Chapter Two

If you wish to apply to this internship programme, you must be male, between the ages of 18-24, and reside currently in London.

Submit your statement of intent and a portfolio of not more than twelve photographs, which must be uncropped and unedited, as a zip file archive to the following dropbox: jhwire (slash) dropbox dot net. Only electronic submissions to this dropbox will be accepted.

For further details, phone 020 7946 0129 or email info at jhwire dot co dot uk.


Arya awoke from a fitful sleep, where her dreams had fled, replaced by an endless looping argument: at once she resolved to apply, but seconds later, she had given the whole scheme up. But the wellspring of hope flared again, and she resolved again to apply. And on. And on.

'You must be male.' The first criterion. Not an insurmountable one, she mused. Her brothers were quite correct about her tomboyishness. She was lean and rather small, and hadn't yet shed all the androgynous features of childhood.

'Submit your statement of intent.' Well, that was easy enough. Photography was her passion: instilled in her by her father, who had spared every moment of time to traipse Northumberland, often with one, two, or a few more of his children with him. Touched by sadness were her happy recollections of feeling the chill from the ground as he crouched-and she crouched along with him-to photograph the secret moss kingdom. Or that barely-breathing silence when they spotted deer. No words, no movement. Arya and her father shared this struggle: to watch them, but never capture them, or capture them, with that tiny click of the camera, and lose them. Who would break first? Her father, with his great big telephoto lens trained on them, the echo of the shutter almost like a gunshot in that silence, richocheting across the moor, or Arya? Her rangefinder was nearly silent. The results were the same: the deer would startle and leap away no matter who pulled the trigger first.

'And a portfolio of not more than twelve photographs.' She had a portfolio. Jon, who was incredibly adept at all forms of technological wizardry, had set her up with a negative scanner the year before, so the fact that she preferred to use a film camera did not set her back.

'Reside currently in London.' Well, Jon would help her out there.

Arya went over to the dresser and opened the black canvas bag. She took the camera out for the first time in four months. Feeling its leather case, scuffed in places. Needle, she thought, fondly. Her father's gift to her. Weeks of her sticking the camera in everyone's faces resulted in everyone, even the dogs avoiding her. 'Stop bloody needling people with it,' he'd finally told her, exasperated. A film canister lay in an inner pocket. She took that out, put it in the pocket of her jeans, and went downstairs for breakfast.

Does this mean I've decided? she wondered.


Arya had gravitated to the garrett mostly because, even as a small child, she'd found the story of the mad king held prisoner there impossible to resist. Now, as a sixteen-year-old, she found her space to be a welcome respite from the bustling, humming house. Being a child of a large family has its perks, since one almost always could find someone with whom to play games or sports, but the din occasionally drove one to madness.

She could hear the sound of open warfare in the kitchen rising up from the stairway. At once, she was grateful, since she was unlikely to be noticed, questioned, or harangued by her mother, though she still ran the risk of being co-opted into some task or other, the worst of which was watching Rickon (and that wasn't too bad).

Entering into the kitchen was like entering the fever-pitch of battle.

'Have you lost your mind?' Catelyn Stark roared, as Arya slunk in and sat at the table. Her other siblings were watching the combatants as if it were a Wimbledon final. Even the dogs were watching, although they were more interested in waiting for opportunities to steal or beg food whilst their humans were otherwise engaged. Toast was ready – she began to spread an obscene amount of jam on it.

'But Joffrey's going to London all this summer,' Sansa whined. 'I won't see him at all unless I go too.'

'You want to go to London to do what? Chase some boy?'

'I can stay with Jon. I'll be no trouble. And besides, the Baratheons have invited me,' Sansa retorted smugly.

'But I'm staying with Jon this summer,' Arya interjected. Robb looked at her with pity.

'What?' Catelyn and Sansa exclaimed in unison.

'Well, there's this workshop I want to take.' A slight white lie. 'And Jon already said I could stay with him.' Robb just smiled at Arya.

Catelyn's voice was icy as she spoke. 'And when were you going to tell me? Or even...ask me?'

'I only decided yesterday,' Arya defended. I guess this means I am applying.

'What is this workshop?' Catelyn asked.

'I can't stay here all summer without Joffrey,' Sansa waded in again. 'Jon has enough room. I can go too.'

Ignoring her, Catelyn asked Arya again, pointedly. 'What is this workshop?'

'It's a photography course,' Arya said. Catelyn knew that Arya had all but given up photography when her father died, and for all she did not share Arya's passion, she knew the girl had some talent. A ghost of a smile made it to her face, and Catelyn was pacified.

'You can both go. However, Jon has a roommate now, so you two will have to share a room.' Catelyn made up her mind, as was usual for her, instantly.

Agh. Ecstasy and agony for both girls at their mother's pronouncement. However, co-operating with the enemy is occasionally warranted for the greater good. The sisters smiled falsely at each other, and then at their mother.

'Arya, did you want to go get that haircut now or later,' asked Robb, innocently. She kicked him under the table, but maintained her look of serene happiness. 'Later's fine, Robb.'


Back in her room, Arya designed a workshop poster and printed it after Robb, who contributed a rather bold logo to the cause, reviewed it. After all, if I'm going to a workshop, there has to be a workshop to go to. They were both satisfied: they used Jon's practically unknown business fax number as the telephone number for the workshop organisers (after all, who uses a fax machine anymore?) A gmail account was set up and a WordPress site implemented to make the ruse even more airtight.

'You know,' Robb said, looking at their work. 'I pity mum.'

Arya just grinned.

'I mean, that generation just has no idea how to deal with technology, and they have no clue how easy it is to use technology against them,' he continued. 'Except for your spelling mistakes, it's perfect.'

'Good I have you to correct my spelling, then,' she smiled. Robb went downstairs, taking a copy of the workshop notice with him. He would leave it, as they planned, ever so casually on the kitchen table for their mum to see.

Arya went into her darkroom, once a storage room under the eaves of the house, careful to lock it behind her. Younger siblings, and a couple times an older one, had taught her to take no chances. She pulled out the canister of film she had taken from her bag earlier that day. It was time, she reflected. Even without the possibility of this internship, it was time to see these images.

Developer, stop bath, fixer. As per the rules, she did not alter the photographs when she ran them through the enlarger. No dodging, burning, or cropping. Just as they were.

Her breath caught in her throat. There was Brandon, the second youngest, asleep in a wheelchair, clad in only in a hospital gown. Fine dark lashes framing his eyes. Fragile. He had been comatose for days, and had woken up demanding to know why his legs weren't working, where his dad was, what had happened. Hysteria had exhausted him.

Her mother, in another shot. Eyes rimmed red with grief. She looks like she's gone insane, Arya thought. Sansa holding Rickon, both of them blank and uncomprehending. Jon, turned away from the camera, broad shoulders, arms wrapped around himself in some desperate need to give himself comfort.

Robb, his arms around Catelyn. Theon, tears tracking down his face.

And finally, the one Arya didn't want to see, but could not unsee.

My father.

Ned Stark, his life slipping away. Facing Arya's camera moments before he died. Struggling to gain breath enough to keep breathing, knowing that he could not. A moment between them.

To watch him, but never capture him, or capture him, with that tiny click of the camera, and lose him.

Her rangefinder was nearly silent.

Click.

And he was gone.


The usual disclaimers do apply. Missing your favourite characters? Well, fear not, as quite a few will be popping up here and there.