Part 57 (1/2)
”I can't. I have to go home. To Winterfell.”
”Then we must part,” he said, ”for I have duties too.” He lifted her hand and pressed a small coin into her palm. ”Here.”
”What is it?”
”A coin of great value.”
Arya bit it. It was so hard it could only be iron. ”Is it worth enough to buy a horse?”
”It is not meant for the buying of horses.”
”Then what good is it?”
”As well ask what good is life, what good is death? If the day comes when you would find me again, give that coin to any man from Braavos, and say these words to him-valar morghulis.”
”Valar morghulis,” Arya repeated. It wasn't hard. Her fingers closed tight over the coin. Across the yard, she could hear men dying. ”Please don't go, Jaqen.”
”Jaqen is as dead as Arry,” he said sadly, ”and I have promises to keep. Valar morghulis, Arya Stark. Say it again.”
”Valar morghulis,” she said once more, and the stranger in Jaqen's clothes bowed to her and stalked off through the darkness, cloak swirling. She was alone with the dead men. They deserved to die, Arya told herself, remembering all those Ser Amory Lorch had killed at the holdfast by the lake.
The cellars under Kingspyre were empty when she returned to her bed of straw. She whispered her names to her pillow, and when she was done she added, ”Valar morghulis,” in a small soft voice, wondering what it meant.
Come dawn, Pinkeye and the others were back, all but one boy who'd been killed in the fighting for no reason that anyone could say. Pinkeye went up alone to see how matters stood by light of day, complaining all the while that his old bones could not abide steps. When he returned, he told them that Harrenhal had been taken. ”Them b.l.o.o.d.y Mummers killed some of Ser Amory's lot in their beds, and the rest at table after they were good and drunk. The new lord will be here before the day's out, with his whole host. He's from the wild north up where that Wall is, and they say he's a hard one. This lord or that lord, there's still work to be done. Any foolery and I'll whip the skin off your back.” He looked at Arya when he said that, but never said a word to her about where she had been the night before.
All morning she watched the b.l.o.o.d.y Mummers strip the dead of their valuables and drag the corpses to the Flowstone Yard, where a pyre was laid to dispose of them. s.h.a.gwell the Fool hacked the heads off two dead knights and pranced about the castle swinging them by the hair and making them talk. ”What did you die of?” one head asked. ”Hot weasel soup,” replied the second.
Arya was set to mopping up dried blood. No one said a word to her beyond the usual, but every so often she would notice people looking at her strangely. Robett Glover and the other men they'd freed must have talked about what had happened down in the dungeon, and then s.h.a.gwell and his stupid talking heads started in about the weasel soup. She would have told him to shut up, but she was scared to. The fool was half-mad, and she'd heard that he'd once killed a man for not laughing at one of his j.a.pes. He better shut his mouth or I'll put him on my list with the rest, she thought as she scrubbed at a reddish-brown stain.
It was almost evenfall when the new master of Harrenhal arrived. He had a plain face, beardless and ordinary, notable only for his queer pale eyes. Neither plump, thin, nor muscular, he wore black ringmail and a spotted pink cloak. The sigil on his banner looked like a man dipped in blood. ”On your knees for the Lord of the Dreadfort!” shouted his squire, a boy no older than Arya, and Harrenhal knelt.
Vargo Hoat came forward. ”My lord, Harrenhal ith yourth.”
The lord gave answer, but too softly for Arya to hear. Robett Glover and Ser Aenys Frey, freshly bathed and clad in clean new doublets and cloaks, came up to join them. After some brief talk, Ser Aenys led them over to Rorge and Biter. Arya was surprised to see them still here; somehow she would have expected them to vanish when Jaqen did. Arya heard the harsh sound of Rorge's voice, but not what he was saying. Then s.h.a.gwell pounced on her, dragging her out across the yard. ”My lord, my lord,” he sang, tugging at her wrist, ”here's the weasel who made the soup!”
”Let go,” Arya said, wriggling out of his grasp.
The lord regarded her. Only his eyes moved; they were very pale, the color of ice. ”How old are you, child?”
She had to think for a moment to remember. ”Ten.”
”Ten, my lord,” he reminded her. ”Are you fond of animals?”
”Some kinds. My lord.”
A thin smile twitched across his lips. ”But not lions, it would seem. Nor manticores.”
She did not know what to say to that, so she said nothing.
”They tell me you are called Weasel. That will not serve. What name did your mother give you?”
She bit her lip, groping for another name. Lommy had called her Lumpyhead, Sansa used Horseface, and her father's men once dubbed her Arya Underfoot, but she did not think any of those were the sort of name he wanted.
”Nymeria,” she said. ”Only she called me Nan for short.”
”You will call me my lord when you speak to me, Nan,” the lord said mildly. ”You are too young to be a Brave Companion, I think, and of the wrong s.e.x. Are you afraid of leeches, child?”
”They're only leeches. My lord.”
”My squire could take a lesson from you, it would seem. Frequent leechings are the secret of a long life. A man must purge himself of bad blood. You will do, I think. For so long as I remain at Harrenhal, Nan, you shall be my cupbearer, and serve me at table and in chambers.”
This time she knew better than to say that she'd sooner work in the stables. ”Yes, your lord. I mean, my lord.”
The lord waved a hand. ”Make her presentable,” he said to no one in particular, ”and make certain she knows how to pour wine without spilling it.” Turning away, he lifted a hand and said, ”Lord Hoat, see to those banners above the gatehouse.”
Four Brave Companions climbed to the ramparts and hauled down the lion of Lannister and Ser Amory's own black manticore. In their place they raised the flayed man of the Dreadfort and the direwolf of Stark. And that evening, a page named Nan poured wine for Roose Bolton and Vargo Hoat as they stood on the gallery, watching the Brave Companions parade Ser Amory Lorch naked through the middle ward. Ser Amory pleaded and sobbed and clung to the legs of his captors, until Rorge pulled him loose, and s.h.a.gwell kicked him down into the bear pit.
The bear is all in black, Arya thought. Like Yoren. She filled Roose Bolton's cup, and did not spill a drop.
DAENERYS.
In this city of splendors, Dany had expected the House of the Undying Ones to be the most splendid of all, but she emerged from her palanquin to behold a grey and ancient ruin.
Long and low, without towers or windows, it coiled like a stone serpent through a grove of black-barked trees whose inky blue leaves made the stuff of the sorcerous drink the Qartheen called shade of the evening. No other buildings stood near. Black tiles covered the palace roof, many fallen or broken; the mortar between the stones was dry and crumbling. She understood now why Xaro Xhoan Daxos called it the Palace of Dust. Even Drogon seemed disquieted by the sight of it. The black dragon hissed, smoke seeping out between his sharp teeth.
”Blood of my blood,” Jhogo said in Dothraki, ”this is an evil place, a haunt of ghosts and maegi. See how it drinks the morning sun? Let us go before it drinks us as well.”
Ser Jorah Mormont came up beside them. ”What power can they have if they live in that?”
”Heed the wisdom of those who love you best,” said Xaro Xhoan Daxos, lounging inside the palanquin. ”Warlocks are bitter creatures who eat dust and drink of shadows. They will give you naught. They have naught to give.”
Aggo put a hand on his arakh. ”Khaleesi, it is said that many go into the Palace of Dust, but few come out.”
”It is said,” Jhogo agreed.
”We are blood of your blood,” said Aggo, ”sworn to live and die as you do. Let us walk with you in this dark place, to keep you safe from harm.”
”Some places even a khal must walk alone,” Dany said.
”Take me, then,” Ser Jorah urged. ”The risk-”
”Queen Daenerys must enter alone, or not at all.” The warlock Pyat Pree stepped out from under the trees. Has he been there all along? Dany wondered. ”Should she turn away now, the doors of wisdom shall be closed to her forevermore.”
”My pleasure barge awaits, even now,” Xaro Xhoan Daxos called out. ”Turn away from this folly, most stubborn of queens. I have flutists who will soothe your troubled soul with sweet music, and a small girl whose tongue will make you sigh and melt.”
Ser Jorah Mormont gave the merchant prince a sour look. ”Your Grace, remember Mirri Maz Duur.”
”I do,” Dany said, suddenly decided. ”I remember that she had knowledge. And she was only a maegi.”
Pyat Pree smiled thinly. ”The child speaks as sagely as a crone. Take my arm, and let me lead you.”