A/N: As promised, the next part is here.
It Gets Worse
Arya
All women. Every man, one of Ramsay's, was a soldier or guard. The cooks, servants, washers, stable hands, and everyone else; all women. Their men folk were displayed outside, skinless or at The Wall. This was what was left. They were seen as no threat to Ramsay. Dark circles around their eyes, an unnatural hue to their skin, hair hanging limp.
They're all dressed the same, layers of old rags, clean but well-worn. Each has matching expressions, cold stiff jaws, pinched mouths, and furrowed brows.
They'd clearly grown used to this, these women. So efficient in their movements, no wasted efforts, they get to work. And they do, sweat and elbow grease are in the air as they soak, scrub, polish, sort, and stack.
They clean in a frenzy, pulling up the stained tablecloth, sweeping up the scraps. They hover atop the floor, pouring soapy water over the deep puddle of blood, others sopping it up with thick towels. Arya grabs a brush and sinks down to her knees, the material soaking up the soap and blood.
His blood.
She sets to scrubbing. The mindless task, the ache in her muscles; it stops her from thinking. Scrub. Scrub. Scrub. Back and forth. A girl puts her hands atop hers, stopping her movements. She's pretty, light Northern eyes and solid features; old enough to be Arya's mother. She moves their conjoined hands in circles, scrubbing outward, dispersing the blood more evenly. When the woman's hands disappear, Arya keeps up the pattern without her prompting. They clean the spot thoroughly, all of them, no trace of the murder less than an hour before. As if it never happened. Most likely a common occurrence around here. But her trousers are stained red and heavy, and as she looks at the fresh spot of ground, she keeps seeing his bloodied hair. Not his eye, not the dagger; but his bloodied ash blonde hair.
What had they done with his body? She wouldn't be able to bear seeing his corpse hanging from the walls. She wouldn't be able to bear any of it.
Another woman, nearly twice her own height, with slim hips helps pull Arya up from the floor, and guides her forward, to retire in the near moonless night.
Their silent steps belie their ability to remain unnoticed; they've learned to survive here, as she must. For all intents and purposes, she was one of them. But no, she rebelled against the thought. She was no slave, no servant, and would not be a prisoner for long.
With keen eyes, Arya could see that much of her home had been cordoned off, blocked. The damaged parts merely closed off from view, left in varying states of disrepair, the residents of the castle relegated to the central structure, which was always well-guarded and well-patrolled. A large part of her raged at the indignity, her castle left to rot, great towers locked away and useless. But strategically, it made sense; even she could see that. Ramsay made sure no resources were wasted, no strangers left unattended. Smart. Her intense hate and discomfort was briefly disrupted by a kind of respect. He knew how to utilize his strengths and camouflage his weakness. He had a good mind for strategy, and no pesky conscience to get in the way.
She'd never been in the servant's quarters before, an entire corridor of cozy rooms, below ground, meant to house a few girls each. The rooms weren't as nice as the Starks' sleeping arrangements of course, but they were sufficient. There were a few large rooms down below, filled with a few cots each. The women around her, the ones with whom she'd scrubbed up her friend's blood, took the space farthest down the hallway. She stayed by these familiar women for lack of any better idea. She wondered briefly how Merilee was faring. If she liked pretending to be her.
It would be a stretch to call the pads laid out on the floor cots. They were blankets if they were anything, set up a hands width apart from each other, six in all. The last already occupied by a squat figure. But the light is so poor she can barely make it out. There was a basin set up on a table in the corner by the door, a few fresh cloths stacked up beside it. Each woman took her turn washing beneath her arms, between her breasts, and the back of her neck. Some munched on bits of bread hidden in their skirts. While others plopped down unceremoniously on their beds. Their shoulders eased and the scarves wrapped around their heads came off.
The one who'd helped her in the kitchens took off her scarf to show a tightly coiled black braid beneath, it was really intricately done. Rather than bathing straight off, she walked all the way to the occupied cot where the shadowed figure huddled and coughed. The woman emptied her pockets, and placed her hand in the figure's. Another cough, but a wrinkly hand grasped the hand tight, then came away with a bit of meat. Arya stares through the dim light, trying to make out the vaguely familiar woman. Arya comes to stand before her, hovering above her hunched figure. Old Nan does not look up, she barely blinks as she gums on the chewy meat. Blind.
"Whose there?" She asks groggily. Still she doesn't shift her bottomless stare, but she tilts her chin in Arya's direction. With a deep swallow, fully aware of the mindful watch of the others, Arya gently folds to her knees, seating herself directly in front of the old woman; the woman who'd helped raise her and her siblings, who'd taught her of free-spirited wildling women, and helped make up excuses for her so she could get out of embroidery lessons. Still alive, she hadn't imagined that.
"Who are you?" She croaks again, putting up her weathered hand to hover before Arya's face.
"I…" She begins, but that lump is ever-present. This woman was a piece of home, of her past. She lived still, not all her history destroyed. But she looked so frail, so without hope; cowering in a musty room in near-darkness, relying on scraps from the others. What did she know about life up in the main hall, about the 'lord' who ruled, about the state of the people? Did she believe Arya dead? Did she even remember her after so long? She ached to present herself, to be held by the old woman as she used to, to gain comfort from the woman's wisdom. But she can't speak. The girls will hear, will know. And so far, Arya trusts no one. With a heavy sigh, Arya makes to stand up, pushing off her knees; but quick as lightening a papery hand grabs her wrist. It's a tight grip, tighter than she would have thought the crone possible.
There's no spark in those eyes, and yet she's almost sure the woman is looking through her. Startled, and not wanting to give herself away to these women, she eases her hand free and sits down on the only unclaimed cot. To have her close, to see her face, to feel her familiar hand on her own; it's all too much.
Slowly, a hand comes up to brush against her temple. Arya flinches at first, so unexpected is the contact, and the fingertips freeze. Arya settles once more, and the old woman's hand continues its exploration, over her brows, down her nose, across her cheekbones and closed eyelids, and along her jaw. Arya holds her breath, afraid to move and break the spell.
With a gasp, a few tears escape down wrinkled cheeks, and a strangled cry comes from her knobby throat. The searching palm comes to rest on her shoulder, a shaky smile upon her withered face. Then a tentative chuckle. Her lips move ever so slightly, and Arya leans even closer to try to make out her words in the poorly lit space. She can't, too soft.
Did she know her? After all these years. Would Old Nan know her face still? Arya becomes aware that six pairs of eyes are upon her, taking her in. The woman releases her and sits back.
They'll suspect. She thinks. They'll give me up to Ramsay. She fears. It couldn't really get worse.
"She's old. Don't mind her." A woman comments. Arya nods, shaken from her thoughts.
At Arya's disconcerted look she says. "It'll get easier. You'll get used to it." The tall one with amber eyes assures her.
"Get used to it?" The black-haired beauty chuckles completely devoid of humor. "She thought she came to serve some fine lady, and now she's worse off than ever. Wishes she'd never come here. Am I right girl?" Arya doesn't answer. But in truth, the thought had crossed her mind more than once. She'd liked Storm's End.
"Too late now." She remarks without humor. "And it's Cat." She comes back to herself a bit amid the banter.
"She will get used to it. Just don't go making trouble. Stay quiet and out of sight. They'll get bored and leave you be." Amber eyes says.
"They're allowed to…" She can't finish the question, not really wanting the answer.
"They'll get bored alright." Another rounder girl says instead of a direct response. "Eventually." She splashes cold water down her back.
"They won't touch her. She's protected by Lady Stark. You saw, she claimed her." A little light haired one pipes in.
"You think that'll do any good? She's not much better off than the rest of us." Braid comments.
"Will he hurt her?" Arya asks, fearful.
"She's the Lady of Winterfell. He can't. Can he?" Amber protests.
"He can do as he likes. He always does."
"What will he do to her?" Arya asks, suddenly worrying for someone besides herself.
"Break her, like Reek, one of his dogs. It's what he does for fun."
"How?" Her heart is racing.
"I wouldn't worry so much about your Lady if I were you. Worry about yourself. You're not too good at keeping your head down, they won't get bored with you in a hurry." She warns ominously. She means to scare her.
"And your name?" Arya demands.
"Vela." The one with black hair and the critical mind.
"Jana." The tall one says. She seems strong, solid.
"Taryn." The little one introduces. She seemed to support her well enough.
"Bennis." The last said, though she hadn't spoken before. She'd barely noticed her in fact. "And the old woman." She adds pointing to her cot.
She'd always thought her old before, white white hair, filmy eyes, and creased skin. And now- her hair was thinned, whole patches smooth of hair, wisps growing in small clumps, filmed eyes so milky she couldn't detect the color any longer, and skin so paper-thin she could see through the surface to veins and bones underneath. Still alive. Looking as tortured as she felt.
As if on cue, a throat clears loudly enough to fill the entire room, and a weathered voice speaks. Would she tell the others?
"They call me Old Nan." She says, as if introducing herself.
"Yes, she's been around since the beginning. She served the Starks before." Vela adds.
She had served them, she must feel abandoned.
"That's right. I've been alive three times as long as some of you, and seen thrice as much. The Starks have always served the North, and they will again. The return of the Lady will see to that." Old Nan pronounces proudly. She still had hope, misplaced though it was. Old Nan, always so good with stories and bold words.
"You weren't there, Nan." Vela says, addressing the old woman not her. "She was tripping all over herself to please Lord Bolton. I thought she would kiss his feet. She's not our savior." Apparently, she and this Vela woman thought alike.
"Perhaps she has a plan." Jana suggests simply.
"O' course she does. Keep her fancy skin on her pretty little body and to hell with the rest of us. You saw what happened to her 'champion'. Can't blame her, but it don't inspire much faith." The woman didn't like her much. But Arya is more than impressed with her. Vela was nowhere near destroyed, though she kept that fact well-hidden while upstairs.
"I would not rule out the Stark girl." Old Nan warns, a hopeful smile rejuvenating her features for a moment. This shuts everybody up and effectively ends the conversation
Soon the candles are blown out, and Arya is the last to lay down.
She squeezes her eyes shut, trying to block everything out. The tangible misery of these women, the smell of turnip that was uniquely Old Nan, the image of Lommy's bloodied tresses on the ground, Brent's disbelieving face, Merilee's terrified eyes, the skinless men hanging from the gates, and the burned towers standing proud against the white ground. They all flash through her mind, circling round and round, bleeding into each other like the soapy blood of the friend she'd scrubbed up earlier.
She shivers at the image, feeling cold, really cold for the first time since entering Winterfell's heated walls. No matter how she tosses and turns, rubs her feet together and her palms up her sides she can't warm up. And she can't figure out why.
Until it hits her. It was Gendry who'd wrapped her up in his arms, kept her warm with his never ending body heat. The way he always made her feel safe, and loved. Even when they fought at Storm's End she still shared his bed. Even out on the road, she'd snuck in beside him. She'd barely even thought of him in all this, barely able to see past herself. She felt her eyes water, and a few tears fall. But she was silent, as she'd practiced, and she managed a few hours sleep in the last.
The others are already up, in various states of readiness. She notices some clothes beside her bed, they're plain and drab, but clean of blood, so she puts them on- back in skirts again, dark drab colors. The black-haired woman, Vela, is rebraiding her hair rapidly, strands slipping through her fingers like thread through a loom, graceful. The woman smiles at her, but doesn't stop her braiding. The tall one who'd lifted her easily, Jana, passes her breakfast, more crusty bread. She takes it.
"Thank you." She says. They all jump, startled, the quiet of the morning disrupted. She recovers quickly, amber eyes fluttering.
"Welcome." She responds, the courtesy uncomfortable on her tongue. And Arya nods back.
"Sleep well Cat?" Jana asks, her voice deep and husky. Arya is confused at first; until she remembers that was the name she'd given Ramsay.
"I, yes, thank you." She felt especially nervous around these women, she wanted them to like her, to trust her. Actually, she needed them to respect her, which might prove difficult as they all thought her weak and self-centered. The more time she spent hiding, the more she agreed with them.
A filthy, creature scurries past the doorway, large and clumsy. He trots past, but once he's too far he turns around and comes back. His unwelcome presence in these female quarters is startling and uncomfortable. They clump together, but don't look frightened, only surprised.
"Reek." Bennis near hisses, cringing. He's not well-liked, clearly.
"Shoo. Shoo." Jana instructs, waving her arms. Do they know what he is? Some sort of dog. Worse. He doesn't obey, only sits, staring in. Staring at her. The most pitiful expression on his face. What did he want?
She crosses her arms in front of her chest and furrows her brows so hard she's glaring right through him. Was she supposed to be grateful for before? His lying? Why had he? Who cares?
Fuck you, Theon. You murderer. Trash.
He whines a little in the back of his throat, a miserable keening. It sounded about how she felt.
Vela finally throws an unlit candle at him, and he runs off, one last pitiful look, yelping a bit. It's pathetic.
"Ugh. He gives me the creeps." Jana comments, shaking her head as if to clear it.
"Why is he like that?" Arya asks. She hates that she's even curious.
"Some say he was a Lord once. Then he betrayed the Starks." Taryn answers.
"Cut his balls and dick off they say." Jana adds. She felt no sympathy for him. She didn't.
"Sounds like His Lordship. And now he's good and broke, a broken pathetic creature. I don't like him being around." Vela says finally, rubbing her own arms in comfort.
"He shouldn't be allowed down here." Bennis agrees.
"He sniffs around the kitchens, and some of the old corridors. Lord Bolton doesn't seem to care. I even saw him piss in the gardens once. I didn't see it. But I did see him squatting, like a girl." Taryn laughs, conspiratorially. No, no sympathy. "Never seen him down 'ere before though."
It could be her imagination, but they all look at her accusingly. Arya leaves first in a hurry; anxious to get out of the conversation. He wasn't a man, not really. He seemed more mangy dog now, than anything. But he'd lied for her; he'd come sniffing around, for her. What was she meant to do with this?
They're sent to the kitchen, where she sees Hot Pie rushing to do everything at once, directing the other cooks as best he can, but mostly doing it himself. He's scrambling egg whites, spreading flour on the counters, stirring large pots, and chopping onions. He's quick and efficient for someone his size.
When he looks up at her, he drops the knife in a loud clatter to the floor. The ever-present guards look over at them in annoyance. She can see Hot Pie's eyes are purple red, puffy and tender. He'd shed buckets of tears, and it wasn't to do with the onions. She looks away first, ashamed to see the accusation in his chocolate eyes. She goes to stir a large rich smelling pot, too intent on the repetitive movement.
Hot Pie continues to give out instruction, deceptively capable in managing a kitchen. He demands this and that, some things held in storage. She feels him brush up beside her, dropping carrots and caramelized onions into the pot, a little backsplash landing on her skirts. His hand covers her wrist and squeezes, an attempt to get her to look up at him. When she does, there's only warmth reflected back at her, and she feels her chest hitch at the forgiveness. She feels her eyes water. She passes him the wooden spoon and announces that she'll go fetch the potatoes he'd requested earlier, discretely blinking back the wetness. She leaves in such a rush that she forgets she's not meant to know where the storerooms are.
Walking quickly, she keeps her head down, not looking anyone in the eye. No one will question her, they'll see the basket in her hands and the submissive slope to her shoulders, and ignore her. At least that's what she keeps chanting in her head. She needed to compose herself. Letting herself feel the grief in public wouldn't do. Not with them watching, judging, questioning.
She makes her way down to the cellar, a place she'd used to hide as a child. She had liked the musty smells and the stores of food. It made her feel safe, secure, the bounty of food stocked up for the winter. And the quiet put her mind at ease.
The stores were half what they once were; they were in the grip of winter to be sure, but hers had just began anew. Still, she felt the same old solace amongst the quiet of the room, the solitude. She needed to regroup, to think. And she'd get right to that, as soon as the waves of guilt and loss pass. She finds the potatoes by the corn, half a dozen large sacks. The first sack is completely sodden through, mushy and rotted. She sticks her fingers into the sack, squeezing, feeling the muck between her fingers, foul and wrong. She takes great comfort in hurling the rotten spuds to the floors, and the satisfying splat of the vegetable against the earth. Fitting. A rot had settled into her land, and she'd have to uproot it. She throws more against the earth. One after another, it feels so good. Heaving with the effort until the bag is empty. Breathing heavily, she wipes her hands on her skirts and sniffles deeply. It had worked. Whatever that was. She felt better. She goes about searching for more potatoes.
Another few sacks have buds sprouting, but are otherwise firm so she packs them in the basket.
Heavy boots clomp down the stairs, a bounce in each step. She freezes, one hand still holding a potato between her fingers. At the sound of an ominous male chuckle, she drops the spud and stands up straight, keeping her back to the wall and her eyes on the intruder.
It's not terribly bright down there, only a few glassed-in torches along the walls; streams of sunlight filtering in through gaps in the stones. But she can make out the hulking figure of that hairy guard, the one who'd been sat beside her. The one who'd leered at her, and propositioned her.
"Snuck away already girl? Don't waste any time, do you?"
"I'm gathering potatoes for the kitchen." She says quickly, gesturing to the half full basket.
"I can see that." He smirks, gesturing to the mash near his feet.
"An accident." She swallows. "Rotten." Though it's clear it was no accident. "I'll clean it up later." She says, picking up the basket. "Now if you'll excuse me, they'll be needing these." She makes to walk around him, giving him as a wide a berth as the room will allow. But he's surprisingly fast for his size. And he blocks her. She takes a step back, but he reaches out and grabs her forearms, keeping her locked in place. Her stomach starts to churn, and the cool calm of the storeroom is gone; filled with danger and malintent.
"Nobody cares about potatoes. I know what you want." He leers through his grisly beard, and releases one of her wrists to shove his own large hand down his pants. Arya struggles anew to escape, her heart picking up speed, which only makes him laugh harder. She can feel the grip of his fingers, searching for the weak side; she pulls her arm free, pulling towards the direction of his thumb; releasing with a satisfying pop.
He's surprised for an instant, but his other hand emerges from his trousers in the next instant, and she's momentarily stunned.
The spoon from dinner. Had he kept it down by his balls all night? She wouldn't be surprised. She should have thought to take a knife from the kitchens. But they were watching. Always. Except down here. Fuck.
He delights in her astonishment, the grin wide enough to display his rotting teeth.
"Let me pass." She commands, using the authoritative voice she'd been cultivating.
He goes to grab her again, but she dodges, tossing potatoes up into the air, a few smacking him on the head with dull thuds. He looks less amused after that. He actually manages to trip on one and fall, comical under normal circumstances; she uses it as the chance to run by him. Quick as lightening he grabs at her ankles, pulling roughly to the side, making her land painfully on her hip. The pain spiderwebs out from the point of impact, placing her whole left side in intense pain. She's frozen from the shock, and he easily crawls atop her.
Pleased with himself, he no longer seems angry, laugh lines deepening around almost black eyes. His gigantic fingers feel along her throat, caressing the jaw in what is supposed to be a gentle caress, but is heavy along her pulse. She can feel it beating fast, erratic, and she's oh so frightened. Any extra pressure, a squeeze here, a pinch there; and he could break her.
Not this, not him, not like this. She pleads to the Gods. Though they most certainly haven't been listening. They're clearly not listening now.
A frantic kick, and a potato goes rolling uselessly across the floor, and then a ping.
He forcibly turns her head the other way to better access her ear, and she can see the ping was something shiny, metal. The spoon. Not a knife, but…
"Soft. New meat." He says, nuzzling his rough beard along the sensitive skin. She wriggles her hips to gain purchase and some space between their lower bodies. In response he presses down harder with his broad pelvis, his hips trapping her.
His breath is so foul she can practically taste it, moist lips replace one hand, sucking on her collarbone. The other goes to her right shoulder; digging into the socket so painfully she thinks it might pop out. But still, she stretches with her left, reaching for the spoon.
Ugh, his wet tongue sliding along her neck. There, she has it. With a firm grasp, she jerks the spoon towards his eye, but he starts kissing down the column of her throat so she misses and gets his cheek, frantically scraping wherever she can reach. It doesn't even break the flesh, his skin so rough, but he grunts in annoyance. In retaliation he bangs her skull back against the floor, making the world spin around her. Her grip on the spoon loosens as well. She manages to regrip it, but on the wrong end, stem facing out. As his hand glides up her leg, she's more careful this time, and goes for what she can reach; up into his armpit with a vicious jab.
He screams loud at that, very loud, and then she twists. He outright howls then. A shove through and she rolls out from beneath him, scrambling up the storeroom steps and right into the arms of three more soldiers. Her breaths are shallow and quick as she tries to calm down, they grab her securely, no chance of slipping past.
Immediately after her attacker stumbles up behind her, clutching the bloody spoon wedged up into his arm. He knew enough not to pull it out, she wouldn't have guessed that.
Her three captors look up at their injured man, and laugh raucously. The entire situation both obvious and hilarious to them. One taunts him.
"Looks like the new girl didn't much like the taste of you." He starts gasping he's laughing so hard at his own joke.
Before she can get her bearings, they're hustled along, down the hall and into the presence of Himself. The Wannabe Lord Bolton, sitting once more at the head of the table. He seems surprised by the disturbance, but not displeased. Merilee is beside him, looking frazzled but unharmed. A quick exchange of eye contact and Merilee offers her a small smile, indicating she's alright for the most part.
Ramsay motions them forward with a beckoning of his fingers. She notices detachedly that breakfast was still prepared and served without her. Had her time in the kitchens been less than an hour ago?
At the summons, she is dragged roughly before the Lord and pushed onto her knees. She stares straight at him, but one of the men pushes her head down, straining her neck. A purposeful throat clearing, and the pressure on her skull is gone, she can look up once more, and right into his intense gaze.
"What happened here?" Though the question is meant for his men, he doesn't look away from her. She's aware of her flushed chest, sticky with his spit, her hair in disarray.
"I want her." The beast near whines, rubbing his shoulder protectively. "I should at least get that."
"I'm sure you do." He inspects the wound and sees the rounded spoon poking out between the joints and chuckles. "And how did she manage this?" The others laugh in answer.
"Well, she…" He tries to explain, but doesn't trust his own side of the story in the face of his friend's scorn.
"Never mind. I can see well enough." He gestures towards her. "She bested you."
"No, I mean she… Well I was just about to…"
"And since when have I ever ruled in favor of the weak?" He taunts which shuts him up right quick. "She clearly won, and you clearly lost. Now why would I ever reward the loser? Hmmm?" There's no answer, but the other men stand up straighter.
"But what truly troubles me, is why you weren't on duty near the back gate." Without warning he pulls out the spoon, causing the beast to yelp in protest. Ramsay examines the bloody silver closely, before eyeing the man with disapproval. "Am I mistaken?" No sound comes out, and he looks truly afraid now.
"Speak up." He demands. But the beast can't speak. She almost feels sorry for him. Almost. Ramsay rolls his eyes.
She sees the serving women set down more dishes, working efficiently. Vela is among them, and as she looks up at her as she passes. She realizes then they'd all heard everything as they worked, missing nothing. Just what she needed- more attention. But as the woman passes close to her, Vela brushes her fingers across her arm in solidarity. It was something.
He didn't seem to blame her at all for the altercation, seeming more amused than anything. Strange. Quick movement out of the corner of her eye draws her attention back.
Ramsay forces the spoon back in the open wound, rounded side in, making him scream out like an animal. His voice came back.
"Let that serve as a reminder. Do as you're ordered. Any deviation will result in a painful punishment." His message was clearly meant for all the guards. But the last he addresses back to the bleeding man. "Next time, we'll move onto a fork. Actually I have a lot of great ideas for the fork." Ramsay says, to the encouragement of the crowd. The huge beast of a man nods vigorously, trying to stem the flow of blood down his side. "Now get on to the Maester." And just like that his attention is back on her. "And you. Don't you have work to do?" He asks rhetorically. She nods once, and follows Vela but Ramsay's guard stops her. "No, I think I won't let you near kitchen and the knives. I know better now." He jokes.
She's herded down many steps by two guards down to the laundry room. Vela and the rest worked in the kitchens, but this group worked in the laundry. Bennis was among them. No wonder she hadn't seen her in the kitchens. She was glad for a somewhat familiar if not striking face, the thicker brows and slightly crooked nose; not entirely unbecoming.
Her breath finally evens out as she makes it down to the strong-smelling vats. Did all of that just happen?
"You really stabbed him?" Bennis asks in awe. News travelled fast amongst the castle, especially the servants.
"Yes." She says, making a big show of soaking a shirt. The water is hot, her fingers turn pink immediately.
"Damn impressive. How'd you manage it?" An older woman, mid-forties asks, though not unkindly. Arya only shrugs. "Lord Bolton wasn't even pissed. Why not?"
"New blood." Another woman answers simply. She nods in response.
"She's the talk of the castle. More so than that empty-headed doll you serve." Bennis adds. Her hackles rise at that.
"What's that supposed to mean?" She's offended despite herself. Not just her name, but Merilee too.
"It means, she thinks she can play nice and stay on Ramsay's good side and still live like a lady. Well, she'll learn soon enough there's no nice side to him." She wasn't doing that. Merilee has always been loyal. Wasn't she?
"Enough. We've got sheets to wash and curtains to dye. Stop gabbing. Get moving." An even older woman, near 60 instructs, looking put-upon and annoyed. She seemed to be in charge down here. She notices the guards looking her way once more.
Fine. She clumsily sets about throwing random bits from various piles into the tub, sinking beneath the surface.
Bennis comes up beside her and shows her how to properly sort the clothes so the colors don't bleed together, and the best way to stand so she doesn't strain her back.
"You did good." She says simply. Compliments don't come easily to the taciturn woman. It's a peace offering as well.
"I just did what anyone would." She raises her eyebrows at that but keeps working.
"Still, seeing Grys with a spoon coming out of his shoulder, that's an image I won't soon forget." Arya looks over at her working alongside her, a small grin on the woman's face. Arya lets a small smile escape, but no more, then back to stirring the laundry. The smell was strong, but not unpleasant. She welcomed it. "Neither will he. He won't let this go." She warns. He. Grys. What kind of a name was that?
"I'm not worried about him." She says, trying to make herself believe it as well. In point of fact, she did fear him. She'd beaten him, and humiliated him, of course he would blame her. And still, she had bigger fish to fry. A loyal friend was murdered, another being tortured for all she knew, and her home defiled; no, she couldn't lose sight of the true enemy even if she wanted to. "How long have you served the Lord?" She nearly chokes on the word Lord, but forces it out.
"Over a year." She says, the corners of her mouth turned down. "They demanded women. Some went out of fear, fear of starvation or freezing to death, fear for their families. Some of us were just taken."
"And didn't anyone stand up to him, didn't anyone fight?" She hisses, careful not to speak too loudly and be overheard. Though a quick glance assures her their attention has been drawn elsewhere. The motherly woman speaks again.
"Our fathers and brothers and husbands had gone down South to fight for King Robb, others went up to The Wall, and yet more died here. We all tried. But there's no way out, the walls too well guarded. Hells, he killed all those who so much as called him a bastard. Well, you saw them on the way in, I expect." She had, and the imagery would haunt her for as long as she lived. "Takes that real personal. Meant as a deterrent. Damn but if he doesn't think o' everythin'."
"What about letters?"
Bennis freezes up, then looks over her shoulder to ensure they weren't being overheard.
"What good would a letter do anyhow? Can you read?"
"And write." Arya answers testily.
"You can't get anything out past the borders. He's made sure of it. Many have tried."
"But if I could get a letter out, for my Mistress..."
"Who would you even send it to? Who would even care?"
"The Stark name means something still. There are those still loyal." She protests.
"It don't mean they'll help. Our last best hope was your Mistress, and she won't last long." She laughs without humor. "Face it. We're all screwed and now so are you." Arya puts her hand on the other woman's wrist, stilling her continuous churning of the vat.
"Just get me paper and ink, and access to the ravens, and I'll take care of the rest."
"Aye, ravens she says. And paper and ink. That's all she says. He'll find out, and punish you. You want that?"
"Well then it'll be my punishment, it won't fall back onto you. I promise. Please Bennis."
"I can't help. Nothing I can do." Arya sighs deeply, feeling the weight on her shoulders.
"I can get you quill, ink and parchment." The middle-aged woman cuts in.
"Yes, thank you. Please." Arya thanks her.
"But ravens. This I cannot do."
"Fine. I'll take care of that. Thank you." The woman nods and gets back to work.
Ravens. Keys. A quarter hour unwatched and unbothered.
Reek. Theon, she means. More beast than man. He roamed the castle, most averting their gaze in discomfort at his mangled form running round the castle. His being was like the manifestation of everything the people here feared becoming. Well, it seemed she would need to stop avoiding that Greyjoy traitor after all to see this done.
It had taken her a long time for Arya to decide whom to ask, no beg, for aid. In the end, there were only two she could bring herself to ask. Gendry would come of course, if he even got the letter. No news had been sent out from The Wall in some time, so she couldn't be sure. They may very well be in worse condition than she herself was. But she asked anyway, expressing fully for the first time how much she needed him- for everything. It wasn't as hard as she thought it would be, the sentiment came naturally.
And of course, she had to have a contingency. It had been particularly painful to write the second plea. The depths she had sunk to. It would be down to luck, charity, or a sheer sense of obligation. No guarantees. It was excruciating to admit her horrid position, her own culpability, and her very real need. Her own pride a small price to pay to make up for her mistakes. Late into the night, by the light of the sconces filtering through the doorway, she wrote. Scratching out words to be replaced with others, rearranging lines; a messy endeavor by its end. But she'd done it. Now she'd need to secure the last piece.
At the kennels, there were guards posted as well. Ramsay certainly was thorough. She showed them the meat she'd had Vela pilfer from the kitchens, and explained Ramsay's order to feed the hounds. Immediately he lets her pass, and enjoys the buttery rolls Hot Pie had saved for her.
The hounds bark furiously upon smelling her enter, the racket causing her heart to pound harder. They're all clumped together at the bars of their cage, sniffing and salivating. She makes out light green eyes peering out from a filthy face. She throws the filched meat, piece by piece into the cage, causing the dogs to fight each other for the morsels, and quiet down. She approaches the cage, face to face with Theon, or Reek now. He's still on all fours like the other dogs, his rags dark like their furry coats, covered in their scent; but the intelligent gleam in his eye sets him apart as human. She crouches down to better look him in the eyes.
"Theon." She greets. He cringes away, not able to meet her gaze.
"Theon Greyjoy. I know you know me. I saw you this morning, sneaking about, watching me." She prompts. "Theon."
"Reek." He growls low, still looking away.
"Theon." She hisses back, fury remembered. "You don't deserve to take another name. Theon the traitor. Who you are and who you always will be."
"No more Greyjoy. All dead. All dead." He starts mumbling, caught in a loop. "All dead. No more. No more." He repeats over and over.
"No. Not dead yet. Worse. My brothers are dead. Do you remember them? You betrayed Robb. You killed Bran and Rickon." He says nothing, almost as if he hasn't even heard her. "They were as your brothers and now they're all dead. Surely the shame is worse than the fear you selfish piece of…"
The dogs finish up, leaving only a few bones. A few start chewing the bones, contented and relaxed, the crunching louder than her own heated words, cancelling out the last. Theon picks one bone up and begins to gnaw on it, extracting the marrow. It's both disgusting and pathetic, and she feels her empty stomach churn.
"Not them. Not them." He says in between his indecent suckling. Not them? What? She's fed up with this tug of war.
"You eat, and shit, and stink. And lie. You lied before. Why?" He keeps on chewing, intent to ignore her. He breaks open the edge with his teeth, making a large crack sound throughout the cage. "Why did you come downstairs? Were you looking for me? Maybe you still feel some shame, some sense of regret." He sucks up the brown liquid greedily with his tongue.
"Godsdamnit Theon! Help me." He coughs a bit, the bone going down the wrong pipe. It only stops him for a moment though. "Help me or by the Gods I will kill you myself, painfully. I will desecrate your bones and your spirit will never know peace." She promises.
Frustrated and nervous, she checks the door every few seconds for the guard to reemerge. He stops chewing and sucking at her threat, looking right at her. She'd never thought eyes could look like that before, but here it was. She had to remind herself this was Theon. In truth, he seemed about as alive as her mother's reanimated corpse did.
"Kill me?" He asks in disbelief.
"Oh yes. Gladly. And it will be painful. If you don't help me I'll…"
"Oh please. Please kill me. Kill me. Kill me." He starts another loop. "Kill me please, My Lady. Please." He presses his face against the cage, wrapping his soiled fingers around the bars. "Please."
"You want to die." She says slowly, knowing the words are true.
That's what he wanted. She shouldn't be surprised. He was a truly miserable creature. Though how much was down to Ramsay and how much his own guilt, she couldn't guess. And she didn't much care.
"Please." He begs again.
"Ravens. That's all I need of you."
"No, no. No, no, no. He watches, he knows." He's terrified, starting to back up from the bars. But she latches onto his fingers, keeping him still. A few of the hounds look on in interest.
"No one's watching. They won't think twice of your comings and goings. No one will notice a raven or two missing. No one believes you a threat, no one even believes you a man." He looks down at this. She needs him to comply, not by shaming him, but by reminding him who he once was. "You can be Theon again. Not as you once were perhaps. You can't make up for what you've done. You won't get a second chance. But you can die with honor. Is that not worth your fear?"
"No honor. No honor." He's starting another loop. She needs to stop him before he gets to distracted to complete his task.
"Theon!" She barks, startling the dogs.
"I will do as you ask. But then, you mmmm-must kill me as a reward." He stutters out.
"I will. I swear, on my honor as a Stark." It's a promise she will have no trouble keeping.
"Then I swear. On the death of Theon Greyjoy." He backs up farther into the cage, becoming near indistinguishable amid the writhing fur. She takes that as her cue to leave. Unsettled and more determined all at once.
The anticipation would be torture. But she wasn't about to sit around and wait for someone to come save her. She'd build her alliances within the castle, and set everything into place. When help came, if help came, those loyal would be ready. And when justice was finally served; Ramsay would know exactly who bested him.
A/N: Review please, constructive only. Next chapter- catching up at The Wall.