Chapter Text
If a liar asked a favor of me, I'd send him away,
Oh, I'd send him away
The Cat and the bastard knight rode away from High Heart and back toward their camp in silence. Gendry hadn't wanted it that way; in fact, he'd tried to speak. He'd told Arya, 'You know I would never betray you. You know me,' but she'd merely nodded absently and said nothing. Dissatisfied with her noncommittal response, he'd kept at her.
' She's crazy. You know that. And she lies, you said it yourself!'
The most he'd gotten out of her was a distracted 'Mmm.'
The more she'd failed to definitively affirm that she trusted him, the more frustrated he became. Finally, he gave up and dropped his mount behind hers, sullen, staring at the back of the girl's head. She could feel his eyes on her, but she did not acknowledge it. Nymeria had padded alongside him for a time, almost as if to cheer him, but it had only made his horse nervous, the beast lurching and snorting, and so he shooed the wolf on ahead, to trot next to her mistress.
For her part, Arya paid little mind to her friend's sulking. He'd worried himself into a mood over her perceived mistrust, but the truth was, she was simply too deep into her own thoughts to entertain his. As they rode, she ruminated, replaying the witch's words, examining them for hidden meaning.
For there was always a hidden meaning.
"…your lady broods over betrayal where there's none to be had," the ghost had said as Arya contemplated the man from her dream. The wizened old woman had told her that he would steal from her that which she held most dear. Yet then the mad crone had claimed this would somehow not constitute a betrayal. Instead, the girl was supposed to believe that it was Gendry who would betray her.
Gendry!
It was… unfathomable; ridiculous, even. It wasn't that she trusted the blacksmith so implicitly, though there existed a degree of confidence, if she was honest, but in order to be betrayed, there had to first be a connection; an unshakable belief in the fealty of a man. Beyond that, there had to be a compensatory exposure of some vulnerability, her vulnerability; a secret to be guarded by the one who had inspired such faith; guarded even at the expense of his life.
Neither the Cat nor Arya Stark would put so much blind trust in a man who had chosen a life with outlaws over her once already.
No matter how much regret he might express over that decision now.
There was perhaps no one alive who she would surrender herself to that completely, save one. And him, she dared not think of too much, for fear her heart would freeze in her chest with the longing his memory invoked.
But Gendry, betray her? Just the idea that the blacksmith-knight would have knowledge of some secret of hers so sensitive that it even could be betrayed was ludicrous. The ghost must think her a very great fool indeed! It had nearly made her laugh.
It had not made Gendry laugh, though. He'd been livid at the suggestion, as angry as the girl had ever seen him, she thought. Angrier, even. He'd turned, staring the woods witch down. "You lie, old woman!" he'd declared hotly, his uncharacteristic discourtesy almost shocking to behold.
" No, ser knight," the ghost had replied, "for I cannot. My curse is to only speak the truth, however much you may be loath to hear it, and however much I may be loath to say it."
He'd snorted derisively then, spitting his words. "Loath? When have you ever been loath to sow discord? To me, it seems your sole purpose!"
" Only a child would say such things," the old woman scoffed. "You think yourself very brave and wise, no doubt, just as your father did, for all the good his conceit did him in the end. But like him, you're little more than a babe. And like most men, you can barely look beyond the tip of your own nose to see the truth of things."
Gendry had been caught off guard by the reference to his father, but he hadn't let it distract him long.
" You want to see everyone around you in misery! You can't stand the happiness of others. All you do is create chaos with your nonsensical dreams and puzzles!" the knight insisted. "You would pit a true friend against one who might have need of him someday."
" Why would I do that?" the witch asked, a gleam in her eyes.
" I imagine it's simply sport for you." The contempt in Gendry's words was made plain. "You must get lonely up here, by yourself on this hill."
The woman threw her head back and cackled so hard that after a moment, the only sounds which could be discerned were the wheezing and choking of her bitter laughter as it poured forth from her ancient throat. The girl feared the witch would turn blue and faint, so awful and strained were the sounds. But she did not faint. Instead, she turned, wiping a tear from her eye with one gnarled hand, grinning her ugly grin, directing it at Arya.
" He thinks me lonely!" She continued laughing, gasping for her breath. "Here, among the weirwoods! He does not know how they speak to me, incessantly, fervently. And how can I be lonely with you to visit me, blood child, when you fly in on owl's wings or stalk me wrapped in your wolf pelt?"
The girl swallowed, and raised her hand to object. She did not wish for Gendry to question what the ghost meant. She had no intention of having her unique skill become common knowledge. The witch continued on, though, unperturbed.
" I am never alone, even when I wish to be!" The old woman held out her wrinkled palm, upturned, a gesture of pleading for Arya's understanding. "Even your foreign assassin has paid a call on me here. When would I have time to be lonely?"
Arya had known this; Jaqen had told her as much. He'd been here to learn where he might find the swords which had once been Ice. But hearing the woman say it to her felt like a punch in the gut. It stole her breath and sent her thoughts skittering in a thousand different directions. But the one overarching idea in her head just then was a quiet question, and one whose answer could make no possible difference to her, or him, or anyone. But still, she had to know, and so she asked.
" Am I standing where he stood?"
The witch's laughter ceased then and her ragged voice whispered a claim, a single word which clutched at the very heart of the girl.
" Yes."
Arya closed her eyes and tried to feel the truth of the answer; tried to feel him there, picturing her master in her mind. Tall, lean, graceful as a shadowcat, auburn-brown hair brushing his shoulders, white strands tucked behind his left ear so as not to fall over his eye and obstruct his vision. One corner of his mouth quirked up in a mysterious smile as his thumb hooked itself in his sword belt. His confidence was a nearly palpable thing, so close to arrogance, flirting with its very edges, yet not quite spilling over.
' Lorathi swagger,' she'd called it, when she was little more than a wide-eyed child who had wanted nothing more than to be just like him.
Until she had learned to want more.
Until she had learned to want him.
She stopped herself before she could imagine his purring voice; his 'lovely girl.' She stopped herself before she could imagine his skin touching hers. That, she could not endure. As it was, her legs felt weak, but she willed herself to keep her feet; to remain standing. Arya opened her eyes and found both the witch and the knight staring back at her. Gendry's brows were drawn together and he was frowning, as much at the girl's expression, she thought, as at his displeasure with the old woman's accusation of betrayal.
" Go ahead," the crone encouraged the girl, ignoring the knight for the moment, "ask of me what it is you want to know!"
Arya swallowed. She couldn't make herself ask if he were alive. She couldn't force those words to leave her mouth. Instead, she used her previous question as a template to structure her query. That felt safer; easier. Her voice was hoarse, spare, as she murmured, "And does he stand now?" She feared her heart would stop as she awaited the answer.
The woods witch cocked her head then, as if considering. There was too much delight in her expression for the girl's taste, but Arya held her tongue, wanting to hear; to know.
" Oh, no, child, he does not stand. He is laid out, still as a stone, quiet as the grave, his blue eyes unseeing. A woman mourns over him, even now."
The air rushed in and out through the girl's nostrils as she shook, her chest trembling with the effort to breathe. She gulped and closed her eyes again, the ghost's words echoing cruelly in her ears.
' He is laid out… his blue eyes unseeing.'
His blue eyes.
Jaqen's face came to her then, a memory from the House of Black and White (there were so many memories, so very many. Why this one? She couldn't be sure, but it was the one which burned brightest in her mind just then). She had gone to him, to his chamber, after pulling herself out of the canal. She had gone to accuse him; to find out why he'd thrown her to the eels; to learn what he'd hoped to accomplish by the deed. Instead, they'd discovered a sinister plot and begun to unravel it together. Jaqen had made her see his innocence, had gained her trust, irrevocably, her body pinned beneath his, pressed into his mattress as he stared down at her.
As he stared down at her with his bronze eyes.
The girl's own eyes opened then, and she looked at the witch, trying to understand. She found no answers in that wrinkled visage, though, only a sly smile which left her to make her own judgment. Turning her gaze to Gendry after a moment, she whispered to her friend, "You're right. She is a liar."
Daario was in a deep sleep, but the silver queen was not. She lay next to him, tangled in linens atop a pile of furs, propped up on one elbow so she might stare down at his face. The Tyroshi's countenance was serene and still; unencumbered. His blue eyes had drifted closed an hour before, exhausted from their… enthusiastic exercise. She traced his brow with two fingers, softly, and he did not stir. Her eyes trailed down, over his face and his neck, over his chest to his belly where the sheet wrapped around his body. He was stretched out, beautiful and serene, so quiet; so perfect, like a statue chiseled from stone. The khaleesi sighed.
She must let him go. Jorah said so, and Selmy. That Lannister dwarf of Aegon's agreed as well, though she was not so sure she should trust him. He was clever enough, Tyrion Lannister, but he was Aegon's creature, not hers, and a lion of Casterly Rock, besides.
She had enough sense to be wary of a Lannister.
And Daario was so beautiful, with his carved features and hard muscles. And he was so perfectly… dangerous (she could almost feel his rough hand wrapped around her neck then, fingers of the other hand clutching at her hip). He was loyal to her; he loved her, she was sure. That was certainly why Aegon did not care for the man. And Jorah, as well. But why Selmy objected to him, she was not sure, beyond the fact that he was a sellsword.
Barristan Selmy felt about sellswords the way Daenerys herself felt about Lannisters. They had their uses, yes, but should never be fully trusted, their fidelity extending only as far as their own interests.
But Daenerys had no doubt of the allegiance of Daario Naharis. It wasn't just any man she'd let share her bed. And besides all that, she needed the Stormcrows. Without them, she would be seen as little more than the daughter of a mad and murdered king who commanded the fear of the people with her deadly children and an army of foreign eunuchs. Westeros was not like to bow to such a woman. But though most of Daario's swords were freed men, there was no small number of exiled Westerosi among them, and quite a few descendants of such men, with a sort of ancestral stake in the fate of this land. They listened to him; they obeyed him, unquestioningly. They respected her, if only for his sake. She could use that respect, wrapping herself in it to solidify the legitimacy of her claim to the Iron Throne.
Perhaps the Stormcrows didn't have quite the prestige of Aegon's Golden Company in this land, but their reputation could not be denied nor their potential influence disregarded.
Daario would never be king, she knew that. And so did he. Neither of them would wish it, anyway. No, Daario would never be more than a loyal subject, or a paid ally, or perhaps a trusted advisor (in time, when he'd proven himself yet again and won the acceptance of Selmy and Jorah and maybe Aegon, though perhaps it would be better if he were to simply kill Aegon). But even now, there was no denying he was a powerful player in this bloody game. He and his five hundred skilled swords.
Better to have him on her side than anyone else's, she thought.
Daenerys sighed, lowering her face to her lover's, kissing him tenderly.
She must let him go. Everyone she trusted said so. He could command his men and remain among her forces, a loyal servant, but he could not warm her bed.
'They will never accept a queen with a foreign consort,' had been the Whitebeard's delicate way of phrasing it. 'You must part with him, my queen, and before we reach King's Landing.'
The daughter of Aerys Targaryen watched her lover as he slept, still and quiet and perfect. She watched, and she lamented.
As they neared the camp, Arya dismounted and Gendry followed suit. The girl nuzzled Nymeria for a moment, burying her face in the wolf's neck and scratching at her chin before sending her off to hunt. The wolf stopped and looked at Gendry, whining, but then loped away, disappearing in the brush. The two companions led their horses by their reins, not speaking until they were challenged by the perimeter guard.
"Who goes there?" Baynard called out.
The girl groaned, her only response, but the dark knight answered with the proper phrase.
"And where have you two been?" the false-squire asked, sauntering over to the pair. His tone suggested he had his own suspicions as to where they'd been and what they'd been doing. He moved in close, scrutinizing first the blacksmith-knight, then his lady.
"Nowhere that concerns you, boy," was Gendry's terse response. He was in no mood to be toyed with, a fact he did not try to hide.
"No? Would it concern Ser Jaime? Or Ser Willem?" the Rat needled. Then, leaning in close to his sister, he murmured softly in her ear, "Would it concern your Lorathi master?"
It was a step too far for her, considering the subject of her deliberations during her ride back to camp. Jaqen was a raw spot and she could not tolerate the Westerosi assassin poking at it just then. In the dark, he felt the point of a small blade just beneath his ear.
"Do not presume to speak of him to me," the Cat whispered back, ignoring the sharp point she felt herself just then, stabbing at her ribs, at the level of her kidney.
Gendry was not close enough to understand the words the two were exchanging, but he was close enough to recognize the danger they presented to one another just then.
"Enough!" he barked, moving in and pushing his hands between the adversaries. He forced the two apart. To the squire, the knight said, "You must be mad to threaten her, and if you plan to keep your feet on the ground rather than swinging above it with your neck in a noose, you had best find your manners, and quickly."
"Were you looking for my manners when you rode off into the dark together, quiet as thieves, and not a word to anyone?" the squire retorted. "Did you find them buried in her smallclothes, bastard?"
The knight's anger swelled then, pent up as it had been from his confrontation with the woods witch, and stoked now by the insults of the insolent squire. His rage broke free of him in the form of a roar, and a meaty fist which connected with the Rat's midsection, resulting in a sickening thud, driving the breath from the assassin. The Faceless squire stumbled backwards, but recovered, drawing his sword and flying back toward the knight with deadly speed. He was blocked by his sister and Frost, her blade meeting his shortsword with a clang that seemed to echo through the trees around them.
"M'lady!" Gendry called in alarm, but she pushed the blacksmith back; thought him back, quieting his tongue and soothing his worry. She does not need help, he realized, but was not sure where the idea had come from. She will handle this on her own. The knight peered through the darkness at the two figures before him, swords crossed, blades pressing one against the other, unmoving, and watched, feeling strangely confused. From the back of his mind, a thought suggested that he should act; that he should do something. That he should stop them, somehow. But he was rooted in place by the notion that there was no danger to his lady; that, in fact, the only hazard was that which Arya posed to the squire, and the dark knight was not at all inclined to aid the impudent boy.
He deserves whatever befalls him, the blacksmith thought, but could not recall forming such an opinion. It simply… was.
"Are you sure you want to do this?" the squire asked his sister through gritted teeth as he strained to push her away with the flat of his sword.
"You owe me a blood debt," was her reply, "and it's time you paid it."
Each assassin glared at the other, both shifting slightly on the balls of their feet, tightening their grips on their blades, and then they began to fight in earnest.
Olive's brown eyes glittered up at him, her surprise forever frozen on her face, her lips shaped into a perfect dusky circle as a soundless "oh" hung between them. He stared down at her, whispering, "I'm sorry, my love, I'm so sorry," over and over and over again, and as he bent to kiss her one last time, a noise caught his attention. It was a noise which did not belong here; that he'd not heard in this place before: the unmistakable sound of steel crashing against steel. It pulled him away from his tavern girl and into a place much cooler than the inn near the Moon Pool.
The Bear blinked, confused. He was stretched out on a bedroll made of soft furs, staring up at the pitched ceiling of his small tent as it came into focus, grey and motionless in the gradually rising light of the pre-dawn. He was mildly annoyed, not understanding why he was awake, and he could still feel an ache upon his lips: the pain of a kiss not given. Then he heard the noise again, and recognized it for what it was.
The singular sound of blades clashing, whip-fast, harsh, and violent.
He could almost picture the confrontation which resulted in such noise, and he knew few men in Westeros would fight in such a way; could fight in such a way.
Few men anywhere. A very few, indeed.
And perhaps only one woman.
The realization filled him with a sense of foreboding that he did not stop to question. Instead, he relied on his instinct.
In a split second, he'd pulled on his boots and grabbed his sword belt, bolting from the tent and toward the noise. The Lyseni found the combatants north of the camp, perhaps forty yards out from where he'd been sleeping. Night was seeping from the landscape slowly and he could see well enough for his eyes to tell him what he'd feared was like to the be the truth all the while. His brother and sister were fighting, each intent on hurting the other.
And perhaps more than simply hurting.
The Cat, it seemed, had drawn her share of blood already. The Rat's shirt was hanging in tatters, the entire back slashed through at multiple angles, and his blood had rendered the remaining material dark and sticky. His sister had not escaped unscathed, though. Her chin was bloody, her bottom lip swollen and ugly, and the sleeve had been separated from the seam at her right shoulder, where she bled freely from a cut. Inexplicably, the girl's old friend, that large bastard knight she'd known in her youth, stood frozen in place, staring at the battle before him.
The false-Dornishman shook his head, both irritated and alarmed, then bellowed, "Stop this at once, you imbeciles!"
Without waiting for their compliance, he strode over to them, his own sword drawn so that he might prevent one of their blows from killing the other. His actions seemed to wake the dark knight. Gendry was pulled from his peculiar state of immobility then and rushed over as well.
"Grab her!" the Bear directed Gendry, pointing toward his sister as he himself gripped Baynard's shoulder from behind and yanked the false-squire away from the duel. Gendry immediately looped one big arm around Arya's middle and lifted her from her feet.
"Put me down!" she commanded in an angry squeal.
"My lady," the Bear growled, his voice a clear warning.
"No," the Rat cried, "if she wants a fight, let us fight and finish this!" The lithe assassin jerked against his brother's grip.
"It is finished," was his brother's firm dictate as he clouted the side of his squire's head with enough force to make the boy's ears ring. "Do you understand? Both of you, do you understand me?"
Both the Rat and the girl were breathing hard, struggling against their captors, not answering. Their unrelenting obstinance killed the very last of the Bear's patience.
"Do you understand me?" he roared then, his frustration and anger almost a palpable thing. "This is it! No more! It is finished! Finished!" He knocked the sword from the Rat's hand and, in one swift motion, he had his great forearm pressing hard into the Faceless squire's neck. "Say you understand me, or I swear to Him of Many Faces, I will choke the life from you right now and bury you were you stand," the Lyseni hissed in his brother's ear. "Valar morghulis."
The Rat kicked once, twice, then, recognizing the futility of his position, he gave a single nod, curt and stiff, scowling all the while.
"Say it," the Bear insisted in low tones, the threat unmistakable in his voice. He pressed harder against his brother's windpipe and the Rat gagged.
"I… understand…" the Westerosi assassin choked out.
The Lyseni released his brother, pushing him brusquely to the side, and stalked over to where Gendry was fighting to keep Arya from wriggling out of his arms and attacking the false-squire again.
"Quit it, Arya!" the dark knight was saying as the girl tried to bite his arm. He had one large hand wrapped around her left wrist to keep her from poking at him with her Bravos blade. The Bear knew it was only her regard for this blacksmith that kept his sister from escaping his grasp. She did not wish to truly hurt him, but the large assassin could not be sure how long her self-restraint would last. He meant to intervene before she gave in to the darker impulses of her nature.
Gods preserve them all if that ever happened.
Both the large knight and the girl stopped their struggle when they spied Ser Willem approaching. He moved steadily toward them with his sword held out before him, pointing it toward the girl's heart. His front was smeared with blood where the squire's wounded back had been pressed against him only moments before. The assassin's displeasure was evident; it was written all over his face.
"My lady," the Faceless-knight said, "I will have your promise as well. It is over. I will have your solemn oath."
The girl's jaw clenched and she narrowed her eyes, staring angrily first at the brother in front of her, and then past him, at the one who was leaning against a tree, pressing his forehead into its bark and panting. She inspected her work with a grim look. The Rat's back was slashed, her blade having marked him in multiple cross cuts from his shoulder blades to his waist.
Her efforts had not been wasted, then. It had been difficult to be sure during the actual duel, so frenzied was she in the heat of the moment.
Arya swallowed, picturing Gendry's wounds, the ones she'd tended and helped heal, and then she nodded, returning her gaze to the Bear.
"I'm satisfied," she said. "The debt is paid."
The Rat's cuts were cleaner, and not so deep as Gendry's had been, so his scars would be prettier, but there was blood enough, and there would still be pain. And scars. Plenty of them.
The Cat glanced down at her own bleeding shoulder. She'd earned a scar of her own, it seemed.
She was glad for it; glad for the reminder.
"Your solemn oath," the Bear gritted out, taking another step closer. The tip of his blade pressed urgently against her breast.
"I swear it," the girl hissed reluctantly, her mouth pinching itself closed after her forced utterance.
She had always hated being told what to do.
The morning was upon them and the camp was starting to rise. Some had likely been awakened by the Bear's bellowing, and those men stumbled toward them, curious about the ruckus. Ser Jaime was one of the first to arrive.
"Great gods!" the Kingslayer exclaimed. His mouth open in a combination of shock and disgust, he surveyed the scene before him, then demanded, "What in the seven bloody hells happened here?" He stared hard at Gendry, still grasping Arya by the waist and the wrist. The blacksmith-knight quickly set the girl down and she replaced her slender sword in her belt, smoothing her hair and trying to appear cool and unbothered.
"Friendly sparring," she replied, forming a small smile with her swollen, bleeding lips. It stung, but she shrugged and kept smiling
"Friendly sparring," Jaime repeated, incredulous. "You were sparring in the dark?" His skepticism was obvious. Brienne and Thoros had arrived by then, both of their faces marred by confusion and concern. Ser Brynden was not far behind, but he wisely held his tongue, watching the scene play out before him.
"Mmm," the girl said, looking at the Rat as though she were only just realizing the extent of the damage she'd caused. "Perhaps you're right. We should've waited for more light. It seems we made quite a mess in the dark."
"A mess." Jaime folded his arms over his chest. "Stark, you are, without a doubt, the undisputed champion of understatement."
The girl bowed dramatically, swiping at the blood on her chin with her sleeve. "Thank you, ser."
"That wasn't a compliment," he grunted angrily. Then, looking at the men standing before him, he shook his head, nearly beside himself with his irritation. "Ser Willem, you'd better see to your boy before he bleeds to death. And you, Ser Bastard, come with me…"
"Ser Jaime," Brienne started, disapproving of his harsh tone for the blacksmith-knight's sake, but Jaime ignored her and turned on his heel, stalking off. Gendry sighed, then looked at Arya sternly, and followed the golden knight, his gait a bit stiff.
Others had found them by then, Smallwood men and a smattering of the Brotherhood. The girl could feel their eyes on her, and on the Rat, and on Ser Willem between them. Murmuring rose up as men speculated at what had happened, gossiping and japing until they finally shrugged it off and went in search of their breakfast. Lady Brienne took it upon herself to see to Arya.
"That cut will need to be cleaned and sewn closed," she told the girl as she inspected the wound on her shoulder.
The Cat glanced at the cut. The blood flow had slowed but the wound still oozed a bit. She signed and nodded.
"Come with me," the knightly woman directed. "I'll find Pod. He's better with a needle than I am."
Arya followed the Maid of Tarth back toward the camp and allowed her and her former squire to patch up her shoulder. Brienne offered the girl a smooth stick to bite, but she'd refused it, choosing instead to grind her teeth and hiss at every stab of Pod's needle. It hadn't helped that he'd insisted on reheating the needle in a candle's flame after every pass. 'A trick I learned from a midwife. It staves off the putrefaction of wounds. I'm sorry that it hurts, my lady.'
A lively discussion ensued between the newly made knight, Lady Brienne, and the Cat about how Ser Podrick had come to be in the company of a midwife in the first place, and why she had bothered to teach him such a skill at all. The Maid of Tarth expressed her astonishment when her former squire admitted that he'd assisted in the delivery of not one or two, but three newborn babes.
Pod had replied, "Truthfully, I was barely of any assistance at all. I just used my dagger to cut a bit of twine for the midwife, and the cords as well. Oh, and once, I blew in a babe's face and pounded his back a bit when he didn't cry at first. I was told they should cry once the cord is cut, but he looked a bit stunned, and dreadfully blue. It seemed to do the trick. He pinked right up after a moment." The memory brought a smile to the knight's face.
The girl was glad of the distraction but Ser Podrick had to admonish her to stop laughing so hard when he revealed the reason he'd attended the deliveries was to stave off boredom when his master had been otherwise occupied in various brothels around King's Landing.
"Lady Arya, if you don't stop shaking, I can't be held responsible for how this cut heals," the young knight groused, frowning in concentration over his stitches.
The girl ignored the warning. "So, Tyrion Lannister was… entertaining himself in a…" Arya had a hard time breathing, she was laughing so hard, "…whore house, and the best thing you could find to do with yourself was… practice midwifery?"
Podrick pursed his lips and cut his eyes at her, then returned to his work. "Seems to me, my lady, you should be glad that's how I chose to spend some of my time."
"Ser Podrick, you are indeed a man of many talents," Lady Brienne commented with a respectful bow of her head.
"Thank you," the young knight replied. "I've always thought a man should be open to learning new skills, no matter how unusual." He threw in the last suture and then knotted the thread, using a shining dagger to cut the needle free. "There." He inspected his work, and, satisfied, began to dress the wound with a strip of linen handed to him by the Maid of Tarth.
The girl appraised his work. "Thank you," she said, giving him an earnest look. "For the care, and for the distraction."
"You are most welcome, my lady," Podrick replied. The girl's eye twinkled a bit then, and her mouth curved up mischievously.
"I don't mean to tease, and I appreciate your help. And your… unusual skill, however it was obtained," she began, clapping her hand on his shoulder. "Still, don't you wish you'd spent at least a little of your time in the whore house doing the things most men do when they visit there?"
The young knight shrugged, his face honest as he answered. "Oh, I did those things plenty, but when the… er… ladies were… spent, I did try to keep myself busy. As you'd expect, a birth at a brothel isn't a terribly uncommon thing, and so the opportunity to be of help there presented itself on occasion. Still, I didn't learn as much from the midwife as I'd have liked. The ladies would call for me to return after a while, and I hated to be impolite. A knight's manners should be impeccable."
He said it with such seriousness that Arya hardly knew how to respond. She forced back the snorting laughter that tried to escape her and took in the shock on Brienne's face. It was priceless, she thought. That only served to increase her mirth.
"Well, then," the girl said, biting the inside of her cheeks, "perhaps you'll have other opportunities." When Arya noted that Brienne had colored bright red up to the roots of her hair, she quickly added, "To hone your midwifery skills, I mean!"
Ser Podrick smiled and said, "Perhaps." The knightly woman to his side seemed to be trying desperately to find someplace to look besides at her former squire. The Cat used the opportunity to take her leave of the pair. She thanked the young knight once again, told him and Brienne they should fill their bellies ahead of the day's ride, and found her way back to her own tent. Once there, Arya laid down to rest for an hour before she would be called to gather her things and ride forth for Riverrun.
Ser Willem half-carried and half-dragged his squire to the tent they shared so he could tend to his wounds. The large assassin kept his mouth clamped shut so as to avoid stoking further camp scandal, but once they were secluded, he let his true feelings be known, growling quietly at his brother as he dabbed at his wounds with a damp cloth.
"What did you think you were you doing?" The Bear was angry.
"My duty!" the Westerosi grunted.
"Your duty?" The large man's laugh was humorless. "Trying to stab our sister is your duty?"
"Keeping her out of the clutches of that lowborn bastard is my duty."
"And the best way you could find to do that was to try to kill her?"
"That was her idea," the Rat retorted. "And at least when she was fighting, she wasn't falling into that great oaf's arms."
The Lyseni scowled and brushed at the Westerosi's wounds a bit more roughly than was called for. "Well, good job there, brother," he said, his sarcasm biting. "And since when is that your duty, anyway?"
The Rat winced. "Since always."
The Bear shook his head. "You make no sense." Though the false-squire had his back turned to his brother, the larger man's irritation was evident in the noisy way he was blowing his breaths out through his nose. The smaller assassin shrugged as he explained.
"That's because you have other duties."
The Bear stopped cleaning his brother's back for a moment, inspecting the wounds. They were not so terrible, but there were a great many of them. "Safeguarding her. Bringing her to Winterfell," he listed. "Those are our charges, are they not?"
"Some of them, yes."
"The order gave you more instructions than these?"
The Rat shrugged again, turning to face the Bear. "Let's just say I don't believe the principal elder would be pleased to know our sister is rutting with Ser Gendry of the Hollow Hill." He spat the title out like it tasted foul on his tongue.
"She's not… rutting." The false-knight squinted at his brother. "And why should it matter, anyway?"
"He has his reasons," the boy replied, "and he didn't see fit to elaborate on them. Not to me, anyway. I don't know why it matters. I only know it does."
"Well, you, and he, may rest easy then. She has no intention of…" Here, the Bear blew out a breath, then rephrased his response. "Only, her feelings do not run that way. You should know that. She still grieves for her master."
"You speak with her a great deal about her feelings, do you?" The Rat's opinion on that matter was exceedingly apparent in the disdainful curl of his lip as he spoke. His brother gave him a sour look but said nothing. Instead, he forcibly turned the smaller assassin around and resumed his care of the cuts on his back. The Rat's tone softened, and he took a different tack then. "I know you have your own grief. I understand the regret you feel, brother, about your… tavern girl..."
"Do not speak of her," the Lyseni warned.
The Rat continued, his tone almost regretful. "…but you know you cannot replace her."
There was a long silence before the Bear finally said, "That's not what I'm trying to do."
"Perhaps not," the smaller man ceded, "but you must admit, your… grief, it colors your every action. You let it dictate your decisions."
"I don't," the Lyseni insisted.
"Yes, you do. Too much so. And in your grief, you have allowed our sister to distract you from your duty."
"No, not my duty, brother." The Cat was his duty, whether his brother recognized the truth of it or not.
The Westerosi shook his head vigorously, declaring, "She has become your blind spot!"
"She's not my blind spot," the Bear disagreed. "She's…" Here, the large man heaved a heavy sigh and then began to apply a salve to his brother's back. It stung a bit, and the Rat grunted.
"She's what?" he asked, as much to mask his discomfort as to prompt the larger man.
"She's the choice I made." The Bear's voice dropped low and he murmured, "An impossible choice."
"You love her." The Rat's words were an accusation. It was one the Bear could not deny.
"I do."
The assassins sat quietly for a while, each considering the other's words. The Westerosi finally spoke again, and when he did, it was with obvious sadness and disappointment.
"When will you understand that your love will be your downfall?"
The Lyseni laughed a little. "How so?"
"It lies in the way of your duty to the order and to Him of Many Faces. I worry for you, that you do not see it."
"And when will you understand that love is duty, brother? Without one, the other is a hollow thing. I pity you, because you cannot see that."
While the rest of the camp was finding their breakfast, Ser Jaime was busy upbraiding the blacksmith-knight in a secluded spot, away from earshot of the others.
Praise in public, discipline in private. Ser Gerold Hightower had taught him that, when he was much younger than the man who stood before him now. He tried not to think too hard on how his life had changed since his days as a young Kingsguard, under the tutelage of the White Bull.
"You abandoned your post," the Kingslayer charged.
"I never left Lady Arya's side," was Gendry's defense.
"When your relief came, you weren't there to be relieved."
"Like I said, I was with her."
"Yes, you were with her. Letting her leave the safety of the camp, and…"
"No one lets m'lady do anything," the dark knight interjected with a small laugh.
The response was not appreciated. Jaime gave the blacksmith-knight a look of censure and then continued, "…and letting her put herself in danger."
"She was never in danger."
The golden knight's eyes grew wide. "She wasn't in danger?" he cried in disbelief. "Your lady bleeds at this very moment." He pointed his golden hand at the blacksmith. "That's your fault, bastard."
Gendry's face was troubled, but he said, "She didn't need any help. He deserves whatever befalls him."
"He deserves… what in the seven bloody hells are you blathering about, you idiot?"
The dark knight shook his head, as if he himself were not sure. "I just knew it, when they were about to fight."
"You knew she didn't need help and that some bloody nobody-squire deserved whatever he got…" Jaime repeated the words slowly, as if trying to comprehend a foreign language. With each syllable he uttered, Gendry felt more damned.
"I thought to help her. Well, to try to stop her, anyway," the dark knight muttered, more to himself than his interrogator. "But then, I didn't."
"You didn't," the Kingslayer agreed flatly.
"Or… I… couldn't."
"You couldn't?" Derision dripped from Jaime's tongue and his expression was hard. "Do you hear yourself?"
Gendry's blue eyes burned with remorse. "I can't explain it. But I couldn't. I knew she would be angry if I tried, but it was more than that."
"Oh, I'm very glad to hear it," the Kingslayer responded with false enthusiasm. "There was more? What more? Were you afflicted with a shaking sickness? Did you faint at the sight of your lady's blood? Were you set upon by bandits who bound you so you were unable to move? Please, enlighten me! I so want to understand! How is it that you couldn't stop a tiny slip of a girl and a sniveling squire from beating each other senseless with sharp steel?" By the end, Jaime was yelling and practically red faced.
A low, wordless growl escaped the dark knight then, an expression of his frustration and confusion. It took a moment for him to formulate his thoughts into words. "I just couldn't!" he finally spat. "You don't think I know how that sounds? But I couldn't, no matter how I wanted to. I cannot say it plainer than that!"
"Well, I cannot say it plainer than this: I don't want you on her guard detail. You're not fit for it."
"What?" Gendry barked, incredulous. His anger took over his features, his face darkening like the clouds from a winter's storm rolling in.
"You heard me. If I had my way, you'd be on your way back to the inn, to protect Jeyne and the orphans, but that's not my call to make."
"Neither is pulling me from m'lady's guard!"
"No, that's where you're wrong, bastard." Jaime annunciated each word clearly; precisely. "It very much is my call."
The dark knight stood tall, straight, facing down the Kingslayer. "This isn't the Kingsguard, Ser Jaime, and you are not the Lord Commander here."
A vision of seven knights in shining armor draped with white cloaks passed through Jaime's head then. Seven Kingsguard knights, each a man of great reputation; men he respected; men he'd learned from and fought with. He felt something akin to longing then, a sort of melancholia, but only for the briefest moment, and then he put it away, and was indignant again.
Indignant, and focused.
There was one Stark left to save; one he believed might actually be worth saving. Robert's discarded bastard would not ruin that for him. He would not allow it.
"No, this is not the Kingsguard," the golden knight agreed. "I cannot argue the point, for we have no king to guard. But know this: when it comes to protecting Arya Stark, I am the Lord Commander. And I'm the High Septon. And the anointed monarch. As far as you're concerned, I'm the bloody fucking wrath of the old gods! All you need know is that I will be making the calls. And right now, my call is that you never be assigned a watch over her again."
Gendry was taken aback; speechless, but only for a moment. "I swore myself to her service," he fumed.
"Yes, and you deserted your rightful lady to do so. As I recall, there was even a trial. You were convicted, were you not? Punished and banished?"
The dark knight stepped closer to Jaime, his fists curled at his sides. "See here, Lannister, I'm not your servant and I'm not your squire. I'm a sworn knight, same as you."
The Kingslayer laughed. "No, Ser No-Name of Flea Bottom, you are not the same as me. Nowhere close." It was clear that the golden knight felt himself superior to the blacksmith in every way. It caused Gendry's blood to boil.
"You're right, Lannister. We're nothing alike," the dark knight said as if the realization had just struck him. "After all, I never fucked my sister."
Jaime's eyebrows quirked up and a sardonic smile curled his lips. "No? I suppose you're right. But then, when would you have had the time? You're too busy trying to fuck the Lady of Winterfell. You'll have to let me know how that goes." The golden knight gave a mocking bow to the blacksmith then and walked away, calling over his shoulder, "And you're still off her detail."
Back in her tent where she'd meant to sleep, Arya's mind instead took her back to High Heart and the words the ghost had traded with Gendry. She'd witnessed the old woman's power for herself, more than once, and she knew of the witch's connection with the old gods. She understood that there were probably things the ghost had mastered in her unnatural long life that she did not reveal often (like when the woman had been able to simply wave away Jaqen's false face and uncover the true one beneath), but never before had the witch actually frightened the girl.
Never before last night.
Arya had realized the witch was wrong about Jaqen's eyes. And if she were wrong about that, perhaps the whole thing was a falsehood: Jaqen laid out, Jaqen as still as a stone, Jaqen as quiet as the grave, Jaqen unseeing.
His blue eyes, unseeing.
The Cat recalled his bronze eyes perfectly, and they had seen everything; had seen right into the soul of her.
"You're right. She is a liar," the girl had said to Gendry. It was a whisper, and a realization.
It was a hope.
" I know she is," the knight growled, "how can she be otherwise? She said I'd betray you. On my life, I would never!"
" But you will." The ghost's voice was cracked, almost painful sounding, but her statement was made with authority.
The girl had watched in fascination, and not a little fear, as the large man and the tiny witch glared at each other. Arya worried one would do the other harm, though guessing which one it would be was a gamble she was not willing to make. Gendry's face was flushed with his fury, and his muscles seemed to tremble with his barely-contained rage, but the ghost's eyes… They had glowed nearly as brightly as the bonfire which bathed them all in heat and light there atop the hill.
Arya began to tremble then, too, but not with rage.
" Step away, Gendry," the girl said to him in a soft voice, moving slowly toward the pair. Nymeria's fur bristled but the wolf kept her place, watching the scene with golden eyes. The girl's next words were slow, and steadier than she felt. "Let's go. It's time to go now." Arya wasn't sure if the dark knight could feel the air then, but it had changed, somehow. It had gone still; stiller than still. It was almost as if it had frozen. The hairs on her arms and the back of her neck prickled.
" Not until she admits she's mistaken," the knight growled, towering over the old woman.
A feeling began to grow deep in the girl's gut, a sort of leaden ball which formed in her middle and then expanded. Tendrils seemed to crawl out from it, spreading down her legs, up through her chest, stabbing at her heart before shooting up to her shoulders and down her arms. Her fingers and toes tingled painfully. Though she saw nothing, heard nothing, Arya knew it was the weirwoods; their power. It was the witch, and the old gods, gathering their strength.
Poising to strike.
She didn't know how she knew, she just knew.
" Gendry!" she hissed with more urgency. "Let's go!"
The witch did not look at Arya, but kept her red eyes trained on the bastard knight. Her words, however, were meant for the girl.
" Do not think to deprive this boy of his well-earned lesson, dark heart," the tiny woman said in her crackling voice. "He's a Southron lord, and does not yet understand the power the old gods still command, even here, where their eyes were blinded and their ears were stopped when the weirwoods were felled." A slow smile spread on the woman's face, and at the sight of it, Arya's dread intensified. The girl had the sense that if the witch had merely reached out with one finger to touch the looming knight's chest, his heart might cease to beat in an instant.
" I'm no lord! I'm just a Flea Bottom bastard," Gendry snarled. "You think you know my heart, and who I will betray when you don't even know enough to know that?" In the distance, thunder rolled, and the girl's chest vibrated with it. Arya glanced toward the sky in alarm.
For the night was cloudless.
" Aren't you though? A fine, Southron lord! Isn't that what you dreamed?" the ghost rasped, and the girl understood the witch was taunting her friend.
" Don't you dare speak of my dreams," the blacksmith warned. "They are not your playthings, or your concern!"
Arya took another step toward them. "Gendry," she said again, her tone a caution he did not heed.
The woman ignored the knight's directive to leave his dreams alone, and instead, she chanted, "A winter's queen, veiled in silver and snow, a man at her side, noble and brave, king's blood running through his veins."
" Shut your mouth!" the knight snarled.
" But which king, my blind, bastard lord? Whose blood? You think it yours, I see it, but perhaps it is that of another."
" Be quiet, witch!"
" Gendry," Arya tried again, hoarsely, as thunder crashed again and a bolt of jagged lightning lit up the sky to a brief, blinding brightness. It made all their faces as pale as bone for that split second, and then the sky was dark again. "Come, now!" She took another step towards them but the ghost held up a thin, crooked finger, pointing it at the girl.
" No, not yet, she-wolf, for you've not heard the best part," the woman said, and the girl felt as if a blade of ice pierced her through her very heart. The pain stopped her in her tracks, and she gasped violently, clutching at her chest and neck. Nymeria yelped and whined, slinking down until her belly and chin rested on the ground.
" Arya!" the knight called in alarm, reaching out for her, but he stopped, too, frozen in place as the words he meant to speak next caught in his throat. Gendry felt as though he'd swallowed burning coals, and silently choked on them. He reached for his own throat just as Arya was doing. The witch had turned her cruel gaze back on him, even while she kept her finger pointed toward the girl, and her red eyes blazed like bleeding comets in the midnight sky.
" You feel that, do you?" the crone rasped. "Your betrayal burns hot, does it not?"
Gendry crashed to his knees, mouth agape as his vision began to go black at the edges. He looked up at the witch and then fought to look over toward the girl who had somehow managed to keep her feet. He tried to swallow, and could not, but watched in amazement as Arya inexplicably managed a small step forward when he could barely work out how to turn his own head. It looked as though the effort cost her, though, her features painted with agony, but she choked out a command, directed at the witch.
" Leave… him… be!"
Instead, the old woman curled the fingers of her other fist into a tight ball, and the dark knight felt as though his chest were being squeezed in a vice. He fell forward onto his hands, his eyes clamped shut with his anguish, his face red and twisted.
" You would defend this man," the witch observed skeptically.
" Yes," the girl wheezed, barely audible.
" Though he will fail to do the same for you." The old woman smiled slightly and her hands relaxed as she dropped them to her sides.
All at once, the crushing pain in the knight's chest ceased, and he collapsed to the ground, prone and panting. Arya was released as well, and she rushed to Gendry's side, dropping to her knees and turning his face so she could check his breathing. His eyes were open, blinking but unfocused.
" He's no threat to you!" the girl cried angrily, looking up at the woman who stood a mere foot away. The crone gazed down at the girl, and she appeared tired, drained, her small form almost shrunken.
" Aye, wolf child, this king's son is no threat to me. But I do not think you can say the same."
" What do you mean?" she snapped. "Do you mean that I am a threat to you?"
" Perhaps you are," the crone mused. "Perhaps you are… but no, that was not my meaning."
" Then what? Speak plain, I tire of your riddles!"
Gendry groaned and began to push up from the ground with his arms, shaking his head as if to clear it.
" I mean, there is a girl, veiled in silver and snow. By her side stands a man, with king's blood in his veins."
" So you've said. Gendry's dream," Arya growled. "So?"
" So, do you think that veil hides a smile, or is it tears, dark heart?" the woman queried.
" Why does it matter? It's just a stupid dream!" The girl stood, helping the knight to his feet.
" Just a dream, yes," the witch conceded. "But you and I, we know a thing or two about dreams, don't we, lovely girl?"
The Cat's skin tingled at the words and her guts churned like her belly was full of snakes on fire. She said nothing, could say nothing, but she stared deep into the red eyes of the ghost of High Heart then, both women unmoving and silent. Arya stared and stared until the old woman frowned and waved her hand at the knight and the girl.
" Be gone, assassin, and take your traitor with you. I long only for peace now, and you rob me of mine."
Arya frowned and tried to make sense of all the witch had said that night. Betrayals, dreams, king's blood and winter's queens, it was all nonsense and no help to her at all. She cursed herself for making the journey up the steep hill in the first place. All it had done was turn Gendry sullen, confuse her, and put her in the path of her Westerosi brother.
But then, she couldn't really regret that last. There was a score that needed settling, and settle it she did.
The girl sighed, lifting her arm gingerly and testing her shoulder. Podrick Payne's stitches were even and precise, enough to make Septa Mordane sing his praises, but they ached. She must try to find some rosemary to chew, and maybe some lady ferns to mash and pack against the wound, if they all weren't already brown and dead from the cold.
Reluctantly, she rose, sitting on the edge of her small cot, no better rested than when she'd gone into her tent.
The witch said I robbed her of her peace, the girl thought testily, but she does not know how she has robbed me of mine.
She closed her eyes and sighed, burying her face in her hands.
We know a thing or two about dreams, don't we, lovely girl?
It was her little voice, recalling the words of the woods witch.
Arya's eyes flew open then, and an idea began to form in the back of her mind, a vague, skittish thing. The girl put it away. She would think on it later.
By the time camp was broken and the horses were loaded, it was mid-morning. The troops formed up for their march. The riders mounted and were less jolly than they'd been the day before, likely a consequence of sleeping in bedrolls rather than beds and with brothers-in-arms rather than in the arms of wives and wenches and whores.
Arya's lack of good humor stemmed from an entirely different source, though, and when the column rode past High Heart, the girl did not even turn to look at its summit.
Muscle & Bone—John Joseph Brill