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Apologies for re-uploading the same chapter. I edited the mistake with Beric Dondarrion. And, just to clarify, the sigil of House Baelish IS a Braavosi giant. However, Petyr Baelish's personal device is a Mockingbird. His family sigil remains the Braavosi giant. Apologies for the confusion. If I've made any mistakes I will apologise and rectify them as soon as possible. However, I don't think there's any need to be overly rude or aggressive about it. I'm only human.
Chapter Thirty-Eight: Different Roads
They lay together in semi-darkness, listening to the storm raging outside and talking. Talking most of all, while Jon held on to Arya protectively, only breaking off to stoke the fire or refill their cups. Slowly, she told her story. From the day she escaped King's Landing, when their father was arrested, until she arrived at Seagard hell bent on killing Black Walder Frey and everything in between. Throughout it all, Jon's emotions went into varying degrees of freefall. When he found out she had only just escaped the Red Wedding, he had to turn away from her before she could see the tears in his eyes.
By the time she was done, he was left with one stupid but burning question. "Why didn't you sail to Eastwatch? The brothers would have looked after you and sent for me straight away. I was Lord Commander by then."
But she hadn't known. How could she? All she had was a few pieces of silver and a battered iron coin embossed with the Braavosi giant. All she knew were the magic words: valar morghulis.
"I asked the boatman," she replied. "But he said all there was to the North was ice and war. And when he said he was for Braavos I remembered the coin. It was all I had."
It was only natural that she would have wanted to find her mother, first. Jon did not blame her for that. As soon as this "Brotherhood" found her it sounded as though the choice was taken out of her hands, anyway. All the same, he sighed deeply and rolled onto his back, staring up at the canopy above the bed they now shared.
"I still wish you had come straight to me," he lamented. "You needn't have gone through all that pain and trauma."
"Don't you think I wanted to?" she retorted, near waspishly. "I thought of you all the time; I risked my life to get Needle back just because it reminded me of you."
Jon choked on whatever reply he had, apologising instead. "And I ached for you too, little sister."
He reached over and mussed up her hair, the way he always did when they were growing up in Winterfell together. It made her laugh, allowing him to catch a brief glimpse of the Arya he had always known and loved. But there was still a brittleness to her; a hardness that had never existed in her before. Behind her once guileless grey eyes lay an unspoken trauma, the fragility behind that prickling exterior.
She lay on her side limned in moonlight that slanted through the beams of the shutters, making her look paler than she already was. "Before we left Winterfell, you said: 'different roads lead to the same castle'. Turns out, you were right."
Jon laughed, recalling that almost flippant missive. He had said it to make them both feel better; to comfort them both that their goodbye was not final. He'd had no idea of just how truthful it would turn out to be.
"Well, here we both are," he answered. "At the end of our different roads and in the same castle. Neither the roads nor the castle are the ones I expected."
Another silence fell between them, filled only by the storm still howling around the curtain walls beyond. The rain pattering against the mullions lulled him into a semi-doze before the loud crash of a tree falling jolted him upright. The sound startled Arya too, but she quickly settled again after Jon put his arm around her, pulling her in tight.
She was still small, he noted. And lean. But still taller and more filled out than he had last seen her. Stronger, too. It was muscle he could feel beneath the sleeves of the linen shift she wore now.
"Sometimes, especially when I was with the Brotherhood Without Banners, I thought everyone would hate me for the things I've done," she admitted. "Because I killed people. Then I was taken in by the Faceless Men and I killed people for gold."
"You had to survive, Arya," he interjected. "And we're your family; we could never hate you. Ever."
"Father would," she insisted. "He would never have killed a person for gold- "
"Father never had to survive alone in the world with just a sword for company and a price on his head," Jon cut in again. "And you were a child. You still are a child. The only people at fault are the ones who put you in this position in the first place."
Although, Jon had recoiled when he saw what the Faceless Man had taught her to do. She changed her face the same way he changed his smallclothes and it set off his internal warning bells. What if she wasn't the real Arya? What if she was just some waif and stray wearing Arya's face as she wore that servant girls' face? The only thing that convinced him was that she knew things about him and Arya that no one could get from simply wearing some poor dead girls' death mask.
"You would have hated what I became," she stated again. "But that wasn't me. I only remembered who I really was after I became no one."
"You're Arya Stark of Winterfell," he said.
"I know that now," she replied. "But I don't think you understand."
Jon had to concede that he didn't. Perhaps he never would. There were some experiences you had to live before you could understand and the closest he came was going undercover with the free folk. Even then, he had Ygritte and the others who chose to follow him after the battle. Tormund, Val and even Mance in the end. They had learned to trust each other, while Arya had learned to trust no one.
"Don't take any more revenge," he said. "Go home to Winterfell, where Sansa is waiting for you."
"She hated me even before all this- "
"She never hated you," Jon retorted. "She just didn't understand and now she wants to make it up to you. She did with me."
Arya frowned, her brow darkening so he couldn't see her eyes anymore. "The last I heard of her she had murdered Joffrey and fled King's Landing in the form of a bat. I'm guessing only one of those things is likely to be true."
"Neither is true, I don't think," he assured her. "Although, she was there when Joffrey died and I don't think she was in any rush to help him."
Arya laughed again. "She was so in love with him."
"She won't thank you for reminding her of that," he stated.
"Then I'll be sure to remind her every day." Her eyes twinkled moonlight, a little more of the old Arya shining through.
Despite that, Jon's heart sank a little as he thought of the changes he had not yet told her about. He wanted to hear her story before burdening her with his own. It was true she had heard him call Rhaegar 'father', but he had palmed her off with some nonsense about the prince being his Night's Watch father. She hadn't believed him, he could tell. But it was enough to buy time before framing exactly what he was going to tell her.
"Joffrey was an angel compared to her husband," he said. "Not Tyrion, that union was never consummated so it was never valid."
Arya was frowning again. "What other husband? I only got word of Tyrion Lannister."
Jon drew a deep breath before answering, marshalling his own feelings that were prone to rage when he thought too much about it.
"Petyr Baelish sold her to Roose Bolton, who promptly forced her to marry his son, Ramsay," he explained, at length.
Arya drew a sharp breath. "He murdered our family and stole our home. How could she have been forced?"
Jon had given it a lot of thought over the months. Perhaps Baelish had a greater plan and Jon was inclined to think he did, given his feelings for Sansa. But from what he knew, he filled in the blanks.
"Baelish sold her to the Boltons and then tried to rally the Knights of the Vale to her cause by telling them she'd been kidnapped and forced to marry Ramsay," he continued. "I think his idea was that the Knights of the Vale would come rushing to Sansa's rescue and she'd be so pathetically grateful that she would throw herself into Baelish's arms and marry him."
Arya shrugged. "This is Sansa, so it sounds like it might have worked. She loved those stories where the maid was rescued from her captors."
"This is no story," Jon pointed out. "For what it's worth, Baelish succeeded and the Knights of the Vale joined our cause. But, by that time, Ramsay Bolton had raped and beaten Sansa so severely she had fled at the first chance."
Arya pulled away from him sharply, doubled over as if she'd been gripped by a sudden gut ache. The look on her face was the hardest he had seen in her so far. "What do you mean she was raped and beaten? She was the heir to Winterfell; how could that have been allowed to happen?"
"The Boltons already had Winterfell," he pointed out. "Sansa was only there to add a little Stark legitimacy. But Ramsay Bolton… was not like other men. He was- "
"A sadistic shit who deserves to die the worst possible death," she interjected, reaching for Needle as if Ramsay Bolton was in the room with them.
Jon got up, calming her. "He's already dead. Sansa killed him when we took back Winterfell. She's killed Petyr Baelish too, as it happens."
For a long moment, Arya was silent. It was if she was trying to comprehend the new Sansa who was hardened enough to kill.
"Good," was all she said in reply. "How did she kill him?"
"She fed him to a dragon," he explained. "The same dragon that's been flying around Seagard, as it happens."
He realised that the time had come. It was the early hours of the morning, but neither of them were sleeping and no one else would be around for a goodly while yet. In that time, he would have to tell her everything that had happened to him, and what led to them having access to a dragon in the first place.
Before that, he wanted them both to be comfortable. He fed a few more pine logs to the fire and stoked it back into life. Then he poured them both some hot and spiced wine, his hands shaking as he decanted it into two pewter goblets. All the while, Arya watched him, her large grey eyes following him about the room as he pulled up two chairs beside the fire. The grew later and the room got colder, so they'd be needing the flames.
"Arya," he said, handing her one of the goblets of spice wine. "I found out who my mother was."
Accepting the cup, she smiled easily. "But that's a good thing, isn't it? Why do you look so sad?"
Jon motioned for her to sit down. "My mother was your Aunt Lyanna."
Arya gasped again, a wordless show of surprise as her eyes widened to the shape of saucers. "Oh!" she said. "But father … father wouldn't do that! He's not that sister-fucker Jaime Lannister or a Targ…"
The realisation dawned on her face like fast spreading mortification, leaving the rest of her sentence unspoken.
"Oh," she said again. "Oh, Jon. Rhaegar Targaryen. But … but that man … the one I spoke to earlier … the one downstairs … but it's impossible. How? Why? I am not your sister anymore…"
She grew increasingly agitated as she tried to make sense of it, until Jon guided her into a seat by the fire.
"You will always be my little sister," he assured her, mussing up her hair again. This time, it didn't make her laugh. "But listen, I want to tell you everything."
Sansa sat at the high table in the great hall, inspecting the hastily prepared dishes of food before passing them to the lower table. Given the short notice, her kitchen staff had come up with the goods. There was bacon, eggs fried and scrambled in butter, fresh bread meant for breakfast, honey combs and plenty of chicken dishes. A whole roast chicken was brought before her and that she passed straight to Sandor Clegane. To wash the hastily prepared feast down, wine had been brought from her own private cellars. A good strong red for the men of the Brotherhood Without Banners and a sweet Arbour gold for herself and her ladies.
At such an early hour of the morning, she chose only a honey comb and some fresh bread, warm from the ovens, for herself. Meanwhile, the travellers dived into the rest of the food with gleeful abandon. Beric Dondarrion well enough from the Hand's Tourney, when her father was still alive. Thoros of Myr she remembered only for his flaming sword. With the exception of Sandor, however, the others were new to her.
Tom O'Seven Strings strummed his woodharp and had a lute slung over his back. Gendry was a powerfully built young man of an age with Jon, with a shock of jet black hair and dazzling blue eyes. She reminded him of someone, but she could not put her finger on who. She would have asked him, had he not come across so taciturn. However, every so often, he glanced up and looked at her before quickly looking away again.
It was Sandor who filled her in. "A bastard o' King Robert's that one."
That made sense. "How did he end up with you?"
"He was with your sister until the Brotherhood took them," he explained. "Then the Red Woman took him to Dragonstone and almost fed him to Stannis's leeches."
Sansa's heart skipped a beat. "Does he know where Arya is? Where was she when you last saw her? Brienne told me what happened. The man with the scarred face was you, wasn't it? Melisandre won't hurt him here, tell him that."
"I will," Sandor replied. "As for your sister, wherever she is she's safe. More than capable of looking after herself, that one is."
With that, she finished off her bread roll and sought out Beric and Thoros. They seemed to be the leaders of this strange band of brothers. It seemed Thoros was becoming reacquainted with Melisandre as they were deep in discussion, conversing in High Valyrian which she could not understand. Rhaegar spoke it, she remembered, but he was miles away.
"Excuse me, sers," she greeted them. "I wondered if I might have a word."
They were seated around the fire, their plates in their laps and horns of ale in their hands. Parting in the middle, they made room for her at their bench. Marwyn was there too, also conversing in High Valyrian but now retreating to the shadows with his large arms folded across his broad chest.
"Lady Melisandre and the good maester here have told us all about you, little lady," Thoros of Myr explained. "You've been north of the wall, seen the dead rise, been to the three-eyed crow, been back in time and beyond. That's quite an adventure, if you don't mind my say so."
On the contrary, she was relieved that Melisandre had spared her the trouble of having to explain all that herself. It had all happened so fast, at a time when she was still so troubled by Ramsay and full of worry for Jon, she felt like she hadn't really learned anything from it all. That it had happened in a haze and she missed the real clues she should have been looking for.
"Is that why you're here?" she asked. "To help us defeat the Great Other? My brother, Brandon, is training to take over from Brynden Rivers and my cousin is rallying the south. We have a dragon for fire and we're hoping to win three more through Daenerys Targaryen. But we still need more men. We need whole armies."
"Aye, that's why we came." It was Beric Dondarrion who spoke. He was leaning forward, horn of ale in hand, and gazing through his one eye at the blazing fire. She had heard he was dead, but prone to rising again. "But you'll need more than men and armies to defeat the darkness heading our way, my lady. You'll need more than dragons."
Sansa's heart sank. She simply had nothing else she could throw at the Others. There was no fire hotter than dragon fire; there was no army bigger than the seven kingdoms combined. There was literally nothing else they could do but fight.
"It's happened before," she stated, glancing between him and Thoros. "There's been another war for the dawn. Mankind won it before, we can win again surely? If Jon really is Azor Ahai…"
The rest of her sentence died in the silence of the others. For a long moment, all they did was listen to the fire crackling in the hearth, relishing its pallid warmth as best they could in the oncoming winter. Suddenly, to Sansa, the whole place felt colder and darker.
"You're still erring on the side of caution with that potion," Marwyn eventually said. "I quite understand. But given all you know, all you've seen, it would be very interesting to see what it shows you."
She had been about to swallow the Shade of the Evening before the Brotherhood arrived, but she saw no need to tell Marwyn. It sounded like an excuse, even to her own ears.
"What potion is this?" enquired Beric.
"Shade of the Evening," Marwyn confirmed.
Thoros made a face. "That blue piss the warlocks of Qarth are so enamoured of? It's worth a try I suppose." He paused a moment, before adding: "R'llhor brought Rhaegar Targaryen back for a reason, though. I'd wager he knows something about all of this."
Sansa remembered something she was once told about Thoros of Myr. That he was sent to Westeros to try and convert Aerys to the faith. Only, by the time he arrived, the rebellion had happened and the fire god would have to wait again. Robert had no interest in the seven, just as he had little interest in any other gods. But he was just a good a drinker as Thoros of Myr. She also the other time she saw them.
"I saw you in a vision the three-eyed crow sent me," she said. "You had my sister in a camp on High Heart and you were with an albino woods witch. She made a prophecy and I was in it. She said she saw a maiden at a wedding with purple serpents in her hair. Then she saw me again, in a castle made of snow, slaying a savage giant." She had their full attention now and she pressed the advantage. "It was king Joffrey's wedding; the poison was in an amethyst in my hairnet. The savage giant was Petyr Baelish, it was his family sigil the Braavosi giant. You know her, too. Who was she?"
"She can't help you now, little lady," Thoros said, not unkindly. "Prophecy is a dangerous thing, isn't that right maester?"
She looked to Marwyn, who nodded his agreement. "A treacherous woman. That's what I've always said about prophecy. Sucking your cock one minute; biting it off the next. Begging your pardons, my lady."
Sansa waved his apologies away. Gone were the days when a little crudeness offended her more than people rising from the dead to attack the living. However, she was still dismayed that they saw no point in finding the little woods witch again. Beric, on the other hand, remained thoughtfully silent throughout and spoke only quietly.
"She might have a point, you know," he said. He glanced through his one remaining eye at each of them in turn. "Haven't you noticed? She's always there. She was there at Summerhall, when the fire happened. She's always hanging around that hill, when she knows we'll be there. She was in Lady Stark's visions. She knows the Three-Eyed Crow. She made the prophecy that the Prince that was Promised would be born from the line of Rhaella and Aerys. I've always thought that mad old goat knew more than she was letting on."
Everyone was silent for a moment, until Sansa said: "If there's even a small possibility that she can help us, then we need to find her again."
But she was all the way over in the Riverlands. And so is Jon, she reminded herself.
"I'm still interested to know what that potion shows you," said Marwyn. "You've seen more of what's out there than any of us."
Sansa nodded. "Tomorrow," she replied. "I'll do it tomorrow."
It was dawn by the time Jon had explained everything to Arya. Outside the storm had abated, but the curtain walls were now decorated with straddling seaweed. An outhouse had blown away and debris scattered the yard below. Arya surveyed it all sadly, looking down from the terrace in his chambers.
Jon couldn't think what to say to her. Everything he thought of felt so woefully insufficient. Just as he was about to say it anyway, she abruptly looked up at him and smiled.
"I don't care," she said. "You're still my brother. You'll always be my brother."
The tension broke and he smiled brightly with relief. "And you'll always be my little sister."
He reached out to muss up her hair, but she expertly dodged out of his way. Laughing, she darted through the open terrace doors, forcing him to chase her. He caught her up easily and mussed up her hair more than he'd ever mussed up it before. She squealed with delight, laughing as they ended up wrestling on the chamber floor. Still he didn't let up, not until a serving girl came to fix their fire.
They broke apart, both red in the face and their clothes askew. Both fell into the nearest seats, regaining their composure. Once the servant had made the bed and fixed the fire, she left and they began talking again.
"We need Black Walder alive," he told her. "Once we have Riverrun back under Tully control, however…"
"Then you'll have the Riverlands and you won't need him anymore," she finished the sentence for him.
"Then he's all yours," he confirmed. "Think of the Red Wedding when you do what you do. But let this be an end to it. After that, we look North and think of the wars to come."
She had had no idea about the Others and the armies of the dead. Which could only mean no one in the Free Cities knew, or would be prepared to help.
"I'll go straight home after Riverrun is taken, I promise," she said. "After that, will Sansa call her banners and go to war?"
Jon hesitated, taking a moment to gather his thoughts. "There's one more thing I haven't told you."
"What?" she asked.
He could even see her guard being thrown back up, bracing herself for bad news. It only served to make him feel worse.
"You said I'll always be your brother," he said. "But Sansa is different."
Arya's face clouded. "What do you mean? Is she still being a bitch toward you, after everything you've done-"
"No!" he cut in, abruptly. "Quite the opposite, in fact."
"But that's the best, it means she loves you after all. I mean, she did anyway but she was so proper about it all the time. I think it was because of mother. But you said even mother approves of you now. Now that she's been brought back, like you and Rhaegar were."
"That's just it," Jon agreed. "We do love each other. I am the heir to the House Targaryen; she is Lady of Winterfell and Wardeness of the North. But even all that to one side, we love each other."
A number of expressions chased themselves across Arya's face as she picked up on what he was hinting at. To his dismay, there was more than a trace of disgust there. "You mean you 'love' love each other?"
Jon faltered and only managed a small nod. "Ever since we worked together and she helped me learn the truth of my parents and then I helped her take back Winterfell… we got to know each other all over again. And I love her, Arya. We're doing nothing wrong."
She still looked far from certain, going so far as to back away from him as if she was about to flee. But she didn't.
"When she came to me, she was broken," he continued. "She'd been sold, beaten and raped. Bolton almost killed her. And when she reached me, she was told that I would die. But she never gave up and crossed the wall, risked her life again to reach Brandon north of the wall, all to reach me and help me find my way back. I would never have survived this without her and, once this is all over, I never wanted to be parted from her again. Or from you, but for different reasons."
Arya sighed, her shoulders dropping again as she relaxed. After another second, she came back to him and covered his hands with her own. "All that matters is that we're back together. After that, we'll all be alright."
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