A/N: Sorry it took me a while, I went on vacation, and honestly I've been working on my other fic more. This chapter was tough to write, but I'm really excited for what it's leading up to. Things are really cooking now. Be warned, super dark. I promise to add some light bits throughout though. Enjoy!
A Useless Sacrifice
Arya
It was done. Throughout, she had tried her hardest to let her mind wander, to be somewhere else. But then he'd do something particularly painful or degrading, and she was brought right back into the moment. Every thrust, every bruising grip, every painful twist and awkward angle; she felt it all. All the while he had such a delighted grin on his face, he enjoyed her pain immensely. At first, she had been determined not to cry out, but she couldn't help it. It only spurred him on. He was careful though; he left no marks, except for the fingerprint shaped bruises he left behind, but nowhere visible. He made sure of that.
She slowly picks up her clothes, Joffrey lying back on the bed contented. Out of the corner of her eye she sees the glint of metal in the corner; the signet ring. She quickly stuffs it down by her breasts without his noticing. He is boneless and relaxed, eyeing her awkward ritual of dressing and creeping towards the door amused. He stays blessedly silent, undoubtedly enjoying her discomfort and shame.
She opens the door to see The Hound waiting for her. Joffrey calls to him, but he shuts the door behind her. She's too numb to look him in the eye, too distant to try to take in the empathy and pity on his badly burned face.
"Come along now, Little Lady. I'll see you back to your room." He reaches for her elbow but she pulls away. He understands and simply walks forward, slowly enough to allow her to follow. She puts one foot in front of the other, but would never have found her way back without guidance.
"There you go now, we're here." He says gently.
"Thank you Sandor." She says emotionlessly. She simply can't bring up any feeling now. One would lead to another, and she'd never be able to process it. He looks as though he wants to say more, but keeps his mouth shut. She enters her room before he can muster the courage to say anything more.
Her room looks different than before, like it belongs to someone else. Or she's someone else. That must be it. Everything has a darker sheen, feels farther away, less real. It all smells less vibrant, feels less solid, and seems out of time, displaced.
In a daze, she strips off her dress, letting it fall to the floor. She washes off her skin with a wet cloth, scrubbing until her skin turns red and she's satisfied that she's as clean as she'll ever be. She puts on another dress, not even bothering to look at which.
A knock on the door startles her, makes her want to run and hide in the corner.
"My Lady. It's me." She recognizes the voice of Ros immediately, but still hesitates in opening the door. She opens it and stands back against the wall, out of sight of the open door.
Taking in her slight shaking and inability to meet her gaze, Ros quickly closes the door behind her.
"Oh, My Lady…" She coos piteously. When Arya doesn't respond, Ros immediately starts tending to her.
"It will be alright, My Lady. I promise, over time, it will seem less real."
Arya looks at her disbelieving, but says nothing. She doesn't want to be talking about this.
"What are you doing here, Ros?" She straightens up at that.
"Varys sent me." She knew it.
"What? Why?" Ros hesitates.
"He knows." She says, not needing to ask.
"He knows everything." Ros agrees.
"Just him, or does everyone know?" Ros doesn't answer.
"He visited your father in the dungeons, he says Lord Stark is well and unharmed." Arya breathes out a sigh of relief, nodding her head in thanks for the information.
"I should have told you about him before. I let you think it was Lord Baelish, but, I never thought…"
"It wouldn't have mattered. I would have done it anyway." Arya answers honestly. "It'll be worth it." But she is telling herself more than Ros.
When Ros gives her tea, she absently smells it out of habit. Moon tea. She gratefully gulps it down, uncaring at the way it burns going down her throat. Ros gives her another full pouch of the preventative herbs with instructions to take some every six hours for the next few days, but not to take too much. She didn't pay much attention though, already knowing about measurements and dosages.
Instead she imagines her father walking chained under Yoren's care, named a traitor, but alive. He would join Jon at The Wall; he would be back in the bosom of The North. And while Arya may never again get to see him, perhaps her mother and brothers could visit him often. She could imagine the look of relief and sadness on his face as he's pardoned, perhaps understanding what she'd done. She would feel shame, but he would be safe, that was all that mattered.
She feels Ros' stare, and realizes she's been silent for a long while.
"Thank you, Ros, for the tea. And thank Lord Varys as well."
"I wanted to come. You were kind to me, I volunteered." She says genuinely, lashes lowered.
"I do appreciate it, I just…" And she can't put it into words. The way nothing matters the way it should, the way she keeps wondering if she will ever feel anything deeply ever again, or if she even wants to.
"I understand, My Lady." She says with a small smile. And of course, she does understand, better than anyone else ever could.
"Call me Arya."
"I don't think I can do that, My Lady." Arya nods in understanding, unsurprised.
"And you, Ros. How have you been?"
"I…" Ros swallows deeply.
"What is it?"
"It's nothing, just… it's nothing to do with you. Never you mind. You've enough to worry over."
"No, please. Tell me. I might prefer a distraction." She tries to make her voice sound appropriately concerned.
"Well. There's a woman at the brothel, she had a baby girl, Barra was her name. Beautiful little thing, a full head of dark hair, pretty blue eyes, hardly ever cried. Some soldiers came in yesterday, they killed her, took her right from her mother's arms. Why would they do such a thing? She was just a baby. And the mother, she can't stop crying." Ros gets choked up at this. Arya sees things more clearly.
"Have there been any other strange murders?" She inquires.
"Yes." She responds surprised. "A tavern as well. How did you know?" Arya gets a churning in her gut, knowing exactly what it means. The bastards are dead. And she does feel; sadness and guilt, especially when she thinks about a boy, strong cheekbones, covered in soot, blue eyes glinting in the light of the forge.
"Just a guess." She says, not wanting to put the caring whore in any more danger. She lets Ros help her finish getting ready, knowing she needs to look perfect for the upcoming trial, Joffrey will want her pretty, and she wants her father and the people to know she's strong and unbroken.
It seems all of King's Landing has come out to watch the spectacle- The Hand of the King, a great lord from a great house, tried for treason, chained, cowed, dirty, but still proud. She feels her heart will burst with how much she loves him, the strength radiating off of him. She takes in every detail- longish hair peppered with gray, the wrinkles around his eyes, the strong set of his jaw; every inch a Stark.
Joffrey is eating up the attention, the power. Some people can only feel strong by making others look weak, she tells herself. Joffrey grins at her with his perfect white teeth, and she can't believe she thought even for a moment that he was handsome. She wants only to punch him in the face, wring his neck. But she must get through today first.
"Lord Eddard Stark, former Hand of the King, is charged with treason against King Joffrey Baratheon and House Lannister. How does he plead?"
Lord Stark swallows before making eye contact with his daughter. She nods in encouragement, a small forced smile to help him along.
"I plead guilty, Your Grace, and deeply regret my hateful actions. I am ashamed and humbly beg your forgiveness. I ask to join The Night's Watch." She can only imagine how much it must pain him to speak those falsehoods; no Stark would ever surrender easily. Empty words would be stuck in the throat, painful to dislodge. But he'd done it, and from the way his gaze locked with hers, she suspected it was for her benefit.
"I promised My Lady I would show mercy. And I shall. A quick death, painless, no need to draw it out. Ser Ilyn Payne, would you do the honors." Joffrey orders.
Lord Stark is led to the block, Ser Ilyn stepping towards him menacingly.
"No." Arya whispers. Then louder. "No!" She jumps forward but is restrained by The Hound. "No!" She screams again.
"Hold still girl. There's nothing you can do." He rasps in her ear. She can smell a few days worth of dirt on his skin.
Her father kneels before the block, steady and sure. He doesn't flinch or shake, doesn't protest or plead. Ser Ilyn brings down the blade, quick and precise.
"No!" She keeps screaming, until her voice runs out and her arms turn numb from where Sandor holds her back.
His head falls to the ground, bounces once, twice, and then rolls a few feet from where she stands. She fights harder to be free, eyes near blinded with salt water, but still Sandor won't let her go. Her father's eyes seem to stare into her, dead eyes looking into hers and not letting go. Finally the world gives out and her vision turns black, she drops down like a puppet with its strings cut into blissful oblivion.
She awakes to a cool cloth being applied to her forehead. Slowly, her surroundings come to her. She's back in her room, thirsty and disoriented. She has no idea how much time has passed, but she knows one thing for sure- her father is dead, she hadn't saved him. She'd sacrificed all she had, and it had all been for nothing. She wished very much that she could go back into that dark abyss from which she'd awoken.
It takes her even longer to recognize who is applying the cold compress, and another few minutes to believe it. Lord Petyr Baelish is near the bottom of the list of people she would expect to see.
Once it settles in, she pulls herself up into a sitting position, stopping him from touching her further. His perfectly trimmed goatee pulling into a frown.
"Woah, woah. Easy, there. Don't push yourself."
"Why are you in my room?"
"I was worried about you. You've been through something quite traumatic. I do care about what happens to you, Arya." He says, stroking the ends of her hair lovingly.
"Please leave. I'd rather be alone just now, Lord Baelish." He sighs, disappointed but not deterred.
"I can't do that. They want you downstairs for dinner." A panicked hand clasps her gut.
"No. I can't."
"You must, My Lady. They expect it of you. You must prove your loyalty." She feels herself sniffling but doesn't cry.
"Why do you care? You said you do care, right?" She looks at him suspiciously.
"I cared for your mother once. Did she tell you that?" He seems very concerned with her answer.
"No." He looks utterly disappointed. "But I've heard. They say you were in love with her." He looks away at that, but not embarrassed.
"That was a long time ago. Did anyone ever tell you, you look like her?" She's startled at that.
"No. People always say I look like my…" She can't say it.
"You do though. Not the eyes, or the shape of your face. But you have a few strands of her lovely hair within the brown. And you're growing into her shape." She ignores his observation.
"I can't go down there." She reiterates.
"But you must. Just get through tonight."
"And how long until I can go home?" She asks.
"Oh Dear, he'll never let you go. Not that he's found a new pretty toy to torture."
"So you know. Does everyone know?"
"Well I know. And I'd imagine Varys does too. Most likely The Queen knows much, but not all."
"I'm stuck here then, in this Hell." She murmurs, though not to him.
"Perhaps not. I could help you, if you but trust me child." His fingers find their way from her hair to her shoulder, the touch all too intimate in a way she could now recognize for what it was.
"Help me how? Why?" She inquires.
"Something could be arranged. And as to why… Some might think you ruined. I would say you are newly ripe." She swallows at this, uncomfortable.
"I must get ready. Please leave me to do so." She's being cold. And she knows it. But while she's apprehensive about what is to come, she cannot bring herself to trust Littlefinger, she recognizes what his gaze means.
"Of course, My Lady. I look forward to our next meeting." He kisses her hand and exits. She cannot bring her blade, so she must use her other weapons. She puts on her black mourning dress, the one she wore upon her arrival. But she dresses it up with jewels, mimics the hairstyle she's seen the handmaidens complete a dozen times, lines her eyes with kohl, and her lips with berry stain. They won't see her weak, she won't cower and hide, she won't weep in their presence. They want a broken toy to further shatter; they'll find a vicious wolf that bites back.
The dinner is a grand affair, in honor of Joffrey's triumph over his betrayers, his swift justice and his deep wisdom, so remarkable for such a young king. She immediately feels ill, but holds it back with a sickening smile, bordering on crazy.
She makes a grand entrance, fearless and cold as winter, dying inside. They all look up at her, shocked at her raised chin and defiantly icy eyes. They expected a mess, which made her even more determined to keep her pain at bay. Joffrey looks pleased at the chance to taunt her; The Queen looks particularly surprised at her proud posture.
It is Tyrion Lannister who bids her sit beside him. She would be grateful for the gesture, if she weren't all too aware of his Lannister heritage. She says nothing as she sits beside him, though he smiles at her kindly, filling her glass with fine Arbor wine. She drinks deeply, wanting bravery and composure. She does so before 'The King' and receives uncomfortable looks in response.
"To the Valiant King, eradicator of injustice and rightful heir to the throne. Long live King Joffrey." Maester Pycelle toasts. There is a chorus of 'here, here' and everyone sips from their goblets. Arya has not stopped her gulping and continues long after the others. She receives more strange looks, and stares each of them down in turn.
The other lords take turns congratulating Joffrey, and out of the corner of her eye she seems him soaking up the praise, pleased with himself, retelling the details of her own father's beheading that very morning. She drinks more.
"I am truly sorry for your loss, My Lady. Lord Stark was an honorable man, Westeros is a poorer land without his presence." Tyrion says in all sincerity, mismatched eyes earnestly burning into her. She takes a moment, and another half goblet of wine, to respond.
"Oh yes? I'm sure you did everything you could to stop it." She says sarcastically. The Imp has the grace to look ashamed.
"I'm afraid my word has little sway around here. As little as my stature." He responds.
"Oh I'm so sorry, Lord Tyrion. Is it my pity you seek? I'm afraid I've none to give just now." She knows somewhere in the back of her mind that her harsh words are misplaced, but he is the safest and closest target at the moment.
"No my Dear, you've no need to assert yourself. Hate me all you like if it please you. I don't mind really." She can't decide whether to be pleased or feel guilty, so instead she feels nothing.
She drinks more, but doesn't touch her roasted chicken in orange sauce. Nor the honeyed lemon rolls with ginger and sesame seeds. She does continue to drink, unfortunately, ending up quite drunk.
After the dessert and the accolades had finished, Joffrey grew bored, and decided to turn his attentions to Arya, an assured source of amusement.
"My Lady." He says, directing his attention to Arya. "You seem to be quite enjoying your wine. Not hungry I take it?" At this he laughs at his own joke, a few others laughing along with him like mindless sycophants.
"I suppose not. Perhaps I don't care for chickens." She says pointedly. Some of the others stop laughing, but Joffrey obviously doesn't get it.
"Well, we'll have to get you something more to your liking. I can't have you getting sick, My Lady."
"I'm surprised you're so concerned for my well being." She says. "I would think it would be quite convenient for you if the Traitor's daughter starved to death." She intones bitterly.
Joffrey obviously senses the venom behind her words and looks at her with malice. Tyrion puts his hand lightly atop hers in warning, she flinches away.
"I believe you to be innocent of any wrongdoing My Lady. But perhaps I am mistaken. Do you have anything you wish to confess?" He asks.
"No, Your Grace. Do you?" There are a few gasps, and she becomes aware of just how much she's had to drink. She can't seem to bite her tongue, and doesn't want to.
"How dare you speak to Your King in such a manner. Retract your question immediately." He demands, a petulant child.
"Of course, Your Grace. After all, we all know the answer." A servant actually drops their tray at this.
"How dare you. What exactly are you accusing me of?" And his pale nostrils flare out at this.
"Nothing. The girl is clearly grief stricken and has drunk too much on an empty stomach. Ignore her." Tyrion attempts to clear the air.
"Quiet, Imp." Joffrey orders. "Now, explain yourself, My Lady." He demands with a snarl.
Now Arya does know she should be quiet, but can't seem to help herself. She had intended to sit quietly and bite her tongue, but the wine had loosened her lips.
"Only that your idea of mercy seems to be lacking."
"That's enough. Get the girl to bed." The Queen bellows.
"Or perhaps you misunderstood your place here. You hold no sway, you do not tell me what my words mean."
"I understand the confusion, you say one thing and do another. How can anyone take you at your word?" She says placing her cup down ungracefully, staring right at Joffrey.
"You name me a liar?! It's not my fault you chose to hear what suits you." His fury transitions to a smirk. The battle suddenly loses all subtext. "Perhaps I could teach you to listen better. I have found there is only one real way to get my point across. Hound." He calls. "Hold the Lady."
Everyone gasps at this, clearly uncomfortable with where this is certainly going, but no one says anything.
"I will not." The Hound says.
"What was that, Dog? I said…"
"Aye, I heard you well enough. But I don't strong arm ladies." He growls. In her drunken state it seems particularly poignant that out of all the fine lords and ladies in attendance, it's The Hound who has scruples.
Not wanting to show his surprise at the clear disobedience, he switches tactics. "Ser Meryn, then."
"As you say, Your Grace." Ser Meryn has no problem following orders; he grabs her roughly and pulls her up, her chair falling over from the force. Joffrey walks over to look her in the eye.
"Now, what was that you were saying, My Lady?" He raises one eyebrow, smugly confident that she will retract her statement and beg his forgiveness. And she should, but she can't.
"I said you have no honor, and it seems you've killed the last man in Westeros who does." His satisfied smirk falls, and he motions to Ser Meryn, a gesture that looks practiced and well-used.
Ser Meryn releases her only to strike her sharply in the face. Arya had never been hit before, and 'The Knight's' steel gauntlet came at her so hard she fell to the ground, grabbing the edge of the tablecloth and causing a few random pieces of silverware to scatter to the floor loudly. The sting was nothing she could have prepared for, the whole right side of her face a pulsing mess. She can't find her balance, and is utterly disoriented. She thinks she may hear protestations, chairs being pushed out, and servants scrambling to clean, but she's not sure of anything just now. But she supposes that the pain should be even worse; the drink must be numbing it some.
After a few moments, Joffrey's pleased face swims into view in front of her. "Ser Meryn, do be so kind as to help the Lady up." He instructs. Ser Meryn goes to do so, but The Queen steps in instead.
"Joffrey, My Sweet, if you damage the girl too much the people will see it." She reasons in a pleasant tone, her crystal earrings jingling.
"Let them see. Let them see what treason in any form will grant you." He speaks quickly, sexually excited, the way he'd been when he'd taken her last night. Maybe more so.
"And so you have, her face will swell and turn colors, and remain so for quite some time. Any further and you may break something, causing permanent damage." Jaime Lannister interrupts.
"Well, we can't have that. Very well, let her get pretty again, then we'll start all over."
Jaime helps her up gently and guides her back to her room, pity plain on his lovely features.
"I'm sorry My Lady. If there is anything…" She shuts the door in his face.
The first thing she does upon entering her room is to ingest more moon tea, taking a bit more than necessary, the nauseating idea of a Lannister in her belly making it difficult to keep the tea down. She finds it difficult to get her jaw to work, the flesh and jaw both tender and stiff. She looks in the mirror and sees that Ser Jaime was right; the skin is puffing out around her eye and the corner of her mouth, already red. She finds it ugly, and gains a sick satisfaction from the thought; she's not so pretty now. She tries to take in every color, every nuance forming, but her swollen eye makes it difficult.
An idea from her days at the Sept sends her to her bag to retrieve the dagger. With a steadier hand than she would have thought she still possessed, she makes a small cut below her eye and presses hard with a cloth to allow the built up fluid to leak out, removing the swelling so she can see properly. There will be a scar, and she is glad for it. She grips the knife tight, pretending the slowly warming steel is the warm hand of her brother comforting her. It's then she notices an inscription, something she'd missed in her first perusal. It says- 'To protect you, when I cannot.'
"No one can protect me." She whispers into the quiet air of the room. "Oh, Jon."
The only thing she wants in that moment is to see him, she knows she'll never feel safe again until she does. Not here. Not in this 'Viper's Nest' as Maester Luwin rightfully called it. But he was so far, so very very far. They'd never let her leave, never give her peace, never let her be. Their promises meant nothing and their threats were understatements. She could trust no one, even those would help her were too cowardly to do so. And they were all Southerners, not her own people. The only one…
Yoren. The Watch. The Wall. Jon. If she could get there…
But how? So far, so dangerous. And she was too recognizable, a girl, alone. But if she could do it…
The blade was now the temperature of her own skin, it almost felt a part of her flesh. She could do it. And with that, a plan was forming, one she was determined to carry out.
A/N: Yay! I mean, all that was horrible, I don't enjoy torturing Arya. But, now she can continue on the road and the rest of the story can begin. These next chapters are what I'm most excited about writing; I hope you're excited to read them.
Teaser- Travels on the road, which will be tweaked to my liking. Finding her family, and losing them again. The Faceless Men, sweet sweet revenge. The Dragon Queen and keeping her vow. There's a long road ahead, I hope you all stick with it. And please review.