4,247Welcome to the longest chapter of the story thus far! Enjoy the ride!
Chapter Sixty-Nine
The Promise
Arianne
When she was a child, Arianne dreamed of running away with Oberyn and exploring the world as he had. From the Shivering Sea to the ruins of Old Valyria, she longed to make her mark. She'd lost count of how many times she asked her uncle to take her away. Only once had she truly begged, when her father thought to betroth her to Hoster Tully instead of his much younger heir, Edmure.
She had never known Oberyn to be sympathetic, brash and honest, yes, but things such as pity had no place in Dorne. Yet that was what met her when she was once again denied her request. How she had hated him for it, and how she often regretted it now that she had learned the truth.
For all her dreams of adventure and excitement, Arianne never did leave the borders of Dorne. Only now on the brink of war, in the aftermath of overwhelming loss, did she travel from her home. It left a bitter taste in her mouth, and a pain in her chest that often made it difficult to breathe. The one time she wished to remain, she had been given no choice but to leave.
Arianne, Obara, and a handful of guards had traveled in secret across the Sea of Dorne to the Rainwood. Their objective was Storm's End, the ancient and isolated seat of House Baratheon. The waters about the castle were infamously dangerous, as was the Redwyne Fleet that rested just outside the bay, so they had been forced to travel by land the remainder of the distance. The going was slow, plagued by constant rain and a landscape turned to mud. One horse had already been lost to a broken leg.
"This is stupid," Obara remarked that morning as she stared across Shipbreaker Bay. Her cloak and hood were soaked through, lowering the fabric until only her cousin's deep-set frown was visible. "No wonder these people are always at war. I'd kill my neighbor too if I never saw the sun."
It managed to coax a smile out of Arianne. "I seem to recall you needing far less than that."
Obara snorted, but said nothing else.
Arianne squinted at the mist blanketing the bay. Somewhere beyond lay their destination, and the first of many tests she would face in the coming days. Once, she had prided herself on the ability to make others cave to her whims, now she had become uncertain, a child left alone in the world. It frustrated her to no end, and she often kept to herself, dour and silent. How Tyene might have teased her.
Night and day, she had pondered over what to say, but she hardly knew the names of those she went to meet, much less their personalities, needs, or desires. But she knew men. They hated to be cornered, to suffer loss and continual insult, and both the Lannisters and Tyrells had provided them plenty. It would have to be enough.
They broke their fast over nuts and cheese, and continued their eastward march through the trees. Thunder crashed overhead, and a wind off the bay began to whip about them, tearing at hair and clothing both, further abusing their already low morale, but Arianne paid little attention to the elements. Her gaze was focused on the path ahead, awaiting the first glimpse of their destination.
Morning drifted away into the afternoon, or so she guessed. The rain would not relent, and the sun's journey had little effect upon the gray light that guided their steps. But the trees had begun to thin, and she heard the distant rumble of waves between thunderclaps.
Almost in an instant, Storm's End was upon them, jutting from the end of the cliff. Its massive curtain wall was forty feet of gray stone, but she knew it dropped for at least one hundred more beyond the cliff. A single iron gate marked the entry, dwarfed by the walls that enveloped it, and one great tower thrust upward from the center, tall and commanding. The entire keep stood in defiance of nature itself, and Arianne could not help but feel awed by it.
The small group marched toward the castle, leading their horses past half dug trenches and spikes. It was a siege they had prepared for, one briefly delayed by the devastation visited upon her family.
"That is far enough!" a voice called from the castle. A few helmets could be seen from the top of the ramparts, but Arianne spied dozens of arrow slits in the walls. A hundred eyes watched them, if not more. It was easy to see how the imposing structure had withstood a siege for nearly a year. "What is your business here?"
"We are travelers seeking shelter from the storm," Arianne replied, her voice carrying over the rumble of the sea below. "Surely a keep so renowned has space for a few extra souls."
"There are no more travelers in the Stormlands. Leave before we make it even less so."
Arianne tutted, though she doubted the soldier caught the sound. Desperation taught men to be overly callous, especially to so small a number that would pose no threat. His attempt at intimidation told her more than he realized. She wondered how many men truly lurked within the behemoth, and if their aid would be worthwhile after all.
She'd had word sent ahead to the keep that they would be arriving. To cover her trail, she had sent the same message to a dozen other lords. For their enemies, Arianne would be everywhere and nowhere. But she had no way of knowing if her true message arrived. Even if Storm's End wished to reply, she doubted they had any ravens left.
"Come now, surely we can come to an arrangement. Just one person may change the tides, and I have six."
Obara snorted beside her. It had been Trystane's idea for a signal phrase. She would not openly bear her standards, so they would need to announce themselves in another way. Until they were within the walls of Storm's End, they could not assume they were safe.
Still, the words stuck to her tongue, and left a horrid taste in her mouth.
As they awaited judgment, Arianne watched the standard fly from the walls, the harsh winds beating down an already ragged piece of fabric. A stag encased in a burning heart. What sort of family they must have had for brothers to fight over a crown while the eldest was not yet cold.
But I was prepared to be just as foolish, she thought. Quentyn had been spared many things in his journey, not least of which was the cruel jealousy of his older sister.
Her musing was interrupted by a great groaning as the iron gates slowly opened. She found herself staring down a long corridor, where a handful of portcullises were lifted, followed by another gate. She silently counted the murder holes they passed, noting the bright white eyes that watched from the shadows.
Two dozen men waited in the courtyard beyond, surcoats bearing the same stag. Their faces were hard and their eyes wary. Much of their armor was damaged in some way or another, gouges and dents not fixed since the Blackwater. Many also carried burns.
At the center stood a man with long, peppered black hair and a wispy beard that did nothing to hide the frown he bore. Behind him was a bald maester whose chin had probably never seen a hair in his life.
"I am Ser Gilbert Farring, castellan of Storm's End and loyal servant of the true king, Stannis Baratheon," the man said with a raspy voice. "Who are you and why have you come here?"
Obara stepped forward, slamming the end of her spear upon the stone. "You stand in the presence of Arianne Nymeros Martell, Princess of Dorne and Lady of Sunspear. You will show her respect."
The man smirked. It was an ugly thing. "And tell me, Princess, which king do you serve now? Everyone's loyalties change hands so often, it's hard for a man to keep track."
Arianne placed a hand on her cousin's arm to keep her from doing something foolish. "Let us speak more inside, Ser Gilbert. Then we can both toss about all the insufferable words we want, and I won't be forced to embarrass you in front of your men."
The knight considered her for a moment, then eyed the men to his left and right. She did not believe he was bothered by the idea of a sparring match in the courtyard. Rather, it spoke of a man who did not know who to trust any longer.
"Very well, Princess," he spoke after a while. "We shall have words."
A lone window lit the library of Storm's End, where rows of books extended above them by a dozen feet. The pounding of the waves was muffled, but no less noticeable in the space. Every now and again, she heard the window rattle, and a candlestick on the nearby desk would shift slightly.
Her guards had been left in an antechamber, weaponless, but dry. They'd all accepted mouthfuls of salted bread upon entry, not that any believed guest rite would be observed. Obara had refused to relinquish her spear.
"If you mean us no harm, then it is merely a walking stick," she had told the captain of the guard. "Arm your maester if the castellan fears for his life so."
In the end, they had allowed her to keep the weapon, which she held tightly as she examined the bookshelves that surrounded them. Her cousin grabbed a leather bound tome and flipped through the pages before returning it to the shelf. "This place is wasted on Baratheons."
"We are not here for their intelligence. Just their ability to kill things," Arianne replied, staring out the window at the sea below. With her water-logged cloak gone, she had been left in light riding leathers and orange silks, a fine outfit for home, but she could feel a chill settling upon her skin. One of many reminders that this was no longer Dorne.
"Seems to me they have only been good at killing each other."
The doors to the library eventually opened again, and Ser Gilbert and the maester returned. He made no mention of their presence, simply seating himself behind the desk with a groan before turning to gesture to the seat across from him. Arianne moved to the chair with a sigh, Obara taking up a position to her right, a far deadlier and more intimidating companion than the maester.
"Princess," the maester started, his voice sounding as small as she expected, "allow me to offer condolences for your loss."
"I thank you, Maester-?"
"Jurne."
"Maester Jurne. It warms my heart to find there is still sympathy in this cruel world," Arianne replied, flashing the man a brilliant smile. He flushed and looked away. "A cruelty often brought about by the Lannisters, I have found."
Ser Gilbert was not moved by her display, staring her down with hard gray eyes. "Some would venture to call it a foreseeable consequence for lying with the lions."
Arianne's eyes narrowed. "And some might call the Blackwater a foreseeable consequence of kinslaying."
His face was red in an instant. Men were so easy to fluster. They were quick to call the Dornish hot-blooded, yet they could not stomach a handful of words that touched too closely upon their pride. It never failed to amuse her.
"The traitor Renly was killed by a member of his guard."
"Yes, so very conveniently on the eve of battle. Truly, an act of the gods," Arianne replied, leaning back in the chair. "I am not here to judge, and I am not here to trade barbs. Act civilized and you will receive a civilized conversation."
Others might have had her thrown from the castle for such words against their liege lord, but Ser Gilbert only calmed and took what she had said into consideration. As she had noted at the gates, it reeked of desperation. They were too few and isolated, facing an inevitable siege. Allies were necessary, even those with an unruly tongue. She had the advantage.
"What do you want of us, Princess?"
Arianne smirked, crossing her legs and stretching her arms along the chair, her nails tapping lightly on the polished wood. "How many households still call themselves loyal to your king?"
Ser Gilbert shifted, looking to Maester Jurne before answering. "Fewer than there should be, more than I expected. Loyalty is hard to come by in the Stormlands. First they would serve the younger brother, then Stannis when he was defeated, but most ran back to the Lannisters after the Blackwater. Cowards, all of them, to serve four kings in as many years."
"Five, since Joffrey died."
The man snorted. "Tywin is king."
She nodded once. "So he is."
He'd secretly ruled since the Mad King had haunted the realm, and what wanton destruction had come of it. How much more must they suffer under his iron fist? Who else should she lose before they were rid of him?
Arianne had come to understand her father's need for diplomacy, to play the game in the long, delicate manner it called for, but as of late, all she could do was wonder who might now be alive if they had acted sooner? Could her father's certainty of their loss have led to his untimely death? She hated the doubts that plagued her. Prince Doran deserved better from his daughter in death.
"I would ask you to take a risk," Arianne started, her voice soft. She wanted to sound uncertain, to lead the knight into the conversation. Tell a man to do something and he would be compelled to say no. Lead him to believe it is at least partly his plan, and he will charge straight into the seven hells. "The Tyrells had planned to lay siege upon Storm's End, as I'm sure the fleet outside your door has told you. Now, they will flee to the Reach. Highgarden is vulnerable. They are bound to make mistakes in their hurry."
"You'd have us attack them?" Ser Gilbert asked, red tinging his skin again.
"I do not expect you to meet them in an open field. Your losses have been too great, but I would ask you to slow them. And if possible, capture someone of import."
"Mace Tyrell will not be an easy target. He will not be on the field of battle."
"It is Garlan I refer to. Lord Tywin is smart, I will give him that. He will recognize that sending Mace Tyrell anywhere near this will only result in disaster. I pray this is not the case, but my prayers go unanswered as of late."
The Lord of Highgarden would ensure war truly broke out across the realm once more. No, Tywin would leave the task to his sons, both smarter and more patient than their father. That would not be enough. If his son were captured, no force would stop the old fool from leading his armies haphazardly into battle. Only then might they stand a chance to crush him.
Ser Gilbert was silent for a while, contemplative. She knew a battle would be a far more appealing option than risk of starvation in a siege, but his loyalty would be difficult to crack.
She gently tapped her finger on the armrest. One. Two. Three.
"Stannis Baratheon has abandoned you," Obara spoke on cue. "Why bother wondering what he would have you do?"
Arianne stood, gently putting her arms up to stop whatever argument would follow. Ser Gilbert had leapt up from his seat, his chair clattering to the ground, red-faced and huffing, but he made no move to strike. Perhaps it was a truth he had shared as well, and it was shame she faced, not anger.
"My apologies for my cousin. She is headstrong and has no use for diplomacy. I am certain your king will come for you."
"When King Stannis has secured allies, he will raze his enemies and free his ancestral home. Until then, I will hold the castle."
It sounded like a mantra, words spoken to himself every night to convince the scared little boy within that he had not been left behind. But his agreeing to an audience spoke of his doubts. That he did not toss them from the walls still spoke of his need. Ser Gilbert was a desperate man and he was beginning to crumble under the weight of everything.
"But he is in the North," Arianne continued. "Fighting wildlings, I heard. Making offers to Northern lords who spurn him."
She sat once more, leaning over the desk, placing a hand gently within reach of the knight's. "I can send you food, a fleet to waylay the Redwynes, men to bolster your numbers. I do not ask that you forsake Stannis, only to fight the enemy you share with him. Do not take the knee, simply raise your sword."
When Ser Gilbert did not reply, Arianne took it as a sign that she had done enough. There was only one more trick to play.
"I also have an ally across the Narrow Sea," she said quietly, delicately, as if the words might destroy the very foundation of the castle. The knight blinked, eyes widening. "You know of who I speak. She will remember your kindness when you need it most."
When they left Storm's End, Arianne felt a lightness in her chest, a burden lifted. She could breathe once more.
She leaned over to the captain as they began to ride out. "Have supplies from our ships sent to the keep. I want you to make certain Ser Gilbert knows they are a gift. They come with no obligation."
Arianne turned to look at the castle one last time, watching as the wind ripped the standard from its post, the fabric disappearing into the gray beyond, and she smiled.
Sansa
To bear the name Stark was to carry a burden. Before the war, it had meant honor and loyalty, and a grim countenance colder than winter. It was the name of noble lords, and high kings before them, the First Men who built and destroyed and shaped the realm. Their name had carried through the centuries, echoing a constant reminder of the greatness she had come from.
In the face of betrayal, her name had fallen rapidly. It meant cowardice and treason, a death sentence to any who dared utter association with it. To be a Stark had become such a damning quality that Sansa forgot what it meant to be proud of one's house.
But in the Eyrie, that had changed. Those who knew better than to trust the Lannisters remembered well the deeds of her household, the strength of her father, the compassion of her mother. To be Sansa Stark truly meant something again, and no amount of scheming could strip that from her.
That was the one mistake Littlefinger had made. There was no amount of planning, backstabbing, or murder that could wash him of his lowborn status. His belief that he was otherwise had blinded him to the remarkably obvious truth: if she had nothing, she still had her name; if he had nothing, he was nothing.
The thought cheered Sansa and coaxed a smile from her face as she stood outside the cell door. The winds howled fiercely, blasting the dungeons with a bitter cold. All the lords of the Vale had proclaimed the mountains mourned and demanded justice for their lady. She thought it sounded of Robert Baratheon's laughter.
Peering through the small, slatted opening in the door, Sansa called out. "Petyr? Are you there?"
She heard nothing and saw even less, only the open sky beyond. It had been a week since the guards had tossed Littlefinger inside, silent while he had screamed and protested and clawed uselessly at their armor. His calm demeanor had vanished the moment he'd been seized, like a cornered rat fighting for its life. There were no more plans, no more arguments, just desperation.
As it turned out, being a Stark and the niece of Lysa Arryn made her story of stumbling across her dead aunt on her way to tea rather believable. The lowborn husband who stood to gain much from his wife and had been disliked by every lord and lady of the Vale, however, had no excuse. His words weren't heard. He was guilty by virtue of existing. And whatever sway he'd had in the capital had long since vanished. With the Lannisters occupied by Dorne, they had no time for upstart lords who had grown too greedy for their station. Sansa had a suspicion that Tywin Lannister would actually welcome the news.
"Come now, Petyr, you can't be dead already. That would be terribly disappointing."
She placed her hand upon the door, leaning closer. Wild eyes suddenly filled her vision, and Sansa briefly believed she had the wrong cell. But that was not the case. He was the only prisoner. Petyr Baelish simply no longer looked like himself.
"There you are," she said with a grin. Her voice held the same tone she used for little Robert when they played their games.
"Let me out!" he hissed, voice hoarse from the cold, or perhaps the yelling. She heard him at night sometimes, begging for freedom, cursing her name. Sleep came all the easier for it.
"Now, Petyr, you know I can't do that. Given your crimes, this cell is more than reasonable."
"You bitch!" His hands grasped the metal bars, shaking the door.
"That was hardly decorous of you," she replied. "Come now, compose yourself or I'll leave you to Mord's care again."
She was honestly surprised the gaoler hadn't already pushed him from the cell. The man had taken great offense to Lysa's death.
To Littlefinger's credit, he did appear to calm. His eyes darkened, his breathing softened, and he stepped away from the door. He was still wearing his fine clothes from that day, though they'd been torn and stained. She suspected many of his meals went uneaten, as Mord would not give him the chance.
"I admit, I underestimated you," he said with a sigh, combing his fingers through his wild hair in a poor attempt to restore order. "I always knew you wanted me dead. I never expected you to become a kinslayer to do so."
Sansa let the statement hang in the air, refusing to acknowledge it. Acknowledgement gave words power, and she would not let him have another scrap of it.
His shoulders slumped. "What do you want?"
"Answers. What were you planning on doing next?"
"I told you. The goal was Winterfell."
"And how did you plan to go to Winterfell? Surely not with the Vale's army at your back," Sansa replied, watching him closely. "The Boltons are allied to the Lannisters, and you've conveniently made an enemy of them."
Littlefinger looked wary for a moment. "I thought to bring them an offering. A way of firmly establishing Ramsay's claim."
Her blood ran cold, then boiling hot. There was only one way to ensure Winterfell was truly Ramsay's, and that was with a Stark. She knew better than to expect he would use her - he desired her too much - which left only one other.
Of course he never spoke of Arya. She was already a piece he'd put in its final resting place.
"You meant to sell my sister."
"She would have been home!" he shouted, remnants of his accent returning. "A Stark back in Winterfell. The Crown had already agreed to it. She would have been safe."
"Your idea of safety has often been fatal for Starks."
"If you would have just trusted me, I-"
"This isn't about trust. You said so yourself, or have you forgotten so quickly?"
"Sansa, please."
"No."
She was his last chance, the only one who could speak up and potentially spare Littlefinger from his gruesome fate, but being confronted by her refusal broke something in the man. He curled in on himself, hands clutching at his tangled hair and ruining what little effort he'd put in. An awful sob escaped his throat. Sansa thought of her father on that fateful day, silent and accepting, strong even when at his weakest moment. It angered her more that it was this pathetic creature that contributed to his death.
Sansa watched as Littlefinger wept in the corner of his cell, taking it all in before unbarring the door. A few coins to Mord had left her with unrestricted access to his prisoner; a handful more and he would tell the guards to come check the empty cell in the morning.
There managed to be a spark of hope in Littlefinger's eyes when she stepped inside the cell. She could not help but smile at how quickly it faded when he realized she was not alone.
Other than desperately needing a bath and a shave, Sandor Clegane was no different than he had been in King's Landing. He was just as large, just as pigheaded, completely unaffected by the weeks he'd spent in the sky cells. But the mask of indifference had cracked for a moment when she'd entered his cell and offered his freedom. She even risked calling it awe.
The others had been leery of releasing him, but upon hearing he had rescued both Arya and herself, their honor had compelled them to give the Hound a chance. He hadn't said if he would remain yet, but he hadn't left either. Sansa imagined he had nowhere else to go, especially with his brother gone, so he lingered until that changed.
Sansa nodded once and her hulking companion stepped forward, grabbing Littlefinger by the shoulder as he tried to scramble out of the way. He even squeaked like a rat.
"What are you doing?!" he screeched, flailing uselessly in Sandor's grip. "No, please, I'll do anything."
"You've done enough, Petyr."
"Clegane, is that what you want?! To follow orders again?!"
Sandor snorted. "Orders? I'm doing this for the fucking pleasure. Never met a man who needed killing as much as you."
He dragged Littlefinger toward the opening, unaffected by his writhing. The man punched and kicked, and he may as well have been a fly to him. Sandor easily lifted him into the air, holding him in the way Robb had once held Rickon, their wild brother wriggling in his grasp and laughing all the while.
"Please, I'll do anything! I'll give you anything!" Littlefinger cried as his feet struggled to find purchase on the stone floor.
"Then give me Myrcella," Sansa spoke, her eyes narrowing. "Give me Prince Doran. Give me Eddard Stark."
Littlefinger fell still, his eyes widening. It was in that moment she could see the reality of the situation truly dawn upon him. Words were pointless now. He was experiencing the last moments of his life.
"Cat-"
Sandor tossed Petyr Baelish into the open air, and for a moment, it appeared that he did not move. He was frozen in time, bound to haunt her for as long as he possibly could. But soon the fall began, and his form grew smaller with every passing moment, his eyes wide with fear and shock, his mouth open, lingering on that last word. Sansa watched the entire journey, focused on his body until it was a mere speck in the distance. There was no telling when he hit the ground. There was only the wind and the cold.
"He'd have jumped in a day or two," Sandor said, sounding strangely curious. "Why toss him?"
"I didn't want him to disappear without me seeing," she replied quietly, watching the ground below as if she stood a chance of finding him. "I'd always wonder if he'd been freed somehow."
Sandor snorted. "He's made you paranoid, wolf."
When the household at last departed for the Eyrie, Sansa went in search of him. She combed the rocks for any evidence that a man had landed, but the knights had warned her this would not be the case. Falls from such a height rent bodies asunder, yet still she searched.
There was a piece of blue fabric blowing in the wind that reminded her of his tunic, a tuft of hair lodged upon a boulder, a small smattering of blood. She spied nothing else. Littlefinger was gone in every way conceivable.
Sansa took a breath and closed her eyes. For the first time since this nightmare began, she was truly free. Strangely, it brought her no joy. In the absence of fear came overwhelming emptiness. It was a void that would take years to fill, if it ever did.
Harrold waited beside her mount, sitting astride a great warhorse and dressed in mourning attire, looking every bit the resplendent lord. He was oddly serious despite everything. With one heartbeat separating him and the throne, Sansa thought he might appear more excited. Perhaps he was starting to learn.
"Find what you were looking for?" he asked as she mounted.
Sansa took one last look at the spot and nodded. "I believe so."
"Good," he replied, turning his horse about. "Now we can get out of this bloody cold."
She smirked at that. Of course she had given him too much credit.
A pair of guards followed behind, but they were otherwise alone. The other had gone ahead to the Gates of the Moon, where the remainder of their supplies would be offloaded, and the maester would prepare Lysa's body for burial. She would lie beside Jon Arryn, entombed in the mountains, the truth of her death buried with her.
"I've been named regent as Robert is too young to rule," Harrold stated after a while.
"Was that Lady Waynwood's idea?"
"It was."
Sansa nodded. It made sense. Even if Robert somehow lived to adulthood, there would be a power struggle. Lady Waynwood would want Harrold to prove himself capable, while the selfish heir constantly showed why he was unfit to rule. He would also have control over who saw the young Arryn, keeping those who would seek the boy's favor at bay. The vultures were always quick to converge on an opportunity.
"I hope they plan to knight you then," Sansa said. "Would be terribly awkward for the Lord of the Vale to be polishing another man's armor."
Harrold gave her a withering glance, but his anger quickly melted into a grin. "I believe they do."
"Good."
"Do you plan on leaving?"
Sansa sighed, thinking of the strange new world that awaited her. "I don't believe I have anywhere to go."
"Your sister is at Casterly Rock, is she not?"
"I have no interest in stepping foot in that place," Sansa replied, a bit too quickly for her comfort. "I do not share my sister's views on the Lannisters. If I may, I would like to remain here. Littlefinger left many secrets behind, and I would like to discover as many of them as possible, preferably before they do more damage."
"I agree. The more we know, the better off we will all be, but I would like you to remain for another reason as well."
Sansa shook her head. "I still won't marry you."
Harrold snorted. "Try not to think so highly of yourself."
"You make it so very difficult to do otherwise."
"Damn woman, I ought to throw you out of the Vale after all," Harrold replied, half-heartedly and with a grin. The cold winds had left him flushed. "I would ask for your help - please don't gloat yet. I am about to be surrounded by lords and ladies who are either trying to gain my favor or stab me in the back for the sake of my cousin, or some dreadful combination of the two. I would prefer to have one person whose opinion I can trust."
"Trust? After everything I said to you?"
"Try not to act so surprised. You are the first person who has been honest with me in years. There is value in that," Harrold replied with a casual shrug. He leaned back in the saddle, gesturing to the guards behind them to move forward. "You have no interest in my position, nothing to gain, and as you've lovingly put, you do not seek my hand in marriage. I can't think of a better person to put my confidence in."
When the guards had passed, Harrold brought his horse to a stop. He waited a moment before turning the creature around, spurring forward to sit close to her, their knees just brushing.
"I'll ask you this once, and we will never speak of it again," he said quietly. "Did you kill Lysa Arryn to get to Littlefinger?"
Sansa watched him carefully. "Do you think I killed her?"
"I think that getting rid of her was the easiest way to rid the Vale of Littlefinger."
"Then it appears Petyr Baelish did the Vale a favor," Sansa replied, almost smiling. "The truth of the matter is this: Lysa loved Petyr more than he would ever love her. He was in love with my mother, and that love got both of them killed."
Harrold watched her for a long time after that, measuring, searching, but eventually he nodded, satisfied with what he saw.
Turning his horse back around, she watched him grin once again. "Perhaps you ought to reconsider marrying me then. Our hatred may prove to be a great success."
"Yes, because that turned out well for Robert Baratheon."
Harrold nodded once. "Fair point, but I imagine you'd kill me in a better way."
Sansa laughed at that, her voice echoing across the mountains as they rejoined the guards.
Gendry
He squinted at the written words, struggling to make sense of them. While moving to the Gates of the Moon, Maester Coleman managed to collect all the books Arya had pilfered from him, and they'd been forced to go without since. Arya was still figuring out the layout of the castle in order to retrieve their stolen goods, but in the meanwhile, she had written several stories told to her by an Old Nan, whatever that was.
Problem was, her writing was shit. She really was terrible at every aspect of being a lady.
"The Night's King ruled with his corpse…queen? - Arya, I know I'm new to my letters, but that's not a Q - over the Night's Watch for thirteen years." He sounded out the words slowly, the syllables still feeling like cotton on his tongue, even though he spoke them commonly enough when not reading. "Until Brandon the Breaker joined Joramun, the King Beyond the Wall, to end his reign."
Gendry paused, waiting for Arya to tell him all the things that he'd said wrong. She was a harsh teacher, eager to jump on his mistakes, but she had kept true to her word: she never hit him. Oh, but how tempted she had been. He'd often liked to push his luck, see if he couldn't get her to break, but Arya held fast.
When the reprimand did not come, Gendry grinned. "I can see why you're so strange now. If I'd grown up on these tales, I'd be a little off too."
The silence continued and Gendry sighed, turning away. Arya had curled up on a bench by the window, watching the world outside. They often studied in her room now. The chaos of everything made the pair nearly invisible. As long as they weren't underfoot, the castle did not much care what they did.
Arya had been quieter since that day. Gendry was surprised how well he'd gotten over the whole affair, but given everything they'd done just to survive, he supposed carrying a body was the least offensive of his sins. At least he hadn't killed this one.
Grimacing, Gendry stood and went to sit beside her, wondering what he could possibly say to help. Feelings weren't something he was well acquainted with. Emotions might get you killed, so you learned to hide them quickly. Only little children cried, only soft women mourned. Survivors carried on, and that was what he had done.
It had become easier over time, the more he got to know others, to know Arya. He could trust her with just about anything, and she knew well enough when a situation called for a tease or seriousness. But he wasn't so skilled, and struggled with what to say.
"Arya," he started, tongue grasping for words his mind could not find. "You know that it's not your-"
"I can hear her sometimes," she interrupted, not turning from the window.
"Who? Lysa?"
Arya blinked, looking at him in confusion. "No, Nymeria. She's out there somewhere. Why would I hear Lysa?"
Gendry opened his mouth and closed it, thinking, making strange gestures with his hands as if he could pull his response out of thin air. "Because something horrible happened?"
"I don't care about that," Arya replied, turning back. "I saved Sansa's life. Any god who wants to punish me for that isn't one worth worshipping."
It was an absurd response, not caring about the fact that she had killed her aunt. Anyone else might have fallen apart, turned to drink or to the gods, begging for mercy for the heinous crime they'd committed. But not Arya. He supposed once Lysa had threatened Sansa, she stopped being kin. She did what she had to do, and that was all that mattered. It was how they had survived, wasn't it?
Still, Gendry snorted and then broke down into laughter.
"What?" Arya asked, confusion doubling. "Why are you laughing?"
"Because you're mad, Arya," Gendry huffed out between giggles. "Stark-raving mad."
He laughed even harder at the pun he'd made, and found he couldn't stop, even when Arya began to smack him. When every hit made him laugh more, she shoved him from the bench and he bounced off the stone floor with a quiet 'ow.'
His laughter eventually subsided, and he stared at the carved stone overhead, the arches giving way to a blue painted ceiling, reminiscent of the sky in the Eyrie. Arya had gone back to looking out the window, and he allowed himself to wallow in regret for half a moment.
He could feel it now, inevitability. For every person who left, for every place he ran from, a pressure would come to sit beneath his ribs. Things were about to change. Once he'd been used to the sensation. Now it was a pain he could not be rid of.
"You want to leave, don't you?" he asked, keeping his eyes locked on the ceiling. Gendry found he did not want to look at her now. "You want to go after that man from Harrenhal, the one who gave you the coin. That's why you can't stop looking outside."
Arya was quiet for a moment. "I'm not like you, Gendry. I can't just be safe. Safe means being locked up in a castle and tied up in dresses, pretending to care about what some stuffy lord says because that's what ladies do. That's not me. That's never going to be me."
With a huff, Arya jumped from the bench, looking down at him with a fire in her eyes. "And I know what you're going to say. Arya, we almost died. Arya, we almost starved. Arya, why do you want to go around killing people? And I don't, not really, not unless I have to. I just want to be able to walk outside the gates without someone stopping me. I want to wear a sword without someone trying to take it from me. I want to be me! And if I have to be out there and in danger to do it, then I'll do it. So don't say it!"
Gendry chuckled softly. "S'pose both of us don't know each other as well as we thought."
He stood slowly, watching Arya shrink before him. Not as much as she used to though. She'd grown taller, and he hadn't noticed till now. Her hair was long again, neatly brushed out with a braid to hold it back. He wondered if she would cut it again. Her sister could probably do a better job of it than Yoren.
The fire had been snuffed out of her gaze, leaving Arya in a rare state of vulnerability. She was actually worried about him disagreeing with her, as if his opinion truly mattered. It both pleased and disappointed him. Used to be she wouldn't give a thought about him when it came to something she wanted.
Gendry reached into his pocket, grabbing a small coin purse and tossing it to her. "It's not much, but it's more than what you have. I know how often you were caught by the guards. You lined the entire Eyrie's pockets."
He watched Arya clutch the small bag between her fingers. Her hand was shaking.
"Safety shouldn't make anyone miserable. It should be…" Gendry paused, thinking, wondering if he knew the answer himself. Safety was freely given smiles and sleeping without worry. It was knowing there was someone you could rely on no matter what life decided to throw your way. It was knowing you belonged to something. "Home."
Arya sniffed once, then jumped up and wrapped him in a hug. She might have grown, but he could still easily hold her off the ground, hardly noticing the weight in his arms. He thought to make a joke about it, that she was only hugging him because she didn't want him to see her crying, but the words died on his tongue. After all, he was crying too.
Smithing had saved him in King's Landing. Growing up in Flea Bottom with no family and no skills was certain death for most kids, but he'd been bigger than all the others, stronger, even when he was starving. That was how the man who brought him to Tobho Mott found him. He supposed that was one quality he owed to his father.
Forging a piece of metal was the first semblance of control Gendry ever had in his life. Getting food had always been left to chance, running from the gold cloaks was a matter of luck, but smithing? Everything was his to command. The shape of the metal was his to manipulate, the heat of the forge was his to dictate. Was he good because he had talent or because he refused to let go of the one part of his life he was in charge of?
The smith at the Gates of the Moon hadn't been impressed with him. He didn't like his look or his parentage, claimed that a bastard wasn't allowed to replace him. But he'd been forced to allow him access, and begrudgingly admitted that his swords were of tolerable quality and the helms would do fine. Tobho Mott had paid higher compliments.
The man would probably stab him if he caught him now, beating a sword into a half-formed monstrosity. He wasn't thinking about the form or the quality now. He needed something to hit, hard and often, and at least the forge let him hide the evidence once he heated the steel and melted it again.
Sparks rose from every hammer strike to the old sword, briefly lighting hidden corners of the forge before blinking out of existence. It reminded him of the fire that night, when the gold cloaks had come for him and Yoren had been killed. It reminded him of the fires they'd lit to scare the rats into clawing at the skin of prisoners, of nights on the run with Jory or the Hound, when Arya would watch the flames and whisper names into the darkness.
Gendry shouted with his final hit, sending the sword flying from the anvil into the dirt below. He watched as the red of the heated metal began to dull, caught the faint scent of smoke as something burned beneath. It was an ugly thing now, with notches and awkward angles, dull as could be and utterly ruined.
"I can see why the smith hates you."
He turned to find Sansa Stark watching him, a smirk playing on her lips. She was dressed in black like the rest of the household, yet somehow she appeared brighter than the colors should allow. He hadn't seen much of her during their time in the Eyrie, but he could tell that Littlefinger's death had changed a lot about her. He guessed Lysa's hadn't hurt either.
"Can I help you, m'lady?" he asked, quickly shoving down whatever he'd just been feeling. She wasn't there to deal with a bastard and his problems. Hopefully she didn't need another body carried.
"I was wondering why you weren't there to say goodbye to Arya," Sansa asked, drifting toward the forge as he went to pick up the battered sword. "She's too proud to say it, but she missed you."
"I was busy, m'lady," was his quick reply. He didn't want the truth to escape by accident. He didn't need it acknowledged. The fact was, Gendry was tired of people leaving, and if he didn't watch Arya walk away, he could pretend it was something else. Maybe he'd left like he promised before Riverrun. Maybe she'd died with Yoren. Maybe she was never there to begin with.
It wasn't working, but he kept telling himself it would one day.
"Busy ruining swords?" Sansa asked, unconvinced. He did not bother replying. "Gendry, what do you plan on doing now?"
He shrugged. "Work here as long as I can. Get work elsewhere if I can't."
"Is that really all?"
Gendry met Sansa's gaze. She wasn't mocking him, not from what he could tell, but he also knew she was a far better liar than her sister. "Sorry, m'lady, but what more is there? I'm a bastard with nowhere to go. Having a way to feed myself is the best I can hope for."
Sansa nodded quietly, taking a moment to walk around the forge. "Did you really meet my father?"
"I did," Gendry replied, tossing the sword into a barrel with the other castoffs. Maybe no one would notice for a while. "Lord Stark wanted to know about my mother, and the other Hand."
"Jon Arryn," Sansa said, her voice soft, as if she wanted no one to hear. "He was Lysa's husband."
He almost laughed. The world was a strange place.
"Lord Stark told Tobho that if I lost interest in the forge, I should be brought to him. Would he have taken care of me?"
Sansa's careful neutral expression disappeared, and an overwhelming sadness took hold of her. She was a girl who had lost her father again, not a lady who'd just deposed her enemy. He was reminded then that she was younger than him.
The vision disappeared in an instant, and she forced a smile. "There are few men whose word you can trust, and my father was the best of them. You would have been safe with him, Gendry."
He could not help but smile at that. Lord Stark had been kind enough for the brief time he'd met him. He could have been cruel, and that would have been his right as a lord and Hand of the King, but he'd treated him respectfully and forgave his lack of courtesy. Had things not gone the way they had at the capital, had Tobho Mott pushed him away, he might have made his way into Lord Stark's service.
He might have met Arya anyway.
"Why did you let her go?"
He hadn't meant to ask, but found himself eagerly watching Sansa for her reply regardless.
"Arya doesn't belong here, no more than I belong in Casterly Rock. She has to find her own way, as much as I may dislike it," Sansa replied, her gaze at her feet. It hadn't been an easy decision, and she sounded ready to take it back at any moment. "You can still catch her, you know."
Gendry flinched when Sansa looked back up at him, her piercing gaze unveiling all his secrets.
"That isn't…I couldn't…it's not for me, m'lady."
"Then what is, Gendry?"
Living, he thought. Making it to another day with a dry place to sleep and food in his belly. Making it through the night without worrying about where his sword was or who might be there when he woke up. Nevermind that he was alone, or that the one person who truly cared was gone.
Nevermind that blacksmiths were just as needed in Braavos as they were in Westeros.
Sansa smirked then, and in that moment, Gendry could see the resemblance between sisters.
She produced a large coin purse and shoved it into his hand. It felt heavier than the one they'd been given in Riverrun. There was a silver pin on it in the shape of a bird.
"Go home."
Sansa gifted him a thick fur cloak and clothes warm enough for the journey, as well as a destrier with a fine temperament and a finer coat of black. He left through the gates to no fanfare, only a curious glance from one of the guards. The Vale opened up before him, mountains climbing toward the sky and winds pitching his cloak to and fro.
The winding road reached out in three directions from where he stood. There were no signs to where the roads traveled, no hints at which direction lay the sea, but Gendry did not need to worry.
Nymeria approached slowly as he dismounted. She'd grown since he'd last seen her, of course. She stood at his shoulder now, but he no longer found her intimidating. He merely smiled, listening as she whined when he scratched behind her ear.
"Alright then, take me to her."
Oberyn
He did not enjoy politics. Certainly, on occasion, he would get the urge to play their little game, throw his princely influence into the mix and watch how the pawns began to scramble, but the intriguing aspects of it all were few and far between, and they often faded as quickly as they appeared. Then his interest would wane and he'd sneak off to some other endeavor, leaving the repercussions of his involvement for Doran to deal with.
He did not have the tolerance for the mundanity of everyday ruling, and often wondered how others did. That sort of tedium was what truly killed Robert Baratheon in the end, and Oberyn could not say he would fare any better.
But Meereen would need to be different. There would be no abandoning his duty, no deferring to a brother whose commands were weeks away at best. He represented their house and their future, and he would follow through to the very end, even as his insides began to squirm and his bones shook from the desire to simply leave. Let the realms know that Oberyn Martell would keep his oaths, a feat so very few were capable of anymore.
Daenerys smirked at him from across the table, violet eyes full of knowing and a worrying amount of mischief. She'd had him pegged in an instant, but had been gracious enough not to utilize that knowledge. He feared that grace period was rapidly coming to an end.
"Perhaps Prince Oberyn could provide new insight into our situation," Daenerys said, shattering the calm that had briefly fallen over the meeting. Like all the others, it was Reznak and Skahaz arguing opposing opinions to the point of bloodshed while Barristan attempted to shepherd them. The two advisors had shut up long enough for the queen to enact her cruelty. "I hear you're well-travelled. Certainly you've a fountain of knowledge to aid us."
His lips pursed and he swallowed thickly, watching as half a dozen sets of eyes turned his way. Admittedly, his mind had wandered. He thought they were speaking of what Meereen might have to offer for trade with slavery gone and the olive trees burned, as a means for securing allies for their war, but he could not say if the conversation had drifted from there. Yes, he would do his duty, but he would not claim to be able to do it well. Doran would be laughing at him somewhere.
"Forgive me, Your Grace, but I have not been to many areas like Meereen. It is a harsh land. It yields little, which is why they turned to slavery. This is the practice of the desperate, those who have nothing else to offer. If you wish to change Meereen's prospects, it will take years."
"Which is time we do not have, Your Grace," Barristan said quietly. "Whether they attack our walls or starve us out, Yunkai, Qarth, and New Ghis will have their way. It is why we must meet them in the field."
"May we not treat with them?" Oberyn asked, watching the crude map that had been set before the council. He did not expect the cities to agree to meet, but there were sellsword companies amongst the slave armies. Men of their nature were always prone to change sides if enough money was offered. Only the Golden Company could claim to have no such vice. They were fortunate that the sellswords had taken up Myr's longstanding dispute with Lys and Tyrosh, and could pose no threat. "Surely Meereen's coffers have not been emptied yet."
Daario shifted across from him. "That may be my doing."
"Oh?"
Daenerys sighed. "I treated with the Second Sons outside of Yunkai. They refused my offer. Well, two of them did."
"I brought the queen their heads," Daario finished with an arrogant smirk. Yes, he could see why sellsword captains with eager lieutenants may not wish to speak with them.
Oberyn grinned at Daario. "You always were motivated by pretty…politics."
He knew the words were a mistake, but was unable to stop them from toppling out. Daario immediately frowned, Barristan reached for the hilt of his sword with little subtlety, and the Unsullied who referred to himself as Grey Worm leveled a glare upon him that would have cowed most men. But their reactions mattered little to him.
Daenerys appeared unbothered, her violet eyes cool and disinterested. It was encouraging to see someone so young taking a little more colorful language in stride. Joffrey Baratheon might have lived if he exercised such tolerance. Fortunately, he had been incapable.
"And what motivates you, Prince Oberyn?" Daenerys asked, one brow curiously raised. "Something more tangible?"
"Whatever suits him at the time," Daario answered. "He may not even know himself until he's done it."
"I am happy to see you still hold me in such high esteem," Oberyn replied with a grin.
"And I'm disappointed you've yet to surpass it."
Skahaz spit. "If the Western dogs are done barking, there's a war to tend to."
Oberyn almost chuckled at the offense on Daario's face - only a Meereenese could call the Tyroshi Western - but he held back. The conversation would never regain momentum otherwise, and unlike what his brother preached, he knew when to stop.
He eyed everyone gathered at the table, taking measure of their worth, what they could contribute. Ser Barristan was the highest value as a knight of great renown and experience, but he knew nothing of Essos. His Westerosi upbringing would mean little here. Daario could fill the experience gap left by him, but his sellsword counterpart was brash, impulsive, and clearly quick to betray. Perhaps Daenerys had a hold on him now, but life was full of tempting alternatives. Grey Worm was a good soldier, but the Unsullied were slow to learn new methods, as the Sons of the Harpy had been proving against them. Skahaz and Reznak should have been indispensable as advisors to Meereen, but Skahaz had a temper that threatened as much as it helped, and Reznak was a little too concerned with the nobility for his comfort.
That left Missandei, who stood at her queen's side but offered little save for a translation or a scathing glance. She was the one he had yet to figure out. Quiet people always caused him the most difficulties, but he had a growing suspicion that she would prove to be more valuable than every man at the table, himself included.
He watched Daenerys take in the map, her violet eyes drawing a pattern. "If I send out the Unsullied, would their armies meet us in battle?"
Barristan shrugged. "It is either that or retreat. Their numbers are greater, but I have confidence our training gives us better odds. One Unsullied soldier is worth at least ten of theirs."
"And what is one trebuchet worth?" the queen asked, not sharing the confidence of her advisor. She turned to Grey Worm. "New Ghis has Unsullied of its own. You may be fighting your kin."
The commander looked unmoved. "Unsullied are not trained to think this way. A spear is a spear. It does not have a face."
"Unsullied have been killing other Unsullied for centuries," Daario added, which only made the queen frown more.
"If we send out our forces, there is no guarantee there will be a battle. At least, not the kind you wish for, Ser Barristan," Oberyn said. "Men may have their pride, but sellswords are paid for results, not honorable deaths. Should the Unsullied leave these walls, they may be led away, the lines kept just out of reach while these trebuchets do their work. And I've heard rumors of plague. No amount of training will keep an army from being devastated by it.
"Then, of course, there is the issue of the ships at sea. Should the army disappear, Qarth and New Ghis may land troops. Not to mention the Sons of the Harpy may grow bold in the absence of the queen's protectors."
"Her Magnificence will have the support of loyal Meereenese. The Brazen Beasts are ready to do our part!" Skahaz declared, thumping his chest with pride.
Reznak frowned. "As they have done so far. Tell me, how many Sons have they captured? May Her Radiance count her blessings for each one."
"And what are Hizdahr's results? Slobber at his feet much more and you may drown him! Perhaps then we might be free of all our troubles!"
"That is enough!" Daenerys commanded, her voice deep and roaring, echoing across the stones of the Great Pyramid. "I will no longer have insults in this chamber. You will all either contribute to Meereen's victory or you will remain silent. Now leave. I'd much rather look at something else for the time being. The sun perhaps."
Oberyn bit the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning at the thoroughly chastised faces of the council members. One by one they bowed their heads and took their leave, though Daario lingered, perhaps questioning if the order truly applied to him. He had long suspected that the queen and the sellsword were involved in some way, and Daario's persistent hesitations and small rebellions all but confirmed it. Daenerys having a paramour was no issue, but having one that thought themselves above the rule of law because of it was at best a scandal in the making. Wars had been fought for less.
When he began to descend, the queen's voice called out. "Not you, Prince Oberyn. We must speak."
He did his best not to look in Daario's direction, otherwise silence would not be an option for him.
Daenerys had wandered outside, leaning against the stone of the pyramid to look out across Meereen. Missandei remained beside her, arms tucked neatly into her cape, a shadow more than a person, but perhaps that was the point.
Oberyn moved to stand beside her, eyes squinting to keep out the midday sun. The heat was more tolerable than Dorne, yet something about it unsettled him, made him fidget as the hot wind caressed his face.
"Should you speak like that again, I will have you dismissed from my service," Daenerys spoke calmly, her gaze remaining on the city before them. "I will uphold the oath I have pledged to Dorne, but you will not be permitted in my sight. Is that understood?"
"Your Grace is too kind," Oberyn replied with a bow of his head. Now it was his turn to feel a child thoroughly chastised. He might have felt less humbled had she done it before the others. She'd come to understand him a little too well already. "I will not disappoint you again."
"Good. Now tell me, if you do not believe my armies should be sent out to battle, then how do you propose we win?"
Oberyn mulled over the words, watching as a bird with feathers of vibrant blue and green circled a distant pyramid. "There are two reasons Meereen has not been attacked yet. The first is your dragons. They have been waiting for a sign of them. As there have been none, they may have some confidence that they will not hinder their efforts."
He'd yet to see any proof of them himself. There had been dozens of tales told to him about the ancient creatures Daenerys had brought to life, eggs of stone hatched in the funeral pyre of her late husband, Khal Drogo. For once, such fanciful tales had not encouraged his typical mocking ways, but rather left a deep discomfort coiled in the pit of his stomach. He wondered what other strange occurrences were beginning to come true in the world.
Daenerys was good at lying, and at keeping her mask of indifference in place, but he always noticed a subtle twitch whenever her dragons were mentioned. Perhaps now he could coax the answer out of her.
"The second is your Unsullied. New Ghis may have brought their own, but their numbers pale next to yours. They wish to avoid as much bloodshed as possible, so they are waiting for the Sons of the Harpy to finish their work. With any luck, you might be dead in the next few weeks, or at least several important members of the city's defense."
"Do you believe they're in contact with one another?" Daenerys asked, looking up at him. He was stuck once again by her youth. She must have been a child when her brother had her married.
"I believe they are at least aware of the situation. Sometimes it is better to let the enemy destroy itself rather than risk uniting them with an attack."
Daenerys frowned and moved away, sitting in a chair beneath two great palms that sheltered the space from the sun. Missandei moved to stand beside her while Oberyn took the chair across from her, sinking into soft cushions that had been dyed blue. Servants brought them honeyed water and peeled oranges.
Wearing a gown of pure white, Daenerys was difficult to look upon in the sunlight. Her silvery hair had begun to glow, now that it was freed from her crown. She only took to wearing it for formal gatherings, though she wore a silver dragon necklace now. Her slender fingers were picking at it as her eyes darkened in thought.
"I have been told that marrying a Meereenese noble will quell the Sons and bring us the peace we need within the city. Hizdahr zo Loraq has been put forward as the best candidate."
Oberyn snorted, picking apart an orange. "If Hizdahr would bring peace, then he is one of them. The Sons of the Harpy wish for Meereen to be returned to the old ways. Marriage will not solve this for them. As long as you are queen, they will have something to fight against."
"So you suggest I do nothing?"
"Nothing to help them. Capitulation only invites more demands. If you show them that killing enough of your people will give them results, they will continue to do so until they have taken your power, your dragons, and the very clothes on your back." He let the silence linger a moment, watching a muscle in her jaw tense and relax. Missandei stared at him through narrowed eyes. "What you need are people working for you in the city, those who can be relied upon to give you the information you need to defeat the Sons."
"We have the Brazen Beasts."
"They are little more than street guards. They are neither subtle nor intelligent, and anyone caught speaking with them will be marked for death. Your Grace, what you need are spies. In King's Landing, there is a Master of Whispers. Have you heard of Lord Varys?"
Daenerys paused, struck by the name. He could see the hand gripping her glass clench, the knuckles whitening. "I have."
There was a story to be had, but it was not one he cared to address now.
"His spies are everywhere. Children, servants, sometimes even lords," he continued as Daenerys put the glass down a little too roughly. Water spilled from the sides. "What you need is someone you can trust beyond a doubt to collect this information. Do not speak to the others about it. You do not know who can be trusted."
"And does that include you, Prince Oberyn?"
"It does."
Daenerys appeared surprised that he would not exclude himself, but he knew the look of a person who'd been betrayed before. Her trust was hardwon, and harder kept. He did not need to know the secrets of the world; he just needed someone he could trust to make the right decisions.
"If I may offer a suggestion, however," Oberyn started, looking to her right. "Missandei is an excellent candidate."
"Me?" the girl squeaked, the first time he'd heard her voice all morning.
Oberyn grinned. "You speak many languages, and many more dialects on top of that. You know the life of a slave, which means you can be trusted not to think yourself better than those who offer information. You are quiet, subtle, seen, but unseen in every room you enter, and you are wholly dedicated to the queen, unlike the rest of us wretches who want to see our opinions win out over the others more than anything."
Missandei had paled and was looking at Daenerys with frantic eyes. The queen merely smiled at the girl, and gave her hand a quick squeeze.
"I will take your suggestion into consideration."
"That is all I ask," Oberyn replied, standing. He paused on his way back inside, looking over his shoulder at Daenerys. "I apologize, Your Grace, but why aren't the dragons being used?"
Daenerys refused to look at him, taking another sip of her water. "You may leave, Prince Oberyn."
He bowed once, continuing on his way, troubled by the queen's refusal to speak of the subject. Oberyn knew that he could ask around, Barristan would likely tell him the story, but that was another betrayal of her trust. It was a thin line he walked already and he could do without.
Still, the dragons had gotten her this far, and he had no doubt that they would be needed to get them out of this mess.
Brienne
She'd not seen snow before, at least in large amounts. Drifting flakes that melted upon the earth or a morning's frost, yes, but even that experience was relatively recent. Tarth's histories could count four times snow had blanketed the keep, and she'd been alive for none of them.
But the North was steadily proving to her how vastly different the realm was. Once they'd passed Moat Cailin, the weather quickly changed. They'd bedded down in dirt and woke to a world of white, inches of cold fluff blanketing the countryside, smothering everything within reach, to include sound. She'd never realized the world could be so quiet.
Lingering outside the copse of trees that had been their shelter the night before, Brienne watched the trail they'd been following. Once, it had been the Kingsroad, now it was little more than a broken line of trees and grass. Her ears strained for any sounds of life, of birds or beasts or people, but only the silence reigned, itself a deep bellowing abyss. She thought it might drive her mad.
"We should be there by nightfall," a gruff voice said behind her. Brienne turned to see Daven emerging from the camp. In the early days of the journey, he'd been his boisterous, provocative self. Even when they encountered the first true snow, it had done little to dampen his spirits. He'd thrown balls of snow at the men, managing to knock the helm clean off one of them. Once she might have criticized a knight for such behavior, but the men had joined in laughter, and the world had brightened. It was a good thing, she decided then.
Now, his laughter was lost with the rest of the sounds of the North. Mornings that once were filled with quiet conversation and small jokes now were cold and somber. There had been no sign of their quarry for days. The men were tired, gone was the fire that drove their vengeance, snuffed out by the cold of Winter.
"Be where?" Brienne asked.
"The Wall. Thought we might have seen it by now, if it's as big as they say it is."
She hadn't realized they'd gone so far north already. After giving Winterfell a wide berth - the Lannisters were no more keen to stay with the Boltons than she was - Brienne had lost track of their travels. She could count on her hand the number of people they'd seen since then. Part of her expected to find some evidence of Stannis and his men, but they were either far away or gone altogether.
Brienne began to fiddle with the hilt of her sword. She'd borne her hatred of Stannis Baratheon across the realm, but the thought of confronting him now only made her feel weary. Perhaps she'd tired of all the senseless death. She wondered if Renly was capable of forgiving such a betrayal.
"Have someone you need to kill?" Daven asked, a bushy eyebrow raised.
"No more than you, I imagine."
"I don't know about that. There's quite a few bastards I'd like to-" Daven had leaned against the trunk of the soldier pine he stood under, and was promptly cut off by snow dropping from the branches above. He sputtered and cursed and shook himself free of the white stuff, but it clung tightly to his wild beard and refused to be parted.
Brienne smiled softly as she retreated to camp, taking in the quiet laughter of the men who'd witnessed Daven's plight. The tents were neatly packed away onto their supply horses, and the fires were being kicked out. The men had ceased wearing their helms altogether, along with other parts of their armor. In a place so barren, they preferred not to risk freezing their skin on the metal. Northern armor had consisted of more leather than most, and now she saw why.
Podrick Payne lingered on the outskirts of the group, facing away to the trees. Normally, he was tripping over himself to give her or Daven assistance, so his utter stillness put her ill at ease.
"What is it?" she asked quietly, hoping not to scare the boy. He'd been jumpy the last few nights.
For a moment, he did not reply. There was only the soft puffs of his breath.
"Something's out there."
"Are you certain? I feel as though we're the only living things within leagues."
"I am. It's watching us."
Brienne looked around the sparse trees, hoping to catch a glimpse at whatever had spooked Podrick. She hoped the young squire was simply overwhelmed by the foreign land and had only spotted a deer, but the growing tension in the air told her otherwise. The horses were beginning to stamp their hooves, their ears laying flat upon their heads. She could just make out the frenzied voices of the men attempting to calm them. Yet the forest beyond felt quieter somehow, more still than it ought to be.
"Podrick, get back."
The words had barely escaped her lips when the earth came to life. A giant creature burst out of the snow, running Podrick down before crashing into her, knocking the wind from her lungs as it flattened her upon the ground. She could hear the scratching of its claws on her armor, and felt the unbearable weight of it resting upon her chest. Bright fangs of pearl shone in her face, before lifting upwards to confront the rest of the camp.
"What in the seven hells is that?!" she could hear Daven shouting. The sounds of the men scrambling for their gear echoed behind her, but all she could see was the creature. It was the size of a small horse, with silvery gray hair and bright blue eyes.
A direwolf. Gods, it was a direwolf.
"Archers, fire already!" Daven shouted.
"Wait! Wait!" Brienne cried back, holding her hand up as high as she dared. "Brenna?"
The snarling ceased in an instant, and the direwolf looked down at her with an inquisitive gaze, head tilted like a regular pup and not some beast of legend.
"It's Brienne. Do you remember?" she asked. Pulling the glove off her hand with her mouth, she reached out. The direwolf snuffed at the offering, taking in her scent fully before licking her palm.
Immediately, the weight lifted from her chest as Brenna stepped aside, circling her calmly. She eyed the other soldiers, sizing them up before moving over to Podrick. The poor boy squeaked when confronted with the creature, and rolled away, burrowing himself in snow and leaves while the wolf gave chase.
Brienne returned to her feet, aided by Daven as he rushed to her side. The rest of the camp kept an eye on Brenna, swords unsheathed and arrows knocked. She was surprised they'd listened to her at all.
"What is that thing? Why didn't it kill you?" Daven asked, his voice a much higher pitch than it had been moments before.
"That is Lady Myra's direwolf," Brienne clarified, dusting the snow and dirt from her armor. "Although she is much larger than last I saw her."
Podrick had finally stood, his hands up in surrender as Brenna continued to sniff him. Her nose perfectly met his face. The boy had gone white as a sheet.
"A direwolf?!" Daven hissed, watching her with his sword in hand. It was trembling. "I'd heard rumors of Robb Stark's pet beast. Said it was as large as an aurochs. Didn't think it could actually be true."
"Sheath your weapon. She won't hurt us."
"Won't hurt you, maybe. You aren't a Lannister."
"Myra Stark doesn't want you harmed. So long as that is the case, Brenna poses no threat."
Daven looked ready to argue further, but Brienne gave him a pleading glance. The last thing any of them needed was bloodshed so far from safety. She had come to fulfill a promise to Myra, and she would see it done.
With a sigh, the Lannister nodded, putting away his sword. He walked back to the men and began to bark orders, attempting to salvage the chaos that had broken out across the camp. A handful of horses had bolted, and men now ran to chase them down.
Brenna returned to her side as she slid her glove back on, watching her with those bright eyes. It was unsettling.
"Are you alright, Podrick? Nothing hurt?" she asked, eyes never leaving the direwolf.
"Yes, my lady," was his quiet reply.
"That was unkind of you, Brenna," Brienne said, feeling only a little foolish at chastising a beast that was nearly the same size as her. For her part, Brenna simply snorted and trotted back to the trees. She went several feet away from camp before looking behind her and barking. This was repeated twice before the direwolf simply sat and watched them from a distance, waiting.
"Stay here, Podrick," Brienne ordered, following the direwolf into the woods. She only took a few steps before she heard the squire shuffling behind her. "Podrick…"
"As a squire, it is my duty to remain by your side," the boy argued, sounding less like the scared little thing she'd come to know.
"I am not a knight, Podrick."
"You are to me, my lady."
The boy was watching her with that innocent smile he often bore. He wasn't lying; he wasn't capable. She wondered if he could even be cruel.
Touched by his earnest words, Brienne spoke no more on the subject and continued her march into the trees, his footsteps trailing behind her. She worried what pathetic sound might escape if she opened her mouth again.
It took Daven longer than she thought to notice their absence. The Lannister ran after them, sword unsheathed once again, puffing and red beneath his straw-colored beard.
"And what sort of madness has possessed the two of you?" Daven demanded, stepping in front of the pair to block their passage.
"Brenna has something to show us."
Daven shoved the tip of his blade into the frozen earth, looking down at the two with a disappointment that reminded her of home. Although her father hadn't been tall enough to look down upon her.
"So, this direwolf attacked you, and your first thought is to wander off into the wilderness with it? I've seen sheep with better instincts."
"What we chase now is not just the bandit party that attacked your cousin," she started slowly, carefully. It was difficult to be convincing of something you weren't quite sure of yourself. "There is another among them. Someone different. It's not easy to explain, but I believe the direwolf is our best chance to find them. She is the reason we found Jaime in the Riverlands, and why only his hand is lost instead of his life."
Daven did not appear convinced, but there was a curiosity in his emerald eyes.
"I need you to trust me."
It felt an impossible request. How many months had it taken for Jaime to have the barest respect for her? Daven may have treated her better initially than his cousin did, but that did not mean he would-
"I need three brave idiots!" Daven barked at the camp. It took but moments for two archers and another swordsman to emerge from the thicket, Leo, Peter, and Tion. They were the usual volunteers, and knew well when it was their presence that was needed. "The rest of you hold the camp. If we aren't returned by mid-morning, make for Castle Black."
Brienne blinked, watching the scene unfold in shock. Podrick was watching her but, for once, decided not to say anything.
The journey led them out of the trees, into the rolling fields that would eventually give way to the Wall. Brienne thought she might have spotted the ancient structure once, but snow was moving in from the north and obscuring the distance.
The snow deepened steadily so far from the trees and the kingsroad, but Brenna's massive paws cleared a decent path for them to follow, though she felt exposed as they were forced to walk single file.
Eventually, two other equally massive wolves descended upon them. Lady arrived first, sniffing at her sister before bounding over to Podrick. The squire nearly toppled over into the snow again, but had since relaxed in the direwolf's presence. She even spied a smile on his face when he scratched the creature behind the ears.
Grey Wind had followed behind, though he refused to get close to the Lannister party. He circled the group slowly as they moved along. Occasional growls could be heard from the brush.
"That would be Robb Stark's pet beast," Brienne had told Daven. He was as tall as Brenna now, though nowhere near as large. There was a feral quality to his actions she'd never seen before. She was not certain if it had to do with the death of his master, or if he'd simply come to hate the scent of Lannister.
At the crest of a hill, the last remnants of the kingdom opened up to them. It was an unimpressive barren land choked by snow and ice, but at its edge, the horizon came to an abrupt end. Shooting up hundreds of feet into the air, and stretching beyond sight in either direction, was the icy behemoth simply referred to as the Wall. As a child, she'd been told tales of the structure, the masterpiece built by the Northmen to keep wildlings and other dark creatures at bay. She had to wonder what a people must have done to inspire so terrible a border as this one.
A smoking black dot at the bottom was the only sign of Castle Black in the distance, but a much closer camp rested at the bottom of the hill. Brienne frowned as she saw a lone figure moving between a dying fire and a small lean-to of branches hastily built on the ridge. Her hand gripped the hilt once more.
They approached the camp with weapons drawn, though the direwolves did not appear to notice the tension as they trotted into camp. Grey Wind sat beside a man with wild red hair and tattered leathers that had dulled in the sun. He smiled as they approached, warming his hands over the fire, unbothered by the threat of violence they directed at him.
"Took you long enough," he said calmly, reaching over to ruffle the direwolf's fur. "I had hoped you might find us sooner and relieve me of this suffering. A priest of R'hllor is not accustomed to a life in the cold."
"Thoros of Myr," Brienne stated, watching as the man bowed his head. She stepped forward, leaving only the fire between them, her sword raised to his height. "Where are the others?"
"There is naught but the lady and I. Many were tested by the steel of Lannister forces and broke," Thoros explained, watching as Daven trudged into the camp, standing before the lean-to where a cloaked figure sat, unmoving, pale hands clasped in their lap. "The few who remained were beaten by the snows. The lady feels nothing, and I am bound to go wherever she goes."
Daven attempted to get the cloaked figure's attention, but try as he might, they would not move. Frustrated, he threw her hood off, and nearly fell upon the sight. One of the other men did, Tion she thought, while crying, "Mother save us!"
Catelyn Stark had been a beautiful woman, with red hair that shone brilliantly in the sun, and a warm smile that would melt the snows that hindered them. Now she was wretched and rotten, pale and torn apart, yet alive and breathing. Her gaze locked upon Brienne with unrecognizable dark chasms, turning her blood to ice.
"Gods, she was right," Brienne breathed, remembering that day in the camp, the conviction held by both Myra and Jory that Catelyn lived, but deep in her heart, she had thought them false. Even she had begun to doubt the shadow that haunted her, and yet now her heart was torn anew. All the strange horror of the world was real. "You're alive."
"Who is alive? Who is this? What is this?" Daven asked, frantic, his sword pointed at her.
Thoros turned to face him. "This is Lady Catelyn Stark."
Daven paled, stepping back from the lean-to and holding his sword higher. "She is dead. She was killed at the Twins!"
"Do you believe…this is living…Lannister?" Catelyn wheezed, only able to speak by gripping her torn throat with her hand.
At the sound of her speech, Daven moved further away, his eyes wide in terror, and his sword shaking. But Brienne chose to step forward, slowly, inches at a time, as if the undead woman before her would suddenly lash out. She stared at the woman, and thought she saw Renly staring back.
"Why are you here?" she asked.
"Jon Snow."
Thoros stepped forward. "We have heard that he is Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, but Castle Black has been steeped in chaos as of late. We dare not approach lest they attack."
And they had conveniently found them, a large enough group that might be allowed passage without harassment. Brienne did not wish to give name to what strange coincidence had befallen them, but the priest watched her with knowing eyes. He'd call it destiny or the will of his red god. It frightened her more than the woman at her feet.
"Will you not take us there?" Thoros asked.
Brienne took a breath, watching Catelyn, then her sword. The woman's gaze would not leave her, those eyes full of more knowledge than she should possess. She knew Brienne's purpose, they both did, but she did not beg for her life, what little there was to it. Catelyn merely waited, expectant, unmoving.
She felt her heart begin to race, her blood pulsing in her ears. The cold of the North had grown hotter than the burning sun of Dorne, and she began to struggle to maintain her grip on the sword. This was the woman who had tried to hang Jaime, who would do so again if given the chance. She had promised Myra that she would see this done, but how could she have made such an oath without truly knowing? How could she be asked to do such a thing?
"We should take them," Podrick spoke suddenly, breaking the silence and returning the world to her. The boy's face had darkened, his eyes taking in the scene without a drop of fear. "House Lannister owes Lady Stark a debt."
Thoros nodded in gratitude to the boy, while Catelyn gripped her throat. "What is…your name?"
"Podrick, my lady."
"May you always…know kindness…Podrick."
The march from the camp to Castle Black was long and miserable. Winds bore down upon them from the Wall, colder than any other night they'd experienced. The men were silent, walking carefully behind Catelyn, and at what they considered a safe distance. Podrick and Thoros walked in front of her, while Brienne and Daven led the way. She could feel Catelyn's eyes upon her still.
"You knew of this?" Daven asked eventually, his voice gruff from the cold. He might have journeyed the entire way with his sword in hand had the cold not forced him to sheathe it.
"I had been told, but I did not know," Brienne replied, looking over at the Lannister. An understanding passed between them, and they carried forward.
Castle Black had no walls to speak of, save for the one of ice that it guarded. It was merely a grouping of buildings, some maintained and intact, others rotted and collapsed. One great tower stood above all the others, an unimpressive setting of simple stone. In the distance, Brienne spotted a slim line zigzagging across the surface of the Wall, and realized that she was looking at stairs. It was a climb that could kill a man in his youth.
As they crossed before the first buildings, they were met with nothing but emptiness. There were no men of the Night's Watch to be seen, no sounds of life escaping the buildings, all the windows were black and barren. Brienne might have drawn her sword had the direwolves not run off into the distance, certain that there was something to be seen.
Eventually, the small group approached a courtyard, where dozens had gathered in a somber silence. Brienne spotted the dark cloaks of Night's Watch men, but they were not alone. Men and women dressed in all furs stood amongst them, some with strange markings upon their faces, others adorned with bones of animals. They were wildings, she realized, those that Castle Black was to defend the realm against, and they stood with them as equals.
The direwolves caught the crowd's attention, and they turned as one to look upon the group. Brienne found that she could not speak, and wondered briefly if they would be attacked. But movement from within the circle of men and women brought her fears to a rest.
"Out of the way. Let me through!" called a voice. A dark haired man emerged from the crowd, dressed in black leathers and furs, a sword hanging at his side. "Who are you? Why have you come to Castle Black?"
"I am Ser Daven of House Lannister," Daven started, taking in the scene. She watched his eyes widen, and realized he was staring at a giant of a man in the distance. As tall as the building he stood beside. "An-and this is Lady Brienne of Tarth. We came north in search of men wanted by the Crown."
"You'll find no such men here, ser," the man replied with a shake of his head. "All crimes are pardoned once the black is taken."
"You'd not have shared oaths with these men."
"Trust that we've seen it all, and that the Night's Watch has accepted all." The man looked around at the group, frowning. "Mighty small company for a Lannister to be traveling with."
"The rest of the men will be here soon enough. We were separated."
"What for?"
Brienne took a step forward. "We have brought someone who wishes to speak with your lord commander."
The man frowned, and a deep sadness crossed his features. "Then you have come too late, my lady."
Confused, Brienne turned back to the group, and realized now why they had gathered. At the center sat a pyre, unlit but ready to burn. A lone body rested upon the bier, hair dark as pitch, hands gripping a sword with a white wolf's head.
"NO!" Catelyn screamed, her voice an unnatural rattle of the dead that brought Brienne's hands to her ears. Others flinched as well, eyes filled with terror.
The woman fled their company, running toward the pyre, the cloak that had once been so tightly wrapped about her flying off in the wind, revealing the horror beneath. There were screams and fleeing bodies and swords drawn. Brienne did not know what compelled her, but she chased after Catelyn, shoving aside any that wished to stop her. In an instant, Thoros was beside her, and together they managed to guide her to the pyre.
Catelyn climbed over the bundles of sticks that had been gathered, past a direwolf of pure white lying upon the ground, screaming at and chasing off anyone who stood nearby with a torch. An uproar started in the crowd, men of the Night's Watch and wildlings both calling for her death, calling for her to burn. She heard shouts of wights and Others, and other curses and foul things. Thoros had drawn his sword, and she was on the verge of joining him had a voice not called out.
"Leave them!"
The world fell silent to Brienne. Hers was a voice she would know anywhere, pick out of any gathering for the remainder of her years.
Melisandre appeared out of the parting crowd, her gown and cloak still the bright red that shone in Brienne's memories, her hair still the color of fire. A deep-set frown had marred her features, where once she had worn sly smiles that spoke of secrets. Behind her was a man with peppered hair, and if she was not mistaken, a hand short of fingers. Stannis Baratheon's closest advisors walked freely in Castle Black.
"No one touch her!" the red witch called again, her voice booming like thunder.
Brienne could hardly breathe. She could reach out to them, she could touch them, she could drive a sword through them. Stannis should be near, the beginning and the end of all her sorrows, yet she could not move. Davos matched her gaze, and knew her face, yet neither of them did a thing. Rather, they turned to the pyre, and the mourning woman sat upon it.
Catelyn held Jon's hand, the skin still possessing more color than her own, even in death. She ran curious fingers along the leather jacket, where Brienne could just spot little slits along the surface. Stab wounds, perhaps. Her hand moved up to cup his cheek, to run gently through the curls of his hair.
During her service, Catelyn had only spoken of Jon Snow once. At first, it had been with the bitter tone of a woman betrayed, forced to see the evidence of her husband's disloyalty all the years of his life. But it had ended with a deep sorrow, a regret for a life not changed. What was the cost of kindness to a boy who'd known not but scorn?
His life had been the cost, and Brienne felt Catelyn's anguish pass through her, as cold as the winds that fell from the Wall.
Catelyn closed her eyes, and a peace fell upon her. She leaned forward and placed a kiss upon Jon's brow, smiling softly as she pulled away.
Brienne would never be certain if what she saw next was true, but in that moment, she thought Catelyn looked herself again. Her hair had returned to its auburn color, and her skin was warm and smooth. Her eyes had grown soft, crinkling at the edges as she smiled at Jon. She had returned to the woman she had known, the woman she ought to be.
"Save them, Jon," she spoke softly, her final breath before collapsing.
A moment passed, and then another. Brienne watched the slow rise and fall of a chest that had once been still.
And then Jon Snow rose.
.
.
.
MY BOY HAS RETURNED T_T LONG HAVE I WAITED FOR THIS DAY
Thank you for coming with me this far. I hope you've enjoyed it. Until next time!