Chapter 148 — Arya Stark?
Rain fell throughout the entire night, only stopping when dawn finally arrived.
Sansa's mouth hung open, her eyes wide in disbelief.
She could hardly imagine that after nothing more than a night's sleep, the muddy ground outside the hut had somehow gained even more corpses than yesterday.
And in Podrick's hand—
he was holding a bloody head.
The head was enormous. The eyes were still open, staring blankly, as if the man had died without understanding what had happened.
Sansa realized she recognized the owner of that head.
Ser Gregor Clegane.
The man known as "The Mountain."
Nearly eight feet tall, with shoulders like a fortress wall and arms as thick as tree trunks. His entire body was packed with monstrous muscle, and his voice sounded like grinding stone.
A giant. A monster.
Sansa remembered seeing him for the first time at the Hand's Tourney held by King Robert for her father, Eddard Stark.
Gregor and his brother Sandor Clegane had dominated the tournament, crushing opponent after opponent.
In the second round, Gregor had killed a young knight from the Vale—Ser Hugh—by driving a lance straight through his throat.
The knight had fallen less than ten feet away from where Sansa sat.
The lance had pierced his neck, and blood poured out in steady pulses as his heartbeat weakened.
Her friend Jeyne Poole had begun screaming hysterically.
Septa Mordane had to lead her away to calm her down.
What Sansa herself had been doing at the time… she couldn't quite remember.
She only knew it was the first time she had ever witnessed someone die.
Perhaps she should have cried.
But no tears had come.
Maybe she had already cried them all out—for Lady, and for Bran.
That evening at the feast, Joffrey had ordered his "hound," Sandor Clegane, to escort her back.
She had mistakenly thought Sandor was a knight and praised him for his bravery.
Yet in truth, she hadn't even dared look at him.
And Sandor had said that Gregor had deliberately raised his lance when he noticed the young knight's gorget was loose—aiming straight for the exposed throat.
As Sansa recognized the head in Podrick's hand, those memories surfaced one after another.
It was hard to believe that the unstoppable giant she remembered…
could one day be carried around as a severed head.
If she ignored the dripping blood, perhaps she could almost convince herself it wasn't real.
---
While Sansa stood frozen in shock, Podrick casually rinsed the head in the pond and then handed it to Jalabhar Xho, who stood nearby with his gilded bow.
"Clean it up and preserve it," Podrick said.
"Wouldn't want it rotting too quickly."
"Maybe I can still sell it for a good price."
Having casually handed off his "trophy," Podrick noticed Sansa staring at him.
He looked up.
He had already removed his armor and changed into simple, clean clothes. His hair was still wet from washing.
Seeing Sansa, he lifted a hand in greeting and smiled.
"Good morning, Miss Sansa Stark."
"Looks like you had a pleasant dream last night."
His voice snapped Sansa out of her stunned silence.
Looking at the young man she had begun to see as a blessing sent by the gods, she suddenly felt her face grow warm.
The pale color left her cheeks, replaced by a faint blush.
She lowered her gaze.
"Good morning… Ser Podrick."
Of course.
It must have been Podrick who killed Gregor Clegane.
He had guarded her through the night.
---
Meanwhile, Jalabhar Xho—who had also fought during the battle and personally shot down several enemies—grinned widely as he accepted the severed head.
"Rest assured, Lord Payne," he said respectfully.
"When you need it, it will still look just as fresh."
Then he turned to Sansa with a courteous nod.
"Good morning as well, Miss Sansa Stark."
"Lord Payne has ordered that we continue our journey to find your family."
"This land is no longer safe for us to remain."
"We should leave as soon as possible."
He placed a hand over his chest in solemn assurance.
Podrick ignored Jalabhar's suddenly respectful tone.
To be honest, he had liked Jalabhar better when the man still carried that rebellious arrogance.
Once Jalabhar finished speaking, Podrick nodded slightly.
"I've roughly learned where your brother Robb Stark is now."
"If we're lucky, you might be home within a week."
Home.
What a distant word.
It felt as if her life in Winterfell belonged to another lifetime.
Hearing Podrick say that home might be so close, Sansa forgot even the embarrassment she felt beneath his clear blue gaze.
She lifted her chin and looked toward the distant horizon.
---
The morning wind carried the cool chill left behind by the night's rain.
Elsewhere—
a girl who now called herself Arry stirred awake.
Her real name was Arya Stark.
Curled up on a hard wooden plank, she woke with a shiver.
Sleeping on that board had left every muscle aching.
Her joints felt stiff, as though she had spent the night lying in the snow outside Winterfell.
Still, Arya could tolerate the cold.
She was a Northerner.
The blood of the direwolf flowed in her veins.
And pain?
Pain was nothing compared to the training Syrio Forel had put her through while teaching her the Water Dance.
Syrio once said that a true water dancer could balance on a single toe for hours.
Arya still hadn't managed that.
Perhaps water dancers weren't quite that powerful after all.
She remembered when her father was still alive.
Back then he had worried she might fall during practice.
Arya had replied proudly:
"A water dancer never falls."
But two days ago, a huge armored man had knocked her flat to the ground and punched her with a gauntleted fist.
That was when Arya realized—
sometimes water dancers do fall.
Opening her dry eyes, Arya remained curled up where she lay…
After lying there for quite a while, Arya finally felt the warmth return to her limbs. Only then did she manage to roll over and sit up with difficulty.
The only thing wrapped around her body was a ragged robe—patched countless times and never washed. It had once been black, but now it had faded into a dull gray.
Such a garment offered little warmth during a cold, rain-soaked night like this.
Fortunately, she still had something warm in her arms.
As Arya stirred awake, the little girl nestled against her—no more than two years old—blinked open her eyes and muttered sleepily.
They called the girl Weasel.
The nickname had been given by Lommy Greenhands, because he said she looked like a weasel.
It wasn't really true.
But they couldn't just keep calling her "the crybaby" forever.
Eventually she had stopped crying—though she had developed the strange habit of eating mud whenever she was hungry.
Maybe "Weasel" wasn't such a bad nickname after all.
Unfortunately, Lommy would never call her that again.
When their group had accidentally run into Ser Gregor Clegane's soldiers while traveling, Lommy had fallen while trying to escape and broken his leg.
A Lannister spearman had then thrust a spear through his soft throat.
His crime?
After surrendering, Lommy had dared to ask the soldier to carry him.
As if those devils were the brothers of the Night's Watch he thought they were—men who might help someone who hadn't even taken the vows yet.
Arya held the warm, half-asleep child and stared blankly into the distance, memories of two days ago replaying in her mind.
Then suddenly—
a weak voice sounded beside her.
"Don't bring me so much food today."
"I don't have much time left."
"You've got a little hungry mouth there with you… feed her instead."
The voice sounded dry, like someone swallowing sand.
Arya had actually woken from hunger and cold, but those words snapped her fully awake.
She turned her stiff neck and looked toward the man lying on the straw they had dragged together for him.
His greasy hair hung in tangled strands.
His pale face looked almost bloodless.
His cracked lips were dry as bark.
He was dying.
"Yoren…"
Arya's voice trembled with sorrow.
Yoren—the wandering crow who had shaved her head in King's Landing with a dagger, turning her long hair into a ragged mess—forced a faint apologetic smile when he saw her expression.
"Sorry," he said weakly.
"I won't be able to keep the promise I made to your father."
Tears began streaming down Arya's face.
"Don't cry," Yoren murmured.
"Even if I didn't die, Gregor Clegane wouldn't let me live much longer."
"Fooling him for a day was already my limit."
"So it's not your fault."
As he spoke, he slowly raised his hand, as if wanting to pat Arya's head.
In that moment, the harsh man who had scolded her like a boy throughout their journey was gone.
Now there was only a tired old man showing a girl the gentleness he had hidden before.
Arya leaned her shaved head into his hand.
But her gaze had already drifted to the straw beneath him—dark and soaked with dried blood.
"If you can…" Yoren began weakly.
"You should… but no."
"If you don't have absolute certainty…"
"Remember."
"You're always a boy named Arry."
His voice grew weaker.
The hand resting on Arya's head slowly lost strength.
Then—
it slipped away.
Yoren, who had served the Night's Watch for thirty years and spent three decades traveling the Kingsroad gathering recruits—losing only three men in all that time—
finally lost the light in his eyes.
His face had turned bluish-gray.
The empty gaze in his pupils held only regret and unwillingness.
Arya wasn't like Weasel.
She didn't cry loudly.
Instead, she bit her lip so hard that blood seeped out.
But even so, tears kept falling.
Her shoulders shook uncontrollably.
The little girl—no longer warmed by Arya's embrace—rubbed her eyes and stared at her in confusion.
Then Weasel's mouth trembled.
She was about to cry.
Nearby, Gendry, who had woken earlier and already spoken with Yoren for a long time, quickly lunged forward and scooped the child into his arms, barely stopping her from wailing.
But when he looked at Arya's trembling shoulders and the tears pouring down her cheeks like rain—
he instinctively reached out a hand.
Then froze.
After a moment, he pulled it back.
The silent crying lasted for who knew how long.
Gendry simply held Weasel and whispered softly to calm her, leaving the sorrowful space to the girl from House Stark.
Yes.
Gendry now knew who she really was.
Especially when he remembered how he had once yelled at her to "pull out her cock and piss like a man," the embarrassment made him wish he could crawl into his own chest and disappear.
Never in his wildest imagination had he thought that the fierce, scrappy boy who fought like a wildcat—
was actually a Stark girl from Winterfell.
A noble lady who had grown up in a castle.
After realizing he might not survive the night, Yoren had told him everything about Arya Stark.
He made Gendry swear to keep her identity secret.
And if possible—
to send her home.
Because if her identity became known, at least half the people who heard it would immediately hand her over to the Queen in exchange for a pardon and a few copper coins.
As for the other half?
They'd probably do the same.
Only after abusing her first.
As for why Yoren trusted him with such a secret—
it was because the Queen was also hunting Gendry.
Yoren hadn't explained why.
He only said one thing:
If the Queen ever learned who Gendry was…
she would have him killed without hesitation.
And anyone who brought back Gendry's head would receive a reward similar to Arya's.
So if Gendry wanted freedom—and didn't want to become a brother of the Night's Watch—
then Winterfell was his best choice.
As long as he protected Arya.
Because after Ser Amory Lorch slaughtered their Night's Watch party without reason, only five of them had managed to escape.
Yoren had killed three men while fleeing.
But he had been shot in the belly by an arrow.
After running for three days—
they had been unlucky enough to run straight into Gregor Clegane's forces.
And were captured.
---
Time passed slowly.
For some reason, the outside world was eerily quiet today.
Perhaps the rain from last night had something to do with it.
Eventually Arya's shoulders stopped shaking.
Her crying faded.
She wiped her tears away coldly.
Then she removed the ragged robe that had somehow ended up covering her and returned it to Yoren—the few possessions he still owned.
Next, Arya gently closed the eyes of the wandering crow who had spent his entire life serving the Night's Watch.
She covered his face with the robe.
As a prisoner, she didn't have the right to dig him a grave.
This was all she could do.
Just then, Gendry, who had been quietly watching the courtyard outside through a gap in the collapsed wall, suddenly waved at her.
"L—Li—Arry."
He almost used the wrong name.
Cold sweat instantly broke out across his back.
Luckily he corrected himself in time.
Arya didn't notice.
Still lost in sorrow, she simply saw the strange look on his face and cautiously walked over.
Three heads leaned together—two large ones with a tiny one between them.
They peered through the broken wall.
In the morning mist, three figures were approaching.
Three riders.
Travelers on horseback.
And the courtyard that had been so lively yesterday…
was now strangely silent.