Book II – Chapter 8: Wolfsister

Breaking Free

Jaime couldn't help the excitement bubbling in his chest as he pulled aside the last pieces of masonry blocking the pipe with bloody hands. His arms trembled and spasmed with each fragment of stone he hefted aside, but nothing would stop him now. Not when freedom was so close.

He squeezed a dirty hand through a crack, gripping the cold rock before wrenching back with all the strength he had left. His muscles had lost the tone they'd possessed a month before, thanks to the scarce and infrequent food they managed to find. The malnourishment had taken the last of the other survivors yesterday, a sellsword named Bronn. It had been he and Jaime who'd done most of the work on clearing this old tunnel of debris. Jaime didn't want to think about how the man – witty to the end – didn't get to see his labours completed.

Now, the only one left with him was Tyene, and she would be gone by the end of the day, most likely. She'd caught a hoarse and wet cough, and both of them knew it meant nothing good. Jaime doubted he would last much longer either. How many more people were out there in the pit? Hiding in culverts like this one or the ruins of buildings? Jaime didn't know, and he didn't care. He just wanted out.

The stone came free, and he stumbled back under the unexpected shift of earth. He collapsed to the ground, the stone barely missing his legs.

"TYENE!" Jaime screamed.

"You… you, did it?" a croaking voice echoed from a short distance behind him. The culvert was open. A small sewerage drain leading up to a much larger passage. There was no light to signal how long the walk would be or if the tunnel was even still intact, but he didn't care.

Jaime scrambled to his feet and ran back to where Tyene sat with her back up against the wet dirt wall at the drain opening. Her porcelain skin was tinting grey.

"Jaime… I can't get up," she whispered, trying to move her legs. They shook slightly in time with her infrequent breathes, then stopped as she gave up.

"You've got to go. Get out of here while you still can."

"No," Jaime snapped, sliding his beaten hands beneath Tyene's frail form and hoisting the septa into his arms. "We're both getting out. Come on."

He wrapped her arms around his neck, then stumbled up to the drain, and without once looking back, left the hell hole behind.

He had no idea how long he walked in pitch blackness through the tunnel, but he wouldn't let himself go to sleep. If he did… Jaime knew neither of them would wake up. He didn't have the energy to talk to Tyene and keep her conscious, so he just rubbed her skin with his fingers as he walked and listened to her heartbeat as it kept growing weaker and weaker.

Each step was agony, his entire body quivering with fatigue and the gnawing emptiness born of a lack of food. He had no shoes, so each movement of his bare feet in the grime and the filth of the sewer tunnel was a game of mysteries. Twice he stepped on what he thought was broken glass, slicing his feet open. New wounds to join the myriad other cuts and bruises marring his body from the time in the pit. And with no light, he had no way to know if he was making any headway. He could have gone in a circle, be headed towards a dead end.

There could be a drop in the floor.

Jaime would have no idea until he stepped into it and fell to his death.

But there was nothing that would stop him now. If he died, he died, but it would not be in that wretched abyss behind. He may not have his strength or his speed any longer, and his talent would be no help here, yet his will was still sharp as iron, and this accursed place would not take that from him as well.

Jaime had no way of knowing that he walked in the darkness for twelve hours before light finally manifested in the distance, heralding freedom at last.

The passage ended in a small cleft, cut into a cliff near the edge of the Blackwater Rush, and Jaime couldn't believe his luck. A campsite – abandoned – had been set up around the mouth of the cleft. Laying Tyene down on an abandoned bedroll, he pilfered the barrels and backpacks left behind and found several packs of dried meat, flasks of water, blankets, and crates of what were no doubt smuggled casks of Arbor gold. The passage itself had probably been used to move goods into the city in secret. If Jaime had possessed a torch, he might have found trap doors in the roof of the tunnel as he walked. No doubt, the camp had been abandoned after the city went up in flame.

The why wasn't important now. Now, all he cared about was survival, and after he forced some meat, water and wine down Tyene's throat, he bundled her tight in the bedroll. Only then did he finally let himself crash on a bed of his own.

The Lone Wolf Dies

With the benefit of hindsight, there was an essential question that Bran and Ysilla had forgotten to ask themselves when they arrived in the ruined town. One they were abruptly reminded of as they ran as fast as they could back into the tree line and continued their journey south.

An army had destroyed the town. Where did it go?

It didn't take long before the chirping of birds and scurrying of animals through the undergrowth of the forest gave way to the sound of hammer strokes and horses. The scent of woodsmoke and fresh meat permeated the air, and Ysilla pulled Bran down into a tree hollow, both panting and shivering with tension and fear.

The raven perched on a branch in the tree opposite, glaring at them, though whether in mockery or annoyance, Bran could only guess.

"What do we do?" Ysilla hissed, voice breaking. Bran didn't know; he was barely containing his own terror. If these people were willing to burn an entire town to the ground, what would they do to two children lost in the wild?

Ysilla peered around the hollow, then jerked back and pressed right up against the trunk, shivering uncontrollably. The raven cawed, then flew away, darting north as fast as its little wings could carry it. The stupid bird decided to abandon them now? Now?!

Ysilla grabbed Bran's hand and squeezed it tightly, lips trembling. Then came the sound of footsteps. Heavy boots, clinking as they trampled leaves and twigs on the ground.

"If you think about it, this plan of Lord Arryn's is pretty ingenious," a stern voice said, growing closer with each step.

"Why? All we're doing is trampling through the countryside. The Red Lady's host gets all the fun stuff, fighting the damn rebels up north," a second voice, more high pitched, answered.

"No, no, you have to really think about it. It all depends on what those Lannisters do. We're the insurance you see. The Lannisters have to work with either Blackwood or Bracken to cross the Riverlands and hit us. I mean, they ain't gonna go work with the fuckn Freys. Dodgy blokes those Freys."

"Right about that. But what does that have to do with us?"

"See, and I'm just speculating, I ain't on no councils or nothing, but if the Lannisters go north, we come around and take them in the ass – catch them between both armies and the river. If they go south, we take 'em by surprise, and the other army comes down and slams 'em!"

The two men stopped, right beside the tree, and Bran stopped breathing. Sweat beaded across his forehead, down his back, under his arms, everywhere. And he gripped Ysilla's hand like his life depended on it.

"That's actually bloody brilliant. It's a win-win!" The second guard – a tall willowy man – said, slapping his comrade on the back of his slate grey armour, a mixture of steel plate, cured leather around the joints, and animal hide by the look of it. The first guard was dressed the same, but he was shorter, bulkier, and wore a helmet hiding his face.

"Told ya so."

The two resumed their walk, taking them past the hollow and out towards the perimeter. Bran and Ysilla both sucked in gentle breaths, a little tension bleeding from their bodies. Okay. If they could duck away, go back the way they came and go east, maybe, they'd make it out. Once the men were out of eyeshot and earshot… Bran braced himself to rise, and his hand cracked a twig on the ground.

The two guards froze in time with Bran's own heart, then turned around, hands dropping to the swords buckled to their waists.

"Alarm! Intruders!" The tall guard shouted, and they advanced forward. But they didn't draw their weapons.

"Are you spies?!" The short one asked, narrowing dark eyes, just visible under the visor of his helmet.

"NO!" Ysilla exclaimed, backing as far she could against the tree, trying almost to become one with the bark. But she didn't let go of Bran's hand. "We're just lost. Our town was destroyed. We ran away! Please, we didn't mean to find you. We can leave!"

Five more men appeared in tight formation, weapons drawn, eyes coming to rest on Bran and Ysilla.

"Kids?" the lead man said, snorting then sheathing his blade. "Get 'em up and take 'em to the captain. Dealing with spies is above my pay grade."

"We're not spies! Please!" Ysilla tried again, but it was no use. Two new guards grabbed Bran and Ysilla, pulling them apart and shoving them towards the camp. They took Bran's dagger, and before long, their wrists were bound, and they were being led towards a city of tents nestled beneath the canopy. The same banner – the golden stag, wreathed in fire – displayed proudly from tent poles. And in the centre of the encampment was a fresh pyre of dry logs and kindling.

But the Pack Survives

In Arya's defence, it took her a solid hour before she decided to trust the talking bird.

The raven had landed, as birds were wont to do, on a branch near her head as she walked through the forest. However, when it had subsequently started berating her in a tone eerily reminiscent of Arya's deceased mother, she had come a hair's breadth from putting an arrow through the creature's eye.

In all honesty, a talking raven shouldn't have shocked her as much as it did. After all, Arya had for some time now been quite capable of seeing through the eyes of other animals, including ravens. Furthermore, she'd grown up on her father's stories of the Old Gods who whispered on the wind and saw through the eyes of Weirwoods, and her country was once conquered by three dragon riders. Talking birds, really, weren't that much of a step.

She seriously did consider just shooting the thing and continuing the search for her brother, but when the creature said it knew where Bran was and that he was in trouble, Arya had no choice but to listen to it. That had jogged Arya's memory of her vision, and the raven Bran said was following them. A raven she couldn't connect to.

Her fate sealed, Arya decided to trust the raven, and she let it guide her rapidly to the south, her wolves following behind.

By the time they reached the ruins of Wendish Town (according to Arya's map), a miserable rain had set in, and she'd pulled her furs close around her, hood up to cover her hair.

The Red Lady, or her disciples at least, had clearly been here. The town was deserted, burnt nearly to the ground, and a great pyre constructed in the centre – one of Stannis' flags left behind. As she came close to the pyramid of burnt wood, her stomach threatened a rebellion, and Arya needed to take several deep breaths to prevent herself from vomiting. There were bones and charred pieces of flesh scattered amongst the logs, and though the smell was obscured by the scent of ash, so thick she could taste it on the air, it didn't make the image any less unsettling.

If Arya thought her reaction was terrible, the wolves had a far worse one. Ghost froze halfway through the village and steadfastly refused to go any further. Browneyes wouldn't enter the town at all, and the others took to circling the perimeter, hackles low. Only Nymeria stayed by Arya's side, butting her head against Arya's leg as a source of comfort. She appreciated it more than the wolf could know.

She left the town behind as fast as possible, following the raven back into the forest. By the time night began to fall, Arya had found Stannis' army.

Arya came back to herself, carefully hidden in a patch of undergrowth maybe a half-league from the camp. Taking a deep breath, she reached out to Nymeria and ran a hand through her thick fur.

Maybe four thousand men? Not something she could infiltrate on a whim. And Bran and Ysilla were being held near the very centre of the encampment, bound to a wooden post and left out in the rain. That being said, she did have some good news. The Red Lady was not here. The scent of whatever magic she possessed was noticeably absent.

Okay, Arya, think. Obella, Rhaenys and Jon taught you about fighting. It's more than just waving your knives around. You have to outsmart your enemy, which shouldn't be hard because most people are dunderheads.

Arya had one significant advantage, one power card she could play. Her connection with the wild. To reach Bran and Ysilla, not to mention escape unnoticed and unpursued, she'd have to play it well. She closed her eyes and thought back to the images the hawk had seen. The men had hobbled their horses on the northern side of the camp, in several long rows, so they didn't get in the way. Arya knew animals far better than she knew people. And horses did not like sudden movements, especially ones made by a pack of wolves.

That would distract the guards around the edge of the camp, but not the ones near the heart where Bran and Ysilla were being held. What else could she do?

The raven cawed from a tree branch opposite her hiding place, then the voice of an elderly man spoke in her mind.

'There are more than just wolves roaming the forest tonight.'

Arya glanced skyward. That hawk was still there. A family of mockingbirds were perched in the tree three metres on her right, and an eagle's nest occupied a tall pine right beside the camp's eastern entrance.

"I can do that?" She whispered, disbelief evident in her tone.

The bird didn't answer, which was supremely unhelpful. Gods, but she wished Obella were here right now.

But Arya was never one to retreat from a challenge, so she gripped Nymeria's fur in a vice with one hand and dug her fingers into the dirt with the other.

She tried reaching out, focussing not on a single tether as she usually did to slip her skin, but in a general sense instead. The wolves, scattered around the forest, raised their heads, hearing her intentions like words on the wind. They were eager for blood, eager for the hunt, and they could sense Bran inside the camp. One of the wolves, a silver-furred, yellow-eyed beast with no name, howled into the cloudy sky, scattering a dozen birds to the wind. When she pushed the pack just a little, they understood her idea, and Lady started rounding up the younger pups for a run at the horses. Ghost, Shadow and Darkeyes darted around the edges of the encampment instead. Their targets were the patrolling guards and scouts. Nymeria, the silver, and Sandspray – a sandy-yellow coloured wolf who loved swimming and reminded Arya of Obella – stayed with Arya herself, constantly sniffing and on the lookout for threats to her person. Sandspray was the second eldest of Ghost and Darkeyes' pups; her elder sister, the wolf Arya knew only as Silence, a beast with a midnight dark coat and purple eyes. Tonight, she and Darkeyes were far to the North, for Ghost's she-wolf was near to birthing a new litter. They would take no part in the battle to come.

The wolves set about their work, and soon enough, soft cries of pain – quickly silenced – bounced through the trees.

Part two? Gods, she didn't know what she was doing.

Turning her attention to the canopy, Arya let her mind drift. She flitted from tether to tether, searching for what she wasn't sure. Something nudged her to the east, and Arya angled that way until she stopped on a gyrfalcon with feathers a deep bronze. Shimmermist. Arya tapped the bird's mind, opening sapphire eyes and looking out over the forest in wonder. She would never not feel giddy, looking down at the world. The falcon, not dissimilar to the birds Willas had taught her with, fell from its branch at Arya's intrusion, squawking in shock and confusion. Arya cooed in her ear, whispering of the thrill of the chase, of soaring on the winds and snatching prey unawares.

The bird keened in the embrace of Arya's mind, and control was hers. Shimmermist. For the falcon's love of flying in mist, feathers glistening with dew.

Delicately, they darted through the forest, calling to the other creatures nesting amongst the trees. Arya let the falcon lead the way, using her delight at flying to keep her distracted. Instead, she touched as many tethers as she could. She thought there might be another force there, helping her, but she could neither see it nor hear it. Bluebirds, magpies, parakeets, crows, hawks… soon, the entire forest was awake with birdsong as they soared beneath the canopy, weaving and dancing.

Towards the camp.

Arya snapped awake, head pounding, entire body aching with fatigue. Her thoughts, sluggish, as if moving through a current of heavy water. It was too much. She couldn't… more tired than she'd ever been after reaching out before.

But the job wasn't done yet, far from it.

She tried rising from her hiding place, using all her limbs to push off the ground, but her arms and legs broke into violent shakes, and she collapsed to the ground, panting at the effort. Nymeria pushed her nose against Arya's face, and she let out a deep, hoarse breath. She… she really needed to sleep now.

Bran! She needed to get to her brother…

'I will take it from here. Your body must rest for a moment. Run with your pack, Wolfsister. Run in your dreams.'

Then, like the rumbling of thunder before a storm, came the beating of wings. Dozens, no, more. An entire flock of birds of all shapes and sizes, singing and screeching into the dusk and patter of the rain. Sandspray and the silver bounced away from their hiding place, racing through the undergrowth at the head of the swarm.

She… she had done it after all. Yay. Go me…

Arya's eyes fluttered shut, and when she opened them again, she was running along the forest floor, snug in the back of Sandspray's mind.

Her body may be out of commission, but that wouldn't stop her from helping Bran. She just needed a little four-legged help.

Blood of the Wild

'Get up, Brandon!'

Bran jolted awake, still shivering from the soft rain pattering down around them. His clothes were saturated, hair sticking to his face, the earth around his feet turned to mud by the downpour. He and Ysilla were tied to a post in the ground across from the largest tent in the camp. But the tent was not the source of the constant dread of the past two hours since their capture. That belonged to the stack of wood arranged into the shape of a pyre, standing right in the centre of the camp. A flag billowed from the summit – a golden stag on a black field, wreathed in crimson flame. The banner of Stannis Baratheon.

No wonder everyone was at war with him.

Fortunately for Bran and Ysilla's continued survival, the camp's commander was apparently away to the North, surveying some target the host would be hitting in the coming days on the orders of someone called the 'Red Lady'. Bran had an uncomfortable feeling he knew who this Red Lady was. The witch responsible for converting all these soldiers to a religion that burned people alive.

Including Bran and Ysilla, as soon as he returned and decided what to do with them.

Bran blinked the sleep and water from his eyes, searching for the source of the voice.

The raven was perched atop the pyre, beady eyes staring down at them both.

'Prepare,' it said, words rippling through Bran's mind, and the shiver that passed through him then had nothing to do with the cold.

Bran tapped Ysilla's hand, and she stirred slowly to wakefulness, gripping Bran's hand in a tight squeeze before letting go. As if to remind herself he was still there.

"Bran… what is that?" Ysilla hissed, and Bran swivelled his head to see where she was looking. Soldiers by the dozen were rising up from their seats and tents, shading their eyes against the pattering of the rain. The sky to the north turned dark, then came the noise. A cacophony the like of which Bran had never heard before. Screeching and singing and the beat of a hundred wings. A flock of birds of all shapes and sizes tore through the skies above the camp, and the soldiers lost it. Men threw down their weapons and ran for the perimeter; others armed bows and tried to shoot into the sky. The harsh whinny of wild horses echoed through the dark, then the boots of men fleeing and hollering as they ran. The two guards watching Bran and Ysilla took one look at their charges, then bolted.

"Come back! You can't leave us!" Ysilla screamed. No one listened.

Bran's heart was pounding, his head whipping in all directions as he tried to understand what was happening… and two eyes peered out of the darkness.

Half as tall as a horse, an enormous wolf padded out from between the tents, yellow eyes locked on Bran. He had seen this creature before. Ran in its skin, seen through its eyes.

Summer.

The direwolf stepped on ginger paws to Bran's side, then used its teeth to rip his bindings apart. Another wolf appeared behind them, this one with skin like dirty sand, approaching Ysilla. She screamed, trying to flinch away, and Bran tightened his grip on her fingers.

The wolf had Arya's eyes.

She ripped apart Ysilla's bindings, then stepped away. The birds were still flying overhead, shrieks and crows setting the entire camp in chaos.

A distraction.

"How? How are you doing this!?" Bran yelled to the raven, yet his eyes never strayed from Summer, who stood silently and watched. Ysilla pulled herself tight against Bran's side, and he swore he could actually hear the blood pumping through her veins.

'MOVE!'

Bran did as he was told.

He pulled Ysilla to her feet, and the wolves darted towards the southern side of the encampment. Bran and Ysilla stumbled after them, running despite the numbness in their muscles and joints from being tied up and the hunger in their stomachs. If anyone saw the two children running behind the gigantic beasts, they didn't try to stop them. They simply hid in their tents or ran in the other direction.

They reached the edge of the camp, and the wolves led them right out the main gate and straight past the stakes surrounding the perimeter. A picket line near the entrance had been torn asunder, horses scattered out into the forest, soldiers both chasing after them and fleeing the birds. But even as they ran out the gate, they discovered just how unsafe the forest was too. A great direwolf with fur white as snow launched out of nowhere and ripped out a man's throat. Another appeared a few moments later, dragging a screaming man into the darkness.

Bran and Ysilla clung to one another, trembling in some mixture of wonder and terror. Then a rider came pounding out of the dark, clinging to a black-coated filly, flanked by two direwolves.

"Come on!" Arya shouted, standing in her stirrups, ponytail flashing out behind her. She was grinning something fierce, but Bran could tell she was utterly exhausted just from the bags under her eyes. She held out an arm, and Ysilla grabbed hold. Arya pulled her up behind her, then Bran was scrambling up to follow.

"Witch! Kill the witch!" Someone shrieked, but Arya was already wheeling around and spurring her horse into a gallop away from the camp. Bran turned around just in time to watch Summer pounce atop a man, claws tearing his face to pieces.

Arya let out a piercing whistle, and the wolves turned away from the camp, arcing out into the forest. The flock of birds shattered apart, as if the power holding them together suddenly withdrew.

They kept riding as peace fell across the woods once more, the only sounds the snuffling of Arya's filly and the rustling of the undergrowth as the wolves raced alongside them.

Authors Notes:

Arya power bitches.

Next week, Daenerys makes her decision, we learn just what's become of Kings Landing since the Burn, and our gurl Margaery makes her epic return!