a/n: Thank you so much for reading. If you'd like to find me on tumblr, where I blog about ASoIaF, GoT, cats, and other assorted randomness, you can find me there as jeeno2. :)
Rickon Stark comes running over to Arya, seated at the kitchen table and peeling potatoes, when the raven appears in their window.
Must be a letter, she muses. Rickon confirms it when he appears at her side a moment later, parchment in hand.
"Who's it from?" Arya asks, setting down the paring knife she'd been working with and wiping her hands on her apron.
Rickon shrugs. "Dunno. It's sealed," he says, handing it over.
According to custom in the days when there was still a House Stark, Rickon, as the oldest surviving trueborn son of Eddard Stark, should be the one opening letters delivered by ravens. Not her. After all, in those days he would have been Lord of Winterfell, and she would have been but his sister.
But the days of House Stark are long gone, vanished with the fall of an axe and the smoke from a dragon's flame. It is Arya, not Rickon, who runs things in what was once Winterfell.
In truth their arrangement suits them both just fine.
Arya glances at the parchment's seal and recognizes it at once as the one Jon uses when sending communications on behalf of the former Night's Watch. And on behalf of the Dragon Queen. She runs her fingers lightly over the molten black wax, biting her lip.
She normally welcomes messages from Jon. There were too many years in which she had no word from him at all, and no idea whether he fared ill or well, or whether he was alive or dead.
But she knows what this particular letter is likely about. And she knows her response to it will not be what either Jon, or the Queen, want to hear.
However, Arya also knows there's nothing to be done for it. Their survival depends on them doing exactly what the Queen bids of them now. The time for rebellion is over.
Taking a deep breath and preparing herself, Arya snaps the seal with her knife and unrolls the parchment. She recognizes Jon's neat, concise script immediately and smiles.
My dear Arya,
I hope this letter finds you, Rickon, and Sansa faring very well.
Arya glances up at her youngest brother, sitting in front of their partially rebuilt hearth, brushing Shaggydog with a pinecone and giving him treats. She thinks of Sansa upstairs, practically bedridden - but here, alive, and healthy in the ways that matter.
Arya figures they're doing about as well as could be hoped for, really. After everything.
Shrugging to herself, Arya bends again to the parchment in her hands and resumes reading.
As you know, the war beyond the Wall is becoming a much more protracted battle than we'd originally planned for. The Queen's dragons have great impact on the wights we encounter, of course. But unfortunately, they still have little effect on the White Walkers themselves. The creatures remain largely impervious to fire, and dragons obviously cannot wield the obsidian blades that we know can slay them.
Only men can do that.
Arya cannot help but roll her eyes. So the great Dragon Queen - who appeared out of nowhere last year, and promised salvation even as her dragons scorched every last inch of Westeros - cannot save them after all.
What a surprise.
I write to remind you that our need for men remains as desperate as ever. The Queen and I continue to send ravens to every corner of the Realm to alert all survivors to our plight, and we hope that our call will not go unanswered.
My sweet Arya, I know that the sacrifice we ask of you is great. But please: continue to offer Winterfell as a way station for the men who come to you swearing a desire to fight in this great war. Winterfell, despite its present condition, remains a strategically important location, as all who travel to the Wall must pass either nearby or directly through it.
The Queen has a nearly limitless supply of gold, and the former Night's Watch's gold remains at your disposal as well. At your earliest convenience, please write to us and let us know how much gold you require to continue feeding and healing the men who come to Winterfell's doors on their way to the Wall.
It remains my greatest wish that someday, we will be all together at a fully rebuilt Winterfell – you, me, Sansa, and Rickon – and that together, we will be a family once more. But before that can happen, this great enemy must be defeated. Otherwise we will all be dead before this endless winter is over.
Yours, always,
- Jon
Arya reads the letter through a second time, and then a third. Just like all of Jon's letters now, she cannot tell whether he wrote this because he believes the war beyond the Wall is something they can actually win or whether he is only there, and writing to her, under extreme duress from the Queen.
In the end, all that stops Arya from crumpling the parchment and tossing it into the flames is that regardless of the circumstances under which it was written, the letter was clearly written by Jon's own hand. She has precious little left to her by which to remember family. Arya clings to all that remains like a babe clings to her mother's skirts.
As for the letter's contents, she does not doubt that Jon and the Queen are making every effort to reach everyone who might be inclined to help in their fight. Regardless, the flow of men to and through Winterfell since this campaign began six moons ago has never grown much beyond a trickle. Now, it has all but dried up. In the past fortnight they have sheltered, clothed, and fed a total of four individuals on their way to the Wall. Old men and young, green boys who stank of summer. Hopeless creatures with nothing left to lose, every single one of them, with hungry bellies and lifeless eyes.
Arya doesn't know if the Queen's appeals are simply falling on deaf ears or if there truly is nobody left alive to hear them. Either way, Arya is convinced that their efforts to rally the surviving Westerosi to help fight the great evil beyond the Wall are utterly futile.
But Arya, Rickon, and Sansa are only eating right now because of the Queen's largesse. Arya will do whatever it takes to keep her family safe. She can't do anything else.
And so she closes her mind, the way she learned to do so well during her time across the narrow sea. She slowly walks to the bureau by the hearth and grabs a quill and bit of parchment.
She brings them back with her to the table and begins to write.
Arya tells Jon exactly how much gold she will need to feed herself, Rickon, Sansa, and the men presently staying in their stable until they are strong enough to continue north, for the next moon's turn.
Jon didn't ask her to predict how many men she expects will come through Winterfell in the coming months. And she does not volunteer that information in her letter. Jon and the Queen are both exceptionally clever, however, and she's certain that the paltry sum she is asking for now will tell them everything they really want to know.
Arya has no idea whether the Queen will allow Jon to read this letter privately. She suspects, however, that she will not. Arya doesn't add any personal details about herself or Rickon, and of course leaves out anything having to do with Sansa. She scrawls her signature on the bottom of the parchment, rolls it up, and sends it off with the waiting raven.
"Rickon," she calls out to her brother. "Can you bring Jon's letter up to Sansa? I'm guessing she'd like to see it."
She reaches out and hands him Jon's note. Rickon dutifully climbs the stairs two at a time towards Sansa's bedroom.
That business attended to, Arya returns to the table and continues peeling potatoes for tonight's supper.
That night is an especially bad one for her.
But then, nights are almost always difficult for Arya now. They have been ever since she returned from Braavos two years ago, blind and half-mad from delusions, hunger, and fear.
She rarely gets a full night's rest anymore. Instead, she spends most nights in a bizarre half-waking state in which she simultaneously prowls the forest, the taste of her enemies' blood fresh in her mouth, and tosses and turns restlessly in her bed.
Tonight her wolf dreams are filled with another scent. Another taste. The half-forgotten smell of man fills her senses for the first time in recent memory. It torments both her hunting wolf form and her sleeping human form in a way she cannot understand but which is no less real for that.
She hears herself howl in frustration and rage. Her pack – always with her, always, even when she was no one – joins in. Their mighty noise frightens the few small forest animals that remain after the dragons' fiery siege. The rabbits and ferrets and mice scatter in all directions, mere dust mites on the wind.
The men – all unfamiliar men, mostly, except for one, the one with the scent she almost remembers but cannot quite place – also run in fear. But their, his, scent remains. It hangs heavy in the air, on her fur, in her nightclothes.
Arya is suddenly fully awake in the middle of the night and bolts upright in her narrow bed. Not her childhood bed; that was burned to ash years ago, when the Ironborn came and before the seasons changed. But she is in her bed nonetheless. In Winterfell.
For a long moment Arya is incapable of doing anything but willing her breathing and her racing heart to slow.
Eventually, they do. She listens closely to see if she made any noise while sleeping that may have frightened poor Rickon. She often does. If she woke him with her howling he will call for her soon, terrified.
But she hears nothing.
She thanks the Seven for this small mercy before lying back down to attempt another hour or two of fitful rest.
When Gendry and his companions arrive at Winterfell's front gate later that morning, they are greeted by a young boy who seems very surprised to see them.
He looks so like the "boy" Gendry met years ago when he fled Kings Landing that he thinks, at first, that he is seeing a ghost.
But then this boy speaks, and his voice bears the scratchy telltale signs of a boy on the cusp of manhood. Gendry relaxes the fists he hadn't realized he'd been making and takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself.
Realizing that he isn't her, Gendry is able to pay attention to what the boy – her brother? a cousin? – is saying to them.
"The lot that's sleeping here now will be headed north in another day or so," he says, gesturing to two old men lying listlessly on cots within the stable where they're standing. The old men's eyes are open but Gendry cannot tell whether or not they are actually awake.
Unsettled by the sight of them, Gendry looks away and towards the boy again.
"Until these two clear out you'll have to share space with them. I'm sorry, sers."
Gendry flinches a little at the designation. He knows the boy is calling them sers only out of respect. But Gendry is no true knight, and never has been.
How very different his life might have gone had he been one, he thinks bitterly.
The men in Gendry's party grumble a bit under their breaths after the boy has finished speaking. During their long journey, the man called Whiskey assured the others that they'd be staying within Winterfell itself while here. Gendry knew that was never going to happen. Survivors of a once-great House would never allow lowborn men like them to sleep and dine among them.
The world as they'd known it may have ended, but some things will never change.
Gendry's companions are nonetheless clearly disappointed that instead of dining at the former Winterfell tonight they'll be sleeping amongst pigs and fleas. Their host doesn't look surprised by their reaction; perhaps they're not the only ones he's greeted here who've had unrealistic expectations.
But as their grumbling gets louder, and becomes laced with oaths and profanities, the boy glances over his shoulder several times towards his ruined home. As if trying to determine the cleanest path for escape should one become necessary.
"The stable will be fine. And we are used to sharing small spaces," Gendry tells him in an attempt to reassure, loudly enough to be heard over his companions. The boy's eyes snap to his and his entire body seems to relax.
"Is there… anything we can do for you and your family while we're here?" Gendry continues.
The boy looks confused, as if he doesn't understand the question. "Anything you can do?" he repeats, slowly.
Gendry nods. "You'll be housing us for a fortnight, feeding us and keeping us warm in the dead of winter. Not all of us are in bad shape, and not all of us are in need of a rest before continuing north."
Gendry wills himself not to glance at the two old men lying prone, face up but unseeing, in the stable, but he does it anyway. He winces inwardly at his rudeness. Fortunately the boy pretends not to have noticed.
Gendry clears his throat and continues. "To be honest, Lord Stark –"
"I'm not Lord Stark," the boy insists.
But Gendry pays him no mind.
"To be honest, it's been so long since I've been had work that I don't know what to do with myself." And it's the truth. The callouses Gendry has had on his hands ever since he can remember are disappearing. His hands no longer feel like his own. It's unnerving.
"The Wall's not expecting us for a while, and I just thought..." Gendry continues, then trails off. Out of the corner of his eye, Gendry notices that his companions have turned their backs on this conversation. They clearly don't mind spending the next fortnight being fed and housed by the surviving Starks, whiling away the hours while waiting to be sent on to whatever lies north of the Wall.
The boy looks surprised, as if Gendry's offer is so out of the ordinary he doesn't know how to process it.
"Well, kind ser. As I'm sure you already know, our house is ruined," the boy says, slowly and very quietly. "And the rebuilding has been… very slow, with just me and my sisters here."
Gendry nods, listening. But try as he might, he cannot ignore the slight dizziness that overtakes him when the boy mentions his sisters. Gendry reaches out a hand and grabs on to one of the stable's wooden beams for support.
She's here, then. In the house.
"I'm certain we can think of something for you to help us with," the boy continues. He nods and the barest hint of a smile plays on his lips. "And… I thank you. This wasn't part of the arrangement. It goes well above what the Queen asks for in return for our housing you."
"Not at all," Gendry says with what he hopes looks like a dismissive wave of his hand rather than a nervous spasm. "I like to be useful. It's been so long," he admits, quietly. "And you are giving us much, here. Let us repay you in this way."
The boy gives Gendry a broad smile.
"I shall let my sister Arya know that you have arrived, sers," he says. "Please – do make yourselves as comfortable as you can. One of us will be out later with supper for all of you."
After Rickon and Arya have their dinner that night, and Arya brings Sansa a plate of food that she knows without having to ask will remain untouched, Rickon tells Arya what the new has arrival offered to do for them.
"Are you certain?" she asks, surprised. This has never happened before.
"Absolutely," Rickon assures her. "He made himself very clear."
Without further ado, Arya makes a list of everything that still needs repair at Winterfell. She refuses to cry as she does it. She is no longer a foolish young girl, and this is a great opportunity, she tells herself. Not an excuse for wallowing.
In the years following the sacking of Winterfell, the great house was slowly rebuilt by various of Ned Stark's devoted bannermen. Some of the very same men who found Arya wandering through the woods after her return to Westeros two years ago, brought her home, and put her mind and her eyes to rights again.
Given that the Realm was still being torn asunder by horrible war, the repairs to Winterfell were of necessity done in a very piecemeal fashion. Much has been accomplished since Theon Greyjoy's betrayal but Winterfell is still, even after all this time, livable only in the loosest sense of the word.
Only certain sections of the roof are intact, and as such their family is confined to a very small number of rooms. In truth, even sleeping inside those few rooms is not much warmer than sleeping in the stable. She and Rickon quickly decide that roof repair will be the first thing they ask this generous man to help them with.
"We should pay him for it," Arya muses, chewing on the end of her quill. "This is more than what the Queen has asked of him."
"Do we have gold to spare?" Rickon asks.
Arya laughs at that.
"My sweet brother," she begins. She reaches out and squeezes his shoulder. "The Queen has given us enough money to feed a hundred strong men for an entire month."
Rickon says nothing in response to that. But he doesn't need to. He knows as well as Arya does that they haven't seen a hundred men in total in the six months since the war north of the Wall began.
"He may not take the gold," Rickon says. "He seemed eager to just be doing something with his time."
Arya rolls her eyes at her brother. How can he be so naïve, still, after all that they've seen and survived?
"Of course he'll take it, Rickon," she tells him. She tries to keep her voice from taking on the sharp edge it often acquires when she's frustrated, but she isn't sure whether she's managed it. "He's a man, isn't he?"
"Yes, he is," Rickon admits. "And a strong man too, from the looks of him. I think he'll be able to help us quite a lot while he's here."
This pleases Arya a great deal.
"I think this is the first good news we've had in a very long time," she says, smiling.
Rickon smiles back at her and helps himself to another plate of potatoes.
It's always Arya's job to see that the men they're hosting get their supper.
After she washes their own dinner dishes and puts them away, she fills a large tureen with potatoes and a ham she'd been saving for next week. Rickon told her that five new men arrived today. That, plus the two they were already housing, means there are seven extra mouths to feed tonight. She figures she and her siblings can have ham some other time.
The harsh winds from the north are picking up again tonight. Arya doesn't need to go outside to know this; she can feel it inside her drafty house and in her bones. She dresses as warmly as she can before going out to the stable, donning her two warmest hats and her best gloves – the ones that keep out the chill even when the temperatures drop to levels Old Nan never could have imagined.
It's a very short walk from their front door to the stable. But the snow is blowing fiercely and sharp icy crystals of it sting her eyes and her nose. She curses herself for forgetting to wear her woolen scarf as she gives a courtesy knock on the stable door.
When nobody responds, she pries it open herself.
There is no lantern inside, but from the embers of the fire in the corner she can make out seven shapeless, sleeping bundles sharing the six cots she and Rickon have set up for visitors.
The sun set not two hours ago, and Arya is surprised to see the five new arrivals asleep already. Especially given how robust Rickon told her several of the new men appeared. But then, they traveled a very long distance these past few weeks and must be utterly exhausted, she muses.
Arya glances towards the cot along the far wall that two men are sharing. The flimsy thing is practically bursting at the seams, carrying, as it is, so much more weight than it was designed for. Arya decides that she and Rickon should put together a few extra cots on the morrow, on the remote chance they ever shelter more than six men at a time again.
As she puts the covered food down in front of the door and turns to leave for the night, a man clears his throat behind her.
"Thank you, m'lady."
Arya turns around towards the hoarse whisper. She peers into the darkness and sees one of the two men sharing the cot sitting up. She can't make out his face in the gloom, but she can see his silhouette illuminated from behind by the fire's glowing embers.
He looks big to her. Much larger than most of the men and boys who've come this way over the past six months. She wonders if this is the man who offered to help repair the house earlier today, and she hopes that he is.
"Not at all, ser," she says back. "This is part of your compensation from the Queen for service to the Realm."
"Still," he whispers, apparently not wanting to wake his companions. He coughs quietly into his hand. "It's been a very long time since any of us has been able to sleep indoors or have food that smells so good. I'm... appreciative, is all."
Arya doesn't know what to say in response to this.
"Well… I'm only doing as I've been bid. And I'm no cook." She puts her hand on the door, about to leave. "But I hope you enjoy the food all the same."
"I will, m'lady," the man tells her. "I'm certain of it."
"There's no need to call me that," she tells him, more sharply than she'd intended. "I'm no lady anymore, if ever I really was one to begin with. I'm just Arya Stark."
The man doesn't respond for a long moment. He cracks his knuckles against his knee, and she watches as he runs his hands through his hair.
"All right," he says. "Arya Stark, then." He's still whispering, but something about the way he says her name - solemnly; reverently, even; almost as if his mouth is caressing the words before they leave his lips - causes an unfamiliar shiver to go down Arya's spine.
And then without another word to her, the man lies back down on his cot and tries to get comfortable.
As Arya hurries back to the house, blowing snow burning her eyes and her nose, she tries, and fails, to remember the last time they had a guest here who'd been so polite