Mercy regained consciousness when they were well away from King’s Landing. She recognized the roads she had taken on the way to the capital. Some of the snow had melted away and the winds were kinder, but her arm still hurt badly, and she was too tired to speak with her companions. All she did was eat what was offered, and sleep soundly on the wayn.
The first day she could speak, she asked them if her arm would work again. It was hanging limp in a sling, and she could not move it yet, even though she felt the pain. She asked if the Dead God was pleased, and her services to Braavos over. They said yes to both.
She had decided to call herself Mercy. Arya Stark was dead and she was not no one anymore, but she had to wear a new name to an old face.
On the second day, she asked them if they were going where she had asked. “We are,” her companion replied, a small and stout woman. “We’ll go through the woods, because we cannot risk going through any of the overland routes.”
“Why not?”
“The king,” the other companion said, a long thin man with a hooked nose but a weak goatee. “He flies for King’s Landing on a dragon. People have come out in hordes, jamming all the roads, hoping he stops for supper at their homes.” He gave a light chuckle. “I’ve seen many things in my life, but I never thought I’d see a bastard seat the throne of Westeros.”
Jon, she thought sadly, remembering her final dialogue with him at the Wall. But that was all in the past. Her name was Mercy now, and Mercy was going to let go of Arya Stark, even the moments that made Arya’s life worth living.
*
Comments