Previously On:
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 gather more grain and salted meat. They'd bring torches down below, meant to scare the starving rats from their stores. The rats would make an ungodly screech as they ran, fleeing from their only sustenance.
The other soldiers, sell-swords 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?"
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.
Uncomfortable Quarters
Arya
When she awakes, every muscle is on fire. She can smell rich earth and taste the cold of the pillar. It's not comfortable, but it is grounding. Her wrists are still tied tight, and she's been hanging limp for who knows how long. She'd gone unconscious when the whip had failed to strike; all the energy spent holding herself up had drained. She has only a faint awareness upon waking. And the disorientation is even more frightening than the uselessness of her limbs.
She attempts to wriggle, and a new explosion of pins and needles erupts in her joints. She can't move, she can't even turn her neck the other way; so stiff. She stops moving, as each twitch causes a rush of blood to pound through her ears. She tries again, wriggling; it's still painful but she's able to stretch farther. She grunts and gasps with the effort, but finally she can move her chin to see a portion of the floor. Empty, only various etched footprints shining off the tile. The rough sliding of her ropes on stone echoes more loudly than it should.
She stops at the sound of heavy steps, two sets of clunky boots.
More rough hands, accompanied by the odor of old sweat, untie her wrists. Even knowing the release was coming; she still can't keep her feet. But the two men keep her from slipping in a heap to the floor. One finishes uncoiling her wrists for her, and another holds her dress in place. She still can't feel her hands, the flesh bone-white from lack of blood. The men stand her up, but she can't put any weight onto her legs, the hundreds of thousands of needles pricking her muscles keep her helpless and unstable. They're not quite gentle, but they are careful as they drag her along; shifting her dress so she's sufficiently covered. She recognizes them as the more subdued of Ramsay's guards, less boisterous or lascivious than the others. They seemed to follow orders well, whatever those orders may be.
They walk right past the stairs leading to the servants' quarters, ending her hopes of being placed with Merilee and the others. They continue through plush hallway, the halls she traversed as a child; running amok and causing mischief. This was familiar, this made her heart squeeze.
The corridors were decorated with portraits of great Starks who once held Winterfell, features she had memorized long ago. Her father's own likeness stood proudly towards the end, Robb's face was missing, and half an empty hall still remained- bare until filled with future generations of Starks. Ones that might never come into existence. When they finally reach their destination, Arya can hardly believe her eyes. It's her parents' old room, the master suite; where she and Gendry were meant to sleep. Her eyes are moist. It looks the same; she half expects to see her mother and father step in.
They plop her down on the bed less gently than they'd intended, her position untoward, but again she doesn't feel the impact. She wants to sit upright, but she'll be damned if she asks them for assistance. She inches herself up along the mattress, the pain forcing her to take many breaks; but she manages to maneuver herself into a better position. The small motions set her thighs on fire worst of all. But through her movements she notices her fingers itch, which means she's getting some feeling back. No sooner has she settled herself, than her wrists are shackled to the sturdy headboard; this time with unforgiving steel. She's too shocked to make a noise, and nauseous with all the possible indignities she might endure while manacled to the bed. The men traipse out, and stand guard on the other side of the doorway, door ajar. A moment of privacy, perhaps only a moment. She would take advantage of it.
Her heart beats too fast as she wills herself to stay calm. To assess and plan. She's still bound, but with considerably more space, a better position. She couldn't move much, but she could manage tiny shifts here and there.
With the backs of her numb fingers, she can make out the thick chains and crude lock. She fingers the keyhole, but she did never learned how to pick a lock. Gendry understood about locks and chains; but of course he wasn't here, wasn't even close.
Not now. She scolds herself.
She moved her exploration to the sturdy edge of the headboard to which she was stuck. The ornate pattern carved into the precious wood, depicting ancient trees and giant direwolves gives her strength.
1… 2… 3… She counts, and then pulls. Her shoulder sockets burn, and the bed barely rattles. Another break, to breathe. 1… 2… 3… she gathers her might, bracing herself for more pain, then tugs again. She curses as her hip slides off the sheets, her feet slapping the floor; her shoulder extended in an unnatural position. Another 1… 2… 3… just to maneuver her knees, and boost herself back onto the bed. She's panting and shaking with pain and exertion. She'll need more than the count of three to build her strength back up to try again.
Before she gets a chance, a noise out in the hall steals her attention. She straightens her shoulders on instinct, despite the pain, alert and tense. Her eyes stay affixed to the doorway.
"No one is to disturb me, not for any reason." A voice instructs with authority.
Ramsay.
Oh Gods, What now? She asks beneath her breath. So soon. She'd never even had a chance to get free. Another game.
He's still dressed in her own brother's finery, strutting confidently into the room as if he owned it. In his mind, he did. She felt his eyes burning into her, never letting up. He slams the door behind him, trapping her inside, and adding a new terrifying level of intimacy and privacy. His icy blue eyes bulge in excitement.
She told herself over and over again not to show her fear, her weakness. She would imagine herself in control, drawing strength from the wood and stone of her ancestral home. Disregarding the discomfort, she lifts her chin and puffs out her chest; exuding confidence she didn't feel, twisting unnaturally. He doesn't need to know she's still getting feeling back.
He begins unfastening his collar, keeping eye contact the entire time. He unbuttons slowly, and then throws the fine cloth on a chair in the corner. He's so precise, slow, shedding each piece like an extra skin; carving the fur off newly slain game. For some reason, she hadn't let herself consider this.
She was very aware of her own dress, flimsy and hanging dangerously off her shoulders. She was afraid, she admitted, as she caved in on herself. Hunching her body protectively over her bound wrists, curling her knees up into her body. This wasn't fair, none of it. Tremors make their way along her body, and she curses herself for showing her fear. She'd faced worse than this, surely. She'd known true hunger, the kind that made her gnaw at her own fingers. She'd had men grab at her, even try to pull her into alleys. But here, now, she was bound, stiff, tired, and already afraid.
He grabs a fresh undershirt from a nightstand and slides it over his head, covered and casual. What? She breathes out, but isn't foolish enough to believe herself safer. He walks to the other side of the bed, but still makes no move to touch her. She's equal parts confused and relieved, but not naïve enough to let down her guard.
He mocks her contorted position, her obvious fear. With others watching she could sit upright, look him in the eye, hide her fear. It's what she'd been taught once- not to let fear rule her. But alone, locked away, bound, in a once familiar room, fear felt like a tangible thing, heavy and cold. To ignore it would be to ignore her own heart's beating.
He chuckles.
How dare he laugh. How dare he? He had all the power, he held all the cards. He knew it, so did she. It seemed particularly crass to rub in her powerlessness. Cruelty was one thing, but outright disrespect was another. Good, her indignity would give her fire.
He sits on the other side of the spacious bed, completely at ease. He reminded her of an expert Cyvasse player, all pieces put into play, waiting for the game to be won for him. She doesn't let herself flinch; but remains coiled and just out of reach.
"I'm exhausted." He remarks. "You're all rested I expect. Hours and hours of it." She can hear the taunt in his voice.
"I'm only joking." He says, stretching out more fully. His foot nearly brushes her ankle and she wants to scream. "And I'll not touch you. If I'd wanted to ravish you, I already would have. But that would bring me no pleasure. I can wait." He's smiling as his eyes close, all the candles still lit. And then he's still, silent. Nothing.
She just watches him. Waiting. Unblinking. From what she knew of him, he was patient, that was true. He laid traps and sprung them at opportune moments. He could keep secrets and play games. He would kill, torture, and then happily display the carcass. But then he'd also been known to show mercy, at least where she was concerned. He might wait, but not forever. He was still a man. And he could find lots of ways to humiliate and torment her without even touching her. He had gone to great pains to make her as unsettled and on edge as possible; and then he'd just rolled over and gone to sleep. Or had he? Still she stares, willing him to stop breathing or for blood to pour out of his ears. Perhaps he would clutch at his chest as his heart explodes, panic written across his face. The image of that almost brings a smile to her face. His eyes pop open as if in response to her wish.
"Can't sleep?" He encourages, lips quirked. She's startled, but she recovers.
"If you touch me, I will kill you. Tomorrow, the next day, the day after that… it doesn't matter. Some way, some how. That I promise." She tells him. Her voice is a bit hoarse, but she sounds like herself at least. She rattles her bindings violently. Perhaps threatening him is not the wisest course of action, but she can't keep it in. He lets out a full-throated laugh in response.
"You never disappoint." He's turned on his side to face her more fully. "But be careful, My Lady. That's no way to talk to your future Husband." That sick churning again, though there's nothing in her gut to scrape.
"I'm already married." She growls, eyes narrowed in intensity. He rolls his in response.
"I know. I've read your letter. Thoroughly. More than once. Very compelling, well-written. It touched my heart." The thought of him reading words she'd meant for Gendry had her clenching her fists. "He's dead of course." At her stricken look he continues.
"We've sent so many to The Wall, and still they want more. He's dead alright. They all are. That's why we must focus on life here. It's up to us to keep our people alive, our borders safe, and our traditions strong." We. Us. Our people. Was he mad? She responds without caution.
"Our borders?! These are my lands! Not yours. You put my people in the dungeon, tormented my friend, cut off The Watch, treat these women like chattle…" She swallows. "You've chained and humiliated me. There will no be no shared life between us. I know I'm bound, but don't believe me tamed like your pet Reek." She spits.
"Reek? No, you're nothing like him." He rolls his eyes. "Even when he was Theon he was a disgrace. Traitor. Coward. He thought the respect of the people was owed him, called himself a prince." He tsks. "He never earned his name, irrelevant though it was. Iron Islanders. So much pride. I took that away from him, among other things." A wicked smile. "He couldn't understand fighting for a name, sacrificing. He never had to claw and grasp like I have. You have to earn your place in this world."
"And you've earned all this?" She shakes her head, the muscles in her neck still tight. "You stole this, all this, from me."
"So?" At her affronted look he continues. "We all take. The strong from the weak. The clever from the very stupid. It keeps the world from falling into chaos."
"And that gives you the right to terrorize the women here? Kill unarmed prisoners? Decorate the walls with rotting corpses? What has that to do with order or prosperity? That's cruelty for the sake of it."
"Everything I do has purpose." He explains calmly. "Fear is respect. The women are afraid, they stay in line. They keep my men happy. My men remain loyal." He pauses for effect. "Our enemies see those desiccating bodies, and they keep their distance. Their fear keeps us safe."
"Or," She challenges. "You enjoy displaying your kills like a child, eager to show he can use the privy all by himself." She mocks. "Someone who truly deserved his name wouldn't feel the need to paint his deeds all over the walls. You try too hard to prove yourself Bastard, it's plain to see."
She never used the word, never said it on principle. It was because she thought the entire concept ridiculously unfair; as if anyone could or would choose such an existence. She knew how sensitive Jon and Gendry had been about it, and always tread carefully when talk of their parentage came up. But in this instance, it very much applied. Anything to unsettle him, to bite back.
He growls. And springs up, pinning her tense shoulders onto the mattress and stealing her breath with the shock. Instant regret.
"Sorry." She breathes out without meaning to. Ashamed. He eases off.
"You've some bite in you, I forgot that." He brushes her cheek with his knuckles and she shudders. "I think you properly fear me now. So, we can speak frankly." She's still breathing shallowly, not yet calm, having just come too close. Her mother was right; sometimes it was better to keep one's mouth shut.
"I am a bastard, true. Father has yet to bestow his name upon me. But he will. Once he sees what I've made of Winterfell, once he sees what I've made of you. He'll be impressed." He trails off, lost in thought. "I'm not bitter or resentful. Being a Bastard has made me what I am." His eyes flash.
"What is it you think you are? A God right? That is what you said."
"I am immortal, yes." Gods, he really was insane. "I have built my own legacy. Sturdy and tall, fearsome and everlasting. You abandoned Winterfell, I kept it alive. And because of me, all of this will survive, even if Spring never comes. I will make it so." His response is so intense, so visceral it makes her gut churn. "I have been good for this place, for these people. Your people. And I can be good for you too."
"Never." She whispers. He hears and chuckles.
"You'll see soon enough. Now get some rest, we've a long day tomorrow." He makes himself comfortable, lying back on his pillows, palms clasped behind his head.
"Why?" She asks.
"Well it was meant to be a surprise. But if you're so keen." He turns onto his side now, facing her once more, head propped up on his elbow. "The bones you carry, they're your Father's." He waits for her to acknowledge the information. "I've arranged to have him buried in the crypt. I thought you might like that." She tries to say something, but nothing comes out.
"Would you like that? Or perhaps I shouldn't bother." He flutters his lashes, as if trying to be cute. Knowing what her answer would be and savoring it. Gods, she never thought she could need anything from him, or worse, have to admit it. She could wait; wait to bury him once she'd retaken the castle. Though he very well might burn them out of spite. She couldn't predict how he would react at all.
"No, I… Thank you." She simply says. She can't look at him.
"I can show you respect, Arya. But I expect the same in return. Respect. That's all." He pauses, to choose his words or to heighten the effect she can't tell. "And of course, you must always obey me. You're the Lady of Winterfell; you'll have status, of course. I need not model you after Reek. But make no mistake; you very much belong to me. Understood?"
She clenches her jaw, grinding the teeth enough to cause pain.
"Understood?" He presses, jangling her shackled wrists.
She nods, repeating over and over in her head that it's a lie. She belongs to no one, she won't be His Lady, and she will make him pay for every indignity he inflicts.
He seems satisfied and rolls back over, a chuckle under his breath. He doesn't snore, but she hears his breathing even out. She can't sleep, and she won't. Little by little she stretches her toes, her ankles, shoulders, rib cage, and back. She pulls at the chains again, and one of his eyes pops open to peer at her. She stops, and his eyes close once more, a half smile curving his lips.
She stills, stops the fruitless rattling, and retreats into her mind; putting pieces together, and forging a new way. Her shoulder muscles ease, and without meaning to, she falls once more into unconsciousness. She did fight it, but her body could only be that tense for so long before shutting down.
"My Lady." A whisper wakes her. "My Lady." It repeats. Her eyes pop open to see Vela looking down on her; long black hair tied back, the scar visible on her chin.
"What?" Her voice cracks, too dry to make sense. Vela shakes herself and jumps up to pour water from a clay pitcher nearby, pressing the tipped cup to parched lips. "I've come to get you dressed for the burial." She explains. The woman looks furtively to the side, and it's then she notices the guards still there, ominous as ever, unmoving. There would be no real privacy then. Of course. She'd have to be careful of what she said. They do unchain her however, she's glad for that.
She breathes deep and slow, regaining herself, ready for a fresh change of clothes. "What…?" She tries again, not having received the response she was fishing for.
"She's fine. More worried about you than anything. But she's not allowed to see you. I was chosen." Arya nods, glad to know Merilee was suffering no further reprisals for Arya's own actions. At least there was that. Her own position notwithstanding. She gets up with minimal help, very little soreness left. Another small blessing.
"My Lady, I…" Vela tries to talk, not sure what to say exactly. "The others, they can't believe it. All this time…" The woman trails off.
"Can't believe how low I've fallen? How screwed we all are? Well neither can I." Arya moans bitterly under her breath. But Vela heard anyway, the men too, no doubt.
She wrings out a cloth, and goes to scrub Arya's shoulders. She flinches and steps away. "His Lordship's orders." Vela says, eyes downcast. Instead, Arya takes the cloth from her with tingly fingers, and retreats to a back corner. She proceeds to scrub herself: face, then neck and shoulders, then her armpits and her privates. A whore's bath, it was called. It was amazing how random memories made themselves useful when least expected.
While her back is turned, Vela has gone about setting out a dress, smoothing it out over the covers. She reaches for the simple blue material, soft beneath her fingertips, fish patterns stitched around the hems; only to recoil. Of course. Where did she think it came from? Ramsay's personal collection? No, this was her mother's. She used to wear it when Arya was young, but after Rickon she said it was too young for her. After that, she went for more neutral colors, simply Northern.
She feels dizzy all of a sudden and has to sit on the edge of the bed to focus.
Vela comes over and helps her to hang her head between her knees. An old wives' trick.
The guards look on, questioning, but Vela waves them away saying it's feminine related. Even if she wanted to laugh, it would come out a choke.
"My Lady." She whispers, leaning in close so their eyes lock. Arya can barely hear her over her own heart pulsing. "You misunderstand. No one blames you. This isn't your fault. None of it." Arya slowly raises her head, looking Vela in the eye. "And the way you were willing to trade yourself for one of us, live like one of us. You stood up to him and held your head high. You're not what we thought a Lady would be like."
"I'm not a Lady, not much of one anyway." She swallows, subconsciously eyeing the guards once more. "Never was actually. I did think I was meant to... Stupid."
"No. No you're wrong." She insists, untying the dress so Arya can reach up into it. "No one's ever done nothin' like that for the likes of us. No one." Arya undoes the clasp of her rough-spun servant's garb, and once the finer dress is on, she lets the other drop. "I liked you before, right off, we all did. A little odd maybe, but sharp. And now that we know you have the right blood. That you're willing to sacrifice for us. Well, we've some hope now, at least." They had faith in her. She couldn't for the life of her figure out why. But she wouldn't squander their faith, misplaced as it was. She breathes in deep, considering carefully her next steps. Another glance at the uninterested guards.
Arya feigns trussing her hair, blocking her face from the guards' view. Making sure she has Vela's full attention, she mouths wordlessly, 'And I have a plan.' She drops her arm, and the woman's eyes are lit as she tied the dress shut. Fine but still modest, she thought it would be painful to put on her mother's clothes, to play dress up as it were; but it made her breathe easier, comforted somehow. Vela clasps her hand tightly for an instant, and then lets go.
A few more minutes of making her presentable, and the guards declare it time for the ceremony. What sort of barbaric rituals were in store?
They pass the empty guard's hall, to the packed field surrounding the crypt. Every guard and every servant is in attendance once more. Ramsay did like to entertain.
She walked slowly; still rather stiff, and she imagined she made quite the entrance. She almost couldn't face them, these women she'd come to respect and feel responsible for. She didn't want to read their opinions of her in their eyes. But she made herself. They were frightened, the women; it was always there, in everything they did. But now, there was something else. She might have imagined it, but whenever she met someone's gaze, the woman would stand just a little bit taller, a little bit straighter.
But of course Ramsay interrupted before she could fully ruminate on what all this could mean. His eyes landing on her and flashing. He was pleased with her it seemed, though why exactly she couldn't be sure. She'd have to make sure not to do whatever it was again.
"Ah, she's here." He greets, addressing the crowd more than her. "Just in time." As if the guards hadn't shoved her along. She clenched her fist in anticipation of whatever blasphemous eulogy he'd planned. This stranger, this parasite, who went against everything her father had stood for. He puts his arm around her waist and brings her yet closer.
"We are gathered here today, to honor a great man." Of course he didn't mention her mother's bones. "The Starks have ruled and served since the beginning. Lord Eddard Stark" He points to his bones, wrapped neatly in their cloths. "He governed these lands well, with honor and integrity. Today he goes to ground, his rightful place. Balance is once more restored to the North. Finally." Applause, though for Ramsay or her father she could not say.
Ramsay waits for silence, perfectly understanding the crowd- when to engage, when to let them think. Or whatever passed for thinking where the dumbest were concerned. He was a speaker, charismatic in his way, and that was far more dangerous than just some cutthroat sellsword. His men loved, respected, and feared him. Part of that loyalty was bought with the flesh of her women. As far as she could tell, there were few amongst his ranks who might be sympathetic towards her. And likely none who would favor her if it came down to it. Which it most definitely would. The others stand around, not sure what to do. Should they leave? Is there more?
"We honor them today. But we must not forget." And his tone turns deadly and serious. "The Starks, abandoned us. They left us to fend for themselves. They left us hungry, cold, and lost." No, it wasn't like that, she wanted to scream. He was wrong. But… He wasn't lying… Not exactly.
"I stepped in when the Starks could not. It is the Boltons who keep the North. You live and eat and stay warm by my grace. And so it shall be for as long as Northerners are true and loyal." He looks to her. "And now, the Gods have brought Stark and Bolton together, two households, eternally linked. Lady Arya brings the promise of good things, a new beginning. And our union will ensure that our way of life, the way our people have always done things, will live on. The days may get no warmer; the meals may only get leaner. But we live on." He leans in to kiss her neck and the crowd explodes.
There's all out cheering now, the soldiers loving it. The women clap, as they're expected to, but it's half-hearted, many look as uncomfortable as she feels. They're fully on her side now. That was something, something she could work with.
"You're welcome, My Lady." He whispers into her ear. She pastes her smile back on.
She would thank him. She would thank him properly with a blade in his gut and her spit in his eye. Insufferable Fucker. She just keeps smiling.
Today I honor my father. Tomorrow I avenge us all.
A/N: Okay, that took longer than I hoped. But I'm still going. I also want to make clear, spoilers be damned, that Ramsay is NOT intended as a love interest. He is detestable, and she is being victimized. I do want him to be unpredictable and intriguing, but mostly frightening and terrible. So, no, this is not a weird Stockholm's Syndrome, rapey, domination thing. He's her most terrible obstacle to overcome in order to truly get her home back. And she loves Gendry! She's really had it rough, hasn't she?
As always, thanks for reading. Next, the remaining Starks get a glimpse of each other, Gendry finally gets a clue, and everyone will converge in Winterfell.
