I'm not finding myself in the mood to write the RB. I had been thinking about this story anyway because it was Christmas, then I watched "zero dark thirty" and realised I could make my 3 year old story much better now. So it's a revisitation of an old friend with a hefty re-write.
This was originally written for MidnightAuroraWolf who said 'Please, please' and with thanks to Brazilian Guy for giving me his opinions which I treasure, respect and sometimes ignore.
The original story was set in our world, present day. In redoing it I've decided to set in in GRRM's world, but still present day. So they have oil rigs, Kalashnikov automatic rifles and they've read Alice and Wonderland. Hey, it's fanfic – my imagination can run free!
Arya's still an assassin but hasn't met Gendry yet. Although that's about to change . . .
-o-
The Al Gharbia oil rig, the Gulf of Grief, 15 leagues from Slavers Bay
05.00 local time
The Guild could go fuck themselves.
No way was she taking an industrial espionage assignment again.
Six hellish months in the fucking East and now this. She'd been assured by the Guild that the Gulf of Grief was safe. So safe that that Lysene pirates had been able to swarm all over the oil rig from rigid inflatable boats in the middle of the night. So much for the Guild's intel.
Arya had despatched half a dozen of them, silently slitting throats, snapping necks and dropping lifeless bodies over the side before the sheer number of pirates had forced a change of tactics. She couldn't deal with them all herself so she had to make a choice – escape now on her own and in doing so blow her cover or stay and hope this attack might somehow lead her to the spy she'd been tracking for six months. If she stayed she could also help the men she'd been working with on the rig. There was no choice really. She'd never failed a mission before and she wasn't going to now.
Cursing the Guild under her breath, she'd hidden Needle, raised her hands and slipped back into the persona of trainee oil engineer she'd been using for the past three months.
The guards who had been employed to protect the rig were all dead. Either that or bought off and fled as only the staff had been rounded up and herded into the rig's communal dining area. Her fellow prisoners had all been grim faced, some quietly sobbing, some sporting blood and bruises - proof she wasn't the only one who had put up a fight.
However, one of her oil colleagues was missing – Theon Greyjoy, the man she'd have wagered was least likely to play the hero. His conspicuous absence confirmed what she'd already suspected – that she'd found the inside man, the traitor she'd been hunting for six months. The Guild and their clients would be pleased. If she ever made it out of here to tell them.
Despite her close cropped hair and shapeless overalls, it had taken all of ten minutes for the pirates to discover they had a woman amongst the eleven westerners they'd captured. They'd all been searched of course and the feel of three pairs of eager hands on her as they groped in search of weapons still made her blood boil. She could have killed those three, but there were dozens more, all high from chewing Khat leaves, all excited by the Braavosi woman they hadn't expected to find.
Arya would be ready for them when they ignored their orders not to harm the merchandise. The ransom would be less if they damaged the goods but it was inevitable that eventually, when bored and high, someone would decide it was worth disobeying orders to fuck the western bitch.
Flexing her wrists against the cable ties that bound her, Arya knew it wasn't a matter of "if", but rather, "when" that time came.
24 hours later . . .
"You need to leave, or I can't do it."
"Jus' go bitch."
"I can't piss with you watching me." At least he'd cut the cable ties, allowing Arya to rub the circulation back into her wrists. She looked the pirate in the eye, defying him to take her back to the dining room without letting her relieve herself first.
A battered Kalashnikov was cradled in his arms and he had odd sandals on his feet. Funny how she still noticed mundane shit like that. She didn't suppose the training she'd received in the House of Black and White would ever leave her, even if she left the Guild.
Her captor was just a boy, dirt poor and no doubt from some costal village. High from sleep deprivation and Khat, but a boy all the same. She supposed there would be no end of boys eager to risk their lives for a share in the million pound ransoms these pirates demanded, and sometimes got, from Westerosi oil companies. She almost felt sympathy for the Weasel boy (she'd taken to calling him that in her head). This might be his way of getting a better life for himself, but when it came down to it, he'd kill her, kill them all, with no hesitation and he'd do it whether a ransom was paid or not. Just as she would kill him, first chance she got.
"If you take me back, I'm just gonna sit there and piss myself and it's gonna stink in this heat. Up to you." She shrugged, a bead of sweat trickling down her back.
As she hoped, he relented and, cursing colourfully in at least six languages, he left, slamming the toilet door behind him.
Once she was in the cubicle, Arya thumbed the lock and lent her forehead against the cool metal. This was the first time she had been alone in the last hellish twenty-four hours; the first time she had any respite from the ceaseless, drugged-up threats of the pirates and the constant snivelling from some of her co-works. Who would have thought Hot Pie would have proved to be such a coward? He had hardly stopped muttering, "We're all gonna die," since the fucking pirates had taken over the rig. Maybe they were, but she didn't need reminding of it every five seconds. And where the fuck was Greyjoy? None of the oil workers knew and her attempts to question the pirates had fallen on deaf ears.
She didn't know how long she had, so she'd better actually pee before Weasel came back in. If it all went down, she didn't want to be pissing herself and the next twelve hours were critical. If someone was going to attempt a rescue, she knew it would be soon.
Twenty-four hours in, the pirates were sleep deprived, high for too long enjoying the booze and cigarettes they'd found on the rig. Too busy enjoying themselves, they hadn't organised themselves into sleeping or watch shifts yet. Another twenty-four hours and they'd have rested, dug-in, set up watch and then the questions would really start. She'd already been asked, "Is there gold hidden here? Guns, weapons?" and she had no doubt the interrogation would really start.
If a rescue didn't happen soon, it would be weeks or even months of waiting while the oil company negotiated. Or not. One thing was sure - the Guild wouldn't lift a finger to help her. She cursed them again. No matter how this cluster fuck ended, she was out. Westeros was calling her. Westeros and Winterfell. It had been far too long.
She said a final silent prayer for rescue to the old Gods and the new, blew out a resigned breath and pushed herself off the cubicle door.
Unzipping her shapeless orange overall, she let it fall around her boots. Before she could sit down she heard a subtle, "Psst" from above her head. She looked up, straight into the bluest eyes she'd ever seen. The rest of the face was hidden in the shadows, leaving just a pair of blue eyes suspended above her in the air conditioning duct.
"Gods am I glad to see you."
"I'm the answer to your prayers baby."
He must have grinned as straight white teeth appeared in the blackness, like the Cheshire Cat in Alice and Wonderland; only eyes and a smile hanging in the air. Despite herself, she found a smile tugging at the corners of her own lips. The heat and lack of sleep must be getting to her. Gods save her from yet another arrogant arse. Arya knew from personal experience all these Special Ops guys thought they were God's gift.
"We'll see," she snorted. "Who the fuck are you anyway?"
She hoped she already knew. That was a Westerosi accent.
"Night's Watch, but we'll need to finish the introductions later Arya."
He knew her name and that could only mean one thing. She breathed a sigh of relief.
Jon.
It wasn't the oil company and it sure was fuck wasn't the Guild who had come to get her, it was her own dear brother. Jon had sent this Cheshire Cat to her.
"Lord Commander's orders. I get you out or I get my balls for breakfast."
Yeah, that sounded like Jon. That smile tugging at her lips became a grin. "How many of you are here?"
"Six so far. Parachuted in, but there's more on the way. You're our 'in' Arya. I've been hanging here waiting on you. The Lord Commander said you'd bust their balls so much they'd let you take a piss. Now listen…"
His voice was deep, calm, confident as he explained the plan. She listed intently, adrenaline pumping through her veins. When he finished she nodded her agreement.
"Ok, I'm going to call our Dragons down."
"Dragons?" Surely he couldn't mean real Dragons?
"Code name for our new modified helicopters. You've got thirty minutes from the time you step back out there. Thirty minutes before we come in through the roof. I'm told you know the drill; concussion grenades, smoke, confusion, always take the kill shot…"
She nodded again. She'd grown up hearing about it from Uncle Benjen and now Jon. This was her chance to make it all count. To make Jon proud.
"You warn whoever you can trust to keep quiet. Don't risk alerting the targets. You get the hostages down if you can when the time comes, but I've been told to say this to you – no heroics. You keep yourself safe first and foremost and that's an order from the Lord Commander himself."
She smiled. Jon again. She could just imagine him saying that. Gods willing, he'd get the chance to lecture her again soon.
"And I've to give you this. I'm told you know how to use it . . ."
A large, bare hand appeared from the blackness, presenting a handgun to her, grip first. She recognised it immediately as a SIG P232, the Night's Watch go-to weapon for a concealed carry. As she reached up to take it from his outstretched hand, their fingers touched for the briefest moment, yet it was long enough to send a jolt of electricity shooting through her. She actually wondered if he'd given her an electric shock as her eyes shot up to his. His were unwavering, betraying nothing. She told herself she must have imagined it. As her every nerve was now stretched tight with anticipation, every sense heightened for the imminent attack, perhaps it wasn't surprising.
"You got someplace you can hide that?"
"Sure." She checked the safety was on and then pushed the pistol into her bra where it was held tightly between her breasts by black lace. It was invariable too hot on the rig to wear anything else under her shapeless orange overalls and fancy underwear was Arya's one concession to femininity. She rolled her shoulders and adjusted the cups of her bra to make sure the SIG was held firmly without pressing too uncomfortably into her breasts. Once she was satisfied she looked up into those blue eyes again. His eyes were still on her tits. So predictable.
"Hey. Soldier."
His eyes flicked back to her face and she scowled at him, "I've still got to pee."
"Sure. Go ahead."
"Don't fucking look then."
"Sure." The blue eyes and the white teeth abruptly disappeared. If hadn't heard him breathing, she would have sworn the vent was empty.
She hooked her thumbs into her Victoria's Secret boy shorts. Now was notthe time to be a prude. Even Kings and Queens had to pee. She pushed her panties down and sat on the toilet. Despite her determination not to be embarrassed, the noise of her pee in the toilet, shattering the silence, made her cringe. Thank God it wasn't more she needed. The tinkling went on and on and on – it had been twenty-four hours since she'd last peed after all. Still, she had to bite her bottom lip to stop from giggling. She might be dead in thirty minutes and all she was worried about was some arrogant arse hearing her pee. She groaned and rolled her eyes skyward, mortified, only to find his blue eyes open again, watching.
"Fuck. Off!" she hissed as angrily and as loudly as she dared.
The blue was instantly gone again, but she would have sworn she saw the pink edges of his mouth turning up in a smirk.
"Perv," she muttered as she stood up. She thought she heard him chuckle as she reached blindly for some toilet paper without taking her eyes off the air vent. The square stayed reassuringly black.
"Done," she whispered, her attention on the zip of her overalls.
"Hey, Arya."
She looked up into serious blue eyes.
"No heroics and that's an order."
"Sure."
"See you on the other side."
"See you on the other side," she echoed. Gods, she hoped so. She wouldn't let herself think on the alternative.
Her eyes flicked away from his as the toilet door opened with a crash. Weasel was back.
"You done yet bitch?!"
Time to go. She allowed herself one sly final look up as she unlocked the cubicle door, but there was only black.
-o-
Well, I enjoyed that, but it was harder than I thought. I wasn't content with just a few tweaks, I had to re-write almost all of it.
I have occasionally toyed with the idea of re-writing "Wolf's Helmet" which was my first attempt at an epic story. It's only on Fanfic though as I hadn't discovered AO3 then and I'm not proud enough of it to post it there. However, despite my thinking there's a great story lurking somewhere under all the fluff, this experience has put me off!
I got a review on Fanfic recently telling me "Wolf's Helmet" contained the hottest thing I'd ever written and you'll all know that's saying something! So maybe it's worth going back after all. Maybe I should just resurrect that one chapter.
We'll see . . .