AN: Did everybody else catch that friggin' awesome season premier and the second eppie? Well I did, and it has renewed my vigor. I feel bad that I made Mance Rayder a dick now that I've met him, but you know...I'll bring him around eventually...maybe. Anyway, here's the next bit. I should warn you that I haven't seen the second episode of this season, so take that into consideration.
Chapter 11: The Price of Loyalty
Arya hadn't ever seen a building burn. Surely she'd seen small shacks and huts burn to the ground. Surely she'd seen the ruined Winterfell, but she'd never stood by and watch something the size of the Twins burn to the ground. She'd never really smelled that much charred flesh either, but the world was changing. Arya Stark would be damned if she didn't change with it. The burned skin was not as scarring as the bodies that still moved even with their blackened flesh.
The stonework of the bridge was tenuous, but it held their weight as they crossed, laying mercy to the ones that still lived. The Dothraki reveled in it. These men had died by fire over water, and there was something in that they found remarkably enjoyable. On the other side of the river, the signs of war were thicker. Deep trenches had been dug in the earth where the heavily laden wagons had dug deep tracks. Bodies were occasionally found decomposing alongside the horse path, the remnants of skirmishes here and there.
The youngest Stark rode quietly for the first time since they'd made land. Gendry rode beside her, a silent guardian against the more jovial Dothraki. They had come to her first, in their revelry of their victory, but the burned flesh turned her stomach and made her mind return to the bodies of the two children swinging on the end of their ropes. Children that had brown eyes and familiar faces. The blacksmith's apprentice had-as he always had-seen through her in a matter of moments, placing himself between the revelers and the girl, letting her deal with everything in her own way.
For him, she was silently grateful and more guilty than ever for leaving him to his own devices for so long. He had always been able to see through the mirror of Arya Stark that she put on for the world, to the Arya Stark behind the glass. The girl that was nervous. The girl that was angry. The girl that was so scared that she was afraid to stop smiling or she may start sobbing. The girl that still thought names in the middle of the night. The girl that still smelled charred flesh and remembered the wounds she'd put into her own knight in tempered steel and charcoal.
Her head shot up from staring at the mane in front of her to look at Gendry. He gave her a measuring glance before glaring at another Dothraki who whooped particularly close to them. He glanced back to her to find her still wide eyed and staring. "What?" He asked, voice gruff from non-use.
"I hurt you," she said, voice slightly shocked. "I didn't check on it." Her cheeks flamed with guilt. What had she done, she wondered, to deserve such a friend?
That little smirk fought its way onto his face, first one corner then the other, the middle fighting to keep them in charge only to fail. She had to admit there was a certain flair to him when he smiled like that. She could see something there then, something other than the stern blacksmith's bastard apprentice.
"It's fine, almost killed me, but I'm made of stronger-oof!" He broke out into a fit of chuckles as the girl laid her fist into his abdomen, sending the air right from his lungs. "You'll open them up again!" He chided between chuckles, but she wasn't listening. She sat astride the great grey mare, sulking in her own juices.
He smiled down at her as they kept riding, relaxing into his own saddle. There was no reason to be a wall anymore. The girl next to him was very much herself again, and he was content to let himself slip back into the background of her life. He was good there, he had long ago decided. He would live on the periphery of her life for as long as she'd let him, and why should he not? She'd managed to work their escape from Tywin Lannister. She'd been strong through everything they'd encountered-perhaps a bit unhinged at moments, but what young woman wasn't? There had been a time when he'd thought about leaving her. He'd just slip off in the middle of the night, leaving the slip of a girl to defend herself. Then she did something completely rediculous.
He'd start thinking about leaving and she'd drink some unknown concoction and walk into a tower without doors.
He'd get an itch in his feet and she'd lunge at him with that wickedly twisted blade of hers-that he still didn't know how she came by.
He'd pack up what little he had, and she'd ride with the Dothraki Khaleesi and become part of her khaleesar.
He was a worrier. He hadn't been before, but when he, Hotpie and Arya had essentially started taking on the world together, he'd started. He fretted after the little curly haired boy as well, especially when he chased after the men from the Wall like they were gods. Pypar and Grenn-or something similar, he wasn't sure of their names-hadn't encouraged the boy from doing their daily conditioning and self-set chores, but they hadn't discouraged him either.
So, Gendry had had his hands full watching the boy. He'd ignored the way Arya seemed to fall deeper and deeper into the Dothraki culture. He had, at least, until he saw her wide eyed and staring as the Twins burned. Now, with the sounds of an army on the horizon and a war coming, there was an itch so deep in him to just run that he was almost sick. He was a boy, older than Bran or Rickon surely, but he still wasn't a man. In the new world, he decided, it would be the sons fighting their father's battles. Too bad he didn't have a father.
Tyrion had grown tired of the whining. Bronn whined about Forel whining. Forel whining about Shae whining. Shae whining about Sansa's whining. Sansa whining about the terrain, and the weather, and the food, and the-"Fuck, girl, one more word and I will lose my temper!" He pivoted on the leg that ached the least and turned to glare at her.
"You'll lose your temper!" Sansa said, voice rising in that way that it had been all day. "I've been walking for days."
"You walk for two days, girl," Syrio countered, his hand going to his hip for a sword that was not there. "A girl will die if she does not become a woman."
"I am a woman," Sansa defended. She was a wolf; she reminded herself. No one would take away her claws or teeth again. She would use them, and hell to any man or woman that tried to tell her otherwise.
"You are a child," Shae said, short and simple, before continuing forward. Tyrion watched the woman go with an odd sense of pride. That was his woman. She would be at his side until the end of his days, and her strength would be as fierce the day she died as it was the day he met her, of that he was certain.
"Now that we established the age of Sansa, shall we go into you as well?" Tyrion asked Syrio, who simply fixed him with a firm look before walking away, the peacock pride to his gait that he always had about him, even when he had been covered in hair and mud and feces that may or may not have been his own. That had been the first thing Tyrion had taken care of when they'd managed their escape through the caverns below King's Landing: pushing the Braavosi First Sword right into the ocean inlet.
Tyrion had to admit that with Bronn and the First Sword with him, he did feel far more safe on the road than he ever had in his father's guard. Speaking of the sell-sword, Tyrion's eyes watched Bronn as he lead their little party through the woods. He had no idea how the man had known they were leaving. They'd come out of the tunnels into the sun and there he'd been, sword at his hip and an odd little frown on his face. There had been a moment or two since he'd known the man where he'd thought he'd known too much for his own good, and that was one of those times.
His hips ached and he started walking again. To be honest, he wanted a rest as well, but the sell-sword and the first sword seemed convinced that they needed to put a few more miles between themselves and King's Landing. Miles were little things when on horseback, passing in a matter of an afternoon. On foot, miles were harrowing things when your body was as long as the legs of your traveling companions.
There was no two ways about it, he slowed his troup. Occasionally Forel would turn and fix him with a dark, quizzical look before frowning and catching up with Bronn. The two seemed to get along well enough not to gut each other, and for that he was grateful. The Braavosi First Sword had originally had a difficult time accepting that a weapon was not at his disposal. He'd found a particular sturdy branch and trimmed the side branches off, and the dark look had disappeared from his eyes. Every once and a great while he would reach for his hip when something shifted in the woods or a stone fell behind him because Tyrion had dislodged it.
Once, he had asked Tyrion about the 'Stark boy', which had been confusing until he determined that Forel called anyone who ran about a boy and anyone who sat primly a girl. Arya Stark had been something that Tyrion had only heard about. When they'd visited Winterfell, he'd met Robb of course and Sansa-her mother had introduced her with a florish and an air of condecention. He'd stumbled upon the bastard he'd taken a shine to on his own, but he'd never seen the second eldest daughter. It was something he looked forward to, especially considering the number of times he'd heard tales of her escapades. Escaping from King's Landing and the Gold Cloaks was no easy task, especially for a slip of a girl.
They made their way up the coast, walking just inside the forest, where the foliage was thick enough to cover their trail but not so thick that Sansa and Tyrion couldn't manage to fight their way through. Through the trees, Tyrion watched ships come in and out of the harbor in the distance. They would have to make their way through that to get north, and it seemed almost as daunting as the idea of going north in the first place. They'd talked a bit at first, about going across the ocean. Tyrion surely could hire a crew to take them, but Sansa wanted to see her family. It was impossible to tell the girl that she couldn't go home, especially after his family had taken her from them.
So, they were going north, to the young wolf pup. To the probable hanging of one Tyrion Lannister. He chuckled under his breath. At least they could simple hold the rope instead of stringing him up by a branch. Sansa had said that her brother would spare him for bringing her, but he had his doubts. His nephew had ordered the beheading of his father. His brother had pushed the young Bran out of a tower-yes, Tyrion wasn't enough of a moron to not recognize that lie. His father was at war with them. No, Tyrion had no such illusions of forgiveness.
"Enough!" He shouted a few hours later, his legs and hips aching so badly that he could barely lift them to take the next step. Sansa collapsed to the dirt, heaved a great sigh, and leaned back against a tree. She was the closest to him, and to catch up, he'd still be walking for the next five minutes. He could barely see Bronn turn and head back toward them, and Shae turned back to help him continue forward. They were days away from the Lannister army at pace, and they had to somehow cross through that to find their way to the Northern forces.
"Death awaits if we keep this pace," Forel told him when he caught them up. He didn't say that Tyrion would be the cause, and for that the Imp was grateful. Bronn said something that made the First Sword frown at him, but Tyrion didn't catch it. The sell sword settled down next to him, back against a tree, and took his sword across his lap to sharpen and clean. Not for the first time, Tyrion wondered why the sell sword was with him. When his Lord Father learned that he'd fled the Landing, that he'd dishonored the family by running, that he had betrayed the crown by going to the Starks, he would be penniless. There would be no paying the man, and he was savvy enough about his money to recognize that. Surely Bronn had done so as well.
"Don't overthink things, my lord," Bronn said after a short while. Tyrion arched an eyebrow at him. "I'm here because I want to be. When time comes I want to be elsewhere, I will be." Tyrion nodded and considered for the first time that he had earned the sell swords loyalty instead of buying it.
Brienne hadn't expected any more than she was given when they reached the Lannister army. Jamie had, to his credit, tried to keep her from being forced to her knees and her arms tied behind her back, but the King Slayer had been behind enemy lines far too long for the young blood to recognize him. The threat of death was the only thing that kept him from recieving similar treatment as they were drug through the mud back to the heart of the Lannister camp.
She had expected the jeers and the hard words directed at her, about her. She had heard it all before, and while it stung somewhere deep down, she was well versed in ignoring it. She had expected the men to ask her if she still had a cunt. She expected them to strip her of her armor and leave her in the thin shift and light cotton trousers she wore beneath. She had expected them to question her virtue and her use. What she hadn't expected, was the reaction of the blonde headed Lannister.
A man had said something one too many times, jaunting and taunting, and Jamie had narrowed his eyes, watching closer than he had a moment before. A hand had found its way to her chest, and quickly to the dirt, where it lay unattached from the rest of its body. Her eyes flickered over to the Lannister man, who had drawn the blade from another soldier's hip and slashed it down and across, severing the man's hand. There was a moment of silence before the action started. Screaming. Clattering of steel against steel. Blood and mud and rain mixing on skin and metal armor.
The next thing she knew, she was face down in the mud, one of the Lannister souldier's leaning against her shoulders, staring at Jamie Lannister, who was in a similar position, struggling against the broad side of a sword that was pressed across his upper back. A grim scowl was on his face as his arms were jerked back behind him and they were both drug up out of the mud.
Thrown into the back of a barred wagon, they sat, bound and coated in the mess from head to toe. Jaime's face failed to morph into the light hearted smirk that she'd seen on him since she'd seen him in the Stark stockade. It was worrisome, she would admit that much to herself, to see him so disturbed over nothing.
"Why would you do that?" She asked quickly and concisely, voice quiet and hard. His eyes found hers, and his scowl deepened.
"Why didn't you?" He spat back, and it took her a long moment to realize that he was mad at her.
"I've been the brunt of jokes before. It isn't worth the consequences," she said. And it was true, wasn't it? How often had she defended herself growing up only to find herself the punished and her attackers the vindicated? How many times had her father told her to hold her tongue instead of her sword?
"The hell it isn't," he countered, slouching against the metal bars.
"A man touched me and lost his hand." She said, slowly as if trying to process exactly what he'd done. "Now we're both bound and in the back of a wagon. They'll gut you before they get to your father. Tell me in what realm that's worth it." She stopped talking as his face darkened. They sat in silence for a long while, Brienne watching as men moved around them, too afraid to say anything in case Jaime was who he claimed. The eldest Lannister kept his silence, staring moodily at the bench across from him.
In his own mind, there was war. War with himself over what he'd done. War with his upbringing. War with what he had previously coveted and considered beautiful. His sister was beautiful, that much was certain, but there was a beauty to Brienne of Tarth has well. A beauty he had never seen the like of. It was no outward thing. Nothing really that he could pinpoint that made him think of her as attractive, but yet there was still something he couldn't put his finger on that was beautiful.
The wagon was pulled forward and they jolted. His hands bound behind him kept him from steadying himself, and he almost fell over on the bench. He collided with Brienne's foot, that caught his shoulder and held him upright until he steadied himself. Her boot left an ache in his shoulder but less of one that would have happened should he have fallen to the bench. He ignored the gesture and they kept their silence as the wagon was taken further south.
For her part, Brienne wasn't sure what to make out of the quiet Lannister man. No one had defended her honor in the past, especially not someone that was supposed to be the bad guy. Sir Loras had openly mocked her. Sir Renly had tolerated her at best. Robb had questioned her ability to carry out her orders, and his men had jeered with the best of them. This man, Sir Jaime, had been right there with them a few days ago, and today he was defending her honor, angry that she hadn't defended her own. To make matters worse, he was a handsom man, distracting at best and dangerous when he smiled. She settled back against the metal bars and made it a point not to look at him.
Catelyn sat in a cell, a comfortable cell she supposed, but a cell none the less, placed there by her own son's men, on his orders. There had been times since he had taken up the mantle of King in the North that she had questioned his judgement, but none moreso than now, when she was cold to her bones and aching from lack of movement.
Her son had not only gone back on his word but he had married a common girl and forsaken his sisters. He'd locked his own mother in a cage and hadn't been to see her. He had gone to war and become a man, a man that Catelyn wasn't sure was as honorable as the boy she raised.
The longer she sat in the quiet, the more she started to wonder on the goings on outside of the four walls around her. There was a war on, that much she knew. Their side was out matched, surely enough. Though she'd often heard men at Winterfell claim that men raised in the North were worth four times any Southron man, and the fact remained that they would have to be or they would lose.
And losing...well, losing just wasn't an option. Not with her children spread to all the quadrants. For the first time since her husband had carried his squalling form into Winterfell, Catelyn Stark wished Jon Snow was closer. If he was good for anything, it was defending her children. Even she had to recognize that. If Jon had gone south with Arya and Sansa, he would have seen them safely from the Landing. If he was here, now, he could talk his brother into seeing sense. With him at the Wall, he was as useless to her as he had always been.
It hadn't ever occured to her that he served a purpose. She'd never really understood it when he hovered over Arya or spoke in hushed tones with Robb. Now that she had, she realized that perhaps she owed him an apology. Just perhaps...
Perhaps Jon hadn't considered the effect that burning the Twins would have when he stood by and let Danaerys Targaryen burn it to stones. It had been half a day since they left the smoldering wreckage and still the thoughts of consequences echoed in the back of his mind. The worst of which was what Robb would say when he told him.
"Your worried about something," Arya's voice startled him from his thoughts. "What is it?"
Jon considered her a long moment before drawing a deep breath. "Just thinking about Lady Stark's reaction when she sees me again," he lied through a smile.
"She doesn't hate you, not really," Arya comforted, but even she knew it was a lie.
"She thought she'd gotten rid of me to the Wall. It'll be like taking a gift away." They both broke into chuckles. Jon had forgotten how much he liked listening to her laugh. Up at the Wall, there was precious little opportunity to do as such.
"You've got a good laugh, Snow." Ygritte's voice cut between them as did her charger. "Too bad you don't use it more often." She urged the horse forward and through the gap between them as they rode south.
"Not much cause in your company," he countered, and Arya broke into another fit of laughter. Oh, Jon decided, it was good to be away from the Wall. Away from the Wall and toward Robb. Robb, who had hugged him the last they'd seen each other and told him that next he saw him he'd be all in black. Jon glanced down at his cloak, black as night and speckled with mud. He was a man of the Night's Watch now. A man that would have to return to his post after this all was settled. The thought bubbled dispair in his stomach.
"You're worried about something other than mother," Arya said from beside him, and he glanced her way. She was older now, and wiser. She'd never been a dumb child, understanding more at her age than he had, but now she was even more alert and perceptive.
"I suppose I am," he said after a while. Arya nodded and they rode in silence for a while. "I am a man of the Night's Watch. When all is said and done, I'll have to return there."
"You said the Watch was destroyed. You're all that's left?" Her voice was guarded, as if she had a secret she was keeping.
"Yes, and Pyp and Grenn," and Sam, he thought, but ignored it. Sam would never be fit to serve on the Watch again. Sam might never be Sam again. The man had spent the better part of the morning just staring at the horse he was pulled behind. He'd had a brief moment of clarity when the Twins were burning. He'd turned to Jon, who had taken to spending his free time trying to break through to the boy, cocked his head to the side, and asked why someone had set the Wall aflame. When Jon had tried to tell him he wasn't at the Wall any longer, the boy had just started screaming.
Now, he was being led forward by his tied hands. It had been some time since he had lashed out at anyone, and Jon considered that a victory. He called Pypar by his name from time to time, but he still wouldn't acknowledge Grenn. Jon had thought the boy knew who it was, but wouldn't admit it due to guilt. At least, that's what he hoped.
A dragon swooped low overhead, startling his horse that lept sideways into Arya's grey yearling. "Those things are getting bigger," Jon groused, righting his animal with a stern hand.
"They're going to win this war," Arya said, voice firm and excited at the same time.
"Don't be so sure," Jon cautioned. They very well might, with the way they were growing. Even if they weren't strong enough to bear a rider yet-though they weren't off by much-their fire would even a playing field quickly enough.
"I know they will," Arya was confident, as she always was with her hopes. "Danaerys will be Queen of Westeros."
"Your brother wants to be King of Westeros," he reminded, and Arya's face soured at that reminder. She pivoted in her saddle to take in the blonde headed woman. "Who is the better ruler, your brother or Danaerys Targaryen?" She was a good woman, Arya had decided long ago. Blood of her blood. Arya would see her rule with a gentle hand, but would she be a good queen? For the first time since hearing that she was on the same continent as Danaerys Stormborne, Arya saw a flaw in her.
She was spirited. She was pure hearted, but she was weak. She couldn't fight, and when you were Queen, you had to be able to lead your people. Arya considered her a long while before voicing her concern.
"She would be a good ruler, but not a good Queen," she said, turning to Jon with a pensive look on her face.
"And why is that?" Jon asked, a smile hiding on his face.
"You can only convince men to die for you for so long without fighting yourself," she said at last, turning toward him. "And she can't fight."
"So what would you suggest?" Jon had thought on it himself a few times. There were options of course. Some would take longer than others. Some would mean that their march south would need to be slowed if not haulted completely. Some would mean something that Arya wouldn't even consider. Men and women had married for less, and Jon had to admit that marrying Danaerys Targaryen would cement Robb's claim to the throne. And what a wonderful alliance it would make, wouldn't it?
Robb's quiet strength, his sword and his bannermen. His knowledge of war and the banners and all that he'd learned since he marched south from WInterfell. All that he learned under their father's leadership. Danaerys would bring a fire to their company. She had a strong moral compass, and that was something that Robb would need in the future. A woman could afford to be softer than a man in some situations, and he could use that to keep his head. Then of course, there were the dragons. That would be a force would it not? Robb with Grey Wind at his side, the beast as large as ghost now, if not bigger, head halfway to his chest. Danaerys with her three beasts circling above them. There would be no man or beast to challenge them until their death, of that Jon was certain.
"Teach her." Arya said simply enough, wheeling her mare around and kicking its heels into her sides. Jon watched her disappear, a little smile on his face. There was no telling Arya anything, but you could drop bread crumbs and let her come to her own conclusion. Jon sighed and turned his horse about. Of course Arya wouldn't consider a union between the two. In her mind, they were already united and marriage was a useless thing.
Jon leaned back against a tree, watching as his little sister brought up bruise after bruise along the perfect, pale skin of Danaerys Targaryen. "This is pointless!" Danaerys said, tossing the wooden sword that Arya had made from large sticks into the dirt. She shook her hand out, rubbing at her wrist.
"It's not pointless," Arya countered. "You can't fight, and if you can't fight, you can't lead." Jorah Mormont looked on with a grim look to his face. While he didn't care for the method, he couldn't deny the truth to the statement. The flush to the Targaryen girl's cheeks was more than exertion though. She was embarrassed, and if there was one thing Jorah had found it was that the Stormborne didn't take embarrassment well.
"I don't need to wield a sword to command an army," she said, cheeks flaming as Arya tagged her on the side with her makeshift blade.
"No, but you do if you want that army to know your strong enough to follow," Jorah called out to her, drawing his own blade from his hip, gesturing toward Jon with it. The Stark bastard took a few steps forward, an odd little smile on his lips, and faced him. The Dorthraki had gathered around snickering and shouting enouragements to their Khaleesi as she was disarmed again and again. "Would you follow this boy?" He called, pointing his blade at Jon.
"What's the point in this?" Danaerys asked as the Dothraki sent back a series of laughing jeers.
"The point is they've never seen me use this," Jon held Longclaw out in front of him, twisting it in his hand twice to warm up his wrist before Jorah lunged at him. The steel caught and slid, the two blades dancing and sparking as they exchanged blows more forceful than Jon had expected. The Dothraki gathered around watching in rapt attention as the two did their dance. A few shouted on to encourage Jorah, but as the fight continued, Jon had a few supporters of his own.
It carried on longer than an exhibition needed, ending when Jon knicked Jorah's shoulder and the man dropped his blade. Jorah's face soured as he held a hand to his bleeding shoulder. "Would you follow me now?" He shouted, voice rough with a touch of breathlessness. The answering roar was nearly deafening. A smile graced his face as he turned to Danaerys. "That, Mother of Dragons, is why you need to know how to defend yourself."
The blonde haired future queen gave a frown before bending forward and picking up the wooden-stick sword again and squaring her shoulders at Arya. The girl gave her a smile before correcting her form for the tenth time. The Dothraki followed their Khaleesi because she was Khal Drogo's bride. They would follow Danaerys Targaryen when all was said and done because she was the Stormborne. She would become all that entailed, and if learning to use a blade was a part of that, then so be it.
AN: So this is the end of the chapter. I've read over it once or twice since writing it, and while I'm not entirely happy with the pacing of the piece-or what's about to happen-but it is what it is. Hope you enjoy it.
