GOT: P Chapter 22

Hooves first. Then the ring of bits and the thud of boots dropping to earth. Our mule flattened its ears. Good mule.

I held high, thin against cloudy night. Northmen- plain shields, good and worn leather, heads on a swivel. Robb's outriders. They spread wide and slow, like they had all day to do this right.

Tyce’s hand went to his blade. Rae didn’t look at him. “Hold,” she said.

Good. Don’t give them a reason.

A bearded man with a scar down his brow reined in ahead.
His voice was dry as cold stone.
“You’ll go no further. Road’s closed.”

He looked them over.
“Names. Now.”

Inside the cart, Arry had been a quiet. She moved first, cloak off, boots down to the road with that heasd straight.

“I’m Arya Stark,” she said, voice high and clear. “Take me to my brother.”

The ring wavered. Half the men glanced at each other, not sure. Hair hacked short, river mud ground into her face- her small logic had almost worked.

Then one rider pushed up his visor. Soft beard, boy’s eyes tired by sleepless night. He stared at her for a second. “Gods,” he breathed. “M’ lady Arya.” He slid off his horse so fast he near fell. “You remember me? Tom Barleycorn. I carried Bran’s basket from the bakehouse when...”.

“Tom,” she said, and the tightness cracked a hair. “Aye. I remember”

That did it. The circle loosened. A few men said “The gods... it’s her.” under breath. The scar-browed one kept his spear where it was. Sensible.

His eyes cut past Arya to the cart. “Who’s behind you, then?”

Rae stepped down. Hood back.

The firelight didn’t reach far, and her face stayed mostly in shadow. Still, something in her features, the shape, the stillness made a few of them look twice.

“Rhaenys,” she said. Calm. Measured.

A few heads turned at the name, but nothing more.

It wasn’t a name they heard often, not one of the southron name, but it sounded off to Northern ears. Foreign. But strangely similar to Targaryen.

Maybe traveller, someone might think. But in this light, it was hard to say.

I let one short scream cut the night, high and clean, from a long way off. Just saying:

I’m here.

Every helm lifted. Hands shaded eyes. They squinted at the dark and saw nothing.

Rae didn’t flinch. She let the quiet run long enough to belong to her, then finished, same level tone:

“Of House Targaryen.”

The night seemed to tighten. Two spears drifted higher by habit. Someone muttered, “Dragon...” and bit it off.

Even Arya’s head snapped. She stared at Rae as she is not the only one hiding. Breath went short.

“Targaryen?” she said, low.

And it's time for me to enter the game officially.

I dropped then, no blaze, no cry, soft onto the cart’s backboard. Heat banked. Wings tight. Weight there.

Two spears lifted anyway scar-brow and the lad beside him.

Fine.

I hopped to the rail. Tilted my head at the nearer point until the man saw his own face in my eye. Then I let a thumb-nail ember kiss the iron tip- one heartbeat, no flare. just a dull-red bloom and a hiss. I drew the heat back and breathed on it once. Out.

The spearhead smoked. The shaft stayed steady. His horse didn’t budge.

I turned and tapped the cart’s edge with a claw scratch, scratch- slow, neat. A circle no wider than a coin charred into the wood. Then I pressed the mark with my palm and snuffed it clean.

Control. Not threat. Not yet.

The lad’s knuckles eased. Scar-brow’s eyes flicked to Rae, back to me, then he lowered his point an inch. Which was the important inch.

Arya didn’t move. “He’s with me,” she said, quick, to the men like she’d decided that on the spot and would fight anyone who argued.

Rhaenys stood square behind her. “We’re here to see your lord,” she said, voice even. "As his guest.".