Thank you all so so much for the amazing response to last chapter! For all those asking: Gendrya LIKELY, Jonerys NO, Jonsa NO. Everything else is still fairly up in the air, though I have Plans ( TM ). Shout out to young Miss Molly for beta-ing most of this and soundboarding, and to EpicReader for all of your help!
ps PLEASE STOP ASKING ME IF I HAVE ABANDONED MY STORIES. I HAVE NOT, I'M JUST SLOW. THANK YOU.
Trying to beat Maester Theomore to the ravens was a battle of persistence, patience and caution. It was a battle fought on a knife's edge, forever careful not to tip the balance and give themselves away.
In other words, Wylla had to play distraction so that Wynafryd could get there first.
It's not that she minded – Wylla was best suited for the back-alley streets of White Harbour, and Wynny the castle life, and both sisters knew it and played the stakes in their respective favours. However, it meant that Wylla had to keep coming up with different ideas for distraction that were not obviously a distraction. On top of that, she also had to organise the underworld of White Harbour and the North, which meant she was getting by on maybe three hours of sleep a night. She was going to slip one day soon, and whilst they had contingencies drawn up for those eventualities, and a half-dozen plans to remove Theomore whilst they were at it, Wylla was proud enough to not want to need to use them.
Today's distraction was that Wylla had made sure that Theomore had caught her and a "scullery maid" kissing most fiercely in a corridor. The maid (one of the sailors, in actuality, but one who was willing to help just this once) had fled in "tears" once Theomore had threatened to evict her from the castle, leaving Wylla behind for a thorough scolding. The burgeoning actress had slipped into the kitchens, played out her part in front of those who were foolish enough to report to Theomore over Lord Wyman, and then had returned to the docks to mend her nets for the morrow. Wylla did her best to look resentful, embarrassed and dour throughout Theomore's rant on her fast-approaching marriage to Little Walder Frey, and her now "tarnished" reputation.
Finally, after Theomore's shouting has dropped back to a puffed-up rebuke, Wylla is frog-marched back to her chambers, and she is left alone with a guard at the door and instructions not to leave the room until she is summoned. She hopes that the near-hour distraction was enough for Wynny to get what she had needed, and is glad to find her sister skulking inside of her cupboard once the Maester has locked her in her rooms.
"Well?" Wylla demands, removing layers of Southern snobbery for her shift, getting ready for a long-overdue nap.
"Sansa Stark and Jon Snow are marching to retake Winterfell from the traitorous Boltons," Wynafryd whispers. Wylla catches herself with one of the necklaces she is removing and chokes.
"What?!"
"Here," her older sister says, handing over the raven scroll. There is a sad-sounding caw from the cupboard.
"Why is there a raven in there?!"
"Don't shriek Wylla, your voice is already high-pitched enough." Wynafryd scolded gently. "I couldn't think of anywhere else to put the poor thing where Theomore wouldn't find it. Go on, read the letter. Either Lady Arya was unsuccessful, or else Lady Sansa and the Lord Commander have missed their sister."
Wylla gathers up all of the unnecessary emotions and shoves them to the side, focussing on the letter (stamped with a Direwolf on grey wax) and what repercussions this spelt out for Houses Manderly and Stark.
"Lady Arya wrote to us when she took back Winterfell," Wylla states. She does not need to remind Wynafryd of this. They had shared the letter between themselves and a bottle and laughed for joy. It had said only Valar Dohaeris, Winter has Come and been stamped with black-on-white wax. "They have missed each other."
"Or else something has gone wrong."
"If Ramsay had Arya Stark, surely he would have announced it to all the high heavens."
"He's smart – only your network could confirm the rumours of Lady Sansa's tortures. D'you really think he would brag about killing the missing princess? No, better to kill her and let her disappear into history as lost during the War of Five Kings."
"So we need proof, before anything else," Wylla said, combing her hair back with a sigh.
"I want you to go to Winterfell." Wynafryd says firmly in her best Lady-of-the-castle voice. "House Manderly swore oaths to the Starks once, and you and I renewed them only weeks ago. Take whomever of your network you think will best support you, wear whatever disguise you deem safest, and head inland. I will tell Theomore that you are sulking and refuse the eat in rebellion for earlier, and will tell Mother and Grandfather what is happening in the Hour of the Wolf. I've packed a satchel for you already, but check it and see if there is anything else you will need."
Wylla draws in another deep breath, nods, and immediately upends the bag her sister hands her. There is enough food, water and wine to last one person a week, or two people three days without any extra additions. Longer, of course, if the food was eaten sparingly, or added to. There are spare socks and gloves, a paring knife and carving knife, a lantern with steel and flint both, bandages and herbs, paper and ink. Yes, for a race for Winterfell, this will do perfectly.
Shoving it all back in again, Wylla immediately begins to dress herself for the job ahead, pulling on stockings that go all the way to her hips. She slips her shift for a moment so that she can bind her bosom, slipping her lockpicks and a small shank between her breasts, and tugging the shift back up again. She straps daggers to each ankle, the small of her back and each wrist. The jerkin she pulls over top of her shift is designed especially for her, gives her a masculine outline and hides another small knife at the nape of the neck. She tugs on another set of men's pants, a padded vest, boots that go half-way up her calf, and she slips a dirk into one in an attempt to draw attention away from the smaller daggers at her ankles. Gloves and leather vambraces, a cloak, and she is almost done. Carefully she braids back her hair, twisting it up and around her skull with pearl pins stuck through for emergency bribes. She pulls on a wig of short brunet hair that she had paid a performer quite handsomely for, and presents herself to her sister with a wry twist to her mouth.
"Passable?"
Wyn scuffs some ash from the fire into the clothes, instructs her to find some more grime along the way, and then drags her into a hug. Wynafryd is not a hugging person, but Wylla is, and she knows that this is the closest her big sister will get to showing fear for her.
"Be safe, Wylla. Don't be caught, find out what has happened to our liege, and come home when you can. Please."
Wynnie doesn't say please sincerely much, either.
"By the old gods and the new, I swear it. Don't be caught yourself, sweet sister. Give Theomore hell where you can, and I'll organise for Netta and Scales to keep you up-to-date on the seafront and the underworld."
Wynny's smile is a small thing, but genuine. "I love you, Wylla. Remember our teachings."
"Might of the River," She whispers their words of old, known only to the immediate family, closely guarded. Says their new words, their Stark-men words. "Strength of the Sea."
Arya has drawn up three scrolls, reading each aloud to Sally in an attempt to teach the girl her letters. One is for the Wall, asking for the whereabouts of her brother and sister. One is for Rickon, letting him know what has happened and to see what is taking his reply so long. The last is for Jaime Lannister, offering a parlay. Once night has fallen, she shall give the notes for Rickon and the Wall to ravens who will drop down to the pack to be taken a safe enough distance away that they will not risk being shot down. Until then though, she bids a raven to flit down to the encampment, herself and Sally watching for archers, just in case.
One archer thinks it best to aim for the bird. Arya shoots him before he is even at half-draw.
Once the bird has disappeared into the mess of tents that are now popping up, Arya sets Sally to watch carefully, and beckons Nymeria over. She and the wolf join as one, and they send their awareness out into the pack. Many are only now running from the remains of the Frey camp, mouths bloody and stomachs full.
Take the caravan, they tell the pack. Arya provides the images, gives the instructions on which parts of the train to attack, the hows and whens of the whole scenario. Shows them again the herbs that she wants snuck into the evening meals, begs them watch for the men who think to duck off and make water in the woods.
Nymeria tugs at Arya's mind, twisting them sideways to slip into the awareness of the pack they left in the North, and into Shaggy too.
Wild Sister! Shaggy called them cheerfully, even as the pack howled their greetings to their alphas. A series of images flashed through Arya and Nymeria's minds, all of the mischief the pack had been up to, and all of the new/old things that Shaggy and Rickon had been able to see and smell and taste.
You have been busy, Black Brother! Nymeria gave a wolfish laugh, and the sensation of a fond headbutt passed from one Direwolf to the other. The White Brother? Little Sister's girl?
No sign-sight-sound of them. My boy has sent many man-signs by bird, and still nothing has come. The Moose boy has appeared, though, and my boy has been in talks with him all day. He is there now, else I would bring him in too.
Any word from the other Lords? Arya asked.
Little-Alphas? No, and it worries the old one you sent for my wounds. My boy is starting to worry too. When will you return?
As soon as this business is done – not long. Mayhaps a fortnight? Fortnight is not a word that wolves understand, so at their confusion Arya sends the impression of the moon changing, offering what she thinks the cycle will be when she returns.
I shall let my boy know. Be safe, sisters. Any orders?
As you were, Black Brother. Let my girl know if the other two sing back.
Arya slips back into her own body and rises swiftly, peeping over the parapet. "Well, squire?"
"The Lannister reinforcements have arrived, your grace," Sally says promptly. "Between five and ten thousand men. The last of the wolves have slipped away, but there aren't very many Frey men left, if any. The raven left the camp and landed on the horse of a man in golden armour. Father has taken care of the horses, and Lord Brynden sent him to eat something and check in on Lord and Lady Tully."
"And you? Have you been fed?"
"I will eat with your grace," the little girl says firmly. Arya smiles and ruffles her hair.
"Then let us go find a meal. You, what's your name?"
The guard she had indicated started, swallowed, and stuttered, "T-Thom, m'lady – Your grace!"
"Thom, how long is your shift atop the wall for?"
"Four hours, your grace; I've just started."
Arya nods, takes his arm and drags him to a spot between crenulations. "Here. I want you to look at everything. At the end of your shift, I want you to be able to tell me exactly what has happened, and where everything is. Do you understand?"
"B-but, your grace, from this distance –!"
"Watch. Observe. I'll be back in a bit, and we'll see what you have seen, and then I can give you a better idea of what to look for. Understand?"
"Yes, your grace!"
"Thank you. Sally, let's go." Arya leads them back down the steps, eyes sweeping the courtyard and looking for the most likely entry to the kitchens. A page is waiting for them at the bottom of the steps however, and shakenly offers to lead them wherever they need to go. The cooks try to make a feast, but Arya knows that their supplies are limited, and instead asks for a hunk of bread and some cheese each. Sally is young, still growing and constantly hungry, so Arya also slips her one of the sap-and-bark balls that she had made back in the Barrowlands, and explains where it came from and how to recognise the tree. They eat as they walk about the castle, taking in everything that they can.
"Your grace," a maid exclaims, finally catching up to them when they are examining a tapestry upon one of the hall walls. "Ser Brynden and Lord Edmure wish to speak with you, if it pleases your grace!"
Arya nods, and has the maid lead them to the two Tullys. The maid and page both station themselves outside the room awaiting further directions. "My lords, has something changed in the Lannister camp?"
"Niece," Edmure begins, only for Ser Brynden to snap overtop of Sally's high-pitched squeak.
"She is your king, and you shall address her as your grace!"
It is only thanks to her Braavosi training that she keeps her face blank at all. She wishes things had been different. She wishes that she could have met this great-uncle under better circumstances and at an earlier age.
Once she would have insisted that they not stand on formality – but that was before she trained in the Art of Faces. A King's Face could not be anything but formal, and she could not afford her usual disregard of the rules.
"Lord Edmure," She says in her clearest voice. "I trust you have spoken with your wife and son?"
Edmure Tully had no chance at winning the Game of Faces.
"I see. My Lord, Roslin had no part in that farce of a wedding. She has forsaken those of her blood who killed and defiled those of our blood. Her son she named for my brother, the last King in the North. It is thanks to her support that my justice was as swiftly served as it was. When we are finished here, you will go and speak with her, and shall share with her your council and listen in turn when she shares hers with you – actually, no." She stuck her head back out the door, and (asked firmly? ordered nicely?) Kingly decreed that the page fetch Roslin, Robin, and Lothor.
Edmure's face does something complicated with a range of emotions, but Arya ignores that in favour of the knight to his left.
"Ser Brynden. What ailments would you bring to my attention?"
"The men are concerned about the Lannister army, your grace. They want to know what your orders are."
"Wait. My pack has routed the Frey that survived and as we speak, they move against the Lannister reinforcements. I've already sent out a raven to the Kingslayer to see if he won't parlay with me, and finish this without any further bloodshed."
"After all the Lannisters have done to your family, our family?!" Edmure demands, having found his voice.
"I will have my vengeance against the Lannisters," Arya corrects him in a voice like ice. "But I supped on blood and misery enough at Harrenhal and the Twins; I have no need for thousands of souls to weigh me down. These soldiers aren't the ones who killed my family, so I have no need to offer their names to the Many Faced God."
"And the Kingslayer?" Edmure demanded. "He's the one who crippled your brother!"
Everything sort of … stops. Nymeria starts up a soft growl, and Arya puts an absent-minded hand to her ruff.
"I hadn't known that. Thank you, Uncle." She will think back over this; she needs to think in the now.
"Squire, go to your father. Tell him that we will be atop the wall should he need us, but otherwise I request he stay at Roslin and Robin's side as guard. When you return, make sure that it is with another inkwell and more paper, please. Have the maid outside direct you."
"Yes, your grace!" Sally is off and scampering away like some human-shaped rabbit, and Arya allows herself a second of fondness for the quiet girl.
"Quickly, now." Arya tells the men firmly. "What has happened in Westeros over the last two years? Everything that you can remember big or small, I wish to hear it. And once we have caught up on the state of affairs, please – tell me of the holdfasts in the Riverlands. How likely are they to last the Winter?"
"Thom, what do you have to report?"
"Your grace!" The guard jumps half his own height, Arya has spooked him so. She kind of likes it. Sally, hiding a giggle behind one tiny fist, is also impressed. "I, um, they are setting up camp?"
"So I see. But what, specifically, are they doing with this camp? Have they altered the terrain? Have they done anything about the bodies my pack have left behind? Are they moving faster or slower than one might expect of a sieging army?"
"Uh –?"
"Have they shifted the layout of the camp? Are there set sections for different groups – and if so, what sort of groups have been placed where?"
"They've started digging trenches five hundred yards from the camp perimeter, your grace, and set picket lines every hundred" Sally pipes. "There are cooksites per every hundred tents. Common pike men, knights, and archers make up three sections of the camp, with blacksmiths scattered for every thousand tents. They haven't done anything to the bodies that I could see, but they are keeping a wide berth."
Arya gives her the proud smile Syrio had once used to reward correct form. "Well done, Sally. Thom, turn back around. Can you see what my squire sees?"
Quiet, a rough cough, before, "Aye, your grace. How, uh, how did you see all that from up here?"
"Let your eyes fade out a bit every once in a while," Sally told him, solemn. "Your grace, the items you wanted. What shall I do with them?"
"Keep them close – we might need to write down notes or send another letter yet."
"Your grace, there's a raven from the camp!" Thom exclaims, leaning back from the wall.
Sally watches it intently, but Arya does not look at the bird itself, not for long. She is trying to spot whoever sent it, looking for ridiculous golden armour, gold hair.
There he is. Front of the campsite, open and exposed and ready to offer his name to the Many Faced God for his crimes.
She holds her arm out and ready for the raven, staring at the Kingslayer until the bird has made itself comfortable. She takes the scroll from its leg, opens and reads aloud to her squire and the guard.
Let us parlay, Daughter of Winterfell. Just you and I atop that solid drawbridge your family has raised against all the world. In one hour.
"Sally, you will watch from the battlements. You will not be seen, and you shall listen and tell me everything that you hear and what you think it all means. Understand?"
"Yes, your grace!"
"Thom, protect my squire. Nymeria, to me." With that she stalks from the battlements, lets Nymeria lead the way to Brynden and Edmure, who are still in the solar where she had left them only minutes before. They have been joined by Roslin, a sleeping Robin, and Lothor, and that page is once again awaiting further instruction outside.
"My lords, my lady," Arya snaps out, voice as ice. "The Kingslayer requests a parlay. Let me hear your council."
"Did he send a note, your grace?" Brynden asks, face folding into a heavy scowl. She hands it to him, and turns to Edmure and Roslin.
Both are pale, and Roslin has a cant to her eyes that makes Arya suspect they had been arguing prior to her arrival.
"He wishes to intimidate you, n – your grace."
Arya allows her lips to quirk up in a sharp smirk. "He shall find me somewhat unintimidated, then. Roslin?"
"He doesn't have to offer it, my king. He believes himself to hold the upper hand, this is a show of good faith."
"Or a trap," Lothor grumbles. "Your grace, my daughter?"
"Sally is atop the battlements taking notes for me. I assigned a guard to her for the interim, too. Great-uncle?"
"Solid points all around, your grace. I'd do it, to gain his measure if nothing else."
Arya nods back to him. "That was to my thinking, as well. Can you present yourself to the battlements in another half-hour then? I would appreciate your interpretation afterwards."
Uproar.
"Your grace, you can't!" Edmure exclaimed.
"You mustn't!" cried Roslin.
"Send another, your grace, allow me," Brynden growled. "You should not risk yourself so!"
Arya bares her teeth at them all, and snaps back, as close to Arya Underfoot as she has been in years, "A man with one hand does not frighten me, and cannot best me at arms, I assure you. I am going to this parlay, and you shall either present yourselves atop the wall and offer me your council, or you may stay here and dither, it is all the same to me."
With that she stalks back out of the room with Nymeria at her heels and anger singing in her bones. It is always close to the surface, this wolfsblood that had led to her Uncle's death in Kings Landing, had led her to offer up names to the Many Faced God one by one.
It is unwise to go into peace talks with such wrath so close to hand. Nymeria she sends to the battlements to mind Sally and Thom. Herself she takes into the dungeons and across the lower halls of Riverrun.
A half-hour is enough time for her to chase cats and let off some of her rage.
It is only Arya and Nymeria that greet the Kingslayer, despite Brynden and Edmure's follow-up protests. He rides to them atop a white horse with a banner bearer at his side on a darker mount. Arya raises her brow at the show, and looks up at Nymeria. The massive direwolf is better than any flag, and the crown atop Arya's head catches enough of the light that she feels it makes her point for her, too.
His armour is red with gold highlights, rather than all gold as she had initially thought. It is dulled from travel dust, and he stops just in front of where the drawbridge will go, and watches it passively as the bridge is lowered.
Ready, my girl?
Arya swings herself atop the alpha, pulls up the face of Northern diplomacy, and together they drop from the battlements to the bridge. To his credit, the Kingslayer doesn't curse at the great crash brought about by Nymeria's weight hitting the hardwood from such a height, though he does stumble back with wide eyes and a particular pallor to his cheeks. Arya appreciates it.
"Kingslayer," She greets him, slipping from Nymeria's back and making a show of looking him up and down. "I accept your surrender."
Straightening, Ser Jaime returns, "The She-Wolf from the seventh hell, they're calling you. I think you might be mistaken – I have come to accept your surrender."
Arya gives him a pleasant smile. "Now why would I do that? You have no support, you are surrounded, you have no prisoner of worth. No One is the only one who could take this castle from me, and even you cannot afford them."
Lannister barks a laugh at that. "For all you look like poor old dead Ned, you open your mouth and the Lady Catelyn just pops right out." This is only the second time she has been compared to her mother. She does not appreciate that it is one of her enemies who is doing so. "Lady Arya –"
"Do I look like a Lady?" Arya scoffs at him.
"You are outnumbered," he steamrolls on. "You are surrounded by eight thousand Lannister troops, and I have your Uncle Edmure and his wife and babe in my custody."
Arya snorts at him. "Do you? And do you have much in the way of food and provisions?"
"We have more than you do, She-Wolf."
"There are enough provisions here to last two years. Somehow, I cannot see you lasting that long," A cat had led her a merry dance through the larders, and she had once been taught to gauge such things by Septa Mordane. But now she calls upon the Waif and Lady Crane – cocks her head to the side with a curious, knowing smirk in place. The smirk does its purpose, making the Kingslayer step back again unconsciously and discomforted. "They say that you are the reason my brother Bran was crippled. Is that true?"
He looked pained. "I – I was."
"He had discovered you and your sister, hadn't he?"
"He had."
"The fall was supposed to kill him. And when that failed, you sent an assassin after him."
"That was Cersei."
Her face doesn't change; she does not let it. What she does do is send a tendril of thought to Nymeria, which makes her wolf give a huffing laugh. Nymeria stands and shakes herself all over, gives the Kingslayer a wolfish smile, and slowly swaggers back inside of Riverrun. Arya steps forward, grabbing his attention when she sways enough to show that Needle is still at her hip beneath the cloak she wears.
"When Winter comes, you'll hear no lions roar. No stags will graze in the fields. No roses will grow in the meadows. No snakes will be in the sands, and the krakens will freeze where they swim. Not even the dragon's breath will warm you in your halls. You shall hear only the wolves howl, and then you will know that winter has come." She gives her own approximation of Nymeria's smile, and says, "Now is your only chance to surrender. Spare the lives of your men, Jaime Lannister. You won't like what will happen if you do not."
"I understand that your education is lacking, Lady Arya, but this isn't exactly how one conducts a parlay," Jaime scoffs.
The Waif had held a knife and looked at Arya with a feral hunger, once. Arya pulls that bloodthirsty baring of teeth over her own face now, sends a thread of herself to Nymeria.
Nymeria howls, and is answered on all sides by her pack. There is a cacophony of sound from the Lannister camp, man and wolf alike, and then the pack are streaming back towards the bridge with their bounty; some of the younger wolves held only ham hocks in their mouths, but many had teamed up to carry or drag bags of grain or flour, whole chickens or share a carcass of lamb or calf between two or three bodies. trouble-mischief-quick had convinced a few others to help him muster a handful of cattle and one fat pig towards the drawbridge, the rest having been freed and scattered over the course of the parlay per Arya's instructions.
Arya continues to smile at the Kingslayer, and watches as horror and understanding bloom across his face. The pig nearly knocks him into the moat as it charges past. One of the steers flicks him with its tail hard enough that the rough hairs cut the skin of his cheek.
Arya walks up to him, steps steady and silent. "My name is Arya Stark. I am King of Winter and King of the Trident. The North remembers, Jaime Lannister. You have until sundown to surrender. Otherwise your lives are all moot. I will not make this offer again."
With that she turns sharply on her heel and slinks back towards the castle. Her ears are trained for any sound of movement behind her. If Ser Jaime had been willing enough to push Bran – sweet, loveable and all of ten years old – out of a tower window and to his death, she did not want to risk being run through the back by his sword.
"King Arya!" She pauses. "The Lady Knight, Brienne of Tarth. Did she find you? Did she fulfill her oath to your mother?"
"Big woman, broken nose, scar on her upper lip, high-quality armour and a Valyrian sword with a lionhead pommel?"
"Honour a mile wide and almost as stubborn as your great-uncle," There is a fond smile in Lannister's voice as he makes his claims.
"I last saw her fighting the Hound atop a cliff in the Vale, two years ago."
"And how did that fight end?"
"Sandor Clegane is now the Master at Arms in Winterfell."
Was that ambiguous enough? Would that cut at his psyche? She fucking hoped so. Ambiguity was a tactic the Waif had enjoyed, and Arya does not feel even a little bit sorry to utilize that here and now.
After Bear Island, the closest and largest holdfast was Deepwood Motte, Seat of House Glover. Sansa had run up and down the family's history and ties to House Stark with Jon to make sure he knew what angles they might come at them from, and both siblings had spent the whole trip rehearsing how they would best introduce themselves and act around the Lord. They were not going to have a repeat of Lady Lyanna, if Sansa had anything to do about it!
And yet their arrival at the Motte had been fraught with tension from the beginning. Guards and servants alike had watched them, wary, had let their eyes drop more than anything, racing to comply with any comments or suggestions Jon or, in particular, Sansa put forward. It was almost like being back at Winterfell, under the Boltons – but Sansa felt that this wasn't the normal state of the Motte. She felt like they were afraid of her.
When Lord Robett finally meets them (in the courtyard rather than a solar or hall, as courtesy dictated), he is grimfaced and stern, moreso than either had expected. His first words to them are neither greeting nor slur to Sansa's character or honour, as they had feared. It was a question that threw both Starks.
"What did you want the boy at Winterfell for, if you were coming here yourself, Lady Bolton?"
"I beg your pardon, Lord Glover – which boy?" Sansa's heart was twisting itself up in knots upon knots, thinking that this had been Rickon's hiding place, that Ramsey had found out somehow and used her seal to trick the Lord –
"Larence Snow, my lady. The note came by wolf nearly three weeks ago, with a Direwolf stamped on black wax."
Sansa shakes her head and bites her lip. "My seal is a Direwolf on grey, my lord, not black. I escaped Ramsey's tortures just over three weeks ago."
A look of pain flashes across Lord Robett's face. Eyes closed, he draws in a deep breath before asking, "Escaped?"
"The things that Ramsey Bolton did to me are not those that a Lady is supposed to know about, let along say aloud. The things he did to me – well, I imagine that they would be acceptable ways to get information out of prisoners, certainly."
"Why are you here, Lady Bolton?"
"I am Sansa Stark, my lord. And we ride to take my home and little brother back from a monster. Roose Bolton killed our brother and King, Robb Stark. Ramsey killed him, and his Frey wife and son. My brother Jon and I are looking for loyal houses to help us."
"We've only just taken this castle back from the Ironborn, and it was the Boltons who helped us do it. Now you want me to fight against them? I could be skinned for even talking to you, that boy could be skinned, for all I know!"
"The Boltons are traitors," Jon snapped. "Roose Bolton –!"
"What other Northern Houses have pledged to fight for you?"
"House Mormont," Jon admitted.
"And?"
"We've sent ravens to houses Manderly – "
"I don't care about ravens. You're asking me to join your army. Who is fighting in this army?"
"… The bulk of the force is made up of Wildlings."
A dark chuckle. "Then the rumours are true. I didn't dare believe them. I received you out of respect for your father, and now I would like you to leave. House Glover will not abandon its ancestral home to fight alongside Wildlings!
"Lord Glover!" Jon tried again.
"I have nothing else to say," The lord snapped, stalking back into his keep.
"I would remind you that House Glover is pledged to House Stark, sworn to answer when called upon." Sansa snapped. That got the grumpy lord to stop, at least, got him to turn around and walk back to face her squarely. Sansa raises herself higher, looks him in the face with her old court mask pulled down tight.
"Yes," He breathes at her, rage simmering behind those dark old eyes. "My family served House Stark for centuries. We wept, when we heard of your father's death. When my brother was lord of this castle, he answered Robb's call, and hailed him King in the North!"
Robett Glover moves closer to her still, pain plain on his worn face, and Sansa can tell that she will not like what next comes out of his mouth. Jon hovers on the side, face pinched with worry, but unsure and unwilling to intervene. He may have been the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch – but he is not a Black Brother any more. He is only Jon Snow, in the eyes of the Glover men, and he cannot help her here.
There is a whine behind them that disrupts the growing tensions, revealing a scruffy brown wolf with a note tied about its throat. It gives them a doggy grin, shakes itself all over, plants itself in front of Lord Glover and presents its note. When nobody moves to take the parchment, the wolf gives a huff, and shuffles so that it is facing Sansa instead.
Cautiously she moves to take the scroll, noting that the wax seal holding it together is white-on-black, though no image has been pressed into it. The wolf sniffs at her sleeve, and she offers her fingers to it once she has the scroll. After a few more sniffs, the wolf gives a happy wuffle, and starts to jump around her feet, tugging at her sleeve and trying to leave the castle grounds.
"What on earth?" She murmurs, tugging backwards. "No, bad wolf! What are you doing?"
It flops to the ground pathetically, whining up at her and giving her big, pleading eyes that remind her of Lady. Sansa cannot look at it for long else risk giving in, so turns her back and cracks the seal, reading the note aloud.
"The North Remembers. Winter came to House Frey; Tyta Frey is new Lord of the Crossing, by my hand. Valar Morghulis. Signed, Arya Stark, Daughter of Winterfell. King of Winter and King of the Trident!"
The Direwolf seal is white-on-black wax. The handwriting is atrocious, slanting backwards and written with the left hand.
"This is her," Sansa breaths to Jon excitedly. "She's alive, and in the Riverlands!"
Another whine, and a second wolf appears. This one was silver and grey, with a slightly thicker scroll to its' name. The brown wolf makes the same happy noise from before, headbutting the silver over to Sansa. Again, she is sniffed at and the wolf grows excited, grabs at her skirts and gives a tug. Sansa scolds both wolves, and takes the scroll once more.
The handwriting this time is styled to the right, but almost as bad as Arya's for how small and cramped the writing is. This one is addressed to Lord Glover directly, so Sansa hands it to him, even as she is trying to get the wolves to let her be. To her surprise, Robett hands her the note once he has read it himself. Sansa angles herself so that Jon may read with her, over her shoulder.
Lord Robett,
I have made Winterfell safely, and am in great spirits! It seems that it was the missing princess, Arya Stark, who has replaced Ramsey at Winterfell, and has taken up her brother's title. The King of Winter has gone to avenge the Red Wedding, and also to break the siege of Riverrun. Lady Erena was correct after all, my lord – her grace the King means to legitimise me and make me the Lord of Hornwood! There is talk too of a betrothal to one with the Hornwood blood, most like one of Lord Arnolf Karstark's girls.
Prince Rickon has been kind to me in the interim, though merciless in the training yards. I am better with the sword and axe, but I fear the moment he has a staff or spear of any sort within a foot of him, the prince is truly a fierce and fearsome foe. Even with the lance, for the prince scorns horses in favour of his wolf, and there is neither man nor beast alive who could stand against a Direwolf racing towards them down the lists.
Her Grace has taken a handmaiden from the Twins, one Della Frey. She is deaf, but competent, and she and the prince have developed a language of their own entirely out of hand gestures! She helps the prince with his writing and numeracy, and he returns the favour with staff practice. One of the weaver apprentices, Irene, is also a confidant of sorts to the prince and the lady. She has terrible burns, but is clever and quick to learn whatever it is that the prince needs of her. The Master of Arms at Winterfell is a giant of a man whose name I have yet to learn, for all here call him simply the old wolf. He is a hard taskmaster, and trains everyone – boy AND girl, noble or common! – in swordplay and staff work. There is a Wildling woman who serves the prince most faithfully who helps with the staff training, too. Please tell Lady Erena that she is a Spear Wife, and that Prince Rickon has offered to foster and train her should she be inclined to learn. That is how he phrased it too, my lord – when I asked if he meant if you permitted it, the prince gave me the strangest reply.
Before I run out of parchment, let me solve that riddle of ours – it seems that the black wax seal is Prince Rickon's; Her Grace uses white-on-black. Supposedly she went to a House of Black and White – that is how the prince says it, with capitals – in Braavos, after the death of King Robb. She pays homage to her trainers and her history, isn't that fascinating?
Her Grace will be calling all of the lords to Winterfell to swear their loyalties to House Stark upon her return to the North. Prince Rickon says that you are welcome to come earlier should you wish it, as it is such a long way from the Motte, and as you were so worried for me when last we spoke. The prince is also hopeful that his sister and half-brother are found by then – Princess Sansa escaped the Boltons days before her sister was able to serve justice to the traitors, and neither the prince nor king have been able to find her. If you hear anything, or see them, would you please pass on that her siblings are worried for her, my lord?
I look forward to your reply,
Larence Snow, soon to be Hornwood!
Sansa looks at Jon then with shining eyes. Her emotions are too tumultuous, she cannot bring herself to say anything at all.
"She's alive," Jon croaked. "They're both alive and safe! I thought –!"
She nods wordlessly; she had believed their vibrant little sister long gone from this world, too. "Only Arya," she breaths, "Would call herself King instead of Queen."
She clears her throat, reins in her emotions as best she can, and turns back to Robett. "Well, my lord. Thank you for your hospitality, and perhaps we shall see you at Winterfell, before our sister's court. Good day to you."
It is discourteous for her to go so without the lord's leave, but he hasn't exactly been a paradigm of courtesy, either. And if Arya Underfoot is the new King in the North, well, manners aren't about to be very high as anybody's priorities, she imagines.
The wolves are excited by this, flanking Sansa on either side, pushing her forward and yipping happily. And really, isn't that just Arya too, to use wolves instead of ravens – to have giant puppies instead of fearsome beasts, besides!
They re-join with their army, and Ghost and the Wildling Tormund both come galloping out of camp. Ghost does not make any noise, as is his nature – Tormund is whooping and carolling, as is his.
"Pretty Crow, how many men can we expect for this fight?"
"None – and, there's no fight, Arya and Rickon have already taken the castle without us!" Jon exclaims, accepting the great hug from the ginger with only a feigned reluctance that Sansa can see. Ghost is sniffing at the two wolves who had continued to flank Sansa's horse as they returned from the castle, paying no heed to how they stirred up her mount.
"What's this?" Tormund chuckles at them, ruffling Jon's hair in what Sansa would call a far-too-familiar fashion.
(Though, all things told, she cannot begrudge her brother this. True and loyal friends are few and far between, if you are a Stark, even an illegitimate one.)
"Our little sister, and baby brother. They've already taken Winterfell back – and Arya has declared herself King!"
"Well, why shouldn't she?" Tormund asks in a reasonable tone. "The King is the most powerful person, the one who draws everyone together and protects them, leads them right. You told me your sister has been missing for years – she must be strong to have survived so long, and to rescue the little one while she was at it."
Sansa and Jon both still at that. How logical.
"But, King is a man's title, not a woman's," Sansa said.
"You Southerners!" Tormund scoffed. ("We're Northmen," Jon growled under his breath.) "Boy, girl – it doesn't matter! Strength is what's important, and brains after that. King, Chief – they are the leader. The one at the top has these titles. But if you don't like it so much," here the ginger turned sly. "Fight your sister for it. Or, better yet – let one of my boys try and steal her! A Stark King and a Wildling, wouldn't that make a song!"
Tormund is giving a big belly laugh at his own wit, but Sansa and Jon are both giving each other eyes.
"He has a point," Sansa says softly. "There are peoples across the sea who have a title for leader, and a title for leader's partner. In the Westerosi tongue we say King and Queen, and ours is a male-dominant people, so the King is always male, and the Queen is always female. But, there isn't actually anything that says a King must be a man, anymore than there is any law stating that a Queen must be a woman."
Jon opens his mouth to answer her, but before he can say anything Ghost steps up and looks into his eyes, and before either Jon or Sansa can say anything, Jon's eyes have rolled up in the back of his head, and Ghost howls.
"Jon! Jon!" Tormund catches her around the waist when she goes to clutch her brother, and despite herself Sansa struggles. "No nononono! Everything was good, they're alive and he can't die, not before we get back to them!"
"Easy, girl, easy!" Tormund growls in her ear. For a moment she could almost pretend that it is the Hound behind her, but Tormund is too short and far too hairy. "He's warging. Didn't know he could do that!"
"What is a warg?" Sansa demands, spinning and shrugging out of Tormund arms, taking three perfunctory steps backwards. She cannot bare for anyone not her brother or Brienne or Theon to touch her, and none of them are present or in a state to offer her the physical comfort she needs here.
"Skinchanger. One who enters the mind of an animal. Didn't take the Pretty Crow for one, though, he's never mentioned anything like it. Never heard the wolf make any noise at all, neither."
Jon's eyes are Stark-dark again, but before they can do anything he whispers Rickon, staggers a step forward and collapses in a dead feint. Sansa panics again, struggling to reign her terror back so that she can help Tormund lift Jon onto Ghost and take him back to his tent. They have him settled, and Sansa is desperately trying not to cry, when Jon stirs enough to whisper,
"We ride for Winterfell on the morrow. Sansa, we're going home."
They're in the middle of staff practice when Shaggy tugs at the edges of Rickon's mind. Larence, Della and Irene are all racing for him, from either side and the front, and Rickon has seconds before Shaggy pulls him under completely. His motto in life is be unpredictable, which means that in the five seconds he has left Rickon races straight for Della, plants the butt of his staff into the ground and launches himself up and over all of them, tumbling to his knees and spinning his staff out and behind to sweep everyone off their feet. Before he can even register the three thumps as they land in heaps on the ground, Rickon is off and running for Shaggy and Osha, skidding forward to take Shaggy's ruff in one hand. His eyes roll back in his head as Shaggy takes him under his own skin, fur and four legs and even keener ears.
There is the sense of Wild Sister and Quiet Brother, of Nymeria and Ghost. But behind and to the side of their senses there are other presences. Arya Rickon recognises immediately, as this is not the first time they have joined via their wolves over the weeks since Arya went South. The presence by Ghost, though, Rickon only has a vague recognition for – sad and sorry and dead-not-dead-not-Undead – and an image of dark curls and lots of black feathers and fur.
Who are you? Rickon demands,
Jon?! Arya exclaims, giving the impression of shock and too-big eyes.
Joy bounces back to them across the bond, the impression of tears. You're both alive! Alive!
Rickon is half-in-half-out of Shaggy, hiding himself behind his wolf's impression. Are you Quiet Brother's partner? Are you our brother, too?
Aye, I am. Oh, Rickon, look at you! You're practically a man grown! This makes Rickon bristle. The old wolf says as much sometimes, when he wants to trick Rickon into doing something Adult and Lordly. And Arya! They're calling you King, little sister, what have you been up to?
It's a long story, Arya answers, voice bland and all emotions locked down. I imagine yours is too. Are you going back to Winterfell? Where are you now?
Deepwood Motte, now, but we'll head for home at first light!
We? Sansa is with you, then?
Aye, she is. She misses you both, too.
Brief disbelief comes from Arya, before the emotion is pushed down again. How many in your company? How long will you take?
A fortnight, perhaps? We travel with two thousand Free Folk and sixty-two Mormonts.
Then I shall aim to meet you on the Kings Road. Rickon, I won't be much longer, can you hold Winterfell until then?
I already said so, didn't I? Rickon scoffs at her. I have to go. I was training with Della and Larence and Irene. Old wolf is going to yell too, I can tell already.
Yell at him back, I have Lannisters to kill, Arya states, ignoring the shock-horror-fear that lances through their brother. Be safe, both of you. The Many Face God shall not have your names anytime soon, if I have anything to say about it.
Valar Morghulis, Rickon says solemnly. Winter is Coming.
Valar Dohaeris. Winter is Here.
His eyes open to Shaggy's green, to Irene's concerned voice, Della's shaking hands and Larence's static energy. Osha is curious, and the Hound worried.
He smiles at them, the brightest smile he has given anyone since – since Mother and Father and everyone left Winterfell, surely.
"Jon and Sansa are close," He says. He signs brother and sister, shuffles his fists against each other at chest height, and taps the knuckle of his curved index finger of his right hand against the bridge of his nose. For home he holds his right hand up at shoulder height, palm to Della, and raises it up to head height and curves it back down again. The Hound starts, Irene's eyes blowing wide. "Arya will be back about the same time, too. She takes on the Lannisters tonight with the pack. She's going to paint the fields red and gold."
"Who are you?"
"No One. And that is who a girl must become."
"How do I do that?"
"A girl must watch. A girl must be able to see everything, copy everything, blend in anywhere and be any one. To be truly no one, is to be everyone and anyone at any time."
"Show me how. Please."
A head inclined towards the door. "By serving the Many Face God, a girl may become anyone. All must die. But first, all must serve."
She wakes with a start.
She had been napping before Nymeria dragged her into the shared mindspace with the wolves and her brothers, preparing for what would come in the night. She had dreamt of when first she was taken into the House, of her first studies of human motion, facial expressions, ways of walking, talking and emoting.
"Your grace?" Roslin is at her bedside, sewing red and blue tunics for her son with little silver trouts at the breast. Sally is balancing on one leg with a wooden sword in each hand, and Lothor had also been dozing. Robin is toddlering from one side of his mother's new chambers to the other and back, chasing the same grey queen cat who Arya had caught in the larders hours earlier. "Is something wrong?"
"No, my lady. I now have knowledge of my brother and sister. Once I finish here, I'll head straight home again, and meet with them on the Kings Road."
"That is wonderful, my king!" Roslin cried, carefully setting aside her stitching. "Do you have a plan for tonight then?"
"Aye, it's no different to what I was going to do anyway," Arya returns, cracking her neck and rolling the kinks out of her shoulders. "How long was I asleep for?"
"Just over an hour and a half, my king. None have entered, as you ordered, though I heard your great-uncle on the ramparts earlier, following out your previous orders. And, there was someone who was let through the Lannister Army to the gate, for I heard the portcullis rise and fall."
"When was that?" Arya demanded. It must have been whilst she was with the wolves, for surely she would have heard that, light sleeper that she was these days.
"Only just before, your grace."
"Right. Squire, with me."
Arya pulled her cloak about her again, made sure her belt was secure, and swept out of the room with Sally at her heels. The halls were easy enough to navigate now, the Lord's Solar a familiar path after the trips she had already taken to it, though it wasn't hard to follow the sound of raised voices, besides.
"I've said no three times already!"
"I have a signed letter from your niece, Sansa Stark –"
"I haven't seen her since she was a small child, I don't know her signature, I don't know you, and we will not surrender!"
Well, well. This is curious.
Arya gives the watching guards a look, jerking her head out of the way and holding a finger to her lips to prevent them announcing her. This is not an aspect of the face of a King. This is the aspect of No One, of Arya Underfoot, of the Ghost of Harrenhal and Lanna and Mercy and Salty and Cat and Beth and all the rest.
The door of the solar is well greased. The latch is easy enough to quietly ease open, and it is nothing for Arya to throw the door open for affect.
"Brienne of Tarth," She says, dipping her head cordially.
"Arya Stark - you are alive!" Brienne gasps. "My lady, I am glad to see it. We searched for you for three days, when last we met. Where did you go?"
"Braavos." Arya says, feeling Sally vibrating indignantly next to her. Her eyes flick to the man beside and behind the lady knight, says, "We were not introduced, last time. Who are you?"
"Lady Arya –!"
"That's my name," she corrected. "You are?"
"Podrick Payne, my lady."
"Your grace," Sally snaps from her elbow. Arya does not allow her face to change from the smirk she had favoured since first opening the door. "Arya Stark is King of Winter and King of the Trident!"
"You have a letter from my sister?" Arya asks the big woman, shifting her focus from the squire to his master. "Would this be to ask for help in retaking Winterfell and rescuing Rickon from the Boltons? She is too late. I retook the castle days after her escape. Ramsay Bolton is dead. I cut his throat myself. Rickon I have left in charge of our family home, until my return. I had planned to head North with the first light tomorrow – you are welcome to join me."
"I beg your pardon, my – your grace, but how? The Lannister Army is outside these gates."
The smirk grows teeth. "For now. They will not be there by morning, I assure you – unless, of course, the Kingslayer listens to my advice. They have 'till sunset to surrender, or else all lives are forfeit."
"Your grace!" Brienne exclaimed. "There are over eight thousand men out there! You cannot possibly take all of them out!"
"Oh, I think there's just a few less than that by now," Arya muses, striding to look out of the window. "My pack have been into the cookpots already. Their food stores are rapidly depleting – some has been brought here, some has been sent out to whatever farms are still inhabited. Their weapons are being stolen, buried, pissed on, shat on, snapped and chewed. And besides, I have my own means to implement tonight. But tell me – Sandor Clegane spoke true, when he said that it was Lannister gold that paid for your arms and armour. And I imagine it was Lannister favours that allowed you two to pass and enter this castle. So I do have to wonder: what is your reason for being here, Brienne of Tarth?"
All of her training – every tick of the face, every shift of the body, every inflection of the voice – she concentrates onto the woman before her. For Sansa to trust this lady knight so much, either there is a strong history between them, or else she has not grown from the brat of three-and-ten that Arya remembers. Surely not. Surely not after everything that they have been through; Sansa has to have learnt something.
"As I told you in the vale, your grace," Brienne said, drawn up proudly, honour and determination in every line of her tall body. "I swore an oath to your mother, who was my mistress. I swore that I would find you and your sister and return you to her, and with that no longer possible, I instead vowed to keep you both safe. I was charged with returning Ser Jaime Lannister to Kings Landing in exchange for yourself and your sister, though we were captured by the Boltons at Harrenhal. Ser Jaime lost his hand in defence of my honour, and nearly gave his life for mine as well. He, too, swore to return yourself and the Lady Sansa to your mother, and gifted me this armour and this sword to help me with my mission. He allowed me to pass through the siege so that I might continue to protect the Lady Sansa."
Well. The Kingslayer certainly hadn't lied when he'd said that Brienne of Tarth was honourable and stubborn, Arya would give him that. She truly believed in everything that she had said.
"If I may, your grace – there is almost nothing that pains me so much as your mother's death. I had sworn my life to defending hers. If it would make anything right, I would offer my life in an instant. However, I have sworn myself to the Lady Sansa, and would return to her at the earliest convenience, with your grace's permission."
Arya hadn't met anyone like this in a very, very long time.
She hums, trailing a finger across the window ledge.
"You want me to spare the Kingslayer? Do you not think that he owes me, owes the Many Faced God, his life? He pushed my little brother Bran out of a window and tried to kill him. He tried to kill my older brother Robb. His son took my father's head, his father planned the murder of my mother and brother."
There is conflict written all over that battle-worn face.
"It would be your right, your grace," she says, head bowed. "I would not presume to tell a king what to do. However, I would ask that you at least consider keeping Ser Jaime as a prisoner."
Arya hums again, face frozen in that toothsome smirk. "The letter, if I may?"
"Of course," Brienne bows, hands over the letter, and suddenly Arya is eleven-years-old again, and Septa Mordane is telling her how beautiful her sister's handwriting is, and why can't you be more like Sansa?
Ser Bryden,
You do not know me, my lord, but you knew my mother. She would speak of you fondly, and often. We grew up hearing tales of your exploits. I would ask you now, despite our lack of knowing each other, to lend your experience and your forces to our cause. My mother and older brother were murdered at the Twins. They were betrayed by the Boltons, who were once our bannermen. I was married to Ramsay Bolton, in a ploy to take back my ancestral seat, and was betrayed myself.
I call upon our familiar bond. This is unfair of me, but I beg you come North with the Tully army, great-uncle. I beg that you help me take back Winterfell, and release the North from these usurpers. We would then, of course, assist in throwing back the forces of Cersei Lannister from the Riverlands.
We must take back our homes, for the true enemy is to the North. Speak with Brienne for any further information.
Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell.
It was signed with a Direwolf on grey wax.
"The true enemy is to the North – what does this mean?"
"The Wildlings and your half-brother claim that the Dead are marching south, your grace."
"White Walkers and Others?" Arya askes, head cocking to the side and face slipping back into a neutral mask. "I thought them only stories to scare children."
"Your brother insists, your grace. It is why he let the Wildlings through the Wall when he was Lord Commander. He speaks of many horrors Beyond the Wall, including an Army of the Dead lead by a Night King."
Arya hadn't planned for this. She had heard Old Nan's stories, same as all her siblings. If the Night King is real, if he raises an army whilst she sits here waiting for the sun to go down, then she needs to go back North. She needs to ready the North, she needs –
She needs more information. She needs to speak with Jon directly, needs a plan and needs to inform Rickon.
Suddenly, she has more things to do than even she had expected. Winter really is coming, she thinks to herself wildly. And coming fast.
"From the beginning, Lady Brienne. Tell me everything you know, please."
Arya's line "When Winter comes… no lions no stags no roses etc", is lifted pretty heavily from tumblr user daswagguy poem to the same effect.
Also, shout out to my mum for proofreading this in Miss Molly's last-minute absence, and only being marginally criticizing of the fact that this is fanfiction rather than an original story. I'll take what wins I can get *finger guns*
Please let me know your thoughts on this one, I'm not a 100% happy with it, but also if I don't get it out now I'll never update, so, here we are.