THE LOST WOLF
She woke from a violent dream of blood and snow, gasping and clutching her shoulder as the pain tore through it. It was still so strong that she fumbled frantically at it to chase away the ghost of the burning blade, but there was only the bed, the cool morning air, the sparse room of the villa and the lemon tree outside the window. Beyond the latticed pane, Braavos was buried in a sea fog as usual, but it could not quite muffle the distant shouting. The canals were always noisy, but it was different this morning.
She rolled over. The immediate sensation of agony was beginning to fade, but it left an awareness of a much deeper injury in its place. She'd been Ser Justin's captive for at least a fortnight – though he preferred to palliate it by calling her his "guest" – and this was the first wolf dream she'd had in that time. If she tried very hard, she could dimly recall the one she'd had in the House of Black and White, before they'd sent her to do. . . whatever it was. The one where the hunters on the Trident had finally been able to capture the she-wolf, bind her in chains. Because I left her.
But the wolf was free now, the girl knew. That was the reason she herself had survived. In the darkness after she'd drunk from the fountain, she'd seen the big hooded man freeing her. . . last knew her to be running north, north to snow and stone and some of her pack brothers, north among the trees. North to the great man-den – no, the castle – that now lay in ruins, and the swaggering man-monster with the blazing sword. She hated him, hated him and meant to kill him, rip out his throat in pieces, but there was no way to withstand the bite of that supernal steel. She still meant to do it, refused to die without taking him with her – but then she had smelled it. Felt them near.
The wolf was bleeding all over the cold white ground, but that was not what had brought them. It was something much deeper and more terrible. And the castle was nothing but massive jumbles of broken stone; there was no sanctuary to be found there. It reeked of corpses even now, and the dead – the wights – were swarming on it. The wolf had seen a pink banner with a red flayed thing on it, dangling torn from the tower. Known that it meant something, but could not stand to stay. Could barely stand at all. Ran off among the trees, the pain growing until she could smell her own flesh and fur burning. She'd tried to roll in the snow to quench it, but nothing stopped it. She knew they were coming. Knew there were thousands and thousands of them, and only one of her.
In that moment of animal panic, that was when the girl woke.
The name she sought had been on the tip of her tongue. She thought again of what little she did know: that her memories, herself, were somehow still living in the wolf. That if she could just get back home and find her, they might come back to her. But if the wolf was grievously wounded and on the run, with dead men and that monster behind her. . .
The girl chewed her lip. It was something she hadn't done in a while, but it was part of her that had been briefly close, while the wolf still lingered in her mind. Winterfell. That was the other thing she remembered. It was Winterfell that she'd seen, blasted and desolate. She wished she knew why it hurt her worse than the sword. There was no telling now. Not until – if – she had another wolf dream.
The girl got out of bed and dressed. She would be expected at breakfast. Ever since he'd caught her with the Summer Maid – whose real name was Tysha, whatever that meant – Ser Justin had been pulling the "captive" reins considerably tighter. As for the courtesan herself, her fate remained uncertain. It had not taken long at all for the high tribunal of Braavos to find her guilty of arranging Ferrego Antaryon's death, but as half of that tribunal was in the official or unofficial employ of Tormo Fregar, it was debatable whether they were going to actually punish her for it. There was no chance of getting the Faceless Men to cop to their presumed part in the affair, but it had set off a new plague of street preachers from all the varied houses of worship in the city, proclaiming that if they were willing to serve as a nest of such evil, they could not be surprised if their own Sealord was so shockingly done away with. According to Ser Justin, however, they had all missed the point. One of the reasons that Braavos, a haven for escaped slaves and a bastard offshoot of Valyria, had survived for as long as it had was precisely because it had embraced the assassins' guild. Their art had come with them from the ancient Empire, and while it may well have been a key factor in the gods' decision to unleash the Doom, it was also heir to the greatest power mankind had ever known. Such fame, repute, and fear was worth tolerating a few scabrous charlatans.
Ser Justin told her the reason for the shouting outside, at breakfast. "Tormo Fregar was officially confirmed as the new Sealord last night." To judge from his smile, he himself might have been joining in the celebrations. "I'm expected to an audience with him this very afternoon, and Nestoris has gotten me an invitation to a party hosted by the chancellor of the Iron Bank. We'll be sailing home with gold and an army before you know it."
The girl did not answer. Ser Justin had kept her fed and clothed and sheltered, but he could clearly see that she still did not remember who she was, and so had scrupulously avoided telling her. Mayhaps he thought that as long as she was beholden to him for the information, it would discourage her from trying another escape. He kept saying that he and his king would do right by her, but the girl had long known that words were wind, and she trusted no one. For that matter, she did not think Ser Justin made a particularly impressive envoy. He could certainly smile and flash his white teeth and toss his long blonde hair, but he was only some sundry knight from a minor house in the stormlands, his clothes looking quite worn and his cloak and boots always wet from his long hours spent prowling the alleys and canals of Braavos. That horn she'd seen on his belt in Pynto's – he never seemed to be without it – was still old, dirty, and broken. The runes graven in the bronze were almost rubbed out with age, and the aurochs ivory was stained and brown.
It was such a deliberately shabby thing, in fact, that the girl had started to become suspicious of it. The one time she'd dared to ask Ser Justin about it directly, the knight had told her that Ferrego Antaryon had given it to him as a gift, before the obvious outcome. But it seemed strange that Antaryon would honor his guest with something so outwardly unprepossessing, even if it could have been meant as a veiled insult, and if its abilities did belie its appearance, that Antaryon would bestow it on a man whose king's cause he'd had no interest in furthering. There was another memory there, strong enough that the girl felt almost certain she'd met the late Sealord before someone murdered him, but as always, she could not put her finger on it. The only certainty she could grasp at was that Ser Justin was lying.
In any event, she was pleased that Ser Justin planned to be absent from the villa in the near future. He had a guard on it, of course, but she was becoming adept at outwitting them, climbing the lemon trees in the courtyard and peering out over the high stone walls. If she squinted, she could just make out the towers of the House of Black and White in the distance, and the feeling was growing ever stronger that she had to go back. That there were still matters unfinished. That she had already given them everything she had, and so there was no need to fear. I killed her for true, by drinking at the fountain. All her dreams and loves and hopes and hates. By my choice and by my hand. Almost as if she was truly faceless now.
But there was still the wolf. And the broken castle in the snow, and the burning sword. At the mere memory of it, her shoulder seized up and she grimaced, suddenly forced to hold back tears. She can't be dead. I would know if she was dead. And something there for the briefest instant – how she would know if he was dead, the one who finished her sentences, the one who had given her the sword –
– but he was dead, Ser Justin had told her.
Just then, Massey himself noticed her boggled expression. "What, girl?" He peeled an egg and grinned, for there was nothing in the world so serious that he could not grin at it. "You look as if a castle just fell on your head."
"It did," she said. "Almost. All of it came down, I saw it."
She watched Massey's face closely. It looked startled for a moment, but quickly resumed its usual cast of amused nonchalance. "The Sealord's Palace is still standing, I assure you. Though Fregar very well might decide to – "
"Not the Sealord's Palace, stupid," she snapped. "Winterfell."
That genuinely did take him aback. The grin vanished, and this time it didn't reappear. "What makes you say that?"
"I saw it in a dream. It's in pieces. Like someone ripped it all apart. And there was a man with a burning sword, he hurt me, I mean the wolf, he hurt me and – "
"Girl," said Massey. "Your wolf had bloody well better not have attacked King Stannis, or there's going to be hell to – "
"It wasn't Stannis!" she shouted at him. She knew what Baratheons looked like, King Stannis was a Baratheon, Massey had said so countless times. There was a face in her head, a stubborn face with shaggy black hair and blue eyes and bull's horns. But that made no sense; men didn't have horns. "It wasn't Stannis, he was. . ." There were no words to describe the wrongness the wolf had felt in him. "All wearing furs and covered in blood and there was a red or a pink man on his cloak. He had long dark stringy hair and wormy lips and pale pale eyes, he had a burning sword and he almost killed me with it."
"That was part of the glamour," Massey said, but a sudden hesitance had crept into his voice. "To work the illusion. . . to make the Bastard think that he had Stannis' sword too, when he. . ."
"The Bastard." Massey had mentioned him too. Something about how a turncloak had rescued someone from him and taken her to the Wall. Her. . . it must have been a girl. . . a name, know your name. . .
"Ramsay, the Bastard of Bolton," Ser Justin confirmed tersely, "and there's no more vile sack of shit to ever bestride the earth. He thought he got his hands on Lightbringer long ago, but that was just the red woman's work. He thought he got Stannis too, but it was only Arnolf Karstark." He paused. "You said though, there was a red man on your attacker's cloak?"
"Yes, but it was hard to be sure. There was blood everywhere."
"That's the sigil of House Bolton," Massey allowed. His frown had started to deepen. "But I told you, he didn't truly – "
"The sword." The girl spoke through clenched teeth; the pain had become eye-watering again. "It was burning. Like this."
And with that, she pulled down the sleeve of the stupid Westerosi dress that Ser Justin had been under the delusion she should wear. The light had been too bad for her to see it before, but now it was plain. A thin black scar lacerated her flesh from collarbone to shoulder blade, still smoking faintly. When she touched it this time, it scorched her fingers, and she had to jerk her hand away.
"I told you," she said, taking some pride in Ser Justin's stupefied expression. "I don't know what it is, but the sword isn't fake. It couldn't have cut me otherwise. What's happened to the wolf hasn't really happened to me, until now."
"This. . ." Massey shot to his feet so fast that he knocked his chair over. "Bloody buggering hellfire, this. . . it can't. . . what else did you see in this dream of yours, girl? Tell me – tell me!"
"Dead things." She shrugged the collar back up. "Everywhere."
Massey wracked a hand through his hair, then grasped at his face. "Did you see anyone in gold and black? Wearing a stag, mayhaps?"
"A few. In the snow. They were all dead."
"Anyone else? Anyone?"
The girl opened her mouth – then shut it.
"Well?"
"I don't have to tell you." She crossed her arms and met his eyes defiantly. "You won't tell me what you know."
Ser Justin was clearly on the verge of a heated riposte – mayhaps something about how he would never be outmaneuvered by a twelve-year-old girl, paragon of manly virtue that he was. Then he appeared to realize that that was in fact the case, and so it died on his lips. Instead he glared at her, all his smugness utterly evaporated. "We will speak of this more when I get back, girl. And you'll tell me everything, or you'll wish you had."
The girl remained in her seat even after he had stormed out. She eyed his abandoned plate of breakfast, then reached out, plucked a grape, and popped it into her mouth consideringly. She thought of another breakfast, then, and another man eating grapes. The names you cried out. There were three. She could almost see his face. The kindly man. And another man who'd only worn that guise. You cannot be faceless, and you know too much of our art to leave.
She thought she had failed her initiation, but that was before she drank the water and killed herself –
As the truth began to sink in, the girl felt lightheaded. She could almost piece together the events that had led to her drinking, as well. How Jaqen H'ghar had found her. . . found her in the Sealord's Palace. . . I knew I've been there, I knew it! the very night that Ferrego Antaryon had died. And how that man in Pynto's had said that Qarro Volentin, the alias Jaqen had used while posing as the First Sword of Braavos, had sworn that he let no man near the Sealord –
No man –
I did it, the girl realized sickeningly. It was me. I killed him and then I ran. Because Jaqen wanted to kill me too, because he would have. . .
. . . if I did not drink.
That was it. That was the initiation.
They never lied to me, but they never told me the full truth.
The girl stood up almost as fast as Massey had. Felt anew the burning of the black water as she'd swallowed it, and the burning in her shoulder as well. A reminder that she still had a link back to her old self, that that life was not yet entirely dead. Some thing and some truths rooted too deep. A lone wolf before the sundered walls of Winterfell.
The girl turned and ran.
This time, she wasn't seeking the Summer Maid, and Ser Justin wasn't chasing her, but she ran twice as fast as she had. She raced into the still, quiet courtyard and shimmied up the wall, grabbing onto a low-hanging branch of the lemon tree and tearing away the stupid skirt. It was easier than she'd dared to hope. She dropped down on the other side, almost into a canal, and one last time, began to flee back to the House of Black and White.
Memories nibbled at her like biting fish, or a swarm of exotic birds, so that she caught glimpses of their colors even as she could not trap them in her hand. She did seem to recall that she'd spent a great deal of time trawling across Braavos recently, always with death – her own or someone else's – as the chief motivating factor. But unlike all the times before, she was no longer afraid. Indeed, she could not get there fast enough. She sped as if on the wings of the wind. I know you.
As before, she swam the last of the distance. The water in the canals was bitingly cold, raising gooseflesh on her skin, but cold made no matter to her; she was a wolf, not a scared little girl. She slipped out onto the sea stairs, dripping and shivering, and began to climb. She couldn't remember if she tried consciously, but if she let her mind remain blank, she could almost sense it. The sword she'd hidden. Stick them with the pointy end.
Her small, dirty hands scrabbled at the loose rocks. Here, it was here. The one thing she hadn't thrown away when the kindly man told her to. Needle.
She moved another slab. Peered into the mossy depths, and finally spotted the glint. Trembling, she reached in to pull it out. It had not gone to rust during its long imprisonment; it was castle-forged steel, it was her steel. Her cold fingers knew it, knew the shape of the hilt, the balance of the blade. Knew that, even if nothing else.
Little sister, the wind whispered, and ruffled her hair.
Who are you? she wanted to cry out. Come back to me. I miss you. I love you. What's happened to us? Where have we gone?
But the wind had no tongue, and another reunion awaited. Standing up, she thrust the sword through her belt and climbed the stairs to the top, to the weirwood and ebony doors. Something about the fact that it was weirwood drove her half mad, as if she was supposed to know this, to see something. But perhaps she already did. She did not have the iron coin, but she did not need it. And she knew the words.
"Valar morghulis," she said, barely above a whisper.
The path when the doors swung silently open was as black as a crow.
The lost wolf entered with a slow, measured stride, her footfalls echoing across the stone-flagged floor. Flames burned far off in the temple's countless shrines, and she could hear the distant splash of the fountain. An ancient art, Ser Justin had said. Born in the Valyrian Freehold itself. A cousin, perhaps, to the countless mysteries that were said to endure even now in Asshai. Black and white. One half and the other. Death and life. Ice and fire. Valyria was built on the power of dragons, the girl recalled. Three names. Three heads.
Quiet as a shadow, she reached the deserted atrium – deserted, that was, except for the bodies of those who had drunk at the fountain and merely died. They held no terror or mystery for her now. She climbed up on its edge, and peered down.
The face she'd seen in the harbor, after she'd first woken, was the one which looked back at her. The horsey one, with the unkempt brown hair and solemn grey eyes. But the reflection did not remain fixed. In the ripples her nose looked different, or her face or her expression, or sometimes her whole face altogether. Sometimes she had no reflection at all.
I could change it if I wanted. If I knew how. I have that power now. And she finally understood what she had to do to complete it. As Jaqen had done, and every fully fledged Faceless Man had done. She had to drink from the water one more time, and the last of these shadowed fragile memories would burn away forever. The bond with her wolf would be broken for good; live or die, Nymeria would no longer have any effect on her. She could be wounded with all the magic swords there were, torn apart by bastards and wights alike, and it would not touch the girl. She was almost safe. She was so close.
The girl reached down and trailed her fingers through the glittering black water. Why should she remain so dangerously linked with the wolf, when she might die at any moment from her wounds or from the cold or from any number of other things? When she could not remember, when she might not ever again, when she was taking an awful risk in even hoping to see Westeros ever again? Better to do what she had come for. Remaining in this limbo would only bring her pain. She knew her memories still existed, but they were too burned out and far away to reach. No reason. No reason but the sword in her belt, and the shattered castle in her dreams.
"Drink, child," a voice murmured from the darkness. "Complete your death and rise as whoever you want to be. No man can choose how and what and where he is born, but now you can. A power beyond price. Do it."
Stick them with the pointy end, memory whispered again.
The girl lifted her head. Shadows moved and breathed around her. They are here. They are waiting to see my choice.
Snow, snow, snow.
Slowly, clumsily, the girl stood up on the edge of the fountain. Her hand sought out the hilt of Needle, and she drew it. Firelight danced in splinters on the blade. Almost as skinny as you are.
"Come to us, girl," another voice said, from a different direction. She knew this one beyond any doubt. "A girl will not leave this place alive again. A man awaits her. A man will teach her every art of life and death. A man chose her. And the Red God will have his due."
Three names, the girl thought. It had always been three. Chiswyck. Weese. Jaqen H'ghar. But that had been the weasel soup instead. Nymeria. Jon. Father.
And now –
"Ramsay Bolton," she said, loud and clear and unafraid. "Jaqen H'ghar. No one."
A pause. They rang away into the vaults.
"You will not live, girl," the voice warned her. It had turned darker, dangerous. "This is your last chance."
They were moving. They were coming for her now. She knew nothing, but she knew her names. Ser Gregor, she thought. Dunsen, Raff the Sweetling, Ser Ilyn, Ser Meryn, Queen Cersei, and spoke her three again. "Ramsay Bolton. Jaqen H'ghar. No one."
Hands came out of the darkness, snatching at her. She slashed at them with Needle, and they retreated. Eyes all around her. The wolf had run from the dead men. But she was not going to run.
"A girl belongs to a man," the voice said again, silken and pitiless. "A girl will come."
"No!" she shouted. And when the hand grabbed her by the shoulder, she stabbed with a violent, maddened strength.
She heard a surprised breath, almost a sigh, and looked up to see the kindly man's eyes glazing over. Saw the spreading red stain on his robes, and the wry, knowing smile he gave her. Then she wrenched the blade out, and he fell.
"A girl learns," Jaqen whispered. "Now and forever."
"Valar morghulis!" she roared back. "VALAR MORGHULIS!"
The kindly man's body hit the ground with a thump. And she reached out, snatched one of the torches from its bracket, and threw it into the fountain. If it had been ordinary water, it would have hissed and quenched the flame. But it was not ordinary water. There was a breath like someone had been punched in the stomach, and then black flames roared up to all sides. Fire is the only way.
Distantly she could hear Jaqen shouting, then screaming. I saved him from an inferno once, the girl remembered. And there would be no way of being certain that he was dead, not now and not ever, unless she killed him herself. Unless she put that blade through him and watched him turn to dust, for he had already died long ago when he sacrificed his true self and his true face to the waters of the fountain. Elsewise she would always be looking over her shoulder for him, for all her life. He had said that it might take years, but he would always kill those names that had been named. And he would never let her go. She was his.
Except she wasn't. She was hers. And neither he nor any man alive owned her, or any other woman.
Coughing and crying, the girl began to run. Flames bellowed around her, ghosts leered up madly. Stones broke and thundered down, and the House of Black and White shuddered and tottered on its ancient foundations. Jaqen was still screaming.
"Valar morghulis," she wept, beating at the door with her fists. The heat seared her like the sword, but a thousand times worse. "You told me that. It's true. I have to. All men must die, even you. And the Red God will have his due."
The weirwood splintered. Ash and soot rained down around her. She fell headlong, hit water, and went under.
She surfaced after a black, blinding, terrifying moment, and looked behind her. The House of Black and White was well and truly aflame on its rocky atoll, the flames gulping greedily at the fog. The Doom come again. And so the art of Valyria perishes as one.
Her only hope was to reach the harbor, and pray that Ser Justin would as well. That they could run back to Westeros, that Westeros would ever be far enough. For she would be hunted for the rest of her short life. By Jaqen, if he survived, and any other of them. They meant to kill her, but she had killed them first. She knew now the choice she'd made.
The girl began to swim.