Arya: Winterfell's Plea and Resolve
The snow in Winterfell had just stopped, and the embers of the bonfire in the square still held residual warmth, when Arya, clutching a crumpled note, stood outside Daenerys's tent.
The note was a secret report sent from the Riverlands by a Northern ranger, written in charcoal: "Frey remnants gather at Riverrun, aiding Cersei in transporting wildfire, ships docked at the west bank."
The handwriting was scrawled, and at the end, a simple wildfire jar symbol was drawn—it was the handwriting of Carter, an old Night's Watch veteran who had been a prisoner in the Riverlands and was familiar with House Frey's markings.
The tent flap swayed in the wind, Arya took a deep breath, her fingertips unconsciously caressing needle at her waist—the Direwolf emblem on the scabbard was slightly worn, accidentally scraped against the edge of a dragonglass spear blade while packing last night.
She knew Daenerys was currently discussing the details of the march south with Illyrio and Tyrion, and might not be willing to spare troops for her, but House Frey at Riverrun was one of the last names remaining on her list, and also a stumbling block to the alliance's advance south; she couldn't let them go.
"Come in." Daenerys's voice came from inside the tent, tinged with a hint of weariness.
Arya pushed aside the tent flap, and a warm, pine-scented air wafted over her.
Daenerys was sitting at a table, holding a map of Riverrun, while Illyrio and Tyrion stood on either side, all three of their gazes fixed on her.
"Your Majesty," Arya handed over the secret report, her voice steady but with an undeniable firmness, "House Frey is helping Cersei transport wildfire at Riverrun.
I request to take a team to kill their leaders and destroy the transport ships—that way, when we march south, we won't have to worry about our rear being cut off."
Daenerys took the report, her brow furrowing slightly, her fingertips pausing on the words "wildfire."
"How many people does House Frey still have? How strict are their defenses?" She looked up at Arya, "You know, our forces are stretched thin right now.
Jaime and Tyrion are leading the first contingent south tomorrow; we don't have many people to spare for you."
"I don't need many people." Arya immediately interjected, her gaze sweeping over the map on the table—the location of Riverrun's west bank dock was circled in red, with a note beside it: "Five ships, three hundred soldiers."
"Five Unsullied will be enough; they are skilled at stealth and can help me keep watch.
I'm familiar with Riverrun's terrain; I came here with my father before and know where there are secret passages into the city."
Illyrio spoke then, having just returned from the Smithy, his hands still dusted with dragonglass powder: "House Frey's current leader is Rhaegar Frey, Lord Walder Frey's son, a cruel but cautious man.
I heard he arranged triple guards at the dock and has his men patrol in shifts; it won't be easy to sneak in."
He paused, looking at Arya, "I've prepared dragonglass fire oil and 'silent powder' for you—sprinkle it on your boot soles, and you'll make no sound when you walk.
If you encounter guards, it can help you deal with them silently."
Tyrion, meanwhile, pulled a small clay bottle from his bosom and placed it in front of Arya: "This contains 'Mother's Pale' poison, taken from The Citadel's herb garden.
It's colorless and odorless; mixed in wine, it takes effect in less than half a quarter of an hour, with symptoms resembling a sudden illness, which won't arouse suspicion."
He smiled, "House Frey's men love to drink, especially Rhaegar Frey, who drinks three large goblets of ale at every dinner feast.
This is an opportunity."
Daenerys watched the three interact, a hint of satisfaction flashing in her eyes—Arya was no longer the little girl who needed protection, but a capable warrior, an indispensable force for the alliance.
"Good, I agree." Daenerys's voice became firm, "You'll have five Unsullied and two of our fastest horses.
Depart tomorrow morning—remember, prioritize destroying the wildfire ships; killing Rhaegar is secondary.
Don't take too great a risk for revenge."
Arya nodded, taking the clay bottle and the silent powder Illyrio handed her.
The coolness of the bottle on her fingertips suddenly reminded her of the "honor" her father Ned had taught her—before, she thought revenge was honor, but now she understood that protecting the alliance and preventing more people from dying by wildfire was more important.
"I won't disappoint you." Arya said, then turned and walked out of the tent.
As the tent flap swayed, she saw Illyrio waving at her, holding something familiar in his hand—it was the dragonglass short-blade they had used in the crypt passage before, its edge re-sharpened and glowing faintly.
"Take this; it's lighter than needle and suitable for close-quarters assassination." Illyrio handed her the short-blade, his voice very low, "There might be Qyburn's men near Riverrun.
If you encounter soldiers with blue eyes, don't hesitate; stab them directly with dragonglass—they might be infected by the cold god."
He paused, pulling a small weirwood shard from his bosom, "Bran asked me to give you this; it can block the cold.
Keep it in a pocket close to your body."
Arya took the short-blade and the weirwood shard, clutching them tightly in her hand—the warmth of the shard radiated through her fingertips, like Bran's Greensight silently protecting her.
"I'll be careful." Arya said, a trace of imperceptible softness in her voice, "Once I've dealt with House Frey, I'll go to the forest near Riverrun to find Brynden.
Bran said he's there; perhaps he can join us."
Illyrio nodded, watching Arya's figure disappear into the snow, silently praying—he knew Arya's capabilities, yet he couldn't help but worry.
House Frey at Riverrun were no ordinary small-timers, and Rhaegar Frey was known for his cunning; a slight misstep could lead to danger.
But he also believed that the girl who practiced sword fighting in Winterfell and killed Ice Guards in the crypt passage would surely complete her mission and return with news of victory.
Arya: Snowy Roads and Stealth in the Riverlands
Early the next morning, before dawn, Arya, accompanied by five Unsullied, rode out of Winterfell's West Gate.
The tracks in the snow were still fresh, left by Jaime and Tyrion's vanguard, who had departed an hour before Arya and were heading towards Riverrun.
"We'll take the small path; it's half an hour shorter than the main road, and we can enter the city before House Frey's patrol changes shifts." Arya reined in her horse, pointing to a small, snow-covered path to the right—this path had been told to her by an old servant when she came to Riverrun with her father as a child.
It led directly to Riverrun's west bank, only a mile from the dock.
The Unsullied said nothing, merely nodding silently, following Arya into the path.
They wore black leather armor, carried dragonglass spears and fire oil jars, and had short-swords at their waists, their faces devoid of expression, only their eyes showing vigilance—these warriors from Astapor were long accustomed to obedience and combat; as soon as Arya gave an order, they would charge without hesitation.
The woods on both sides of the path were covered in snow, the branches bent low under its weight, and occasionally, accumulated snow would slide from the branches, hitting the ground with a soft "whoosh."
Arya rode her horse, her gaze vigilantly scanning her surroundings—the Riverlands had endured war and the invasion of the Others, many villages were in ruins, and scattered bones could occasionally be seen in the snow, some human, some horse, and some wight, their nails blackish-green, sending shivers down one's spine.
"Stop." Arya suddenly reined in her horse, her right hand on the dragonglass short-blade at her waist.
In the snow ahead, the shadows of three warhorses appeared, the riders wearing House Frey's red uniforms, with the "Twin Towers" emblem embroidered on their shoulders—it was House Frey's patrol, heading towards the path, a dead rabbit hanging from a spear in one of their hands, clearly having just completed their patrol and preparing to return to the city.
"Unsullied, hide in the woods with me." Arya dismounted, crouched low, and slipped into the woods.
The Unsullied also dismounted, their movements as light as shadows, making no sound—they had sprinkled Illyrio's silent powder on their boot soles, leaving only faint footprints in the snow, which would soon be covered by fresh snowfall.
The sound of the patrol's footsteps grew closer, and Arya could clearly hear their conversation—a young soldier complained that "it's too cold, but Lord Rhaegar is drinking hot wine in the city," while another old soldier grumbled, "If it weren't for all the gold Cersei gave us, who would want to guard these damn wildfire ships in this godforsaken place?"
After the patrol had gone, Arya emerged from the woods, patting the snow off herself: "They said Rhaegar is in the city, so the dock's defenses should be looser.
Let's enter the city now."
She pulled a set of gray coarse cloth clothes from a cloth bag by her saddle—they had been taken from a dead wildfire transport worker earlier, still carrying a faint smell of fire oil.
"I'll change into this and pretend to be a transport worker, and you'll pretend to be my companions, helping me carry 'goods'—it's filled with dragonglass fire oil, just say it's supplies for the dock guards."
The Unsullied immediately set to work, packing the dragonglass fire oil into several dilapidated wooden crates, tying them with ropes, and hoisting them onto their shoulders.
Arya quickly changed into the coarse cloth clothes, then used charcoal to draw several scars on her face, making herself look more like a weather-beaten transport worker.
She also pulled a small iron token from her bosom—it had been confiscated after she killed a House Frey squad leader earlier, engraved with "wildfire Transport Permit."
Although the writing was somewhat blurry, it was enough to pass.
By the time they reached Riverrun's West Gate, it was already light.
Four guards in red uniforms stood by the gate, holding spears and wearing short-swords at their waists, carefully inspecting those entering the city.
Arya took a deep breath, carrying a small wooden crate, and slowly walked over, a deliberately fawning smile on her face: "Big brothers, Captain Wang from the dock sent us to deliver supplies.
It's too cold; we're bringing some fire oil for the brothers to warm themselves."
The guards looked at Arya, then at the Unsullied behind her, their gaze falling on the iron token in her hand.
A burly, bearded guard took the token, examined it several times, then sniffed the fire oil in the wooden crate, his brow furrowing: "Lord Rhaegar has ordered strict checks on wildfire transport recently.
Why is your permit so old?"
Arya's heart tightened, but she kept smiling: "Captain Wang said the previous permit was lost, and this one is a temporary replacement.
Once we deliver the goods, we'll go to the lord's keep to get a new one."
She paused, pulling a small cloth pouch containing a few copper coins from her bosom, and secretly slipped it to the bearded guard, "You big brothers have worked hard.
This little money is for a drink."
The bearded guard took the cloth pouch, weighed it, and a satisfied smile appeared on his face, returning the iron token to Arya: "Alright, go in.
Don't wander around the city; deliver your goods and leave quickly.
Things aren't peaceful lately; there are 'things' lurking outside the city at night."
He pointed to the woods outside the city, his voice very low, "Last night, a patrolman didn't return; he was probably taken by those 'things.'"
Arya nodded, and quickly led the Unsullied into the city.
The scene in the city was more desolate than she had imagined—most of the houses along the streets were dilapidated, some with half-collapsed roofs, and trash and bones were scattered in the snow.
Occasionally, a few commoners in ragged clothes could be seen, hunched over, hurrying by, their faces full of fear.
"Rhaegar's lord's keep is in the city center, and the dock is in the west of the city.
We'll scout the dock first and act tonight." Arya whispered to the Unsullied behind her.
She knew that it was daytime now, and the guards were highly vigilant, making it unsuitable to act.
Only when night fell, during Rhaegar's dinner feast, could she kill him amidst the chaos and then blow up the wildfire ships.
Arya: Poisoned Wine and Assassination at the Feast
Riverrun's dock was busier than Arya had imagined—five huge wildfire transport ships were docked at the shore, their hulls coated with black pitch to prevent fire oil leaks.
Around each ship stood a dozen or so guards, holding spears and carrying bows and arrows at their waists, vigilantly scanning their surroundings.
Many wooden crates were stacked on the dock, labeled "wildfire," and several workers were laboriously moving the crates onto the ships, their faces full of exhaustion and fear.
"It seems House Frey will transport the wildfire tonight, so we must hurry." Arya Stark, hiding behind a dilapidated warehouse, pointed to the ship in the very middle—its sail bore House Frey's "Twin Towers" banner, clearly Walder Frey's flagship. "When Walder Frey hosts his banquet tonight, the dock guards will be reduced. We'll split into two groups: I'll go to the Lord's Manor to kill Walder Frey, and you all go to the docks, spread the dragonglass fire oil on the ships. When I give the signal, light them."
The Unsullied nodded. One of them, a man named Kalen, suddenly spoke, his voice hoarse: "My Lady, there will surely be many guards at the Lord's Manor. We'll leave two men to help you, and the rest will go to the docks." He paused, pointing to himself and another Unsullied named Talon. "We are skilled in close combat and can help you fend off the guards."
Arya Stark thought for a moment, then nodded in agreement—Walder Frey's Lord's Manor would surely be heavily guarded, and two extra people would increase their chances. She took out the "Mother's Pale" poison given to her by Tyrion from her bosom, poured a little out, and applied it to the edge of her dragonglass short-blade. She then hid the remaining poison under her fingernail—if there was no opportunity to deliver poisoned wine, she would use the short-blade to assassinate, ensuring nothing went wrong.
As night fell, the streets of Riverrun gradually quieted, with only faint music and laughter coming from the direction of the Lord's Manor—Walder Frey's banquet had begun. Arya Stark, Kalen, and Talon, dressed in servant's clothes they found in the warehouse, mingled with the food delivery team and slowly approached the Lord's Manor.
Eight guards stood before the main gate of the Lord's Manor, holding longswords and wearing daggers at their waists, meticulously checking everyone entering and exiting. Arya Stark took a deep breath, carrying a tray full of ale, a smile on her face, and slowly walked over: "Lord Walder Frey ordered this ale; he said he wanted it for the banquet."
The guards looked at Arya Stark, then at the ale on the tray, without suspicion—they all knew Walder Frey loved ale and drank a lot at every banquet. One guard took the tray, waved his hand, and allowed Arya Stark to enter.
The great hall of the Lord's Manor was brightly lit, with dozens of candles hanging from the ceiling, illuminating the entire hall. Walder Frey sat in the main seat in the center of the hall, wearing a magnificent red brocade robe, a jeweled longsword at his waist. He was raising a toast and chatting merrily with several nobles beside him. His face bore an arrogant smile, his eyes full of greed, completely unaware of Arya Stark in the corner.
Arya Stark carried the tray and slowly walked to Walder Frey's side, bending to place the ale on the table in front of him: "My Lord, your ale." Her finger subtly flicked beneath the tray, and the "Mother's Pale" poison from under her fingernail silently dropped into the ale, quickly dissolving without leaving any trace.
Walder Frey did not look at Arya Stark, merely waved his hand, dismissing her. He picked up the ale, drank it in one gulp, and smacked his lips, telling the nobles beside him: "This ale is good, much better than before."
Arya Stark slowly retreated to the corner of the hall, her gaze fixed on Walder Frey. Not long after, Walder Frey suddenly frowned, clutching his stomach, a pained expression on his face. He tried to stand but found his legs weak, unable to stand steadily. "What's happening...my stomach..." Walder Frey's voice grew fainter, black blood began to trickle from the corners of his mouth, and his eyes gradually lost their luster.
The hall instantly erupted into chaos. The nobles stood up in a panic, some trying to run, others trying to call for guards. Arya Stark seized the opportunity, drew the dragonglass short-blade from her waist, rushed forward, and plunged it fiercely into Walder Frey's heart—she wanted to ensure Walder Frey was truly dead, with no chance to harm anyone again.
"Assassin!" a noble shouted, and the guards in the hall immediately drew their longswords and charged towards Arya Stark. Seeing this, Kalen and Talon immediately drew the shortswords hidden at their waists, stood in front of Arya Stark, and engaged the guards.
Arya Stark did not linger in the fight; she knew her mission was complete. Now she had to go to the docks to rendezvous with the other Unsullied and destroy the wildfire ships. She burst out the back door of the hall, scaled the high wall, and ran towards the docks. Behind her, she heard the shouts and screams of the guards, but she did not look back—she knew Kalen and Talon would hold off the guards, buying her time.
[Arya Stark: Dock Demolition and Rendezvous]
Upon reaching the docks, Arya Stark saw that four Unsullied had already spread the dragonglass fire oil on five wildfire transport ships, waiting for her signal. She took out a fire starter from her bosom, lit it, and threw it into the sky—the red blaze was particularly conspicuous in the night sky, the agreed-upon demolition signal.
The Unsullied immediately acted, throwing their lit fire starters onto the oil on the ships. "Boom! Boom! Boom!" Five loud explosions rang out consecutively, and the wildfire transport ships were instantly engulfed in flames. Orange-red tongues of fire shot up dozens of feet high, illuminating the entire dock. The guards on the ships ran around in a panic, some burned by the flames, emitting painful screams; others fell into the river, drowned by the icy water.
Arya Stark stood at the edge of the dock, watching the burning wildfire ships, feeling a sense of relief—the remnants of House Frey were dealt with, and Cersei's wildfire supply line was cut. When the alliance marched south, they wouldn't have to worry about their rear being cut off. She thought of her father Ned, her mother Catelyn, and her brother Robb; a part of their vengeance was finally exacted.
"My Lady, we should go; the guards will be here soon." An Unsullied walked up to Arya Stark, his voice urgent. Arya Stark nodded and followed the Unsullied towards the woods outside the city—they had agreed to rendezvous there and then go find Brynden Tully, the Blackfish.
Just as they entered the woods, Arya Stark heard the sound of hooves behind them—Walder Frey's guards were in pursuit. She looked back and saw a dozen guards on horseback, holding bows and arrows, riding towards them. "Quick, deeper into the woods, where the trees are dense, their horses can't enter." Arya Stark shouted, leading the Unsullied deeper into the woods.
The trees in the woods were very dense, with crisscrossing branches, making it impossible for horses to pass. The guards had no choice but to dismount, taking their bows and arrows, and pursuing on foot. Arya Stark and the Unsullied hid behind a large tree, holding dragonglass short-blades and dragonglass spears, ready to engage.
Just then, a volley of arrows suddenly came from the woods, and a dozen guards instantly fell to the ground, arrows embedded in their bodies. Arya Stark looked up in surprise and saw a dozen soldiers dressed in green emerge from the woods. Leading them was an old man with white hair, holding a longbow, his eyes sharp, a weathered smile on his face.
"Are you Arya Stark?" the old man asked, his voice hoarse yet strong. Arya Stark nodded, tightening her grip on her short-blade—she didn't know who this person was or if he was safe.
The old man smiled, took out a small badge from his bosom, engraved with House Tully's "fish" sigil: "I am Brynden Tully, your mother Catelyn's brother. They all call me 'the Blackfish'." He paused, his gaze falling on the needle at Arya Stark's waist. "I recognize this sword; Ned gave it to you, didn't he?"
Arya Stark's eyes instantly welled up—she had finally found the Blackfish, found her mother's kin. She put down her short-blade, walked to the Blackfish, her voice catching: "Uncle Blackfish, I've been looking for you for a long time."
The Blackfish patted Arya Stark's shoulder, a relieved smile on his face: "I've also been looking for you all. I heard that Winterfell was attacked by the Others, and I was very worried. Now that the remnants of House Frey have been dealt with, Riverrun is temporarily safe. I have a thousand remaining Riverrun soldiers who are willing to join your alliance to fight against Cersei and the Others."
Arya Stark nodded, her heart filled with hope—the Blackfish's joining strengthened the alliance's power, increasing their chances of marching south against Cersei. She looked at the Blackfish and the soldiers behind him, then at the Unsullied beside her, knowing that her mission was not only accomplished but had also brought unexpected gains.
"We will now go to rendezvous with Jaime and Tyrion's vanguard, who are near Riverrun," Arya Stark said, her voice firm. "Then we will march south together, to King's Landing, to deal with Cersei, and to protect our homeland."
The Blackfish nodded, leading his soldiers, following Arya Stark towards Jaime and Tyrion's position. The moonlight in the woods filtered through the branches, casting a faint silver glow upon them, illuminating their path forward. Arya Stark knew this was just the beginning of the fight against Cersei and the cold god, but she was no longer afraid—because she had family, friends, an alliance, and countless people willing to fight to protect their homeland. These people were her strength to move forward.
[Arya Stark: Midnight Memories and Determination]
After reuniting with the Blackfish's troops, Arya Stark sat by the campfire, watching the flickering flames, recalling many past events—the days of practicing swordplay in Winterfell, the days of learning the "Water Dance" with Syrio, the days of killing ice guards in the crypt passages, and the days of fighting the Others with Illyrio, Jon, and Daenerys. She knew she was no longer the little girl who needed protection, but a capable warrior, an indispensable force in the alliance.
The Blackfish sat beside Arya Stark, handing her a cup of hot ale: "Drink some; it's too cold, warm yourself up." He paused, looking at Arya Stark. "Your mother would be very proud if she knew how brave you are now."
Arya Stark took the ale, drank a sip, and the warmth spread from her throat to her heart. She looked at the Blackfish and asked: "Uncle, do you know if Qyburn's men are active near Riverrun? Illyrio said they might be looking for dragonglass, and they might have been infected by the cold god."
The Blackfish frowned and nodded: "I know. Recently, many blue-eyed soldiers have been roaming the woods. They are not afraid of cold or pain, and after killing them, their bodies quickly turn into ice shards. We have encountered them several times and lost a dozen brothers." He paused, his voice becoming serious. "I suspect Qyburn has a secret base near Riverrun, specifically researching these cold god-infected soldiers. We must find this base as soon as possible and destroy it, otherwise more people will suffer."
Arya Stark nodded, her resolve hardening—she not only had to help the alliance fight against Cersei and the cold god, but also find Qyburn's secret base, destroy his research, and prevent more people from becoming emotionless monsters. She took out the weirwood shard given to her by Illyrio from her bosom and placed it in her palm—the warmth of the shard radiated through her fingertips, as if reminding her that no matter how many difficulties she encountered, she must not give up.
By the campfire, the soldiers' singing gradually began, an ancient song of the Riverlands, the lyrics roughly meaning "rivers will guide the way, courage will overcome fear." Arya Stark looked at the flickering flames, listened to the soldiers' singing, and her heart was filled with hope—she knew that as long as everyone stood together, there would be no enemy they couldn't defeat, and no obstacle they couldn't overcome.
It was late, and the soldiers gradually fell asleep, only the campfire still flickered. Arya Stark stood by the campfire, gazing at the southern sky—the direction of King's Landing, where Cersei's wildfire lay, Qyburn's schemes, and civilians waiting to be liberated. She gripped the dragonglass short-blade at her waist, silently vowing: "Father, Mother, Brother, I will avenge you, I will protect our home, I will not disappoint you."
The moonlight fell on Arya Stark, like a faint layer of armor, protecting this brave girl. She knew that tomorrow would be a new day, a new battle was about to begin, but she was no longer afraid—because she had family, friends, an alliance, and countless people willing to fight to protect their homeland. These people were her strength to move forward, the light against the darkness.