First Robett Glover, then those stupid guards, then Theon Turncloak in his cell, and now these guards. Lord Bolton can't be the only person in The North who remembered me even though they weren't a Stark, Arya silently fumed as she was led to Winterfell's Great Hall. I bet they all remember Sansa… Suddenly, the youngest daughter of Ned and Catelyn Stark felt a pang of guilt as she realized just how petty her feelings of resentment were, however brief they may have been. I'm safe at Winterfell, but Sansa, she…she's still trapped at The Eyrie with Robin. I won't forget about her though. Never! I'm going to find a way to save her…somehow. Mother would forgive me for what happened at The Twins; I know she would! Sansa was always her favorite; I was just…no, that's not why I'm going to save Sansa. I'm going to do it because she's a Stark of Winterfell…and she's my sister. I couldn't save my parents or Robb, but I can still save her…and I will! The doors opened and suddenly, all of Arya's anger, fear, and grief suddenly gave way to joy so great that it was near impossible to contain. Rickon, it…it's really him! He's alive!
"Arya? That's her! Let go of my sister right now," Rickon shouted, racing to the other end of the Great Hall as fast as his tiny legs would carry him. Some fat lord seated near Rickon's throne nodded and the guards did as they were bid. "Are you okay? I didn't know you were here, else I'd have never let them lock you up in the dungeons. I swear by The Old Gods and The New that I didn't –" Arya hugged her youngest brother before he could finish speaking.
"It's okay, Rickon. I'm fine. It was all just a…a misunderstanding, most like. I'm just glad you're still alive." Arya bit her lip and released her brother. "Is Bran here too?" Rickon shook his head and looked down at the ground in shame.
"The bad place, it –"
"You mean The Dreadfor–"
"NO! You can't say it's name, else it might come back…they might come back." Lord Bolton will never come back… "Lord Manderly said something horrid happened there and…and it's now just a big pile of rubble now. Everyone who was there is dead, most like. You and Bran were still there when I escaped, so I thought you might know where…" The youngest daughter of Ned and Catelyn Stark shook her head sadly. "It's my fault, Arya. I was supposed to protect you and Bran, but I *sniff* I left the bad place without you. I didn't want to, but Lord Mand *sniff* Manderly and The *sniff* Theon s-s-said there was no other way and *sniff* and *sniff* and now Bran is dead," sobbed Rickon.
"It's okay, that…that wasn't your fault. Shhhh. I know you wouldn't have left without us if you had a choice. Shhh."
"Yes, it is! I was *sniff* I was supposed to protect –"
"Rickon, do you trust me?"
"Yes. Of course I duh *sniff* do."
"Good, because I'm about to tell you something really important and I need you to listen to me very carefully. I swear by The Old Gods and The New that none of what happened at The Dread…at the bad place was your fault. It was the Boltons' fault and no one…it wasn't your fault. I wouldn't say that if it wasn't true. Do you understand?"
"I *sniff* I guess so…"
"And you're not the one who failed to protect their kin besides," Arya mumbled, biting her lip.
"What do you mean?" Sansa said she'd forgive me no matter what I'd done and she really meant it, most like, but I couldn't even tell her about… Rickon hasn't even done that much and…and…and I can never tell either of them what happened at The Twins. No matter what either of them says, they still might hate me if they found out that it's my fault mother and Robb are dead.
"I…it's nothing."
"What's wrong? Is there anything I do to –"
"I was just…worried is all. Sansa's alive too. I saw her at The Eyrie after I escaped from The Dreadfor–"
"Please, don't say it," begged Rickon.
"Sorry. Our cousin Robin is Lord of The Eyrie and –"
"So Sansa's safe?"
"No, Robin…he's nowhere near as bad as the Boltons were, but he's a still monster. I don't think he'd ever actually hurt Sansa, but we still need to get her to Winterfell…somehow. She's not safe there. I don't think any army could ever take The Eyrie though. We'd need a dragon, most like," Arya sighed.
"Why didn't the man who brought you to Winterfell just bring Sansa too?"
"Bronn? He wasn't trying to help Sansa and me, he just thought you'd give him some sort of reward for bringing me here. Robin told him to do it and he kept hitting me in the head to make me stop talking besides," grumbled Arya. "You should send him to The Wall with Theon Turncloak. If the turncloak helped save you from the Boltons then he doesn't deserve to die either…not really. Bronn and him just…need to be punished is all."
"Okay, I'll –"
"Rickon, what is…I mean…umm…who is…that," stammered Arya, pointing at a girl with a hideously deformed face who couldn't have been more than a year or two older than the youngest Starkling and had apparently made her way across the Great Hall while the two long-lost siblings were talking. The poor child had a face which – when it didn't inspire immediate and visceral hatred – was oft been greeted with fear and disgust, most like. Even so, Arya forced herself to resist the temptation to look away from the horribly scarred child. As uncomfortable as the girl's face made her – in truth, the mangled, grey, scale-like flesh was a far more unpleasant sight than The Hound's burns or Lord Bolton's coldest stare – it also left the youngest daughter of Ned and Catelyn Stark feeling one thing above all else: pity. You poor thing… I bet most people have treated you horridly your whole life because of your face. Just because you look like a monst…like that…doesn't mean that you deserve to be treated like one…not really. You're just…different is all. Well…whoever you are, I'm going to make sure that no one at Winterfell is cruel to you just because something's wrong with your face ever again.
"I'm glad to see that you are alive and well, Lady Arya. Rickon has spoken very highly of you and it's an honor to meet you," said the scarred girl before doing a curtsey so perfect that it would've made Sansa jealous. "I'm sure we'll become fast friends, just as your brother and I have. I am Shireen of House Baratheon, the one true Queen of –"
"What…what happened to your…I mean…I…I only meant…sorry. It's a pleasure to meet you as well. Which…umm…where did you say you were from again," stammered Arya. The scarred girl quietly sighed and looked down at the ground. Great. If she wasn't thinking about how horrid her face looks before, she's certainly thinking about it now. Seven Hells, how hard can it be to just pretend not to notice her stupid scarred face.
"She's the niece of the dead king father was friends with and she came to The North to ask for our help after her parents died. She's one of the Sothrons who are still fighting south of The Neck, but I like her much better than the other ones. Shireen said she'd let The North be its own kingdom if we helped her, but she needs to stay here right now because some bad people took over King's Landing. I don't like the people she brought with her though. Shireen said they're her friends…or one of them is, so I'm letting them stay at Winterfell too as long as they don't cause any problems. The only one I really hate is this really strange woman who keeps talking to the smallfolk about sacrifices, ice people, and some fire –"
"Riiiiight. Well…any friend of Rickon's is a friend of mine." Did I really just say that? Well…at least I didn't make her look away this time. "And you…what's wrong? Is it…what did I say now?"
"It…it's nothing you said, Lady Arya. Your brother said you wouldn't care how my face looked, but I noticed that you didn't return my curtsey because of –"
"No, it has nothing to do with that. I swear it by The Old Gods and The New. I just…don't curtsey when I'm meeting someone. I was never very good at it. My sister, Sansa, was always much better at that sort of thing."
"Had."
"What?"
"You said 'it has nothing to do with that,' but you were referring to something that already happened. You should've said 'it had nothing to with that.'"
"She does that," grumbled Rickon, rolling his eyes.
"If you never learned how to do a proper curtsey, I could teach –"
"No, thank you."
"Don't you want to learn how to act like a proper lady? Even if you didn't oft practice when you were younger, it's really important for highborn ladies to know how to do a proper curtsey. I'm sure you'll master it in no time," Shireen added, with a cheerful smile. For his part, Rickon was content to snickered at his sister's obvious discomfort. "What? What did I say? I hope I didn't offend you, Lady…wait a minute…I'm sorry. I know what's wrong! You're Rickon's sister, so your proper Northern title isn't 'Lady Arya.' It's 'Princess Arya.'" You seem like a very nice person. I am going to be as patient with you as I can because I know how cruel most people must have been to you over the years and I won't say even complain about Rickon letting a bunch of Sothron strangers live at Winterfell for who knows how long…but don't push it.
No matter how kind you are, you're still a Sothron. Winterfell is not your home, you and your Sothron friends know little and less about winter, and you are not a Stark. That means no matter how kind you seem right now, you could still be dangerous. Robin didn't seem dangerous either at first either… I'll be as nice to you as I can, but trust is something that has to be earned. Rickon may still be willing to give it out to strangers freely, but I know better. If I had learned that lesson sooner, mayhaps mother and Robb would still be alive…
"Please don't call me 'Princess Arya' ever again. And I appreciate your concern, but it would be a waste of time. Septa Mordane couldn't teach me how to curtsey properly, my mother couldn't, and you certainly can't –"
"Can we talk about something else," blurted Rickon, plainly trying desperately to change the subject before an argument broke out.
"Rickon doesn't like being called by his proper title either. Is it some sort of Stark custom not to use people's proper titles," asked Shireen, tilting her head in confusion.
"No, it's just…I prefer being called by my name."
"Okay, I guess I can do that from now on. I really wasn't trying to offend…oh, I understand. It's alright, you don't have to keep pretending," sighed Shireen. "At least you were nice enough to lie and act like something else was making you uncomfortable. Most people don't even do that much…"
"I wasn't lying! Wait…what are you even talking about?"
"You keep staring at the part of her face that –" Seven Hells, Rickon's right! I'm not doing it on purpose. Rickon's had time to get used to…to…that. At least I'm trying…
"I'm sorry, it…it's not…I mean…I barely noticed. Really! It's just…the Boltons also had pale, blue eyes and –" Please let this work! Just because Shireen can be a bit annoying sometimes doesn't mean I wanted to hurt her feelings.
"And I remind you of them? Aren't the Boltons the people who hurt Rickon? I…I would never do anything like that…not to you, your brother, or anyone else. Just because I look this way doesn't mean…" The worst part was that Arya couldn't even look away because the poor girl would've thought that was all because of her face too, most like. At least that fat lord is leaving us alone. He'd just make things even worse, most like.
"No, I just…look, your face is…I haven't seen anyone who looks that way before, but it's okay. What Rickon told you about me was true; I don't care about how your face looks…but I'm not blind either. I'm trying not to rub it in your face…umm…I mean…I'm doing the best I can. Do you understand," asked Arya, half-pleadingly.
"I…I think so. Thank you, Prin…I mean…thank you, Arya," replied Shireen.
"What I do care about is whether you're an honorable woman whom The North and House Stark will be able to count among our friends even after you no longer have need the hospitality of Winterfell…and whether its true that you won't try to convince my brother to bend the knee to you. Far too many Starks have died south of The Neck for me – or any other Northern lord – to ever bend the knee to a Sothron again…not a kind one and not a monster like Joffrey Lannister. My brother is King of The North, but I hope it's as plain to him as it is to me that The North should have as little to do with Sothron affairs as possible once we've gotten Sansa back. The North remembers what happened the last time a Stark followed a Baratheon south of The Neck…and so do I." Is this what it feels like to be a lord? To be important? To really matter? Shireen frowned, only to catch herself almost instantly and hide her disappointment beneath a perfect mask of good-natured indifference.
"Here, here," shouted the fat lord. No wonder you were so quiet… You've been listening to our conversation this whole time, haven't you? That man is smarter than he looks, most like. Rickon needs to be careful around him…
"I understand how you must feel and I appreciate the manner in which you've expressed it. You were much kinder about it than some of the Northmen I've had the pleasure of speaking with," sighed Shireen, glancing at the fat lord. "Is there any way that we could discuss the last part a bit further at some point? Mayhaps there is nothing I can say or do to change your mind, but will you at least give me a chance to try?"
"Ask Rickon. He's the King of The North, not me."
"I know he is, Prin…Arya. I just…I thought you might be able to talk to Rickon about a few things for me…if you think what I have to say makes sense. I know how highly he thinks of you and it might be good to get a second opinion after you've had a chance to listen to what Lord Davos and I have to say." Don't look at that part of her face when you answer. Just ignore it. Don't think about it. Don't think about it. Don't think about it. Don't think about it.
"I'll listen to what you have to say about…whatever is happening in King's Landing right now and I'll tell my brother what I think he should do, but only if he is there with us. There can't be any secrets between Starks anymore." I learned that lesson at The Twins… "It…wouldn't feel right and he's the King of The North besides."
"Can't you be king now, Arya," whined Rickon. "I hate it! It's no fun anymore! Everyone's always asking me for things and then telling me that even though I'm king, that doesn't mean I can do whatever I want."
"They're right," Arya and Shireen replied in unison, much to each other's mutual surprise.
"No, but I…I can try to help, even if Sansa would probably be better at this sort of thing," sighed Arya.
"Excuse me," shouted the fat lord. "Your Grace, I'm sorry to interrupt and I wish to extend my sincerest apologies to your sister about the unfortunate misunderstanding that occurred with respect to her identity, but I fear this cannot wait any longer." That better have been just a misunderstanding or it's going to be even more unfortunate for you, Arya silently fumed, scowling at the fat lord. "As your Regent, I've taken the initiative to summon several Northern lords to Winterfell for a Northern Council to sort out a variety of matters concerning the future governance of The North and your subjects."
"Which lords," asked Arya, frowning.
"Lord Galbart of House Glover will be there. He may have pledged fealty to the Boltons, but I assure you that he was near as loyal to your House as I was during the reign of the bloody Red King Domeric Bolton." Domeric was no true king. Lord Bolton was always the one in charge at The Dreadfort. And if Lord Glover was so loyal, then he wouldn't have pledged fealty to House Bolton besides. I hope…maybe Domeric survived whatever happened at Winterfell. Whatever he did, he didn't deserve to die…not really. I never would've escaped from The Dreadfort without him and…he wasn't like his father or Lord Snow. "Lord Mors of House Umber, Lady Barbrey of House Dustin, Lord Rodrik of House Ryswell, and Lady Alysane of House Mormont should all be making their way to Winterfell as well."
"Too many names," whined Rickon. "You're making my head hurt!"
"Apologies, Your Grace, this is the last one…but I fear it is one of the most important." Then you should have told us about it first! "Arnolf Karstark was supposed to attend as well, but I'm told he died after falling down a flight of stairs and smashing his head open the day after Arnolf's son married his…err…cousin and in so doing became Lord of Karhold. As such, his son, Lord Cregan will be attending instead. Your Grace, Princess Arya, I would urge both of you to exercise great caution around Lord Cregan. The Karstarks were too powerful a House not to invite, but the man is a notorious scoundrel of the worst sort. He is the type of man who will lure a man to his death with a smile, a friendly jape, and outstretched hand. It may interest Your Grace to know that the lad was known to have been quite close with Lord Bolton's bastard before the little shit disappeared from The North without a trace. The way I hear it, those two were thick as thieves from the moment they first met. Lord Cregan may be the friendliest know-it-all you could ever hope to meet, but don't let it fool you. He's a beast in human skin, just like the bastard. I've even heard rumors that when Lord Cregan visited The Dreadfort, Lord Snow and him would oft go into the woods with bloodhounds and…well…such things shouldn't be spoken of while there are highborn ladies in the room." In truth, Lord Manderly's words had hardly registered with Arya, her thoughts were elsewhere on far more important matters. Lady Dustin? Lady Mormont?
Wait…I remember Lady Dustin from when Lord Bolton forced me to wed Domeric. I didn't have a chance to speak freely with her at The Dreadfort, but she seemed a lot more trustworthy than…than…than whatever that stupid fat lord's name is; what House was he from? It doesn't matter…not really. I bet House Mormont and House Dustin were the two loyalist Houses in The North even after the Boltons killed mother and Robb. I can't wait to meet Lady Barbrey again now that I'm not Lord Bolton's stupid prisoner.
And Lady Alysane, she…I still remember the raven she sent the Boltons informing them that neither she nor anyone else would come to The Dreadfort for Domeric's wedding. The raven said "The North has one queen and her name is Stark. House Mormont will not bend the knee to a false king nor to the kingslayer who sired him." Lord Bolton executed her sister Dacey after that because he realized their was no point keeping a Mormont hostage. All the other Northern lords and ladies were there at Domeric's wedding, but not her. Alysane Mormont thought Sansa and me were the only Starks left and she stayed loyal to our House. Even though Robb moved me ahead of Sansa in our House's line of succession in his will, Lady Alysane was talking about Sansa, most like. No one would ever want me to be their Queen no matter how loyal they were to House Stark, that would be…wrong. And I'd be horrid at besides. That doesn't matter…not really. The Mormonts were the only ones who had the courage to tell the Boltons what they really were instead of just going along to get along. I can't believe I'm really going to meet her! This is going to be…it will be like meeting the hero of one those stupid songs Sansa likes…only better because Lady Dustin and Lady Mormont are real.
"Why would you do that," shouted Rickon, plainly having had as much of the subject as he could handle. "Make them all go away, Lord Manderly!" Wyman Manderly, that was his name. I knew he looked familiar and…wait a minute…I heard him pledge fealty to Lord Bolton at Domeric and my wedding. But if he helped Rickon escape then was he just pretending to be a turncloak? But…but…but I thought… "Now there will be even more dumb grown ups here to pretend they're my friends when they really all just want something from me. I hate them already! Make them leave! Tell him, Arya! Tell Lord Manderly no one I don't like is ever allowed in Winterfell again!" Seven Hells, Rickon, you sound like Robin…well…how he'd sound if he weren't a murderous milk-obsessed madman.
"Apologies, Your Grace, but I'm afraid I sent the ravens last week. The lords and ladies should be starting to arrive any day and we must needs discuss –"
"Well then, I…I want Arya to be there when I talk to those lords. She can help me decide what I should say to those stupid old lords and ladies. You said some of the other lords can be tricky, so I'll need help knowing which ones really want to be my friend."
"Yes, of course, Your Grace. Mayhaps it would be best to have another Stark in the room," grunted Lord Manderly. He's just saying that because of what I said about not helping House Baratheon fight in some stupid Sothron war.
"And Shireen can come too, Lord Mand–"
"That is out of the question, Your Grace! The sight of that…that thing's face alone would cause half the lords in The North to drop dead in disgust. And she's a Sothron besides. Even your poor sister had plainly never seen anything half so horrid as that repulsive gargoyle."
"I believe your king just gave us an order, Lord Manderly," replied Arya, looking Lord Manderly directly in the eye. "Rickon is perfectly capable of making his own decisions. Shireen speaks for her House, her subjects, and no one else. I'm sure she understands that and she can always leave the room if private matters must needs be discussed besides. You're right, I have never seen anything like…whatever happened to her face, but then I realized she was my brother's – your king's – friend so I got over it…or at least, I'm trying to. I suppose the other lords will simply have to do the same. Mayhaps it's time you did as well, my lord."
"Fine. Let it be on your head," grunted Lord Manderly. Arya bit her lip. While Shireen and – for some reason – Rickon were plainly both delighted by her words, it was plain from the look on Lord Manderly's stupid four-chinned face that Arya had just made an enemy of him…and quite possibly accomplished nothing in the process except sparing Shireen's feelings today simply so that the poor girl could be ripped to pieces in public tomorrow. What I said, it wasn't a mercy…not really.
