Queen of the Ashes

Chapter 8

PETYR I

Petyr broke the surface, gasping, his free hand scrambling for purchase on the slick edge of the ice. Sansa was a slim girl, but her dead weight threatened to pull him under again. His numb limbs felt leaden. He wasn't even sure he could get her up onto the ice, and it might well give way if he did. Through the fog of his fear and exhaustion he heard the chirping of a mockingbird, somewhere to his left. He looked. The girl's bird was flitting about an overhanging remnant of the ruined bridge that stuck out low over the water, chirping anxiously. Of course.

They nearly went under again before he had an arm around the slimy old piling, pulling them both up with a desperate strength he hadn't known he had. The thing shook perilously under their weight, but it held, and he made it – somehow – to the snowy shore. He collapsed onto the blessedly solid rocky beach with the limp girl in his arms, breath ragged and body trembling from the cold. Sansa, however, was deathly still. He turned her over, his heart in his throat. Please be alive, please, please. She didn't move. She wasn't even breathing.

Her dark wet hair was over her face, stark against the pale cold clamminess of her skin, blocking her nose and mouth. He brushed it away, praying that that would help. Sansa, please. For half a heart beat, there was still nothing, and then she was coughing violently, choking up water and shaking even more badly than he was. Petyr had never seen anything so beautiful in his life. She lay slumped in his arms, coughing desperately, for a long time. He was almost dizzy with relief. The mockingbird he had given her – Kimi, he reminded himself – was back to acting like an ordinary bird, hopping about on a nearby branch as if nothing in the world was amiss. Then, at last, her lovely blue eyes fluttered open, unfocused and clouded with pain, but open, and alive. Petyr was so happy he could have kissed her, but he didn't.

"Sansa? Can you breathe? Are you – are you okay?" The question sounded lame even in his own ears, but for once he didn't know what else to say. She tried to answer, but then fell into another fit of coughing. Her skin was still cold, very cold, and her lips were tinged a frightening shade of blue. Of course she's not okay. He needed to get her somewhere warm. He didn't know how long she had been trapped under the icy water, but it had clearly been too long, while he had been hitting out stupidly at that bird of hers. The mockingbird had been trying to warn him, he saw that now. His eyes found Kimi again, while he waited for Sansa to find her breath. The little brown mockingbird regarded him innocently, clutching a seed in its beak. How or why a bird would act that way was beyond him, but he was grateful that it had.

"Petyr?" Her voice was weak and scratchy.

"Hmm?"

"Thank you for getting me lemons, I'm sorry - I'm sorry I couldn't be there to get them," she whispered dreamily, out of a haze of pain. The unlikely apology caught Petyr off guard. How...? It didn't matter, they had other worries for the time being.

"The bridge, it just fell. The horse, is the horse dead?" She seemed to be waiting for a reply, but Petyr was now examining the ends of the collapsed bridge. He hadn't noticed in his haste to get to Sansa, but the heavy beams that had supported the main span had been sawn nearly all the way through. Barely more than a splinter of the timber had been left, poised to break under the weight of the first passerby.

"Sansa," he said softly, with a calm he did not feel, "this was no accident. We need to leave, now." He continued to cradle her, and tried to keep his voice even and low, but it was evident that she did not miss the urgency in his words. She tried to move, but winced. Her arm was twisted at a funny angle just below the elbow, and she didn't seem to be able to use it. Leaning heavily on him for support, she made another valiant effort to stand, favoring her left leg, pain flitting across her beautiful face. Her arm is broken and her ankle is twisted, he realized.

He brought his horse over and lifted her up onto it, as gently as he could. She was still shivering, but he had nothing dry to give her – his own clothes were dripping with cold river-water as well. He swung up behind her, and prodded the horse into a walk, one arm holding her to him and the other on the reigns. At intervals that matched the horse's pace, he heard her breath catch with pain – their mount was probably jarring her arm with every step. She, however, uttered not a word of complaint.

He kissed her, lightly, on the back of her neck. Her damp white skin was cold on his lips. "Are you sure you're okay to ride, sweetling? I can –"

"I'm fine," she said, through gritted teeth. Petyr was impressed, despite himself. Most grown men would be screaming and crying after half of what she had just endured, but Cat's daughter only hung on grimly, eyes dry. Petyr held her to him more closely than was perhaps necessary, and thought his heart might melt. She was no Ned Stark – blundering into peril and confusing caution for cowardice – but she was brave when she had to be, and he loved her for it. With her permission, he urged their mount on a little faster – they needed to get back to the castle as soon as possible.

His thoughts returned to the ruined bridge. It had been a death trap. If it hadn't been for the little mockingbird's bizarre resourcefulness, it would have been a successful one. He planted a light kiss on Sansa's cheek, and thought about who would have the motive, the resources, and the ability to set such a trap. The list was short, and it made his blood run cold. What scared him most was that they gone after her.

ARYA II

Arya crouched in the lower branches of a great pine, one arm steadying herself against the rough trunk, the other in her pocket. Below, a man rode by on a tired old horse, clutching his injured daughter to him, her mark. Arya held perfectly still, as quiet and poised as a cat about to strike. Calm as still water. They passed almost directly beneath her. If either had looked up at just that moment, they would have seen her, but people never looked up.

She watched them, glumly. The daughter's dark wet hair was over her face, shielding it from view, but Arya could see the Coin Master's face well enough. It confirmed her suspicions. She had seen him a few times at King's Landing, a lifetime ago. Littlefinger, she thought she remembered him being called. It was a funny name, and one she knew, but that didn't matter because he wasn't her mark. Arya bit her lip. This was no longer a clean kill. The girl had fallen, and suffered, but lived yet. She wondered if the Many-Faced God was watching, or cared, or if the kindly-faced man would ask her about it when she returned. The man and his daughter did not look up, and continued on their way, unaware of death's servant among the shadowy branches. Arya watched them until they passed out of sight, and then sat back against the trunk, sighing.

People were predictable. It was one of the first things she had learned in her training. They went places, usually the same places, and came back, usually at the same times. These two went, separately and alone, across the same bridge every few days. It had been almost too easy – or so she had thought. She had only glimpsed her mark a few times, and had never managed to get a full view of her face, but she was the Lady of the Vale and not much older than her sister would have been – very easy to identify. But the man had come back when he wasn't supposed to. That hadn't been predictable.

The faceless girl pulled a small glass vial out of her pocket. She turned it over in her hands, inspecting it idly. It was no larger than her thumb, and contained a clear, tasteless, odorless liquid. Arya frowned, and put it back in her pocket. Poison was clumsy, and crude. It hadn't been her first choice, but it could be her second. She would not fail again.