Okay, so really, I have no excuse as to why this took so long. The only thing I can think of is lack of Muse and laziness. Mostly life, though.
And honestly, I don't like this chapter very much. So it might be redone in the near future.
Oh, and also: A very big thank you to all who reviewed. I didn't expect to get so many positive reviews from this, nor as may follows and favs.
Again, thank you.
Chapter 11: The Dreadfort.
Arya was fitting a modelled saddle to Nymeria when Jon Snow stalked up to her. He stopped a few feet from her, wary of Nymeria's low growls, but still irked enough to glare at the she-wolf's mistress.
Arya spoke first. "I am going no matter how much you nag, Jon."
"Arya-"
"Not hearing a lick of it."
Jon's mouth bowed. "You're not going, Arya. You are one of the last Starks left to us, if you die…"
Arya stopped tightening the leather straps and rounded on her cousin, the snow crunching beneath her boots. "Exactly. I am one of the last Starks, and the Boltens took our home from us, Jon." Her anger was making Nymeria skittish of him. Arya placed a calming hand on her direwolf. "I am going to take theirs from them, too," she said in an eerily calm tone. "Then, after, I will take back Winterfell and seek out Rickon and then Bran if possible." She turned back to the saddle. "But I doubt I will be able to find my brother." She cut herself off and continued with the saddle.
It was a dismissal, and they both knew it. But still Jon did not move, much like the other arguments they'd had as children. Jon was the rocks on the shore and she the waves.
Arya sighed, rested her forehead on the direwolf's side. "I am making for the Dreadfort. If you wish to join me and my men, I will not object." She glanced behind her, to Jon's disapproving face. "But if you try to stop me, Jon," she moved over to him until she stood toe-to-toe with him. "Though I bear love for you… If you get in my way, you'll wish that you hadn't." Do not be too honourable. Do not stop me from killing them. She did not say that, but from the look he gave her; she knew that she did not have to.
Jon Snow didn't question her like his brother so often did, he didn't just blindly follow her orders like Gendry did, either; and she knew that their argument was far from over.
Arya flicked her eyes away from his to over his shoulder; Aegon Targaryen stood at the stairs leading to The Last Hearth. Jon turned and followed her eyes.
"Aegon," he greeted with a smile and Arya turned away, mouth turned down. The stupid, irrational jealousy licking at her again.
The king trotted over to them, that ever-present grin on his face rubbing her the wrong way.
Nymeria growled.
"But he stays," Arya bit out. "We can't afford for His Grace to be harmed, now can we?"
Jon shifted, uncomfortable. "Arya…"
Arya sniffed. "No. He stays. And we leave today, soon, because the break in the weather will not last forever, Jon." With that, she bounced off the snow and swung up into the saddle. Through the bond she shared with Nymeria, she told the she-wolf where they were headed. Nymeria whined, shifted her stance beneath Arya.
Aegon-who usually took Arya's stand-offish attitude in stride- began to irk at her tone.
"I am king," he told her, childish arrogance leaking easily into his tone. "You do not get to decide when and where I fight my battles."
Arya bristled. You are no king of mine, she thought unkindly, and very nearly spoke it. "And I am a queen, as you all seem so fond of forgetting." She snapped instead. "And this is not your battle, Aegon, it is mine and my siblings; anything but yours."
Aegon's violet eyes flashed. "I only wish to help-"
"I do not need it, nor do I want it." With that, she turned the direwolf away and out the gates; her Freedmen following a few paces behind.
-x-
Sansa always seemed to know when Willas was visiting. Almost as certain as Mya was when little Robert Arryn was going to have a fit; though they were getting fewer and further between. Sansa had kept an especially keen eye on her littler cousin for fear that Littlefinger would bring him to harm.
Though in truth, she held no true affection for Sweet Robin. But if he died it would give Petyr the opportunity to place Sansa as queen, and she did not want that.
Not anymore. Not for a long, long time.
Sansa Stark knew that when people looked at Lord Willas, they saw only a cripple; but Sansa could make out the power in his stride, the intelligence in his green gaze. Loved the wit he used to make Littlefinger look stupid without ever having to say as such.
Willas Tyrell had been having negotiations with Littlefinger for nearly five moons now, and Sansa found that she spent every free hour with the heir to High Garden.
He hadn't known who she was to begin with, when he first started showing interest in her; a bastard by the name of Alayne Stone. And when they'd shared their first kiss, Sansa had told him of her true name, of Littlefinger's intentions with her and her title.
Willas had offered to take her away then, to make her his wife and queen of the Reach; a smarter woman would have snatched at the opportunity to leave Lord Baelish's clutches. But not many people claimed Sansa Stark to be smart.
She was waiting for the right time to slip away and take little Robert with her; because though she loathed her cousin on most any day, he was still that-her cousin and kin. Something that she did not have much left of. He would not do the same for her, Sansa knew that; she was going to do it for her own means.
If she had learned anything from Littlefinger, Margaery Tyrell or even what little Cersei Lannister had been willing to offer-knowingly or not- it was to plot, and do it quickly but thoroughly. This was what Sansa had become quite good at.
Willas and she were closed away in his chambers, speaking in hushed tones about why he had visited this time, when he offered freedom to her again. "I will take you away from this cage, my lady. Just speak the words."
And again, Sansa considered her love's words with a heavy heart, chewing her lip in a way she remembered Arya doing. "I cannot…" she started, but he pulled her close.
"Marry me, Sansa Stark."
Sansa shook her head. "I can't. Not yet."
.
.
The woman drove her sword through the man's throat with such an ease that made Bran feel that she'd done this many times before. She spun away and ducked under the bastard knight's arm.
The Silver Prince was fighting by their side, anger bubbling up along with protectiveness for the reckless she-wolf at his side. The knight's tasked with protecting the Silver Prince were lost in the thick of battle, leaving only the She-Wolf and bastard by his side.
When the lord of the Flayed Man finally bent the knee-asking and begging forgiveness- the She-Wolf grinned a terrible smile and told him that the time for pardons had passed.
And she called for a block.
Bran woke with a start; sweat upon his brow and he felt awfully tired. Meera was already up and watching him with wide, dark eyes.
"Bran?" she asked tentatively, crawling over to him. She sat there a while, waiting for Bran to fully come from the dream. When he did, she said, "What is it you saw?"
Jojen was sleeping still; small snorts working their way from his throat. Bran watched the constant rise and fall of his chest for a moment. It was rare that the crannogman had a fitless sleep.
"I saw my sister."
Meera perked up, a smile rising. "The Lady Sansa?" she asked.
Bran shook his head. "I… I think it was Arya." He told the cannogwoman. "But she was sacking the Dreadfort. A Targaryen was there too."
"But there are no dragons left in this world, my lord." Meera argued softly. "How could it be?"
Bran found it funny that Meera only ask about the Silver Prince; that she did not doubt his judgement in knowing who his sister was, despite all that had happened. He thought, not for the first time in years, how she would react to he saying that he loved her, before pushing it away as a childish notion.
Bran shook his shaggy head once more. "I don't know, Meera. But what I do know is that in the vision I knew it was Arya, and not just some random woman with the Stark look."
Meera nodded and adjusted the furs around him. "Still nothing of Rickon or Osha?"
Bran closed his eyes and shook his head once more. "No. Nothing."
Summer whined and pressed his thickly-furred body closer to Bran's. Bran's hands played absently along his wolf's neckline.
Jojen's quiet tone ghosted to them from over the small fire that Fern had allowed them to build. "Rickon will be fine, I am sure of it. Osha cares for him; she would not let harm come to a Prince of Winterfell." He murmured.
Both Bran and Meera gave a small start at him; he'd been sleeping soundly not a moment before and they had not raised their voices above a whisper.
Bran settled against the giant wolf at his side. "Not physically, no." He said softly, Tully-blue eyes staring hard into the flames. "But what happened to us will leave no small amount of scars."
He pressed closer to Summer before settling into sleep again. And Bran dreamed nothing but dreams filled with howls that made him feel a sorrow he had only known once before.
-x-
The snow had begun to fall thickly, and Roose Bolten's blood ran down Arya's newly made sword, thick like ruby droplets to the ground; staining the pureness with taint.
A pity that it wasn't Ice that cleaved his head from his shoulders,
Arya thought objectively. It would make for a better song. And it'd have been easier to slice between the bone.
Gendry was being tended to by one of maesters in some tent or in the Dreadfort itself; he had taken a good blow to his leg and arm during the end of the battle. Arya did not bother with trying to find him, she did, however, seek out Aegon.
They would need to talk on how to further their conquest south; they had no need to bother with The Iron Isles. The Ironborn would bicker amongst themselves as to whom was King for at least a few months yet, now that Roose was dead and Ramsay was soon to be.
"My Lady." Aegon Targaryen was lounging on the seat of the Boltens, ever the conqueror, and his dark eyes were on her form.
"My Lord." Arya returned and watched the spark in his eyes at her small defiance. Not calling him 'Your Grace' put him at a lower ranking; equal to her. She did it often enough, but his reaction was always the same. Arya glanced about the room; it was vast and elaborately furnished-not doubt from the pay Roose Bolten got from Tywin Lannister.
"A Lannister always pays his debts," she muttered as she eyed the throne the Silver Prince sat upon.
Aegon frowned at her, brow furrowing in a way that reminded her of Jon. "Pardon?"
Arya gestured with her chin to the seat Aegon took up. "It is weirwood. Weirwood Trees do not burn, My Lord. They are usually the only left after a forest fire in the North." She paused and ran a hand over the back of it; it was carved beautifully with wolves and lions and stags, a crow or two here and there.
But it was the face that drew her attention first; it looked to be weeping on one half and then smiling upon the other. "Queer," she murmured.
Aegon half turned from his reclining position, head cocked in question. "I suppose it is expensive then?"
Arya nodded, a quick quirk of her head. "Why would you even wonder as such, My Lord?" she asked suspiciously. He wouldn't sell something as rich as this, would he? But, she thought with a sneer, this was Aegon. No more truly needed to be said.
Aegon grinned at her, a smile she admitted begrudgingly, that was starting to grow on her. "Why, to see it's worth. If it's worth enough, mayhaps I can ask Lord Connington to find a seller somewhere; we could make use of the gold."
Arya scowled at him, then simply because she could, said, "It's weirwood. And it's north of The Neck, so it's mine."
Aegon barked out a laugh. "Is it now?" he asked.
Arya was unruffled by his challenge. "You'll have no need of it if you have the Iron Throne, correct?"
Aegon muttered something unintelligible, then as he rose to his feet, "Fine. Keep the damned chair."
Arya's lips quirked up at the sides without her consent, and it unsettled her. Arya turned away from him. "You have my most gracious thanks, Your Grace." Sarcasm leaked into her tone, and Aegon noticed; a small smirk appearing in his features.
"You are very much welcome, My Lady." He returned in much the same tone.
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