"Speak. How many?" the Blackfish asked.
"Six hundred, ser," a woman in a rough wool cloak answered.
She had been a serving girl before the Moon Gates fell. Now she warmed the beds of sellswords who worked with the savages.
But she had grown up here and knew all the passages. The ones the knights used, and the hidden ones that hunters used to trade with the mountain clans.
"Six hundred," Brynden said. He nodded slowly. He reached into his pack and pulled out a heavy clay jar.
"Put this in their wine. All of it."
The woman stared at the jar.
"M'lord, I don't want to go back."
The Blackfish put a hand on her shoulder. His grip was firm yet gentle.
"Sometimes we must do things we do not wish to do," he said quietly. "Once this is done, you and your future family won't need to work for ages."
She thought about that. Future. How many times had she heard that word in her life?
"Will it hurt them?" she asked.
"It will be quick," Brynden said.
It was a lie. The poison would be quick like a rusted knife through the gut. He did not have time to find something cleaner.
"Go. Before they miss you."
She took the jar and vanished into the dark.
The tunnel was cold and damp. After half an hour she slipped through the hidden door and into the lower levels of the Gates of the Moon.
She turned a corner and ran straight into two sellswords blocking the corridor.
They leaned against the wall with cups of wine in their hands.
"Well now," the taller one said. He had a scar running through his eyebrow. "Where are you going in such a hurry, little bird?"
They stepped forward. They pinned her against the rough stone wall. The jar pressed hard into her stomach.
She did not struggle. She knew better. Instead, she leaned into them.
One of the men grabbed her face. He kissed her hard. His beard scraped her skin.
She kissed him back. She forced her body to soften and let her hands roam over his chest.
The other man reached for her bag. He felt the hard shape of the clay jar.
"What's this?" he asked. "Stealing wine?"
"Herbs," she whispered. "For back pain. You men ride hard."
The sellswords laughed.
"We can help with that soreness," the scarred one said. He grabbed her roughly.
She let them touch her. She let them take their fill for a few long moments. She faked a moan when his hand grew rough. It was the only way to make them lose interest in the bag.
"Go on then," the scarred man said. He slapped her back. "But come find us when your work is done."
She nodded and hurried away. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand only when she was sure they were not looking.
'Never,' she thought. 'You'll be dead before dawn.'
....
She reached the storeroom.
Rows of wooden barrels lined the walls. Some were already tapped. Others were waiting to be opened.
She broke the wax seal on the jar. The liquid inside was black and thick.
She pried the bung off the first barrel and poured a measure of the sludge inside. Then she moved to the next.
She was halfway through the line when heavy footsteps echoed on the stone floor. She hid the clay jar behind the barrels.
A mountain clansman filled the doorway. He was huge. He wore furs and rusted chainmail. His eyes were glazed with drink but they sharpened when they landed on her.
He did not speak. He did not ask what she was doing.
He crossed the room in two strides. He grabbed her by the hair and slammed her chest-first onto the top of a wine barrel.
"No!" she gasped. "Please, the wine—"
He did not listen. He took her right there on the barrel; he was rough, and he was heavy. The wood bit into her stomach.
She cried. The tears leaked from her eyes and ran down her nose. The pain was sharp and degrading.
But she did not look away.
She turned her head to the side. The open bung of the wine barrel was right next to her face. She could see the wine swirling inside. She could see the black poison dissolving into the red.
Through the tears and the grunts of the savage, she stared at the death in the barrel…. and she smiled.
The clansman finished with a grunt. He pulled away and adjusted his breeches.
He did not even look at her face, he just grabbed the very barrel she had been pinned against and hoisted it onto his shoulder.
"Good little wine," he muttered in broken Common Tongue and walked out.
The girl slid to the floor. She wiped her face and stood up on shaking legs. She wiped the seed from her thighs with a rag.
She picked up the clay jar. There was still half left.
She moved to the remaining barrels.
....
Three hours later the screaming started.
It began in the Great Hall. The sounds of laughter turned to sounds of retching. Then came the thuds of bodies hitting the floor.
The girl sat in the corner of the kitchen. She hugged her knees and listened to the music of their dying.
BANG!
Someone kicked open the door of the kitchen, and three clansmen stumbled in.
They were not sick yet. They had seen her coming from the storeroom earlier, and they had put the pieces together.
"You!" the lead savage roared as he drew a jagged knife. "Witch!"
They advanced on her.
She pressed her back against the cold stone. She had nowhere to run. She closed her eyes and waited for the steel.
WHOOSH
She herd sound like rushing water.
She opened her eyes.
A woman stood between her and the savages. It was a new maid she had seen before.
The maid flicked her wrist.
A thin crescent of water hovered in the air at the tip of her finger. It glowed with a faint blue.
The maid slashed her hand through the air.
The water crescent flew. It moved faster than an arrow. It passed through the necks of the three clansmen.
They took one more step. Then their heads slid from their shoulders. The bodies collapsed with a wet thud.
....
Seventeen hours later
Brynden rode toward the Gates of the Moon. Edmure was beside him. A column of three hundred Tully men marched behind them.
The castle was silent.
There were no sentries on the battlements. There were no horns blowing the alarm.
"They're sleeping," Edmure said. He sounded hopeful. "Drunk on victory."
They reached the main gate. It was open. The portcullis was raised beneath the archway.
Brynden drew his sword. He kicked his horse forward.
He rode into the courtyard.
Bodies lay everywhere. Clansmen were slumped over wooden tables. Some lay face down in the frozen mud. Others were curled into balls against the stone walls. Their faces were purple and swollen. Dried froth coated their lips.
"Secure the walls," Brynden ordered his captains. "Make sure not a single soul slipped away."
He dismounted. His boots squelched in the bloody mud.
Edmure dismounted beside him. The young lord was breathing hard. He saw a half-full flagon of wine sitting on a table near a dead chieftain.
Edmure reached for it.
"My throat is parched," Edmure muttered.
Brynden moved fast. He slapped the flagon out of his nephew's hand. The metal cup clattered across the stone floor. Dark red wine spilled over the boots of a corpse.
"You fool," Brynden snapped. "Do you think the Stranger took them in their sleep? It was the wine that killed them."
Edmure stared at the spilled wine. He looked at the purple faces of the dead men around them. He realized how close he had come to joining them.
"I did not think," Edmure stammered.
"That is your affliction, nephew," Brynden said. "You never think."
A soldier ran up to them. He looked worried.
"Ser Brynden," the man said. "The castle is secure. We're counting the dead now."
Brynden waited. He watched his men stack the bodies near the gate. The pile grew fast.
Ten minutes later the soldier returned.
"Well?" Brynden asked. "Give me the count."
"Two hundred and eighty-four, ser."
Brynden froze. He looked at the pile of bodies. He looked at the open gate. The spy had been clear. There were six hundred men inside the walls.
"Are you certain?" Brynden asked.
"We checked every room, ser. The stables and the barracks and the cellar. That's the full count."
....