlled by the Night King.
The skies were clear! Why wasn't she on Drogon? She'd wanted to spend time with Jon, true, and she'd started getting used to riding on the sled, but that wasn't important now. Her children needed her, and she couldn't do anything to help them, not from here. She resolved to mount Drogon as soon as she could, though that left Rhaegal riderless, since she was the only dragon-rider in the world.
Viserion had been riderless when the Night King had killed him; without anyone to watch for threats, without anyone to guide him, to help him when he fought the dead. She'd been there for Drogon, but she couldn't be there for both her children at the same time.
Behind them, the three sleds were returning, slotting back right into the places they'd been, crews triumphant.
She turned to look at Jon, who was still turning his head back and forth, scanning land and sky rapidly for any signs of the army of the dead.
Rhaegal liked Jon.
***********************
"You are the most annoying sister in the world," complained Sansa, making the sign for jape, taking the chill water and nearly draining it. She hadn't even lit the hearth last night; a candle was enough for her to train with, and the chambermaids telling tales of the Red Wolf's being perfectly comfortable without a fire was both amusing and useful. She stood, stretching, then poured the last bit of water carefully onto a scrap of cloth, washing her face vigorously.
"I can't be. You exist, after all," replied Arya with a grin, settling down and lighting a candle before taking a stack of raven scrolls from one of the many bookshelves, glancing through the reports from the other strongholds, reading the military ones and setting the civilian and political ones aside for Sansa.
"Oh? I happen to have heard some strange things, you know. While you were out traveling the kingdoms, it seems Lord Stout died, tragically," said Sansa leadingly, wiping herself down with the rag and dressing. She wouldn't have done that with anyone else present, but her sister, she felt safe with. Arya, too, knew enough to have busied herself looking at papers, rather than at her scars, and she was grateful.
"Oh? Was he very old?" asked Arya blandly, showing no sign of interest, or knowledge, whatsoever, "Did he challenge a bravo to a duel to the death?"
"He drowned after falling in the privy, upside down and stuck, after spilling his ale and slipping," said Sansa equally blandly, watching her sister closely, seeing nothing.
"Perhaps he should have drank less. His heir... that was Robert Stout, wasn't it? Do you like him better?" asked Arya, a trace of boredom in her voice as it usually was when discussing highborn politics with her sister.
"Strangely enough, Robert disappeared. The younger son, Edward Stout is Lord now. He seems to be doing well for losing so much of his family in such short order," replied Sansa, moving closer so Arya could help lace up her armored dress in the back. Arya clearly wasn't going to give anything away, so all she had were suspicions... and a little more.
"Father dead, brother vanished. Should I pay my respects?" replied Arya, rubbing Sansa's scarred back gently before starting to lace her up carefully. As she'd expected, No One hadn't left any evidence behind; No One was well on the path to being a full priest of the Many-Faced God.
"And his mother, who died just before you left. Apparently of sickness, according to her husband, though I did hear he'd had her body burned with... very commendable speed," said Sansa dryly, sitting down and starting on her own stack of raven scrolls, continuing.
"The vanished Robert Stout, though, you should remember. He bore quite a resemblance to the young man of the House of Black and White who took away that bravo from Myr you killed. Strange, that."
"The world is full of strange things, Sansa. You should see more of it; Braavos, at least - it's farther North than most of the Vale, and you don't mind that," replied Arya. Westeros was just going to have to get used to the way the House of Black and White in Westeros did things, and avenging a mother who was beaten to death was very much the kind of just vengeance the House was here to provide... for a price. That both sons have loved their mother, and that the elder son had truly wished to grow up and be Lord was good; the price of devoting his life to the House of Black and White was heavy enough.
"That's a discussion for summer, Arya. Robert Stout wasn't a great fighter, not even a good one; I've seen him train, even beaten him in training matches myself. He wasn't very bright, either, for all that he was a better man than his father... far better, from what I hear, but his father's bannermen didn't respect him. They respect his little brother even less, and are making trouble," said Sansa, getting to the core of what she needed to tell her sister, making the sign for truth. Killing monsters was well and good, but there were real consequences to it, and not just for the monsters and their victims.
"Summer travels it is, my provincial sister. Valar Dohaeris; his bannermen must serve. They can respect the lad or not, as long as they don't show it on their faces, but if they're being a problem... I'll pair him up with Lord Glover for awhile. Unless you think Lady Winter should pay them a visit?" asked Arya.
"Gods no! Lord Glover will do fine. I just wish there was some way I could have a warning when I'm about to have a mess like that on my hands, Arya! You were away, Lady Stout had been burned two weeks before, then suddenly the man was dead and the boy was missing. If the younger son had been the one missing, I'd have been dealing with his bannermen accusing Robert of assassinating his father to become Lord! As it is, it's still too close to kinslaying for comfort."
"Valar Morghulis, Sansa. Valar Morghulis. There is a price to be paid for everything. Perhaps you should send a raven to the Sealord; he might have some advice you'd find useful."
Sansa glared at Arya, angry at her sister's immediate dismissal of not just the trouble the actions her men, women, whatever had done were causing Sansa, but at the time she'd have to waste now, the tensions that this kind of thing would cause, now and in the future. Watching Arya's calmness, Sansa closed her eyes and pondered the rest of what Arya had said.
Everything had a price; that included the trade with Braavos, free of tax and tariff for that part of the trade that was part of the war against the dead. They'd bought a small fleet of ships, and the Sealord had voluntarily given up quite a lot of money with his decision. The Faceless Men had gifted enough Valyrian Steel to make dozens of the 'Death's Head' scorpion bolts, as they'd been named. Her sister was alive, and well, and an enormously capable assassin... who did, in fact, assassinate people, and have them assassinated.
Even when it was inconvenient for her elder sister.
Sansa crumpled up the raven scrolls she was done with, crushing them tight in her hand, suppressing her anger, letting it diminish and be overwhelmed by her love for her sister, her gratitude... and her simple exasperation, as she flung the entire handful at Arya, whose dodge turned into a cartwheel, then with a wicked grin Arya took up a lightly padded staff, twirling it around as she stepped into the center of the room, "Cheater! I wasn't ready!"
"That's not my fault," said Sansa as she let her own grin show, exasperation falling away as she took up a training staff with a precisely controlled twirl of her own, then slipped it through her leading hand, striking at the maximum extension of her reach at Arya's face, conveniently on the level of her shoulder.
Some time later, as the eastern skies were a bare shade less black than in the west, they walked through dark streets to the brothel's dining room together with a large group, guards following behind.
Sansa led the procession, greeting many of those they passed by name, highborn and smallfolk alike, as did Arya.
Meera paid attention, watching how natural Sansa's greetings were, how Arya asked about family members. Meera exchanged a glance and a small smile with Lyanna Mormont, who she'd found to also be a keen observer of the Starks, though more of Arya, just as Meera herself paid more attention to Sansa. She watched as Arya took Alleras aside with a wave and a promise to join them shortly, the two disappearing down an alley while the rest of the group approached the brothel.
They ascended the stone steps, Kitty opening the door, decorated with an engraving of a platter of roast chicken, just as they reached it and greeting each person with a broad smile. Meera could easily see where she'd picked that up from; the influence of the Stark sisters was everywhere, if you knew what to look for.
"Sansa, Meera, welcome back! You'll be in the large table in the back. Lord Reed, it's good to see you again. Lord Royce, a pleasure to have you with us. Lady Mormont, welcome to the dining room; we hope you enjoy your breakfast. Lord Manderly, we have a wonderful new recipe for eggs in a spicy Braavosi sauce I think you'll enjoy, if you'd like to try it. Maester Wolkan, thank you for seeing Petunia, she's doing much better now," said Lady Frey, ushering them in one at a time, then joining them at the table, food already coming out on individual plates, each meal tailored to each person's tastes.
Meera looked at her own plate, then the others, and realized that this, too, was an application of Sansa's spy network, and a subtle warning just as much as it was a reward and a kind gesture from their liege lady. She was supplying, though Kitty's hands, favorite meals, which was good. She also knew what their favorite meals were, and that was, now that she really thought about it, something she was done deliberately to show her knowledge, what Sansa would call the power of her knowledge.
Meeting Sansa's eyes, Meera saw a flicker of a wink. Kitty gave her a subtle nod, and her own father tipped his cup to her slightly. Lord Manderly and Lord Royce looked at each other, then both smiled at her! Was she really nearly the last to figure this out, and that obvious about it besides? Or were they all that good?
Well, at least she beat the girl of three and ten and the Maester, she supposed. Meera carefully tried to even out her expression again as Sansa had been teaching her, taking a drink and starting on her breakfast as Sansa asked the merman about taxes, wondering if everyone in King's Landing was this good, and what that said about Southron politics.
Lord Manderly savored a small bite of egg he had lavishly dipped in the sauce provided, closing his eyes to savor the new flavors as he ate, then answered Lady Stark, "The Keyholder has confirmed that our payment arrived; our interest rates remain steady. I believe taxes will be easy enough to collect, as long as they're what people brought with them. There's no telling what the army of the dead, or the other armies will do while they're in the North or the Vale, so we may have quite substantial rebuilding after the winter."
The large man patted his belly, his clothes clearly loose on his frame, and laughed, "We will have substantial rebuilding indeed! As will I!"
"Lady Mormont. I believe you are investigating the history of abdications of Kings in the North, and the laws and customs of bending the knee?"
"I am, Lady Stark. I've found three Kings in the North who abdicated their thrones to join the Night's Watch; the records the Night's Watch brought with them corroborate the other records, showing two to have become the Lord Commander. The only recorded instance where a King in the North ever bent the knee, of course, was Torrhen Stark, son of Theon Stark. There are clear records that he, facing the combined might of the South and three dragons with experienced riders, and having no scorpions or ballista, no Valyrian steel bolts or arrows, put his left knee on the ground, and presented his bared sword, as is custom," replied Lady Mormont strongly.
Meera listened to the normal speaking tones they were all using, in a public room, and compared them to the slow, careful way Arya had paced around the room in Winterfell, doing whatever it was beyond just listening and smelling and feeling the air that she did, to the low voiced they'd used even then, behind a door covered in furs to muffle sound. Meera knew herself to be an exceptional hunter - she could sneak up on game, had even been able to sneak up on Osha, but Arya seemed to have something beyond that, and those abilities had been used for minutes before they discussed dangerous, secret matters.
Having these discussions here, in public... this was training from Sansa, to her, too, in how to lead, to rule, to manage spies and rumors, in how to be the Lady of Winterfell. Sansa wanted these conversations known, spread by rumor and word of mouth. She wanted spies to hear of them, and Lord and Ladies personally, and even the serving staff... serving staff who worked for her. She supposed this was a little like baiting a game trail in the Neck, to encourage the game to come to where it was easier to hunt.
Meera knew Sansa could have made announcements, could have ordered messengers to call out to the people what she wanted them to know, could have organized spectacles. Even used spectacles that were already happening - the military meetings, the trips through the camps, Arya's bravo duels. But Sansa chose to do this instead, to let rumors spreads, to use them for her own purposes. To show that she did not do everything in secret, that she listened to many people - particularly to show the Lords and Ladies of the Vale that she, not just Arya, included Lord Royce. To show that she shared the concerns of their people about food, about the winter to come, and to show that they had many allies, that they were not alone.
So many messages in a single act! If this was what the South was like, then it was a complex place indeed.
"Maester Wolkan, how about the Long Night?" asked Sansa, her voice even and controlled.
"My lady, we've had confirmation from all six strongholds of the North and the Vale as well as Braavos, Lorath, Pentos, Seagard, and Darry. Every response confirms the days are too short, though there is a clear North to South effect; the father North, the shorter the days, just as is normally true, though not, of course, as short as now. We also received ravens from White Harbor; a fleet from Asshai has offloaded not only Red Priests and sorcerers to join the fight against the Night King, but also large supplies of food which grows in near complete or complete darkness; mushrooms, edible moss and other fungus, sprouts, some seaweeds, and cave fish."
"Please make sure No One is informed of the Red Priests and sorcerers; as long as they are truly here to help against the army of the dead, they are welcome; bringing exactly the food we believe we will need, as they are, they are very welcome," said Lady Stark, her voice pitched for their table... and for anyone else in the rapidly filling dining room who was listening carefully.
Sansa continued, "Meera, you visited the new glass gardens the Myrish glassblowers are helping us build yesterday. How are they coming?"
************************
Arya led Alleras through the alleys of Winter Town unerringly in the dark, lit only by the three-quarters full moon high above, speaking quietly, "So, Archmaester Marywn, Marwyn the Mage, was starting to have more success in the past few years?"
"Yes; he was very excited about it - he's a great Maester, though the higher mysteries aren't respected as a field of study, even before the Citadel heard about Qyburn's continuing research into the forbidden field of necromancy," replied Alleras, looking around eagerly. She'd been out in Sunspear, and Oldtown, and even the Summer Isles, Tyrosh, and other port cities many times, and in each place the nightlife was different.
Here was an interesting study in how cultures change - there were obvious signs of old Northern winter culture, when most of the outlying settlements packed up and moved to the great Northern hubs, like Winter Town, Barrowton, and others she'd heard of. The winter was a time for gossiping with neighbors, for seeing distant friends and extended family again, and for shared hardship.
Like a veteran fleet's crew, being together and suffering the same hardships forged strong bonds, not just within each ship or House, but between the Houses or ships as well. The bonds varied, of course, there were rivalries aplenty as well as friendships and kin-bonds, but compared to the vitriol of many other lands she'd been in, it was different.
Too, there were many signs of other cultures - she could see that the many newly constructed buildings were different - taller, like some of great cities of Essos, constrained by their walls, though the construction itself was quite different - much sturdier, built to shed snow, to be easy to sweep the roof clean, or, in the tallest of the new construction, to bear up under the weight of scorpions or ballista and their crews. She'd heard that some of the architecture had been influenced by the Free Folk, from beyond the Wall, where there were even harsher winters than these.
They continued on, Arya continuing her line of questions about the Citadel, and the Maesters, and the Quill and Tankard, and everything about her time in Oldtown, twice interrupted by meeting a bravo in the streets, as if Winter Town had been a city in the far north of Essos! The bravos had each looked at her, and seeing no weapons but her greatbow, ignored her entirely. Arya, on the other hand, they'd dipped their heads to with a mutter of, "First Sword," and continued on.
"Is there anything more you've remembered about Qyburn?" asked Arya, continuing her line of questions, nodding and greeting people as they passed, from guards to beggars.
"No, nothing. I am curious, though, how many titles do you have?" asked Alleras of her companion with a wink.
"Too many," answered Arya with a grin, "Far too many, and each title or name has a meaning all its own, doesn't it, Alleras, The Sphinx, Acolyte of the Citadel, Captain... and so on?"
Alleras grinned back, "I don't think I'm an acolyte anymore, Arya, so that one, at least, doesn't count. I've been away too long, was too obvious in leaving, surely they'll have heard by now," replied Alleras, turning serious after a laugh, "I wish I could, of course. It was a great time, and some of the Archmaesters are wonderful teachers! I have other responsibilities, now, so the point is moot."
"Perhaps, and perhaps not. Enjoy your time with the Maesters here, while you can. You're a favorite of theirs, you know - and they believe you'll be a truly excellent Maester in the field, once you have a few more links. Things are changing, with the Maesters, you know."
"They do? Many of the Maesters at the Citadel seemed to look down on some of the Maesters that went out to serve in holdfasts and castles... especially the ones in the North, and at the Wall, who didn't do much research. Most of them didn't want to be away from the great library, to be away from the Archmaesters... but they didn't want to do anything truly novel, either, or risk themselves - I remember Samwell talking about how he'd cured a man of greyscale! Greyscale, even advanced greyscale, can be cured! But because it's risky, the Maesters won't do it. Not even Archmaester Killaen."
"Cersei doesn't risk herself, either. Nor did Joffrey, or the Mad King. Tywin did; he rode to battle with his men. Even Maester Wolkan, here, as scared as he is, he acts. Foolishly, sometimes, but he stood right by the scorpion on the very first wildfire test, taking measurements. Some research should be encouraged - death by greyscale is a face of god, the same as others, but it does cause great suffering in others. Necromancy, like Qyburn studied, is forbidden by man and god both, like kinslaying and breaking guest rights," replied Arya, coming to a halt quietly in an alley, a dozen yards before the alley opened up to a much larger, well traveled street.
Alleras came to a stop with her host, and looked around with interest; there was little enough here, no side-doors opening on the alley, nothing before them but the bustle of a very busy city coming to life, of the night-shift guards and soldiers getting off duty and heading to eat, sleep, drink, work, whore, or see their families as they could before their next shift, just as any crew members with only a few hours of liberty in their home port did.
"What's here? Why did you stop? Is there a secret door? Is there a danger?" asked Alleras, sto;; using the deeper tenor tones she used in this guise.
"Your teacher is coming; behold, even now he approaches, majestic in his finery!" replied Arya seriously, without a hint of a jape.
Across from them, an old, maimed beggar was crossing the busy street in front of a scorpion crew heading to the tavern, the old man spotting them only once he'd entered the entrance to the alley himself. He greeted them enthusiastically.
"You again!" exclaimed One-armed Harry, pointing at Arya.
"Not me. This one," replied Arya shortly, jerking a thumb at Alleras.
"What about her? Youse puttin' her in my spot? Leavin' me to starve?" asked the beggar acerbically.
"No. Just introducing you. Alleras, this is One-armed Harry, a fully paid up beggar of the beggar's guild who has earned the rights to a prime spot. One-armed Harry, Alleras the Sphinx, acolyte of the Citadel, master archer."
"Hello," said Alleras, looking back and forth between the two, then inspecting the beggar more carefully. She took a half-step forward, looking at his sores; they weren't real! She recalled that Archmaester Killaen had gone over that precise type of lesion, and the flesh beneath shouldn't look quite like that... the color was a little off, too, now that she looked more carefully, even adjusting for the quality of moonlight in the alley.
"Piss off," growled One-armed Harry, "I ain't gonna get any coin with youse girls jabberin' all day."
Alleras reached up to start to point at his 'sore', so she could comment on the flaws when Arya clamped a hand firmly over her wrist, stopping her from pointing with a shake of her head. Arya spoke quietly, "Alleras here is pretending to be a man, you see."
"No she ain't. I's seen thieves. I's seen beggars. I's seen those likes run the con," assessed the professional beggar, then looked at Arya, "I's even seen the Underfoot, I has, them's that can look like anyone! She ain't pretendin' ta be a man."
"Exactly," replied Arya, unruffled, "Which is why she needs a teacher."
"A gold dragon a day, for the best teacher," said One-armed Harry, then rethought at a sudden glare from Arya, "One of the best teachers in Winter Town."
"Ridiculous! You can't be worth more than a copper penny a week, look how smooth your skin is," replied Alleras sharply. She'd been in more than enough ports to know when someone was trying to take advantage of a foreign sailor, and this man? A gold a day? Someone thought she was as rich as the Lannisters... of course, she was in high-quality clothes, accompanying Arya Stark, so he may have been using well-reasoned judgment for his starting bid, after all.
"You two work it out between yourselves. I have breakfast to attend," said Arya, turning and jogging off down the main street, back to the brothel, grinning as the two continued haggling behind her.
"Twenty silver moons a day! I's the best teacher youse ever find, better than youse deserve!"
"A halfpenny every two days; you'll die of inflated ego within the fortnight! You couldn't teach the greatest student in Westeros to tie their laces!"
"Seventy silver stags a day! Youse voice is risin' already, youse gonna need lessons until youse grandchildren got grandchildren!"
************************
Mariya swapped the melt water bowls in the main chamber of their little shelter gracefully, passing it to Emilee and Deranna after drinking her fill. They'd managed to create quite the little shelter in the past three days, a double-dogleg entrance just big enough to crawl through keeping the wind and snow out, a pile of supplies set to fall over and give warning if anyone else tried entering, some of the bells Arya'd given them mixed in, others on white yarn stretched across the path before lines of slender, lightweight dragonglass shard stakes set in the packed snow, all of which had to be taken apart and then reset every time they went in or out.
Their main chamber was larger than any the three of them had used before, requiring considerable time from Emilee to keep it maintained properly, but they had their entire team of fourteen dogs and all their gear in here with them, so it was still quite warm and cozy. The small, thin bronze kettle they had was just starting to bubble merrily over the lamp. Deranna'd added not just a little fish from her trip down the safety rope to the river, but also some of their salt pork and a bit of spices Mariya had gotten as a present from one of the pyromancers two days ago, so they'd have another good meal soon, hot, tasty and filling.
Deranna and Emilee were working on preparing the fish for the dogs, carefully putting some of the fat to the side to use; the dogs didn't need to eat as much, particularly not as much fat and meat when they weren't working, so Mariya left them to it and started the process of clearing the passage to bring the dogs out one or two at a time to relieve themselves, depending on how well behaved each dog was. At least she didn't have to worry about getting lost if she failed to keep hold of the guide rope, not when she had one of the dogs with her.
"You need anything else before I listen again?" asked Mariya quietly once she was done and all the dogs were back in and settled, snow brushed from their fur between the two doglegs in the entry tunnel so they stayed dry. Receiving two headshakes, she scritched and patted the dogs as she moved them out of the way, then pulled the packed snow blocks at the back of the shelter out of the way, carefully folding the thin cloth that prevented them from sticking together as she opened it up.
She then squeezed into the small tunnel, crawling forward as the flicker of the lamp behind her cut off when Deranna put the blocks back in place, all but one for air. By feel, she turned down the dogleg and continued slowly down and forward until she reached the end, even the constant howling and occasional sounds of thunder from the outside world fading away as she crept deeper.
She picked up a spear shaft, found the rough notch for her hand that indicated the correct length, and felt the wall, finding the hole immediately, and poked the spear carefully up at the correct angle, clearing it out again as quietly as she could until she could just hear voices coming from the Dragon Queen's shelter. They'd gotten lucky - the dragons had favored the opposite side of the dragon queen's shelter, by the boulders, for their landing spot. She hadn't wanted to die by being stepped on by a careless dragon, after all.
In the next shelter over, Tyrion was complaining, "Why didn't we pack more wine? If I'm to die, suffocated and frozen and crushed under a ton of snow, then I'd at least like to die drunk."
"Must you?" asked Varys.
"I must! I've had nothing but water and cold gruel for three days, trapped in this tent. I'd prefer the wheelhouse, I think," replied Tyrion, "But, again, why is there nothing to drink?"
"There is drink," said Missandei, "Just not for you. Two score barrels of it. Meralyn's Rum, I believe it was."
"Meralyn's? Meralyn's! That's not a drink, that's liquid fire! It'll turn you blind, besides - that's why it's so cheap. Why is the North buying Meralyn's? I thought they drank ale!"
"Enough!" said Daenerys, cuddled up with Jon on one side, the Dothraki leader up against her other arm. There wasn't enough room to move, not even enough to sit. They'd tried making a bigger hole, and then Rhaegal had moved and it had collapsed, so now they did as they'd been advised and stuck together in a small shelter dug into the snow.
Tyrion had started bickering first, Varys had responded to him, then Grey Worm had started sniping at her Hand, and Missandei, of course, had joined in with him. She was glad for Jon and Qhono; Jon was simply matter of fact about the whole experience, even if he was brooding some of the time, and Qhono was treating this as a sandstorm, something to be waited out patiently until it was time to act again.
Jon had been a wondrous blessing to her! Not only was he able to keep her warm, but as long as she stopped her advisors from asking him the same questions over and over, he was calm and collected. Moreover, he was the only one of them with any ability to cook with the tiny amount of firewood they were allotted, which he did for them. While the food was bland at best and bitter at worst, it wasn't undercooked, it wasn't burned, and the fire rarely grew high enough they got sleepy.
Had she been alone with him in the shelter, she supposed she could have quite enjoyed herself, as she had with Drogo so long ago. She didn't need the trappings of wealth she'd become used to in Meereen; she needed a family. Children of her body may be denied her, unless Jon was right and the witch had lied... and Daario had been unable to father children too... but she had Missandei, and Jon, and Drogon, and Rhaegal. And she'd meet Jon's sisters, soon! Drogo hadn't had any relatives, nor had Daario, so she was looking forward to spending time with his sisters and brother. Jon's stories of them gave her hope; perhaps, just perhaps, she might have good sisters and a good brother someday.
She was jostled as Qhono shifted, taking up Grey Worm's spear and starting to clear the air-holes again without a word, then she shifted herself, pulling her cloaks tighter around herself, crawling around the tiny fire and out the entrance, emerging under Drogon's wing, the sounds of the blizzard much louder, here. She leaned against her son's neck, stroking his scales, feeling the heat of his body, smiling at his eye opened lazily to look at her.
She'd stay here for a little while, she thought. None of this trip had gone as she'd wanted, but she had Jon, she had Missandei, she had Drogon and Rhaegal and Grey Worm, she had Ser Jorah with the portion of her army she'd brought and been allowed to keep here. Allowed!
Daenerys listened to the howling wind, remembered how she'd been cold on the dogsleds, in the wind, even in the additional clothes Sansa had sent. How Grey Worm had been stoically ignoring the cold, even in the 'Northern' Unsullied uniform. Her dragons, even, weren't happy in the cold, lethargic and sleepy in the blizzard, even after eating well at White Harbor.
Three days the blizzard had raged, and no one knew how long it would keep raging. Had she brought her entire army, by ship or by land, without any preparation, as if the North in winter was no worse than a cool Pentoshi day, or a night on the great grass sea, the Dothraki would be eating their horses now, dying and being maimed by frostbite.
Had she flown, and gotten caught in weather like this? She'd have had to fly higher, and it got cold up there; she'd have been looking down at an endless expanse of cloud-tops. That... might not have ended well, either, if the blizzard extended out over the sea; she'd never have even been able to find the coast. If she descended into the blizzard over water, Drogon might have hit the surface. While her dragon might be fine diving into the frozen Northern ocean, she would not; that much had been made abundantly clear to her by experiencing what it was like to get damp in real cold.
She owed Sansa Stark a boon, it seemed, and Lady Manderly and her daughters as well. They'd done a better job of advising her than her own advisors had! Perhaps she could replace Tyrion with his former wife... but no, Sansa wouldn't know how to advise her on how to take back the Iron Throne, not as well as Tyrion, though that hadn't been working out as she'd wanted.
She'd at least had the chance to see Rhaegal play with Jon, which had been quite amusing to her, watching him nuzzle his cheek up against Jon's belly, looking up plaintively. Drogon wasn't so happy with Jon, but Rhaegal was happy to to nuzzle up to him and beg for scritches; Jon's expression the first time that had happened had been priceless. She was happy she'd gotten the chance to see that - bringing it up with him was fun, too.
It gave her hope for, perhaps, having a family again, as she'd had with Drogo - a supportive family, not like Viserys had been. She missed Drogo and what they'd had, sometimes. Viserys had seemed good, when she was a small child, but as she grew... perhaps he changed, or perhaps she hadn't seen him for what he was, as she hadn't seen that evil witch for what she was, which had cost her Drogo.
The next day, Dany woke, cramped, her knee smacking Jon and her other foot hitting Qhono as she tried to stretch in the tight confines, with Qhono's knee in her back. She'd been cooped up in this miserable hole for four days! Four days of howling winds, cramped quarters, endless grumbling... wait a minute, that wasn't the wind. There was no wind; the faint rumbling sound of Drogon snoring, but no more than that.
"... an hour!" came the voice of the old Free Folk man, clear in the unfamiliar quiet.
"Your Grace, we're to continue the journey to Winterfell in less than an hour," said Varys softly, "The storm ended just a little while ago; they seem quite eager to get back on the road."
"As am I," proclaimed Daenerys, poking Jon in the side with a subtle tickle, then reaching over to shake Missandei awake, "Wake up, time to pack! We leave in less than an hour, and I don't want to be left behind again."
She snugged her winter gear tight, making sure her ears were well covered, and crawled out as quickly as she could, eliciting a squawk from Tyrion as she pushed his leg aside to get past. Once she emerged from the entrance tunnel she stood, rubbing Drogon under his wing-root where he was soft and warm, then spoke, "Drogon, Rhaegal, jioragon be!"
When they didn't move, she ducked down to stay under his wing, shoving at his head until he finally woke up. They weren't going to be able to move until her lazy children got up, and they needed to stretch their wings, anyway.
"Jioragon be!"
The dragons opened their eyes, slowly moving their heads; she'd scolded them quite severely when they'd brought the shelter down, and they'd been more careful after that. Daenerys gestured up, and they raised their heads, opening their jaws wide in a yawn before getting carefully to their feet with a mighty crackle as the rivulets of ice on their wings near their body cracked; their backs were clear of snow, the dragonfire inside keeping them warm, but their wings were another matter entirely, and the dragons twitched a few times, wings not moving.
With a mighty roar, Drogon and Rhaegal suddenly flipped their wings high to clear them, then tucked them in and looked down at her, pleased.
Until the many feet of snow that had accumulated atop their stretched out wings came down on the dragons, Daenerys, and Jon, who'd just come out behind her... and who was laughing at her as he came up to brush snow off her.
"What's this? You're trying to invent a new Northern fashion, Dany?"
She scraped snow off her face, glaring at him sourly, "You think this is funny, Jon Snow?"
With that, she pounced, smearing her handful of snow into his face.
Later that day, after the sun was high in the sky, they were again bouncing around on the sled, wind rushing over them, though Daenerys was still in a good mood. They had managed to pack up more quickly this time, not having any dogs to care for, and were only in the rear third of the center column of the caravan.
She'd had time to recover, holed up in the shelter, and had had quite a lot of time to think. There were no decisions to be made, no endless streams of petitioners, not even planning for war. The times she'd spent with Drogon during the blizzard had been peaceful; sometimes Jon had joined her, and that had been nice.
The cramped quarters full of endless bickering had not; the lack of any time alone with Jon had not, but she could imagine years of this; endless snows and winter, with no great activities, just waiting it out. Her Northern subjects did have reason to be different, if this was half their lives. She would be protecting them soon, and she could hope they'd see she deserved their love for it.
Suddenly a shout came, even as a horn started sounding the first of three long notes.
"Gengangare hoger! Gengangare hoger! Valnad kolla!"
Jon had drawn Longclaw and sat up, looking around frantically and grabbing a rope as their sled sped up, jerking as it turned sharply to the left, their young driver intent on his duty. Behind them, three medium sized sleds carrying Free Folk and only a few supplies sped up and peeled off to the right, the passengers standing easily despite how fast the sleds were going, long spears pointed out at the front and back, archers pulling white cloth off their bows and crossbows, arrows with tiny dragonglass heads nocked as those dogsleds moved forward and to the right, disappearing from her sight behind a snowdrift... or a hill, she couldn't tell.
"Where are they?" asked Jon frantically, keeping Longclaw pointed out over the side of the sled, complex horn calls echoing before and behind them as the caravan reacted, "Where are the White Walkers?"
"I don't know! Where are my dragons?" replied Daenerys. In the sled behind her she could see Grey Worm's spear was out and ready, even from his seated position, and Missandei had a little wood and dragonglass dagger out on the other side, poking past the barrels. Belatedly, she pulled out her own dragonglass dagger; there hadn't been time for her to get herself a better one, not and leave with the dogsleds, but she wouldn't go down without a fight.
Looking up, she spotted her children, flying in happy circles far behind them, well and truly out of earshot. She sat, then grabbed Jon's shoulder tightly in a gloved hand and stood, bending her legs as she'd seen the Free Folk do, waving her free arm rapidly, shouting anyway, "Drogon! Rhaegal! Mazigon kesir! Mazigon kesir!"
They were too far away to hear, so she stopped shouting, continuing to wave, trying to get their attention so she could get into the fight. Three notes meant the army of the dead was attacking; she had no armies here, no Unsullied shield-wall, no Dothraki archers, only her dragons. She needed them to protect the caravan, to come here so she could mount Drogon and burn the dead! Unless this was a trap for them...
"Do you see the Night King? Viserion?" she asked, suddenly worried even as faint sounds of crossbows twanging echoed over the snow. Her children were out there, riderless, vulnerable to the Night King's thrown spears, to poor Viserion's body, controlled by the Night King.
The skies were clear! Why wasn't she on Drogon? She'd wanted to spend time with Jon, true, and she'd started getting used to riding on the sled, but that wasn't important now. Her children needed her, and she couldn't do anything to help them, not from here. She resolved to mount Drogon as soon as she could, though that left Rhaegal riderless, since she was the only dragon-rider in the world.
Viserion had been riderless when the Night King had killed him; without anyone to watch for threats, without anyone to guide him, to help him when he fought the dead. She'd been there for Drogon, but she couldn't be there for both her children at the same time.
Behind them, the three sleds were returning, slotting back right into the places they'd been, crews triumphant.
She turned to look at Jon, who was still turning his head back and forth, scanning land and sky rapidly for any signs of the army of the dead.
Rhaegal liked Jon.
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Dany still engages in long-term "strategic planning" and thinks that Sansa will just abandon the North to serve her Queen.
To be fair, the person from the North who she knows best did that so from her perspective, it might not be an unreasonable assumption.
Khal Drogo, she was married to, then seduced and working on manipulating, though it was the incompetent 'assassin' which drove him to actually agree to invade Westeros.
Grey Worm, she stole, then freed (in that order) - he followed her without question.
Missandei, same thing.
Daario snuck into her tent to present her with the heads of his co-commanders and the (inexplicable) loyalty of a mercenary band.
The Dothraki - well, after burning the Khals and being Unburnt, same thing.
Tyrion showed up, dropped everything for her. It wasn't much, but still.
Varys, same thing - and he had contacts across Essos and Westeros he could have gone to instead.
Jon, after some time, same thing.
I have to think she's quite used to it, and it fits in well with the nonsense she grew up hearing from nearly everyone she spoke with - she may know intellectually it was a lie, but that kind of attitude's hard to shake, especially when it keeps getting confirmed.
To be fair, King Robert also came North and dragged Ned Stark back with him, so there's precedent, too. A little different, given Robert and Ned fostered together... but still.
Thank you for the comment - I do think it's a reasonable assumption given her experiences so far. It's unreasonable given the rest of the situation, of course... but she doesn't know that yet.
- Pronouns
- They/Them
Daenerys is many things, but intelligent and wise are not among them.
EDIT: Just letting you know @Epic Reader, I posted a link to this in the SB Diaspora Discussion Discord's creative works promotion channel. Far too few people read this for how good it is.
EDIT: Just letting you know @Epic Reader, I posted a link to this in the SB Diaspora Discussion Discord's creative works promotion channel. Far too few people read this for how good it is.
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Thank you for posting the link! New readers are always welcome - if it matters, this is posted on SV, SB, and AO3.
As for Dany, she absolutely lacks wisdom - young, powerful, and unwise, like many young conquerers of history.
Intelligence I'm really not sure of. She's at minimum bilingual, I believe she's literate as well - a small bar, true, but one she clears. She learned to seduce as a freshly married woman from her handmaiden well enough, it seems, and applied those lessons to Drogo to moderate effect - he certainly didn't object when she did things like stopping the Khalasaar so she could rest.
She was able to see that Drogon burning small children to a crisp was a problem... though, as noted, wasn't wise enough to know she should seek a better solution than 'lock them up'. Note this is pre-Tyrion, so she knew nothing about dragons in captivity - I can't imagine Viserys or her Varys-selected hosts spent much time on the weaknesses of Targaryens.
So... difficult to say.
Hmmm... her military decisions are foolish (Burn the food? Really?) - but she knows nothing of warfare. Tyrion, too, isn't a military man at all, much less a general - she's unwise enough to let him set military strategy and tactics.
I'd have to rewatch to see who came up with the "sneak into the city and open the gates from within" plan, though I'm pretty sure it wasn't Dany.
I suppose her major masterstroke, indisputably all hers, was in successfully hiding her knowledge of High Valyrian while negotiating with the Unsullied dealer in bad faith, then not just taking her dragon back, but also incinerating him and ordering the totally obedient slave army he'd idiotically transferred control of to her inside his city walls to take the city.
Then, after that was done, she freed them and asked them to fight for her as free men.
She either shows intelligence or cunning, or both, there. A marked lack of making deals in good faith, of course (Don't even ask why the Iron Bank never showed up to back her, even when she was freeing slaves, before she put bond-slavery in place and Tyrion cut the deal to reinstate slavery in Astapor and Yunkai for seven years - never mind that meant re-enslaving the slaves who had just been freed!).
It's definitely not consistent, but there's something there at least some of the time.
One of the tricks of human nature is that risk-taking is judged by subjective success, not by accurate, objective statistical evaluation. Look at any high-risk, high-stakes historical gamble. By and large, the ones that worked are lauded, and the ones that failed are seen as foolish. That's ridiculous on the face of it - high risk means high chance of failure!
Had Dany's little infiltrator team been obliterated by hidden archers, we'd see it as having been foolish - yet, from her standpoint, she knew there could have been hidden archers going in, and decided it was worth the risk. The outcome has nothing to do with the decision - temporal causality's a bitch that way, without knowledge of the future (shut up, Melisandre).
Thank you for the comment and the advertising!
tl;dr: Dany's a very complex character to try evaluate and write!
23 Brothers and Reunions
Samwell huffed as he followed the page down the stairs rapidly, then through the castle at a jog, dodging around groups of others new to the castle being led by their own pages as they got used to their new quarters and where everything was, or those old hands who could find their own way.
His father might actually have approved of that, he thought. There was no lollygagging, no idle hands, only purposeful motion, by everyone. His father wouldn't have approved of the lack of threats, whippings, or the way the women were armed. And in charge! That was the strangest thing, really. He'd come North to help Jon, and Jon wasn't here. Bran was, but he was the Three-Eyed Raven now, though some strange magic.
It was Jon's sisters that were in charge! Not just of the castle, but of the entire North, and the Vale, too, he'd heard. Maester Wolkan and Maester Russal were the senior Maesters here, and the other Maesters of the North and the Vale listened to them. They, in turn, listened to Lady Stark, who took the roles of the stewards of the Night's Watch, and Arya Stark, who led the fighters, the rangers. The responsibilities of the builders were split between them, military and civilian.
It was very strange; his father would never have allowed it, his mother and sister and Gilly would never have wanted it, yet here, with these people, it worked. Everything here was very strange. When he'd left, King Stannis had just left Castle Black, Jon had just sent messages to the lords begging men, even from Roose Bolton, and only a handful of men of the Night's Watch remained, and Jon had just let the wildlings past the wall, after Hardhome. Winter hadn't even come, yet.
Now, winter was here, the army of the dead was already past the Wall, another great army was defending Winterfell, with wide moats, stonemasons raising walls and towers, carpenters building everything everywhere, people and animals all brought in as close as they could to the castle for protection. The Night's Watch had withdrawn from the wall, before the wight dragon, thank the gods.
Edd had been... not happy, but a little less dour, once he wasn't Acting Lord Commander anymore. And then the new Lord Commander promptly assigned him to be First Ranger and sent him back to doing what he'd been doing before, naturally.
The page sped off in her wildling furs as soon as the forge was in sight, and he paused to catch his breath before continuing inside.
"Gendry?" he asked the smith between rings of hammer on anvil.
"Just a minute, Sam," came the reply from Gendry, hammering on a long iron pole, "Second table."
Sam looked at the second table, then with a muted "Oh," turned to the second table from the other side. On it was the remains of Heartsbane; he'd never have been able to wield it, and Dickon... Dickon was dead, too. Lady Stark and Arya Stark had promised they'd send men for his mother and his sister, but Horn Hill was thousands of miles away, the Dothraki was roaming Westeros, and those loyal to the Tyrells would want vengeance for his father's betrayal. Even of those who hated the Tyrells, some would have hated his father even more, so... he was scared for them.
"I'm done," said Gendry, putting the shaft back into the forge and coming around to Samwell's side, easily picking up a long iron shaft with a steel and Valyrian steel tip, turning it to show the sketched figure of a man with a bow on the side, a stand-in for the huntsman on green of the Tarly sigil.
"Oooh, you put our sigil on it. Like you have the empty hood for the Death's Heads?"
"Yeah, just like that. You've got the most Valyrian steel dragon-killers of anyone other than the Faceless Men now, you know. You're their family now, and you've got brothers in the Night's Watch, so that's like a family too... is it always like this when you get a family?" asked Gendry, knowing he didn't need to tell Sam who 'their family' was.
"Well, in the Night's Watch, we all swear the same oath. I spent more time with Edd, Grenn, Pyp and Jon than most of the others. Well, until the wildlings killed Grenn and Pyp. And some of my brothers mutinied and killed Lord Commander Mormont. And the other brothers that beat me and tried to rape Gilly until Ghost stopped them. I suppose it's really kind of different. Some things are the same, though."
"That sounds... bad. What's the same?"
"The training's the same. Jon trained us at Castle Black, and Arya, she trains like that, corrects your mistakes, shows you how to do it right. Well, she's a bit harsher, really, and teaches more than just sword fighting, and really likes it... but it's sort of like the difference between how my father and my brother were - the same techniques, just applied a little differently, and one of them likes it more."
"I tried to pick a family, once. They sold me to the Red Woman for magic rituals."
"Oooh. I'm sorry."
"Yeah. Me too. The training - is it always like this, getting corrected and bruised and beat over and over by everyone? I've fought wights, thought I was pretty good. Turns out I was wrong."
"That's the same, yes. Don't worry - you get better. Somewhat better. Well, a little better, at least," replied Samwell, "Don't worry. I killed a White Walker, and I still get beat by everyone. It's about using the right weapon at the right time... and hitting the White Walker in the back when they're ignoring you, honestly," said Sam, "I'd rather be doing the research, really."
"Sounds like home," said Gendry, remembering seeing the corpses in Flea Bottom alleys with wounds in their backs, "Gods, I just wish it wasn't so cold, though."
"Yeah. You get used to it, after awhile, and wearing the clothes Lady Sansa made helps a lot, too. You shouldn't complain so much, staying in the forge all day!"
"I suppose you're right. See you at dinner? We're in the Great Hall again, right?"
"The Great Hall, yes," replied Sam, turning to leave as he heard the messenger girl Johnna returning with some men and a cart to load the Heart's Banes on. They were identical to the Death's Heads except for the sigil - dedicated dragon-killing bolts for siege engines, with combination Valyrian/castle-forged steel heads and case-hardened iron shafts. Tests had shown that even ironwood shafts broke or shattered outright on a solid impact with the thick iron plates they used in place of dragonscale, and when that happened, penetration was poor at best. Thus, dragon-killing bolts were hard to make and heavy, whether tipped with Valyrian steel or regular castle-forged steel.
As he watched the men loading the bolts onto the cart to distribute as the Scorpion Bear commanded, he thought that, just possibly, his father would be proud to know that the Tarly family owned more Valyrian steel dragon-killing weapons than any other family in the world... and that he fully intended to make sure a dragon was killed, one way or another.
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"No, not like that. A little to the right; hold your hand looser. Rotate a little, like this. Tilt your head a bit; more casually, but still aloof. There; that's how Cersei drinks," instructed Sansa, watching her sister in the body of a woman of Cersei's height and build, wearing a dress similar to what Bran had described the holder of the Iron Throne wearing over the past few weeks.
Sansa waited until her sister was about to start another drink of one of Cersei's favorite vintages before she continued, "Lord Patrek passed on a message from his father; it seems Lord Mallister has offered his son's hand in marriage to the second-born daughter of Lord Eddard Stark. Would you like to be Lady Mallister?"
"What," came Arya's flat reply after she nearly choked on her wine.
"It seems Lord Mallister wants a serious alliance with the North, and feels - correctly - that the Lady of Winterfell is an unduly favorable match for his son, and thus is asking for the much more reasonable match of the somewhat wild second-born daughter of a Great House. The Mallisters aren't as great a house as the Tullys, or as rich as the Freys, but it's still a good match. What would you like me to tell him?" asked Sansa, smirking down at Arya.
"Anything you like, as long as it means no," growled Arya.
"I'm sure he'll be happy to hear that. He was determined to do his duty to his family, you know, but... scared. I think he'd thought that once he arrived, he'd put to rest the fanciful tales he'd heard on the trip up, only to find even more violent and disturbing rumors once he arrived," said Sansa, bumping Arya with her shoulder, "You're never going to find a good man while you keep encouraging all those rumors, you know."
"Just so," said Arya, bumping Sansa back, then finished her wine as Cersei would, disappearing behind a screen and emerging a couple minutes later in her own face and attire. She half-smiled at Sansa ruefully and continued.
"I don't mean to make the diplomacy so difficult, Sansa. I know we need a real port on the western coast; Flint's Finger doesn't have the facilities for real fleets. If we can get both Seagard and the Twins on board, we'd have ready access to the Blue Fork river as well as control over the Green Fork river via the Reeds and the Twins both, and the port's barely 70 miles from the Twins, which in turn is right at the edge of the Neck; it's actually just a bit farther north than the Eyrie, so you might be able to visit there if we can keep the Iron Islands friendly, or pacified."
"You are, of course, but I'm not going to suggest marrying you off. He doesn't deserve you."
"Of course he doesn't!"
"I meant he deserves better than a madwoman like you," said Sansa repressively, making the sign for jape, "The Riverlanders need more time to get used to you. Perhaps a few hundred years would do."
"Bah, Death will have me long before then. I'm no Red Priest to try to pay to extend my life."
"Well, try not to die soon; I don't want to have to break in a new commander. Speaking of the military, if we were to get both the Twins and Seagard, between them and the Vale, we'd have a very strong position north of Lord Harroway's Town at the Trident, wouldn't we? Seagard's very close to the Twins and the Neck, the Bloody Gates are just south of there, and Greywater Watch isn't very far, either, most of the time, isn't it?"
"Correct, Sansa. You'd get another powerful House, and don't forget the naval side - Seagard was built to keep the Iron Islands in check, but it's also in a good position to support a fleet to defend us from Westerlands or Reach fleets, as Gulltown is for Stormlands, Crownlands, or Riverlands fleets. Trading wise, it'd be good for trading with the Frozen Shores clans, too, though we really need a Northern port as well; then we can have sea trade from the North to the Riverlands on both coasts, with the Kingsroad down the middle."
"Well, things to worry about after the wars, most of them. I'll pass on your very gracious refusal... though I won't say it's reluctant. You're a great actor, but I don't think Patrek would believe it, and I think he'll be relieved. He seems the type to want a more... traditional lady wife," said Sansa. Patrek Mallister did seem gentle and strong, and was brave enough to come North by himself as he had, which is what her father had wanted her to have. He seemed a boy of Summer to her, though, as much as he'd been defending Seagard from the Lannisters with his father, and his wide-eyed study of the fieldworks, the castle improvements, the bathing schedules and foodstores... and Northern notables like Ned Umber and Alys Karstark, much less the more formidable Lyanna Mormont, or their guest Kitty didn't help.
"Quit feeling old, Sansa. You can find someone if you like, or not as you like. You've arranged the succession, and the future of the Starks; you're fine as you are," said Arya, "We know Daenerys got Jon up on a dragon. I'm not sure what she was thinking, doing that, but he's getting along well with Rhaegal and Daenerys both. What do you think; we go out beforehand? Any first meeting in the castle is very risky."
"Very risky indeed; I cannot and will not tell her Winterfell is hers. It's not, and never will be, and she may notice the lack. Likewise, we can't distract her inside the castle for long, and while you told the conclave that Jon wasn't here, we're not going to be able to separate him from her. Bringing her into the conclave thinking the North has bent the knee would be a monumental mistake if we wish any chance of keeping her as an ally," responded Sansa thoughtfully.
They could certainly bring Daenerys into the conclave and then, in the Targaryen's eyes, snatch the North and the Vale away from her, humiliate her in public, preventing any chance of her ever being taken seriously in the North or the Vale or the northern Riverlands, or even in western Essos. That would make them an enemy - and they couldn't afford that. It also put Jon at risk; there was no telling how far her infatuation with him went, nor how her anger would play into it.
Arya nodded. Pride, fear, anger, hatred; all these were things that could keep a person going, and all of them, in this case, could lead to her having to explain to Jon why his lover and her party had died in a tragic wildfire accident and the dragons went berserk and had to be put down, or that she had been killed after ordering her dragons, or armies, to attack the people of the North.
"Just so. If she does get too upset, she still can't do anything about it; her Northern forces are in White Harbor in the second ring. We've got more Valyrian ballista bolts and crossbow bolts than I'd expected, and plenty of castle-forged ones with dragonglass shards for ballista and scorpions both, so every engine has a good chance on a landed dragon if they can get a square shot or a weak target. She's got no chance here... though I'm not sure she realizes that, which makes her dangerous, unpredictable," said Lady Winter.
Arya knew that arrogance led many to their deaths, and the dragon queen was full of it. Yet, she had potential, too. She'd started freeing slaves, before she went back on it, and had granted them dragonglass easily enough. A very poor showing as the self-proclaimed 'Protector of the Seven Kingdoms', true, but better than Cersei's, given that at the time Jon hadn't pledged himself to anyone but his own people.
"It seems we must. It'll take very careful handling, but we need to get enough of the story out of them first in front of witnesses for the conclave to be comfortable and to fulfill the forms. We also need to arrange to get her alone nearly as soon as she arrives officially, to smooth things over," said Sansa.
She expected that the Daenerys they'd been hearing about would doubtless be irate that her 'diversion' from the war she was waging to conquer Westeros wasn't immediately leading to her desired result. She'd bring up her coming North, her sending dragonglass, her relationship with Jon - never mind she hadn't married him, and whatever else she thought of. She'd at least left most of her forces in the South, countering Cersei, though why she'd brought both Tyrion and Varys to the North, Sansa couldn't begin to fathom. The dead didn't talk, and had neither little birds nor whispers.
"Not quite alone. She needs someone else to keep her composure in front of - the translator, ideally - the warriors are a problem, Tyrion would confuse things, and Varys is too dangerous. We'll leave tomorrow, then. They should be close enough; Bran said they were flying pretty far ahead of the caravan. As long as the wight dragon doesn't start flying ahead of his main army, we'll be fine. I'll arrange an escort with Lord Royce and the Scorpion Bear; it'll have to be primarily horse cavalry with dogsled scouts, but we'll have Heart's Banes loaded."
With that, Arya fell silent, making the sign for person approaching as she heard short, fast, fierce footsteps approaching, but not quite in their normal even rhythm as the guards outside slammed their spear butts into the stone floor to warn of entry, first the guards on the stairwell, then those outside the room.
"Lady Mormont to see you, my lady."
"Send her in," called Sansa loudly, as Arya herself unbarred the door, the guards inside the room having been sent out while Arya practiced.
Sansa watched Lyanna carefully, standing and approaching her as she entered. She and the small bear had been getting more comfortable with each other, particularly since she'd started included Lady Mormont in her unofficial circle of advisors, though this was still a very unexpected visit. And, if she was any judge, the girl was nervous, which was... extremely odd.
Lady Mormont came in, and after Arya'd closed and barred the door, spoke.
"Mother told me this would happen, but never had a chance to tell me what do to. I'm bleeding. What do I do?" asked Lyanna even more sharply than usual.
"You take a clean linen rag and tie it on. Have a few - you need to change them often, and boil it after", said Arya as she reacted first, speaking as she walked quickly behind the screen, emerging with a few clean rags, handing them to Lyanna as she unbarred the door and exited rapidly, "I'll go see to the exercise."
Sansa shook her head as she barred the door again, taking Lyanna by the arm and leading her to the divan. This would have been a lot easier if Arya hadn't turned tail and fled, just like a man would have.
"You'll have to excuse Arya. She was probably being raised by the Hound when she flowered; I'm surprised she knows that much. Congratulations, Lady Mormont; you've become a woman. It's not always very pleasant, I know, but I'll be happy to help. How do you feel? Do you have cramps? Back pain? Are there any other differences, or is anything else concerning you?" asked Sansa, careful not to ask if there was anything the small bear was afraid of.
***********************
Jon held tightly to Rhaegal's spines as he flew through the cold winter air, looking around for any sign of the Night King, then down for White Walkers and wights. He was starting to recognize the land, he thought, though from the air it looked very different indeed, and the glare from the ice-covered snow and trees below wasn't helping, even as much as he was getting used to flying.
The world stretched out below him as he passed below a gyrfalcon. The ground below looked just as it did from the top of the Wall; the day was clear and crisp; he could see all the way to the horizon. Seeing the forest thicken, he turned Rhaegal a little more east of north, turning to wave at Dany, gesturing her over. She, as he was used to, raced ahead of him on Drogon, though as they'd agreed, she went where he'd indicated; he knew the North, the area around Winterfell, and there were no man-made signs.
Well, none but a long break in the trees ahead and to the left; a clear strip of white as far as he could see until it met the wide open plains, with a line of black dots on the strip. As he continued north towards the strip of white, he could see the line of dots stretching out to his right past the forest, curving gently away across the plains, like he imagined the towers around White Harbor would have looked after they'd passed them. On the horizon beyond, another strip of white came into view even as Dany waved at him from atop Drogon, pointing down.
As he looked where she pointed, dots resolved into animals pulling a couple dozen sleds across the open plains, heading south in two circles, one inside the other, with a few very small sleds much farther out. He tugged on Rhaegal's spines, hesitantly calling out the word Daenerys had taught him, "Ilagon!"
With that, Rhaegal tucked his wings in and dove sharply, Jon holding on as tight as he could. Rhaegal, he'd found, liked to dive, and dive fast; even then, Drogon and Dany passed him with wide smiles; at least, he hoped Drogon was smiling. Below, two horses broke out or the center circle, cantering out overtop the snow towards the outer circles and past it, into the area what he now recognized as dogsleds, much smaller than the horse-drawn sleds, were bracketing.
Daenerys smiled at Jon as Rhaegal landed next to Drogon, she'd landed about a hundred yards in front of the two riders who were coming to meet them; one quite tall and one rather short, she could see as she squinted into the bright glare even as she sank into the snow up to her waist. She patted Drogon, who was rather unhappily trying to avoid sinking father into the snow himself, then went over to where Jon was dismounting.
Arya looked back, making sure the outer ring was spreading out appropriately. She'd read as much as she could about dragons from the portions of the archives of the House of Black and White that had been brought to her; she thought this was as safe as approaching dragons was ever likely to be. She had her bow, she had Valyrian steel plate cutters, and dragons took time to breathe fire. Even if she or Sansa was to die, the dragons wouldn't survive, either; a hundred yards from the big horse-drawn engines under the Scorpion Bear's personal supervision there would be no escaping their people's vengeance.
Not today, she told her god, then pulled her horse to a halt when it started getting nervous, pulling her snowshoes on before dismounting in one easy motion. She smiled at Sansa when her sister dismounted on her own and only wobbled a little on the snowshoes, stilling for a moment as she stretched out her senses, feeling for wights; feeling the air, hearing the sounds, listening to the horses and the dragons, then she made the signs for weapon and no; the risk of spooking the dragon queen was worse than the risk of wights hidden under the snow, as Meera had reported, since this was a random patch of land with nothing to distinguish it.
They both took their Valyrian headed spears from their horses, planting them in the snow just in case the horses bolted, then strode out together towards their brother and the silver-haired woman he was with using the high, flat steps showshoes required.
Sansa stopped a medium spear's length away, letting Arya approach him first, just as she'd done with Arya and Bran. Naturally, here there were also the snowshoes to consider; she didn't want to fall into the snow on her first meeting with Daenerys Targaryen. Or on any meeting with her.
Sansa exchanged a small smile with the Dragon Queen, who had also stopped and was mostly watching Jon with a soft expression after having looked back and forth between Jon and Arya a few times, likely comparing how similar they looked to each other. Seeing Daenerys for the first time, it was even more obvious that Jon really did take after his mother almost entirely... except, of course, for the dragon-riding. Sansa suppressed a wince; she hadn't intended the double meaning at all.
She held Bran responsible.
Arya listened to the dragons, to her brother's lady, to the faint sounds of their escort setting up in a loose semicircle a hundred yards behind as she approached. Jon was older, a little heavier than she remembered, and sadder; worn down, like Yoren had been worn down. He'd killed, she knew that, and moved like a fine Westerosi swordsman... but he didn't have the look in his eye. He was a great swordfighter, but not a great killer... as father had been a good swordsman, but not a killer, not like she was.
Arya reached out to clasp him by the shoulders, looking up at scar over his eye, "You didn't keep your shield up."
"You decided you liked jewelry after all?" he replied, gesturing to the bandoleer of knives topped by three dragonglass daggers.
"Only if it's sharp," she said, choosing her words so that they'd give Daenerys the impression she needed, and so they'd be honest for her brother, "You grew a proper beard and mustache. You look like Father."
"So do you. You've got a strong grip, Arya. You're not carrying Needle? Brienne said you'd been training with it, but that sword's just a little longer... and it's got even more hand protection than Mikken made for Needle!"
Arya remembered speaking with Jamie Lannister after he'd taken his place in the Night's Watch; aside from the military discussion, they'd spoken about swords. The man didn't have the skill he once did, but he did have the eye, and he'd told her that in Dorne, he'd seen the quillon of Prince Trystane's sword; it had been a decorative snake, with the head all the way down at the pommel, curving over the hand entirely, putting metal between vulnerable fingers and the enemy's weapon.
Gendry had still been working on reforging the blade, so she'd been able to talk with him before he'd even started the hilt, and it was that sword and hilt she carried now; a Valyrian steel bravo's blade with one of the most protective quillons she'd ever heard of; dual rings perpendicular to the blade and another ring to go over her fingers and protect from cuts.
That, the dragonglass and Valyrian steel tipped arrows, and the Valyrian steel spears were part of why she was as comfortable with Sansa being out here as she was; this was as ready as she could be for White Walkers without also carrying wildfire, and that was back with their escort, along with all the other weapons they'd brought.
"A strong grip isn't all I've learned since we left. Needle has a place of honor on my wall, and it was a perfect reminder of my family, but it's not made for war. I do hope to have a niece or nephew someday to pass it on to," she said, then remembered another aspect of what Bran had told them about Daenerys, "Since I got stabbed in the gut a few times and I can't have children anymore. Hurts like a bitch, doesn't it, getting stabbed in the gut?"
"Aye, it does," said Jon, which caused Arya to grin, then laugh, which in turned caused Jon to laugh, "You didn't die, did you?"
"No, I'm better off than you! No surprise you got killed; that sword of yours is just too small to properly fight with," said Arya, pointing at the hand and a half blade her brother wore; by any Westerosi measure it was quite long, nearly half a foot longer than a longsword like Widow's Wail, and a few inches longer even than Brienne's longsword or Longclaw itself.
"Hey! Longclaw isn't short! And it's Valyrian steel!" protested Jon.
"That's what all the boys say! It is too short for me, Valyrian steel or not. I'm glad you're here, that you made it back from beyond the wall, from King's Landing," said Arya, pulling him into a close, tight embrace and murmuring quietly in his ear, "If you need rescue, hug me tighter, and we'll get you home safe."
Arya looked up at Jon's genuinely confused expression and laughed as he pulled back. Releasing his right arm, then struck with the full power of her entire body, burying the base of her palm in his solar plexus as far as she could through the leather armor he was wearing, causing him to double over. His armor wasn't one of Sansa's, she could tell; it had a little too much flex. She thought it was probably from before Sansa had started working boiled leather, though the rest of his clothes bore Sansa's distinctive tight, fine stitching. Ignoring his difficulties breathing, she spoke, using the tone she did for new soldiers doing idiotic, risky things.
"Don't you ever scare us like that again, you hear me! Only a complete fool would go hunting wights on foot, and even a complete fool wouldn't walk into Cersei's clutches without a good plan," said Arya sternly, then glanced over at their audience. The silver-haired woman's eyes were wide, while the green dragon, had taken a step closer, giant foot burying itself in the soft snow as he extended his long neck towards her. Arya stepped around Jon's wheezing form, the fingers of her right hand spread wide for Sansa to see, and more importantly for Lyanna to see through her far-eye, so she wouldn't have Fjornel loose prematurely.
Arya clapped Jon on the back firmly, taking two steps towards the upset dragon, knees bent to jump to either side and dive into the snow if she must, both her hands free as he started to open his mouth; she raised a hand suddenly, her palm out, towards Daenerys as she heard the snow crunch and the cloak Sansa had made with the Targaryen sigil swish beside her; she could see what Bran had described, the two small circular holes on either side of the great jaw... and, importantly, he looked like a direwolf about to howl, to mark territory, not ready to attack with tooth or claw.
Critically, she did not see any hint of the red glow from the throat that Bran had described clinically, that the books had mentioned and shown, and that Jamie Lannister had described to her so vividly. She did see that the inside of the mouth looked to be soft flesh; no scales, no tough hide. Vulnerable, if you could get a dragon to come up close and breathe fire on you. Had Jamie Lannister been ready to throw his spear, rather than use it as a lance, the outcome of that attack might have been quite different, as close as he was to the Dragon Queen when Bronn saved him.
She waited out the great roar, then resettled the Valyrian steel throwing knife then took another few steps closer to put Daenerys fully behind her and stood tall, raising and extending her arms to their fullest extension, her cloak spreading out to either side, showing only the dragons the vestments of No One hidden on the inside as Arya Stark drew in a deep breath, tipped her head back and howled at Rhaegal.
The Valyrian Freehold had had hundreds of dragons, and of all the non-slave population, there were only forty Dragonlord families. Dragonlords encountered dragons not their own, not belonging to their family, all the time. Lesser families, not having any dragons of their own, still encountered them in the street, in the cities, in the fields. Dragons were much like any intelligent predator; you couldn't show fear, you had to earn their respect.
"Now, do I have to smack you on the nose, or are we good, Rhaegal?" asked Arya of the dragon, glaring.
"She's my sister. My sister!" gasped Jon even as Rhaegal was already turning to him, draconic face looking somewhat taken aback.
Sansa kept her eyes on her sister, watching for the first signs of sudden movement of the body, as Arya had advised her, suppressing her fear even as she was ready to dive in the opposite direction Arya did. They'd spoken of how the dragons might react before, and had spent nearly the entire ride out discussing their options, but to see two in the flesh was different. She imagined it was much like seeing the Night King's army; a vast, supernatural force, majestic in its power... and in no way within your power to control.
They had only one chance at a first impression, and she refused to show weakness in front of this would-be conqueror of the North and the Vale, this woman who thought Sansa was already her subject, her servant. She pushed her fear down further, bringing up her indignation with her sister's idiotic, risky plan, raised her head, and strode forward herself to cement the dragon queen's impression of her, and to ensure that the tone for this meeting stayed far from politics and titles.
"Arya! If you're done playing with the dragon, we have a guest to greet. You and the other children can roll around in the snow together later," chastised Sansa, striding forward with a small smile towards Jon, Daenerys also clumsily approaching him through the deep snow, patting him on the back once she'd gotten to his side.
"You'll have to excuse my siblings; they were never very good at their courtesies, and they haven't seen each other since we all left Winterfell. Arya didn't want to wait for the formal entrance, so here we are, meeting early and informally, which, as expected, needed a chaperon. Or perhaps a referee," said Sansa, then continued, ensuring she kept the initiative, that she kept the power in the conversation, "I understand you and my brother are... close?"
Daenerys and Jon looked at each other, then Jon put his arm around his lover, tucking her against his side.
"We are," said Daenerys, raising her chin and looking Sansa in the eye.
"Well, I suppose it's a good enough match," mused Sansa with a tiny smirk, "Though what, exactly, are your intentions towards my poor, innocent brother? Are you going to make an honest man of him, or just bed him for awhile and cast him aside for someone cuter?"
Arya clapped Jon on the shoulder as he started to blush, "Don't worry, Jon, I'm sure she'll take care of you. She's rich, so you won't have to work for a living. I know you're inexperienced, but don't worry, she knows what she's doing - you won't have to do a thing!"
"It's not..." started Jon, his face quite red.
"I know it's new to you, and a little frightening, Jon, but if you just lie back and think of Winterfell, it'll all be over before you know it," continued Sansa inexorably. She'd done better since Castle Black, but Ramsay, his capture of Rickon, the repeated rejections by Northern lords, his being King, the way he had been King... and, she admitted to herself, the way she was now, particularly regarding ruling, all that had made things very difficult for her, and for him. Now, he wasn't King anymore, so she could, truly, treat him as a sister should treat a brother, in good humor.
Any further protest Jon wished to make was drowned out as Dany burst out laughing, wading through the snow to snuggle up against him as he, too, started to laugh, as did his sisters.
"Don't worry, Jon, I'm very happy with you," said Dany to Jon.
"Since Jon has been remiss in his duty to introduce us to each other, I'm his sister Sansa. It's a pleasure to meet someone so important to my brother. This is my sister, Arya. Arya! What are you doing with that?"
Arya had just put away a flint, now holding a small torch lit in her right hand, offering the smoking flame to Daenerys, "I hear you've got magic, too. Would you like to warm your hands up?"
Daenerys pulled her gloves off, slipping them into a large pocket on the inside of the inner cloak before she pushed her sleeves up and placed her hands directly in the flame, smiling indulgently at Jon's youngest sister. A girl willing to stand up to a full grown dragon without a hint of fear on her first meeting was not what she'd expected, but her children seemed to approve... though she was sure Drogon had been laughing at Rhaegal.
Truly, this was a pleasant surprise. Not as pleasant as Jon had been, naturally, but nice nonetheless. Perhaps this was what close families were like? She could never imagine Viserys giving her the kind of teasing smile his sisters had. And, of course, her hands were finally warm again.
"Thank you, Arya. What did you mean, too?" asked Daenerys.
"I can become No One," said Arya flatly, calm as still water in body and mind. Arya reached out her senses; she could feel the deaths in the Valyrian steel they had brought... and, yes, some were tied to Jon, too. It was true. He had died, and death had paid for life. Now, though, it was time to see if she'd read this face of Daenerys Targaryen correctly.
Daenerys shuddered slightly at the sudden lack of any tone from Jon's sister; she'd seen some slaves she'd freed act like that, had heard more from Missandei from time to time about some of the other slaves Missandei had known. Those who had seen too much horror, or who had endured too much, sometimes... were affected.
This young woman, Jon's sister, covered head to toe in weapons and speaking like that; the story Missandei had told of the duels, of how she killed a man and kept going, just like her Dothraki would, the Unsullied would, or Ser Barristan had... but not like Jon would, not like Missandei would, or any of the ladies she'd known. Well, except for Ellaria Sand and her girls, and probably Yara Greyjoy. She hoped Arya wouldn't end up captured or killed, too, as they had.
Sansa watched life and emotion returning to her sister as Arya pulled a leather tube out of her cloak, offering it to Daenerys with an eager smile.
"I'm a dancing master, now, you know, too. You have many enemies, and yet you haven't burned the Red Keep yet. You can hire me to kill Cersei and her people! You just pay the standard rates for the ones I kill myself," offered Lady Winter.
"My enemies are a long way away. When would you kill them? Would you leave tomorrow?" asked Daenerys indulgently. Jon's sister, like Jon, had great courage. Unlike Jon, of course, she had no dragon to fly to King's Landing on.
Daenerys could see that the girl was fierce, but to get to Cersei required either an army or a dragon - she'd seen that herself at the meeting at the Dragonpit, and both Tyrion and Varys had assured her Cersei was very strongly guarding the tunnel Tyrion had used to get in as well as all the gates to the city itself. Even were the girl as good as in the tale Missandei had told, she's seen Ser Jorah fight; in his armor, he could nearly ignore Dothraki attacks, and that was like the armor the Kingsguard wore.
"A minute, an hour, a month, a year, a season. Death is certain. The time is not," replied Arya, giving an answer like Sansa often gave, both true and manipulating at the same time, if less subtle than the Lady of Winterfell typically was, "A woman cannot make a thing happen before its time. I have many responsibilities here, but I'll leave when I can. I very much would like to kill Cersei and her supporters for you."
"That's right, Arya. As long as you're commanding the forces of the North and the Vale, you can't go off traveling the world," said Sansa, looking down at her sister.
"You're commanding?" asked Jon.
"I am," said Arya, turning to Jon, poking him in the chest firmly with each statement, Daenerys looking on with bemusement, "You didn't bother to put anyone in charge! You didn't leave any orders! You didn't create a training plan! You didn't tell anyone how the wights fight! You didn't plan any of the logistics! You didn't start on fieldworks! You didn't appoint other commanders!"
As Arya paused, Sansa spoke quietly, just loud enough for Daenerys to hear, "Ravens, bathing, food."
"You didn't arrange for military supplies!" continued Arya, picking up steam again at Sansa's reminder, "You didn't plan anything to prevent dysentry and disease! You didn't send me one damned raven and I know Sansa told you I was alive, Jon Snow!"
Arya turned to Daenerys with a smile, analyzing her expression, her posture, and decided to push just a little more, "So! Since you've chosen this scatterbrained idiot, don't you think you should hire a real killer to deal with Cersei?"
With a laugh, Daenerys opened the case, tilting it; she caught the quill that slid out before the paper did, but the tiny vial of ink fell past her hand, Arya catching it with a lightning quick lunge to nearly her full extension, handing it to the dragon queen with a smirk.
"See, Jon? You've have had nothing but a note scribbled on the inside of your tunic, and nary a quill or pot of ink for a dozen miles," said Arya smugly.
With a laugh, Daenerys read over the single page and saw that it was as described. It was a contract to kill Cersei Baratheon and any of her supporters at the standard rates, whatever those were, payment to be made within one month of invoicing, interest on deferred payment at Iron Bank rates. The banking language was quite stilted and very unlike the rest of the wording in the document; Dany had spent enough time with Missandei's translations to easily notice the difference. Perhaps Jon's sister had copied it from another document. The writing, too, was very... rough, and uneven, as if written by someone who was still learning, or who hadn't written in many years. Or someone who hadn't been able to write for years.
"And what am I to sign this on, Arya?" asked the dragon queen archly.
With a glance at each other, the sisters each grabbed one of Jon's arms, turning him so his back was to Daenerys... and the center of the caravan was out of his line of sight.
"Men have strong backs; they should make themselves useful," said Arya with a laugh, taking the case from Daenerys as Sansa took and opened the vial of ink for her.
"Hey!"
"Stay still! You'll smudge my signature," instructed Dany, laughter creeping into her attempt to be stern.
After the contract had been signed, Arya quickly retrieved her items and replaced them, replying to Sansa's sign of dog with a sign of yes, then put her fingers to her lips and whistling a few sharp notes, taking a few steps to direct Jon's attention. Sansa, meanwhile, stepped back half a pace and looked at Daenerys, putting a finger to her lips and tilting her head towards the swiftly approaching pack member.
"What was that?" asked Jon.
Sansa reprimanded him for the question, "If you have to ask, Jon, then you..."
"OOF!" Jon exclaimed as he was driven face-first into the deep snow as Ghost pounced on him from behind.
"... don't deserve to be reminded. Also, Bran's getting married in the Godswood tonight. Even if it's just family and close friends, you should dress properly," continued Sansa, "Even Arya's going to dress properly. Aren't you, Arya?"
"What?"
"Arya!"
"Oh, all right, I'll dress properly. Who do you think Jon is going to bring as his guest?"
"I suppose we'd have to ask Jon that," said Sansa, looking over at their brother's lover.
Daenerys looked down to where Jon had managed to roll onto his back, Rhaegal looking on with intense interest as the direwolf licked Jon's face while Jon scritched his head, asking, "Yes, Jon. Just who are you going to bring as your guest?"
"You, Dany."
Daenerys glanced at Sansa and Arya, saw their small smiles, then turned back to Jon as he pushed Ghost off him and sat up, "Oh? I am the Queen, you know; I might have to spend all day in important meetings with my advisors."
"After four days cooped up with them?" Jon asked, "I don't think you'd survive it!"
"Well, perhaps not," she replied, "And..."
"Will you do me the honor of accompanying me to my brother's wedding, my Queen?" asked Jon, just before Rhaegal put his face right above Jon, opened his mouth, and tried to lick his face with the tip of his tongue.
"Stop! Rhaegal, stop!"
Daenerys pushed Rhaegal's head away from Jon, giggling along with the laughter of his sisters. She'd seen children laughing together, heard some of Tyrion's stories of what he and Jamie had gotten up to. She doubted the Starks went to brothels together, but her Hand sounded happy when he told those stories, truly happy. It was easy to see that Tyrion treasured the memories of his brother, as she could see Jon had treasured the memories of Arya, of how he respected Sansa even as he was exasperated by her, of how he missed Bran and had loved Rickon and Robb.
She'd never had anything like that with Viserys, and she wondered if this was a glimpse of what being part of a family was like. If happiness was something she might have found again.
"You've changed. You two never used to jape together, and now you're ganging up on me," complained Jon as he stood, Daenerys taking the clean white cloth Sansa handed her with a wink, wiping dragon slobber off of Jon's face.
"We're home again, Jon. We're together again, and we're as safe as it gets in this world," said Sansa quietly, "Now, I believe you were asking a question?"
"Dany?"
"Yes, Jon. For the heroic sacrifice of your dignity, I'll go with you."
"If you'd like, I can fit you and the other women in your party with something before the ceremony; it's not necessary, really, but every once in awhile it's nice to really dress up, and we'll have a chance to talk as well," offered Sansa.
Arya rolled her eyes at Jon casually stepping back, then reached under her cloak, silently starting to unfasten thick leather straps.
"I'd like that; Missandei and I will be happy to dress up. Thank you for the fine clothes you sent; I've been much warmer since I put them on, Lady Sansa. The North is beautiful, but much colder than I could have imagined," said Daenerys.
"You're quite welcome; the North is always colder to those who aren't accustomed to it, just as the mountains of the Vale are. It's colder here, and windier there."
At Arya's sign for you, Sansa made the sign for yes, and took Jon by the arm, "I believe Arya has a gift for you, and we've been out in the open too long already. We have some people with some quick questions for my brother that came out with us; it'll only take a moment. Come on, Jon."
Arya slipped up silently just behind Daenerys as she watched Jon turn, then tapped her on the shoulder, her body language again cold and still, her eyes empty as she held up a thick leather pouch with long, strong straps dangling down once Daenerys had jumped and spun around at the tap, the oilcloth that had been wrapped around the book draped over her arm as she handed it over to to the woman, who took a moment before taking it gazing at the illustration on the cover in wonder.
"The House of Black and White in Westeros offers the loan of one book from our library, to help kill the blasphemer called the Night King. It will be returned, undamaged, when the blasphemer is truly dead," said Arya flatly, while Daenerys started at how close she was, and Sansa gave Jon a slight push, striding back atop the snow as Jon plowed through it, Ghost walking next to him.
Daenerys translated the High Valyrian on the cover of the thick, gilded tome, "Claw, Tooth, and Fire by Laenar Belaerys? A book on dragons? You're giving... loaning... me a book on dragons from Old Valyria?" asked the Dragon Queen, flipping through a little ways, stopping at an illustration of two dragons grappling with each other in the sky, one dragon's mouth closing around the other dragon's talon as its tail smashed the enemy rider off the dragon entirely, dense text on the opposite page.
"A book on aerial combat between dragons and dragon-riders," corrected Arya in a dead voice, then took off No One's face again and smiled at the silver-haired woman's reaction, gesturing to Drogon and Rhaegal as she continued.
"You have two dragons, and have apparently convinced my brother to ride Rhaegal, but the Night King has been flying on the wight dragon, too. He melted the Wall at Eastwatch from the air; the wight dragon doesn't get tired, and the Night King has learned how to fly and use dragonfire. You and your dragons may have to face him in the air, and to win without getting yourself or Jon killed, you'll need to train properly, if you get the time. He could attack at any time."
"He's close?" asked Daenerys, looking up and around, concerned for the safety of her dragons while they were on the ground, of Jon, "He could attack us here? Attack my children?"
"I hope he does, but I don't think we'll be that lucky," replied Arya steadily, evaluating how Daenerys took the news, listening to her heartbeat, her breathing, watching her body, her face, "He was with his army, probably four to eight days out if his army keeps up the same pace, when we left... but since he can cover the distance in about an hour while flying, he could be here already, or at Winterfell or White Harbor attacking or dropping off White Walkers, or most of the way to Gulltown or Moat Cailin or anywhere else."
"You hope he attacks us here? With my dragons riderless, on the ground? Why would you hope that?" asked Daenerys sharply.
"The scorpions are only a hundred yards away, his main army's out of support distance, and this area's very flat; there's no cover big enough to hide a dragon. He'd be visible from a long way away, and even if he was so fast we couldn't reposition, the scorpions would be able to loose before he'd be close enough to kill us," said Arya, not mentioning their archers at all, then continued.
"Hopefully he'd be shot down, and we'd finish the job here, though whoever he attacked first might be crushed or burned or torn apart, depending on where the dragon's body landed. The wight dragon might abort his attack and dodge, but even then the Night King might fall off and we could face him here, far from his army. Worst case, he stays out of range and drops off a hundred or so White Walkers who can throw their spears the way the Night King did; then we retreat towards the watchtowers. More likely, several of the White Walker scouts gather together with hundreds or thousands of mostly animal wights, moving fast, like they do in battle or pursuit."
"You're using me as bait! And my dragons!" exclaimed Daenerys, outraged... then at Arya's steady calm look, gray eyes boring into her own, reconsidered briefly, "And Jon... and your sister, and yourself, and your soldiers."
"Of course. If we can take down the wight dragon and the blaspheming Night King, whatever of his army is left is far less of a threat to the living. That's a good trade, one any of us would be glad to make," said Arya, then decided to continue with slightly different wording than the Dragon Queen used herself, but close enough that she might hear with her ears, "If we can send those two to a proper death, then the world's a better place, and the living have a much better chance. Here, in the open, far from his army, is our best chance. That's worth dying for."
Daenerys nodded, then started to page through the book, starting to read the text as well as admire the pictures. Aerial combat was much more difficult than she'd thought, and, it seemed, fire could indeed be dangerous to dragons. There were words she had never heard or seen before; as she continued through the book, one of them turned out to be a name for a particular move. She'd never thought about it before, but she knew her Dothraki did things with their horses that few other riders could match. As she was learning now, there was a vast difference between an expert dragon-rider and a normal dragon-rider... and she was, she thought sourly as she saw chapter after chapter of advanced techniques, probably barely a novice.
Arya waited, still and quiet as the book kept Daenerys occupied harmlessly, distracting her from the many awkward questions she could otherwise be asking. After a few minutes, Sansa and Jon approached again while a series of horn calls sounded from the Northern and Vale contingent they'd been speaking with, Sansa calling out as they came closer.
"The warg's spotted another White Walker with fifty or more wights north-east of here, heading this way, six miles out. We need to go, Arya."
"Head back the way you came; stay low for the first few miles, so you don't get seen, then stay with the damned caravan; if the wight dragon attacks, bait it into the caravan's scorpion range carefully; watch out for a trap! The Night King certainly wants more wight dragons, and if the White Walkers can throw their spears like he can, they could try to hide and wait for you to fly over, so stay within a bow shot of the caravan," commanded Arya, then gave Jon a tight hug, and clapped Daenerys on the shoulder.
"Be careful; avoid the White Walker. One by itself isn't worth risking yourselves," Sansa hugged Jon, and at Arya's sign, gave Daenerys a gentle, quick hug as well, "We'll see you soon. Remember, whatever else happens, you being good for Jon matters to us. I'll be happy to talk as much as you like while fitting you and Missandei for your outfits!"
With that, Sansa turned and walked as quickly as she could on her unfamiliar snowshoes to her spear and horse; she'd feel better with her main weapon within reach again, even with Arya stalking along beside her like a great wolf with gleaming fangs. As they plucked their spears from the snow, they looked at each other with a grin, exchanging the sign for success.
Arya helped Sansa mount her horse, then took off her sister's snowshoes before mounting her own horse and stowing all the snowshoes in her saddlebags, walking the horses back to warm them up as she looked back, waving as Jon and Daenerys took off in a great shower of snow.
The sisters rejoined Ned Umber, Alys Karstark and Yohn Royce in the center of the troops they'd brought with them, heading back to Winterfell to attend the conclave Sansa had set up before they'd left, scheduled to be hours before the dogsled caravan arrived. Lyanna Mormont was, as usual, riding on a big horse-drawn scorpion sled.
Arya gave the horn call that sent Ghost running out ahead to scout while the riders brought their horses up to a fast amble and the sled teams up to a trot, so they could return in time for the conclave. There was much to decide, and little time to do so. Luckily, the seeds they'd planted after killing Littlefinger had been carefully tended since then.
***********************
His father might actually have approved of that, he thought. There was no lollygagging, no idle hands, only purposeful motion, by everyone. His father wouldn't have approved of the lack of threats, whippings, or the way the women were armed. And in charge! That was the strangest thing, really. He'd come North to help Jon, and Jon wasn't here. Bran was, but he was the Three-Eyed Raven now, though some strange magic.
It was Jon's sisters that were in charge! Not just of the castle, but of the entire North, and the Vale, too, he'd heard. Maester Wolkan and Maester Russal were the senior Maesters here, and the other Maesters of the North and the Vale listened to them. They, in turn, listened to Lady Stark, who took the roles of the stewards of the Night's Watch, and Arya Stark, who led the fighters, the rangers. The responsibilities of the builders were split between them, military and civilian.
It was very strange; his father would never have allowed it, his mother and sister and Gilly would never have wanted it, yet here, with these people, it worked. Everything here was very strange. When he'd left, King Stannis had just left Castle Black, Jon had just sent messages to the lords begging men, even from Roose Bolton, and only a handful of men of the Night's Watch remained, and Jon had just let the wildlings past the wall, after Hardhome. Winter hadn't even come, yet.
Now, winter was here, the army of the dead was already past the Wall, another great army was defending Winterfell, with wide moats, stonemasons raising walls and towers, carpenters building everything everywhere, people and animals all brought in as close as they could to the castle for protection. The Night's Watch had withdrawn from the wall, before the wight dragon, thank the gods.
Edd had been... not happy, but a little less dour, once he wasn't Acting Lord Commander anymore. And then the new Lord Commander promptly assigned him to be First Ranger and sent him back to doing what he'd been doing before, naturally.
The page sped off in her wildling furs as soon as the forge was in sight, and he paused to catch his breath before continuing inside.
"Gendry?" he asked the smith between rings of hammer on anvil.
"Just a minute, Sam," came the reply from Gendry, hammering on a long iron pole, "Second table."
Sam looked at the second table, then with a muted "Oh," turned to the second table from the other side. On it was the remains of Heartsbane; he'd never have been able to wield it, and Dickon... Dickon was dead, too. Lady Stark and Arya Stark had promised they'd send men for his mother and his sister, but Horn Hill was thousands of miles away, the Dothraki was roaming Westeros, and those loyal to the Tyrells would want vengeance for his father's betrayal. Even of those who hated the Tyrells, some would have hated his father even more, so... he was scared for them.
"I'm done," said Gendry, putting the shaft back into the forge and coming around to Samwell's side, easily picking up a long iron shaft with a steel and Valyrian steel tip, turning it to show the sketched figure of a man with a bow on the side, a stand-in for the huntsman on green of the Tarly sigil.
"Oooh, you put our sigil on it. Like you have the empty hood for the Death's Heads?"
"Yeah, just like that. You've got the most Valyrian steel dragon-killers of anyone other than the Faceless Men now, you know. You're their family now, and you've got brothers in the Night's Watch, so that's like a family too... is it always like this when you get a family?" asked Gendry, knowing he didn't need to tell Sam who 'their family' was.
"Well, in the Night's Watch, we all swear the same oath. I spent more time with Edd, Grenn, Pyp and Jon than most of the others. Well, until the wildlings killed Grenn and Pyp. And some of my brothers mutinied and killed Lord Commander Mormont. And the other brothers that beat me and tried to rape Gilly until Ghost stopped them. I suppose it's really kind of different. Some things are the same, though."
"That sounds... bad. What's the same?"
"The training's the same. Jon trained us at Castle Black, and Arya, she trains like that, corrects your mistakes, shows you how to do it right. Well, she's a bit harsher, really, and teaches more than just sword fighting, and really likes it... but it's sort of like the difference between how my father and my brother were - the same techniques, just applied a little differently, and one of them likes it more."
"I tried to pick a family, once. They sold me to the Red Woman for magic rituals."
"Oooh. I'm sorry."
"Yeah. Me too. The training - is it always like this, getting corrected and bruised and beat over and over by everyone? I've fought wights, thought I was pretty good. Turns out I was wrong."
"That's the same, yes. Don't worry - you get better. Somewhat better. Well, a little better, at least," replied Samwell, "Don't worry. I killed a White Walker, and I still get beat by everyone. It's about using the right weapon at the right time... and hitting the White Walker in the back when they're ignoring you, honestly," said Sam, "I'd rather be doing the research, really."
"Sounds like home," said Gendry, remembering seeing the corpses in Flea Bottom alleys with wounds in their backs, "Gods, I just wish it wasn't so cold, though."
"Yeah. You get used to it, after awhile, and wearing the clothes Lady Sansa made helps a lot, too. You shouldn't complain so much, staying in the forge all day!"
"I suppose you're right. See you at dinner? We're in the Great Hall again, right?"
"The Great Hall, yes," replied Sam, turning to leave as he heard the messenger girl Johnna returning with some men and a cart to load the Heart's Banes on. They were identical to the Death's Heads except for the sigil - dedicated dragon-killing bolts for siege engines, with combination Valyrian/castle-forged steel heads and case-hardened iron shafts. Tests had shown that even ironwood shafts broke or shattered outright on a solid impact with the thick iron plates they used in place of dragonscale, and when that happened, penetration was poor at best. Thus, dragon-killing bolts were hard to make and heavy, whether tipped with Valyrian steel or regular castle-forged steel.
As he watched the men loading the bolts onto the cart to distribute as the Scorpion Bear commanded, he thought that, just possibly, his father would be proud to know that the Tarly family owned more Valyrian steel dragon-killing weapons than any other family in the world... and that he fully intended to make sure a dragon was killed, one way or another.
***********************
"No, not like that. A little to the right; hold your hand looser. Rotate a little, like this. Tilt your head a bit; more casually, but still aloof. There; that's how Cersei drinks," instructed Sansa, watching her sister in the body of a woman of Cersei's height and build, wearing a dress similar to what Bran had described the holder of the Iron Throne wearing over the past few weeks.
Sansa waited until her sister was about to start another drink of one of Cersei's favorite vintages before she continued, "Lord Patrek passed on a message from his father; it seems Lord Mallister has offered his son's hand in marriage to the second-born daughter of Lord Eddard Stark. Would you like to be Lady Mallister?"
"What," came Arya's flat reply after she nearly choked on her wine.
"It seems Lord Mallister wants a serious alliance with the North, and feels - correctly - that the Lady of Winterfell is an unduly favorable match for his son, and thus is asking for the much more reasonable match of the somewhat wild second-born daughter of a Great House. The Mallisters aren't as great a house as the Tullys, or as rich as the Freys, but it's still a good match. What would you like me to tell him?" asked Sansa, smirking down at Arya.
"Anything you like, as long as it means no," growled Arya.
"I'm sure he'll be happy to hear that. He was determined to do his duty to his family, you know, but... scared. I think he'd thought that once he arrived, he'd put to rest the fanciful tales he'd heard on the trip up, only to find even more violent and disturbing rumors once he arrived," said Sansa, bumping Arya with her shoulder, "You're never going to find a good man while you keep encouraging all those rumors, you know."
"Just so," said Arya, bumping Sansa back, then finished her wine as Cersei would, disappearing behind a screen and emerging a couple minutes later in her own face and attire. She half-smiled at Sansa ruefully and continued.
"I don't mean to make the diplomacy so difficult, Sansa. I know we need a real port on the western coast; Flint's Finger doesn't have the facilities for real fleets. If we can get both Seagard and the Twins on board, we'd have ready access to the Blue Fork river as well as control over the Green Fork river via the Reeds and the Twins both, and the port's barely 70 miles from the Twins, which in turn is right at the edge of the Neck; it's actually just a bit farther north than the Eyrie, so you might be able to visit there if we can keep the Iron Islands friendly, or pacified."
"You are, of course, but I'm not going to suggest marrying you off. He doesn't deserve you."
"Of course he doesn't!"
"I meant he deserves better than a madwoman like you," said Sansa repressively, making the sign for jape, "The Riverlanders need more time to get used to you. Perhaps a few hundred years would do."
"Bah, Death will have me long before then. I'm no Red Priest to try to pay to extend my life."
"Well, try not to die soon; I don't want to have to break in a new commander. Speaking of the military, if we were to get both the Twins and Seagard, between them and the Vale, we'd have a very strong position north of Lord Harroway's Town at the Trident, wouldn't we? Seagard's very close to the Twins and the Neck, the Bloody Gates are just south of there, and Greywater Watch isn't very far, either, most of the time, isn't it?"
"Correct, Sansa. You'd get another powerful House, and don't forget the naval side - Seagard was built to keep the Iron Islands in check, but it's also in a good position to support a fleet to defend us from Westerlands or Reach fleets, as Gulltown is for Stormlands, Crownlands, or Riverlands fleets. Trading wise, it'd be good for trading with the Frozen Shores clans, too, though we really need a Northern port as well; then we can have sea trade from the North to the Riverlands on both coasts, with the Kingsroad down the middle."
"Well, things to worry about after the wars, most of them. I'll pass on your very gracious refusal... though I won't say it's reluctant. You're a great actor, but I don't think Patrek would believe it, and I think he'll be relieved. He seems the type to want a more... traditional lady wife," said Sansa. Patrek Mallister did seem gentle and strong, and was brave enough to come North by himself as he had, which is what her father had wanted her to have. He seemed a boy of Summer to her, though, as much as he'd been defending Seagard from the Lannisters with his father, and his wide-eyed study of the fieldworks, the castle improvements, the bathing schedules and foodstores... and Northern notables like Ned Umber and Alys Karstark, much less the more formidable Lyanna Mormont, or their guest Kitty didn't help.
"Quit feeling old, Sansa. You can find someone if you like, or not as you like. You've arranged the succession, and the future of the Starks; you're fine as you are," said Arya, "We know Daenerys got Jon up on a dragon. I'm not sure what she was thinking, doing that, but he's getting along well with Rhaegal and Daenerys both. What do you think; we go out beforehand? Any first meeting in the castle is very risky."
"Very risky indeed; I cannot and will not tell her Winterfell is hers. It's not, and never will be, and she may notice the lack. Likewise, we can't distract her inside the castle for long, and while you told the conclave that Jon wasn't here, we're not going to be able to separate him from her. Bringing her into the conclave thinking the North has bent the knee would be a monumental mistake if we wish any chance of keeping her as an ally," responded Sansa thoughtfully.
They could certainly bring Daenerys into the conclave and then, in the Targaryen's eyes, snatch the North and the Vale away from her, humiliate her in public, preventing any chance of her ever being taken seriously in the North or the Vale or the northern Riverlands, or even in western Essos. That would make them an enemy - and they couldn't afford that. It also put Jon at risk; there was no telling how far her infatuation with him went, nor how her anger would play into it.
Arya nodded. Pride, fear, anger, hatred; all these were things that could keep a person going, and all of them, in this case, could lead to her having to explain to Jon why his lover and her party had died in a tragic wildfire accident and the dragons went berserk and had to be put down, or that she had been killed after ordering her dragons, or armies, to attack the people of the North.
"Just so. If she does get too upset, she still can't do anything about it; her Northern forces are in White Harbor in the second ring. We've got more Valyrian ballista bolts and crossbow bolts than I'd expected, and plenty of castle-forged ones with dragonglass shards for ballista and scorpions both, so every engine has a good chance on a landed dragon if they can get a square shot or a weak target. She's got no chance here... though I'm not sure she realizes that, which makes her dangerous, unpredictable," said Lady Winter.
Arya knew that arrogance led many to their deaths, and the dragon queen was full of it. Yet, she had potential, too. She'd started freeing slaves, before she went back on it, and had granted them dragonglass easily enough. A very poor showing as the self-proclaimed 'Protector of the Seven Kingdoms', true, but better than Cersei's, given that at the time Jon hadn't pledged himself to anyone but his own people.
"It seems we must. It'll take very careful handling, but we need to get enough of the story out of them first in front of witnesses for the conclave to be comfortable and to fulfill the forms. We also need to arrange to get her alone nearly as soon as she arrives officially, to smooth things over," said Sansa.
She expected that the Daenerys they'd been hearing about would doubtless be irate that her 'diversion' from the war she was waging to conquer Westeros wasn't immediately leading to her desired result. She'd bring up her coming North, her sending dragonglass, her relationship with Jon - never mind she hadn't married him, and whatever else she thought of. She'd at least left most of her forces in the South, countering Cersei, though why she'd brought both Tyrion and Varys to the North, Sansa couldn't begin to fathom. The dead didn't talk, and had neither little birds nor whispers.
"Not quite alone. She needs someone else to keep her composure in front of - the translator, ideally - the warriors are a problem, Tyrion would confuse things, and Varys is too dangerous. We'll leave tomorrow, then. They should be close enough; Bran said they were flying pretty far ahead of the caravan. As long as the wight dragon doesn't start flying ahead of his main army, we'll be fine. I'll arrange an escort with Lord Royce and the Scorpion Bear; it'll have to be primarily horse cavalry with dogsled scouts, but we'll have Heart's Banes loaded."
With that, Arya fell silent, making the sign for person approaching as she heard short, fast, fierce footsteps approaching, but not quite in their normal even rhythm as the guards outside slammed their spear butts into the stone floor to warn of entry, first the guards on the stairwell, then those outside the room.
"Lady Mormont to see you, my lady."
"Send her in," called Sansa loudly, as Arya herself unbarred the door, the guards inside the room having been sent out while Arya practiced.
Sansa watched Lyanna carefully, standing and approaching her as she entered. She and the small bear had been getting more comfortable with each other, particularly since she'd started included Lady Mormont in her unofficial circle of advisors, though this was still a very unexpected visit. And, if she was any judge, the girl was nervous, which was... extremely odd.
Lady Mormont came in, and after Arya'd closed and barred the door, spoke.
"Mother told me this would happen, but never had a chance to tell me what do to. I'm bleeding. What do I do?" asked Lyanna even more sharply than usual.
"You take a clean linen rag and tie it on. Have a few - you need to change them often, and boil it after", said Arya as she reacted first, speaking as she walked quickly behind the screen, emerging with a few clean rags, handing them to Lyanna as she unbarred the door and exited rapidly, "I'll go see to the exercise."
Sansa shook her head as she barred the door again, taking Lyanna by the arm and leading her to the divan. This would have been a lot easier if Arya hadn't turned tail and fled, just like a man would have.
"You'll have to excuse Arya. She was probably being raised by the Hound when she flowered; I'm surprised she knows that much. Congratulations, Lady Mormont; you've become a woman. It's not always very pleasant, I know, but I'll be happy to help. How do you feel? Do you have cramps? Back pain? Are there any other differences, or is anything else concerning you?" asked Sansa, careful not to ask if there was anything the small bear was afraid of.
***********************
Jon held tightly to Rhaegal's spines as he flew through the cold winter air, looking around for any sign of the Night King, then down for White Walkers and wights. He was starting to recognize the land, he thought, though from the air it looked very different indeed, and the glare from the ice-covered snow and trees below wasn't helping, even as much as he was getting used to flying.
The world stretched out below him as he passed below a gyrfalcon. The ground below looked just as it did from the top of the Wall; the day was clear and crisp; he could see all the way to the horizon. Seeing the forest thicken, he turned Rhaegal a little more east of north, turning to wave at Dany, gesturing her over. She, as he was used to, raced ahead of him on Drogon, though as they'd agreed, she went where he'd indicated; he knew the North, the area around Winterfell, and there were no man-made signs.
Well, none but a long break in the trees ahead and to the left; a clear strip of white as far as he could see until it met the wide open plains, with a line of black dots on the strip. As he continued north towards the strip of white, he could see the line of dots stretching out to his right past the forest, curving gently away across the plains, like he imagined the towers around White Harbor would have looked after they'd passed them. On the horizon beyond, another strip of white came into view even as Dany waved at him from atop Drogon, pointing down.
As he looked where she pointed, dots resolved into animals pulling a couple dozen sleds across the open plains, heading south in two circles, one inside the other, with a few very small sleds much farther out. He tugged on Rhaegal's spines, hesitantly calling out the word Daenerys had taught him, "Ilagon!"
With that, Rhaegal tucked his wings in and dove sharply, Jon holding on as tight as he could. Rhaegal, he'd found, liked to dive, and dive fast; even then, Drogon and Dany passed him with wide smiles; at least, he hoped Drogon was smiling. Below, two horses broke out or the center circle, cantering out overtop the snow towards the outer circles and past it, into the area what he now recognized as dogsleds, much smaller than the horse-drawn sleds, were bracketing.
Daenerys smiled at Jon as Rhaegal landed next to Drogon, she'd landed about a hundred yards in front of the two riders who were coming to meet them; one quite tall and one rather short, she could see as she squinted into the bright glare even as she sank into the snow up to her waist. She patted Drogon, who was rather unhappily trying to avoid sinking father into the snow himself, then went over to where Jon was dismounting.
Arya looked back, making sure the outer ring was spreading out appropriately. She'd read as much as she could about dragons from the portions of the archives of the House of Black and White that had been brought to her; she thought this was as safe as approaching dragons was ever likely to be. She had her bow, she had Valyrian steel plate cutters, and dragons took time to breathe fire. Even if she or Sansa was to die, the dragons wouldn't survive, either; a hundred yards from the big horse-drawn engines under the Scorpion Bear's personal supervision there would be no escaping their people's vengeance.
Not today, she told her god, then pulled her horse to a halt when it started getting nervous, pulling her snowshoes on before dismounting in one easy motion. She smiled at Sansa when her sister dismounted on her own and only wobbled a little on the snowshoes, stilling for a moment as she stretched out her senses, feeling for wights; feeling the air, hearing the sounds, listening to the horses and the dragons, then she made the signs for weapon and no; the risk of spooking the dragon queen was worse than the risk of wights hidden under the snow, as Meera had reported, since this was a random patch of land with nothing to distinguish it.
They both took their Valyrian headed spears from their horses, planting them in the snow just in case the horses bolted, then strode out together towards their brother and the silver-haired woman he was with using the high, flat steps showshoes required.
Sansa stopped a medium spear's length away, letting Arya approach him first, just as she'd done with Arya and Bran. Naturally, here there were also the snowshoes to consider; she didn't want to fall into the snow on her first meeting with Daenerys Targaryen. Or on any meeting with her.
Sansa exchanged a small smile with the Dragon Queen, who had also stopped and was mostly watching Jon with a soft expression after having looked back and forth between Jon and Arya a few times, likely comparing how similar they looked to each other. Seeing Daenerys for the first time, it was even more obvious that Jon really did take after his mother almost entirely... except, of course, for the dragon-riding. Sansa suppressed a wince; she hadn't intended the double meaning at all.
She held Bran responsible.
Arya listened to the dragons, to her brother's lady, to the faint sounds of their escort setting up in a loose semicircle a hundred yards behind as she approached. Jon was older, a little heavier than she remembered, and sadder; worn down, like Yoren had been worn down. He'd killed, she knew that, and moved like a fine Westerosi swordsman... but he didn't have the look in his eye. He was a great swordfighter, but not a great killer... as father had been a good swordsman, but not a killer, not like she was.
Arya reached out to clasp him by the shoulders, looking up at scar over his eye, "You didn't keep your shield up."
"You decided you liked jewelry after all?" he replied, gesturing to the bandoleer of knives topped by three dragonglass daggers.
"Only if it's sharp," she said, choosing her words so that they'd give Daenerys the impression she needed, and so they'd be honest for her brother, "You grew a proper beard and mustache. You look like Father."
"So do you. You've got a strong grip, Arya. You're not carrying Needle? Brienne said you'd been training with it, but that sword's just a little longer... and it's got even more hand protection than Mikken made for Needle!"
Arya remembered speaking with Jamie Lannister after he'd taken his place in the Night's Watch; aside from the military discussion, they'd spoken about swords. The man didn't have the skill he once did, but he did have the eye, and he'd told her that in Dorne, he'd seen the quillon of Prince Trystane's sword; it had been a decorative snake, with the head all the way down at the pommel, curving over the hand entirely, putting metal between vulnerable fingers and the enemy's weapon.
Gendry had still been working on reforging the blade, so she'd been able to talk with him before he'd even started the hilt, and it was that sword and hilt she carried now; a Valyrian steel bravo's blade with one of the most protective quillons she'd ever heard of; dual rings perpendicular to the blade and another ring to go over her fingers and protect from cuts.
That, the dragonglass and Valyrian steel tipped arrows, and the Valyrian steel spears were part of why she was as comfortable with Sansa being out here as she was; this was as ready as she could be for White Walkers without also carrying wildfire, and that was back with their escort, along with all the other weapons they'd brought.
"A strong grip isn't all I've learned since we left. Needle has a place of honor on my wall, and it was a perfect reminder of my family, but it's not made for war. I do hope to have a niece or nephew someday to pass it on to," she said, then remembered another aspect of what Bran had told them about Daenerys, "Since I got stabbed in the gut a few times and I can't have children anymore. Hurts like a bitch, doesn't it, getting stabbed in the gut?"
"Aye, it does," said Jon, which caused Arya to grin, then laugh, which in turned caused Jon to laugh, "You didn't die, did you?"
"No, I'm better off than you! No surprise you got killed; that sword of yours is just too small to properly fight with," said Arya, pointing at the hand and a half blade her brother wore; by any Westerosi measure it was quite long, nearly half a foot longer than a longsword like Widow's Wail, and a few inches longer even than Brienne's longsword or Longclaw itself.
"Hey! Longclaw isn't short! And it's Valyrian steel!" protested Jon.
"That's what all the boys say! It is too short for me, Valyrian steel or not. I'm glad you're here, that you made it back from beyond the wall, from King's Landing," said Arya, pulling him into a close, tight embrace and murmuring quietly in his ear, "If you need rescue, hug me tighter, and we'll get you home safe."
Arya looked up at Jon's genuinely confused expression and laughed as he pulled back. Releasing his right arm, then struck with the full power of her entire body, burying the base of her palm in his solar plexus as far as she could through the leather armor he was wearing, causing him to double over. His armor wasn't one of Sansa's, she could tell; it had a little too much flex. She thought it was probably from before Sansa had started working boiled leather, though the rest of his clothes bore Sansa's distinctive tight, fine stitching. Ignoring his difficulties breathing, she spoke, using the tone she did for new soldiers doing idiotic, risky things.
"Don't you ever scare us like that again, you hear me! Only a complete fool would go hunting wights on foot, and even a complete fool wouldn't walk into Cersei's clutches without a good plan," said Arya sternly, then glanced over at their audience. The silver-haired woman's eyes were wide, while the green dragon, had taken a step closer, giant foot burying itself in the soft snow as he extended his long neck towards her. Arya stepped around Jon's wheezing form, the fingers of her right hand spread wide for Sansa to see, and more importantly for Lyanna to see through her far-eye, so she wouldn't have Fjornel loose prematurely.
Arya clapped Jon on the back firmly, taking two steps towards the upset dragon, knees bent to jump to either side and dive into the snow if she must, both her hands free as he started to open his mouth; she raised a hand suddenly, her palm out, towards Daenerys as she heard the snow crunch and the cloak Sansa had made with the Targaryen sigil swish beside her; she could see what Bran had described, the two small circular holes on either side of the great jaw... and, importantly, he looked like a direwolf about to howl, to mark territory, not ready to attack with tooth or claw.
Critically, she did not see any hint of the red glow from the throat that Bran had described clinically, that the books had mentioned and shown, and that Jamie Lannister had described to her so vividly. She did see that the inside of the mouth looked to be soft flesh; no scales, no tough hide. Vulnerable, if you could get a dragon to come up close and breathe fire on you. Had Jamie Lannister been ready to throw his spear, rather than use it as a lance, the outcome of that attack might have been quite different, as close as he was to the Dragon Queen when Bronn saved him.
She waited out the great roar, then resettled the Valyrian steel throwing knife then took another few steps closer to put Daenerys fully behind her and stood tall, raising and extending her arms to their fullest extension, her cloak spreading out to either side, showing only the dragons the vestments of No One hidden on the inside as Arya Stark drew in a deep breath, tipped her head back and howled at Rhaegal.
The Valyrian Freehold had had hundreds of dragons, and of all the non-slave population, there were only forty Dragonlord families. Dragonlords encountered dragons not their own, not belonging to their family, all the time. Lesser families, not having any dragons of their own, still encountered them in the street, in the cities, in the fields. Dragons were much like any intelligent predator; you couldn't show fear, you had to earn their respect.
"Now, do I have to smack you on the nose, or are we good, Rhaegal?" asked Arya of the dragon, glaring.
"She's my sister. My sister!" gasped Jon even as Rhaegal was already turning to him, draconic face looking somewhat taken aback.
Sansa kept her eyes on her sister, watching for the first signs of sudden movement of the body, as Arya had advised her, suppressing her fear even as she was ready to dive in the opposite direction Arya did. They'd spoken of how the dragons might react before, and had spent nearly the entire ride out discussing their options, but to see two in the flesh was different. She imagined it was much like seeing the Night King's army; a vast, supernatural force, majestic in its power... and in no way within your power to control.
They had only one chance at a first impression, and she refused to show weakness in front of this would-be conqueror of the North and the Vale, this woman who thought Sansa was already her subject, her servant. She pushed her fear down further, bringing up her indignation with her sister's idiotic, risky plan, raised her head, and strode forward herself to cement the dragon queen's impression of her, and to ensure that the tone for this meeting stayed far from politics and titles.
"Arya! If you're done playing with the dragon, we have a guest to greet. You and the other children can roll around in the snow together later," chastised Sansa, striding forward with a small smile towards Jon, Daenerys also clumsily approaching him through the deep snow, patting him on the back once she'd gotten to his side.
"You'll have to excuse my siblings; they were never very good at their courtesies, and they haven't seen each other since we all left Winterfell. Arya didn't want to wait for the formal entrance, so here we are, meeting early and informally, which, as expected, needed a chaperon. Or perhaps a referee," said Sansa, then continued, ensuring she kept the initiative, that she kept the power in the conversation, "I understand you and my brother are... close?"
Daenerys and Jon looked at each other, then Jon put his arm around his lover, tucking her against his side.
"We are," said Daenerys, raising her chin and looking Sansa in the eye.
"Well, I suppose it's a good enough match," mused Sansa with a tiny smirk, "Though what, exactly, are your intentions towards my poor, innocent brother? Are you going to make an honest man of him, or just bed him for awhile and cast him aside for someone cuter?"
Arya clapped Jon on the shoulder as he started to blush, "Don't worry, Jon, I'm sure she'll take care of you. She's rich, so you won't have to work for a living. I know you're inexperienced, but don't worry, she knows what she's doing - you won't have to do a thing!"
"It's not..." started Jon, his face quite red.
"I know it's new to you, and a little frightening, Jon, but if you just lie back and think of Winterfell, it'll all be over before you know it," continued Sansa inexorably. She'd done better since Castle Black, but Ramsay, his capture of Rickon, the repeated rejections by Northern lords, his being King, the way he had been King... and, she admitted to herself, the way she was now, particularly regarding ruling, all that had made things very difficult for her, and for him. Now, he wasn't King anymore, so she could, truly, treat him as a sister should treat a brother, in good humor.
Any further protest Jon wished to make was drowned out as Dany burst out laughing, wading through the snow to snuggle up against him as he, too, started to laugh, as did his sisters.
"Don't worry, Jon, I'm very happy with you," said Dany to Jon.
"Since Jon has been remiss in his duty to introduce us to each other, I'm his sister Sansa. It's a pleasure to meet someone so important to my brother. This is my sister, Arya. Arya! What are you doing with that?"
Arya had just put away a flint, now holding a small torch lit in her right hand, offering the smoking flame to Daenerys, "I hear you've got magic, too. Would you like to warm your hands up?"
Daenerys pulled her gloves off, slipping them into a large pocket on the inside of the inner cloak before she pushed her sleeves up and placed her hands directly in the flame, smiling indulgently at Jon's youngest sister. A girl willing to stand up to a full grown dragon without a hint of fear on her first meeting was not what she'd expected, but her children seemed to approve... though she was sure Drogon had been laughing at Rhaegal.
Truly, this was a pleasant surprise. Not as pleasant as Jon had been, naturally, but nice nonetheless. Perhaps this was what close families were like? She could never imagine Viserys giving her the kind of teasing smile his sisters had. And, of course, her hands were finally warm again.
"Thank you, Arya. What did you mean, too?" asked Daenerys.
"I can become No One," said Arya flatly, calm as still water in body and mind. Arya reached out her senses; she could feel the deaths in the Valyrian steel they had brought... and, yes, some were tied to Jon, too. It was true. He had died, and death had paid for life. Now, though, it was time to see if she'd read this face of Daenerys Targaryen correctly.
Daenerys shuddered slightly at the sudden lack of any tone from Jon's sister; she'd seen some slaves she'd freed act like that, had heard more from Missandei from time to time about some of the other slaves Missandei had known. Those who had seen too much horror, or who had endured too much, sometimes... were affected.
This young woman, Jon's sister, covered head to toe in weapons and speaking like that; the story Missandei had told of the duels, of how she killed a man and kept going, just like her Dothraki would, the Unsullied would, or Ser Barristan had... but not like Jon would, not like Missandei would, or any of the ladies she'd known. Well, except for Ellaria Sand and her girls, and probably Yara Greyjoy. She hoped Arya wouldn't end up captured or killed, too, as they had.
Sansa watched life and emotion returning to her sister as Arya pulled a leather tube out of her cloak, offering it to Daenerys with an eager smile.
"I'm a dancing master, now, you know, too. You have many enemies, and yet you haven't burned the Red Keep yet. You can hire me to kill Cersei and her people! You just pay the standard rates for the ones I kill myself," offered Lady Winter.
"My enemies are a long way away. When would you kill them? Would you leave tomorrow?" asked Daenerys indulgently. Jon's sister, like Jon, had great courage. Unlike Jon, of course, she had no dragon to fly to King's Landing on.
Daenerys could see that the girl was fierce, but to get to Cersei required either an army or a dragon - she'd seen that herself at the meeting at the Dragonpit, and both Tyrion and Varys had assured her Cersei was very strongly guarding the tunnel Tyrion had used to get in as well as all the gates to the city itself. Even were the girl as good as in the tale Missandei had told, she's seen Ser Jorah fight; in his armor, he could nearly ignore Dothraki attacks, and that was like the armor the Kingsguard wore.
"A minute, an hour, a month, a year, a season. Death is certain. The time is not," replied Arya, giving an answer like Sansa often gave, both true and manipulating at the same time, if less subtle than the Lady of Winterfell typically was, "A woman cannot make a thing happen before its time. I have many responsibilities here, but I'll leave when I can. I very much would like to kill Cersei and her supporters for you."
"That's right, Arya. As long as you're commanding the forces of the North and the Vale, you can't go off traveling the world," said Sansa, looking down at her sister.
"You're commanding?" asked Jon.
"I am," said Arya, turning to Jon, poking him in the chest firmly with each statement, Daenerys looking on with bemusement, "You didn't bother to put anyone in charge! You didn't leave any orders! You didn't create a training plan! You didn't tell anyone how the wights fight! You didn't plan any of the logistics! You didn't start on fieldworks! You didn't appoint other commanders!"
As Arya paused, Sansa spoke quietly, just loud enough for Daenerys to hear, "Ravens, bathing, food."
"You didn't arrange for military supplies!" continued Arya, picking up steam again at Sansa's reminder, "You didn't plan anything to prevent dysentry and disease! You didn't send me one damned raven and I know Sansa told you I was alive, Jon Snow!"
Arya turned to Daenerys with a smile, analyzing her expression, her posture, and decided to push just a little more, "So! Since you've chosen this scatterbrained idiot, don't you think you should hire a real killer to deal with Cersei?"
With a laugh, Daenerys opened the case, tilting it; she caught the quill that slid out before the paper did, but the tiny vial of ink fell past her hand, Arya catching it with a lightning quick lunge to nearly her full extension, handing it to the dragon queen with a smirk.
"See, Jon? You've have had nothing but a note scribbled on the inside of your tunic, and nary a quill or pot of ink for a dozen miles," said Arya smugly.
With a laugh, Daenerys read over the single page and saw that it was as described. It was a contract to kill Cersei Baratheon and any of her supporters at the standard rates, whatever those were, payment to be made within one month of invoicing, interest on deferred payment at Iron Bank rates. The banking language was quite stilted and very unlike the rest of the wording in the document; Dany had spent enough time with Missandei's translations to easily notice the difference. Perhaps Jon's sister had copied it from another document. The writing, too, was very... rough, and uneven, as if written by someone who was still learning, or who hadn't written in many years. Or someone who hadn't been able to write for years.
"And what am I to sign this on, Arya?" asked the dragon queen archly.
With a glance at each other, the sisters each grabbed one of Jon's arms, turning him so his back was to Daenerys... and the center of the caravan was out of his line of sight.
"Men have strong backs; they should make themselves useful," said Arya with a laugh, taking the case from Daenerys as Sansa took and opened the vial of ink for her.
"Hey!"
"Stay still! You'll smudge my signature," instructed Dany, laughter creeping into her attempt to be stern.
After the contract had been signed, Arya quickly retrieved her items and replaced them, replying to Sansa's sign of dog with a sign of yes, then put her fingers to her lips and whistling a few sharp notes, taking a few steps to direct Jon's attention. Sansa, meanwhile, stepped back half a pace and looked at Daenerys, putting a finger to her lips and tilting her head towards the swiftly approaching pack member.
"What was that?" asked Jon.
Sansa reprimanded him for the question, "If you have to ask, Jon, then you..."
"OOF!" Jon exclaimed as he was driven face-first into the deep snow as Ghost pounced on him from behind.
"... don't deserve to be reminded. Also, Bran's getting married in the Godswood tonight. Even if it's just family and close friends, you should dress properly," continued Sansa, "Even Arya's going to dress properly. Aren't you, Arya?"
"What?"
"Arya!"
"Oh, all right, I'll dress properly. Who do you think Jon is going to bring as his guest?"
"I suppose we'd have to ask Jon that," said Sansa, looking over at their brother's lover.
Daenerys looked down to where Jon had managed to roll onto his back, Rhaegal looking on with intense interest as the direwolf licked Jon's face while Jon scritched his head, asking, "Yes, Jon. Just who are you going to bring as your guest?"
"You, Dany."
Daenerys glanced at Sansa and Arya, saw their small smiles, then turned back to Jon as he pushed Ghost off him and sat up, "Oh? I am the Queen, you know; I might have to spend all day in important meetings with my advisors."
"After four days cooped up with them?" Jon asked, "I don't think you'd survive it!"
"Well, perhaps not," she replied, "And..."
"Will you do me the honor of accompanying me to my brother's wedding, my Queen?" asked Jon, just before Rhaegal put his face right above Jon, opened his mouth, and tried to lick his face with the tip of his tongue.
"Stop! Rhaegal, stop!"
Daenerys pushed Rhaegal's head away from Jon, giggling along with the laughter of his sisters. She'd seen children laughing together, heard some of Tyrion's stories of what he and Jamie had gotten up to. She doubted the Starks went to brothels together, but her Hand sounded happy when he told those stories, truly happy. It was easy to see that Tyrion treasured the memories of his brother, as she could see Jon had treasured the memories of Arya, of how he respected Sansa even as he was exasperated by her, of how he missed Bran and had loved Rickon and Robb.
She'd never had anything like that with Viserys, and she wondered if this was a glimpse of what being part of a family was like. If happiness was something she might have found again.
"You've changed. You two never used to jape together, and now you're ganging up on me," complained Jon as he stood, Daenerys taking the clean white cloth Sansa handed her with a wink, wiping dragon slobber off of Jon's face.
"We're home again, Jon. We're together again, and we're as safe as it gets in this world," said Sansa quietly, "Now, I believe you were asking a question?"
"Dany?"
"Yes, Jon. For the heroic sacrifice of your dignity, I'll go with you."
"If you'd like, I can fit you and the other women in your party with something before the ceremony; it's not necessary, really, but every once in awhile it's nice to really dress up, and we'll have a chance to talk as well," offered Sansa.
Arya rolled her eyes at Jon casually stepping back, then reached under her cloak, silently starting to unfasten thick leather straps.
"I'd like that; Missandei and I will be happy to dress up. Thank you for the fine clothes you sent; I've been much warmer since I put them on, Lady Sansa. The North is beautiful, but much colder than I could have imagined," said Daenerys.
"You're quite welcome; the North is always colder to those who aren't accustomed to it, just as the mountains of the Vale are. It's colder here, and windier there."
At Arya's sign for you, Sansa made the sign for yes, and took Jon by the arm, "I believe Arya has a gift for you, and we've been out in the open too long already. We have some people with some quick questions for my brother that came out with us; it'll only take a moment. Come on, Jon."
Arya slipped up silently just behind Daenerys as she watched Jon turn, then tapped her on the shoulder, her body language again cold and still, her eyes empty as she held up a thick leather pouch with long, strong straps dangling down once Daenerys had jumped and spun around at the tap, the oilcloth that had been wrapped around the book draped over her arm as she handed it over to to the woman, who took a moment before taking it gazing at the illustration on the cover in wonder.
"The House of Black and White in Westeros offers the loan of one book from our library, to help kill the blasphemer called the Night King. It will be returned, undamaged, when the blasphemer is truly dead," said Arya flatly, while Daenerys started at how close she was, and Sansa gave Jon a slight push, striding back atop the snow as Jon plowed through it, Ghost walking next to him.
Daenerys translated the High Valyrian on the cover of the thick, gilded tome, "Claw, Tooth, and Fire by Laenar Belaerys? A book on dragons? You're giving... loaning... me a book on dragons from Old Valyria?" asked the Dragon Queen, flipping through a little ways, stopping at an illustration of two dragons grappling with each other in the sky, one dragon's mouth closing around the other dragon's talon as its tail smashed the enemy rider off the dragon entirely, dense text on the opposite page.
"A book on aerial combat between dragons and dragon-riders," corrected Arya in a dead voice, then took off No One's face again and smiled at the silver-haired woman's reaction, gesturing to Drogon and Rhaegal as she continued.
"You have two dragons, and have apparently convinced my brother to ride Rhaegal, but the Night King has been flying on the wight dragon, too. He melted the Wall at Eastwatch from the air; the wight dragon doesn't get tired, and the Night King has learned how to fly and use dragonfire. You and your dragons may have to face him in the air, and to win without getting yourself or Jon killed, you'll need to train properly, if you get the time. He could attack at any time."
"He's close?" asked Daenerys, looking up and around, concerned for the safety of her dragons while they were on the ground, of Jon, "He could attack us here? Attack my children?"
"I hope he does, but I don't think we'll be that lucky," replied Arya steadily, evaluating how Daenerys took the news, listening to her heartbeat, her breathing, watching her body, her face, "He was with his army, probably four to eight days out if his army keeps up the same pace, when we left... but since he can cover the distance in about an hour while flying, he could be here already, or at Winterfell or White Harbor attacking or dropping off White Walkers, or most of the way to Gulltown or Moat Cailin or anywhere else."
"You hope he attacks us here? With my dragons riderless, on the ground? Why would you hope that?" asked Daenerys sharply.
"The scorpions are only a hundred yards away, his main army's out of support distance, and this area's very flat; there's no cover big enough to hide a dragon. He'd be visible from a long way away, and even if he was so fast we couldn't reposition, the scorpions would be able to loose before he'd be close enough to kill us," said Arya, not mentioning their archers at all, then continued.
"Hopefully he'd be shot down, and we'd finish the job here, though whoever he attacked first might be crushed or burned or torn apart, depending on where the dragon's body landed. The wight dragon might abort his attack and dodge, but even then the Night King might fall off and we could face him here, far from his army. Worst case, he stays out of range and drops off a hundred or so White Walkers who can throw their spears the way the Night King did; then we retreat towards the watchtowers. More likely, several of the White Walker scouts gather together with hundreds or thousands of mostly animal wights, moving fast, like they do in battle or pursuit."
"You're using me as bait! And my dragons!" exclaimed Daenerys, outraged... then at Arya's steady calm look, gray eyes boring into her own, reconsidered briefly, "And Jon... and your sister, and yourself, and your soldiers."
"Of course. If we can take down the wight dragon and the blaspheming Night King, whatever of his army is left is far less of a threat to the living. That's a good trade, one any of us would be glad to make," said Arya, then decided to continue with slightly different wording than the Dragon Queen used herself, but close enough that she might hear with her ears, "If we can send those two to a proper death, then the world's a better place, and the living have a much better chance. Here, in the open, far from his army, is our best chance. That's worth dying for."
Daenerys nodded, then started to page through the book, starting to read the text as well as admire the pictures. Aerial combat was much more difficult than she'd thought, and, it seemed, fire could indeed be dangerous to dragons. There were words she had never heard or seen before; as she continued through the book, one of them turned out to be a name for a particular move. She'd never thought about it before, but she knew her Dothraki did things with their horses that few other riders could match. As she was learning now, there was a vast difference between an expert dragon-rider and a normal dragon-rider... and she was, she thought sourly as she saw chapter after chapter of advanced techniques, probably barely a novice.
Arya waited, still and quiet as the book kept Daenerys occupied harmlessly, distracting her from the many awkward questions she could otherwise be asking. After a few minutes, Sansa and Jon approached again while a series of horn calls sounded from the Northern and Vale contingent they'd been speaking with, Sansa calling out as they came closer.
"The warg's spotted another White Walker with fifty or more wights north-east of here, heading this way, six miles out. We need to go, Arya."
"Head back the way you came; stay low for the first few miles, so you don't get seen, then stay with the damned caravan; if the wight dragon attacks, bait it into the caravan's scorpion range carefully; watch out for a trap! The Night King certainly wants more wight dragons, and if the White Walkers can throw their spears like he can, they could try to hide and wait for you to fly over, so stay within a bow shot of the caravan," commanded Arya, then gave Jon a tight hug, and clapped Daenerys on the shoulder.
"Be careful; avoid the White Walker. One by itself isn't worth risking yourselves," Sansa hugged Jon, and at Arya's sign, gave Daenerys a gentle, quick hug as well, "We'll see you soon. Remember, whatever else happens, you being good for Jon matters to us. I'll be happy to talk as much as you like while fitting you and Missandei for your outfits!"
With that, Sansa turned and walked as quickly as she could on her unfamiliar snowshoes to her spear and horse; she'd feel better with her main weapon within reach again, even with Arya stalking along beside her like a great wolf with gleaming fangs. As they plucked their spears from the snow, they looked at each other with a grin, exchanging the sign for success.
Arya helped Sansa mount her horse, then took off her sister's snowshoes before mounting her own horse and stowing all the snowshoes in her saddlebags, walking the horses back to warm them up as she looked back, waving as Jon and Daenerys took off in a great shower of snow.
The sisters rejoined Ned Umber, Alys Karstark and Yohn Royce in the center of the troops they'd brought with them, heading back to Winterfell to attend the conclave Sansa had set up before they'd left, scheduled to be hours before the dogsled caravan arrived. Lyanna Mormont was, as usual, riding on a big horse-drawn scorpion sled.
Arya gave the horn call that sent Ghost running out ahead to scout while the riders brought their horses up to a fast amble and the sled teams up to a trot, so they could return in time for the conclave. There was much to decide, and little time to do so. Luckily, the seeds they'd planted after killing Littlefinger had been carefully tended since then.
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24 Coronations and Queens
Sansa and Arya rode their horses down the gentle ramp to the platform of hardsno four hundred yards from the outermost defensive ring alongside the rest of their guard, pulling up and dismounting long enough to remove the horse's snowshoes before remounting and continuing onto the continuously cleared ground, Arya sidestepping her horse next to Sansa's as the many layers of defenses opened up before them, one by one.
"Remember when we arrived at King's Landing, and they dragged Father into a Small Council meeting first thing, right after he got off his horse?" asked Arya quietly.
"Gods, yes. He should never have gone with them, not without freshening up. They wanted to laugh at the Northerner, dirty from traveling himself and actually doing his duty," replied Sansa.
"So, are you going to freshen up before the conclave?"
"Of course not. Do I look like some flowery Southron girl, putting my appearance over the time of the Lords and Ladies of the North and the Vale, the elders of the Free Folk, and our other allies?"
Arya looked over Sansa, evaluating her sister carefully; she saw a tall woman in a thin but fine grey cloak, a simple Northern braid extending out the back of a well maintained, brand new boiled leather helmet with exquisite stitching of a direwolf's head on the front. Sansa rode neither very well nor very poorly; she had good posture, though her movements weren't quite in tune with her horse's amble, not the way Arya or other good horsemen rode on horses they had trained with extensively. Most telling, though, was the rest of Sansa's attire and how she wore it; she wore her armored dress astride, the front fabric hitched up, without any hint of even noticing the heavy, thick leather. Her spear was on her horse in easy reach of her hand, a rag around the dragonglass shard encrusted steel butt-cap protecting the fragile shards from the leather of the spear-holder; her expression resolute and self-confident.
Sometimes, Arya was truly proud of what her sister had become - that her boots were covered in dirty snow wasn't something that bothered Sansa anymore, though she certainly still noticed. This was Sansa in the winter, and in the winter they must protect themselves; words her sister lived by. Summer was a time for fun and frivolity, for indulging young children. They'd all left summer behind years ago; now it was their turn to protect, to pass on the lessons they'd paid so much for, to ensure that there would be a future generation to do so in turn. Sometimes they wondered how their mother and father had been able to take off winter's harsh face for so many years, and the sisters had reminded each other that they, too, would put on summer's face, after the Long Night. But that was a concern for the far future; now, her sister wore winter's face.
"No. You look like a woman grown, armed and armored; a great leader of proud winter warriors, who rides like an trained infantryman with a wary eye for an ambush. I'm proud of what you've learned, what you've become, you know, Sansa. You have two great kingdoms working together with the Free Folk, and there have been dozens of guaranteed trade contracts made since you first came up with that idea. It takes something special to get the Iron Bank to do something new, Sansa, and to arrange for merchants from many kingdoms and cities to follow through with it."
Sansa turned her head to look over at her sister, seeing the sign for truth, and nodded regally, prompting a grin from her sister. She'd been mildly surprised at how the practice of the most serious trade contracts being 'guaranteed' by the Faceless Men with loans the Iron Bank provided the full price up front had grown. The variation known as 'engaged to be guaranteed' had truly set sail as well, since in that case there was no full up front payment; the payments simply built up over time. The fundamental idea and action of putting their lives on the line in a very real way had become a point of pride in many of those who traded, mined, farmed, ranched, logged, and so on. She wasn't sure if they were tired of being looked down as cowards by warriors, if they were influenced by being trained for war alongside their families, or if it was backlash from the many betrayals and failed promises they had all experienced, but those who had taken to the practice bragged about it no less than warriors after a battle.
"Thank you, Arya. Don't ever forget that we'd never have been as ready for our enemies without you, or rid of Littlefinger without everything falling apart, or have our overseas allies. Or Dorne, for that matter," replied Sansa with a self-satisfied smirk,"My thanks to the House of Black and White in Westeros for the new contracts, as well."
"You're welcome, Sansa. What about Dorne, though? Did you manage to cut a deal with Princess Sarella, then, Princess Sansa, princess to princess?" asked Arya, leaning over and peering closely at Sansa's expression.
"You'll just have to wait and see, Princess Arya," said Sansa with an uplifted nose, "Like any proper princess would."
"Hey! I'm no Princess... though since you did invite all the major allies and trading partners to the conclave, it seems you still like a bit of a show, don't you, sister?" teased Arya.
"Of course not," said Sansa archly, making the sign for lie, "It's simply practical; the Lords and Ladies will make their decisions in front of gods and men both, and our allies will see how we do things, all open and aboveboard."
Reaching the makeshift stables, they dismounted, Sansa very naturally taking her spear out, rotating the shaft loosely through one hand as she spun the protective rag off and handed it to the stable-boy who was taking her horse. Arya, of course, was already inside the gatehouse with Lady Mormont, Fjornel, and Lady Karstark, receiving brief status reports, while Lord Royce and Ser Elbert were just behind with their smallest member, Lord Umber.
A great leader of proud warriors, as her sister had said... well, she might be, in time. A good leader, though? She looked around at her lords and ladies, at Marleya the stable girl, Darvon and Ruger the stable boys, at Keynna who ran all the eastern stables. Then she looked at new pillars of wood and stone supporting additional floors of storage through the sieges and winter storms to come, constructed on her orders, to help feed the animals her people would need, the roof at an odd angle determined by Arya to gain another few feet of attic by putting the peak entirely inside the blind areas of the ballistas on the nearest inner and outer towers, where they would already have hit the castle if they'd loosed there.
Outside, she knew the tall wooden guard tower was built stronger than they had been before Jon left, all to support the sets of rough planks she's suggested, which in turn supported barrels of provisions, frozen carcasses of the old and weak animals slaughtered early as they were every winter hanging from hooks on the sides not used for the rigging Arya's friend had suggested rather than wooden ladders. Looking on her works, she felt she might be a great leader of proud warriors indeed; most of whom, she hoped, would survive the wars and the winter beyond.
Lowering her spear to clear the door, she strode through, Arya on her left with her own spear, Lady Mormont and Lord Royce behind them, then the comparatively minor powers of Umber and Karstark, Fjornel and Ser Elbert. Sansa could hear the Vale lord talking quietly with Lyanna; since the fostering had been accepted, they'd been spending quite a lot of time together; it was good for the small bear to learn from a man who was not only a renowned and respected warrior, but also a cunning politician, skilled in the Game of Thrones, and honorable besides.
She was quite sure that would cause her many years of frustration in the future... but that she could live with, if they lived. That was the true North - fractious and independent, with many ideas of what was best, of what was honorable. As she'd discussed with Arya, living with and listening to the honest and honorable opinions of others would help keep her from becoming a monster herself, most especially those who also cared deeply for their people. All of their people, as Arya had insisted, smallfolk and highborn alike, and that the small bear did very well.
Arya listened alertly as they strode towards the great hall, Fjornel scorning the group in front of the main doors to slip in through a window, as was her habit. Arya would normally have gone in the same way, but today, she'd stay at Sansa's side for the same reason she was still carrying her spear in addition to her other weapons, to show that they stood together; the crowd in front tended to part before Sansa regardless, with a muted chorus of 'my lady' sounding, the hall inside much quieter than usual, with far less chattering and far more nudges when people noticed Sansa stride in.
Once they'd leaned their spears against the wall and taken their places beside Bran at the head table, they watched the remainder of the leaders enter, taking their places throughout the hall, many taking small woolen blankets in the cold hall; they kept only a small fire now and a few torches. With the dead approaching, the few who complained about the cold and the dark were quickly silenced by their neighbors.
One table was different; instead of those of the North and the Vale and the Free Folk, that table was occupied by other allies and guests not as closely aligned; Keyholder Tormo, the 999th Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, Lord Patrek Mallister, and - to Sansa's satisfaction - Princess Sarella Sand of Dorne, in the formal attire Sansa had made for her, a point the more observant of those present had already noticed.
To receive clothing sewn by the Lady of Winterfell had changed from a novelty to a mark of favor, one she worked long hours to be able to provide to many. Some were for contributing great amount of stores, like the breastplate she'd presented to Lord Flint. Some were for military contributions, like Lady Mormont's leather curiass. Then there were the gloves she'd made for the Manderly ladies, the scarves for Alleras and the expert whalers who'd captured the wights, even the boots for some merchants who had donated supplies, helping a few of the worst off Houses make up the necessary supplies to draw from the central stores.
As the last of those she was expecting entered, Sansa spoke.
"My Lords and Ladies, elders of the Free Folk, and honored guests, thank you all for coming. I see that somehow news of our riding out to meet my brother and the Dragon Queen leaked out," said Sansa, eliciting rough laughter from the crowd; she'd asked for the escort at breakfast at the brothel's dining room that morning, which had ensured everyone would know... and be prepared. Sansa smiled a knowing smile, then continued.
"We did meet them, and it is time to hear the words of those who witnessed that meeting, who heard my brother's words, given freely far from the the armies of Queen Daenerys, with her dragons under the watchful gaze of Lady Mormont's crews. Lady Winter, you asked him first, did you not, even while he was next to her?"
"I whispered in his ear what to do to signal me if he needed rescue," said Arya, making the sign for you to Sansa, "And he did not. That, by itself, is not enough - we were still right next to the dragons."
"Which are apparently as surprised by my sister as anyone else on meeting her; she shouted Rhaegal, who my brother rode, down when he roared at her," said Sansa proudly, after seeing Arya's sign that it was her choice. They'd discussed whether to mention that on the ride back in a mix of signs and hints; this meeting would be smoother with a little humor. Too, a pointed reminder that her sister, Lady Winter, was one to face down a full grown dragon from up close wouldn't go amiss. Already public was the knowledge that Jon could ride a dragon. There was no way around that if he was to do so in battle. Or on arrival, as seemed likely.
"Lord Umber?" asked Sansa.
The small boy stood, much less nervous than he had when Jon had called him to bend the knee, looking somewhat more like a Lord, if a young one, than a boy under the approving gazes of Lady Frey and Lady Karstark, who he trained with regularly, and spoke to the conclave, his voice only a little unsteady. His opinion wasn't often sought, and he rarely spoke up on his own.
"I asked if he drew his sword when he pledged to her, as I did when he pardoned my family's crimes, and he said he did not."
"Lady Karstark?"
"He did not kneel when he pledged himself to her; he told me that he did not need to kneel, his word was enough," said Alys Karstark, an undertone of regret in her voice for the King... former King... who had preserved her family's right to the Karhold against the advice of everyone else, and who had now given up his crown for someone not of the North, nor even of the Vale or the Free Folk or of Braavos.
"Ser Elbert?"
"It was as Lord Umber and Lady Karstark said."
"Fjornel?"
"King Crow's in love. Or lust! Pretty one, she is. What they said, he said," said the veteran spearwife casually, though loudly. She had little patience for these silly Southron games, but the Scorpion Bear'd listened to her, followed her advice after Arya'd killed that dumb cunt in her tent, and had done the same many times since. Arya, too, listened to the Free Folk, did what made sense when it was explained to her. King Crow'd let them past the wall, aye, and paid for it with his life... but not for long, and they'd fought for him, died for him after; that debt was paid.
"Lady Mormont?"
"What they said was true. He said did not kneel, that he did not draw his sword at the Dragonpit either, when he publicly announced that he served the Queen of Meereen," said the small bear, more than a trace of anger in her posture for the man she'd swore would be her King until her last day... only for him to not be a King at all, not anymore.
Sansa turned to Bran, "What has the Three-Eyed Raven seen of what Jon did at the Dragonpit?"
"He was standing, his sword sheathed. Cersei said I ask it only of Ned Stark's son. I know Ned Stark's son will be true to his word. Jon said I am true to my word, or I try to be. That is why I cannot give you what you ask. I cannot serve two queens. And I have already pledged myself to Queen Daenerys of House Targaryen."
Arya asked, "Did he kneel in any way, or draw his sword at all?"
"No," came the flat reply of the Three-Eyed Raven.
"Lord Royce?" asked Sansa, after letting the conclave ponder for a few seconds.
"Lord Jon was in good health, hale and hearty. He flew in on the green dragon himself, and flew out on the same dragon. He looked back at the Queen of Meereen several times, very fondly. Too, through the far-eye, the green dragon looked to Lord Jon, not to Queen Daenerys, when Lady Winter... startled him," replied Bronze Yohn, his voice strong and sure, tone changing to one of comfortable humor at the end, as well as a small, respectful nod to Arya Stark.
"I was there myself, and I saw and heard my brother say those same things. My lords, my ladies, elders of the Free Folk, you have heard from those who were there to speak to my brother in person. You know the laws, history, and customs of bending the knee in the North. The Dragon Queen approaches, come to help us against the dead, and for her dragonglass and her willingness to help we are grateful; but being grateful does not mean we must bend the knee. I am grateful to all those who fought the Boltons, yet I did not bend the knee to those of the North who supported our family, nor to those of the Vale who rode North and fought for me, nor to those of the Free Folk who fought with us," said Sansa, leaving the invitation open for debate.
To nobody's surprise, Lyanna Mormont stood immediately, laying her hand atop the stack of ancient tomes she'd come in with.
"King Benjen Stark, son of King Eyron Stark, abdicated as King when he joined the Night's Watch; we have the records of Maester Jorah to show that. Five years later, he became the 434th Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, which we have the Night's Watch records of, thanks to Acting Lord Commander Tollett bringing them from Eastwatch. King Brandon Stark, son of King Walton Stark, likewise is recorded to have left the North to his son King Harlon Stark and joined the Night's Watch, becoming the 792nd Lord Commander in their records. King Eyron Stark, son of King Brandon Stark, joined the Night's Watch, though we have only Winterfell records of him, as he did not become Lord Commander," the small bear said, using the voice she used to carry from one tower to another without shouting, which she had copied from her mother, and continued.
"Kings of Winter have pledged themselves out of their Kingship before, as a personal oath. This is the history of the North, and the custom of the North; it is part of the Old Ways.
Sansa watched as Lyanna sat down to a chorus of affirmation and assent, nodding to her gravely, which she just as gravely returned. The small bear had done everything and more that Sansa had expected and hoped for; her finding corroborating evidence in the records Dolorous Edd had brought from the Wall was a stroke of genius; those records could not have been forged recently, since a few of the remaining old Night's Watch members had actually memorized the lineage of the Lord Commanders over the long years at Castle Black. She gave the signs for question and you to Arya, who stood and spoke.
"This conclave named our brother Robb King in the North after he told them what he planned to do; they did so knowing exactly what his intentions and his terms were. Lady Stark, what are your intentions and a distant view of your plans, in the understanding that in politics just as in war surprise is deadly, so some things cannot yet be said?" asked Lady Winter, as they'd planned. It was an extension of how they'd revealed what they'd done to survive as much as it was an affirmation of what Robb had done. Likewise, it was a subtle chiding of the conclave for naming Jon king; he was a good brother, but an impulsive King, and 'fight the dead' was not a plan.
Sansa stood, looking out over the great hall, watching the eddies of groups, the quick whispers, and the occasional bets being placed. She saw the trend was as she'd thought; most of the Northern lords and ladies had been in favor of their own independence for their entire lives. Those of the Vale had wanted the same, but had needed to reconcile that with their honor, with practicality, and with their isolation. Like the North, the Vale had never participated in the Game of Thrones to the same level as the more Southron kingdoms.
"My first plan is for us - all of us - to survive and then defeat the army of the dead; the details of that I leave to those better trained for it, knowing that I will do anything and everything in my power to support that. After that, we must survive the other wars to come - Euron has a powerful naval force of reavers and raiders, and Cersei is a great threat... again, I will support what is needed by those trained for those battles. Cersei, at least, will not send her army to besiege Moat Cailin or the Eyrie in winter, though she does have vast stores of wildfire. Euron is less predictable, unfortunately. I will lend my full support to the defense of the North, and the Vale, and of the Free Folk. Any other threats that come to us, we will destroy when the time is right."
Sansa saw general approval, mixed with an undercurrent of worry, which she spoke to address while raising as few other issues as she could... though some, of course, would still be offended.
"Our armies will not march South. We will not take part in purely Southron games for the Iron Throne. We will war outside our lands only as is required by sound military plans to defend our lands and our people. I plan to go no farther South than Wickenden for the rest of my life, gods help me. I plan for us to be independent! I plan to help better my bannermen, better my smallfolk, to better my lands,so we can all survive the many winters to come, however long they may be! I plan for us to be good and reliable partners in long-term trading contracts, for us to honor our debts to the Iron Bank. I plan for us to find and use more of the hidden riches our lands hold, to raise up new Houses to care for now-abandoned holdfasts and keeps, to build new ones on empty lands, for we have lost good Houses in the past years, and will lose more in the future; but the pack survives; our way of life survives."
Sansa watched the approval in the conclave, not only from the Northerners, but also from the Vale, whose many internal debates since Lysa Arryn's death she had been keeping an eye on, with only gentle, subtle nudges. The Free Folk cared less, of course, but those who favored trade were keenly interested as well. She continued.
"We of the North cannot stand up to six other kingdoms, dragons or no dragons, on the field of battle. It is a fact; even if of all the other kingdoms, only the knights and armies of the Vale know how to travel and fight in winter, in summer, the North is vulnerable to them all. Torrhen Stark knew that; he faced not only dragons without defenses against them, but also the combined might of five kingdoms in summer; only Dorne remained independent, and at that time, Torrhen did not know how long they would hold out. By ourselves, independence for the North alone is a wonderful dream, and one I share, but an impossible dream except in winter, after careful preparations."
Unhappy mutters and whispers swept through the room, but without any interruptions; these Lords and Ladies had been working with their allies from outside the North very closely, and for a long time, now; they heard what she was implying... and now it was time for her to say it.
"We are not by ourselves! The Vale stands with us against the army of the dead! They stood with us against the Boltons! The fleets of Braavos stand with us! The Iron Bank has sent Keyholder Tormo here with the authority to provide us loans, gold to spend improving our lands, ourselves, so we can do business and pay them back with interest, making even more ourselves! Many traders from across Essos have sold us what we need to fight the dead, to survive the winter, to trade what we have for what they have for many years to come! The Lady of the Crossing stands with us, having brought us the treasures of the Twins to fight our wars with, to feed our people with! Lord Mallister of Seagard traveled here with hundreds of barrels of food despite his city being under siege by the Lannisters! Princess Sarella of Dorne stands with us, bringing arrows, bows, food, and Acolyte Alleras, who worked out how to capture wights! Red Priests from Asshai stand with us against the dead and the Long Night, bringing food that grows in darkness!"
Sansa waited a moment for that message to sink in; they were not alone; they had more allies than they'd ever had before, and from even the far reaches of the world. If the North and the Vale stand together as one, if Dorne asserts their independence, then the Iron Throne is only four kingdoms... and the most vulnerable, trapped between us; if we three kingdoms ally with each other, then should the Iron Throne attack one of us, the other is at their back!"
Sansa turned to Princess Sarella, remembering the agreement they'd come to in the secret passage. Sansa would help Sarella, who would rule an independent but allied Dorne, free of the Iron Throne, tied to the North and the Vale by trade, by mutual dependence on the alliance to fend off the Iron Throne, and by some elements of their cultures; the Dornish valued freedom highly. The great distance between them would help dissuade any future territorial ambitions on either kingdom's part, as well, which would only help.
"Princess Sarella, what is Dorne's stance?"
Sarella stood, looking over the massed representatives of the North and the Vale. This was, she suspected, not her final examination as the ruler of Dorne, but certainly a mid-term. This would, if it went as Sansa had thought it would - or told her she thought it would - be a critical step for her in graduating from being a figurehead used by others to having some real power, since the alliance would be between her and Sansa, not between the other cabals vying for power.
"Lady Stark, Dorne bends the knee to no throne; not the Iron Throne, not the Northern throne, not the throne of the Vale; we are independent. Yet we too cannot stand on our own should all the other kingdoms gather their strength against us as one; we can hide in the sands for years... but not in winter, not in the Long Night. We have goods you need - lemons, pomegranates, oranges, bows and arrows and bolts and quarrels. You have goods we need; cloth, meat, even water and ice, if not other goods not yet found. Many of our houses are also of the First Men; while some of our customs are different, our desire for independence is the same! We know well what it's like to have mountains defending us, and to live in them, to climb them, just as those of the Vale and the North do. And we know that together with the North and the Vale, we have the Iron Throne trapped between us!"
"Thank you, Princess Sarella," said Sansa, standing again as the Dornishwoman sat. There were considerably more side conversations now than there had been; the lords and ladies hadn't been expecting another ruler aside from the Dragon Queen, and this surprised them... but, watching the room, did so pleasantly. Unlike the Dragon Queen, Sarella's statement of independence resonated well with what the people of the North wanted, with what they had always wanted, with what they had gambled on Robb to give them.
Lord Royce stood to speak, his deep voice steady and strong as he did his duty to his kingdom.
"Lady Stark, the knights of the Vale rode North for you, and we were right to do so, for you fought an honorable battle against a dishonorable foe. I have a question, if you would answer it, my lady. We face enemies beyond just the dead, and will face more in the future. How do you intend to deal with them? When do you intend to use assassins?" asked the representative of the Vale.
Sansa turned to Arya first, inclining her head to Arya before sitting to let her sister take the floor, "Lady Winter, if we were to all fight together, how would we fare in defending ourselves? How would we fare on the attack?"
"We have no dragons of our own, we don't have vast, rich farmlands to feed hundreds of thousands of soldiers, the gold or iron to outfit them all in heavy armor, and hundreds of thousands more people to care for that armor. Using our natural defenses, we can easily defend from land attack, if we don't let our guard down. Defending from naval powers is harder; we need to keep building up our fleet and the watchtowers along the coast," said the commander of the allied forces, continuing as her voice carried over the whispers and comments.
"On the attack, perhaps during the Long Night itself we could drive them back, but even most winters we cannot invade the South. We could never hold it, and only with long sieges and the use of the largest of siege weapons could we take their castles. As for the Old Way, while I'd pay to see my sister hand Cersei her head, I'm afraid she's just not ready to take on Euron Greyjoy in single combat."
Sansa let herself smile at Arya's jape and the resulting wave of laughter and comments about the Red Wolf tearing Cersei apart with her bare hands. When they'd quieted, she stood, grasping her spear and raising it up before the conclave.
"I'm afraid genteel ladies don't tear their enemies apart with their bare hands; I'd use my spear, as Chella, daughter of Cheyk has taught me!" she pronounced to an approving grunt from her weapons teacher and a renewed wave of laughter from everyone else. She continued, "Nor do we care about the Southrons and their games, or their throne. We cannot ignore them, though; not even after Cersei's gone, for they have always sought the conquest of each other... and of us all; that is why the Riverlands has been fought over so many times! Many of our people who are not warriors have shown they have the courage to put their life on the line, just as our warriors have always done. The Old Way is that the leader pledges their life to fight for their people. I cannot fight the Mountain or Euron Greyjoy, but I can risk cutthroats or assassins being sent for me... and I can make Cersei risk the same."
She glanced over the conclave; some of the guests seemed a little confused, while the Northerners were solidly behind her. Between the Red Wedding and the Boltons, she had their full support for as long as these wars lasted. Those of the Vale, those were the critical players, now, and while she had a great deal of support there, she also had both rivals and to contend with their notions of honor. She raised her voice slightly.
"I will continue to encourage the use of assassins to guarantee honorable and equitably trading contracts to a level at which the Iron Bank believe sufficient to offer loans of the gold required to do business together, and to make agreements which will last for many winters to come. I would be delighted if an assassin would kill Cersei Baratheon or Euron Greyjoy; without them, we would almost certainly have only the Night King to deal with, and I would not see more lives of the North and the Vale and our other allies spent against those fighting out of fear when better ways are at hand," she said, pausing for a long moment before taking the tone Cersei used when making decrees; Baelish had nothing quite like it, but this was a time for a decree issued as if it were fact, "And I am opening an engaged to be guaranteed contract with the House of Black and White in Westeros on any monarch of the North, or the North and the Vale, whose people cry out for just vengeance! Let whoever would rule put their life on the line; we will not suffer monsters on the throne for long."
Bran handed Sansa a roll of parchment, which she unrolled as a guard carried a small chest to the table, opening it to show a large bar of gold and a handful of jewels inside. Arya withdrew a coin purse, upending it over the chest, silver and gold spilling into the empty space before she strode out from the head table, disappearing behind the cloudy wolf side of the screen, No One emerging from the black and white side, slowly approaching the head table, reading over the contract carefully as the lords and ladies turned back and forth, speaking with each other until No One signed the contract, taking it and slipping it under his vestments.
"The House of Black and White in Westeros accepts this contract. Anyone and everyone is welcome to make payment or partial payment on this assassination. When sufficient payment has been received, and the Many-Faced God judges there is a need for just vengeance against a monarch of the North, or the North and the Vale, then the contract will be executed by the Faceless Men, and the unjust monarch will be given the gift, no matter what face they wear," said No One, his deep tones ringing out over the suddenly silent hall. No One looked the conclave over carefully, then added one more statement, "As with any contract of this type, any payments may be made in public, or in private, to any priest or acolyte of the Many-Faced God."
No One closed the chest and took it back behind the screen with him, Arya returning to the head table empty-handed, sitting back down as if nothing had happened, aside from a hint of a nod to Bronze Yohn, who returned it as he stood, accepting a sheaf from Ser Lymond, from which he withdrew a set of raven scrolls, holding them high.
"My lady, Lady Winter, thank you. You may have learned many lessons from the likes of Queen Cersei and Lord Baelish, but you retain both honor and courage. You have shown that you have wisdom, as well, in council and as a leader. Lord Bran the Three-Eyed Raven and our Commander, Lady Winter both support you. I have been in correspondence with Lady Waynwood, Lord Corbray, and others at the Eyrie, the Bloody Gates, and Gulltown, and I say to this conclave that the Vale supports you, too!"
"Thank you, Lord Royce. The support of the Vale honors me, and I will seek to honor the Vale in turn," replied Sansa, maintaining a grave and dignified demeanor. That was it; the North was behind her, and the Vale had decided for her, thanks in large part to Lord Royce. Had she answered in a manner he deemed dishonorable, she would have an alliance for the wars, but no more. The politics were complete; she'd gained the Vale's allegiance by her past actions... and by her making sure that her future actions were constrained, that she could not become a monster. Not for long, at least. Sansa made the sign for thanks to her sister, then met Lady Mormont's eyes.
The Scorpion Bear stood, drawing her steel hatchet, pointing her sidearm at Lady Stark, her voice ringing out across the great hall, "I named Jon Snow as my king. He found another service, and is King in the North no more. There sits the only woman I mean to bend my knee to. The Red Wolf, Queen in the North!"
With that, she knelt on her right knee, hatchet head on the stone before her, her back straight as she stared up at Sansa, her posture perfect. With cries of 'Red Wolf', 'Queen in the North', and 'Queen of Winter' from those of the Vale interspersed with 'Queen of the Mountain and Vale', lords and ladies of both the North and the Vale followed suit in bending the knee. First the greater Houses and those sword directly to the Starks bent the knee; Royce, Reed, Manderly, and others. After that, those lesser lords and ladies sworn to directly to the greater houses bent the knee in turn, then those sworn to them until all those of the North and the Vale had bent the knee.
While the others were kneeling, Arya turned, accepting an open circlet of bronze with nine iron spikes, forged by Gendry from the drawings Lyanna and her Maester had found during her research into past Kings of Winter. Once all had knelt, she raised it up for all to see, then placed it atop Sansa's head, drawing her own sword and kneeling by the dividing screen, followed by the Lady of the Crossing and those women sworn to her bending the knee as well once they saw Lady Winter doing so.
After a moment, when the attention was on Sansa, Arya slipped behind the screen with her sword in her hand, and No One emerged out the other side, weapons invisible under his vestments. While those who had knelt were standing, swords and spears, staves and bows, hatchets and crossbows held high as they shouted, No One quietly made his way behind the table for the guests, finding a nice spot where he had a good view of Sarella, Kitty, and Alys, winking at the Princess as she looked up in shock. Queens were not a matter of interest for the House of Black and White; all died the same.
No One stood behind the guests, eyeing Sarella with interest, while also enjoying glances at Kitty and Alys, exactly as old Walder would have, then he leaned down to murmur quietly in an astonished Jamie Lannister's ear, "You don't look so high and mighty now. Not going to mock me anymore, eh? Heh heh heh!"
Once the commotion had died down and enough people had noticed that No One did not kneel, he returned behind the screen, Arya Stark strode out the other side with the slightest hint of an insolent shrug at her sister, who returned to watching the conclave after just one brief glance while Arya returned to her place at the head table.
Sansa smiled as the noise went on for another minute while the lords and ladies celebrated their renewed freedom as much as her coronation, if not more, then raised a hand to just above her waist, waiting another minute for the noise to die down before she was able to speak. The crown atop her head seemed heavy to her; while it wasn't actually heavier than the leather helmet she'd been wearing and training with, she was the ruling Queen now, named by her peoples, Queen in the North, Queen of the Mountain and Vale, and Queen of the Twins, she supposed, since the Lady of the Crossing had bent the knee once Arya had. The Free Folk weren't that interested; as far as they were concerned, nothing had changed. Patrek Mallister, she saw, was very interested in what was going on, if somewhat surprised; he hadn't been expecting anything like that... and where he was from, women in leadership positions was simply not done - Cersei hadn't been an example they approved of, either, nor the Dragon Queen, nor Yara Greyjoy.
Sansa watched as Princess Sarella stood and curtsied to her elegantly; it wasn't time yet to repay the Dornishwoman's support in the way they'd agreed; neither her own kingdoms nor Dorne were ready for that, especially after the... accident... one of the Dornish guards had had, slipping on an icy battlement and falling to his death on the way back from Maester Wolkan's chambers. She'd have to ask Arya what was going on with that; she was quite sure the Princess hadn't paid for a Faceless Man, and that guard... she didn't know who he'd been loyal to, but he had no loyalty to the princess of Dorne. The hall was quiet, now, and it was time to speak.
"You are very kind, my Lords and Ladies. Let me assure you that all the preparations you and all your people have been doing will continue uninterrupted; all contracts that have been made will continue unchanged, all loans will be repaid, subject only to the needs of the wars. The North and the Vale are ancient kingdoms, and I respect the laws and customs of both, having grown up here, and having lived in the Eyrie. I will not be able to rule both kingdoms"
"And the Twins!" came a call from the conclave to both approving laughter and deep nod from the Lady of the Crossing.
"And the Twins myself. Just as some Northern houses owe allegiance to another house, not directly to the Starks, the North and the Vale shall govern themselves, as they have for thousands of years, subject to the authority of the named monarch. While I love the North, I must step down as Lady of Winterfell; my soon to be good sister Lady Meera Reed will be acting Lady of Winterfell until such time as my brother's wife takes that role."
Meera stood, "Thank you, my Queen. I will fulfill the role of acting Lady of Winterfell as best I can... until tonight, when I marry Bran!"
Sansa smiled, nodding seriously, gesturing for Meera to remain standing, "I have great faith in you, Lady Meera. Lords and Ladies, the Seven Kingdoms had the custom of having a Lord Paramount for each kingdom, as my father was for the North, and Jon and Robin Arryn were for the Vale. Each kingdom but Dorne, who had the privilege of retaining their royal titles and being ruled by a Prince or Princess. I believe the North and the Vale deserve the same honor! My brother is the Three-Eyed Raven, and has set aside his rights to rule, so as the former Lady of Winterfell, I ask that once you marry, you lead the North as Princess Meera Stark."
"I would be honored, my Queen," said the acting Lady of Winterfell. She and Sansa had discussed this; both full titles would be bound to the Stark name, as the rulers of the North had been for thousands of years; as their Lords and Ladies often, and loudly, proclaimed. No house other than a Stark would rule, but Sansa would make sure she was seen to avoid the path of consolidating all power in herself that Cersei had done, that the Targaryen had done. The great houses would remain just that - great houses, ruling their own vassals even as they were ruled in turn by a Stark, just as they had been before Aegon Targaryen arrived in Westeros.
"Thank you, Lady Meera. Lord Royce, your skills in battle and your ability as a leader on and off the battlefield are well known, and your honor is unquestioned. We are at war, and while I love my cousin, and his father was a very wise Lord Paramount, I cannot in good conscience appoint him ruler of the Vale. It pleases me greatly to ask if you would lead the Vale as Prince Yohn Royce, my Lord?" asked Sansa, ensuring that her tone was one of honest respect... as she had learned from her mother and her father.
Lord Royce stood, looking around briefly to see the other high nobles of the Vale showing their support... some, he saw, begrudgingly, but showing support all the same, as his position was both not entirely surprising, and entirely unassailable. Even those who wished, like Littlefinger had, to use Sweetrobin's nature to their own advantage knew that strong and sure leadership was necessary in war, and that he had strong allies of his own. He replied, his voice carrying its own share of respect.
"I am also honored, my Queen. I would be glad to take up the mantle of Prince of the Vale, though I will not abandon my responsibilities as the commander of the cavalry here. The Night King is nearly upon us, and I will meet him on the field of battle! Lady Waynwood and Lord Corbray are very capable; I would propose that they continue to rule the Vale in my absence, just as they have done since I left."
"Of course, Prince Royce; they are both wise and honorable leaders, and you are the best cavalry commander in Westeros. We will need you on the field. Lady Winter, I trust No One in all the world more than you. You have forged our combined armies into a great and powerful force, you have ensured everyone has proper training, you have planned our campaigns and brought us the allies we need to survive, to win, and to thrive after the wars are over. Will you take up the position of Hand of the Queen?"
"Thank you, your Grace. I cannot in good faith accept your offer. The kingdoms and their people deserve a Hand who can devote their full time to the position, who does not come and go, who does not have other faces with their own responsibilities which must also be fulfilled. We have many capable military leaders; Prince Royce, Lady Meera, Lady Mormont, Skamund, the Lord Commander, Lady Brienne, the Hound, and others, all of whom have their own seconds who can lead when needed. A Hand cannot delegate their work in the same way, except by naming an acting Hand. Thus, I must decline," said Arya somberly.
While all that was true, Arya mused that she was also not a politician, she was a war-leader and an assassin, a general and a spy. She was not suited to listening to petty complaints without solving the issue immediately; that she would happily leave to others, especially since as a Queen of two and a bit kingdoms, keeping the lords and ladies and peoples of the kingdoms in willing alliance was vital; the Southrons would be quick to take advantage of any fractures. She would be able to keep them in line while she lived, certainly, though those farther away would test her. After she took the Many-Faced God's gift herself, however, things would become very difficult for whoever was left alive, for few would be pleased with what she'd done, and they would blame it on the Starks.
Sansa nodded gravely, "I'm sorry to hear that, Lady Winter. Lord Reed, you've been loyal to House Stark for longer than I've been alive. You fought with my father during Robert's Rebellion, and you've ruled the Neck well. I can think of no one else as suitable to be my Hand as you. Will you take the position?"
Lord Reed nodded, then approached the head table as Lady Frey handed the Queen the Hand's pin, to a small but growing set of murmurs of approval as the members of the conclave thought through their young and newly named Queen appointing a well respected elder to the position of Hand. Even if he was a crannogman, they'd known him for years, and what his children had done for Lord Bran was a matter of legend, too.
"I will, your Grace," he said, letting her put the pin on his tunic and moving to stand to the side of the table, where Arya had stood at the end of Lord Baelish's trial.
Sansa turned to Lord Manderly next, "Lord Manderly, you and your family have proven that great businesses can flourish in the North. You inherited the wealth of your House, and you have increased it since by your diligence in matters of trade. Will you take the position of Master of Coin?"
"I will, my Queen," said the large lord proudly, to his own selection of approving mutters. While some looked down on the Manderlys for their Southron faith, they could only be respectful, or envious, of the wealthiest house of the North, of its own heavy cavalry, and, in recent months, of its growing fleets and acumen with trade agreements. In the future, their fleets would be important to every trade agreement with Essos that had been, and would be, made... and for those who had asked Lord Manderly had given sage advice.
Suppressing her smile to show nothing but her genuine respect for the small bear in her expression and her voice, Sansa asked, "Lady Mormont, you have demonstrated unparalleled diligence in your research into the laws and traditions of abdication, not only depending on Maester Wolkan, but seeking out additional sources and spending hours reading them yourself. I can think of no one better suited to be Master of Laws than you. Will you accept?"
"I will," came the short reply from the Scorpion Bear. Prince Royce, Lord Manderly, and Lord Glover were the first, and loudest, to show their approval of Lady Mormont, though there was satisfaction throughout the conclave; all depended on the siege engines for their protection against dragons of any type, and they trusted her people, her leadership of them, and her dedication to the North and to what was honorable and right. That Lord Royce had chosen to foster his grandchildren with her was also a clear sign to those of the Vale of her character.
"Lady Winter, you have been Justice in the North; you will be Justice in all my kingdoms. We have all learned that we must know what is happening in the rest of the world, what they do and plan in secret, so we may defend ourselves from dishonorable attacks like the Red Wedding. Will you serve as Master of Whisperers?"
"I will serve when I wear the face of Arya Stark, yes," said Arya, to the quietest response so far. The North and the Vale may have learned that they needed such a person... but they still weren't comfortable with that need. There was, however, no dissent or disapproval shown, the reactions ranging from neutrality to quiet approval; they had all seen the youngest Stark girl take command of their military forces, had seen her train and fight, had experienced or heard how she trained and organized all their forces. Whatever they may have thought of a royal spymaster, there would be no disapproval of Lady Winter, not when the extinction of the realms of men was at their gates.
"Maester Wolkan, I understand it is the custom of the Archmaesters in Oldtown to appoint the Grand Maester. This is one custom I feel we must break with, for a group of old Southron men set apart from the world, who even until now have not done so much as turn a single page on their own to support the war against the Night King, are not capable of appointing a Maester we need. If the Maesters of the Night's Watch, the North, and the Vale, who have been studying and working for months for the survival of all our peoples would appoint someone capable, I will need the advice of a skilled Maester on the Small Council."
"I will see it done, your Grace," said Maester Wolkan, his voice nearly without a quaver.
"The Princes of the North and the Vale will always have a seat at the Small Council, when they are able to attend, for the purpose of representing the interests of their particular kingdoms. When they cannot attend, their seat will be held by a trusted delegate. The Lady of the Crossing has also bent the knee; Lady Frey, you too will have a seat for yourself or a trusted delegate, to represent the Northern Riverlands."
"Thank you, my Queen," replied Lady Frey gracefully. The response of the conclave to that was mixed between approval of Lady Frey by those she had trained with or who knew her well, subdued approval by those who she had worked with on Sansa's behalf, and being ignored as a person in favor of speculation about the 'Northern Riverlands'. It was true that the Twins was barely a stone's throw from the southern border of the Neck, yet were still surrounded by fertile farmlands that could help grow crops during summers to stockpile for the winters.
"Lady Brienne will take up the post of Lady Commander of the Queensguard when she returns; Lady Winter will remain in overall command of all our forces. Prince Royce, in all the North only House Manderly has experience with ships, and Lord Manderly has already accepted the post of Master of Coin. Who would you recommend as Master of Ships?" asked Sansa.
"Lord Grafton, your Grace."
"I remember him well; a good man, and honorable, but I have not the skills of a seaman. Lady Winter, you understand the navy. Do you agree with Prince Royce?"
"I do. I met Lord Gerold while traveling through our strongholds, and he understands naval matters well. He has been open to learning from the admirals that Braavos - the greatest naval power in the world - has sent us, just as Lord Manderly's people have been, and he has trained and organized his forces well," reported Arya. They'd already discussed this appointment in detail, including Arya's opinion that the Vale nobleman had trained his seconds well enough for him to travel.
"Very well; Lord Grafton is to be Master of Ships, under the overall command of Lady Winter during wartime, as Lady Brienne and all military forces will be. If he feels it necessary, he may remain in Gulltown managing the navy, though if in his judgment he can, there is a seat on the Small Council for him to sit in," said Sansa. She would avoid no little confusions and political games by making the chain of command crystal clear here and now to the entire conclave. This was no longer a de facto combined force, it was a formally organized one. In practice, there was no change, but anyone else who thought they might have gained power during the transition would be disappointed.
"Small Council meetings are suspended until the army of the dead has been stopped," said Queen Sansa with total assurance that the army of the dead would indeed be prevented from overrunning them all, "All other standing orders remain; all schedules remain the same, including mine. Queen Daenerys Targaryen of Meereen will be here in time for my brother's wedding; I ask that when you see her, you give her the courtesy of her title, as you would any other leader of an allied kingdom, and remember the vast stores of dragonglass she has provided, and that she has indeed brought her soldiers to fight the dead in good faith."
Sansa smiled slightly, "If the topic of the Iron Throne comes up, we of course give her our best wishes in her quest to depose Queen Cersei. If the topic of the North, or the Vale owing fealty to the Iron Throne comes up, refer her to me. That's my problem to deal with, now that you've named me your Queen."
Sansa listened to the the guffaws and comments of the conclave; one that stood out to her was Lord Flint's comment that the Red Wolf'd eat the Dragon Queen alive; he was proud of her, of course, since they were family, related through her great-grandmother Arya Flint. Sansa turned fully to face Arya, nodding gravely as she sat while Arya stood, her younger sister's voice carrying out over the hall commandingly even as the guards opened the doors to the train of servants bringing in enough food for the hundreds of lords and ladies.
"All right, enough politics! Military leaders and your seconds, up here; you're going to instruct the Lord Commander about our plans for the army of the dead. Everyone else, eat up and get back to work, we've still got a few hours before my brother returns and my other brother gets married, and there's still plenty to do! Her Grace, Queen Sansa is counting on us to be ready for what comes!"
************************
Jon looked a little nervously at the gathering clouds to the north as he flew through the air, trying to keep Rhaegal just behind and above Drogon and Dany. She'd been reading the book Arya had loaned to her and instructing him on what she'd learned; she'd told him of the specific roles for the members of a flight of dragons, just as there were specific roles in groups of soldiers. The front dragonrider was the leader, everyone else followed their path, and they commanded the flight. He and Rhaegal were the rearguard, responsible for her safety; should the Night King attack, he had to spot Viserion first, have Rhaegal roar to alert Dany, and keep the Night King away from her while she circled around to attack with tooth, claw, and fire.
He looked up and around, then down and around, again approaching what must be the same great ring of towers in the distance that he'd met his sisters beyond. This time, of course, the lead dogsled scouts were below, racing towards the line, while the treeline was much farther away, yet the watchtowers were the same, a great line of them, mile after mile, extending into the distance. As Dany flew back around the caravan far below in yet another wide circle, he turned Rhaegal to follow.
He didn't remember Sansa ever having mentioned a Lady Winter before, or even being interested in military leadership, but after he'd left the North in her hands, she'd clearly found someone to deal with the army. He'd never have imagined anything remotely like the kind of defenses White Harbor had had. He'd been on the Wall, seen the scorpions atop it, but hadn't thought through it. The Wall was eight thousand years old, and seven hundred feet high; it didn't need anything more. Winterfell was just as old... but it didn't have walls that high, and now that he'd seen the fieldworks at White Harbor, it was obvious more had needed to be done.
Arya, even had laid into him! She was just as fierce as he remembered, though where she'd learned things like training plans and military supplies, he didn't know, much less fieldworks. She'd always wanted to fight, to ride, to use a sword and a bow, but those commander's skills? Those weren't part of the young, fierce sister he remembered. Distracting him while Ghost jumped on him? That was.
The way she'd gone blank and still, though... that had shocked him. He could understand what Brienne had meant when she'd talked about Arya, though, how she sometimes was... just there. It sounded like she'd learned a lot of things since they'd all left Winterfell; she'd been gone the longest, and had come back the strangest... and he'd been stabbed to death! She'd learned how to fight, from the stories, and she wore... well, even he could see Sansa'd sewed her clothes, but why she carried all that steel, he didn't know. The dragonglass daggers he could understand, but the rest? He found Longclaw awkward enough to that he hadn't carried it regularly at Castle Black; her new sword was even longer; it must be even more awkward going around corners with it, especially at her size. Then again, he got stabbed at Castle Black while he was unarmed, so maybe she had a point.
But Arya was alive, Sansa was alive, Bran was alive, the Boltons were dead, and he'd gotten not just dragonglass, but actual dragons. Dragons! That he was riding! As long as he didn't fall off, at least. He'd have to ask Sansa about saddles; that Valyrian book had made reference to different types of saddles; apparently there were differences between dragon saddles, just as there were between horse saddles. Dany hadn't found what those differences were yet, but maybe she would soon. It'd be nice not to have to just hold on and hope he didn't slip!
Approaching the front of the caravan again, he could barely see the shape of the towers; if he had to guess, these were just like the ones one the coast and the couple he'd seen on just leaving White Harbor, with ballista on top. Gods, that was a lot of them; how they'd all been made, he didn't know. Well, that wasn't his problem; he hadn't asked to be King, hadn't wanted to be King, and he'd found a Queen he believed in, a Queen he loved, with dragons to burn the dead, and armies to fight them with.
He started to guide Rhaegal to the left to head west and then south again when Dany banked to the right in front of him, heading towards the towers instead of back around the caravan, though she kept the same height over the ground; much higher up than Viserion had been when the Night King threw that spear. He guided Rhaegal back to his place behind Drogon, flying north with the setting sun on their left, watching the line of towers below. He thought he heard a faint pattern of drumbeats between Rhaegal's wingbeats, but he wasn't sure. Beyond that line of towers was another, it seemed, the towers closer together; flying overtop he could see they were indeed armed towers. The ones in the treeline in the distance had a clearcut path from each tower to the next, and a clearing around each; just as the Night's Watch in ancient times had cleared the trees beyond the Wall, though the area around the watchtowers wasn't clear nearly as far as the Wall had been; the old rules said a mile from the wall! Many of the towers were in the middle of dark circles; not only trees but also snow had been cleared!
In the distance, a sparkle caught his attention; ahead, he could see Winterfell actually glittering in the evening light, the towers and walls somehow fully reflecting the sunlight; even Winter Town was gleaming. The Godswood was clear, the red leaves of the weirwoods stood out, colorful; he knew the other trees would have lost their leaves already. Around Winterfell and the attached Winter Town the land was darker than the surrounding snow, cleared for over half a mile from the walls, and closer were great black rings, obviously moats like White Harbor had, but completely encircling the place.
He thought back to the plans he'd made with Ser Davos and Tormund for the battle against Ramsay; he'd had trenches dug on his flanks to prevent a double envelopment... well, before he tried to save Rickon and they had to come out from the fieldworks to save him. Trenches were not moats; he couldn't imagine how long it had taken to dig even the smallest of the moats now surrounding the strongholds of the North.
Closer to the castle, tents and shelters covered the land outside the walls within the innermost and widest ring, then in the next many of the sections were full of animals. They'd need to get those people inside Winterfell before the Night King came; they were going to need the walls. The army of the dead hadn't stopped at the walls at Hardhome; they hadn't all broken through, either, they'd simply climbed over, so those moats weren't going to do more than slow them down.
Well, unless they lit them on fire like Grey Worm had said they might, he supposed. That'd hold the bastards off while the fire lasted, at least.
He could see the castle clearly, now; he'd never seen it like a bird before, looking down at it like this, but it... it wasn't the castle he remembered. The main towers were the same, mostly, but the Broken Tower had been repaired, there were no more sections of walls lacking crennelations, he could even see hoardings all over the place. Anywhere there weren't hoardings, there were machicolations, few of which had been there before, to allow the defenders to overlook the wall itself, dropping fire on the wights attacking the walls. New towers rose up at every corner of the walls that hadn't had a tower before; a few new stone towers, more wooden ones; some of the latter had stone walls starting to rise up around them, the tiny dots of workmen moving around them.
From towertop to town rooftop, siege engines dominated the skyline. The shapes of scorpions and ballista, as he'd seen at White Harbor, were everywhere, and there were the tall counter-weighted towers of trebuchets, like the drawings Maester Luwin had shown him long ago. One was even being lifted up the glistening side of one of the shorter inner towers by a gantry, even as the lead scout sleds from the caravan entered the castle through the great gates at full speed. Massive piles of supplies were everywhere, logs and barrels and bales stacked up as if they were small hills.
Daenerys flew in a wide circle above the edge of the great clearing around Winterfell, easily a mile from one edge to another, looking back and up to see Jon's reaction as best she could; that wasn't very much, though. She could see Rhaegal's expression, but not Jon's. There was activity everywhere below, starting in the treeline, where thousands of men were cutting down trees, with teams of horses dragging long logs or large sleds towards Winterfell at a trot, the snow around the logging operation darkened with the remains of the work. This high up, she couldn't see any real detail, but that was just the outer edges of the forest on Winterfell's western side.
Around the castle itself were thousands more men and horses as well, doing what she could not tell, but moving with purpose. The dragon-killers she could see were at least not pointed at Drogon, though Jorah's admonition about a single man with a crossbow came to mind. One man with a scorpion on a cart had brought Drogon down with just two shots, one of which missed entirely. Below were dozens of the things, and from what Jon's man Davos had said, those were far larger and more capable than what Cersei put on that wagon, maybe based on what Braavos had used to hold off the might of Old Valyria.
She circled around wide, looking down at the castle on her left with the orange glow of the setting sun on her right, illuminating the weapons Jon's sister Sansa had put on every tower and roof she could... even on the ground outside, she saw now as she spotted movement. A wave of small dots swarmed towards the castle from the South, led by a dozen large ones, the size of a two-horse drawn cart, casting long shadows over the ground as they approached the castle; she heard something carrying up, like drums but different, metallic. At that there was a sense of the ground inside the castle shifting and twisting oddly, the southern scorpions or ballista swiveling, and then a shadow arched out from the castle towards the approaching dots.
No, not a shadow; hundreds of arrows loosed at once from the castle, briefly shadowing the reflected sunlight from the bright, reflective walls, then again and again. A moment later she heard deep twanging noises; not quite what she'd heard from the scorpion when Drogon had been hurt, but very similar. Men were also funneling out across the moats at a few points; probably those sliding wooden bridges they'd gone over when leaving White Harbor. Coming to meet them from... she couldn't tell where, but there was a wave of men running inwards in that ring, and a cavalry force following along the inner moat in a tight formation, riding out on narrow land bridges between the ends of the short radial moats and the continuous rings.
Coming around to the southernmost edge, she lined out and flew straight back to the caravan as the main grouping passed between the giant rings of towers. Those had surprised her, too - they weren't just placed along the roads, they completely encircled Winterfell; from this height, she could see the entirety of the closer ring, and large parts of the outer one stretching out across the horizon.
The caravan itself had no less than eight of those scorpions spread out around it; Davos has said they were small ones, but so was the one that had hurt Drogon. She'd never seen two of them next to each other; they weren't like the the Unsullied, marching in close formation, or the Dothraki or the Second Sons, grouped up for easy conversation on long journeys. There was a pattern to them, seen from the air, as if an artist had drawn a picture with dogsleds, and they stayed as close to it as the terrain allowed. Riding with the Dothraki was a flowing experience, moving through the great grass sea. The dog caravan was like that with the columns in the middle winding over the snow, picking out paths she knew not how. Their outriders and guards were not, though, keeping to their positions even as they chose their own path over the snows alone or with one or two other smaller sleds.
Heading back to the caravan, she resumed the task of circling it closely; it was much less exciting, now that she was sure that there wouldn't be an attack. She'd seen the great gates of Winterfell; there had been Targaryen banners and a few animals a couple hundred yards in front of them; she'd land there when the caravan arrived.
These people had been training hard, according to their King's command, their Lord Protector and Warden's command, and she would show them that she, too, would fight for them, just as Jon did. Just as his sisters did, even; Arya had been every bit the warrior maid and an excellent rider, reminding her of the mentions of Visenya in the many stories of her ancestor Aegon she'd heard growing up. Sansa, even, had ridden out on her own - Tyrion had told her about the wheelhouse he and Varys had traveled in, that Cersei traveled in, and she'd remembered a few times she'd been in one when moving between the Free Cities as a girl. She hadn't been in one since she'd married Drogo, of course, and while Sansa hadn't ridden as well as a Dothraki, she rode well enough - and on snow, at that.
Both of them had handled spears casually, too; she hadn't missed how they'd driven the weapons into the snow. She wasn't sure why, but it had been polite, and for a horse that wasn't trained to stay put in the face of dragons, probably wise as well. A few of the Dothraki had had some interesting times chasing spooked horses when Drogon got antsy!
She started a gentle spiraling dive down as the caravan rode down slopes of snow; small detachments of cavalry had ridden out to the edge of the nearly cleared ground, turning to lead them in on twisting paths through the outer defenses. Some of the turns were obvious, avoiding small walls or mounds of icy snow, or planted spears sticking out of the ground, but some she couldn't see rhyme or reason to. Nonetheless, the leading elements were racing across wooden bridges now, heading to the castle gates.
"Ilagon," she said, looking back to make sure Rhaegal was carrying Jon down as well. She headed to the outer edge of the clearing with the Targaryen banners, and what she could now see were a pair of small goats, one each chained to the two poles, each at a corner of the near-island. As Drogon extended his wings and she was pressed hard against his scales while he slowed before his claws dug into the icy ground at the far corner of this near-island between the moats with a distinct crunch, she could see the goats each actually had a loaf of bread with white grains atop it strapped to their backs. Salted bread, even for her dragons. They had guest right in the Free Cities, just like everywhere else, but Sansa was taking it to extremes. Bread and salt, even for her dragons! No one had ever done that for her children before.
Besides them the caravan was passing over two bridges, some of those loaded with cargo racing into the main gates of the castle, the rest being guided to other areas outside the castle, including all the scorpion sleds. The sleds with her people were guided nearby just long enough to drop them off, then headed into the castle with their supplies.
"Jon?" she asked. Riding a dragon wasn't like riding a horse; you got sore in different places. Well, they could give each other a rubdown later, she thought with a grin.
"I'm all right; just a little knackered," he said, looking up at the icy walls rising up before him, at the one open door of the great gates, then at a small group of boys and girls that raced up to the stack of giant ice blocks atop an enormous bronze plate, pushed it through a quarter turn, then raced off elsewhere. The walls and hoardings were manned with hundreds of men that he could see, even as he could see activity everywhere, different pitches of horns and drums and whatever those metallic drums were sounding back and forth constantly, muted shouts from inside and outside the castle.
"You're home, Jon. Also, you should turn around," she replied, pointing behind him, prompting him to turn around and shout.
"Ghost! Down boy! Down! Don't jump!"
She smiled as he managed to avoid being knocked down this time; checking on the rest of her party, they were stretching and then brushing off the blown snow that had accumulated on them as they rode. The sky was darkening very rapidly, now, as she'd become used to in the past days; the lead dogsleds had simply lit a pair of torches and continued on for hours into the darkness, finding their way through the white wastes somehow. For now, though, she led the way over the next pair of bridges towards the great gates, Jon beside her, Tyrion behind, and then the rest following.
She looked around with interest as she came between the gatehouses; Winterfell wasn't as imposing as Dragonstone had been, but it had an imposing charm, she supposed, even if it was cold. The looks she received were... disappointing, really; there wasn't relief, or happiness, or really any kind of good cheer at her presence.
Jon looked up at the inner and outer portcullis. Like the gates, they were not as they had been when he'd left Winterfell. The castle he'd grown up in had been ravaged by the Greyjoys and the Boltons, had been recovering... and, while he was away, had been rebuilt anew, or so it seemed. He muttered to himself, "Four inches of cold rolled steel, by the gods."
"Jon?"
"Those are like the gates below the Wall; four inches of cold rolled steel. It'd take a giant to get through it."
Emerging into the courtyard, Dany felt her smile freeze on her face. Arranged was a greeting party, including Arya and a variety of other Lords and Ladies, as she'd expected. Even Brienne and the Hound were already there; they must have come in on one of the first sleds.
One thing was not as she'd expected; Sansa was wearing a crown!
Sansa was greeting her, Queen Daenerys Targaryen, Protector of the Seven Kingdoms, while wearing a crown!
A crown!
Sansa noted the stunned expressions on both Jon and the Dragon Queen's faces even as she kept the bulk of her attention on Tyrion and Lord Varys. The former looked equally stunned, while the latter... well, his expression hadn't changed, but his eyes had snapped to her crown, across the entire courtyard in little more than a flicker, and then up to the fully manned gatehouses behind her, to the fully ready crossbows on the platform below the equally ready ballista, before his gaze returned to her as if nothing was amiss. She was sure he recognized the precarious position he'd been led into, but if she'd not been looking at him during that precise fraction of a second, she'd never have seen it. A dangerous man, indeed.
She and Arya had listened carefully to the reports Mariya, Emilee, and Deranna had finished making just minutes earlier, having come in on the first dogsled. They'd had a few minutes to finalize their plans, adjusting a few small elements. Bran's visions were very powerful, but like the reports of a small child, were utterly lacking in either the context or the subtext of what was going on. She knew even more about her brother's amorous adventures now than she had before, but what that said about the Targaryen was also important. They'd even had time to greet Brienne and the Hound and give them the briefest of updates before the royal... the other royal party was upon them.
There was only one chance at this, and she'd hate to have to explain to Jon why his lover and the dragons had been slaughtered... but she also wouldn't, couldn't, let Varys in without challenge, either. A delicate balance... the kind Lord Baelish had excelled at. Next to her, Arya made the sign for yes while keeping her attention on the Dragon Queen, so Sansa proceeded as they and their councilors had planned. Keeping a gentle smile on her face, she held up the heavy silvered steel platter of bread and salt, speaking in her most welcoming tones before the silver-haired woman had a chance for shock to give way to rage.
"Welcome, Queen Daenerys! Your gifts of dragonglass to fight the dead have been very welcome, and it is gratifying to see you, your dragons, and your armies coming to aid the fight against the army of the dead! Rest assured that we all wish you the best in your quest to take the Iron Throne from Cersei Baratheon. Please, have bread and salt, and be welcome in our home. I've had the First Keep cleared for you, your advisors, and that portion of your supplies and the leaders of your forces that you wish to keep inside the walls. Once you're settled, I'll be happy to fit you and your advisor with gowns for Bran's wedding."
Jon glanced around, his own shock clear on his face, but extended his hand to Dany, gesturing for her to take bread and salt.
"The law of guest right is holy to all the faces of the Many-Faced God; it is a sacred bond between guest and host that neither will bring harm to the other for the duration of their stay. To break this bond invokes the wrath of god. This is not like the custom of safe passage; that is a custom of men, not god. Guest right does not have exceptions... like the one Razdal mo Eraz found himself and his gold caught in. Have bread and salt, and be welcome in our home," said Arya, her voice soft, though holding an undertone of reverence and deep meaning, as if the words were from a much deeper source. She watched Daenerys carefully, her own hands behind her. This would be the crux of it; either the foreign queen would take bread and salt and simmer, or she would let her anger boil over, as Hot Pie might have said... in public, in front of her lover, her own advisors, and most importantly, many strangers seeing her for the first time.
Daenerys stepped forward, away from Jon and her other advisors, striding across the churned up, frozen ground with shorter steps than usual, remembering how she'd slipped in White Harbor. The crown on Sansa's head was a simple thing, bronze and steel, swords pointing up even as they left the redhead's hair bare to the cold northern air. She tried to keep a regal demeanor as best she could in the face of this insult; by Jon's descriptions, this was not only part of the Northern court, but the men in leather-covered plate armor were of the Vale, a second kingdom defying her!
She took a piece of bread from the simple platter with a quick gesture, feeling it give beneath her fingers as she dipped it in the salt and ate it, a soft-faced noblewoman offering her wine on the opposite side of Sansa from Jon's other sister, which she took a long drink of.
She'd seen thousands of men on her way in, dozens of dragon-killing weapons, and now she was in the middle of them, her dragons on the ground behind her, outside the gates, under the eyes of the crews of those same weapons. She supposed Jon might have felt like this when he approached her at Dragonstone.
Well, she'd survived Robert's assassins, she'd survived Viserys's rages, she'd survived the deaths of her husband and son. She'd survived the Red Wastes, the treachery of Qarth, the Sons of the Harpy, and the incompetence of her advisors. She'd survive this, too.
"Thank you, Queen Sansa. My congratulations; you weren't wearing a crown when we met earlier," said Daenerys, trying to keep her anger out of her voice, so she wouldn't show weakness.
Sansa nodded slightly, hearing the biting tone from the shorter woman clearly in her words and demeanor; she was reminded of a time, long ago, when she'd been told she was the worst liar in King's Landing. This woman would never be able to handle the politics, not as she was now... not when those remaining had been dealing with, and surviving, Cersei for so long, not when they'd survived Joffrey, not when they'd survived Tywin Lannister.
"I hadn't been named Queen yet, your Grace. I'll be happy to tell you about it, or whatever else you have questions about, during the fitting. I'm sure your party is tired and cold; there is water heating in the First Keep, and we'll have meals brought in from the great hall for you and your people."
Sansa glanced at Arya briefly, seeing the sign for yes, and continued; they were past the most difficult part... the second most difficult part was coming, soon.
"Jon, welcome home," said Sansa warmly, handing her tray to a guard behind her as he glanced at Dany, then approached her and gave her a hug.
"Sansa, what's going on?" he whispered.
"Bran's waiting for you in his chambers," said Sansa in a normal tone, then murmured quietly, "We'll explain later, Jon."
He and Arya exchanged a hug as well, ignoring hilts digging into armor as they did so.
"Lord Tyrion, I'm glad to see my former husband looking so well. Thank you for your many kindnesses, including providing the designs for a saddle my brother Bran can use to ride even after he lost his legs. Please have bread and salt, and be welcome in our home," said Sansa, reclaiming her platter as she publicly announced that their former marriage was no longer in effect. If they'd thought to use that forced marriage against her, they'd need to think again - she wouldn't give that power to anyone ever again. In truth, she thought he looked drawn and sad, a pale shadow of what he'd been... and she could easily see the fear he was trying to hide, as well. She wasn't sure what all of it was... but he was wary of his Queen's reactions, at least, and it was the silver-haired woman he kept looking to.
He approached, hearing whispers as he did so; not many, but a few... there was one he could make out of 'Lannister', though several more he could make out were 'kinslayer'; not an epithet he'd heard directed at himself before, but, he supposed morosely, not one he could argue with.
Taking bread and salt, he ignored the whispers as he had during public events under his father's eye and greeted the sisters cordially, "Queen Sansa, I'm pleased to see you again. You as well, Lady Arya; I was saddened by your presumed death, and am happy to see you are indeed alive and well."
"I'm not a Lady," said Arya, seeing the sign for yes from Sansa, and continued, "Or a Princess. That's not me. If you must, though, I have accepted the title of Lady Winter."
Lord Varys reacted first, with the slightest widening of his eyes, for the barest of instants. Jon turned on the spot to stare at Arya, while Tyrion's jaw dropped slightly; his mouth remained closed, but he was clearly shocked. Daenerys simply narrowed her own eyes at the declaration.
"You're Lady Winter?" asked her brother.
Tyrion took the cup offered by a noblewoman he didn't recognize and drank deeply, handing it back.
"I am. Don't look so surprised; I already told you that you hadn't given any clear orders when you left!" retorted Arya.
Sansa let a slight amount of exasperation color her tone and expression, just enough for Varys and perhaps Tyrion to notice... and perhaps Missandei, if she was as perceptive as she was self-controlled.
"Lady Winter, Lord Jon, you'll have time to catch up later. Valar Morghulis, Grey Worm. Welcome to Winterfell; the discipline and skill of the Unsullied are legendary; we will be glad to have you as part of the fight against the Night King. Have bread and salt, and be welcome in our home."
"Valar Dohaeris," replied Grey Worm as he took bread and salt, moving behind his Queen and planting the butt of his spear on the frozen ground.
Sansa's voice turned cold and hard, "Lord Varys, I believe the last time we spoke, you said to me 'Your father has proved to be an awful traitor, dear.' Do you remember that, my Lord?"
Varys stopped moving as soon as he'd heard the change in Sansa's tone, even as he saw Arya Stark step forward, putting herself between Sansa and the remainder of Daenerys's party, one hand on her sword-hilt. He'd never expected those dragon eggs to hatch; no one could have foreseen it. Ever since then, he'd been falling behind; first in Essos while he had to contend with Littlefinger's machinations, then he fell behind in Westeros while going to Slaver's Bay after the Targaryen and her dragons, an area he had likewise not expected. Pentos, Myr, Tyrosh, Norvos, Qohor, even Vaes Khadoch and Khal Drogo's horde. He'd been building a network as best he could between the Queen's requests and the travels he'd been on, but he'd spent his effort on the South as the more important kingdoms to the game, and then once Jon Snow had arrived, he'd continued on that path.
He could see now that he had been extremely mistaken; the trip North had been one surprise after another, from the fleets and watchtowers of the Vale to the vanished little birds of White Harbor. And now, in Winterfell, even more moves he hadn't known about had been made by his opponent, and his own options taken away. He'd enjoyed outmaneuvering Lord Baelish in the Red Keep; it was possible, he now thought, that the home castle advantage had been more of a factor than he'd thought. Not only crowning a new monarch, but doing so in secret even from her own brother, and revealing the move only when they were well trapped. Truly, Littlefinger was one of the most dangerous men he'd ever known, and he was in Littlefinger's home castle, now, without a network to speak of.
"Your Grace, I am very sorry for my words. I had hoped both your life, and the life of your father might have been spared. You have my sincere regrets; your father was a man of honor, as few are in the capital," replied Lord Varys carefully, avoiding any movement. He'd grown up in the Free Cities, seen bravos fight many times... he'd hired assassins; never Faceless Men, true, but deadly nonetheless, and Arya Stark, moved like they did, carried her sword like an expert bravo, carried her knives like she was born to them, though only someone with the right family name would dare to do so in the presence of Westerosi nobility. Still, he'd known true experts with throwing knives - Bronn and Daario were both such men - and she held her free arm like they did, as well. Lady Winter, indeed; a double-edged knife, he suspected, but one more dangerous to him at this moment... especially since Petyr hadn't shown himself yet.
Arya heard his voice, calm and collected, but distinctive, and one she remembered. She thought furiously as she listened with her ears to all around her; Grey Worm was waiting, probably for the Queen's orders. Tyrion wasn't a threat on his own, and the Dothraki was in her line of sight as well; he was following the tone of voice well enough. The Spider's voice, though... that, she could place, now, as she couldn't when she was a child. She spoke, her voice as cold as Sansa's had been.
"Spider. You were beneath the Red Keep, with another man, with graceful footsteps. You said 'He's found one bastard already. He has the book. The rest will come.' He said 'And when he knows the truth, what will he do?' You said 'The gods alone know. The fools tried to kill his son. What's worse they botched it. The wolf and the lion will be at each other's throats. We will be at war soon, my friend.' He said 'What good is war now? We're not ready. If one hand can die, why not a second?' You said 'This hand is not the other. We need time.' He said 'Khal Drogo will not make his move until his son is born. You know how those savages are.' You said 'Delay, you say. Move fast, I reply. This is no longer a game for two players.'"
Arya stepped forward once more, making the signs for truth and you for Sansa to see as she presented herself as the obvious opposition and threat, keeping her left hand on her sword hilt. They'd needed a wedge to drive between Daenerys and Varys and rumors to ensure that he'd have as hard a time as possible gathering informants... and she had that, now, in addition to Sansa's own statement. If they were truly lucky, she'd be able to kill the Spider right here... but Daenerys would cling to what she thought of as hers. And, letting Sansa be the one to offer mercy on the Dragon Queen's request, her sister would see as an acknowledgment of political power, as would the others watching.
"I didn't recognize your voice then, and though I warned my father, he didn't understand. Not really. Now I know it was you and another. You knew who had tried to kill Bran. You knew what the Lannisters were planning... and you haven't been given guest right, not yet."
Daenerys spoke, then, her own voice sharp as she listened to what was being said, "I will be quite sure to ask Lord Varys of these events, as I find myself very curious, hearing about them for the first time now. However, he is my advisor, in my service, and his skills are quite valuable to me."
Sansa took up the conversation, making sure what was happening would be clear to even the least subtle of her lords and ladies, "Queen Daenerys, you wish for him to be offered guest right?"
"I do."
Sansa held out the platter, "Very well; as a token of our esteem for you, and at your Grace's request. Lady Winter? Lord Varys, please have bread and salt."
Arya took her left hand off her sword hilt and stepped back with clear reluctance, returning to Sansa's side as Lord Varys approached and partook of a small amount of salted bread and wine, then went to stand beside Tyrion, to all appearances perfectly composed even now.
"Missandei, we've heard of your remarkable gift of languages. Please, have bread and salt and be welcome in our home."
The young woman with darker skin than even Princess Sarella did so with great composure; she hadn't reacted at all to any of the happenings so far, beyond the occasional look at Daenerys and Grey Worm.
"Qhono, the skill of the Dothraki horse archers is well known; we will be glad to have you in the battles against the Night King. Please have bread and salt, and be welcome in our home."
Sansa watched Tyrion out of the corner of her eye; just as he had shown when she greeted Grey Worm and Missandei, she saw surprise in his eyes. They'd given hints before, in the wording they used for the messages they'd sent via the Gulltown fleet, but now they were laying it out. It wasn't the best way to use power; that was to do so with sudden thoroughness, as Cersei had shown her father. It was, however, an excellent way to show power, and to give fair warning that they had far more knowledge than they let on. They'd shown their military power; now she was showing other forms of power. This was not the North the Dragon Queen and her advisors had been expecting, she could see. This was the North and the Vale united and reborn out of the ashes, mistakes, and treacheries of the past, who had learned many lessons, and learned them well.
"Ser Davos, welcome back. Thank you for doing your best to advise Lord Jon wisely; your quarters have been kept for you."
At Sansa's gesture, a small girl in furs ran up to the Dragon Queen. She saw Jon start at her appearance as he recognized her; when she'd spoken to the girl, she'd mentioned her admiration of Jon, who'd fought with her mother Karsi at Hardhome. Her mother hadn't made it, but the girl was grateful that she and her sister Willa had been saved by the ships he'd brought.
"Johnna will guide you to the First Keep, of which the entire interior is at your disposal. When you're ready, she can bring you and Missandei for the fitting; I think you'll enjoy the gowns I've made for you. Jon, she'll take you to Bran's new quarters after you and Queen Daenerys have settled in, so you can see him while she's being fitted."
Daenerys stalked after the small girl, followed by her people, through more and more baileys and guardhouses, past more and more guards and civilians. People were packed everywhere, and where there weren't people there were mountains of supplies. Where there were neither were cages of chickens piled high around small flocks of goats and sheep, all packed into the castle until sometimes only narrow paths were left; in some cases there were even stairs up until they had to walk over the tops of stacks of barrels.
After the undignified walk, they came to a square-cornered keep inside the larger castle, a shorter wall on the left above which rose great, bare branches, and behind them red leaves high in the air; by Jon's description, that was the Godswood. Inside were a trio of maids, the lead one stepping forward and bowing deeply. Behind her, the blonde and the stocky, black-haired girl bowed as well; none of them were very pretty, but they were still a welcome sight; she didn't want to overburden Missandei.
"Your Grace, welcome to the First Keep. The acting Lady of Winterfell has assigned us to be your maids. I'm Dania, and I'll be your first maid. This is Caryss, and this is Leriah, who will be assisting me in caring for you and your party. If you'd like, there's fresh bread and water to drink here, and we have clean cloths and pails of hot water if you'd like to bathe. We have a fire lit in your solar and your bedchamber, for you and your party."
************************
"Remember when we arrived at King's Landing, and they dragged Father into a Small Council meeting first thing, right after he got off his horse?" asked Arya quietly.
"Gods, yes. He should never have gone with them, not without freshening up. They wanted to laugh at the Northerner, dirty from traveling himself and actually doing his duty," replied Sansa.
"So, are you going to freshen up before the conclave?"
"Of course not. Do I look like some flowery Southron girl, putting my appearance over the time of the Lords and Ladies of the North and the Vale, the elders of the Free Folk, and our other allies?"
Arya looked over Sansa, evaluating her sister carefully; she saw a tall woman in a thin but fine grey cloak, a simple Northern braid extending out the back of a well maintained, brand new boiled leather helmet with exquisite stitching of a direwolf's head on the front. Sansa rode neither very well nor very poorly; she had good posture, though her movements weren't quite in tune with her horse's amble, not the way Arya or other good horsemen rode on horses they had trained with extensively. Most telling, though, was the rest of Sansa's attire and how she wore it; she wore her armored dress astride, the front fabric hitched up, without any hint of even noticing the heavy, thick leather. Her spear was on her horse in easy reach of her hand, a rag around the dragonglass shard encrusted steel butt-cap protecting the fragile shards from the leather of the spear-holder; her expression resolute and self-confident.
Sometimes, Arya was truly proud of what her sister had become - that her boots were covered in dirty snow wasn't something that bothered Sansa anymore, though she certainly still noticed. This was Sansa in the winter, and in the winter they must protect themselves; words her sister lived by. Summer was a time for fun and frivolity, for indulging young children. They'd all left summer behind years ago; now it was their turn to protect, to pass on the lessons they'd paid so much for, to ensure that there would be a future generation to do so in turn. Sometimes they wondered how their mother and father had been able to take off winter's harsh face for so many years, and the sisters had reminded each other that they, too, would put on summer's face, after the Long Night. But that was a concern for the far future; now, her sister wore winter's face.
"No. You look like a woman grown, armed and armored; a great leader of proud winter warriors, who rides like an trained infantryman with a wary eye for an ambush. I'm proud of what you've learned, what you've become, you know, Sansa. You have two great kingdoms working together with the Free Folk, and there have been dozens of guaranteed trade contracts made since you first came up with that idea. It takes something special to get the Iron Bank to do something new, Sansa, and to arrange for merchants from many kingdoms and cities to follow through with it."
Sansa turned her head to look over at her sister, seeing the sign for truth, and nodded regally, prompting a grin from her sister. She'd been mildly surprised at how the practice of the most serious trade contracts being 'guaranteed' by the Faceless Men with loans the Iron Bank provided the full price up front had grown. The variation known as 'engaged to be guaranteed' had truly set sail as well, since in that case there was no full up front payment; the payments simply built up over time. The fundamental idea and action of putting their lives on the line in a very real way had become a point of pride in many of those who traded, mined, farmed, ranched, logged, and so on. She wasn't sure if they were tired of being looked down as cowards by warriors, if they were influenced by being trained for war alongside their families, or if it was backlash from the many betrayals and failed promises they had all experienced, but those who had taken to the practice bragged about it no less than warriors after a battle.
"Thank you, Arya. Don't ever forget that we'd never have been as ready for our enemies without you, or rid of Littlefinger without everything falling apart, or have our overseas allies. Or Dorne, for that matter," replied Sansa with a self-satisfied smirk,"My thanks to the House of Black and White in Westeros for the new contracts, as well."
"You're welcome, Sansa. What about Dorne, though? Did you manage to cut a deal with Princess Sarella, then, Princess Sansa, princess to princess?" asked Arya, leaning over and peering closely at Sansa's expression.
"You'll just have to wait and see, Princess Arya," said Sansa with an uplifted nose, "Like any proper princess would."
"Hey! I'm no Princess... though since you did invite all the major allies and trading partners to the conclave, it seems you still like a bit of a show, don't you, sister?" teased Arya.
"Of course not," said Sansa archly, making the sign for lie, "It's simply practical; the Lords and Ladies will make their decisions in front of gods and men both, and our allies will see how we do things, all open and aboveboard."
Reaching the makeshift stables, they dismounted, Sansa very naturally taking her spear out, rotating the shaft loosely through one hand as she spun the protective rag off and handed it to the stable-boy who was taking her horse. Arya, of course, was already inside the gatehouse with Lady Mormont, Fjornel, and Lady Karstark, receiving brief status reports, while Lord Royce and Ser Elbert were just behind with their smallest member, Lord Umber.
A great leader of proud warriors, as her sister had said... well, she might be, in time. A good leader, though? She looked around at her lords and ladies, at Marleya the stable girl, Darvon and Ruger the stable boys, at Keynna who ran all the eastern stables. Then she looked at new pillars of wood and stone supporting additional floors of storage through the sieges and winter storms to come, constructed on her orders, to help feed the animals her people would need, the roof at an odd angle determined by Arya to gain another few feet of attic by putting the peak entirely inside the blind areas of the ballistas on the nearest inner and outer towers, where they would already have hit the castle if they'd loosed there.
Outside, she knew the tall wooden guard tower was built stronger than they had been before Jon left, all to support the sets of rough planks she's suggested, which in turn supported barrels of provisions, frozen carcasses of the old and weak animals slaughtered early as they were every winter hanging from hooks on the sides not used for the rigging Arya's friend had suggested rather than wooden ladders. Looking on her works, she felt she might be a great leader of proud warriors indeed; most of whom, she hoped, would survive the wars and the winter beyond.
Lowering her spear to clear the door, she strode through, Arya on her left with her own spear, Lady Mormont and Lord Royce behind them, then the comparatively minor powers of Umber and Karstark, Fjornel and Ser Elbert. Sansa could hear the Vale lord talking quietly with Lyanna; since the fostering had been accepted, they'd been spending quite a lot of time together; it was good for the small bear to learn from a man who was not only a renowned and respected warrior, but also a cunning politician, skilled in the Game of Thrones, and honorable besides.
She was quite sure that would cause her many years of frustration in the future... but that she could live with, if they lived. That was the true North - fractious and independent, with many ideas of what was best, of what was honorable. As she'd discussed with Arya, living with and listening to the honest and honorable opinions of others would help keep her from becoming a monster herself, most especially those who also cared deeply for their people. All of their people, as Arya had insisted, smallfolk and highborn alike, and that the small bear did very well.
Arya listened alertly as they strode towards the great hall, Fjornel scorning the group in front of the main doors to slip in through a window, as was her habit. Arya would normally have gone in the same way, but today, she'd stay at Sansa's side for the same reason she was still carrying her spear in addition to her other weapons, to show that they stood together; the crowd in front tended to part before Sansa regardless, with a muted chorus of 'my lady' sounding, the hall inside much quieter than usual, with far less chattering and far more nudges when people noticed Sansa stride in.
Once they'd leaned their spears against the wall and taken their places beside Bran at the head table, they watched the remainder of the leaders enter, taking their places throughout the hall, many taking small woolen blankets in the cold hall; they kept only a small fire now and a few torches. With the dead approaching, the few who complained about the cold and the dark were quickly silenced by their neighbors.
One table was different; instead of those of the North and the Vale and the Free Folk, that table was occupied by other allies and guests not as closely aligned; Keyholder Tormo, the 999th Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, Lord Patrek Mallister, and - to Sansa's satisfaction - Princess Sarella Sand of Dorne, in the formal attire Sansa had made for her, a point the more observant of those present had already noticed.
To receive clothing sewn by the Lady of Winterfell had changed from a novelty to a mark of favor, one she worked long hours to be able to provide to many. Some were for contributing great amount of stores, like the breastplate she'd presented to Lord Flint. Some were for military contributions, like Lady Mormont's leather curiass. Then there were the gloves she'd made for the Manderly ladies, the scarves for Alleras and the expert whalers who'd captured the wights, even the boots for some merchants who had donated supplies, helping a few of the worst off Houses make up the necessary supplies to draw from the central stores.
As the last of those she was expecting entered, Sansa spoke.
"My Lords and Ladies, elders of the Free Folk, and honored guests, thank you all for coming. I see that somehow news of our riding out to meet my brother and the Dragon Queen leaked out," said Sansa, eliciting rough laughter from the crowd; she'd asked for the escort at breakfast at the brothel's dining room that morning, which had ensured everyone would know... and be prepared. Sansa smiled a knowing smile, then continued.
"We did meet them, and it is time to hear the words of those who witnessed that meeting, who heard my brother's words, given freely far from the the armies of Queen Daenerys, with her dragons under the watchful gaze of Lady Mormont's crews. Lady Winter, you asked him first, did you not, even while he was next to her?"
"I whispered in his ear what to do to signal me if he needed rescue," said Arya, making the sign for you to Sansa, "And he did not. That, by itself, is not enough - we were still right next to the dragons."
"Which are apparently as surprised by my sister as anyone else on meeting her; she shouted Rhaegal, who my brother rode, down when he roared at her," said Sansa proudly, after seeing Arya's sign that it was her choice. They'd discussed whether to mention that on the ride back in a mix of signs and hints; this meeting would be smoother with a little humor. Too, a pointed reminder that her sister, Lady Winter, was one to face down a full grown dragon from up close wouldn't go amiss. Already public was the knowledge that Jon could ride a dragon. There was no way around that if he was to do so in battle. Or on arrival, as seemed likely.
"Lord Umber?" asked Sansa.
The small boy stood, much less nervous than he had when Jon had called him to bend the knee, looking somewhat more like a Lord, if a young one, than a boy under the approving gazes of Lady Frey and Lady Karstark, who he trained with regularly, and spoke to the conclave, his voice only a little unsteady. His opinion wasn't often sought, and he rarely spoke up on his own.
"I asked if he drew his sword when he pledged to her, as I did when he pardoned my family's crimes, and he said he did not."
"Lady Karstark?"
"He did not kneel when he pledged himself to her; he told me that he did not need to kneel, his word was enough," said Alys Karstark, an undertone of regret in her voice for the King... former King... who had preserved her family's right to the Karhold against the advice of everyone else, and who had now given up his crown for someone not of the North, nor even of the Vale or the Free Folk or of Braavos.
"Ser Elbert?"
"It was as Lord Umber and Lady Karstark said."
"Fjornel?"
"King Crow's in love. Or lust! Pretty one, she is. What they said, he said," said the veteran spearwife casually, though loudly. She had little patience for these silly Southron games, but the Scorpion Bear'd listened to her, followed her advice after Arya'd killed that dumb cunt in her tent, and had done the same many times since. Arya, too, listened to the Free Folk, did what made sense when it was explained to her. King Crow'd let them past the wall, aye, and paid for it with his life... but not for long, and they'd fought for him, died for him after; that debt was paid.
"Lady Mormont?"
"What they said was true. He said did not kneel, that he did not draw his sword at the Dragonpit either, when he publicly announced that he served the Queen of Meereen," said the small bear, more than a trace of anger in her posture for the man she'd swore would be her King until her last day... only for him to not be a King at all, not anymore.
Sansa turned to Bran, "What has the Three-Eyed Raven seen of what Jon did at the Dragonpit?"
"He was standing, his sword sheathed. Cersei said I ask it only of Ned Stark's son. I know Ned Stark's son will be true to his word. Jon said I am true to my word, or I try to be. That is why I cannot give you what you ask. I cannot serve two queens. And I have already pledged myself to Queen Daenerys of House Targaryen."
Arya asked, "Did he kneel in any way, or draw his sword at all?"
"No," came the flat reply of the Three-Eyed Raven.
"Lord Royce?" asked Sansa, after letting the conclave ponder for a few seconds.
"Lord Jon was in good health, hale and hearty. He flew in on the green dragon himself, and flew out on the same dragon. He looked back at the Queen of Meereen several times, very fondly. Too, through the far-eye, the green dragon looked to Lord Jon, not to Queen Daenerys, when Lady Winter... startled him," replied Bronze Yohn, his voice strong and sure, tone changing to one of comfortable humor at the end, as well as a small, respectful nod to Arya Stark.
"I was there myself, and I saw and heard my brother say those same things. My lords, my ladies, elders of the Free Folk, you have heard from those who were there to speak to my brother in person. You know the laws, history, and customs of bending the knee in the North. The Dragon Queen approaches, come to help us against the dead, and for her dragonglass and her willingness to help we are grateful; but being grateful does not mean we must bend the knee. I am grateful to all those who fought the Boltons, yet I did not bend the knee to those of the North who supported our family, nor to those of the Vale who rode North and fought for me, nor to those of the Free Folk who fought with us," said Sansa, leaving the invitation open for debate.
To nobody's surprise, Lyanna Mormont stood immediately, laying her hand atop the stack of ancient tomes she'd come in with.
"King Benjen Stark, son of King Eyron Stark, abdicated as King when he joined the Night's Watch; we have the records of Maester Jorah to show that. Five years later, he became the 434th Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, which we have the Night's Watch records of, thanks to Acting Lord Commander Tollett bringing them from Eastwatch. King Brandon Stark, son of King Walton Stark, likewise is recorded to have left the North to his son King Harlon Stark and joined the Night's Watch, becoming the 792nd Lord Commander in their records. King Eyron Stark, son of King Brandon Stark, joined the Night's Watch, though we have only Winterfell records of him, as he did not become Lord Commander," the small bear said, using the voice she used to carry from one tower to another without shouting, which she had copied from her mother, and continued.
"Kings of Winter have pledged themselves out of their Kingship before, as a personal oath. This is the history of the North, and the custom of the North; it is part of the Old Ways.
Sansa watched as Lyanna sat down to a chorus of affirmation and assent, nodding to her gravely, which she just as gravely returned. The small bear had done everything and more that Sansa had expected and hoped for; her finding corroborating evidence in the records Dolorous Edd had brought from the Wall was a stroke of genius; those records could not have been forged recently, since a few of the remaining old Night's Watch members had actually memorized the lineage of the Lord Commanders over the long years at Castle Black. She gave the signs for question and you to Arya, who stood and spoke.
"This conclave named our brother Robb King in the North after he told them what he planned to do; they did so knowing exactly what his intentions and his terms were. Lady Stark, what are your intentions and a distant view of your plans, in the understanding that in politics just as in war surprise is deadly, so some things cannot yet be said?" asked Lady Winter, as they'd planned. It was an extension of how they'd revealed what they'd done to survive as much as it was an affirmation of what Robb had done. Likewise, it was a subtle chiding of the conclave for naming Jon king; he was a good brother, but an impulsive King, and 'fight the dead' was not a plan.
Sansa stood, looking out over the great hall, watching the eddies of groups, the quick whispers, and the occasional bets being placed. She saw the trend was as she'd thought; most of the Northern lords and ladies had been in favor of their own independence for their entire lives. Those of the Vale had wanted the same, but had needed to reconcile that with their honor, with practicality, and with their isolation. Like the North, the Vale had never participated in the Game of Thrones to the same level as the more Southron kingdoms.
"My first plan is for us - all of us - to survive and then defeat the army of the dead; the details of that I leave to those better trained for it, knowing that I will do anything and everything in my power to support that. After that, we must survive the other wars to come - Euron has a powerful naval force of reavers and raiders, and Cersei is a great threat... again, I will support what is needed by those trained for those battles. Cersei, at least, will not send her army to besiege Moat Cailin or the Eyrie in winter, though she does have vast stores of wildfire. Euron is less predictable, unfortunately. I will lend my full support to the defense of the North, and the Vale, and of the Free Folk. Any other threats that come to us, we will destroy when the time is right."
Sansa saw general approval, mixed with an undercurrent of worry, which she spoke to address while raising as few other issues as she could... though some, of course, would still be offended.
"Our armies will not march South. We will not take part in purely Southron games for the Iron Throne. We will war outside our lands only as is required by sound military plans to defend our lands and our people. I plan to go no farther South than Wickenden for the rest of my life, gods help me. I plan for us to be independent! I plan to help better my bannermen, better my smallfolk, to better my lands,so we can all survive the many winters to come, however long they may be! I plan for us to be good and reliable partners in long-term trading contracts, for us to honor our debts to the Iron Bank. I plan for us to find and use more of the hidden riches our lands hold, to raise up new Houses to care for now-abandoned holdfasts and keeps, to build new ones on empty lands, for we have lost good Houses in the past years, and will lose more in the future; but the pack survives; our way of life survives."
Sansa watched the approval in the conclave, not only from the Northerners, but also from the Vale, whose many internal debates since Lysa Arryn's death she had been keeping an eye on, with only gentle, subtle nudges. The Free Folk cared less, of course, but those who favored trade were keenly interested as well. She continued.
"We of the North cannot stand up to six other kingdoms, dragons or no dragons, on the field of battle. It is a fact; even if of all the other kingdoms, only the knights and armies of the Vale know how to travel and fight in winter, in summer, the North is vulnerable to them all. Torrhen Stark knew that; he faced not only dragons without defenses against them, but also the combined might of five kingdoms in summer; only Dorne remained independent, and at that time, Torrhen did not know how long they would hold out. By ourselves, independence for the North alone is a wonderful dream, and one I share, but an impossible dream except in winter, after careful preparations."
Unhappy mutters and whispers swept through the room, but without any interruptions; these Lords and Ladies had been working with their allies from outside the North very closely, and for a long time, now; they heard what she was implying... and now it was time for her to say it.
"We are not by ourselves! The Vale stands with us against the army of the dead! They stood with us against the Boltons! The fleets of Braavos stand with us! The Iron Bank has sent Keyholder Tormo here with the authority to provide us loans, gold to spend improving our lands, ourselves, so we can do business and pay them back with interest, making even more ourselves! Many traders from across Essos have sold us what we need to fight the dead, to survive the winter, to trade what we have for what they have for many years to come! The Lady of the Crossing stands with us, having brought us the treasures of the Twins to fight our wars with, to feed our people with! Lord Mallister of Seagard traveled here with hundreds of barrels of food despite his city being under siege by the Lannisters! Princess Sarella of Dorne stands with us, bringing arrows, bows, food, and Acolyte Alleras, who worked out how to capture wights! Red Priests from Asshai stand with us against the dead and the Long Night, bringing food that grows in darkness!"
Sansa waited a moment for that message to sink in; they were not alone; they had more allies than they'd ever had before, and from even the far reaches of the world. If the North and the Vale stand together as one, if Dorne asserts their independence, then the Iron Throne is only four kingdoms... and the most vulnerable, trapped between us; if we three kingdoms ally with each other, then should the Iron Throne attack one of us, the other is at their back!"
Sansa turned to Princess Sarella, remembering the agreement they'd come to in the secret passage. Sansa would help Sarella, who would rule an independent but allied Dorne, free of the Iron Throne, tied to the North and the Vale by trade, by mutual dependence on the alliance to fend off the Iron Throne, and by some elements of their cultures; the Dornish valued freedom highly. The great distance between them would help dissuade any future territorial ambitions on either kingdom's part, as well, which would only help.
"Princess Sarella, what is Dorne's stance?"
Sarella stood, looking over the massed representatives of the North and the Vale. This was, she suspected, not her final examination as the ruler of Dorne, but certainly a mid-term. This would, if it went as Sansa had thought it would - or told her she thought it would - be a critical step for her in graduating from being a figurehead used by others to having some real power, since the alliance would be between her and Sansa, not between the other cabals vying for power.
"Lady Stark, Dorne bends the knee to no throne; not the Iron Throne, not the Northern throne, not the throne of the Vale; we are independent. Yet we too cannot stand on our own should all the other kingdoms gather their strength against us as one; we can hide in the sands for years... but not in winter, not in the Long Night. We have goods you need - lemons, pomegranates, oranges, bows and arrows and bolts and quarrels. You have goods we need; cloth, meat, even water and ice, if not other goods not yet found. Many of our houses are also of the First Men; while some of our customs are different, our desire for independence is the same! We know well what it's like to have mountains defending us, and to live in them, to climb them, just as those of the Vale and the North do. And we know that together with the North and the Vale, we have the Iron Throne trapped between us!"
"Thank you, Princess Sarella," said Sansa, standing again as the Dornishwoman sat. There were considerably more side conversations now than there had been; the lords and ladies hadn't been expecting another ruler aside from the Dragon Queen, and this surprised them... but, watching the room, did so pleasantly. Unlike the Dragon Queen, Sarella's statement of independence resonated well with what the people of the North wanted, with what they had always wanted, with what they had gambled on Robb to give them.
Lord Royce stood to speak, his deep voice steady and strong as he did his duty to his kingdom.
"Lady Stark, the knights of the Vale rode North for you, and we were right to do so, for you fought an honorable battle against a dishonorable foe. I have a question, if you would answer it, my lady. We face enemies beyond just the dead, and will face more in the future. How do you intend to deal with them? When do you intend to use assassins?" asked the representative of the Vale.
Sansa turned to Arya first, inclining her head to Arya before sitting to let her sister take the floor, "Lady Winter, if we were to all fight together, how would we fare in defending ourselves? How would we fare on the attack?"
"We have no dragons of our own, we don't have vast, rich farmlands to feed hundreds of thousands of soldiers, the gold or iron to outfit them all in heavy armor, and hundreds of thousands more people to care for that armor. Using our natural defenses, we can easily defend from land attack, if we don't let our guard down. Defending from naval powers is harder; we need to keep building up our fleet and the watchtowers along the coast," said the commander of the allied forces, continuing as her voice carried over the whispers and comments.
"On the attack, perhaps during the Long Night itself we could drive them back, but even most winters we cannot invade the South. We could never hold it, and only with long sieges and the use of the largest of siege weapons could we take their castles. As for the Old Way, while I'd pay to see my sister hand Cersei her head, I'm afraid she's just not ready to take on Euron Greyjoy in single combat."
Sansa let herself smile at Arya's jape and the resulting wave of laughter and comments about the Red Wolf tearing Cersei apart with her bare hands. When they'd quieted, she stood, grasping her spear and raising it up before the conclave.
"I'm afraid genteel ladies don't tear their enemies apart with their bare hands; I'd use my spear, as Chella, daughter of Cheyk has taught me!" she pronounced to an approving grunt from her weapons teacher and a renewed wave of laughter from everyone else. She continued, "Nor do we care about the Southrons and their games, or their throne. We cannot ignore them, though; not even after Cersei's gone, for they have always sought the conquest of each other... and of us all; that is why the Riverlands has been fought over so many times! Many of our people who are not warriors have shown they have the courage to put their life on the line, just as our warriors have always done. The Old Way is that the leader pledges their life to fight for their people. I cannot fight the Mountain or Euron Greyjoy, but I can risk cutthroats or assassins being sent for me... and I can make Cersei risk the same."
She glanced over the conclave; some of the guests seemed a little confused, while the Northerners were solidly behind her. Between the Red Wedding and the Boltons, she had their full support for as long as these wars lasted. Those of the Vale, those were the critical players, now, and while she had a great deal of support there, she also had both rivals and to contend with their notions of honor. She raised her voice slightly.
"I will continue to encourage the use of assassins to guarantee honorable and equitably trading contracts to a level at which the Iron Bank believe sufficient to offer loans of the gold required to do business together, and to make agreements which will last for many winters to come. I would be delighted if an assassin would kill Cersei Baratheon or Euron Greyjoy; without them, we would almost certainly have only the Night King to deal with, and I would not see more lives of the North and the Vale and our other allies spent against those fighting out of fear when better ways are at hand," she said, pausing for a long moment before taking the tone Cersei used when making decrees; Baelish had nothing quite like it, but this was a time for a decree issued as if it were fact, "And I am opening an engaged to be guaranteed contract with the House of Black and White in Westeros on any monarch of the North, or the North and the Vale, whose people cry out for just vengeance! Let whoever would rule put their life on the line; we will not suffer monsters on the throne for long."
Bran handed Sansa a roll of parchment, which she unrolled as a guard carried a small chest to the table, opening it to show a large bar of gold and a handful of jewels inside. Arya withdrew a coin purse, upending it over the chest, silver and gold spilling into the empty space before she strode out from the head table, disappearing behind the cloudy wolf side of the screen, No One emerging from the black and white side, slowly approaching the head table, reading over the contract carefully as the lords and ladies turned back and forth, speaking with each other until No One signed the contract, taking it and slipping it under his vestments.
"The House of Black and White in Westeros accepts this contract. Anyone and everyone is welcome to make payment or partial payment on this assassination. When sufficient payment has been received, and the Many-Faced God judges there is a need for just vengeance against a monarch of the North, or the North and the Vale, then the contract will be executed by the Faceless Men, and the unjust monarch will be given the gift, no matter what face they wear," said No One, his deep tones ringing out over the suddenly silent hall. No One looked the conclave over carefully, then added one more statement, "As with any contract of this type, any payments may be made in public, or in private, to any priest or acolyte of the Many-Faced God."
No One closed the chest and took it back behind the screen with him, Arya returning to the head table empty-handed, sitting back down as if nothing had happened, aside from a hint of a nod to Bronze Yohn, who returned it as he stood, accepting a sheaf from Ser Lymond, from which he withdrew a set of raven scrolls, holding them high.
"My lady, Lady Winter, thank you. You may have learned many lessons from the likes of Queen Cersei and Lord Baelish, but you retain both honor and courage. You have shown that you have wisdom, as well, in council and as a leader. Lord Bran the Three-Eyed Raven and our Commander, Lady Winter both support you. I have been in correspondence with Lady Waynwood, Lord Corbray, and others at the Eyrie, the Bloody Gates, and Gulltown, and I say to this conclave that the Vale supports you, too!"
"Thank you, Lord Royce. The support of the Vale honors me, and I will seek to honor the Vale in turn," replied Sansa, maintaining a grave and dignified demeanor. That was it; the North was behind her, and the Vale had decided for her, thanks in large part to Lord Royce. Had she answered in a manner he deemed dishonorable, she would have an alliance for the wars, but no more. The politics were complete; she'd gained the Vale's allegiance by her past actions... and by her making sure that her future actions were constrained, that she could not become a monster. Not for long, at least. Sansa made the sign for thanks to her sister, then met Lady Mormont's eyes.
The Scorpion Bear stood, drawing her steel hatchet, pointing her sidearm at Lady Stark, her voice ringing out across the great hall, "I named Jon Snow as my king. He found another service, and is King in the North no more. There sits the only woman I mean to bend my knee to. The Red Wolf, Queen in the North!"
With that, she knelt on her right knee, hatchet head on the stone before her, her back straight as she stared up at Sansa, her posture perfect. With cries of 'Red Wolf', 'Queen in the North', and 'Queen of Winter' from those of the Vale interspersed with 'Queen of the Mountain and Vale', lords and ladies of both the North and the Vale followed suit in bending the knee. First the greater Houses and those sword directly to the Starks bent the knee; Royce, Reed, Manderly, and others. After that, those lesser lords and ladies sworn to directly to the greater houses bent the knee in turn, then those sworn to them until all those of the North and the Vale had bent the knee.
While the others were kneeling, Arya turned, accepting an open circlet of bronze with nine iron spikes, forged by Gendry from the drawings Lyanna and her Maester had found during her research into past Kings of Winter. Once all had knelt, she raised it up for all to see, then placed it atop Sansa's head, drawing her own sword and kneeling by the dividing screen, followed by the Lady of the Crossing and those women sworn to her bending the knee as well once they saw Lady Winter doing so.
After a moment, when the attention was on Sansa, Arya slipped behind the screen with her sword in her hand, and No One emerged out the other side, weapons invisible under his vestments. While those who had knelt were standing, swords and spears, staves and bows, hatchets and crossbows held high as they shouted, No One quietly made his way behind the table for the guests, finding a nice spot where he had a good view of Sarella, Kitty, and Alys, winking at the Princess as she looked up in shock. Queens were not a matter of interest for the House of Black and White; all died the same.
No One stood behind the guests, eyeing Sarella with interest, while also enjoying glances at Kitty and Alys, exactly as old Walder would have, then he leaned down to murmur quietly in an astonished Jamie Lannister's ear, "You don't look so high and mighty now. Not going to mock me anymore, eh? Heh heh heh!"
Once the commotion had died down and enough people had noticed that No One did not kneel, he returned behind the screen, Arya Stark strode out the other side with the slightest hint of an insolent shrug at her sister, who returned to watching the conclave after just one brief glance while Arya returned to her place at the head table.
Sansa smiled as the noise went on for another minute while the lords and ladies celebrated their renewed freedom as much as her coronation, if not more, then raised a hand to just above her waist, waiting another minute for the noise to die down before she was able to speak. The crown atop her head seemed heavy to her; while it wasn't actually heavier than the leather helmet she'd been wearing and training with, she was the ruling Queen now, named by her peoples, Queen in the North, Queen of the Mountain and Vale, and Queen of the Twins, she supposed, since the Lady of the Crossing had bent the knee once Arya had. The Free Folk weren't that interested; as far as they were concerned, nothing had changed. Patrek Mallister, she saw, was very interested in what was going on, if somewhat surprised; he hadn't been expecting anything like that... and where he was from, women in leadership positions was simply not done - Cersei hadn't been an example they approved of, either, nor the Dragon Queen, nor Yara Greyjoy.
Sansa watched as Princess Sarella stood and curtsied to her elegantly; it wasn't time yet to repay the Dornishwoman's support in the way they'd agreed; neither her own kingdoms nor Dorne were ready for that, especially after the... accident... one of the Dornish guards had had, slipping on an icy battlement and falling to his death on the way back from Maester Wolkan's chambers. She'd have to ask Arya what was going on with that; she was quite sure the Princess hadn't paid for a Faceless Man, and that guard... she didn't know who he'd been loyal to, but he had no loyalty to the princess of Dorne. The hall was quiet, now, and it was time to speak.
"You are very kind, my Lords and Ladies. Let me assure you that all the preparations you and all your people have been doing will continue uninterrupted; all contracts that have been made will continue unchanged, all loans will be repaid, subject only to the needs of the wars. The North and the Vale are ancient kingdoms, and I respect the laws and customs of both, having grown up here, and having lived in the Eyrie. I will not be able to rule both kingdoms"
"And the Twins!" came a call from the conclave to both approving laughter and deep nod from the Lady of the Crossing.
"And the Twins myself. Just as some Northern houses owe allegiance to another house, not directly to the Starks, the North and the Vale shall govern themselves, as they have for thousands of years, subject to the authority of the named monarch. While I love the North, I must step down as Lady of Winterfell; my soon to be good sister Lady Meera Reed will be acting Lady of Winterfell until such time as my brother's wife takes that role."
Meera stood, "Thank you, my Queen. I will fulfill the role of acting Lady of Winterfell as best I can... until tonight, when I marry Bran!"
Sansa smiled, nodding seriously, gesturing for Meera to remain standing, "I have great faith in you, Lady Meera. Lords and Ladies, the Seven Kingdoms had the custom of having a Lord Paramount for each kingdom, as my father was for the North, and Jon and Robin Arryn were for the Vale. Each kingdom but Dorne, who had the privilege of retaining their royal titles and being ruled by a Prince or Princess. I believe the North and the Vale deserve the same honor! My brother is the Three-Eyed Raven, and has set aside his rights to rule, so as the former Lady of Winterfell, I ask that once you marry, you lead the North as Princess Meera Stark."
"I would be honored, my Queen," said the acting Lady of Winterfell. She and Sansa had discussed this; both full titles would be bound to the Stark name, as the rulers of the North had been for thousands of years; as their Lords and Ladies often, and loudly, proclaimed. No house other than a Stark would rule, but Sansa would make sure she was seen to avoid the path of consolidating all power in herself that Cersei had done, that the Targaryen had done. The great houses would remain just that - great houses, ruling their own vassals even as they were ruled in turn by a Stark, just as they had been before Aegon Targaryen arrived in Westeros.
"Thank you, Lady Meera. Lord Royce, your skills in battle and your ability as a leader on and off the battlefield are well known, and your honor is unquestioned. We are at war, and while I love my cousin, and his father was a very wise Lord Paramount, I cannot in good conscience appoint him ruler of the Vale. It pleases me greatly to ask if you would lead the Vale as Prince Yohn Royce, my Lord?" asked Sansa, ensuring that her tone was one of honest respect... as she had learned from her mother and her father.
Lord Royce stood, looking around briefly to see the other high nobles of the Vale showing their support... some, he saw, begrudgingly, but showing support all the same, as his position was both not entirely surprising, and entirely unassailable. Even those who wished, like Littlefinger had, to use Sweetrobin's nature to their own advantage knew that strong and sure leadership was necessary in war, and that he had strong allies of his own. He replied, his voice carrying its own share of respect.
"I am also honored, my Queen. I would be glad to take up the mantle of Prince of the Vale, though I will not abandon my responsibilities as the commander of the cavalry here. The Night King is nearly upon us, and I will meet him on the field of battle! Lady Waynwood and Lord Corbray are very capable; I would propose that they continue to rule the Vale in my absence, just as they have done since I left."
"Of course, Prince Royce; they are both wise and honorable leaders, and you are the best cavalry commander in Westeros. We will need you on the field. Lady Winter, I trust No One in all the world more than you. You have forged our combined armies into a great and powerful force, you have ensured everyone has proper training, you have planned our campaigns and brought us the allies we need to survive, to win, and to thrive after the wars are over. Will you take up the position of Hand of the Queen?"
"Thank you, your Grace. I cannot in good faith accept your offer. The kingdoms and their people deserve a Hand who can devote their full time to the position, who does not come and go, who does not have other faces with their own responsibilities which must also be fulfilled. We have many capable military leaders; Prince Royce, Lady Meera, Lady Mormont, Skamund, the Lord Commander, Lady Brienne, the Hound, and others, all of whom have their own seconds who can lead when needed. A Hand cannot delegate their work in the same way, except by naming an acting Hand. Thus, I must decline," said Arya somberly.
While all that was true, Arya mused that she was also not a politician, she was a war-leader and an assassin, a general and a spy. She was not suited to listening to petty complaints without solving the issue immediately; that she would happily leave to others, especially since as a Queen of two and a bit kingdoms, keeping the lords and ladies and peoples of the kingdoms in willing alliance was vital; the Southrons would be quick to take advantage of any fractures. She would be able to keep them in line while she lived, certainly, though those farther away would test her. After she took the Many-Faced God's gift herself, however, things would become very difficult for whoever was left alive, for few would be pleased with what she'd done, and they would blame it on the Starks.
Sansa nodded gravely, "I'm sorry to hear that, Lady Winter. Lord Reed, you've been loyal to House Stark for longer than I've been alive. You fought with my father during Robert's Rebellion, and you've ruled the Neck well. I can think of no one else as suitable to be my Hand as you. Will you take the position?"
Lord Reed nodded, then approached the head table as Lady Frey handed the Queen the Hand's pin, to a small but growing set of murmurs of approval as the members of the conclave thought through their young and newly named Queen appointing a well respected elder to the position of Hand. Even if he was a crannogman, they'd known him for years, and what his children had done for Lord Bran was a matter of legend, too.
"I will, your Grace," he said, letting her put the pin on his tunic and moving to stand to the side of the table, where Arya had stood at the end of Lord Baelish's trial.
Sansa turned to Lord Manderly next, "Lord Manderly, you and your family have proven that great businesses can flourish in the North. You inherited the wealth of your House, and you have increased it since by your diligence in matters of trade. Will you take the position of Master of Coin?"
"I will, my Queen," said the large lord proudly, to his own selection of approving mutters. While some looked down on the Manderlys for their Southron faith, they could only be respectful, or envious, of the wealthiest house of the North, of its own heavy cavalry, and, in recent months, of its growing fleets and acumen with trade agreements. In the future, their fleets would be important to every trade agreement with Essos that had been, and would be, made... and for those who had asked Lord Manderly had given sage advice.
Suppressing her smile to show nothing but her genuine respect for the small bear in her expression and her voice, Sansa asked, "Lady Mormont, you have demonstrated unparalleled diligence in your research into the laws and traditions of abdication, not only depending on Maester Wolkan, but seeking out additional sources and spending hours reading them yourself. I can think of no one better suited to be Master of Laws than you. Will you accept?"
"I will," came the short reply from the Scorpion Bear. Prince Royce, Lord Manderly, and Lord Glover were the first, and loudest, to show their approval of Lady Mormont, though there was satisfaction throughout the conclave; all depended on the siege engines for their protection against dragons of any type, and they trusted her people, her leadership of them, and her dedication to the North and to what was honorable and right. That Lord Royce had chosen to foster his grandchildren with her was also a clear sign to those of the Vale of her character.
"Lady Winter, you have been Justice in the North; you will be Justice in all my kingdoms. We have all learned that we must know what is happening in the rest of the world, what they do and plan in secret, so we may defend ourselves from dishonorable attacks like the Red Wedding. Will you serve as Master of Whisperers?"
"I will serve when I wear the face of Arya Stark, yes," said Arya, to the quietest response so far. The North and the Vale may have learned that they needed such a person... but they still weren't comfortable with that need. There was, however, no dissent or disapproval shown, the reactions ranging from neutrality to quiet approval; they had all seen the youngest Stark girl take command of their military forces, had seen her train and fight, had experienced or heard how she trained and organized all their forces. Whatever they may have thought of a royal spymaster, there would be no disapproval of Lady Winter, not when the extinction of the realms of men was at their gates.
"Maester Wolkan, I understand it is the custom of the Archmaesters in Oldtown to appoint the Grand Maester. This is one custom I feel we must break with, for a group of old Southron men set apart from the world, who even until now have not done so much as turn a single page on their own to support the war against the Night King, are not capable of appointing a Maester we need. If the Maesters of the Night's Watch, the North, and the Vale, who have been studying and working for months for the survival of all our peoples would appoint someone capable, I will need the advice of a skilled Maester on the Small Council."
"I will see it done, your Grace," said Maester Wolkan, his voice nearly without a quaver.
"The Princes of the North and the Vale will always have a seat at the Small Council, when they are able to attend, for the purpose of representing the interests of their particular kingdoms. When they cannot attend, their seat will be held by a trusted delegate. The Lady of the Crossing has also bent the knee; Lady Frey, you too will have a seat for yourself or a trusted delegate, to represent the Northern Riverlands."
"Thank you, my Queen," replied Lady Frey gracefully. The response of the conclave to that was mixed between approval of Lady Frey by those she had trained with or who knew her well, subdued approval by those who she had worked with on Sansa's behalf, and being ignored as a person in favor of speculation about the 'Northern Riverlands'. It was true that the Twins was barely a stone's throw from the southern border of the Neck, yet were still surrounded by fertile farmlands that could help grow crops during summers to stockpile for the winters.
"Lady Brienne will take up the post of Lady Commander of the Queensguard when she returns; Lady Winter will remain in overall command of all our forces. Prince Royce, in all the North only House Manderly has experience with ships, and Lord Manderly has already accepted the post of Master of Coin. Who would you recommend as Master of Ships?" asked Sansa.
"Lord Grafton, your Grace."
"I remember him well; a good man, and honorable, but I have not the skills of a seaman. Lady Winter, you understand the navy. Do you agree with Prince Royce?"
"I do. I met Lord Gerold while traveling through our strongholds, and he understands naval matters well. He has been open to learning from the admirals that Braavos - the greatest naval power in the world - has sent us, just as Lord Manderly's people have been, and he has trained and organized his forces well," reported Arya. They'd already discussed this appointment in detail, including Arya's opinion that the Vale nobleman had trained his seconds well enough for him to travel.
"Very well; Lord Grafton is to be Master of Ships, under the overall command of Lady Winter during wartime, as Lady Brienne and all military forces will be. If he feels it necessary, he may remain in Gulltown managing the navy, though if in his judgment he can, there is a seat on the Small Council for him to sit in," said Sansa. She would avoid no little confusions and political games by making the chain of command crystal clear here and now to the entire conclave. This was no longer a de facto combined force, it was a formally organized one. In practice, there was no change, but anyone else who thought they might have gained power during the transition would be disappointed.
"Small Council meetings are suspended until the army of the dead has been stopped," said Queen Sansa with total assurance that the army of the dead would indeed be prevented from overrunning them all, "All other standing orders remain; all schedules remain the same, including mine. Queen Daenerys Targaryen of Meereen will be here in time for my brother's wedding; I ask that when you see her, you give her the courtesy of her title, as you would any other leader of an allied kingdom, and remember the vast stores of dragonglass she has provided, and that she has indeed brought her soldiers to fight the dead in good faith."
Sansa smiled slightly, "If the topic of the Iron Throne comes up, we of course give her our best wishes in her quest to depose Queen Cersei. If the topic of the North, or the Vale owing fealty to the Iron Throne comes up, refer her to me. That's my problem to deal with, now that you've named me your Queen."
Sansa listened to the the guffaws and comments of the conclave; one that stood out to her was Lord Flint's comment that the Red Wolf'd eat the Dragon Queen alive; he was proud of her, of course, since they were family, related through her great-grandmother Arya Flint. Sansa turned fully to face Arya, nodding gravely as she sat while Arya stood, her younger sister's voice carrying out over the hall commandingly even as the guards opened the doors to the train of servants bringing in enough food for the hundreds of lords and ladies.
"All right, enough politics! Military leaders and your seconds, up here; you're going to instruct the Lord Commander about our plans for the army of the dead. Everyone else, eat up and get back to work, we've still got a few hours before my brother returns and my other brother gets married, and there's still plenty to do! Her Grace, Queen Sansa is counting on us to be ready for what comes!"
************************
Jon looked a little nervously at the gathering clouds to the north as he flew through the air, trying to keep Rhaegal just behind and above Drogon and Dany. She'd been reading the book Arya had loaned to her and instructing him on what she'd learned; she'd told him of the specific roles for the members of a flight of dragons, just as there were specific roles in groups of soldiers. The front dragonrider was the leader, everyone else followed their path, and they commanded the flight. He and Rhaegal were the rearguard, responsible for her safety; should the Night King attack, he had to spot Viserion first, have Rhaegal roar to alert Dany, and keep the Night King away from her while she circled around to attack with tooth, claw, and fire.
He looked up and around, then down and around, again approaching what must be the same great ring of towers in the distance that he'd met his sisters beyond. This time, of course, the lead dogsled scouts were below, racing towards the line, while the treeline was much farther away, yet the watchtowers were the same, a great line of them, mile after mile, extending into the distance. As Dany flew back around the caravan far below in yet another wide circle, he turned Rhaegal to follow.
He didn't remember Sansa ever having mentioned a Lady Winter before, or even being interested in military leadership, but after he'd left the North in her hands, she'd clearly found someone to deal with the army. He'd never have imagined anything remotely like the kind of defenses White Harbor had had. He'd been on the Wall, seen the scorpions atop it, but hadn't thought through it. The Wall was eight thousand years old, and seven hundred feet high; it didn't need anything more. Winterfell was just as old... but it didn't have walls that high, and now that he'd seen the fieldworks at White Harbor, it was obvious more had needed to be done.
Arya, even had laid into him! She was just as fierce as he remembered, though where she'd learned things like training plans and military supplies, he didn't know, much less fieldworks. She'd always wanted to fight, to ride, to use a sword and a bow, but those commander's skills? Those weren't part of the young, fierce sister he remembered. Distracting him while Ghost jumped on him? That was.
The way she'd gone blank and still, though... that had shocked him. He could understand what Brienne had meant when she'd talked about Arya, though, how she sometimes was... just there. It sounded like she'd learned a lot of things since they'd all left Winterfell; she'd been gone the longest, and had come back the strangest... and he'd been stabbed to death! She'd learned how to fight, from the stories, and she wore... well, even he could see Sansa'd sewed her clothes, but why she carried all that steel, he didn't know. The dragonglass daggers he could understand, but the rest? He found Longclaw awkward enough to that he hadn't carried it regularly at Castle Black; her new sword was even longer; it must be even more awkward going around corners with it, especially at her size. Then again, he got stabbed at Castle Black while he was unarmed, so maybe she had a point.
But Arya was alive, Sansa was alive, Bran was alive, the Boltons were dead, and he'd gotten not just dragonglass, but actual dragons. Dragons! That he was riding! As long as he didn't fall off, at least. He'd have to ask Sansa about saddles; that Valyrian book had made reference to different types of saddles; apparently there were differences between dragon saddles, just as there were between horse saddles. Dany hadn't found what those differences were yet, but maybe she would soon. It'd be nice not to have to just hold on and hope he didn't slip!
Approaching the front of the caravan again, he could barely see the shape of the towers; if he had to guess, these were just like the ones one the coast and the couple he'd seen on just leaving White Harbor, with ballista on top. Gods, that was a lot of them; how they'd all been made, he didn't know. Well, that wasn't his problem; he hadn't asked to be King, hadn't wanted to be King, and he'd found a Queen he believed in, a Queen he loved, with dragons to burn the dead, and armies to fight them with.
He started to guide Rhaegal to the left to head west and then south again when Dany banked to the right in front of him, heading towards the towers instead of back around the caravan, though she kept the same height over the ground; much higher up than Viserion had been when the Night King threw that spear. He guided Rhaegal back to his place behind Drogon, flying north with the setting sun on their left, watching the line of towers below. He thought he heard a faint pattern of drumbeats between Rhaegal's wingbeats, but he wasn't sure. Beyond that line of towers was another, it seemed, the towers closer together; flying overtop he could see they were indeed armed towers. The ones in the treeline in the distance had a clearcut path from each tower to the next, and a clearing around each; just as the Night's Watch in ancient times had cleared the trees beyond the Wall, though the area around the watchtowers wasn't clear nearly as far as the Wall had been; the old rules said a mile from the wall! Many of the towers were in the middle of dark circles; not only trees but also snow had been cleared!
In the distance, a sparkle caught his attention; ahead, he could see Winterfell actually glittering in the evening light, the towers and walls somehow fully reflecting the sunlight; even Winter Town was gleaming. The Godswood was clear, the red leaves of the weirwoods stood out, colorful; he knew the other trees would have lost their leaves already. Around Winterfell and the attached Winter Town the land was darker than the surrounding snow, cleared for over half a mile from the walls, and closer were great black rings, obviously moats like White Harbor had, but completely encircling the place.
He thought back to the plans he'd made with Ser Davos and Tormund for the battle against Ramsay; he'd had trenches dug on his flanks to prevent a double envelopment... well, before he tried to save Rickon and they had to come out from the fieldworks to save him. Trenches were not moats; he couldn't imagine how long it had taken to dig even the smallest of the moats now surrounding the strongholds of the North.
Closer to the castle, tents and shelters covered the land outside the walls within the innermost and widest ring, then in the next many of the sections were full of animals. They'd need to get those people inside Winterfell before the Night King came; they were going to need the walls. The army of the dead hadn't stopped at the walls at Hardhome; they hadn't all broken through, either, they'd simply climbed over, so those moats weren't going to do more than slow them down.
Well, unless they lit them on fire like Grey Worm had said they might, he supposed. That'd hold the bastards off while the fire lasted, at least.
He could see the castle clearly, now; he'd never seen it like a bird before, looking down at it like this, but it... it wasn't the castle he remembered. The main towers were the same, mostly, but the Broken Tower had been repaired, there were no more sections of walls lacking crennelations, he could even see hoardings all over the place. Anywhere there weren't hoardings, there were machicolations, few of which had been there before, to allow the defenders to overlook the wall itself, dropping fire on the wights attacking the walls. New towers rose up at every corner of the walls that hadn't had a tower before; a few new stone towers, more wooden ones; some of the latter had stone walls starting to rise up around them, the tiny dots of workmen moving around them.
From towertop to town rooftop, siege engines dominated the skyline. The shapes of scorpions and ballista, as he'd seen at White Harbor, were everywhere, and there were the tall counter-weighted towers of trebuchets, like the drawings Maester Luwin had shown him long ago. One was even being lifted up the glistening side of one of the shorter inner towers by a gantry, even as the lead scout sleds from the caravan entered the castle through the great gates at full speed. Massive piles of supplies were everywhere, logs and barrels and bales stacked up as if they were small hills.
Daenerys flew in a wide circle above the edge of the great clearing around Winterfell, easily a mile from one edge to another, looking back and up to see Jon's reaction as best she could; that wasn't very much, though. She could see Rhaegal's expression, but not Jon's. There was activity everywhere below, starting in the treeline, where thousands of men were cutting down trees, with teams of horses dragging long logs or large sleds towards Winterfell at a trot, the snow around the logging operation darkened with the remains of the work. This high up, she couldn't see any real detail, but that was just the outer edges of the forest on Winterfell's western side.
Around the castle itself were thousands more men and horses as well, doing what she could not tell, but moving with purpose. The dragon-killers she could see were at least not pointed at Drogon, though Jorah's admonition about a single man with a crossbow came to mind. One man with a scorpion on a cart had brought Drogon down with just two shots, one of which missed entirely. Below were dozens of the things, and from what Jon's man Davos had said, those were far larger and more capable than what Cersei put on that wagon, maybe based on what Braavos had used to hold off the might of Old Valyria.
She circled around wide, looking down at the castle on her left with the orange glow of the setting sun on her right, illuminating the weapons Jon's sister Sansa had put on every tower and roof she could... even on the ground outside, she saw now as she spotted movement. A wave of small dots swarmed towards the castle from the South, led by a dozen large ones, the size of a two-horse drawn cart, casting long shadows over the ground as they approached the castle; she heard something carrying up, like drums but different, metallic. At that there was a sense of the ground inside the castle shifting and twisting oddly, the southern scorpions or ballista swiveling, and then a shadow arched out from the castle towards the approaching dots.
No, not a shadow; hundreds of arrows loosed at once from the castle, briefly shadowing the reflected sunlight from the bright, reflective walls, then again and again. A moment later she heard deep twanging noises; not quite what she'd heard from the scorpion when Drogon had been hurt, but very similar. Men were also funneling out across the moats at a few points; probably those sliding wooden bridges they'd gone over when leaving White Harbor. Coming to meet them from... she couldn't tell where, but there was a wave of men running inwards in that ring, and a cavalry force following along the inner moat in a tight formation, riding out on narrow land bridges between the ends of the short radial moats and the continuous rings.
Coming around to the southernmost edge, she lined out and flew straight back to the caravan as the main grouping passed between the giant rings of towers. Those had surprised her, too - they weren't just placed along the roads, they completely encircled Winterfell; from this height, she could see the entirety of the closer ring, and large parts of the outer one stretching out across the horizon.
The caravan itself had no less than eight of those scorpions spread out around it; Davos has said they were small ones, but so was the one that had hurt Drogon. She'd never seen two of them next to each other; they weren't like the the Unsullied, marching in close formation, or the Dothraki or the Second Sons, grouped up for easy conversation on long journeys. There was a pattern to them, seen from the air, as if an artist had drawn a picture with dogsleds, and they stayed as close to it as the terrain allowed. Riding with the Dothraki was a flowing experience, moving through the great grass sea. The dog caravan was like that with the columns in the middle winding over the snow, picking out paths she knew not how. Their outriders and guards were not, though, keeping to their positions even as they chose their own path over the snows alone or with one or two other smaller sleds.
Heading back to the caravan, she resumed the task of circling it closely; it was much less exciting, now that she was sure that there wouldn't be an attack. She'd seen the great gates of Winterfell; there had been Targaryen banners and a few animals a couple hundred yards in front of them; she'd land there when the caravan arrived.
These people had been training hard, according to their King's command, their Lord Protector and Warden's command, and she would show them that she, too, would fight for them, just as Jon did. Just as his sisters did, even; Arya had been every bit the warrior maid and an excellent rider, reminding her of the mentions of Visenya in the many stories of her ancestor Aegon she'd heard growing up. Sansa, even, had ridden out on her own - Tyrion had told her about the wheelhouse he and Varys had traveled in, that Cersei traveled in, and she'd remembered a few times she'd been in one when moving between the Free Cities as a girl. She hadn't been in one since she'd married Drogo, of course, and while Sansa hadn't ridden as well as a Dothraki, she rode well enough - and on snow, at that.
Both of them had handled spears casually, too; she hadn't missed how they'd driven the weapons into the snow. She wasn't sure why, but it had been polite, and for a horse that wasn't trained to stay put in the face of dragons, probably wise as well. A few of the Dothraki had had some interesting times chasing spooked horses when Drogon got antsy!
She started a gentle spiraling dive down as the caravan rode down slopes of snow; small detachments of cavalry had ridden out to the edge of the nearly cleared ground, turning to lead them in on twisting paths through the outer defenses. Some of the turns were obvious, avoiding small walls or mounds of icy snow, or planted spears sticking out of the ground, but some she couldn't see rhyme or reason to. Nonetheless, the leading elements were racing across wooden bridges now, heading to the castle gates.
"Ilagon," she said, looking back to make sure Rhaegal was carrying Jon down as well. She headed to the outer edge of the clearing with the Targaryen banners, and what she could now see were a pair of small goats, one each chained to the two poles, each at a corner of the near-island. As Drogon extended his wings and she was pressed hard against his scales while he slowed before his claws dug into the icy ground at the far corner of this near-island between the moats with a distinct crunch, she could see the goats each actually had a loaf of bread with white grains atop it strapped to their backs. Salted bread, even for her dragons. They had guest right in the Free Cities, just like everywhere else, but Sansa was taking it to extremes. Bread and salt, even for her dragons! No one had ever done that for her children before.
Besides them the caravan was passing over two bridges, some of those loaded with cargo racing into the main gates of the castle, the rest being guided to other areas outside the castle, including all the scorpion sleds. The sleds with her people were guided nearby just long enough to drop them off, then headed into the castle with their supplies.
"Jon?" she asked. Riding a dragon wasn't like riding a horse; you got sore in different places. Well, they could give each other a rubdown later, she thought with a grin.
"I'm all right; just a little knackered," he said, looking up at the icy walls rising up before him, at the one open door of the great gates, then at a small group of boys and girls that raced up to the stack of giant ice blocks atop an enormous bronze plate, pushed it through a quarter turn, then raced off elsewhere. The walls and hoardings were manned with hundreds of men that he could see, even as he could see activity everywhere, different pitches of horns and drums and whatever those metallic drums were sounding back and forth constantly, muted shouts from inside and outside the castle.
"You're home, Jon. Also, you should turn around," she replied, pointing behind him, prompting him to turn around and shout.
"Ghost! Down boy! Down! Don't jump!"
She smiled as he managed to avoid being knocked down this time; checking on the rest of her party, they were stretching and then brushing off the blown snow that had accumulated on them as they rode. The sky was darkening very rapidly, now, as she'd become used to in the past days; the lead dogsleds had simply lit a pair of torches and continued on for hours into the darkness, finding their way through the white wastes somehow. For now, though, she led the way over the next pair of bridges towards the great gates, Jon beside her, Tyrion behind, and then the rest following.
She looked around with interest as she came between the gatehouses; Winterfell wasn't as imposing as Dragonstone had been, but it had an imposing charm, she supposed, even if it was cold. The looks she received were... disappointing, really; there wasn't relief, or happiness, or really any kind of good cheer at her presence.
Jon looked up at the inner and outer portcullis. Like the gates, they were not as they had been when he'd left Winterfell. The castle he'd grown up in had been ravaged by the Greyjoys and the Boltons, had been recovering... and, while he was away, had been rebuilt anew, or so it seemed. He muttered to himself, "Four inches of cold rolled steel, by the gods."
"Jon?"
"Those are like the gates below the Wall; four inches of cold rolled steel. It'd take a giant to get through it."
Emerging into the courtyard, Dany felt her smile freeze on her face. Arranged was a greeting party, including Arya and a variety of other Lords and Ladies, as she'd expected. Even Brienne and the Hound were already there; they must have come in on one of the first sleds.
One thing was not as she'd expected; Sansa was wearing a crown!
Sansa was greeting her, Queen Daenerys Targaryen, Protector of the Seven Kingdoms, while wearing a crown!
A crown!
Sansa noted the stunned expressions on both Jon and the Dragon Queen's faces even as she kept the bulk of her attention on Tyrion and Lord Varys. The former looked equally stunned, while the latter... well, his expression hadn't changed, but his eyes had snapped to her crown, across the entire courtyard in little more than a flicker, and then up to the fully manned gatehouses behind her, to the fully ready crossbows on the platform below the equally ready ballista, before his gaze returned to her as if nothing was amiss. She was sure he recognized the precarious position he'd been led into, but if she'd not been looking at him during that precise fraction of a second, she'd never have seen it. A dangerous man, indeed.
She and Arya had listened carefully to the reports Mariya, Emilee, and Deranna had finished making just minutes earlier, having come in on the first dogsled. They'd had a few minutes to finalize their plans, adjusting a few small elements. Bran's visions were very powerful, but like the reports of a small child, were utterly lacking in either the context or the subtext of what was going on. She knew even more about her brother's amorous adventures now than she had before, but what that said about the Targaryen was also important. They'd even had time to greet Brienne and the Hound and give them the briefest of updates before the royal... the other royal party was upon them.
There was only one chance at this, and she'd hate to have to explain to Jon why his lover and the dragons had been slaughtered... but she also wouldn't, couldn't, let Varys in without challenge, either. A delicate balance... the kind Lord Baelish had excelled at. Next to her, Arya made the sign for yes while keeping her attention on the Dragon Queen, so Sansa proceeded as they and their councilors had planned. Keeping a gentle smile on her face, she held up the heavy silvered steel platter of bread and salt, speaking in her most welcoming tones before the silver-haired woman had a chance for shock to give way to rage.
"Welcome, Queen Daenerys! Your gifts of dragonglass to fight the dead have been very welcome, and it is gratifying to see you, your dragons, and your armies coming to aid the fight against the army of the dead! Rest assured that we all wish you the best in your quest to take the Iron Throne from Cersei Baratheon. Please, have bread and salt, and be welcome in our home. I've had the First Keep cleared for you, your advisors, and that portion of your supplies and the leaders of your forces that you wish to keep inside the walls. Once you're settled, I'll be happy to fit you and your advisor with gowns for Bran's wedding."
Jon glanced around, his own shock clear on his face, but extended his hand to Dany, gesturing for her to take bread and salt.
"The law of guest right is holy to all the faces of the Many-Faced God; it is a sacred bond between guest and host that neither will bring harm to the other for the duration of their stay. To break this bond invokes the wrath of god. This is not like the custom of safe passage; that is a custom of men, not god. Guest right does not have exceptions... like the one Razdal mo Eraz found himself and his gold caught in. Have bread and salt, and be welcome in our home," said Arya, her voice soft, though holding an undertone of reverence and deep meaning, as if the words were from a much deeper source. She watched Daenerys carefully, her own hands behind her. This would be the crux of it; either the foreign queen would take bread and salt and simmer, or she would let her anger boil over, as Hot Pie might have said... in public, in front of her lover, her own advisors, and most importantly, many strangers seeing her for the first time.
Daenerys stepped forward, away from Jon and her other advisors, striding across the churned up, frozen ground with shorter steps than usual, remembering how she'd slipped in White Harbor. The crown on Sansa's head was a simple thing, bronze and steel, swords pointing up even as they left the redhead's hair bare to the cold northern air. She tried to keep a regal demeanor as best she could in the face of this insult; by Jon's descriptions, this was not only part of the Northern court, but the men in leather-covered plate armor were of the Vale, a second kingdom defying her!
She took a piece of bread from the simple platter with a quick gesture, feeling it give beneath her fingers as she dipped it in the salt and ate it, a soft-faced noblewoman offering her wine on the opposite side of Sansa from Jon's other sister, which she took a long drink of.
She'd seen thousands of men on her way in, dozens of dragon-killing weapons, and now she was in the middle of them, her dragons on the ground behind her, outside the gates, under the eyes of the crews of those same weapons. She supposed Jon might have felt like this when he approached her at Dragonstone.
Well, she'd survived Robert's assassins, she'd survived Viserys's rages, she'd survived the deaths of her husband and son. She'd survived the Red Wastes, the treachery of Qarth, the Sons of the Harpy, and the incompetence of her advisors. She'd survive this, too.
"Thank you, Queen Sansa. My congratulations; you weren't wearing a crown when we met earlier," said Daenerys, trying to keep her anger out of her voice, so she wouldn't show weakness.
Sansa nodded slightly, hearing the biting tone from the shorter woman clearly in her words and demeanor; she was reminded of a time, long ago, when she'd been told she was the worst liar in King's Landing. This woman would never be able to handle the politics, not as she was now... not when those remaining had been dealing with, and surviving, Cersei for so long, not when they'd survived Joffrey, not when they'd survived Tywin Lannister.
"I hadn't been named Queen yet, your Grace. I'll be happy to tell you about it, or whatever else you have questions about, during the fitting. I'm sure your party is tired and cold; there is water heating in the First Keep, and we'll have meals brought in from the great hall for you and your people."
Sansa glanced at Arya briefly, seeing the sign for yes, and continued; they were past the most difficult part... the second most difficult part was coming, soon.
"Jon, welcome home," said Sansa warmly, handing her tray to a guard behind her as he glanced at Dany, then approached her and gave her a hug.
"Sansa, what's going on?" he whispered.
"Bran's waiting for you in his chambers," said Sansa in a normal tone, then murmured quietly, "We'll explain later, Jon."
He and Arya exchanged a hug as well, ignoring hilts digging into armor as they did so.
"Lord Tyrion, I'm glad to see my former husband looking so well. Thank you for your many kindnesses, including providing the designs for a saddle my brother Bran can use to ride even after he lost his legs. Please have bread and salt, and be welcome in our home," said Sansa, reclaiming her platter as she publicly announced that their former marriage was no longer in effect. If they'd thought to use that forced marriage against her, they'd need to think again - she wouldn't give that power to anyone ever again. In truth, she thought he looked drawn and sad, a pale shadow of what he'd been... and she could easily see the fear he was trying to hide, as well. She wasn't sure what all of it was... but he was wary of his Queen's reactions, at least, and it was the silver-haired woman he kept looking to.
He approached, hearing whispers as he did so; not many, but a few... there was one he could make out of 'Lannister', though several more he could make out were 'kinslayer'; not an epithet he'd heard directed at himself before, but, he supposed morosely, not one he could argue with.
Taking bread and salt, he ignored the whispers as he had during public events under his father's eye and greeted the sisters cordially, "Queen Sansa, I'm pleased to see you again. You as well, Lady Arya; I was saddened by your presumed death, and am happy to see you are indeed alive and well."
"I'm not a Lady," said Arya, seeing the sign for yes from Sansa, and continued, "Or a Princess. That's not me. If you must, though, I have accepted the title of Lady Winter."
Lord Varys reacted first, with the slightest widening of his eyes, for the barest of instants. Jon turned on the spot to stare at Arya, while Tyrion's jaw dropped slightly; his mouth remained closed, but he was clearly shocked. Daenerys simply narrowed her own eyes at the declaration.
"You're Lady Winter?" asked her brother.
Tyrion took the cup offered by a noblewoman he didn't recognize and drank deeply, handing it back.
"I am. Don't look so surprised; I already told you that you hadn't given any clear orders when you left!" retorted Arya.
Sansa let a slight amount of exasperation color her tone and expression, just enough for Varys and perhaps Tyrion to notice... and perhaps Missandei, if she was as perceptive as she was self-controlled.
"Lady Winter, Lord Jon, you'll have time to catch up later. Valar Morghulis, Grey Worm. Welcome to Winterfell; the discipline and skill of the Unsullied are legendary; we will be glad to have you as part of the fight against the Night King. Have bread and salt, and be welcome in our home."
"Valar Dohaeris," replied Grey Worm as he took bread and salt, moving behind his Queen and planting the butt of his spear on the frozen ground.
Sansa's voice turned cold and hard, "Lord Varys, I believe the last time we spoke, you said to me 'Your father has proved to be an awful traitor, dear.' Do you remember that, my Lord?"
Varys stopped moving as soon as he'd heard the change in Sansa's tone, even as he saw Arya Stark step forward, putting herself between Sansa and the remainder of Daenerys's party, one hand on her sword-hilt. He'd never expected those dragon eggs to hatch; no one could have foreseen it. Ever since then, he'd been falling behind; first in Essos while he had to contend with Littlefinger's machinations, then he fell behind in Westeros while going to Slaver's Bay after the Targaryen and her dragons, an area he had likewise not expected. Pentos, Myr, Tyrosh, Norvos, Qohor, even Vaes Khadoch and Khal Drogo's horde. He'd been building a network as best he could between the Queen's requests and the travels he'd been on, but he'd spent his effort on the South as the more important kingdoms to the game, and then once Jon Snow had arrived, he'd continued on that path.
He could see now that he had been extremely mistaken; the trip North had been one surprise after another, from the fleets and watchtowers of the Vale to the vanished little birds of White Harbor. And now, in Winterfell, even more moves he hadn't known about had been made by his opponent, and his own options taken away. He'd enjoyed outmaneuvering Lord Baelish in the Red Keep; it was possible, he now thought, that the home castle advantage had been more of a factor than he'd thought. Not only crowning a new monarch, but doing so in secret even from her own brother, and revealing the move only when they were well trapped. Truly, Littlefinger was one of the most dangerous men he'd ever known, and he was in Littlefinger's home castle, now, without a network to speak of.
"Your Grace, I am very sorry for my words. I had hoped both your life, and the life of your father might have been spared. You have my sincere regrets; your father was a man of honor, as few are in the capital," replied Lord Varys carefully, avoiding any movement. He'd grown up in the Free Cities, seen bravos fight many times... he'd hired assassins; never Faceless Men, true, but deadly nonetheless, and Arya Stark, moved like they did, carried her sword like an expert bravo, carried her knives like she was born to them, though only someone with the right family name would dare to do so in the presence of Westerosi nobility. Still, he'd known true experts with throwing knives - Bronn and Daario were both such men - and she held her free arm like they did, as well. Lady Winter, indeed; a double-edged knife, he suspected, but one more dangerous to him at this moment... especially since Petyr hadn't shown himself yet.
Arya heard his voice, calm and collected, but distinctive, and one she remembered. She thought furiously as she listened with her ears to all around her; Grey Worm was waiting, probably for the Queen's orders. Tyrion wasn't a threat on his own, and the Dothraki was in her line of sight as well; he was following the tone of voice well enough. The Spider's voice, though... that, she could place, now, as she couldn't when she was a child. She spoke, her voice as cold as Sansa's had been.
"Spider. You were beneath the Red Keep, with another man, with graceful footsteps. You said 'He's found one bastard already. He has the book. The rest will come.' He said 'And when he knows the truth, what will he do?' You said 'The gods alone know. The fools tried to kill his son. What's worse they botched it. The wolf and the lion will be at each other's throats. We will be at war soon, my friend.' He said 'What good is war now? We're not ready. If one hand can die, why not a second?' You said 'This hand is not the other. We need time.' He said 'Khal Drogo will not make his move until his son is born. You know how those savages are.' You said 'Delay, you say. Move fast, I reply. This is no longer a game for two players.'"
Arya stepped forward once more, making the signs for truth and you for Sansa to see as she presented herself as the obvious opposition and threat, keeping her left hand on her sword hilt. They'd needed a wedge to drive between Daenerys and Varys and rumors to ensure that he'd have as hard a time as possible gathering informants... and she had that, now, in addition to Sansa's own statement. If they were truly lucky, she'd be able to kill the Spider right here... but Daenerys would cling to what she thought of as hers. And, letting Sansa be the one to offer mercy on the Dragon Queen's request, her sister would see as an acknowledgment of political power, as would the others watching.
"I didn't recognize your voice then, and though I warned my father, he didn't understand. Not really. Now I know it was you and another. You knew who had tried to kill Bran. You knew what the Lannisters were planning... and you haven't been given guest right, not yet."
Daenerys spoke, then, her own voice sharp as she listened to what was being said, "I will be quite sure to ask Lord Varys of these events, as I find myself very curious, hearing about them for the first time now. However, he is my advisor, in my service, and his skills are quite valuable to me."
Sansa took up the conversation, making sure what was happening would be clear to even the least subtle of her lords and ladies, "Queen Daenerys, you wish for him to be offered guest right?"
"I do."
Sansa held out the platter, "Very well; as a token of our esteem for you, and at your Grace's request. Lady Winter? Lord Varys, please have bread and salt."
Arya took her left hand off her sword hilt and stepped back with clear reluctance, returning to Sansa's side as Lord Varys approached and partook of a small amount of salted bread and wine, then went to stand beside Tyrion, to all appearances perfectly composed even now.
"Missandei, we've heard of your remarkable gift of languages. Please, have bread and salt and be welcome in our home."
The young woman with darker skin than even Princess Sarella did so with great composure; she hadn't reacted at all to any of the happenings so far, beyond the occasional look at Daenerys and Grey Worm.
"Qhono, the skill of the Dothraki horse archers is well known; we will be glad to have you in the battles against the Night King. Please have bread and salt, and be welcome in our home."
Sansa watched Tyrion out of the corner of her eye; just as he had shown when she greeted Grey Worm and Missandei, she saw surprise in his eyes. They'd given hints before, in the wording they used for the messages they'd sent via the Gulltown fleet, but now they were laying it out. It wasn't the best way to use power; that was to do so with sudden thoroughness, as Cersei had shown her father. It was, however, an excellent way to show power, and to give fair warning that they had far more knowledge than they let on. They'd shown their military power; now she was showing other forms of power. This was not the North the Dragon Queen and her advisors had been expecting, she could see. This was the North and the Vale united and reborn out of the ashes, mistakes, and treacheries of the past, who had learned many lessons, and learned them well.
"Ser Davos, welcome back. Thank you for doing your best to advise Lord Jon wisely; your quarters have been kept for you."
At Sansa's gesture, a small girl in furs ran up to the Dragon Queen. She saw Jon start at her appearance as he recognized her; when she'd spoken to the girl, she'd mentioned her admiration of Jon, who'd fought with her mother Karsi at Hardhome. Her mother hadn't made it, but the girl was grateful that she and her sister Willa had been saved by the ships he'd brought.
"Johnna will guide you to the First Keep, of which the entire interior is at your disposal. When you're ready, she can bring you and Missandei for the fitting; I think you'll enjoy the gowns I've made for you. Jon, she'll take you to Bran's new quarters after you and Queen Daenerys have settled in, so you can see him while she's being fitted."
Daenerys stalked after the small girl, followed by her people, through more and more baileys and guardhouses, past more and more guards and civilians. People were packed everywhere, and where there weren't people there were mountains of supplies. Where there were neither were cages of chickens piled high around small flocks of goats and sheep, all packed into the castle until sometimes only narrow paths were left; in some cases there were even stairs up until they had to walk over the tops of stacks of barrels.
After the undignified walk, they came to a square-cornered keep inside the larger castle, a shorter wall on the left above which rose great, bare branches, and behind them red leaves high in the air; by Jon's description, that was the Godswood. Inside were a trio of maids, the lead one stepping forward and bowing deeply. Behind her, the blonde and the stocky, black-haired girl bowed as well; none of them were very pretty, but they were still a welcome sight; she didn't want to overburden Missandei.
"Your Grace, welcome to the First Keep. The acting Lady of Winterfell has assigned us to be your maids. I'm Dania, and I'll be your first maid. This is Caryss, and this is Leriah, who will be assisting me in caring for you and your party. If you'd like, there's fresh bread and water to drink here, and we have clean cloths and pails of hot water if you'd like to bathe. We have a fire lit in your solar and your bedchamber, for you and your party."
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- Location
- USA
- Pronouns
- He/They
I don't have any idea why this story attracts so little comment; it's truly excellent.
Thanks for the chapter; I'm looking forward to the next one already!
Thanks for the chapter; I'm looking forward to the next one already!
- Location
- United States, CA
Daenerys finds herself hopelessly outmaneuvered and thankfully realizes (at least for now) that having dragons does not guarantee allegiance.