King of Winter, King of Rivers; King of Ice and Snow
Chapter Six: Devils Don't Fly (so don't expect me not to Fall)
I KNOW PLEASE DON'T at ME
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When Talisa first left Volantis for backwards Westeros, she had not dreamed that this would become her life. She ran away from her titles to become something worthwhile, a healer who always tried her best – and she still is, she is the Master Healer for the sovereignty of Westeros' North, but she is also their Queen. She's not a queen that they expected or even like most days, she doesn't think, but at least she is here. She is on campaign with them, she knows courts and battlefields and life and death both.
And now, she finally has a chance to learn of her goodsiblings. She does not think that Robb will meet with Marqelo any time soon – her brother being content as a young nobleman of Volantis whose days are spent playing music and pretty people both – but she is glad that the first sibling of her husband's that she meets is the missing sister.
Arya Underfoot is even skinnier than Robb had described her, her North-dark hair cut short and choppy and her fraying clothes clearly meant for a boy rather than a princess. She had been in shock after last night's skirmish, but Talisa had managed to coax some reactions from her all the same. She had hoped to get to know the little girl better, but Arya is sleeping like the dead; so Talisa and little Jorelle kept themselves entertained by playing a Volantene game of her childhood, Two Truths and a Lie. Once Jorelle had grasped the mechanics of the game, she had started to give Talisa a run for her money, levelling the playing field. Talisa looked forward to teaching the game to Robb and the rest of his siblings.
(Well. She looked forward to a lot of things with her husband. She looked forward to the children they would have (tigers and wolves, healers and killers and above all survivors), she looked forward to a day when his people would be her people, and she looked forward to the days when they could afford to spend time abed.)
In the distance, wolves howl. In the dead weirwood tree for which the castle is named, thousands of ravens caw and chatter to each other.
In the bed beside them, Arya Underfoot shoots awake.
Jorelle swears colourfully, but Talisa is used to patients' sudden return to the waking world, and takes it in stride.
"Are you well, adelphḗ?" Talisa asks her, moving to check the smaller girl's temperature with the back of her hand, movements slow and obvious.
"Is Gendry alright?" Arya demanded instead, pulling back to eye Talisa somewhat wearily.
"He woke briefly during the hour of the wolf – he ate some, we consulted on his wound, and he went back to sleep. He was worried for you too."
Arya looks at him, face scrunched up in an attempt to drive off tears, before she looks back at Talisa with eyes a burning grey. "Sansa and the others are nearly here. Robb told Grey Wind to go and grab them."
"Ah, is that where he went? He left shortly after Gendry went back to sleep."
"Robb also says to say that he loves you and misses you too."
Talisa gave her a blinding smile for that and thanked her, picking up one of the small bread rolls that she had kept handy for her two patients and passing it to her goodsister. "Would you like some tea while we wait, Arya?"
"Um, please."
"More food?"
"Is there more?"
"Some soup for now, and more bread once I see how your stomach handles the soup."
"Thank you."
Robb is a self-conscious patient whenever he ends up in the healing tents, embarrassed that he needs the help and angry with himself that he cannot do the fifty thousand other jobs that are always awaiting the young king. Talisa imagines that his wild sister might be the same, so she turns to Jorelle and continues the game, "My grandfather is one of the Triarchs of Volantis, my brother is three-years my junior, and I learnt to birth babes in a brothel."
Jorelle chokes on her tea and exclaims, "The last one's the lie! You didn't learn nothing from no brothel, your grace!"
Talisa laughs. "Oh no, that one is true! They are surprisingly sanitary and protective of mother and babe – the sooner a whore recovers from the birthing beds, the sooner she can work again, yes?"
Jorelle clicks her tongue, and says, "The lie was your brother's age?"
"No, Marqelo really is only three years younger than me. My great-grandfather Malaquois one of the Triarchs of Volantis. Your turn."
"I am four-and-ten, I have two nieces, and I am born of my mother coupling with a bear."
"You cannot keep throwing out the bear line when you cannot think of anything else!"
"That wasn't in the rules, your grace!"
"The game is Two Truths and a Lie, Jorelle! You can't keep giving me two lies!"
"It's not a lie!" Jorelle shot back. "Our mother warged a bear to breed strong children, everyone knows this!" Here she turns to Arya. "My lady, you know this! Tell her!"
Arya is quiet, watching them both with hard eyes, before she says, "The lie was that you have two nieces – you have a niece and a nephew, by your second sister. And, everyone has heard the story, but that doesn't mean they believe it."
Jorelle scoffs, throwing herself back in her seat. Talisa laughs, and asks Arya if she would like to join the game.
"Two Truths and a Lie?" Arya doublechecks, taking tiny sips of soup at Talisa's direction. "Alright. My name is Arry, I am right-handed, and I'm a water-dancer."
"The name!" Jorelle says immediately.
Talisa frowns. "Normally I'd say it was the water-dancer part – you are no Braavosi, adelphḗ, but I saw some of how you moved last night, and I'm pretty sure you were using the left hand? That's where the concentration of your callouses are."
"I am left-handed," Arya agrees, blank-faced.
"You're a good liar, my lady," Jorelle tells her. Arya gives her a tiny almost-smile, then asks whose turn it is. They go round and round for another half-hour, before Grey Wind lets himself into the room with a low whine.
"Hello, handsome," Talisa tells him, scratching beneath his chin right where he likes it best. "Who've you brought with you?"
The lady-knight who had sworn herself to Lady Catelyn comes in first with the Kingslayer slung over one shoulder. Behind her comes a girl with the same eyes and hair as her husband and goodmother, a fat boy with dark curls, and then a giant of a man with dark hair and a massive burn covering half of his face.
"Took you long enough," Arya grumbles, holding out a cup of tea to her sister.
Sansa smiles beatifically at her sister before sketching a bow to Talisa. "It is an honour to meet you, you grace."
Talisa waves away the courtesy, standing and offering a hand to the girl. "None of that, goodsister. Talisa is fine, thank you. How is everyone? Any injuries?"
"Just him," grunts the man, jerking a thumb at the Kingslayer.
Talisa clicks her teeth, then moves to grab the spare cot from the corner. "What happened?"
"Lord Bolton's men cut off his hand," The Lady-knight says stiffly.
"Jorelle, put a pot of water on the boil for me," Talisa snaps at that, gesturing for the Kingslayer to be brought closer. "Lady Knight, when did that happen, how long ago?"
"Nearly a week ago, now."
"What treatments have been given?" She kept her voice firm and business-like whilst she unwrapped the soiled bandages from the amputated stump.
"Wine to disinfect on that first day, hot water every day since at dawn and dusk, and the tincture as best we could replicate from your instructions every evening."
Talisa clicks her tongue when she sees the mess of flesh and near-exposed bone. "What did they use, a hatchet?"
"A belt-knife, your grace," provides the lady knight.
Talisa drops a choice phrase in Volantene, draws in a deep breath, and reaches for her bag. "Well, it's a good thing we collected those herbs when we did, Jorelle. Can you grab the paste I made last night when you're done with the water, please?"
"Yes, your grace!"
"I can get it." Arya says mulishly, carefully standing and shaking out her legs. "Where is it?"
"Over there, by the fireplace. Thank you, Arya."
Like a shadow the younger girl slinks over and back while Talisa carefully threads her stitching needle and lays it out for when she will need it. Jorelle comes back in with fresh water in the pot and puts it to boil, then directs Sansa's company to take a seat and rest, and goes to fetch them food. "Some for Gendry too, I think," Talisa calls after her. "I expect he will wake again sooner than later. And ask after the barmaid again for me too, please!"
"What did your last slave die of?" Jorelle snarks as she dips through the doorway. Talisa snorts, giving the Kingslayer a few sips of wine to take the edge off.
"So, tell me then." She says to her goodsisters, readying cloths under the amputated area in preparation of further disinfecting. "Arya, there's been no word of you since this war started – and Sansa, nothing of note has been said of yourself since Stannis took the Blackwater. Tell me a little of your stories while we wait for Jorelle and the water, please?"
Arya gestures to her sister to go first, and at the fat boy to sit next to her on Gendry's cot. Sansa keeps her story brief, telling of how the man Sandor Clegane freed her when the Blackwater burned, how she discovered that she was a warg and used the skill to find Arya and her boys, and that they found Lady Brienne and Ser Jaime by accident. Talisa's impression of the taller girl is that of courtesies and court pleasantries – this little sister doesn't trust her yet, and Talisa can't blame her but also wants to know why. Arya's traumas are obvious enough, a little girl on the road surrounded by only men, but what could have made a court-bound girl so skittish?
By the time Sansa is done, Jorelle is back, but Talisa gestured for Arya to tell her story all the same. Again she is only given a glossed-over tale – smuggled out by the Nights Watch after watching Eddard Stark's execution, captured on the road by the Mountain and his men, escaping Harrenhal just in time and apparently by accident (and while Arya is an excellent liar, the same cannot be said for the boy Hot Pie), joining up with Sansa and Clegane, then capturing Ser Jaime. Talisa notes that no one has said who Brienne and Jaime needed to be rescued from, and Jorelle had picked up gossip that Arya and Gendry had been selling horses and smithing for coin before last night's incident. Not everything is adding up yet, but, that was fine. The girls would either tell her or tell Robb eventually, and until then there wasn't much point in worrying over the fact. So she hums and finishes with the stitches and readies the posset, and commits to memory what she will need Robb to discover when all is said and done.
Once Talisa is finished restitching Ser Jaime's arm, Sansa goes to find the tavernkeeper to ask about baths, and then frog-marches her sister to make sure she scrubs everywhere. Arya snaps and snarls and tries to kick Sansa out a half-dozen times, but she stays firm. The moment Arya is in the bath and is scrubbing viciously at the muck that's coating her, Sansa whispers, "Robb has issued an invitation to King Mance Rayder to bring his people to this side of the Wall."
"I know, he told me."
Sansa looks at her, looks at her, and there must be something on her face because Arya freezes. "That's what I was doing while we were riding for here. There's going to be a Council of the Clans to discuss Robb's terms, and if the Wildlings don't like the terms, they'll kill Jon and my warg Ding."
Arya makes a wounded, whining sort of noise. After a deep breath, Sansa continues. "Robb made a pocketbook alphabet so I could pass on messages more easily. Jon doesn't have that, so I've been trying to give him a speech by carving letters into the snow, and … and I don't know how well it will go."
"Can't you talk to him, like you can with Bran?" Arya demanded.
"I've tried!" Sansa chokes out, holding onto her tears by a thread. "I've tried with all of you, and Bran is the only one who can hear me, and I don't know why!"
"Why are you telling me?"
"I have to tell someone," She whispers. "They will tell us both their decision in a day or two, and if they don't like it – I won't leave Jon on his own. We weren't ever close, but he's my brother too, and someone needs to know in case… in case anything happens, alright?"
"Neither of you are going to die!" Arya snarls, half-rising from the bath.
"But we might, and if we do, someone needs to know." Sansa says firmly. "I've done what I can for Jon, so until he makes me an alphabet to use or until Ding's beak thaws enough to try more messages, I'm going to do what I can here – I've written up all of my plans and what new knowledge I was able to glean since last I spoke with Robb for you, just in case. Did you have the opportunity to get the cloth I asked for?"
"It'll be here somewhere, we left it in our rooms when we went smithing yesterday."
"Good. I'll finish my pieces before the Council makes their decision, and have everything ready for everyone."
"Pieces?"
Sansa stands and sluices half of a bucket of water over her head; Arya shrieks, and shakes herself like a dog. Once she's done, Sansa steps back to the bath and presents the knee-length tunic-like dress she had designed, an amalgamation of Ygritte's own attire and the typical Northerman. A thin high-necked vest and long leggings in black will act as the underthings, until her smallclothes are washed and dried, with a long-sleeved thigh-length tunic in white overtop. The padded Stark-grey overtunic is a little longer, going to Arya's knees. Painstakingly, Sansa had stitched Nymeria's likeness on the breast of both tunics in black, grey and white, with a single yellow eye glaring balefully. The new coat had been the hardest part, lined with rabbit fur and leathers that Sansa had attempted to cur with Lady Brienne's assistance over the days that they had spent in the clearing. It was designed to drape from the shoulders without covering the arms like a cloak might, with leather ties cinch under the right armpit.
"It's not yet warm enough for a true Northern snowstorm," Sansa demurs, watching as her sister looks at everything before pulling it on. "I had hoped to add warmer pelts before we returned home, but if not I'm sure Mother can add them for you, now that the base design is there. I spoke with Gendry already about preparing armour and we briefly discussed what a new sort of Stark armour might look, but that might need to wait until later to be implemented. And, I haven't seen Nymeria in so long that I wasn't sure of her appearance anymore, not really, and I –!"
"Sansa." Arya interrupts. She tugs the coat on over her head and laces it up, rebelts her tunics and slips Needle into place. "It's perfect. Nymeria will be here soon, so you can compare then."
"Are you sure?"
"Mm. You've done this for everyone?"
"Bran said you needed something fancy to wear to court, and Rickon suggested something Wildling in origin," she demurs again. "I've made new tunics for the little boys, and just needed the new cloth for the older boys. I still need to put the sleeves and embroidery on Robb's, and have yet to start Jon's at all, and I'd wanted to start on something for Talisa too, and – "
"They'll love it." Arya snaps, stops, breaths and smooths a hand over the Nymeria stitching. "I love it. Thank you, Sansa."
Sansa smiles brightly at her, runs a shaking hand over her braids, and swallows. "Thank you, Arya."
"Your turn for a bath, you stink."
"I do not!"
Arya smirks at her, and goes to call for a maid to help her fill a new tub for Sansa. "Oh," she says in the doorway, turning back to face her sister. "What about yourself?"
Sansa looks at her feet – a tell she had once shared with Bran – and whispers, "I yet need more cloth for that too. I'm … going to make a statement, with my new dress."
"What sort?"
Sansa is quiet again, biting her lip like Arya and Mother are wont to do. "A lady's armour is her courtesies and her appearance. I need to become more striking,"
"You're beautiful, isn't that striking enough?"
"No, that's not the same. I need people to see me and develop a particular impression, and then I need to drive that impression home."
"What sort of an impression do you want to create?"
"I need to be respected, if anything I say or report is going to have weight behind it. I need people to think me otherworldly, so that they believe my title of warg. I need them to know that no matter what, I am a Stark."
"You know how to pull it off?"
"I … I believe so. I just need a bit more time to finish it."
"Alright." Arya nods at her, says I'll be quick, and goes to grab the maid.
He'd had to wait until everyone was distracted before he could sneak away, and even then he'd had to lie and say he needed to make water. Everyone except for Hodor had been watching him closely since he'd asked about eligible brides, but now he had a chance to ask the sibling who would know best.
"Sansa!" Rickon hisses up at the raven Bir. "Sansa, I need you!"
A shift in the air, and the bird flits down to a branch so that it is eyelevel with Rickon. AAAAYYYYEEE.
"I need your help." Rickon tells her firmly. "Bran says I'm too little, but I am a Stark too, and I want to help."
Sansa cocks their head to one side, and gives a curious trill.
"Erena Glover, Sara Karstark, Theona Wull, Danny and Grey Flint, Hylry Knott, Nel Snow. These are all of the noble Northern ladies that are nearly my age. Who should I betroth to?"
Sansa caws loudly at that, beating the air with her wings. Despite his shushings, the noise attracts Osha and Meera.
"What is it, what's set your sister off?" Osha demands, pike spinning in her hands.
"Nothing, we're talking! Go away!"
Meera says slowly. "Rickon, what did you say?"
"That's between me and Sansa!"
Sansa squarks and flutters about his head, not quite angry. Meera offers a raised hand to Sansa, and invites her back to the camp so that Bran can translate. Sansa bows to her in thanks but flies ahead, hissing and spitting as she goes. Rickon drags his feet, and by the time Osha and Meera have marched him back, a pale Bran is shaking in his furs and glaring at Rickon.
"We told you, you're too young for marriage!" Bran snapped at him. "Now you've upset Sansa, too!"
Sansa snapped at Bran's nose and hissed, and Rickon growled himself. "I want to help, and this is the only way that I can! It's easy for you, when all of this is over you can just marry Meera!" This causes both Bran and Meera to choke and splutter, and Jojen to stutter out a rather strangled laugh. "But I don't know any of these other girls, and want to know who would be the best plotical marriage!"
"Political," Meera corrects weakly, face buried in her hands and hidden by a curtain of curls while Osha smirks at her.
"Sansa says that you are too young by far," Bran snaps, red-faced.
"Then what are we going to do?" Rickon demands of them. "Robb was promised to a Frey girl, but his mate is from Volantis. Sansa was promised to Joffery, but that's not going to happen anymore, and, and she's done all of this so that she doesn't have to marry! Arya is promised to Elmar Frey and can't get out of it. Which means that Bran and I have to marry Northerners!"
"… Sansa says you're right there," Bran repeats dutifully. "She also says that the Karstarks will need appeasing, having lost their vengeance on Jaime Lannister, and a daughter of a fourth son marrying one of the princes would do it. Erena Glover would be a strong match to a good house, and Nel Snow would win you all of the Mountains. But she agrees with me and says you're too young!"
"And Arya's too young to be fighting in the War, but no-one's stopping her!" Rickon snarls.
"Arya has training!" Bran exclaims. "What can you do?!"
"I can do this!" Rickon howls back. "I can make our family safe!"
Bran looks to the raven and says in a tone that must be Sansa's, "That's our job as the older siblings!"
"The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives!" Rickon snarls, crouched and hands clawed at his sides, Shaggy bent and growling beside him. "I'm your brother too, I have to protect you too! Don't leave me out because you think I'm too little, you're protecting you, not me! I don't want to be the last of the Starks, I want us all to go home together! This is all I can do, I'm too little to lead Councils or Castles or armies, but I can marry someone. So tell me who will keep us safest, so I can do it."
Sansa warbled sorrowfully, and flew from Bran's shoulder to Rickon's, preening his curls. Rickon looks back to Bran, who shrugs and says quietly, "She's crying. She says that you're being very grown up, and this should never have been asked of you."
"None of this should have been asked of any of us." Rickon shrugs, running a knuckle down a feathery back. "And no one is asking me – I'm volunteering."
"Sansa says she'll ask Robb," Bran says after five minutes of quiet. "But politically speaking, either Sara Karstark or Nel Snow."
"And they're both a year younger than me, and if I married Sara we'd live in Winterfell under Robb, but if I marry Nel we'd live in the Mountains?"
"Well, probably."
"Alright." With that, Rickon nods once, turns to Osha, and asks to go over his forms again.
"You're not going to keep on about this marrying business, Little Soldier?" Osha snarks at him – but he can smell the hurt coming off of her. She thinks him too young, as well.
"Robb and Sansa can take over from here. So now all I have to do is be ready for running Winterfell, which means I'll do stupid maths with Meera later and can practice fighting now. Please."
Osha gives a shocked sort of laugh, ruffles his curls, and gives him back his staff. "Alright then. Let's work on your footwork; like this."
Gendry is awake when Arya and Sansa return to the others – Arya in the clothes Sansa had made her, and her sister in an old dress she had taken South from Winterfell. Arya sniffs at the Hound and tells him to take himself off to wash, and plops down on Gendry's cot on his left, with Hot Pie on his right. Both boys are staring at her – at her cleaned face and new outfit – and she waits until the Hound has huffed and puffed his way out of his armour and to the bathhouse, and Talisa and Sansa are talking about the Kingslayer, and Jorelle is discussing weapons with Brienne, and Grey Wind has huffed and taken himself outside, before speaking to her boys nearly a half-hour later.
"I'm glad you're alright," she murmurs lowly, nudging Gendry's knee with her own. "Sorry for dragging you into trouble, again."
"Sorry for slowing us down," Gendry rumbles back. "I'll practice twice as hard, once her grace lets me train with her ladyship again."
Arya hums, bumping shoulders with Gendry and feeling Hot Pie bump him back into herself again.
"You look good, Arry," Hot Pie whispers. "You look like a Princess, now!"
Arya shakes her head and hums in the negative even as she bumps into Gendry again. "I look Northern. I look like a Stark."
"You look like a warrior," Gendry says, rocking between them as she and Hot Pie nudge him towards the other. "But you'll need mail, before we fight any proper battles, and boiled leather, and real armour."
"When you're better, will you make me some?" She asks idly.
"As milady wishes."
"Do not call me milady!"
"My princess?"
Instead of keeping their little rocking game going, Arya elbows Gendry in the gut. He chokes, whines high in his throat and hunches over, which is when Talisa notices and pays them attention again.
"Arya Underfoot! Don't you ruin my stitches!"
"Yes, your grace," She answers, ducking her head and tugging her fringe, playing the part of a smallfolk brat once again. Talisa clicks her tongue and swats at her with a cloth she has been using to clean the blood from the cot, which makes Arya snort.
"Cheeky," Talisa clucks, smirking. "Well. It's nearing sundown, so I'd like to stay another night to see how the Ser heals up, and to give Gendry's stitches a chance to start healing, before we head to Riverrun. Depending on their injuries, we may leave tomorrow."
"And I would like for us to have a chance to do our laundry before we travel too!" Sansa jests, before interjecting in her Court voice – polite, ladylike, demur, and hiding wolf's teeth. "I should like to speak with Lord Blackwood about the state of his lands."
"You'll have to wait until we return to your Uncle's holdings, adelphḗ. The Lannister's have taken over this castle."
Sansa smiles her prettiest smile, and looks right at Arya when she does it. Lady is dead and Sansa cannot join their wolf call, but in that moment it is as though she can share her every thought with Arya, just as the boys do.
Arya wraps a hand around Needle's handle and returns the smile, sharper than Sansa's and twice as wild. "Well now. It would be a pity if something were to happen to the soldiers holding the castle, wouldn't?"
"Such a pity," Sansa agrees, stringing her bow and testing the tip of an arrow. "If someone were to free the prisoners, the Lord would be indebted to them."
"What's this?" The Hound calls, dressed in a new black shirt and brown trews. Sansa's pretty stitches gleam yellow at the collar, highlighting three black hounds running, though as he picks his armour back up again, it is hidden beneath breastplate and gorgot.
"Do you know how to take a castle, Sandor?" Sansa chirps at him.
"Aye," He draws it out suspiciously, squinting at her sister. "How many men would I have to take said castle with?"
"Only one man," Arya tells him, standing then and spinning Needle showily before she sheaths it again. "But four girls can be just as good as any man. And a few hundred wolves." She tips her head back and s.
She is answered, hundreds of voices raising in concert, undulating over and under each other. Flashing her most wolfish smile, Arya spins and shoots out of the inn, racing for the Direwolf coming up the street and flinging herself at the shewolf, wrapping her tiny arms around the great neck and twining their minds together-under-over-around. She hears once the others have joined her outside, so she returns her mind to her own body, steps back, and pulls herself atop of Nymeria in a swirl of her new coat, looking down at them from the back of the Direwolf. Sansa's breath catches.
"Arya, you're a genius!" That said, she slumps back against the Hound, eyes rolling warg-white back in her head. Above them, a thousand ravens cawing to each other from the branches of the ancient weirwood tree go silent, don't even seem to move, and then there is a single chorus of a thousand throats, and the sky turns black as they all take wing. In Clegane's arms, blood drips from Sansa's nose and runs down to her chin; her eyes roll back to where they should be, Tully-blue, and she slumps even further against the Hound, breathing laboured. She smiles her prettiest smile, but the image will forever be branded in Arya's mind, bloodied as it is and cast in shadows.
"Between the ravens and the wolves," Sansa gasps, smug. "I think that we can take this castle ourselves. Gendry, Hot Pie, Talisa, Jorelle, please stay here with Ser Jaime. Arya?"
"Let's go," Arya smiles back at her after a moment, watching as Grey Wind kneels so that Sansa can pull herself up onto his back, rearranging her skirt for modesty's sake and revealing the dark leggings she wears now beneath her dress. The smallfolk are watching from around doorjambs and from windows, eyes wide and faces pale.
"You can fucking wait until I've finished dressing!" The Hound snarls, stomping back inside for the rest of his armour. Brienne gives them a respectfully firm please wait here and rushes after to help him with the ties.
The innkeeper stares from the doorway, mouth open in shock and a little bit of fear.
"If I may, once we have concluded our business at the castle, I should like to try my hand singing tonight," Sansa tells him prettily. "I have a song I'd like for people to hear."
"W-what's it called, milady?" He stutters.
"Wolves of the North," Sansa smiles. "Would you like to hear, while we wait for my shield?" She doesn't wait for an answer, drawing her breath and projecting so that all of the smallfolk will hear.
"Broken and bloodied,
We track through the blizzard
To come back together
The wolves of the North.
The flames of our banner
Have forged new blades
Bigger and stronger
We're cubs no longer
We're wolves of the North.
And we rise with the King of the North.
And we Howl for our fallen
And we howl for our slain
To the Lions, we give warning
That we'll Howl on their graves.
And we howl for our family,
And we howl for our name
To the Lions, we are coming,
And we'll Howl on your graves."
Clegane and Brienne come out as she sings the last note, and Arya tips her head back and s. Underneath and around her, wolves of all sizes and colours tip their heads back in an ululating echo.
AN As close as I could get it, Arya's new threads are basically the summer version of her Season Eight costume. Feel free to throw out some guesses as to what Sansa's dress is going to look like!
'Wolves of the North' is a fanwork by the incredible Karliene on YouTube – if you haven't found her work before now, GO AND CHECK HER OUT!
Translations:
adelphḗ – sister in Byzantine Greek (… I hope), as that is very loosely the irl influence for Volantis
Hour of the wolf – "the blackest part of the night", loosely translated in this work to refer to about 4am
Those of you who follow my other stories may have already heard, but GUESS WHO JUST BECAME A PUBLISHED AUTHOR!
(and didn't know they were writing a book when they wrote it)
(and also doesn't actually get any royalties from said book)
Me. This dickhead.
If you like what I do or just want to flip off my boss, I've created a ko-fi account; the link is on my tumblr, which is fairyofthefriz dot tumblr dot com. ALSO! DISCORD! WaltzingTheFaePaths#4352