Part VI - Arya
How Arya had survived, she did not know - and unharmed, at that. The floors of the castle dyed red with blood as bodies piled up, women were raped, and buildings burned; the ruins of Harren the Black's great castle now themselves stood in ashy ruin.
Between sunrise and sunset, three armies had held the great castle. As they had for several weeks, outriders from Lord Tyrell's main army garrisoned Harrenhal, from whom her brother Robb seized the castle in the middle of the afternoon. Before the King in the North had even a chance to regroup his defenses - or have Arya, hidden in the kitchens, reveal herself to him - the army of the Vale arrived, meeting open arms with sword and dagger. Lord Harrold's men slaughtered the Northern army, looted and burned the castle, and left Harrenhal a burnt shell.
Three weeks had passed since that fateful day. The Lord of the Vale's army made camp outside Harrenhal, with the Lord taking up residence in one of the mostly-undamaged towers. The few smallfolk who had survived the slaughter were pressed into duty restoring the walls, the men doing manual labor, the women and young children refurnishing the interior and performing routine maintenance. Arya, still known by the name Weasel, worked in the kitchens as a serving girl.
"Weasel, you dimwitted girl! The Lord Harrold requires dinner for two be brought to the Wailing Tower," barked the old lady Lord Hardying had given the title of head maid. "For himself and the Lord Baelish." Arya nodded assent, but her face paled.
Lord Petyr Baelish. Arya did not now the whole story, but she did know that her the master of coin had a long history with her mother, and that the man had betrayed her father. Would he recognize her? She hoped not, as he had clearly shown that he was a Lannister supporter.
As she entered the private dining hall in the Wailing Tower carrying dinner, she heard a familiar voice. "...but I assure you, Lord Hardying, as far as the Imp is concerned you are a loyal ally of House Lannister who dealt with a rebellious Northern traitor fancying himself a king; not even Varys knows of your pact with Stannis."
Harrold shook his head. "Lord Baelish, you have been Cersei Lannister's closest..." He stopped when saw Arya. "Oh look, dinner has arrived. Bring it here, girl."
Arya kept her head down as she passed out dinner from the kitchens, a roasted turkey with fine spices from Volantis and Dornish wine - gifts from Lord Baelish, she was sure. When she was done, she hurriedly bowed to the two lords and excused herself, claiming that she was needed in the kitchens, but Littlefinger stopped her. "Girl, come here one moment."
Dammit, he recognized me, she thought, but he had other ideas. "Whose are you, girl?"
Arya blinked her eyes, not understanding. "Pardon me, my lord?"
"Lord Harrold, who assigned this girl to serve your meals? How do you know she is not one of Varys's little birds?"
The Lord of the Vale looked at the older man quizzically. "She is but a serving girl from the kitchens, my lord; a different one comes every night. She is lowborn, and beneath me."
At that, Littlefinger laughed. "My friend, you have come far, but still you have much to learn. The people to fear are not Cersei Lannister, or the Imp, or Robb Stark, but the lowborn, the smallfolk. Highborn lords, they fight with rules, they travel in luxury, their name follows them everywhere; learning their movements, finding their intentions, exploiting their weakness, a child could do it, if a child only knew to listen. But the lowborn, the oppressed, the trodden underfoot - they brood in silence, they travel without fanfare, they hide in plain sight. They can be your biggest source of power...but also your greatest weakness." He gestured to Arya. "Where are you from, girl?"
"Maidenpool, ruled by House Mooton."
"Liar. Your accent is Northern and you bear a Stark face. Where are you from?"
Arya swallowed. "Last Hearth, my lord, ruled by House Umber. The people believe my grandfather was the bastard son of Edwyle Stark, because he and Lord Rickard were of similar appearance. My father looked like a Stark, my mother said, and so do I. But I am not sure if I believe them; I saw the King in the North with my own eyes, and he has brown hair, while mine is black."
Baelish nodded. "And how is a girl from Last Hearth all the way here in Harrenhal?"
"My mother died when I was young, and my father was sent to war by Lord Umber; I had no other family, so I joined him. But he died at Riverrun, and I...I got lost, and was taken by Lannister men, and they brought me here. That is the truth, I swear."
Once again, Littlefinger laughed. "You see, Lord Harrold, the smallfolk have such stories to tell, and you can do much with them. All you have to do is listen; you must learn that while I am away."
"Away?" The Lord of the Vale seemed alarmed. "What do you mean, away? I need you here." But Baelish just shook his head as he rose to his feet.
"I am a businessmen and a politician, not a general; I can help you no more from here. And with Tywin imprisoned at Riverrun, the Northern army vanquished, and the King in the North wounded and imprisoned here in Harrenhal, there is no threat between here and King's Landing; even Kevan Lannister's army assembling at Casterly Rock is too far away to be of any use. But the Imp still thinks I am loyal to him, just as he thinks you and your army are, and I intend to keep things that way. Perhaps I will convince him to let me go to Braavos; the Iron Bank will back Stannis I am sure, with the Crown defaulting on its loans and Westerosi pirates harassing the Bank's ships."
Right before Littlefinger closed the door behind him, Harrold called to him. "You never answered my question, Lord Baelish. The Lannisters gave you everything, elevated you from a small lordling to the Master of Coin - why should you betray them?"
"Look around Westeros. What we do, it's all a game that we're all playing - and friends are only as useful as they are successful. The Lannisters hold an empty hand, although they do not know it. You and me, our goals work together. You want power. Respect. You were born to nothing, and I have made you the most important Lord in Westeros."
"And what do you want Baelish?"
"Everything, my friend." Littlefinger smiled. "Everything there is." With that, he closed the door behind him.
Arya stood there, her head bowed. "Well, girl?" the Lord of the Vale demanded. "What are you still doing here? Go back to...whatever it is you lowborn girls do."
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The halls were empty aside from Arya; that was no surprise, as she had been ordered early that night to clean the kitchens, and not to go to bed until the job was done; the job had taken her several hours, and the moon had already reached its height and began its descent. At this hour, the castle seemed quiet; you could almost believe Harrenhal was not occupied by an army, that there was no war.
Until, of course, the scream filled the night.
Arya jumped, on the lookout for a potential threat, but when the scream came again, she realized it was not of a scream of fear, or of battle, but of anguish, of pain, of suffering. There was something familiar about it, although she could not place it. Curious, she followed the noise, making sure nobody else was around, before reaching a door; the screaming came from behind it.
"A girl seeks what is behind the door; a girl may not like it." Arya whirled around to see Jaqen H'ghar. "A man has two names. A girl has one more."
Not now, Arya thought. The third name could wait; for some reason, she could not concentrate on anything but the screaming voice. "Behind the door. You said I might not like it - what is it?"
"A girl does not belong here; she seeks what is not hers."
"Please, Jaqen," Arya begged. "I have to know."
"Very well. A girl bids, a man does." Jaqen opened the door, and she peered inside.
The screaming came from a man lying on a single bed, the only piece of furniture in the otherwise-bare room. It was dark, with just one small candle in the corner; shadows danced across the man's face.....His face, once fair, charred black; on one side, the skin had been burned away to bone blackened with smoke. His eyes, once blue, now so pale they were almost white, looked but did not see, distant and cold; his hair, once auburn and flowing, now patchy and blackened. Above his head hung a wolf's head, likewise blackened with soot, was hanged over his head, a crown of iron dug upside-down into its head.
Arya's knees buckled, and she fell to the floor. "Robb....no." If Robb heard her, he gave no indication; his wordless screams continued.
"A boy has suffered. He will receive the gift of the Many-Faced God soon."
No. "Can you save him?"
"Where there is death there will always be death. The Many-Faced God does not punish; his touch is a gift. A man must depart on the morrow; a man needs a name."
Arya sighed. She had been thinking for weeks who to name third; she wanted to help Robb, to help end the war, but since the obvious choice - Tywin Lannister - was already captured by his armies, she had not come to a decision. And now she had to make one, and Robb was not only captured in battle, but fatally wounded, and his mind was gone. Now that her brother was defeated and her family likely to meet her father's fate, she suddenly had the urge to leave Westeros for good.
"Can I come with you? I want to learn."
Jaqen seemed to be getting impatient. "If a girl wants to learn, she must come to Braavos. But first, she must give a name."
Arya looked back at Robb, wiping tears from her eyes; there was only one way she could help her brother. "I'm sorry, Robb."
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Well well well...betcha didn't see that coming. What's Littlefinger's game? Or Varys, for that matter - for surely he has plans. And no, as noted below, this is not a new king, but a succession.
The Six Kings:
1. Joffrey Baratheon, King on the Iron Throne
2. Stannis Baratheon, Lord of the Stormlands
3. Renly Baratheon, Lord of the Stormlands (deceased)
4. Robb Stark, King in the North and of the Trident (deceased). Succeeded by Eddard Stark, Son of Robb Stark (infant)
5. Balon Greyjoy, King of the Iron Isles (invading the North)
6. Mance Rayder, King-Beyond-the-Wall (invading the North)
Other important lords:
1. Mace Tyrell, Lord of the Reach.
2. Doran Martell, Prince of Dorne
3. Harrold Hardying, Lord of the Vale
4. Oberyn Martell, Lord of Plankytown
5. Petyr Baelish, Master of Coin
