Previously On:
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.
"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.
On Our Own Now
Arya
"Up up up up!" One of the women shouts, waking up the others. Arya shoots up abruptly, always a light sleeper, mindful of the commotion. It's not only these quarters; every servant in the place is rising early, despite the ungodly hour.
"What is it? What's going on?" She asks groggily to no one in particular.
"We're being summoned to the main hall. Some commotion." Jana explains. Arya hastily puts on her shoes, ready in a moment's time; already dressed. It's still dark outside, not quite dawn. The women surge forward guided by the flickering sconces. For Arya's part, she can make her way in pitch darkness; so familiar are the halls and corridors. She feels nervous, and maybe excited. Could this be it? Had aid finally come?
A late winter snow was coming, the last few before Spring began. She'd had to rush the letters to send them out before the snows got too heavy. She hadn't even been sure Theon had managed in time. The final snows meant change, rebirth, and good things. She couldn't help but be excited. She'd waited long enough, she wanted it now.
But as her father once told her, at least half a dozen people died out in these snows every winter; though not the coldest month by far. People always forgot there had to be more doom and gloom before anything good could hope to grow.
The main hall was full, a half circle six deep had formed around the far corner, the main attraction not yet visible to her keen grey eyes. Arya looked to the other women to determine what was going on, but they were little help. Each of them just as clueless. She'd built up her network of women well, though told none her identity. She trusted them, without question. And she thought maybe the cleverest few wondered at the possibility. But it didn't matter, or shouldn't. In truth, she was afraid of their disappointment.
Old Nan supported her, and she had clearly placed herself on the side of 'Lady Stark'. But beyond that, she'd stabbed that guard, then received no reprisal from Ramsay. A miracle in itself. They were her people, and she saw their loyalty towards Merilee. She was proud of them, but she didn't deserve it. She felt a coward for hiding, for not announcing herself. But when she'd confessed as much to Old Nan in secret, the old woman told her not to waste sacrifice, to use whatever advantage she had, no matter how it was acquired. And so it was, she had to put away guilt, doubt, and shame to move forward with her plan, setting pieces into place.
They went out of their way to be kind and respectful to Merilee, their 'Lady'. They put themselves in danger passing messages, as Arya was not allowed direct contact with her 'Mistress'. Nothing was said of serious import, just little things to make sure her friend was alright. From what she understood, 'Arya' appeared unharmed, but pitiful. The consensus among the women was that Lady Arya deserved their pity, which made her feel all kinds of wretched. Pity? Yes, Merilee was loyal, too loyal. She didn't deserve whatever was happening, or what more might happen. But Arya herself would not be pitied. Perhaps that's why she hadn't told them her name. She was ashamed of her missteps. Gendry would have chided her on her excessive pride; he seemed to be good at reigning her in and she missed that.
Back in the Hall, the grizzly guards were scattered throughout; some by the doors, and some with their backs pressed up against the last row, a buffer. They were everywhere, well-positioned. They heard well enough, and reported back to Ramsay quickly too. She had to always be careful whose ears caught her words. Everyone was curious, craning their necks for better views. It was clear, however, no one was here based solely on curiosity; none could leave until Lord Ramsay allowed it.
He wanted an audience; it must be for something awful. Or wonderful. Her heart skipped happily. Perhaps help had finally come. Though how could they have gotten here so fast? She steels her stomach as she pushes her way to the second row. The others give way easily, her most trusted girls making room for her, greeting her respectfully. From her position she can see all while remaining just out of Ramsay's eye line.
There he stood, dressed finely in fresh grey; Robb's clothes she recognizes with disgust. Bracing her stomach hadn't been enough for such a sickening sight. He had no right. She clenches her fist to keep from reacting. Jana feels the tension beside her, and bumps her shoulder as if to remind her where she is. She manages a small forced nod in response, but remains stiff. From her vantage point she has a clear view of his face, smug as usual, but less controlled. Vela shivers on her other side, having noticed the same thing. Less controlled, less cautious. That could be either extremely fortuitous or dangerous beyond measure.
He raises his arms, signaling an end to the whispers, demanding quiet without having to bellow. Damn him. Evil he may be, but he was charismatic. The women feared him, to be sure. But it was something else that bound his men. And while it made her sick, she also envied it. It was a move she'd seen The Queen make enough times. One she'd never gotten the chance to practice at Storm's End.
"People of Winterfell. Thank you for joining me at this late hour." Bennis tsks beside her, echoing her early thoughts on their forced attendance. "We have a traitor in our midst." He announces dramatically. Everyone gasps, some of the guards' jaws drop. Arya curses beneath her breath. This was most definitely not going to be an answer to her prayers.
"Honor me. Obey me. And respect me. Simple. Wouldn't you agree?" He asks, then pauses, making each word more dramatic. "Rules exist to keep us safe." There's silence, and his eyebrows rise in annoyance. "To keep all of us safe." His jaw flexes, he's grinding his teeth. Another loaded gesture, this one a wrist flick towards his guards.
Two guards march through the corridor amidst the heavy silence. She can't see anything, not even on tiptoes, but the others murmur. They were moving so slowly, as if lugging around extra weight. When she gets a good look, she sees what's been slowing them down. A body is being dragged behind them. For an instant, her heart catches, imagining Merilee being dragged through. But the filthy male feet scraping across the floor disabuse her of that notion.
"By accepting my protection, you agreed to follow my edicts." Looking at the faces of the terrified women she wonders if there is any truth to that. The harsh winter might drive a normally pragmatic woman to humble herself, to trust a man like him in the absence of a better choice. But she was willing to bet, whatever the 'covenant,' they hadn't fully understood what they were agreeing to. She knew first hand from talking to the women, it was solely fear that garnered their obedience, not gratitude, not love. They all expressed wanting to be free of his 'protection'.
"The North has remained because we refused to mire ourselves in everyone else's business. We have effectively cut ourselves off from the rest of the diseased lands, to fortify our own. And our own way of life must remain just that- our own. I put the ban on communication for everyone's safety; to keep others from coveting our prosperity, our strength." True, mostly. No one knew what was happening here, no one had a clue. How foolish she'd been to just assume… "But one of you broke that trust." He finishes with a dour look. The women all eye each other, trying to determine whom the spy could be.
The guards put down their heavy burden, and position the body so that every can get a good look. There was Theon, neck twisted at an unholy angle. He was just as filthy as in life, but there was a scent of shit emanating from his trousers, which overpowered the odor of dog that usually followed him.
Her stomach dropped once more. They'd caught him, but how? He was nearly invisible around here, an undesirable pest that most overlooked. But his death, a broken neck. That was most certainly not Ramsay's style. If he'd meant to kill Theon, he would have done it publicly, and it would have been a hell of a lot bloodier. How much did Ramsay know exactly? Had Theon actually done as he'd promised? Had it been in time before the snows hit? Would the fucking birds even find their way? She'd prayed, she'd prayed so hard. Would her pleas fall on deaf, unsympathetic ears?
"Reek here turned on me. Pathetic, loyal Reek. He took a raven from the rookery and loosed it with a message. The birds was shot down in time of course, just before it flew out of range. Thank the Gods." Cruel Gods.
"The guilt and shame of his weakness drove him to take his own life. He jumped to his death from the high tower. Of course, it's clear he was put up to it. He hasn't the mental capacity to plan such a feat, a simpleton. Someone else is responsible, and must be held accountable for her actions." He knew. He knew. He must.
Theon was dead. She felt nothing when it came to him. Not pity, sorrow, or glee. He'd wanted to die; Arya easily believed he'd taken his own life. He hadn't trusted her to fulfill her end, too frightened of his master. Dead was dead, she could do nothing about it now. But he'd done his job, she wouldn't begrudge him rest.
Another nod of his chin, and two more guards enter dragging anther body slung between them. Only this body is alive, a frightened girl panicking, whimpering, and wrestling to escape their grip. There was Merilee, near shaking in fear, eyes searching wildly for hers in the crowd. But Merilee's gaze is too frantic, too unfocused to find Arya amongst the other women. She's manhandled and jostled forward, made to stand right beside Theon's corpse. A guard grasps her lower back, keeping her upright and preventing her from moving all at once. The churning in her own stomach tastes like guilt not fear, of that much Arya is sure.
"Arya." She flinches before remembering he's not addressing her. "Did you really think that would work? Did you really believe you could trust that?" He asks, kicking Theon's corpse and making a dead arm move.
"I… I…" Merilee had no words, no answer. She didn't know, Arya hadn't even had the opportunity to let her in on the plans. She'd naively believed it would keep the other woman safe, or 'safer' than exposing her would. Arya herself had no answer to give him either, if truth be told. She had trusted Theon, his own sense of shame, or more accurately her own authority. It was such a simple plan, too simple. The blame now was all hers. And the punishment would fall neatly on another's shoulders. How convenient that would be. Only, she would never be able to live with that.
"Do you deny your hand in this?" He asks, suddenly enjoying himself. Merilee's discomfort had cheered him up. The idea of being betrayed bothered him, but he seemed to like setting up traps, watching living creatures squirm. He holds up a piece of paper in his hand, and she immediately recognizes her own parchment. Only one. Only one. He'd said the raven was shot down, one raven, but two were sent out. He only had one. One had made it out. Which one? She hardly knows which to hope for, no matter which way, aid was a long shot. Far off. Merilee eyes the paper out of the corner of her eye, a slight tremor visible in the chatter of her teeth. "It has your signature all over it, literally." He taunts.
"I… I…" She starts again.
"Read it!" He instructs, shoving a letter in her face. She grasps it with shaky fingers. Her eyes comb over the paper, but too quickly. To rely on traitors and outsiders; she's sickened with herself. Merilee's lips tremble, but no sound comes out. She's terrified, truly terrified. But she hasn't cracked, she hasn't given Arya away. She almost hoped she would. It would be a relief. She did not want her personal words read aloud.
She'd never seen her friend like this. Merilee had this confidence about her, like she was always sure of everything. When she'd asked to come with them from The Peach, when she'd given her advice on marriage (mostly in the bedroom), and when she'd pronounced herself Lady of Winterfell in Arya's stead. It was disconcerting to see her so shaken. Merilee's normally bouncy curls hung limp, and hazel eyes were glassy and rimmed with red. She looked pale, all true Northerners looked pale, but it was in place of a natural bronze glow. But the winter, or more likely, The Bastard himself had sucked that glow out of her.
The woman was petrified, totally unaware of what was happening. Is her tongue stuck or can't she read? She'd never bothered to ask. Why hadn't she? This was her friend, loyal to a fault, and she barely knew anything about her. She was about to pay for Arya's choices, and it would all happen right in front of her. She was helpless, weak, frozen.
After Merilee had swallowed for the fourth time, Ramsay snatched the letter back. Though he's speaking to Merilee, he's playing to the crowd. He never misses an opportunity to play.
"You all know the rules. She must be punished. Lady or no." There are angry gasps and murmurs from the crowd. The guards grab hold of Merilee's upper arms, and drag her to a pillar slightly off center; solid and sturdy, and as old as Winterfell itself.
"She who wrote this, who willfully disobeyed me, will feel the same sting upon her flesh as she has inflicted upon her people." Arya sees some of the women clutch each others hands, horrified at the thought of their stuttering lady being degraded before them. It's as they bring out ropes that Arya can stand no more. No more. She pushes forward, despite friendly hands trying to pull her back.
There is no plan, no clever trick up her sleeve. All her careful plotting had hit a snag. No one would suffer in her place. And she would not lose another friend. She would listen to her gut only from now on, that's what always kept her alive, it's what a Stark would do. Her scheming never seemed to go well, she was never a proper court Lady. As Daenerys said, she was 'as a Lord'. She'd follow her own advice to Gendry, in what seemed so long ago now. It had been comfortable between them, honest, genuine. She said goodbye to all of it, and all that she'd hoped to have.
When you make a mistake, take responsibility but don't ever apologize. And fix it, no matter the cost.
"Punish me!" She shouts. The women around her look at her strangely, intensely, but she just pushes past them. She feels Jana's hand on her arm trying to hold her back. The guards don't even look her way; they must not have heard her over the din. She speaks even louder, so none will mistake her. "Punish me!" Everyone is paying attention now. "I wrote the letter. I manipulated Theon. I disobeyed you." The burn of the women's' stares, their judgment helps her put one foot in front of another. If she turns around, she'll have to face her own cowardice and that will not stand. Foolish, perhaps. But weak, never. Each step is thunderous amidst the new silence of the Hall; she makes sure to keep her gaze locked on Ramsay, showing no fear.
He stares at her, long and hard. Men undressing her with their eyes was not a foreign concept; but his wasn't like that. His leer was even more searing, deeper; she shivered despite herself.
"You wrote this? Do you often sign your correspondence in the Lady's own hand?" He asks but doesn't wait for a response. "That's treason. And wherever did you learn such beautiful penmanship? You are full of surprises, Cat, was it?" He taunts.
"I wrote it." She says again, simply, but with conviction. "I signed it with my own hand. And I learned to read and write from my father Lord Eddard Stark. He taught me well." Speaking her father's name aloud gives her strength. "If I'm to be punished, so be it."
"If what you say is true, you'll be taking her place." He says carefully, already expecting a certain answer. His reaction faintly surprises her; her admission was not the big reveal she'd expected it to be. She's almost disappointed and responds in kind.
"It is my place, where I belong. I take the punishment willingly and with humility." She answers. Still there's no hint of surprise, no flicker of shock; but there is a softening of his eyes.
Without breaking her gaze he snaps his fingers behind his head, and the guards push Merilee back into the crowd. She trips on her own feet, but the other women catch her before she hits the floor. She feels the woman's frightened and questioning scrutiny, but doesn't break her stare with Ramsay. His smile spreads slowly, so excited it looks as if he might fill his pants. What had she done now?
She feels huge fingers tighten around her wrists, dragging her to that same pillar. She moves her gaze then, fixated on the ropes; tightly knotted, and of strong rough material. The men are rough. But no fingers slip where they shouldn't, and no one grips hard enough to bruise her. It's respectful, if there is such a way to tie someone up. As the ropes are wound around her wrists she feels the first rising of panic; her muscles twitch and her breaths shorten. She dares not look into the crowd, pretending not to be afraid. Pretending she was sure, that all of this was her choice. She's second-guessing herself already.
Ramsay comes up behind her to inspect the ropes, tightening them and causing her to jump. She wills herself to be still. Bravery wasn't about the absence of fear; it was about acting despite it. Her father had taught her that, and she had lived by that sentiment for all her life. She meant to die by it too. The fear was real.
"You surprise me." He tells her, soft enough so that only they could hear, but still in that higher pitch so unsettling. She doesn't respond, relatively sure he doesn't expect her to. "That is quite rare."
"You don't believe I am who I say?" He rolls his eyes, but not impatiently.
"I know who you are. I've known since the day we met." At the look on her face he chuckles. "Maybe I could believe a dim-witted highborn with the wrong-colored hair and a dull expression. But a servant girl with Stark grey eyes and a tongue sharp as a blade?" He chuckles pleasantly before whispering in her ear. "If you're a lowborn, then I'm not a God."
She swallows, thickly, loud enough for him to hear.
"You lied, purposefully deceived me. I might have been offended if I didn't find it all so entertaining. What will she do next? Will she give herself away?" He chuckles. "I thought you would sacrifice her. I really did. What a lovely surprise. Thank you. So rare these days." He's positively gleeful, hot breaths quick across her nape. She likes that even less than his softened eyes. He pulls the ropes up so her arms are overextended above her head, tying the knot securely around the pillar, her face pressed painfully into the stone.
"You can change your mind you know." He whispers directly into her ear. "Say you were protecting your mistress. Say you've changed your mind and decided to save your own skin. Your own, lovely, pale skin." He strokes her shoulders, and though she tries, there is no room to move away. "No servant girl is worth the lashing you're about to receive."
"I'm ready." She shouts loudly enough for everyone to hear by way of answer.
"I'm not bluffing, I don't allow for special treatment. No matter the circumstances." He warns, seemingly with genuine feeling.
"I never doubted you for a second, Lord Snow." She mocks, remembering how much Jon had hated it. She doesn't wait for a reaction. Instead she fights against the stone, straining her neck painfully to face the other way, skin scratching on the rough surface. She does it to break the intimate bubble he'd tried to form around them. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction on top of everything else. And she wouldn't give herself the chance to lose her nerve. Despite her measured words, she was afraid. Afraid of the pain, the helplessness, and whatever would come next. But one thing was for sure; she would take her punishment the same as everyone else. A failure maybe, but not selfish. Not anymore.
He walks smoothly to the other side of the pillar, making eye contact once more. She thought he might be angry at her refusing his 'mercy' but instead he looks even more amused, if possible. With his sword he cuts into the collar of her servant's rags, careful enough so the steel doesn't even touch her skin. Her breath catches as his hands rip at the material, tearing it all the way down to the small of her back. Were it not for the pillar holding up the front, she's no doubt the cloth would be pooling at her feet. As it was, her back was bare, exposed, and vulnerable.
There are fresh protests now, loud- the women demanding mercy. Merilee begging. She could barely hear them, her own blood pumping so loud and strong she thinks it might burst out of her skin. She swallows. It's easy to talk yourself into a simple lashing, a small price to pay for one's principles, the life of another. But standing there, unable to move, feeling the fear of others on her behalf, hearing her own heart pump too hard- it was driving her half-mad. She kept imagining herself gnawing through the ropes somehow. Or ripping out the pillar and smashing that rat bastard in the face with it. The fantasies were frantic, desperate, and impossible. Heavy boots being planted and the whistle of something being unfurled before hitting the ground break her out of her reverie.
The pleading was louder now, shouting, angry protests. She swallows to make sure the sounds aren't coming from her own throat, and bites her tongue for good measure.
Suddenly there is silence, all hushed.
She holds her breath, waiting an eternity for the burn, for the rip of her skin, for the sheer force of it.
A terrible crack, all Ramsay's might, as the whip strikes- hitting the tiled floor.
Every breath in the room is exhaled in the same instant. It didn't hit her. Her muscles droop as her weight falls completely onto the pillar and bound wrists; her own physical strength giving out. Her own heartbeat keeps pounding, no other sound in the room to cover it.
And then there is a laugh, starting low but deep, before growing louder. It's so unreal, not human. It reminds her of her time on the ship to Bravos, going below to storage to gather more grain and salted meat. They'd bring torches down below that doubled as a means to scare the starving rats from their stores. The rats would make an ungodly screech as they ran, fleeing from their only sustenance; only to gather round again once the humans went back above deck. The other soldiers mimic him, laughing heartily, spurring each other on. Cool hands, not cold, but not warm, settle on her back and make her jump, so unexpected is the contact; bumping her nose and cheek painfully against the stone pillar. He strokes the skin there, softly before whispering intimately into her ear.
"My fierce wolf, did you really think I would damage such a fine pelt? Before even enjoying it first? Really."
She feels him step away from her and address the crowd. She still cannot see.
"Your cries of mercy have stilled my hand. Or perhaps the Lady has softened me. Her raw beauty could move any man to mercy. She has assured me there will be no more such attempts. I expect by the time we are wed, she will know her place well enough." Wed? Wed! Wed!? Oh Gods.
Fatigue washes over her. The tension of waiting for a blow, the fear of her punishment, the strain of holding her body in such a way, and this new disturbing turn. She rubs her sore cheek farther into the pillar to stay alert, ready. But it's no use, she crashes into unconsciousness.
Bonus Chapter
Tyrion
The air smelled delicious. He'd just finished a capon steeped in squash puree. It was delightful, and paired with this charming Dornish wine, gave the room a pleasant, homey feel. Here he was- back in the chambers of the Hand of the King, er Queen. And currently acting in her place while she was at The Wall, earning even more loyal followers no doubt. He had to pat himself on the back frequently, Daenerys was the Queen, the leader, he'd always wanted sitting the throne. He thought such a man impossible. But here she was, setting to order the corners of the whole of the seven kingdoms. Or beginning to.
She was naïve in some things, certainly. She gave too freely at times. And at others, her prejudices would show. Some of his sweet sister's old supporters did not fare well as a result of the regime change. He might have spared at least a few, they might have proven useful after some well-placed threats. She wouldn't hear of it. Oh well. Really it was all nitpicking. The capitol was faring well, the people thankful for a return to order. They were even getting used to his presence, ugly as ever; buying items from the stalls and meddling in their affairs.
They didn't know Daenerys was absent however, that he'd insisted upon. And she'd agreed, thankfully. Headstrong, but clever enough to see sense. Bronn would say he was a little in love with her, and make fun of him endlessly for it. Perhaps he did love her a bit. It wouldn't surprise him, he fell in love so easily it seemed. A pretty girl who was nice to him was already halfway there; Queen or whore, it made no difference. Throw in brains and pluck- well he had his weaknesses surely. He could be professional though; he'd learned his lesson.
A knock just loud enough to be heard, but not so much as to disturb him. He would know the knock anywhere.
"Come in, Pod." He shouts through the door, putting down his drink. He stayed clear-headed for important business these days, mostly.
"My Lord, there's been a raven for you." He says unnecessarily, carrying a dead raven on a tray.
"Bloody Hells, Pod. Have I done something to upset you recently?" He asks the boy, er man now, jokingly. Pod was taller and larger, whiskers on his cheeks and chin. But he'd always felt a certain respect for his squire, the way he carried himself, his carefully chosen words, his calm demeanor; he'd always seemed of an age with himself.
"There was no parchment, claw grasping at nothing. He flew right over the city walls only to collapse outside the castle gates." Many would call such a thing a bad omen, a terrible portent. Of course, for his part, his mind didn't work that way. He was too logical, always thinking a few steps ahead. He did believe this was a sign something was wrong, about to come or already in-motion; but he suspected the absent letter might have given him a better idea as to what.
Pod exhibited no surprise as Tyrion eagerly took the tray from him and set it down. Faithful Pod retrieved his lord's spectacles without having to be asked. Lord Lannister, the last and only to still be called such, placed them on his nose. Next, he took the fork and knife from within the capon platter, and somewhat carefully wiped off the puree coating his substitute 'tools'. Tyrion was a strange man to be sure- he enjoyed intrigues, puzzles, and mysteries. Some Maester could have pieced the secret this bird had carried together; but Pod knew him well enough to bring him the riddle first.
The bird was killed by exhaustion, he surmised. Ravens were fascinating creatures, another mystical animal he'd studied extensively in his youth for fun. They were exceedingly clever, able to mimic entire phrases, even reciting poems. Some claimed the creatures could actually think and speak for themselves, calling out to travelers, having no way of knowing the man's name. This led to the popular theory that ravens housed the souls of the restless. Spirits with unfinished business were trapped in the beasts, trying to communicate. Of course Tyrion never believed such nonsense, but there were some things about them that could not be explained. How did they find their way back? How did they find their way there in the first place for that matter? He knew this was not one of the capitol's birds; it didn't bare the mark on its foot. How had it known where to go? He'd questioned his tutors endlessly when he was a boy, but learned very little about the profession of Raven Keeper. Of course, this only made his curiosity grow. However, when he finally spoke in-depth with a Raven Keeper, he was thoroughly disappointed. The Keepers trained the birds to eat from their hands, to trust them with cleaning and care. They were nursemaids for the ravens, nothing more. So the magic was not in the men.
The best answer he received much later from Varys himself, a cleverer man he never knew. Varys said the birds were empathic creatures. They simply knew where to go by gleaning the information from the sender. The raven did the rest.
Moving aside feathers gently with the knife, he very much believed Varys' theory. This bird had flown hard, without rest, to fulfill its mission. Even when the letter was lost, the little bird kept flying. An inspection of the clawed foot showed a large knick on its leg, crusted over, but it made the foot hang strangely. It was quite a leap, but he deduced that the poor thing had been shot, an important muscle or tendon hit; the message lost. And still the bird kept going. A closer look at the wings, and he saw that the under feathers were harder beneath the prongs of the fork, near solid, the color wrong. He felt them with his bare fingers, and with a start determined what had killed the thing. And where it had most like come from.
"Pod, send for Bronn. Immediately, I have a job for him."
"Yes, My Lord." Pod responds before running off to comply. He didn't like it much to be called My Lord, he always imagined it was a way of mocking him. Pod normally knew better. But having sensed the urgency in Tyrion's tone, had reverted to old ways.
The bird should have died before reaching here, of that he was certain. Exhaustion was the cause, but not only. The underwings were deformed from intense cold and harsh snows. He hadn't even known birds could get frostbite. The poor thing should not even have been able to fly at all. Yet here it was, at his doorstep. It had carried on, perhaps by the strength of will of the sender alone. He believed now that ravens were bound to their messages, and to their writers. Only one place still had storms and snows, it had come a very long way.
The door opens without a knock, and he guesses Bronn has answered his summons. The rugged man, still scruffy looking no matter how much he spent on grooming, enters cockily. He smirks at the little glasses before Tyrion can remove them.
"Ah Bronn, good. I've a matter for you to see to. Get your things ready, you leave at first light." He instructs.
"Well good afternoon to you too, Milord." He says with sarcasm. "How are you doing? I'm very well, thank you for asking…"
"Bronn, I don't have time for this. I believe Lady Arya is in trouble."
"So?" Bronn asks snarkily. The two had never met, though he'd spoken of her often enough. The ex sell sword had a tough time believing a woman could be attractive and clever and kind. And he certainly didn't believe in fawning over them.
"So?" Tyrion scoffs in disbelief. "So she represents the North, a large and powerful realm. She is a trusted ally of The Queen herself. And, what's more, she is my friend." Bronn swallows his next clever retort at that. "I need my best man to handle this, to make sure she is well, as a favor."
"Flattery doesn't work on me anymore, Half Man. I'm not trudging all the way up North to freeze my balls off and face fuck knows what. Fuck that." He complains, though Tyrion recognizes it as progress.
"Need I remind you that you serve me, The Hand?" Bronn roles his eyes, clearly not swayed. Never mind that Bronn was now a Knight thanks to him. And while Tyrion didn't like having to remind him of this fact, sometimes pure friendship was an inadequate motivator where Bronn was concerned. Bronn interrupts.
"I'm seeing a girl now, real grateful, a third daughter. I can't just leave, I…" He's whining slightly, telling Tyrion he will fall in line, but not easily. Tyrion sighs before relenting.
"And she'll still be here when you return. I'll inform her you're on official business for the Hand of the Queen, important business. She'll be impressed if anything. And I will reward you handsomely for your trouble. Reasonable?" The man grunts, and Tyrion takes that as acquiescence. "Excellent. Gather whatever supplies you need, you and Pod will leave at first light."
"Pod?" He responds with distaste.
"Is there a problem?" Tyrion asks with patience that he doesn't feel.
"What exactly do you think I'll find up there? What is it you want me to do, exactly?"
"I only want you to ask after her, deliver a message in person, check that she's alright. I'm sure it's nothing." He's sure something's wrong. For her to send a letter, for the raven to fly itself to death. Arya was not alright.
"Bull shit." Bronn calls his bluff. "And what do you want me to do if it's not 'nothing'?" Tyrion sighs again. "I can't do much with just a glorified squire for company."
"Don't do anything. We can't send more men, not without The Queen's permission, not over a hunch, not without a favor in return." He hates himself for saying so, for even thinking it. But it's the truth. And he has to be pragmatic, always. The Kingdom must come first. "Without The Queen and her dragons, we are in a very precarious position ourselves. Actually, we always are. I'm sending you because I trust your assessment and whatever you advise on the matter. Understood?" He nods his assent. "And Pod will make a fine companion. He's handy in a tough spot, you'll see." He growls once more, but leaves to comply.
He hopes he's overreacting, that all is well. He would be thrilled to receive word the little wolf was happy with her ox of a husband, perhaps expecting a child. But his intuition knows better. And he's never once gone wrong by following his own instincts.
Take care Arya, hold strong. He prays to no one in particular.
A/N: See, a chapter. I'm still writing the story. Slowly. I hope you're still intrigued as to how Arya will persevere. If she and Gendry will get a happy ending? You'll just have to keep reading to find out. Also, I just want to clarify- Arya is not waiting around for someone else to save her. She knows now that she can't rely on any outside help. Badass Arya is back. Unfortunately, Ramsay is formidable and intelligent, so she can't have victory right away. It will be hard-won and cost dearly. Patience and all will be entertained. Although, the next one should be up pretty soon.
