Confusion and clangor ruled the castle. Men stood on the beds of
wagons loading casks of wine, sacks of flour, and bundles of
new-fletched arrows. Smiths straightened swords, knocked dents from
breastplates, and shoed destriers and pack mules alike. Mail shirts
were tossed in barrels of sand and rolled across the lumpy surface
of the Flowstone Yard to scour them clean. Weese’s women had
twenty cloaks to mend, a hundred more to wash. The high and humble
crowded into the sept together to pray. Outside the walls, tents
and pavilions were coming down. Squires tossed pails of water over
cookfires, while soldiers took out their oilstones to give their
blades one last good lick. The noise was a swelling tide: horses
blowing and whickering, lords shouting commands, men-at-arms
trading curses, camp followers squabbling.
Lord Tywin Lannister was marching at last.
Ser Addam Marbrand was the first of the captains to depart, a
day before the rest. He made a gallant show of it, riding a
spirited red courser whose mane was the same copper color as the
long hair that streamed past Ser Addam’s shoulders. The horse
was barded in bronze-colored trappings dyed to match the
rider’s cloak and emblazoned with the burning tree. Some of
the castle women sobbed to see him go. Weese said he was a great
horseman and sword fighter, Lord Tywin’s most daring
commander. I hope he dies, Arya thought as she watched him ride out the
gate, his men streaming after him in a double column. I hope they
all die. They were going to fight Robb, she knew. Listening to the
talk as she went about her work, Arya had learned that Robb had won
some great victory in the west. He’d burned Lannisport, some
said, or else he meant to burn it. He’d captured Casterly
Rock and put everyone to the sword, or he was besieging the Golden
Tooth . . . but something had happened, that
much was certain.
Weese had her running messages from dawn to dusk. Some of them
even took her beyond the castle walls, out into the mud and madness
of the camp. I could flee, she thought as a wagon rumbled past her.
I could hop on the back of a wagon and hide, or fall in with the
camp followers, no one would stop me. She might have done it if not
for Weese. He’d told them more than once what he’d do
to anyone who tried to run off on him. “It won’t be no
beating, oh, no. I won’t lay a finger on you. I’ll just
save you for the Qohorik, yes I will, I’ll save you for the
Crippler. Vargo Hoat his name is, and when he gets back he’ll
cut off your feet.” Maybe if Weese were dead, Arya
thought . . . but not when she was with him. He
could look at you and smell what you were thinking, he always said
so.
Weese never imagined she could read, though, so he never
bothered to seal the messages he gave her. Arya peeked at them all,
but they were never anything good, just stupid stuff sending this
cart to the granary and that one to the armory. One was a demand
for payment on a gambling debt, but the knight she gave it to
couldn’t read. When she told him what it said he tried to hit
her, but Arya ducked under the blow, snatched a silver-banded
drinking horn off his saddle, and darted away. The knight roared
and came after her, but she slid between two wayns, wove through a
crowd of archers, and jumped a latrine trench. In his mail he
couldn’t keep up. When she gave the horn to Weese, he told
her that a smart little Weasel like her deserved a reward.
“I’ve got my eye on a plump crisp capon to sup on
tonight. We’ll share it, me and you. You’ll like
that.”
Everywhere she went, Arya searched for Jaqen H’ghar,
wanting to whisper another name to him before those she hated were
all gone out of her reach, but amidst the chaos and confusion the
Lorathi sellsword was not to be found. He still owed her two
deaths, and she was worried she would never get them if he rode off
to battle with the rest. Finally she worked up the courage to ask
one of the gate guards if he’d gone. “One of
Lorch’s men, is he?” the man said. “He
won’t be going, then. His lordship’s named Ser Amory
castellan of Harrenhal. That whole lot’s staying right here,
to hold the castle. The Bloody Mummers will be left as well, to do
the foraging. That goat Vargo Hoat is like to spit, him and Lorch
have always hated each other.”
The Mountain would be leaving with Lord Tywin, though. He would
command the van in battle, which meant that Dunsen, Polliver, and
Raff would all slip between her fingers unless she could find Jaqen
and have him kill one of them before they left.
“Weasel,” Weese said that afternoon. “Get to
the armory and tell Lucan that Ser Lyonel notched his sword in
practice and needs a new one. Here’s his mark.” He
handed her a square of paper. “Be quick about it now,
he’s to ride with Ser Kevan Lannister.”
Arya took the paper and ran. The armory adjoined the castle
smithy, a long high-roofed tunnel of a building with twenty forges
built into its walls and long stone water troughs for tempering the
steel. Half of the forges were at work when she entered. The walls
rang with the sound of hammers, and burly men in leather aprons
stood sweating in the sullen heat as they bent over bellows and
anvils. When she spied Gendry, his bare chest was slick with sweat,
but the blue eyes under the heavy black hair had the stubborn look
she remembered. Arya didn’t know that she even wanted to talk
to him. It was his fault they’d all been caught. “Which
one is Lucan?” She thrust out the paper. “I’m to
get a new sword for Ser Lyonel.”
“Never mind about Ser Lyonel.” He drew her aside by
the arm. “Last night Hot Pie asked me if I heard you yell
Winterfell back at the holdfast, when we were all fighting on the
wall.”
“I never did!”
“Yes you did. I heard you too.”
“Everyone was yelling stuff,” Arya said defensively.
“Hot Pie yelled hot pie. He must have yelled it a hundred
times.”
“It’s what you yelled that matters. I told Hot Pie
he should clean the wax out of his ears, that all you yelled was Go
to hell! If he asks you, you better say the same.”
“I will,” she said, even though she thought go to
hell was a stupid thing to yell. She didn’t dare tell Hot Pie
who she really was. Maybe I should say Hot Pie’s name to
Jaqen.
“I’ll get Lucan,” Gendry said.
Lucan grunted at the writing (though Arya did not think he could
read it), and pulled down a heavy longsword. “This is too
good for that oaf, and you tell him I said so,” he said as he
gave her the blade.
“I will,” she lied. If she did any such thing, Weese
would beat her bloody. Lucan could deliver his own insults.
The longsword was a lot heavier than Needle had been, but Arya
liked the feel of it. The weight of steel in her hands made her
feel stronger. Maybe I’m not a water dancer yet, but
I’m not a mouse either. A mouse couldn’t use a sword
but I can. The gates were open, soldiers coming and going, drays
rolling in empty and going out creaking and swaying under their
loads. She thought about going to the stables and telling them that
Ser Lyonel wanted a new horse. She had the paper, the stableboys
wouldn’t be able to read it any better than Lucan had. I
could take the horse and the sword and just ride out. If the guards
tried to stop me I’d show them the paper and say I was
bringing everything to Ser Lyonel. She had no notion what Ser
Lyonel looked like or where to find him, though. If they questioned
her, they’d know, and then
Weese . . . Weese . . .
As she chewed her lip, trying not to think about how it would
feel to have her feet cut off, a group of archers in leather
jerkins and iron helms went past, their bows slung across their
shoulders. Arya heard snatches of their talk.
“ . . . giants I tell you,
he’s got giants twenty foot tall come down from beyond the
Wall, follow him like dogs . . . ”
“ . . . not natural, coming on them so
fast, in the night and all. He’s more wolf than man, all them
Starks are . . . ”
“ . . . shit on your wolves and giants, the boy’d piss his
pants if he knew we was coming. He wasn’t man enough to march
on Harrenhal, was he? Ran t’other way, didn’t he? He’d
run now if he knew what was best for him.”
“So you say, but might be the boy knows something we
don’t, maybe it’s us ought to be
run . . . ” Yes, Arya thought. Yes, it’s you who ought to run, you and
Lord Tywin and the Mountain and Ser Addam and Ser Amory and stupid
Ser Lyonel whoever he is, all of you better run or my brother will
kill you, he’s a Stark, he’s more wolf than man, and so
am I.
“Weasel.” Weese’s voice cracked like a whip.
She never saw where he came from, but suddenly he was right in
front of her. “Give me that. Took you long enough.” He
snatched the sword from her fingers, and dealt her a stinging slap
with the back of his hand. “Next time be quicker about
it.”
For a moment she had been a wolf again, but Weese’s slap
took it all away and left her with nothing but the taste of her own
blood in her mouth. She’d bitten her tongue when he hit her.
She hated him for that.
“You want another?” Weese demanded.
“You’ll get it too. I’ll have none of your
insolent looks. Get down to the brewhouse and tell Tuffleberry that
I have two dozen barrels for him, but he better send his lads to
fetch them or I’ll find someone wants ’em worse.”
Arya started off, but not quick enough for Weese. “You run if
you want to eat tonight,” he shouted, his promises of a plump
crisp capon already forgotten. “And don’t be getting
lost again, or I swear I’ll beat you bloody.” You won’t, Arya thought. You won’t ever again. But
she ran. The old gods of the north must have been guiding her
steps. Halfway to the brewhouse, as she passing under the stone
bridge that arched between Widow’s Tower and Kingspyre, she
heard harsh, growling laughter. Rorge came around a corner with
three other men, the manticore badge of Ser Amory sewn over their
hearts. When he saw her, he stopped and grinned, showing a mouthful
of crooked brown teeth under the leather flap he wore sometimes to
cover the hole in his face. “Yoren’s little
cunt,” he called her. “Guess we know why that black
bastard wanted you on the Wall, don’t we?” He laughed
again, and the others laughed with him. “Where’s your
stick now?” Rorge demanded suddenly, the smile gone as quick
as it had come. “Seems to me I promised to fuck you with
it.” He took a step toward her. Arya edged backward.
“Not so brave now that I’m not in chains, are
you?”
“I saved you.” She kept a good yard between them,
ready to run quick as a snake if he made a grab for her.
“Owe you another fucking for that, seems like. Did Yoren
pump your cunny, or did he like that tight little ass
better?”
“I’m looking for Jaqen,” she said.
“There’s a message.”
Rorge halted. Something in his
eyes . . . could it be that he was scared of
Jaqen H’ghar? “The bathhouse. Get out of my
way.”
Arya whirled and ran, swift as a deer, her feet flying over the
cobbles all the way to the bathhouse, She found Jaqen soaking in a
tub, steam rising around him as a serving girl sluiced hot water
over his head. His long hair, red on one side and white on the
other, fell down across his shoulders, wet and heavy.
She crept up quiet as a shadow, but he opened his eyes all the
same. “She steals in on little mice feet, but a man
hears,” he said. How could he hear me? she wondered, and it
seemed as if he heard that as well. “The scuff of leather on
stone sings loud as warhorns to a man with open ears. Clever girls
go barefoot.”
“I have a message.” Arya eyed the serving girl
uncertainly. When she did not seem likely to go away, she leaned in
until her mouth was almost touching his ear. “Weese,”
she whispered.
Jaqen H’ghar closed his eyes again, floating languid, half-asleep. “Tell his lordship a man shall attend him at his
leisure.” His hand moved suddenly, splashing hot water at
her, and Arya had to leap back to keep from getting drenched.
When she told Tuffleberry what Weese had said, the brewer cursed
loudly. “You tell Weese my lads got duties to attend to, and
you tell him he’s a pox-ridden bastard too, and the seven
hells will freeze over before he gets another horn of my ale.
I’ll have them barrels within the hour or Lord Tywin will
hear of it, see if he don’t.”
Weese cursed too when Arya brought back that message, even
though she left out the pox-ridden bastard part. He fumed and
threatened, but in the end he rounded up six men and sent them off
grumbling to fetch the barrels down to the brewhouse.
Supper that evening was a thin stew of barley, onion, and
carrots, with a wedge of stale brown bread. One of the women had
taken to sleeping in Weese’s bed, and she got a piece of ripe
blue cheese as well, and a wing off the capon that Weese had spoken
of that morning. He ate the rest himself, the grease running down
in a shiny line through the boils that festered at the corner of
his mouth. The bird was almost gone when he glanced up from his
trencher and saw Arya staring. “Weasel, come here.”
A few mouthfuls of dark meat still clung to one thigh. He
forgot, but now he’s remembered, Arya thought. It made her
feel bad for telling Jaqen to kill him. She got off the bench and
went to the head of the table.
“I saw you looking at me.” Weese wiped his fingers
on the front of her shift. Then he grabbed her throat with one hand
and slapped her with the other. “What did I tell you?”
He slapped her again, backhand. “Keep those eyes to yourself,
or next time I’ll spoon one out and feed it to my
bitch.” A shove sent her stumbling to the floor. Her hem
caught on a loose nail in the splintered wooden bench and ripped as
she fell. “You’ll mend that before you sleep,”
Weese announced as he pulled the last bit of meat off the capon.
When he was finished he sucked his fingers noisily, and threw the
bones to his ugly spotted dog.
“Weese,” Arya whispered that night as she bent over
the tear in her shift. “Dunsen, Polliver, Raff the
Sweetling,” she said, calling a name every time she pushed
the bone needle through the undyed wool. “The Tickler and the
Hound. Ser Gregor, Ser Amory, Ser Ilyn, Ser Meryn, King Joffrey,
Queen Cersei.” She wondered how much longer she would have to
include Weese in her prayer, and drifted off to sleep dreaming that
on the morrow, when she woke, he’d be dead.
But it was the sharp toe of Weese’s boot that woke her, as
ever. The main strength of Lord Tywin’s host would ride this
day, he told them as they broke their fast on oatcakes.
“Don’t none of you be thinking how easy it’ll be
here once m’lord of Lannister is gone,” he warned.
“The castle won’t grow no smaller, I promise you that,
only now there’ll be fewer hands to tend to it. You lot of
slugabeds are going to learn what work is now, yes you
are.” Not from you. Arya picked at her oaten cake. Weese frowned at
her, as if he smelled her secret. Quickly she dropped her gaze to
her food, and dared not raise her eyes again.
Pale light filled the yard when Lord Tywin Lannister took his
leave of Harrenhal. Arya watched from an arched window halfway up
the Wailing Tower. His charger wore a blanket of enameled crimson
scales and gilded crinet and chamfron, while Lord Tywin himself
sported a thick ermine cloak. His brother Ser Kevan looked near as
splendid. No less than four standard-bearers went before them,
carrying huge crimson banners emblazoned with the golden lion.
Behind the Lannisters came their great lords and captains. Their
banners flared and flapped, a pageant of color: red ox and golden
mountain, purple unicorn and bantam rooster, brindled boar and
badger, a silver ferret and a juggler in motley, stars and
sunbursts, peacock and panther, chevron and dagger, black hood and
blue beetle and green arrow.
Last of all came Ser Gregor Clegane in his grey plate steel,
astride a stallion as bad-tempered as his rider. Polliver rode
beside him, with the black dog standard in his hand and
Gendry’s horned helm on his head. He was a tall man, but he
looked no more than a half-grown boy when he rode in his
master’s shadow.
A shiver crept up Arya’s spine as she watched them pass
under the great iron portcullis of Harrenhal. Suddenly she knew
that she had made a terrible mistake. I’m so stupid, she
thought. Weese did not matter, no more than Chiswyck had. These
were the men who mattered, the ones she ought to have killed. Last
night she could have whispered any of them dead, if only she
hadn’t been so mad at Weese for hitting her and lying about
the capon. Lord Tywin, why didn’t I say Lord Tywin?
Perhaps it was not too late to change her mind. Weese was not
killed yet. If she could find Jaqen, tell
him . . .
Hurriedly, Arya ran down the twisting steps, her chores
forgotten. She heard the rattle of chains as the portcullis was
slowly lowered, its spikes sinking deep into the
ground . . . and then another sound, a shriek
of pain and fear.
A dozen people got there before her, though none was coming any
too close. Arya squirmed between them. Weese was sprawled across
the cobbles, his throat a red ruin, eyes gaping sightlessly up at a
bank of grey cloud. His ugly spotted dog stood on his chest,
lapping at the blood pulsing from his neck, and every so often
ripping a mouthful of flesh out of the dead man’s face.
Finally someone brought a crossbow and shot the spotted dog dead
while she was worrying at one of Weese’s ears.
“Damnedest thing,” she heard a man say. “He
had that bitch dog since she was a pup.”
“This place is cursed,” the man with the crossbow
said.
“It’s Harren’s ghost, that’s what it
is,” said Goodwife Amabel. “I’ll not sleep here
another night, I swear it.”
Arya lifted her gaze from the dead man and his dead dog. Jaqen
H’ghar was leaning up against the side of the Wailing Tower.
When he saw her looking, he lifted a hand to his face and laid two
fingers casually against his cheek.
Confusion and clangor ruled the castle. Men stood on the beds of
wagons loading casks of wine, sacks of flour, and bundles of
new-fletched arrows. Smiths straightened swords, knocked dents from
breastplates, and shoed destriers and pack mules alike. Mail shirts
were tossed in barrels of sand and rolled across the lumpy surface
of the Flowstone Yard to scour them clean. Weese’s women had
twenty cloaks to mend, a hundred more to wash. The high and humble
crowded into the sept together to pray. Outside the walls, tents
and pavilions were coming down. Squires tossed pails of water over
cookfires, while soldiers took out their oilstones to give their
blades one last good lick. The noise was a swelling tide: horses
blowing and whickering, lords shouting commands, men-at-arms
trading curses, camp followers squabbling.
Lord Tywin Lannister was marching at last.
Ser Addam Marbrand was the first of the captains to depart, a
day before the rest. He made a gallant show of it, riding a
spirited red courser whose mane was the same copper color as the
long hair that streamed past Ser Addam’s shoulders. The horse
was barded in bronze-colored trappings dyed to match the
rider’s cloak and emblazoned with the burning tree. Some of
the castle women sobbed to see him go. Weese said he was a great
horseman and sword fighter, Lord Tywin’s most daring
commander. I hope he dies, Arya thought as she watched him ride out the
gate, his men streaming after him in a double column. I hope they
all die. They were going to fight Robb, she knew. Listening to the
talk as she went about her work, Arya had learned that Robb had won
some great victory in the west. He’d burned Lannisport, some
said, or else he meant to burn it. He’d captured Casterly
Rock and put everyone to the sword, or he was besieging the Golden
Tooth . . . but something had happened, that
much was certain.
Weese had her running messages from dawn to dusk. Some of them
even took her beyond the castle walls, out into the mud and madness
of the camp. I could flee, she thought as a wagon rumbled past her.
I could hop on the back of a wagon and hide, or fall in with the
camp followers, no one would stop me. She might have done it if not
for Weese. He’d told them more than once what he’d do
to anyone who tried to run off on him. “It won’t be no
beating, oh, no. I won’t lay a finger on you. I’ll just
save you for the Qohorik, yes I will, I’ll save you for the
Crippler. Vargo Hoat his name is, and when he gets back he’ll
cut off your feet.” Maybe if Weese were dead, Arya
thought . . . but not when she was with him. He
could look at you and smell what you were thinking, he always said
so.
Weese never imagined she could read, though, so he never
bothered to seal the messages he gave her. Arya peeked at them all,
but they were never anything good, just stupid stuff sending this
cart to the granary and that one to the armory. One was a demand
for payment on a gambling debt, but the knight she gave it to
couldn’t read. When she told him what it said he tried to hit
her, but Arya ducked under the blow, snatched a silver-banded
drinking horn off his saddle, and darted away. The knight roared
and came after her, but she slid between two wayns, wove through a
crowd of archers, and jumped a latrine trench. In his mail he
couldn’t keep up. When she gave the horn to Weese, he told
her that a smart little Weasel like her deserved a reward.
“I’ve got my eye on a plump crisp capon to sup on
tonight. We’ll share it, me and you. You’ll like
that.”
Everywhere she went, Arya searched for Jaqen H’ghar,
wanting to whisper another name to him before those she hated were
all gone out of her reach, but amidst the chaos and confusion the
Lorathi sellsword was not to be found. He still owed her two
deaths, and she was worried she would never get them if he rode off
to battle with the rest. Finally she worked up the courage to ask
one of the gate guards if he’d gone. “One of
Lorch’s men, is he?” the man said. “He
won’t be going, then. His lordship’s named Ser Amory
castellan of Harrenhal. That whole lot’s staying right here,
to hold the castle. The Bloody Mummers will be left as well, to do
the foraging. That goat Vargo Hoat is like to spit, him and Lorch
have always hated each other.”
The Mountain would be leaving with Lord Tywin, though. He would
command the van in battle, which meant that Dunsen, Polliver, and
Raff would all slip between her fingers unless she could find Jaqen
and have him kill one of them before they left.
“Weasel,” Weese said that afternoon. “Get to
the armory and tell Lucan that Ser Lyonel notched his sword in
practice and needs a new one. Here’s his mark.” He
handed her a square of paper. “Be quick about it now,
he’s to ride with Ser Kevan Lannister.”
Arya took the paper and ran. The armory adjoined the castle
smithy, a long high-roofed tunnel of a building with twenty forges
built into its walls and long stone water troughs for tempering the
steel. Half of the forges were at work when she entered. The walls
rang with the sound of hammers, and burly men in leather aprons
stood sweating in the sullen heat as they bent over bellows and
anvils. When she spied Gendry, his bare chest was slick with sweat,
but the blue eyes under the heavy black hair had the stubborn look
she remembered. Arya didn’t know that she even wanted to talk
to him. It was his fault they’d all been caught. “Which
one is Lucan?” She thrust out the paper. “I’m to
get a new sword for Ser Lyonel.”
“Never mind about Ser Lyonel.” He drew her aside by
the arm. “Last night Hot Pie asked me if I heard you yell
Winterfell back at the holdfast, when we were all fighting on the
wall.”
“I never did!”
“Yes you did. I heard you too.”
“Everyone was yelling stuff,” Arya said defensively.
“Hot Pie yelled hot pie. He must have yelled it a hundred
times.”
“It’s what you yelled that matters. I told Hot Pie
he should clean the wax out of his ears, that all you yelled was Go
to hell! If he asks you, you better say the same.”
“I will,” she said, even though she thought go to
hell was a stupid thing to yell. She didn’t dare tell Hot Pie
who she really was. Maybe I should say Hot Pie’s name to
Jaqen.
“I’ll get Lucan,” Gendry said.
Lucan grunted at the writing (though Arya did not think he could
read it), and pulled down a heavy longsword. “This is too
good for that oaf, and you tell him I said so,” he said as he
gave her the blade.
“I will,” she lied. If she did any such thing, Weese
would beat her bloody. Lucan could deliver his own insults.
The longsword was a lot heavier than Needle had been, but Arya
liked the feel of it. The weight of steel in her hands made her
feel stronger. Maybe I’m not a water dancer yet, but
I’m not a mouse either. A mouse couldn’t use a sword
but I can. The gates were open, soldiers coming and going, drays
rolling in empty and going out creaking and swaying under their
loads. She thought about going to the stables and telling them that
Ser Lyonel wanted a new horse. She had the paper, the stableboys
wouldn’t be able to read it any better than Lucan had. I
could take the horse and the sword and just ride out. If the guards
tried to stop me I’d show them the paper and say I was
bringing everything to Ser Lyonel. She had no notion what Ser
Lyonel looked like or where to find him, though. If they questioned
her, they’d know, and then
Weese . . . Weese . . .
As she chewed her lip, trying not to think about how it would
feel to have her feet cut off, a group of archers in leather
jerkins and iron helms went past, their bows slung across their
shoulders. Arya heard snatches of their talk.
“ . . . giants I tell you,
he’s got giants twenty foot tall come down from beyond the
Wall, follow him like dogs . . . ”
“ . . . not natural, coming on them so
fast, in the night and all. He’s more wolf than man, all them
Starks are . . . ”
“ . . . shit on your wolves and giants, the boy’d piss his
pants if he knew we was coming. He wasn’t man enough to march
on Harrenhal, was he? Ran t’other way, didn’t he? He’d
run now if he knew what was best for him.”
“So you say, but might be the boy knows something we
don’t, maybe it’s us ought to be
run . . . ” Yes, Arya thought. Yes, it’s you who ought to run, you and
Lord Tywin and the Mountain and Ser Addam and Ser Amory and stupid
Ser Lyonel whoever he is, all of you better run or my brother will
kill you, he’s a Stark, he’s more wolf than man, and so
am I.
“Weasel.” Weese’s voice cracked like a whip.
She never saw where he came from, but suddenly he was right in
front of her. “Give me that. Took you long enough.” He
snatched the sword from her fingers, and dealt her a stinging slap
with the back of his hand. “Next time be quicker about
it.”
For a moment she had been a wolf again, but Weese’s slap
took it all away and left her with nothing but the taste of her own
blood in her mouth. She’d bitten her tongue when he hit her.
She hated him for that.
“You want another?” Weese demanded.
“You’ll get it too. I’ll have none of your
insolent looks. Get down to the brewhouse and tell Tuffleberry that
I have two dozen barrels for him, but he better send his lads to
fetch them or I’ll find someone wants ’em worse.”
Arya started off, but not quick enough for Weese. “You run if
you want to eat tonight,” he shouted, his promises of a plump
crisp capon already forgotten. “And don’t be getting
lost again, or I swear I’ll beat you bloody.” You won’t, Arya thought. You won’t ever again. But
she ran. The old gods of the north must have been guiding her
steps. Halfway to the brewhouse, as she passing under the stone
bridge that arched between Widow’s Tower and Kingspyre, she
heard harsh, growling laughter. Rorge came around a corner with
three other men, the manticore badge of Ser Amory sewn over their
hearts. When he saw her, he stopped and grinned, showing a mouthful
of crooked brown teeth under the leather flap he wore sometimes to
cover the hole in his face. “Yoren’s little
cunt,” he called her. “Guess we know why that black
bastard wanted you on the Wall, don’t we?” He laughed
again, and the others laughed with him. “Where’s your
stick now?” Rorge demanded suddenly, the smile gone as quick
as it had come. “Seems to me I promised to fuck you with
it.” He took a step toward her. Arya edged backward.
“Not so brave now that I’m not in chains, are
you?”
“I saved you.” She kept a good yard between them,
ready to run quick as a snake if he made a grab for her.
“Owe you another fucking for that, seems like. Did Yoren
pump your cunny, or did he like that tight little ass
better?”
“I’m looking for Jaqen,” she said.
“There’s a message.”
Rorge halted. Something in his
eyes . . . could it be that he was scared of
Jaqen H’ghar? “The bathhouse. Get out of my
way.”
Arya whirled and ran, swift as a deer, her feet flying over the
cobbles all the way to the bathhouse, She found Jaqen soaking in a
tub, steam rising around him as a serving girl sluiced hot water
over his head. His long hair, red on one side and white on the
other, fell down across his shoulders, wet and heavy.
She crept up quiet as a shadow, but he opened his eyes all the
same. “She steals in on little mice feet, but a man
hears,” he said. How could he hear me? she wondered, and it
seemed as if he heard that as well. “The scuff of leather on
stone sings loud as warhorns to a man with open ears. Clever girls
go barefoot.”
“I have a message.” Arya eyed the serving girl
uncertainly. When she did not seem likely to go away, she leaned in
until her mouth was almost touching his ear. “Weese,”
she whispered.
Jaqen H’ghar closed his eyes again, floating languid, half-asleep. “Tell his lordship a man shall attend him at his
leisure.” His hand moved suddenly, splashing hot water at
her, and Arya had to leap back to keep from getting drenched.
When she told Tuffleberry what Weese had said, the brewer cursed
loudly. “You tell Weese my lads got duties to attend to, and
you tell him he’s a pox-ridden bastard too, and the seven
hells will freeze over before he gets another horn of my ale.
I’ll have them barrels within the hour or Lord Tywin will
hear of it, see if he don’t.”
Weese cursed too when Arya brought back that message, even
though she left out the pox-ridden bastard part. He fumed and
threatened, but in the end he rounded up six men and sent them off
grumbling to fetch the barrels down to the brewhouse.
Supper that evening was a thin stew of barley, onion, and
carrots, with a wedge of stale brown bread. One of the women had
taken to sleeping in Weese’s bed, and she got a piece of ripe
blue cheese as well, and a wing off the capon that Weese had spoken
of that morning. He ate the rest himself, the grease running down
in a shiny line through the boils that festered at the corner of
his mouth. The bird was almost gone when he glanced up from his
trencher and saw Arya staring. “Weasel, come here.”
A few mouthfuls of dark meat still clung to one thigh. He
forgot, but now he’s remembered, Arya thought. It made her
feel bad for telling Jaqen to kill him. She got off the bench and
went to the head of the table.
“I saw you looking at me.” Weese wiped his fingers
on the front of her shift. Then he grabbed her throat with one hand
and slapped her with the other. “What did I tell you?”
He slapped her again, backhand. “Keep those eyes to yourself,
or next time I’ll spoon one out and feed it to my
bitch.” A shove sent her stumbling to the floor. Her hem
caught on a loose nail in the splintered wooden bench and ripped as
she fell. “You’ll mend that before you sleep,”
Weese announced as he pulled the last bit of meat off the capon.
When he was finished he sucked his fingers noisily, and threw the
bones to his ugly spotted dog.
“Weese,” Arya whispered that night as she bent over
the tear in her shift. “Dunsen, Polliver, Raff the
Sweetling,” she said, calling a name every time she pushed
the bone needle through the undyed wool. “The Tickler and the
Hound. Ser Gregor, Ser Amory, Ser Ilyn, Ser Meryn, King Joffrey,
Queen Cersei.” She wondered how much longer she would have to
include Weese in her prayer, and drifted off to sleep dreaming that
on the morrow, when she woke, he’d be dead.
But it was the sharp toe of Weese’s boot that woke her, as
ever. The main strength of Lord Tywin’s host would ride this
day, he told them as they broke their fast on oatcakes.
“Don’t none of you be thinking how easy it’ll be
here once m’lord of Lannister is gone,” he warned.
“The castle won’t grow no smaller, I promise you that,
only now there’ll be fewer hands to tend to it. You lot of
slugabeds are going to learn what work is now, yes you
are.” Not from you. Arya picked at her oaten cake. Weese frowned at
her, as if he smelled her secret. Quickly she dropped her gaze to
her food, and dared not raise her eyes again.
Pale light filled the yard when Lord Tywin Lannister took his
leave of Harrenhal. Arya watched from an arched window halfway up
the Wailing Tower. His charger wore a blanket of enameled crimson
scales and gilded crinet and chamfron, while Lord Tywin himself
sported a thick ermine cloak. His brother Ser Kevan looked near as
splendid. No less than four standard-bearers went before them,
carrying huge crimson banners emblazoned with the golden lion.
Behind the Lannisters came their great lords and captains. Their
banners flared and flapped, a pageant of color: red ox and golden
mountain, purple unicorn and bantam rooster, brindled boar and
badger, a silver ferret and a juggler in motley, stars and
sunbursts, peacock and panther, chevron and dagger, black hood and
blue beetle and green arrow.
Last of all came Ser Gregor Clegane in his grey plate steel,
astride a stallion as bad-tempered as his rider. Polliver rode
beside him, with the black dog standard in his hand and
Gendry’s horned helm on his head. He was a tall man, but he
looked no more than a half-grown boy when he rode in his
master’s shadow.
A shiver crept up Arya’s spine as she watched them pass
under the great iron portcullis of Harrenhal. Suddenly she knew
that she had made a terrible mistake. I’m so stupid, she
thought. Weese did not matter, no more than Chiswyck had. These
were the men who mattered, the ones she ought to have killed. Last
night she could have whispered any of them dead, if only she
hadn’t been so mad at Weese for hitting her and lying about
the capon. Lord Tywin, why didn’t I say Lord Tywin?
Perhaps it was not too late to change her mind. Weese was not
killed yet. If she could find Jaqen, tell
him . . .
Hurriedly, Arya ran down the twisting steps, her chores
forgotten. She heard the rattle of chains as the portcullis was
slowly lowered, its spikes sinking deep into the
ground . . . and then another sound, a shriek
of pain and fear.
A dozen people got there before her, though none was coming any
too close. Arya squirmed between them. Weese was sprawled across
the cobbles, his throat a red ruin, eyes gaping sightlessly up at a
bank of grey cloud. His ugly spotted dog stood on his chest,
lapping at the blood pulsing from his neck, and every so often
ripping a mouthful of flesh out of the dead man’s face.
Finally someone brought a crossbow and shot the spotted dog dead
while she was worrying at one of Weese’s ears.
“Damnedest thing,” she heard a man say. “He
had that bitch dog since she was a pup.”
“This place is cursed,” the man with the crossbow
said.
“It’s Harren’s ghost, that’s what it
is,” said Goodwife Amabel. “I’ll not sleep here
another night, I swear it.”
Arya lifted her gaze from the dead man and his dead dog. Jaqen
H’ghar was leaning up against the side of the Wailing Tower.
When he saw her looking, he lifted a hand to his face and laid two
fingers casually against his cheek.