Harrenhal.
High above the bear pit, the platform creaked underfoot as Vargo Hoat, leader of the Brave Companions, stormed across it, intending to retreat to his quarters and pack. His plans, however, were abruptly interrupted when someone stepped directly into his path.
"You idiot!" Vargo Hoat cursed, his lisping mouth snapping with irritation. "I told you, this city cannot be held. We must flee! You want to stop me?"
Vargo Hoat's moral compass was notoriously flexible, almost nonexistent, but his instinct for self-preservation was sharp and precise. When news of Lord Tywin's defeat at the hands of Robb Stark reached Harrenhal, the implications were clear. With only a few hundred criminals under his command, combined with the handful of soldiers left by the Lannisters, he could not hope to hold the castle. These numbers were insufficient even to man the walls, let alone fend off the approaching army.
Rumors swirled of the Young Wolf commanding thirty thousand men, backed by the terrifying strength of direwolves. Vargo, who preferred bears over wolves, had already decided: survival meant escape. Gold and treasure meant nothing if one was dead.
Aomori Lorch, appointed Lord of Harrenhal personally by Tywin Lannister, was not about to let the mercenary slip away. Short, stout, and encased in cumbersome full plate armor, he lunged forward, yelling, "Vargo Hoat! You promised Lord Tywin you would defend this castle! Your word is worth less than my farts!"
"Go to hell, you son of a—" Vargo roared, cutting him off. With a sudden surge of strength, he grabbed the armored knight and hurled him off the platform. Ser Aomori tumbled like a steel barrel, smashing through wooden boards before hitting the stone floor with a sickening thud.
From the bear pit below, a massive black bear emerged. Its growl shook the platform, and when it spotted the intruders, it reared on its hind legs and slammed its heavy paws down. Ser Aomori, paralyzed with shock, barely moved before the bear's paw struck, piercing his chest and sending a spray of blood into the air.
The creature toyed with him for several horrifying moments, tossing his lifeless body as though it were nothing. In his fading consciousness, Ser Aomori's mind flickered to memories of Rhaenys Targaryen, Prince Rhaegar's daughter. He recalled dragging the screaming child from under a bed, stabbing her repeatedly until she could no longer cry. Now, that image twisted in his mind as he realized the black bear seemed almost like that little girl—vengeful, merciless, unrelenting.
Finally, the bear lowered its head, cast one last glance at the broken man, and retreated leisurely to its den, leaving a scene of carnage in its wake.
The Brave Companions, stirred by their leader's roar, seized their weapons and surged into action. Guards loyal to Lord Tywin, previously chatting and drinking, were caught off guard. Half fell immediately, screaming as arrows found their marks, or steel cut through flesh. Others scrambled to resist, but crossbow bolts struck them one by one, pinning them to the ground. Panic erupted as the castle descended into chaos.
From the Crying Tower, Arya Stark watched the carnage unfold. Her hand slipped into a crack in the wall, retrieving a slender, finely crafted one-handed sword—Jon Snow's Needle—returned to her by Jaqen H'ghar after he had tracked down the thief.
Arya descended the winding stairs, nimble and silent. Her senses were sharp; every creak and whisper alerted her. Suddenly, Weese appeared, cursing as he climbed the tower, hoping to hide in an unnoticed corner.
"Damn it, you little—!" he screamed, oblivious to the short sword Arya had hidden behind her back.
The blade found its mark before he could react. Blood gushed from his waist, and he collapsed, his body rolling down the stairs. Arya's face was calm, yet her eyes burned with the cold ruthlessness of a Stark trained by necessity.
Jaqen H'ghar emerged from the shadows, speaking softly, "A certain one is greatly pleased that the girl solved a name with her own sword."
Arya blinked, slightly startled. "I still have a name. You can't leave yet."
Jaqen's movements were fluid and silent. "No, a certain one must complete the task before departing. A name is required now."
Despite a pang of fear curling through her chest, Arya stepped along the wall cautiously. "I told you, I don't have a name. You must wait."
"Certain one does not wait," Jaqen replied. He exhaled a faint puff of white smoke, carrying a subtle floral scent that made Arya's head swim. Before she could react, he lifted her effortlessly, Needle slipping from her grasp.
In a haze, Arya cursed silently. That bastard, I should have named him earlier!
Meanwhile, the battle within Harrenhal slowly subsided. The Brave Companions, a collection of criminals and exiles with no loyalty beyond gold and survival, scavenged the spoils of war. They ignored their fallen comrades and the bodies of Lannister soldiers, seeking only wealth and security.
Vargo Hoat, standing above the bear pit and surveying the carnage, felt the weight of his choices. The opportunity to claim Lannister gold might never come again, yet the North and the Riverlands presented new possibilities. He disliked wolves, but the notion of becoming the de facto Earl of Harrenhal was tempting. He made a decision.
"Little ones," he said, voice commanding, "go to the dungeons. Invite the Northern lords. Offer them hot broth and fragrant bread."
The instructions brought freedom to those imprisoned, including Robert Glover, brother and heir of Earl Glover. In the dungeon, he had only vaguely heard the battle raging above. Now, a tall, slender man with a goatee smiled eagerly at him.
"Lord Hoat, what has happened?" Robert asked, confused.
Vargo Hoat laughed, placing a heavy arm around his shoulder. "Hahaha, Lord Glover, from this day forth, we are on the same side."
Though Robert barely understood, he saw the mercenaries' blood-stained weapons and grim expressions and nodded. The bond, fragile yet immediate, formed quickly.
The Northmen and the Brave Companions shared a brief, chaotic camaraderie. They emptied wine cellars, set kitchens to stew broth and roast rabbits, and for a moment, survival overshadowed all else. Outside, a few Lannister guards fought the black bear futilely, unaware that the larger war had shifted irreversibly.
Unnoticed in the stables, two figures prepared to depart. When the city gates opened at dawn, swift horses carried them toward Saltpans, a port city bustling with ships bound for Braavos. The wheels of fate turned silently, inexorably, as Harrenhal settled into its uneasy new order.
The gears of destiny had shifted, and none within Harrenhal—or beyond—would ever be the same again.
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