ARYADNE - XXXIII

                                    

                                          
ARYADNE REMEMBERED LITTLE OF WHAT had transpired after Lyra's death. What she did know was that she had become a fragile thing, a creature of glass. Every interaction bore with it a silent fear in whomever she spoke to, that one wrong word would send her shattering into a thousand pieces. The truth was, she had already done so. She felt fragmented, a sevenfold fracture bundled in that sack of skin — girl and woman, daughter and mother, sister, and wife, and queen. Each held with her a tome of memories and thoughts, the bindings now broken, the pages scattered.
A month had gone as from night to day. She spoke rarely. There wasn't much use in it. She could sense the lords' disapproval. She rode in silence now with Talisa at her side and Robb somewhere ahead at the front of the company. Despite knowing he was too far away to spot, she looked for him all the same. There was a buzz in the air, the healers all chattering about the upcoming battle. They were to lay siege to Harrenhal, prying it from Tywin Lannister's hands at last. Having planned the attack out for weeks, it was time to put the plan into action.
The castle rose up above them as they slogged up the hill. Seated high on a mountain above them, its dark ruins seemed to reach into the clouds. She recalled a history book she had read as a child, about how King Harren the Black had built it in his own name and now, on the day the last brick was laid, Aegon the Conqueror came with his dragons. Studying the turrets, she could see their warped shapes, how the stones sloped and shone, having been melted by the heat of dragonfire. The mere sight of it sent a thrill up her spine.
However, she soon noticed that their company did not stop. They travelled beyond the siege line that had been planned. And when she passed through the gates, Aryadne knew why.
Entering the courtyard on foot, she lifted her skirts to avoid a puddle. Only when she was over it did the grey sunlight catch on it, turning it red. A metallic, rotting stench stung her nostrils and made her head swim. A body hung from the battlements, its ankles dangling by her head. Others hung in each corner. Stretched on the spikes of a wagon, more piled up. The courtyard was thick with them, piling up like sacks of grain at harvest time. All of them left to the crows. Some had already started their feast.
A hand on her shoulder broke her focus from the slain prisoners of war. Looking up, she met a pair of river-blue eyes, softened with concern. "You should return to the camp, my love," Robb advised her.
She met his words with a shake of her head. "I must be of some use."
Opening his mouth to insist, his attention drifted to Catelyn as she passed them by. The two watched her approach one of the bodies, a white-bearded man displayed against a broken paddock fence. His own blade was still firmly embedded in his chest, pinning there an indigo banner. Robb followed his mother, easily recognising the silver eagle stitched finely into the cloth. "A Mallister."
"Ser Jaremy," she replied quietly. "My father's Bannerman."
He only gave it a moment's thought before he realised the attention that had fallen on them, particularly Catelyn. He had been so close to forgiving her for releasing Jaime, but her part in Aryadne's lie had lost her any remaining kindness. "Find her a chamber that will serve as a cell." She did not contest the order, simply allowing herself to be led away.
"She's your mother," she heard Talisa's whispered reminder.
Robb had no time for such a sentiment. "She freed Jaime Lannister. The Lannisters robbed them of their sons, she robbed them of their justice."
Aryadne had no interest in the debate. She began to wander, searching for survivors. Her gaze drifted up to the courtyard entrance, where Bolton and Karstark both stood, watching her. Something in it made her uneasy. With a scowl, Karstark left. She continued, trying not to give it another thought. One body in particular caught her interest. Lying at the foot of one mound was a squire. He wore no armour, nor any crest to identify him, but it only took one look for her to see that he was just a boy. His face was still slightly rounded in that youthful way. It was now pale and bluish, unnaturally stiff. Crouching beside him, she smoothed his hair from his face, closing his eyes so that he could finally sleep.