13.A Time for Wolves

1st Day of the 6th Moon, 303 AC
Sansa Stark, The fields outside Winterfell

With the armies taking the field, Sansa found herself unable to remain idle in the encampment. Today was the culmination of months of plotting and planning, countless sleepless nights of unease. Today, House Stark would rise again to its rightful place or perish. If Jon lost… Sansa would follow him in death.

Steeling herself, she marched to the makeshift stable where her mare rested. She saw two familiar faces there, doubtlessly having come for the same thing. Wrapped in heavy wool and grey sable, Shireen Baratheon and Lyanna Mormont were already by the horses, mounting up. They gave her a curt nod, both young maidens looking as restless and worried as she felt.

“This is too dangerous, my lady,” Brienne warned her. “A battlefield is no place for a woman, especially one of noble birth.”

“I mean to watch, not to join the fighting,” Sansa said with forced cool. “Help me mount.”

Brienne sighed, but obeyed, helping her to the mare’s back with ease. Then, the Tarth maid and her squire mounted, following after Sansa dutifully. They rode westward, where the land sloped gently upwards toward the edge of the Wolfswood. From that hill, the clashing armies lay before them, the sounds of fighting rolling across the hills.

Sansa looked at the far end of the battlefield and spotted him immediately. He looked like a pink blotch with his flayed man surcoat in the distance, perched atop his mount near a line of bowmen. Her stomach twisted.

“The bastard’s a fool,” Shireen muttered from Sansa’s side, squinting at the clash unfolding. The two flanks were folding, swiftly enveloping the Bolton horse from both sides.

“Why?” asked Lyanna Mormont.

“Because only an imbecile charges knights straight into a braced front line.” Shireen’s eyes never left the chaos below.

“And yet your father did the same to break Mance Rayder,” the Mormont maiden challenged.

“That’s not the same.” Stannis’s daughter shook her head. “Mance Rayder had no scouts, trenches, or even a proper command. They were all unaware until my father struck, and even his attack was two-pronged, pincering the wildling camp from both sides, and capturing the wildling king within minutes. The Bolton bastard is neither ambushing an unprepared foe, nor does he plan to capture our commander.”

Silence returned from the hill, and the din of battle grew louder with each next breath. A cacophony of clashing steel, pained grunts of dying men, and cries of battle. The giants stood out like a sore thumb in the melee—hulking brutes twice the size of any man, swinging mauls of stone at the Bolton horse. Yet Sansa paid them little heed; her eyes sought only Jon and Ghost.

The direwolf was like a shaggy spectre, biting through steel and bone as if it were straw. Gorgets were crushed through, throats were ripped open, and limbs were torn off with ruthlessness that reminded Sansa that direwolves were dangerous beasts, not merely affectionate pets that sought out her attention. Despite her worry, Ghost slipped through the men, avoiding most spears and swords. Those who landed failed to pierce his hide or slow him down.

Jon fought beside him, moving like a blur or dark steel. Her brother was like the Stranger, reaping life after life, and man and direwolf together were unstoppable.

“He fights like a demon,” murmured Lyanna Mormont, her gaze filled with admiration. There was the slightest dusting of pink on her cheeks, too, which irritated Sansa more than it should have.

Sansa’s fingers curled into her reins.

Your brother is a killer.

Jon had not denied it either, and it was chilling to see so many perish before her eyes. But she steeled herself; it was how things were. If men were going to die, it was better that the enemy did the dying. Every time someone struck Jon, Sansa’s breath caught, but her brother shrugged off the blows and continued fighting undaunted.

“He’s faster than any knight I’ve ever seen,” Shireen whispered, the good side of her face paler than usual. “And far more deadly. I did not know Valyrian steel would be so dangerous on the battlefield.”

“That’s no Valyrian blade,” Lyanna said, frowning. “It’s not Longclaw—he wanted to return the sword to me yesterday. The sword he wields is something else, though no lesser.”

Two pairs of curious eyes settled on Sansa.

“I do not know,” she admitted.

“Is this how legends are born?” Shireen asked softly, her blue eyes turning back to the battle. This time, they did not waver from Jon.

“I’d wager it is,” said the young Mormont maiden. “He must have slain a hundred by now.”

Enveloped and without room to turn, the Bolton lancers were swiftly finished. The ground was dyed red, littered with corpses and chopped limbs—a macabre sight that made Sansa’s insides lurch. Jon’s forces were swiftly regrouping as the Bolton foot slowly marched in.

Archers slipped between the formations of both hosts, moving to the front to loosen volleys of arrows and killing any men too slow to hide behind their shields. Jon’s host remained in place, content to let the enemy march to them.

Once the two groups neared, all archers quickly retreated, receding into the reserve.

From here, Sansa could see the Bolton advantage in numbers and armament all too well. The flayed man’s lines were thicker, longer, like a wave of steel threatening to drown the smaller host.

They clashed, and it was a brutal contest of pushing, then. The three giants howled as they tried to smash into the Bolton lines with their stone mauls. It made no difference, as long spears and javelins prodded at them, keeping them at bay.

Sansa saw Jon swinging still, but her brother was now hemmed in from the sides by his own men, and a wall of enemy shields at the front, with no room to manoeuvre.

“MAZIN!”

“HORNWOOD!”

And out of the trees they came, thundering cavalry from the wolfswood, crashing into the left Bolton flank from behind. Ramsay’s archers immediately tugged on their bows, hailing arrows onto foes and friends alike.

Everything turned chaotic, and any order in the battle seemed to disappear.

But the Mazin and Hornwood lancers were not enough. Not even five hundred after supplemented with horsemen from the hills, and very few wore heavy armour. They wheeled again, turning to crash into the enemy flank, but their numbers were lessened, and much of their momentum was lost.

A giant fell on the left after a spear pierced his eye. The Bolton right flank had already fanned out, using their numbers to envelop their lines from the side. The left flank of the Stark host began to falter.

Sansa’s heart leapt to her throat: Jon was lost amid the chaos. No matter how desperately she looked into the mess of men and steel, she could not find him.

“Where are the dragons?” Lyanna demanded.

“There.” Shireen’s pale hand rose, pointing above the wolfswood, where ruby, sapphire, and amethyst figures rose tandem above the treeline.

The men below had yet to notice. The dragons circled once above the field, then dove for the Bolton backline, where Ramsay and his archers stood.

Her torturer was roaring something to his men, looking frightened, but it was too late. Fire crashed down in ribbons of red, dark blue, and purple, drowning the Bolton marksmen out of sight. Before long, that hill had turned into an inferno of shifting colours. The dragons were not that large, and their flames had scarcely engulfed a quarter of the archers in the reserve. Yet the rest did not stay back and draw their bows; instead, they fled.

Ramsay was the first to turn, desperately spurring his horse back to Winterfell. But he did not escape.

Winter’s savage form swooped down and… plucked him off the steed and into the air. A moment later, a headless body was tumbled onto the ground like a ragdoll, and the drakeling spat a head out.

Sansa stared, feeling numb all over. It was over. It was over.

She was free.

“I see now,” Shireen said softly, looking fascinated at the battlefield. “I can see how the Targaryens conquered the Seven Kingdoms. Just the fear of dragonfire from a young drake is far more devastating than the thing itself.”

The dragons turned their flame upon the Bolton rear, and though few died by fire, their will to fight melted away. Before long, a Bolton man turned to flee, abandoning the battle. He was swiftly joined by a second, a third, and many turned away in waves. There was nobody to stop them, nobody to rally them.

Within minutes, men screamed, dropped their arms, or fled into the trees.

“We’ve won,” Lyanna whispered, as if afraid to believe it. She pinched herself. “Gods be good, it’s true.”

Sansa still said nothing. Below, the remaining Mazin and Hornwood’s lancers rode down fleeing foes without mercy. The dragons split apart, each chasing after big bands of fleeing men from above.

The battlefield stank of death.

The songs and the tales had lied to her again, though this time, Sansa did not feel as betrayed. The acrid stench of brimstone, shit, pissed, and charred flesh had mixed, making her gag. Broken bodies, butchered horses, and blood that soaked the ground and the grass red. Heaps of carcasses and severed limbs were strewn across like freshly cut logs left to season.

For good or ill, she had been too nervous to break her fast—if she had put anything in her mouth, she would be puking it back out.

Sansa forced herself to look at Winterfell’s looming walls ahead, but she could still see the battlefield all in the corner of her eyes. The moans of the dying reached her ears, a heart-wrenching sound that would not cease. Her mare snorted and shied from a half-burned man who still clung to life, his half-helmet fused into a face that looked like a half-raw roast. Before long, a Wull man came to rid him of his misery and his head with a battle-axe.

‘Where’s the glory?’ she asked herself. ‘All I see is death, mud, and misery.”

Ghost joined them as they neared the castle gates, towering half a head over their steeds. Much like all else on the battlefield, the direwolf was covered with gore and filth from snout to tail, completely covering his pristine white fur. The horses baulked at his presence, stamping and tossing their heads. Sansa’s mare was easy to rein in after being used to Bloodfyre, but it took all of Lyanna’s and Shireen’s efforts to keep their mounts from bolting.

Ghost only wagged his tail, lolling his tongue at Sansa like a pup eager to play, not a beast who had savaged his way through men and horses alike. She almost reached out to stroke his fur, but the crust of filth made her queasy.

The gates of Winterfell gaped wide. The last of the garrison had already surrendered.

“Seems like no one wishes to fight for the dead Bolton bastard,” Lyanna said with dark delight as they rode through the drawbridge and past the inner curtain wall.

The yard was not as gloomy as the battlefield outside, but not by much. Nobody cheered, not one voice rose in joyful celebration. All Sansa saw was grim silence and weary men, leaning on the walls and sitting over the benches and the piles of lumber inside.

In the very middle of the yard was Jon, once again surrounded by the lords and chieftains. Many of them had been in the thick of the fighting, and it showed—fresh blood was still dripping off their armaments. Her brother was scarcely any different. Helm discarded, her brother’s face and hair were matted with blood and bits of flesh and bone, making him look like half a demon.

Something had changed, and it was not the signs of bloodshed. Last evening, they all respected her brother in the council meeting, but he was treated like the first among equals. He had acted like the first amongst equals, too. But now, they were hanging on his every word.

Sansa quickly spurred her mare forward.

“…Throw all captured lords and their retainers in the dungeons,” Jon was saying, his icy face reminding her of their father. “The surrendered garrison and the rest of the Bolton men-at-arms can wait. Let those who bent the knee swear before the Heart Tree that they’ll never raise arms against House Stark again, and then let them go.”

Lord Wull inclined his head and left.

“Ser Davos,” Jon continued, wiping at his brow with a bloodied hand, “I want a full count of the dead. Bring the wounded into the yard, and see to their treatment.”

Even before the knight could reply, Jon turned again. “Lord Liddle, find Rickon’s remains. He perished more than two moons prior, but I want his remains retrieved and buried with the proper honours.”

“Lord Mazin, ride out with your lancers again. Hunt down any deserters and those who had turned to banditry. Spare those who yield and send them to the Wall. Kill the rest.”

“Aye, my lord,” Mazin said, slamming a gauntleted fist to his chest before turning on his heel.

“Ser Brynden. Strip Winterfell of everything Bolton and see it burned. Dismiss the Bolton servants, too. And raise the Stark banner over the gates.”

Her great-uncle gave a gruff grunt and strode off—even he had bowed his head to Jon’s command.

Her brother carried himself with regal ease, commanding with firmness that he had not wielded yesterday. And the men obeyed him far more eagerly now, without any word of protest or hint of disagreement.

All because he had won a battle. But perhaps that single victory was enough to win their hearts. Perhaps it was not a conscious thought, but she saw the same deference to Jon that Robert Baratheon had commanded as a king, even though her brother bore no crown. He acted more kingly than any of the kings she had seen, regardless.

After all the chieftains and the lords had been ordered away, Sansa dismounted, handing her reins to a stableboy.

“Jon,” she called out, her voice quivering. “Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine,” he said calmly. But there was a storm brewing in his purple eyes, and Sansa could swear they were glowing. “You weren’t meant to leave the camp. Lyanna and Shireen were to remain with you.”

Under his stern gaze, Sansa felt like a little girl again, reprimanded by her lord father after knocking over a cup of ale. But it had been forever since she had been a child.

“We wanted to see the battle,” she said, straightening up to meet his eyes without flinching.

“So you stood on an open hill and watched?” he asked, tone turning frostier.

Sansa swallowed—somehow, her brother had seen them, even though he had been in the thick of the fighting. Even Shireen and Lyanna shuffled behind her, unsettled.

“Yes.”

“And what would you have done if Ramsay had sent riders after you?” Jon pressed harshly. “What then, Sansa? A few knights—or his whole cavalry? You’d be dead or taken before I could lift a sword. The battle might have been lost, then, no matter how many foes I killed.”

Shame rushed up, and her face burned.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, bowing her head. Then, she steeled herself—a few harsh words would not chase away her concern. “But don’t pretend you’re unscathed. I saw you struck in the fighting, spears landing in the gaps beneath the armpit more than once. You should let the maester look at you.”

Her brother sighed. “The maester served the Boltons. Can he be trusted?”

“Yes. He treated me, despite their orders. Gave me moon tea too, though the Leech Lord would have had me carry the child.”

Ghost flopped down in the mud nearby with a yawn, uninterested in their talk, or perhaps tired from the battle.

“If you insist,” Jon said with the same tone one would when indulging a petulant child. He fetched a man in Liddle colours and sent him for the maester and any healer within the walls.

Sansa sat on a bench as Jon began wiping the gore from his breastplate with a damp rag. Blood peeled away with each stroke, revealing dark, cold metal underneath, and within a minute, there were no traces of fighting on it.

Her thoughts drifted towards her tormentor. Ramsay was dead. A head bitten off just like that, and his life had ended in an instant. After all the fear and torment he had inflicted, it felt too easy, too swift. Part of her had wanted him to suffer for what he had done. Yet another, wiser part took satisfaction in letting his end be swift, as if Ramsay Snow’s death was unimportant, just like his life. Sansa knew Ramsay all too well, and to be forgotten so quickly would be the gravest insult to the bastard.

Soon, Wolkan arrived. A grey stubble was now hiding his chin, and the old maester looked half a decade older, even though it had been less than half a year since Sansa last saw him. His hands trembled, his face was hollow, and the circles underneath his eyes were almost purple.

“You c-called for m-me, my l-lord?” he stammered, teeth rattling with every second word. There was poorly veiled fear in Wolkan’s dark eyes, as if he feared her brother would bite off his head.

“Aye. My sweet sister insists I’m to be patched up.” Jon offered a wry smile that somewhat reassured the trembling maester.

“I… I’ll need you to remove your armour, m-my lord.”

Sansa opened her mouth to protest, but Jon cut her off with a harsh look.

…She had made a mistake, she realised.

She had rebuked him in public, where lords and soldiers might see, and whispers of disunity could spread. She should have known better. Arguments between kin were to remain behind closed doors, far away from errant ears and wagging tongues.

Meanwhile, Jon stripped without shame, as if he were not in the middle of the yard. Each part of the heavy armour was meticulously unstrapped, laid on a nearby chest, then came off the mail, and last was his padded jacket. Only his trousers and boots remained. Sansa turned her eyes aside, but not before stealing a glance at his bare chest.

Her brother’s body was still lithe yet brimming with power. He wasn’t hulking with muscle like the Clegane brothers, but his torso was no less impressive, reminding Sansa of a shadowcat, lean, agile, and no less deadly for it. The seven angry stab wounds across his chest had become dull silver, but a multitude of new yet faint scars adorned the rest of his torso—even his side and his back bore such marks.

‘Jon must have earned those in the wolfswood,’ Sansa realised. But gods, there were too many scars. How much had her brother fought in those two moons while the host was on the march?

“You’re as h-healthy as an auroch, my lord, if a bit winded.”

“Good. See to the others now.” Jon waved him off.

Wolkan fled, as if her brother’s words had been a royal pardon.

Sansa noticed then that Lyanna Mormont and Shireen were here, staring at her brother, wide-eyed. Even Brienne seemed unusually quiet, but her gaze didn’t move away either. The young Mormont Lady looked on with open interest, and Shireen’s cheeks were aflame.

“Jon,” Sansa said dryly, “you may dress now.”

He flashed her a wicked grin and instead dunked his head in a water pail, scrubbing away the gore.

Gods, had her brother always been so incorrigible?

This had to be revenge for ordering him around.

A merry shout cut through the silence.

“Jon Snow!” Tormund Giantsbane was strolling over, face caked with blood and grinning like a maniac. “Good fight. The only thing missing is a horn of good mead and a pretty lass in my arms, har!”

The poorly fit brigandine that stretched around his wide waist was no less drenched in gore, the crimson hiding away its original colour. Sansa was certain the wildling had only boasted a ringmail last evening.

Jon laughed. “Still alive, then?”

“Barely broke a sweat,” the wildling boasted, though his breathing was heavy and laboured. “Those pink men were barely worth a mention—I’ve fought women more dangerous than them, har!”

“Yet they gifted you a new trophy.” Jon pointed to a bloody gash on the wildling’s cheek. “That one is deep enough to scar.”

Tormund waved it off. “Bah, just a scratch.”

“You should see the maester,” Sansa chimed in.

The wildling frowned, but Jon backed her. “She’s right, you know. Greater warriors have died from small wounds festering. No point in risking it.”

Tormund grumbled for a bit but eventually relented. “Fine!”

As Jon pulled out a clean tunic from somewhere, Sansa realised she had no idea what came next. The march, the supplies, the battle, and her brother had consumed her thoughts, and victory had granted everything she had wanted.

Now, she felt lost.

Just then, a clansman approached, panting. “My lord,” he wheezed out. “Riders approaching from the wolfswood. Fifty of them, bearing the banners of House Glover and House Mormont.”

The Gates of the Moon

Autumn was ending, and snowfall had blocked most of the mountain roads in the Vale. The Eyrie would soon become inaccessible, so the new Lord Arryn had moved court to the Gates of the Moon.

Most of the important Vale Lords had gathered in the hall for the feast celebrating Harrold Arryn’s ascension as Lord Paramount of the Vale and Warden of the East. He had taken the Vale and the mantle of the falcon, and with it, discarded the Hardyng name for Arryn. Today, the death of the sickly Robin Arryn had not even warranted a mention—the spoiled, sickly boy would not be missed by any. His mother had shielded him from the lords and their heirs, and no connections had been formed. Even his funeral had been a hasty affair, where the remains had been laid in the Arryn crypts below.

Of course, there was more than the new Lord Arryn’s ascension to power. The tides of war across the Seven Kingdoms had shifted, and new faces were propping up old claims. King Aegon Targaryen and Queen Regent Cersei Lannister, in the name of her youngest son Tommen, were laying claim to the Seven Kingdoms. One wrote from Storm’s End and the other one from Casterly Rock, and both had called upon the Vale banners and fealty. Yet, like Lysa Arryn before him, Harrold Arryn was in no hurry to pick a side.

At the dais, he was seated upon the weirwood throne and watched silently as the lords in attendance argued loudly, discussing what to do.

Ser Lyn Corbray, representing his elder brother, rose from his seat and spoke, “We ought to ride out and trample that Targaryen pretender underneath our hooves!”

Yohn Royce slammed his hand on the table. “That would mean siding with the Lannisters! You might have forgotten, Ser Lyn, but I haven’t! The lions killed Lord Jon Arryn. They killed Eddard Stark, too. Most of us have seen Ned from his fostering in the Vale, and he did not have a single treacherous bone in his body. Our honour demanded to ride out of the Bloody Gate and crush all the lions and roses with the Young Wolf.”

“Honour demands we follow the orders of our liege lord,” someone shouted across the table.

“You call it orders, I call it cowardice—Lysa Arryn was merely a mad woman unfit to serve for a regent!”

The hall exploded in mayhem again. Some were jeering, while others were hollering in agreement. It took a good minute before the commotion could dwindle.

“My lords, we swore to follow the Iron Throne,” Lord Horton Redfort spoke next from his seat. “But King’s Landing is all but a charred ruin, and the Iron Throne is no more! Why would we follow a king who rules from the Rock or Storm’s End? Let the lions and the dragons fight each other. We swore fealty under the threat of Dragonfire, and the dragons are long dead!”

The whole hall stilled.

“The Lannisters and the Targaryens can go fuck themselves,” agreed Gilwood Hunter, the new Lord of Longbow Hall. “I remember when Elbert Arryn and Kyle Royce were killed by the Mad King before the Rebellion, their lives ended with no rhyme or reason, not even a crime pinned to their good name. And it was earlier this autumn when the Lannister Imp armed the mountain clansmen with steel, and they have been raiding us harder than ever. Let all the dragons and lions who want to rule us come and break their teeth and claws at the Bloody Gate if they dare.”

“This is a rebellion you two sots are speaking of. Such things are not to be done without due cause!”

“Who said anything about rebellion? The Vale is a vassal of the Iron Throne, of course. Those pretenders not sitting on it deserve no support!”

The blatant denial was met with many snorts or chuckles of amusement, but many of the lords turned thoughtful at the clever wordplay. Nobody was sitting on the Iron Throne, and perhaps nobody would ever sit on it again, for the eerie jade fog killed all who entered the ruined city that lingered like an open wound on the mouth of the Blackwater Rush.

The next to speak was Lord Belmore. “Winter is almost upon us. In a few moons, most roads in the Mountains of the Moon would be blocked by snowfall. We should head back to our castles and wait until spring before taking any hasty decisions, I say.”

The Lords of the Vale held no love for the Lannisters or the Targaryens, yet their Young Falcon had yet to prove himself worthy of a crown. While it was heavily implied, nobody dared to speak of treason and rebellion openly, not with a green summer boy in charge. They had given their fealty to their new liege, but their true loyalty had yet to be won.

Harrold Arryn stood and watched the lords argue, trying to keep his expression impassive while vividly imagining how he would ravish the buxom maid serving him wine.

A Girl, The Twins

‘She was Arya Stark of Winterfell,’ the girl reminded herself. The words helped her remember, even if it was blurry and distant, an echo of a feeling that threatened to slip between her fingers.

Most members of House Frey slowly spilt into the great hall to attend the feast. A handful of weasels were scattered throughout the Riverlands, but those of import were all here, kept closely by the old weasel. Wearing Walder’s face made her feel particularly oily.

In a few minutes, the tables were filled with smiling and laughing weasels, and the atmosphere had grown festive as everyone chatted happily. The girl slammed her cup down twice, and everyone fell silent.

She stood up and spoke in the raspy voice of the old weasel, “You wonder why I called you all here tonight. After all, we just had a feast. Since when does old Walder give two feasts in a single fortnight?”

The hall boomed with laughter.

“Well, being so successful as I have is no good if you don’t celebrate with your family. That’s what I say!”

The proclamation was met with a wave of cheers, and the fools started slamming their fists on the tables in approval. The girl gave a sign to the servants, and soon, wine and pies were being served to everyone. There was plenty left of Lame Lothar and Black Walder, and she had also carved up Lord Walder himself to add to the meat.

“I’ve gathered every Frey who means a damn thing so I can tell you my plans for this great house now thatWinter is about to come.” It was a mocking, raspy tone, but nobody seemed to notice, for Walder Frey had always been irascible and sharp of tongue. “But first, a toast! No more of that Dornish horse piss. This is the finest Arbour gold, straight from the cellars of Lord Redwyne himself. Proper wine for proper heroes!”

Another wave of deafening cheers drowned the hall, and she had to smack the butt of her chalice on the table thrice to silence them.

“We stand together!” Everyone stood up and echoed House Frey’s words after her, gulping down the wine.

Her old, shrivelled hand held the cup to her lips, pretending to drink and hiding her self-satisfied smile at the sight of Frey fools eating Frey pies.

Even the servants and Walder’s young wife, some Erenford chit, had picked their cups to drink. But the girl did not care about innocence and the like—all of them would die here to keep company with her mother and brother in death. Why would the girl have mercy? Her brother’s wife had been innocent too, but she had not been spared, nor had the babe in her womb.

A glance told her everyone was drinking as per her orders. The guards, the servants, the wives, daughters, and sons.

“Maybe I’m not the most pleasant man.” A hoarse, mocking laughter choked from her throat. “But I’m proud of you lot! You’re my family, the men and women who helped me slaughter the Starks in the Red Wedding.”

Most cheered at her words, but some looked behind their shoulders as the bards began to play the Rat Cook at her sign.

“Yes, yes, cheer. Brave men, all of you. Butchered a woman pregnant with her babe. Cut the throat of a mother of five. Slaughtered your guests after inviting them into your home. But you didn’t slaughter every single one of the Starks.”

Some of the Freys finally looked alarmed at her words. But it was too late; pained groans slowly started filling the hall. Then the coughs came as many choked on their food, and the song grew discordant until it abruptly halted. She hadn’t spared the bards either.

“No, no, that was your mistake,” the girl continued harshly. “You should have ripped them all out, root and stem. Leave one wolf alive, and the sheep are never safe!”

One thud after another followed as the bodies fell, cups and cutlery clanking down on the floor or the tables. The girl coldly watched as they all started to claw at their throats and chests, hacking up blood. The girl did not look away even for a second, watching until the old weasel’s wife and the serving girl expired, their faces scrunched up in pain and desperation.

Vengeance was supposed to be sweet, but it tasted like ash on her tongue, and her heart felt hollow, dead.

“I am Arya Stark of Winterfell.” It sounded so wrong in Walder Frey’s rusty voice.

Yet the mask remained on her face. If she had killed everyone inside the Twins, nobody would be able to tell the tale of what had happened here. All the guards and servants had been served poisoned wine on her orders.

She went to the maester’s room, still wearing the old weasel’s face. Maester Brennet was still alive and reading a scroll, and the cup of wine on his table was untouched. Without the old maester, she wouldn’t know how to send ravens across Westeros.

“My lord, it is dangerous to move too much with gout at your age,” the maester said with concern as soon as she entered.

“Nonsense. After this feast, I feel as spry as a newborn pup. I have a letter to send to everyone.”

“Everyone?”

“Aye, every keep we have ravens for in the Seven Kingdoms.” And the greedy Walder Frey had plenty of ravens trained to fly to every corner of the realm.

The maester shuffled and put a stack of parchments on the desk, inking his quill. “What should I write, My Lord?”

“Do you remember the tale of the Rat Cook? The North Remembers. Winter is coming,” the girl uttered with her own voice in the end, peeling away the old weasel’s face and discarding it on the ground. Maester Brennet froze, and his face paled rapidly.

“GUARDS! FACELESS MAN!”

“Shout all you want, maester.” The girl stabbed her dagger into the table. The mask was gone, and the gaping hole inside felt heavier than before. “Nobody will come. The only people alive in the Twins are you and me.” “Now write if you value your life.”

The old man looked as white as chalk, and his eyes darted around. She raised a brow and started fiddling with the dagger’s handle. Seeing that nobody was coming, the old man gulped and started inking down her words with a shaking hand.

It took over an hour for the messages to be written and ravens sent out, and the girl watched his every move like a hawk.

When the last raven flew away, the maester turned around and fell to his knees. “Mercy, please, mercy! I am innocent.” She gripped the dagger, unmoved. “I know that the Faceless Men only kill their targets. Nobody would have paid for my life!”

But the girl was not part of the order; she had barely managed to get away. And he was wrong; coin was not the only currency the God of Death accepted.

She took a step forward. “Valar Morghulis.”

“I can be useful.” The maester was shaking like a leaf. “There are prisoners in the dungeons—”

The dagger sliced through his jugular, sinking into his windpipe. The old man fell to the ground and pitifully gurgled as his shaky hands tried to stop the blood leaking from his sliced throat. She watched dispassionately until he grew slack.

“I am Arya Stark of Winterfell,” the words weakly rolled off her tongue. It was not a declaration but… a reminder in case she forgot again.

Turning around, the girl marched down to the dungeons, curious to see who the prisoners were.

If they even existed. Perhaps a survivor from the Red Wedding?

It took her quite some time to find the keys to the cells, hanging on the belt of a dead guardsman next to a fallen cup of wine in one of the hallways. She picked them up and started checking the cells one by one.

Most were empty, but there was one with an old corpse inside. He had been dead for quite some time, as it was half rotten, and the stench was unbearable. The girl had almost given up on finding anyone until she got to the last cell. Inside was a very tall man with both legs shackled to the wall. He had unkempt grey hair and a messy beard and was dressed in rags and stank of shit and piss. There was still a hint of muscle on his painfully thin frame despite his terrible condition.

“Lyanna!? By the old gods, am I dead already?” The booming voice was painfully familiar from a distant time when things had yet to go wrong.

She knew very few men of such height, and even fewer with such a voice. It felt like a dream.

But then, everything felt like a dream as of late. What would Arya Stark of Winterfell say?

“You’re not dead, Lord Umber. And my name’s not Lyanna,” the girl muttered. It wasn’t the first time the girl had been mistaken for her dead aunt.

Greatjon’s face scrunched in confusion for a heartbeat, but understanding appeared in his flinty eyes.

“You must be Ned’s girl! Run, Arya, if the treacherous weasels catch you…”

“Fret not, Lord Umber,” she interrupted him, stabbing the key into the manacle’s keyhole. With a twist of her wrist, they cracked open with a rusty click. “I’ve already killed every single Frey here.”

He looked around wildly, but when he saw nobody was coming, Greatjon grinned savagely. “Good!”

The large man’s legs shook as he struggled to stand but refused help. Within a few heartbeats, the Umber stood tall, rubbing his wrists to get the blood flowing again before eyeing her with respect. “What now, Lady Arya?”

She paused. She was Arya Stark of Winterfell.

It felt right, coming out of another mouth that did not belong to her. It was not a dream, after all. Or had this old, tired lord dreamed the same thing in the darkness of the cell?

The girl needed to remember more, but the old prayer echoed in her head.

Cersei Lannister. Meryn Trant. Ser Ilyn Payne. Dunsen. But maybe Ser Ilyn Payne was dead, because King’s Landing had burned with green fire. Who was Dunsen again? She couldn’t remember.

The girl needed to remember more.

She was… she was Arya Stark of Winterfell. What did it mean to be Arya Stark of Winterfell?

“Now we take whatever we can carry from here and throw the rest in the Green Fork. Then we go North.” The girl paused hesitantly. “Lord Umber, could you tell me of the North? I… I don’t remember much.”