The map showed the Archive as the heart of the monastery, but the "Northern raven" mentioned by the Valyrian-speaking guard suggested a specific, smaller, and therefore less-guarded ingress/egress point.
Arya moved like a whisper through the night. The robes of the dead guards were too bulky, so she kept her dark traveling clothes, relying on the shadows created by the monastery's high, tiered architecture. She moved along the upper walkways, keeping to the stone railing until she reached the northeast corner of the compound.
The jade stone was cold beneath her leather boots. From this height, she could see a faint, flickering light emanating from a small, low-roofed structure nestled against the cliff edge—far from the main docks. A tiny, well-worn path descended to it.
This had to be the Northern Channel: a secluded spot where they received sensitive communications, perhaps from their collaborators in Essos or even Westeros.
Arya followed the path down. It was treacherous, cut into the sheer cliff face, requiring her to use both hands to navigate the loose scree and slick moss. If she fell, the Silent Sea would claim her.
When she reached the bottom, the air smelled sharply of brine, fresh-cut wood, and something metallic. The small stone building had a single, heavy wooden door. Light leaked from a narrow, rectangular opening above the doorframe.
She pressed her ear to the thick wood. She could hear the distinct, quick scratching of a quill on parchment, and the low, careful tones of two men speaking. They were not speaking Valyrian or Common Tongue. It was a language she didn't know, rapid and clipped—perhaps the native language of this continent.
Two men. Unknown language. Heavy door. Direct assault would be difficult, but she didn't need the door. She scaled the smooth, green stone next to the doorway, moving toward the small light source.
The opening was not a window, but a slit—just wide enough to allow a glimpse inside, and perhaps, a small, strong hand.
Arya braced herself against the stone, peered through the slit, and assessed the situation.
Inside, two monks were indeed working. One was hunched over a desk, furiously copying notes onto new parchment. The other was standing over a cage, feeding water to a magnificent, white-feathered bird—a massive carrier pigeon, strong enough to cross wide tracts of sea. The Northern Raven.
The information was on the desk. A scattering of fresh-inked scrolls, ready to be rolled and sealed for the carrier bird.
Arya needed to grab the scrolls, silence the bird, and eliminate the two witnesses—all in a single, fluid motion.
She withdrew two small, weighted stones from an inner pocket. They were throwing rocks, perfectly smooth and flat, and she could hit a coin at fifty paces. But here, she was at arm's length.
She focused on the monk at the desk. His head was bowed, concentrated on his work.
Arya slipped the first rock through the slit. It struck the man sharply on the side of his head with a dull thwack that was swallowed by the thick stone walls. The man slumped without a sound.
The second monk, startled, spun around to face the door, dropping the water cup.
Before he could process the threat or raise an alarm, Arya thrust her arm through the opening. The slit was narrow, and she risked tearing the skin, but she didn't hesitate. Her fingers wrapped around the beautiful white carrier pigeon's neck. With a quick, practiced twist, she silenced its cooing forever.
The monk, now panicked, finally spotted her hand. He screamed a warning in the foreign tongue and ran toward the desk, likely for a weapon.
Arya pulled her arm out, quickly and painfully, scraping her forearm. The immediate threats were dealt with, but the alarm had been raised.
She didn't waste a moment looking for a way in. She didn't need to. She snatched the largest scroll on the dead monk's desk, tore it from the stack, and slipped it out through the slit, ignoring the sharp pain in her arm.
She now had a captured secret. The immediate need was not to read it, but to run.
Above her, a light in one of the main tower windows flared to life. The alarm had worked its way up to the command center.
She could hear distant shouts and the rhythmic pounding of boots on the stone walkways. Jaime Lannister would be leading the pursuit.