A/N: First off, happy 4th of July to my fellow Americans! And just happy Monday to everyone else. Not really any notes for this one except for the fact that I went through and timelined all of Ice and Fire and this and changed a few minor things so that the timing is better and that later when people meet up, they're actually on the same timeline. So, with that in mind, this chapter is actually happening a little bit after Sansa IV, which is 3 or 4 chapters from now. It doesn't really matter at the moment, but it might once I post that one, so just keep that tidbit somewhere in the back of your minds. That being said, many thanks as always to my beta reader (and sister) GrowlingPeanut. Reviews are appreciated.
Disclaimer: Everything belongs to Bethesda Softworks and George R. R. Martin.
Rating: T for mentions of war and death and stuff.
The Stormcloak army was in shambles.
With Robb Stark's execution came a drop in morale and a subsequent threat from the army's namesake, vowing an equal punishment for anyone heard sympathizing with his traitorous former lieutenant.
And then, the very morning after his death, it was announced that they would be marching on Whiterun in three days' time. The order came straight from Stormcloak himself, his new Stormblade not yet returned from Winterhold where he had gone to lay his predecessor to rest.
The training yard was in complete chaos, the barracks looked unfit for living, and not a single soldier looked as though he had had more than one night of decent sleep in the past three moons.
Arya too was unable to sleep. The moons had reached their peak a few days before, and she had been unable to resist their call. Once the beast had faded from her blood, she was left with nothing but her memories of the last full moons, and she spent her nights cradling the drawing she had made, the parchment wet and crumpled with tears.
As she waited to hear if she would be called to return to her former home, she found herself pacing restlessly across her chambers, not for the first time since her brother's death. The Stark name had once more been tainted with accusations of treason, and she knew that her disguise was more important than ever if she hoped to stay alive.
Sighing, she stopped her movement and forced herself to sit on the edge of her bed. Worrying would do her no good, and she knew as much, but it was hard to believe as she trained each day beneath the watch of the man who killed her brother and abused her sister.
Unbidden, the thought of Jaqen H'ghar rose to her mind and her hand rose absently to her lips. Though her heart still ached for Vilkas, she was no longer able to deny what she felt for the enigmatic assassin, and she wished that she hadn't been so hasty to reject him. More than ever, she needed someone to tell her that she would survive, that she could make it through each day, no matter how hard it seemed to continue from one long night to the next.
A knock on the door interrupted her thoughts and she jerked to her feet, dropping her voice before calling out.
"Just a moment, please."
Quickly, she withdrew a clean length of linen from the chest at the foot of her bed and set to binding her chest. Her charcoal stubble followed, then the thickening of her brows, and the shading that hid the growing femininity of her features. Above it all, the Stormcloak uniform completed her disguise, and she studied her reflection for a brief moment in the looking glass beside the door.
Arry Snow. You're Arry Snow.
It had become true to an extent, even in her own mind. A large part of her had died when the flames devoured her lover's corpse, and she would only be whole again once she had exacted her revenge. Until that day it was Arry Snow that took over her body, the scrawny bastard soldier, not filling, but patching the hole that been torn from Arya Stark.
Shaking herself from her reverie, she opened the door, scowling slightly. Before her stood a young man, about her height with thick dark hair, sparkling hazel eyes and a wide grin. The satchel at his hip, and his appearance at her door, marked him as a courier.
"What is it?" she asked warily, trying to hide a wince as she readjusted her cuirass.
"A letter for you, ser," he replied, handing over a letter. "From Dawnstar."
She jerked her gaze back to his at the mention of Dawnstar, then quickly schooled her features. She had made it clear to Jaqen that she couldn't be with him in any way until she had taken her revenge, and he would have known to respect that. There were many people in Dawnstar who could have concerns regarding a Stormcloak officer.
"Thank you," she replied hastily, grabbing a coin from the table beside the door and handing it over.
Though the courier took her coin, he paused for longer than was necessary and after a moment, he spoke once more.
"May the gods be with you in Whiterun, ser."
Arya regarded the young man through narrowed eyes. Though the command to take Whiterun had been given, Ulfric had yet to give orders to those who would be fighting. Seeing her suspicion, he hastily continued. "I just noticed your armor, ser. You're an officer, so I figured you would be going with Lord Stormcloak to take the city."
For a long moment, she simply looked at him. Though he didn't look familiar, there was something about him that was. Finally, she nodded. "Yes. Thank you. We'll likely need their help."
Again, the courier stared at her, and when the silence had stretched on long enough to be uncomfortable, she cleared her throat.
"Is there anything else I can help you with, or...?" She cocked an eyebrow.
Looking embarrassed, the young man shook his head and his grin returned. "No, ser. Long days and pleasant nights, ser."
With that, he darted off, and Arya murmured the same at his retreating form. Frowning, she waited for a moment before closing the door to her chambers and making her way down to the Great Hall.
Her footsteps were but a whisper against the polished wooden floors as she descended the staircase. No matter how convincing her disguise, she was still not a soldier at heart; she was a killer, an assassin.
Lost in her thoughts, she was halfway across the war room when she realized she was no longer alone.
"It's Snow, isn't it? Arry Snow?"
The rich baritone set her heart beating faster and she turned slowly to meet the gaze of her sister's husband.
"Yes, m'lord," she replied stiffly, her voice dropping and adopting the slight Northern accent that her septa had once worked so hard to eliminate from her speech.
"Tell me, boy," Ulfric said quietly, his eyes falling back to the map that lay between them. "Were you loyal to Robb Stark?"
Arya's heart leapt to her throat and for a moment, she found herself unable to think. When Ulfric's gaze rose once more, she stammered a reply.
"I am loyal to my Stormblade, my king: Robb Stark when he held that title, and now Ralof in his stead."
The suspicion left his features at the title and he nodded wearily. "One cannot be too cautious in times of war." A long silence fell between them, and just as Arya began to consider leaving him alone, Ulfric spoke again.
"The Young Wolf favored you, boy. You're young, far greener than most of the men, and a bastard. And yet your Stormblade personally selected you to rise to the rank of Ice-Veins over any of the others in your unit. You nearly outrank your commanding officer."
Arya shifted uncomfortably, unsure of the point he was trying to make.
He sighed deeply and then continued, his stare fixed on the red flag that covered Whiterun. "Robb Stark may have been a traitor, but it cannot be argued that he was a poor commander. If he saw promise in you, then I need you at the gates of Whiterun."
A shiver ran down her spine and as the courier's face rose to mind, she once again felt a strange familiarity with the boy. Somehow, he had known that she would be in Whiterun, and there were few in Nirn who had such a gift in foresight.
His eyes met hers and his eyebrows lifted when she remained silent. "Will you ride with us, Snow? Will you take back what is rightfully ours and send the Imperials to Oblivion where they belong?"
She could still see his face clearly in her mind. The tears that stained his cheeks, the blood and vomit in his beard, the way his pale eyes stared blankly from their bruised sockets. The time for vengeance had come, and it was fitting that it should end in Whiterun where it all began.
"Aye, ser," she replied. "I will."
"Why the bloody hell would Ulfric want me going to Whiterun?" Lommy whined, half-heartedly swinging his sword at Arya. "I'll just be dead weight. Literally."
Arya raised her eyebrows and slashed through the blue fabric draped over his cuirass. "It isn't you he wants there. It's all of us under Rorge. We're a decent bunch of fighters, with the exception of Lommy Greenhands the wet rag."
Her friend scoffed and made to retort when his eyes drifted past her and he suddenly snapped to attention. "Your grace."
Arya followed suit and one by one the rest of their unit fell in beside them, a hush falling across the yard.
Ulfric looked over them in silence for a moment before waving a hand dismissively. "Keep fighting. If you drop your swords every time you catch sight of me, the Imperials will cut through us like butter in Whiterun. I shouldn't like to have to take the city on my own."
Slowly and awkwardly, the soldiers dispersed once more, insecure under the watch of their commander.
Arya was surprised to hear that Ulfric was planning on joining the fight himself. Perhaps after Robb's supposed betrayal it seemed wise to ensure the capture of the city himself. His new Stormblade certainly hadn't tried to hide his opinions of the man who had preceded him.
"Um, Arry? Arry?"
Snapping from her thoughts, she looked at Lommy in confusion and he jerked his head toward two men lingering nearby.
"I think Lem and Beric are looking to spar. Perhaps we should move to archery."
Nodding an apology to the other soldiers, she hurried after her friend, retrieving a bow and quiver from the center of the training yard before meeting him at the archery targets.
Lommy had settled at one of the round straw targets and another soldier had taken the other, so Arya settled between them, facing off against a vaguely human shaped dummy, a painted grin on its face visible beneath the Imperial helmet that had been propped atop it.
Nocking an arrow, she drew back with ease and released with a short breath. The arrow hit the target square in the chest and she heard Lommy mutter some half-hearted complaint beside her as his missed the bullseye entirely.
Even before following her father to Solitude and learning the art of water dancing from Syrio Forel, Arya had been gifted with the bow. As a child she had watched Robb and Jon practice each day, and after trying her own hand one night when they had left, she found that she had a natural talent for it. Of course, Bran had been rather upset that his sister was a better archer than he, even if she was his elder by two years, and she had rather enjoyed teasing him about it.
Her second arrow hit the flour-stuffed Legionnaire straight through the eye and she tried to imagine a real head beneath the helmet. Gendry Waters.
In the heart. Tywin Lannister.
In the throat. The Silver Hand.
Between the eyes. Rorge.
In the groin. Ulfric Stormcloak.
"Good work, Snow," Rorge said gruffly as he passed by the three archers. "Perhaps you can teach the little girls beside you how to fight worth a damn."
"Yes, ser," she replied drily, not moving her gaze from the target and loosing her last arrow. Although her commander had been forced to give her some measure of respect after her promotion and the way she had humiliated him in the yard, she still saw the hatred in his eyes when he looked at her when they were alone. Unfortunately for him, the feeling was mutual.
"Well done, Arry," Lommy complained from beside her. "Now he knows that you can just as easily stick an arrow in his arse as you can knock him to the ground. And he always sees us together."
"I didn't ask you to stay tethered to my side," she retorted, moving to retrieve her arrows. "You can leave at any time."
As she stalked off to check her armor with the city's blacksmith, however, she heard him follow.
"Good day, lads," Oengul said as they approached, hammering out a sizable dent in the cuirass of one of their fellow soldiers. "Do you have anything damaged or out of shape?"
Lommy, who had yet to be in battle, shook his head, but Arya nodded. Her armor had taken a bit of a beating in Korvanjund.
"One of my pauldrons is loose," she said, jostling it for emphasis. "And my helmet got dented. It fits a bit too snugly now."
The burly Nord nodded and wiped the sweat from his forehead with a rag before nodding to her sword. "It looks like your weapon could use a bit of work as well."
The blade had dulled some in the course of the battle, and Arya nodded. "I can do that myself though, ser, if you have a whetstone I could use."
"Certainly," Oengul replied, glancing over his shoulder toward his apprentice. "Hermir, get the boy a whetstone. And take his armor."
The young woman nodded and retrieved the stone first, handing it to Arya and then moving around behind her to undo the laces of her armor. "You must love being a Stormcloak," she said as she helped Arya out of the damaged cuirass, sighing dreamily. "You get to spend so much time with Ulfric."
Her expression bordering on annoyance, Arya tugged off her helmet and handed it to the blacksmith's apprentice. "Aye. Less so since Lady Sansa's arrival though."
As she had expected, Hermir's expression soured at the mention of Stormcloak's wife and she excused herself back to the forge, petulantly adding a shovelful of coal.
Rolling her eyes, Arya turned back to find Lommy tracing patterns in the dirt with the toe of his boot. "Come along, Greenhands," she said as she passed him, nudging him roughly with an elbow. "I've had enough of the training yard for today."
The days passed slowly, each one a monotonous return to the training yard in preparation for the upcoming battle. Ralof returned just after the turn of the moon, and the tension of the soldiers ebbed some as he began to work with them. After ordering Robb Stark's execution, Ralof was the best choice that Ulfric could have made for his new Stormblade. The young soldier was well-liked among the troops, and as much of a friend as he had been to Robb, there was no doubting his loyalty to the Stormcloak cause.
It was the morning before their orders to begin their march on Whiterun, as Arya was descending to the training yard once more, that she overheard Ulfric speaking to his new lieutenant in the war room.
"I've gotten word from all of the camps now, my lord," Ralof was saying. "We're ready, Ulfric, whenever you are."
"Is any man ever ready to give the order that will mean the deaths of many?" Ulfric replied, his voice weary.
"No," the Stormblade replied honestly. "But neither is every man able to give that order when he must. You are that man, Ulfric. You've been that man before, and you'll be him again. And the men and women out there—they call themselves Stormcloaks because they believe in you…they're the meanest, toughest sons of bitches Skyrim has to offer. And they want this, as much as you do. Perhaps they even want it more."
Ulfric let out a heavy sigh before speaking again. "You're certain we're ready? Whiterun's army will be bolstered with Legionnaires. Robb reported as much when he returned, and traitor or no, he had no reason to lie. And those walls around Whiterun may be old, but they still stand."
"We're ready," Ralof said confidently. "Some of the men out there may not be as strong as we would hope, but they'll kick those damn walls down with their bare feet if you asked them to."
Ulfric chuckled. "And I'm sure they could do it too. This is it then." He paused for a moment before continuing. "Send the word, Ralof. A new day is dawning, and the sun rises over Whiterun."
"Aye," his lieutenant replied. "And the sons of Skyrim will greet that dawn with teeth and swords flashing."
Arya heard Ulfric sigh once more, and a lengthy silence preceded his final words.
"So it begins."