Chapter 398

Because the inner keep of Crown's Rest housed only trusted personnel—free from the new settlers of the Gift or unknown outsiders—most who entered its gates tended to relax their guard. This included the Winterfell soldiers, who were meant to be watching over Arya and Myrcella. Outside the keep, they were diligent, dividing responsibilities and keeping a close eye on the Stark and Lannister girls. Inside, however, their vigilance slackened, and they fell into a more laissez-faire “free-range” approach.

Taking advantage of this lapse, Arya, with Needle hidden beneath her tunic, carefully slipped away from the distracted soldiers who were caught up in a heated discussion about the Mother of Dragons. She made her way to the bridge leading to the central island of the lake, the only path to the tower where Daenerys was staying. Concealed behind a building, she peeked out to assess the bridge.

At the bridgehead stood four black-clad guards, their postures rigid as they watched the comings and goings of authorized personnel.

How could she get past them?

Sneaking across unnoticed was impossible. It was broad daylight, and the bridge was completely exposed with no cover. Even if only one guard were stationed there, it would take nothing more than the occasional glance to spot anyone attempting to cross.

Lying to gain access? Unlikely. The island was tiny, home only to a single tower that had long been emptied of its contents. She had no plausible reason to go there.

Rushing past them? Not a chance.

Assassination, Arya realized, was much harder in practice than it was in theory.

Frustrated, she huddled in her corner, rubbing her hands together for warmth and wracking her brain for a solution. Her efforts were interrupted when she noticed a familiar figure: Willy, the apprentice cook of the inner keep. Arya knew him from her visits to the kitchens with Myrcella, where they would beg scraps of meat for Tommen’s kitten.

Willy was carrying a wooden box, from which wisps of steam escaped. Freshly prepared food for the Mother of Dragons, no doubt.

Anger and jealousy flared in Arya’s chest. They were sending food to the Mad King’s daughter? If only she had poison—just a few drops in the meal, and the Queen would die silently. Father said poison was a woman’s weapon. He was right—it’s perfect!

But for now…

An idea sparked in Arya’s mind. She tucked Needle more securely into her waistband, adjusted her tunic to hide the hilt, and stepped out of hiding, calling out to the cook’s apprentice.

“Hey, you! Come here!” she shouted.

“Miss Stark?” Willy stopped in his tracks, confused. “What are you doing here? I thought I saw Lord Aegor looking for you.”

“Never mind him.” Arya rolled her eyes and approached him, attempting to imitate Melisandre’s effortless charm. She batted her eyes—awkwardly—and forced a smile. “What are you doing? Taking food to the Mad... the Mother of Dragons?”

The apprentice flushed red, clearly unused to such attention. “Y-yeah. My master told me to take it over while it’s still hot. Lord Aegor gave strict orders to treat her like a proper guest.”

“The kitchens must be busy, right? Why don’t you head back? I’ll deliver it for you,” Arya offered with feigned cheer, reaching for the box.

But Willy stepped back, clutching the box protectively. “I can’t. My master told me I had to deliver it myself!”

“I’m Arya Stark, sister of the Warden of the North! You think I’m going to steal your food?” Arya snapped, planting her hands on her hips to look as intimidating as possible.

Willy hesitated, clearly intimidated, but shook his head. “No, ma’am, but... everyone’s saying the Mother of Dragons is really beautiful. I didn’t get to see her when she arrived, so I’m taking this chance now.” He glanced nervously toward the bridge. “You should go find Lord Aegor—he seemed in a hurry to talk to you.”

Before Arya could come up with a counter, Willy hurried off, heading straight for the bridge with the box in hand. She could only stand there, seething.

Men really are all pigs! she thought furiously, stomping her foot in frustration. But the guards were nearby, and she couldn’t risk drawing attention with loud outbursts. She slunk back into her hiding spot, fuming.

Why wasn’t this going according to plan? Wasn’t she supposed to trick Willy, face a tense interrogation from the guards, and slip through by the skin of her teeth? That’s how the stories always went! Why was it so much harder in real life?

Her frustration mounted as she watched Willy cross the bridge unimpeded. After a few moments of sulking, Arya’s gaze returned to the lake, and a new idea struck her: the lake was frozen. While the bridge was heavily guarded, the icy surface of the lake itself could offer another way across.

The more she thought about it, the more feasible it seemed. Her small stature and light weight meant she could likely cross the ice without breaking it. She just needed to avoid the fishing holes that had been cut into the ice and later refrozen.

Excitement replaced her irritation as Arya crept away from the bridge. Humming a tune to feign nonchalance, she made her way to the far side of the lake, away from prying eyes. There, she crouched by the shore to inspect the ice.

The lake was smooth and glassy, with snow swept to the edges by the wind, leaving the surface bare in the center. Here and there, fishing holes—now partially frozen over—marked the ice. Arya remembered Aegor’s strict rules about the lake: fishing was only allowed with his personal approval, and the water was to be protected from waste or overuse.

Recalling these details gave Arya confidence. The ice could definitely hold her weight, though she would need to tread carefully to avoid the weaker spots.

If I fell through the ice and drowned, would my mentor cry for me? Arya wondered morbidly, her imagination running wild. The thought made her nose sting with emotion, but she pushed it aside and focused on the task at hand.

Finding a sturdy stick, Arya used it to test the ice as she stepped onto the frozen lake. The journey was short—just a few dozen meters—but the tension made it feel like a lifetime. Twice, she narrowly avoided hidden fishing holes. When the ice creaked beneath her near the center, she dropped to her hands and knees, spreading her weight to distribute the pressure. Crawling the last few meters, she finally reached the island, panting and trembling but victorious.

The tower loomed before her. Between her and Daenerys were only a few meters of stone and two guards stationed at the entrance.

Pressing herself against the wall, Arya edged toward the tower’s door, careful to stay out of sight. Voices drifted toward her from the guards.

“Did you feel it?” one guard murmured. “The Queen’s aura—it’s overwhelming. When I went with Lord Aegor to meet her, I could barely speak. It’s like she has this... presence.”

“You too?” the other replied. “I thought I was just scared of the dragons! Even after the dragons flew off, she was still... intimidating.”

“Exactly! Lord Aegor didn’t even flinch, though. He just stood there, calm as ever, chatting with her like it was nothing. Incredible.”

“Yeah, that’s why he’s the Lord Commander. The Queen’s aura must come from being around dragons so much. Or maybe she was born with it?”

“She’s supposed to have dragon blood, right? It makes sense. Isn’t she, like, their mother or something?”

“You idiot. The dragons came from eggs. She didn’t give birth to them.”

“Well, I heard she used blood magic to hatch them—sacrificed her husband or something.”

“That’s ridiculous. Her husband was killed by witchcraft, not her. His anger turned into dragon eggs or something like that.”

“Come on! Do you know how big a dragon egg is? She’s way too petite to have laid something like that!”

“Who knows? Maybe the Mother of Dragons isn’t built like a normal woman...”

Arya rolled her eyes. Men really are pigs, she thought again, suppressing a groan of disgust. Peeking around the corner, she saw the two guards—logistics soldiers she recognized—standing with their backs to the tower’s door, chatting idly as they watched the bridge.

Her mentor’s thoroughness in securing the tower was impressive, but at this moment, Arya found it maddening. How am I supposed to get past them?

Luring them away with a distraction wouldn’t work; the island was too small. Bluffing her way through would fail; they knew her face. Attacking them outright? No—Aegor trusted these men, and killing them would infuriate him. Besides, she was an assassin, not a warrior.

No, this required subtlety. Perhaps there was a window she could climb through? She craned her neck to examine the tower, only to nearly leap out of her skin when she noticed a shadowy figure beside her.

It was Aegor. Somehow, he had approached without a sound, and now he stood calmly at her side, his expression unreadable. Startled, Arya froze, caught red-handed.