In the great hall, Black Walder moved with astonishing efficiency, having already gathered nearly every male member of House Frey within The Twins.
Men whispered among themselves, exchanging glances, unsure why they had been summoned so suddenly.
"Great-grandfather…"
Seeing "Old Frey" emerge, Black Walder hurried forward. "Almost everyone is here. You can announce your decision now."
"Old Frey" swept his gaze over the men below, some fat, some gaunt, and spoke slowly. "No need to rush… Before I announce anything, let us first have a drink. A drink of the last wine of The Twins."
Black Walder froze for a moment, then remembered that they would be fleeing in panic at dawn. In that sense, it truly was the "last wine."
The thought felt strange, but he did not dwell on it. He immediately signaled the servants to step forward and fill every Frey man's cup with the poisoned wine.
The men raised their goblets. Some even smiled at this sudden, unexpected "feast."
"Old Frey" lifted a hand, his voice suddenly ringing out.
"Women are not to drink. This wine… is only for men. Only for the men of House Frey who broke guest right and 'earned' their glory with knives and blood!"
The hall fell silent at once.
Embarrassment flickered across a few faces, but most showed only confusion.
Some of the younger men even laughed at what sounded like praise, tilting their heads back and draining their cups in one go.
The older men felt a prickle of unease, but under "Old Frey's" gaze, they hesitated only briefly before drinking as well.
Arya watched their throats bob and their cups empty. The mask of Old Frey on her face could no longer remain calm, twisting into a cold, distorted smile.
"Very good…"
She looked at them. "Celebrate yourselves, then. Celebrate how you joined hands to butcher House Stark here. You murderers. You oathbreakers. Well done. You have dragged noble honor through the mud and shamed the gods themselves."
The hall was deathly still.
Every man stared in horror at the "head of the house," whose words and behavior had become utterly unrecognizable.
"But you forgot something…"
Arya tore the mask from her face, revealing her true features. Her gray eyes burned with vengeance as they swept across every terrified face.
"You forgot the words of House Stark. Winter is coming. And you forgot to kill every last Stark."
"I am Arya Stark."
She declared it clearly. "On behalf of my mother, my brother, and all those you betrayed and murdered, I greet you. Winter has come for House Frey. Go in peace."
The moment her words ended, the silence shattered into screams and choking moans.
Black Walder was the first to fall. He clutched his throat with both hands, eyes bulging, his face twisted in agony and disbelief.
Then the second, the third…
The men of House Frey collapsed one after another, bodies convulsing violently, white foam spilling from their mouths.
Goblets slipped from limp fingers and shattered on the floor, mingling with desperate wails and the shrieks of women and children in a final, dreadful chorus.
Arya watched the hellish scene without emotion. The cold in her heart did not thaw.
Revenge was cold. But it was finished.
An hour later, a short, sturdy Riverlands horse carried Arya silently away from The Twins, now sunk into deathly silence and terror.
She rode south along the Kingsroad, the cold wind whipping through her hair. Her next goal was to find the Eastern King who had married her sister and learn what had become of her family.
She had not gone far when a faint tremor passed through the ground.
She reined in her horse and listened.
It was no earthquake, but the distant thunder of countless hooves and marching feet.
She urged her mount up a low rise, and the sight before her stole her breath.
Along the Kingsroad, a vast army stretched beyond sight, marching north.
Spears stood like a forest, banners blotted out the sky, and armor and blades reflected a cold, metallic tide beneath the pale daylight.
Yet the most overwhelming sight was in the sky.
Dragon roars tore through the clouds, deafening, proclaiming the arrival of the lords of the air.
Six enormous dragons circled above the army, differing in size and color, their shadows sweeping across the land below.
She recognized the massive red dragon she had seen in Braavos, Blooddancer, but did not see the golden dragon that had nearly destroyed the city.
Just then, a slightly smaller but incredibly swift gray-brown dragon let out a clear, piercing cry and swept low over Arya's head. The rush of wind was so strong she nearly could not keep her eyes open.
She clearly saw a slender figure seated on its back, silver-gold hair streaming wildly in the wind, and even heard a burst of bright, excited laughter carried on the air.
Daenerys was riding Greysmoke, reveling in the freedom of the skies.
Ever since Greysmoke had grown to nine feet in length and strong enough to carry her, starting from their march north from Harrenhal, Daenerys had fallen hopelessly in love with dragonriding.
Greysmoke made a graceful arc through the air and settled into the open ground before Arya.
Daenerys slid neatly from the dragon's back and walked toward the lone girl, curiosity bright in her eyes.
Greysmoke lowered his head and sniffed at Arya's mount with interest, frightening the Riverlands pony into trembling as it backed away again and again.
"Who are you?"
Daenerys asked, her violet eyes studying Arya closely.
Arya steadied her horse and looked at the breathtaking silver-haired girl before her, beautiful in a way that felt almost inhuman. She had already guessed who she was.
She gave a small smile. "I am Arya Stark, sister of Sansa Stark."
Daenerys's face immediately lit up with joy. "Arya? It's really you! Sansa worries about you every day at Conquest Keep. She's always talking about you! Come, come with me. I'm Daenerys Targaryen."
Arya nodded. "Queen Daenerys, may I request an audience with His Grace the King?"
"Of course!"
Daenerys took her hand enthusiastically. "He's just ahead. He'll be so happy to see you!"
Lo Quen's command carriage was drawn by several powerful horses.
Inside, he was deeply focused on reading a newly arrived secret letter from the North.
It was sent by Lord Wyman.
The lord reported that he had done everything he could to urge the northern people to retreat south, but many stubborn villagers still refused to abandon the lands their ancestors had lived on for generations.
He had not waited any longer and had already escorted all those willing to leave on their journey south.
The most troubling news came at the end of the letter.
Scouts reported vast signs of wildlings appearing behind the retreating columns. Their numbers were unprecedented, their movements hurried and chaotic, as if they were fleeing from something unimaginably terrifying.
Lo Quen set the parchment aside, his fingers tapping lightly against the map spread across the table as he considered how to deal with the wildlings.
They were both a potential threat and a possible force against the Others. How to take them in and where to settle them would be no easy matter.
At that moment, the carriage door was pushed open. Daenerys slipped inside, excitement still on her face, followed by an unfamiliar girl with a long face and gray eyes.
"Your Grace," Daenerys said with a smile, "look who I brought with me. This is Lady Arya."
Lo Quen looked up, his gaze settling on the girl.
She wore plain traveling clothes, dusty from the road, yet her posture was straight and steady.
A flicker of surprise crossed his eyes, quickly giving way to understanding. "Arya? It's truly good to see you safe."
"Yes, Your Grace."
Arya bowed, her manner calm and composed.
"Lady Arya, where have you come from?"
Lo Quen asked, though he already had a suspicion.
Once she named the place, and considering how close The Twins were, the answer was almost obvious.
Arya's smile carried a hint of relief. "Your Grace, I came from The Twins."
As expected, Lo Quen thought.
His expression did not change. "Then it seems our army need not stop at The Twins. I take it you have already dealt with matters there?"
Arya nodded evenly. "Yes, Your Grace. House Frey is gone."
Daenerys sucked in a sharp breath beside them, shock written plainly in her violet eyes.
She looked at Arya as if seeing the seemingly slender girl for the first time.
Lo Quen merely nodded.
"Lady Arya," he said, "since you have returned, come with us to Moat Cailin. The Long Night draws near, and the Others are our common enemy. Your abilities may yet prove very useful."
"I am willing to serve you, Your Grace,"
Arya replied. Then her gray eyes met Lo Quen's directly. "But before that, I wish to know whether my family is safe."
Lo Quen told her of Sansa's safety at Conquest Keep, and of Jon Snow's journey north beyond the Wall.
"Why did Jon go beyond the Wall?"
Arya frowned, confusion edged with worry.
Lo Quen shook his head, his expression tightening. "He was led astray by a red priest's prophecy, but what he's truly trying to do… I don't know that either."
To be precise, Lo Quen didn't understand the Lord of Light's intentions.
If the Lord of Light meant for the prophesied Prince to end the Long Night, then Jon should be killing the Others beyond the Wall. If that were possible, there would be no need for all these preparations and fortifications.
But that did not seem likely.
If the Lord of Light were really that all-powerful, would his followers still need to go around hoodwinking noble Lords day after day?
Seeing that Lo Quen had no clearer answers, Arya stopped pressing him and pushed her unease down where it could not be seen.
Sure enough, the army bypassed the silent Twins and continued north.
Days later, the vast, broken silhouette of Moat Cailin rose on the horizon.
It had once been the choke point that kept the North safe from invasion. Now only three enormous, ruined towers stood amid spreading marshes and winding waterways.
Most of the walls had collapsed into heaps of stone, smothered in thick moss and trailing vines.
And yet, tens of thousands of soldiers now camped in this desolate place.
Spearmen from Dorne, knights of the Stormlands, archers from the Vale, and what remained of the Riverlands nobility, their banners snapping in the cold wind.
Work on the defenses was being driven hard. Countless figures moved through the ruins, clearing debris, shoring up walls, digging trenches, and raising tents.
Ser Waymar Royce, Davos Seaworth, and Lord Anders, among others, had arrived ahead of time to oversee the construction.
When Ser Waymar saw Lo Quen's royal banner and the great dragons circling overhead, the tension in his face finally eased, relief flickering across it.
He strode up to Lo Quen as he stepped down from the carriage.
"Your Grace,"
Ser Waymar said, bowing. "You've finally arrived. We've been pushing the work as fast as we can, but we've run into a problem."
Lo Quen surveyed the defenses taking shape, his brow knitting. "What problem?"
Ser Waymar did not answer at once. He led Lo Quen to the edge of a marsh beside the main tower.
He pointed to the dark water, strewn with dead reeds drifting on the surface, his face grave.
"Your Grace, look. The cold worsens by the day, and the marsh is beginning to freeze."
Lo Quen crouched and studied it closely.
Sure enough, a thin, brittle crust of ice had formed along the shallow edges. The plants beneath the surface were rimed with white frost, and farther out the mud itself was beginning to harden.
A chill ran through him.
If the marsh froze, Moat Cailin would no longer be an impassable barrier.
He straightened and looked north. The gray, washed-out sky hung low over the land, pressing down like a weight.
If only the Citadel were still standing. Then he might have received warning of the turning of the seasons.