Arya the Unlikely
Chapter Four: Calm as Still Water
I KNOW PLEASE DON'T at ME
Reviews are life fam. If you like cute doggos, please check out my baby on insta at #havocthedalmatian. Find me on tumblr to chat about fics or dinosaurs at Fairy of the Friz
Three hours later Arya has the full story from Brienne of Tarth and Podrick Payne. Another hour she spends in conference with Jon and Rickon, getting further information regarding the White Walkers and Wights and putting in place countermeasures for the coming Long Night – and how that makes her shiver, makes the part of her that still holds true to Him of Many Faces shy away at the thought of such an abomination as the walking dead. Jon she instructs to ride for Winterfell with all haste and to not wait up for her, to have Sansa write and sign letters to give to the best spear wives who travelled with him, and to send each of them to whatever hamlets or villages that the company passed through or close to on their way. Rickon she tells to draft up letters for her Braavosi contacts, trade agreements and a warning both; gives him instructions on how to up the staff practices, to start instructing every living person in and around Winterfell, to look into any and every mention of dragonglass mines, and to prep the smiths of the North for the incoming shipments that they will soon turn into spears and glaives for her. Demands an increase in woodcutting, setting much aside to be dried and turned into massive bonfires to better defend everyone, but also so they will have something to trade with Essos.
It is nearing sundown, and she has had poor Sally running every which way, delivering notes and collecting information. The final job was to fetch a raven, and once Sally and the bird have returned to the office that Arya has commandeered for herself, Arya makes her squire take a break.
"Sit, eat, and rest," she decrees, holding the smaller girl firmly by one shoulder. "I'll have a job for you and Podrick both shortly, and I need you at your best."
"Aye, my king!" Sally is petty and Arya loves it. The smaller girl has been insistently (and occasionally unnecessarily) referring to her as your grace or my king for the last four hours, and Arya knows that every message or errand she has run today started with the King requests, or something to that effect. It is nothing short of entertaining, but Arya is trying very hard not to laugh and risk losing the perceived professionalism of her Kings Face.
Putting her shoulder to a startled Podrick, Sally sits down next to Arya and pulls a tiny roll of bread from her pocket, stealing an apple from Ser Brynden's desk, and accepting the waterskin that Arya passes her. She does not offer to share with Podrick or Brienne, and is Very Obviously not giving either any attention.
It's adorable.
"Ser Brienne, I would have you and Podrick speak with the Kingslayer on my sister's behalf once again," Arya says, jotting down more notes on precautions that she wants Rickon to put into place for her whilst there's still daylight. She'll call him via the wolves once this has been finished. "Speak with him. Either he agrees to lend his forces to the battle for the living, or he forfeits their lives to the Many Faced God. Sally will go as my representative, I'll write up a note to send down with you, and if anything happens to my squire, Tarth, I'll kill you first and I'll kill you slow – do you understand me?"
"Of course, your grace."
Arya gives her a wolf smile at that ⎼ bared teeth and the promise of blood ⎼ and looks up when Roslin is announced at the door.
"My King, the numbers you requested," she says. She has Robin on one hip, and has pulled on a mask of her own, a Lady's Face, soft and demure and revealing absolutely nothing. Perfect.
"Thank you. Anything else?"
"I've written a note for Tyta, your grace, if a raven might be spared."
"I'll send it with a wolf tonight, with instructions to cater to whoever it is for the evening before they take a note on to the Neck." She leans back, pinching the bridge of her nose. She had hated penmanship as a child, and found paperwork to be both tense, tedious and headache-inducing as an adult.
With a quick curtsy and a thank you, Roslin turned as though to return to her rooms. "Stay with me a while, sweet aunt," Arya asks, sending the pageboy for more tea. "Tell me all that you have learnt."
Roslin returns, takes a careful seat, and pulls a sheaf of papers from up her sleeve. "Of course, my king. Where would you like me to start?
She stays by Jon's bedside all throughout the morning and afternoon both. At the grey of dusk, he awakens, and the first thing he tells her is "Ser Brienne made it to Riverrun."
It is unbecoming of a lady to cry so much, but Sansa cannot help herself. Her sister and baby brother are still alive, her bastard brother has finally awoken, and her shield is safe. Things are starting to look up again.
"How do you know so?"
"Arya. The wolves are connected Sansa, Ghost and Shaggy and Nymeria, and I could see them!"
"The … wolves?"
"No – well, yes, but – Arya and Rickon!" Well. The Starks of old had been wargs and skinchangers, and Sansa cannot say that she is surprised that wild Arya and wilder Rickon had figured that out for themselves. "Oh, Sansa, they've grown so much! You would hardly recognise them!" He turned sad, then, lines drawing down at his mouth and eyes so much so that Sansa wanted to give him a giant hug. "Rickon looks just like Robb."
She clasps her hands together in her lap to hide how much they shake. "And Arya?"
Jon hesitates. Ever was Arya his favourite sibling, but here he… she cannot place a name to it.
"She is … not like she was before. I suppose – well, it's foolish of me to think that she would be, but … She kept her emotions tight to her chest. She held everything back, and was cold when it came to the enemies of House Stark. She said she was going to kill every one of the Lannisters, in the beginning, but she came back again later to ask me questions about the White Walkers. She said she'd spare the Kingslayer and his men if they pledge to help with the Night King, else she'll kill them all in the night. Eight thousand men!"
"Could she do it?"
"She seems to think so."
Jon's right. This is a very different Arya to the little girl who lived in their memories.
"Then we must have faith, and make what preparations we can to help them, and to prepare the North."
Jon gives her a small, proud smile. "She sends instructions for us both, and has plans that she has spent half the day concocting with Rickon and myself in the shared mindspace. Her squire she sent to parlay with the Kingslayer, though she hadn't yet heard from him when I was last with her. How many letters do you think you can scribe?"
"As many as is needed of me." She tells him firmly. "Who am I writing, and what am I saying?"
"Here, let me show you," Jon says; there is a fluttering at the edges of her mind, and Sansa rears back immediately. "It's alright! It's me! Trust me."
"My mind is the one part of me no-one else can access," Sansa snaps at him.
"I know, and I'm sorry – but it will be easier if I can give you the memory for yourself."
"How can you even – what are we? Tormund called you a warg, but he didn't mention that wargs could do this!"
"I think… I think that this is a Stark inheritance, Sansa. I've been with wargs and Wildlings before, and they've never said anything about what I've just seen Arya and Rickon do, what Ghost and Nymeria and Shaggydog have all done. This is – this is ours, in a way so few things have been recently. Lady's echo still lives in you, I could feel it. Please, let me show you?"
Her hands are now tucked beneath her cloak to disguise their shaking, and she takes three deep breaths and stares her brother down before she carefully, oh, so carefully, allows her mind to open and reach for his.
She shies back again, before rallying and reaching once more. There is something in the back of her heart, something that feels almost like the long-dead Lady, that reaches eagerly for her brother, that twines itself around Ghost, the hints of Nymeria and Shaggydog, and gives a happy all-over wriggle. The rest of her, however, is shaking. She may love and trust her brother, but he is so close, is in the only solace she has left to her, and he is gentle.
It has been so very long, since someone was gentle to Sansa Stark. It is all she can do not to cry, but the sensation is still passed on to her brother, close as he is.
There is the sensation of a whine from both Jon and Ghost, and the sensation of a hug, of wolf-kisses, of protectivebigbrother and pack, a push and she has a memory before her, the impression of AryaAndNymeria, the impression of RickonAndShaggyDog, and oh, look at them! Arya Horseface has grown into a woman, looks like Father but commands like Mother, smiles and doesn't mean it until she does. And Rickon! Their baby brother has grown, is nearly as large as Sansa herself (and she is not a small woman, and her brother only one-and-ten, gods be good!), and his eyes no longer are the toddlering Tully-blue of their childhood, but some amalgamation of Father's grey and Mother's blue, and he holds himself like a warrior and is alive! The aches of her body that are the remnants of her marriage are more bearable with these new images to hold to her chest.
"Sansa," Jon breathes, eyes wide as he gets the phantom sensation of her aches across the wolfbond. "What – ? Sorry, no, I'm sorry!" He feels her panic at his questions, even though her face does not betray her. He pulls back instantly, only offering up the memories of the notes that Arya wants her to write and giving her back something like privacy, despite the bond.
The part of her that is Lady sings, aawooooOOOOOOooooo!
The part of her that is Sansa thanks her brother, takes the memories, and throws herself into them wholeheartedly to avoid her brother's pity and sorrow.
By order of Arya of House Stark, King of Winter and King of the Trident, the bearer of this note is charged with the duty of training all those aged between six-and-ten and five-and-forty, who are of sound mind and body, in the art of the spear or of the bow in preparation for the Enemy to the North. Have every household start to stockpile what reserves they can for the Long Night and following Winter, and report back to Winterfell those areas who have limited resources due to the War. Have every household stockpile for this time as well, and report back the expected fighting body so that appropriate weapons may be supplied. Any known sources of Dragonglass, or obsidian, are to be reported as well. Any and all comments or queries are to be directed to Winterfell…
When they ride into the Lannister camp, Sally holds the flags. The pole she uses is stout, straight, with a white banner atop and a smaller Direwolf pennant (hastily sewn by Roslin) below. Brienne had had the fortune of seeing the King and her tiny squire training earlier in the day with sword, knife and staff, and had little doubt that if the need arose, the pole could be repurposed as a weapon. A new squire holding onto the banners was common, acceptable, and unremarkable. If nothing else, Brienne was impressed with how this young King had multiple purposes for each and every action.
"Turned away so soon?" Ser Jaime asks impishly, when she is shown inside his tent once more. Again there is that soft turn to his mouth, that sheer relief that she had seen when they were escorted in the first time, when he had moved as if to hug her and pulled back bright-eyed, saying he was glad that she yet lived. "I did warn you, my lady, just as stubborn as yourself."
"I bring demands of her grace, King Arya Stark," little Sally injected, stony-faced.
Ser Jaime's brows shot up, and he snorted. "Does she again offer me the graceful opportunity to surrender?"
"She does," the little squire says smartly, one hand on the banner pole, and the other buried in the ruff of the wolf Trouble. "Her grace asks that you and your men commit to the War for the Living, Ser Jaime. Dead Men walk beyond the Wall, and we will need numbers to defeat the monstrosities. This is the only other warning that you will receive on the matter. If I am to take back a negative response, then your lives are all forfeit."
Ser Jaime snorts a laugh at her, calls her cute, a babe playing at war, and then turns dismissively to look at Brienne, as though inviting her to join in on the joke.
"Lady Sansa is preparing for the Army of the Dead as we speak, my lord," she tells him, honest as ever, carefully eying the vibrating squire beside her. "Her grace the King acts in good faith, by sending her squire to speak on her behalf."
"You believe this?" He demands.
"I believe that my lady believes it, Ser Jaime. I believe that her grace believes herself capable of wiping out all of your men. I believe that a truce is the course of action with the least amount of bloodshed, and unnecessary loss of life."
"I have been ordered by King Tommen Baratheon to retake Riverrun from the rebel Tully army, as I told you before, my lady. I agreed to your mad scheme to let the Tully army ride North unscathed so long as they conceded the castle, and as you are here, I can only assume that you were unsuccessful in convincing the Blackfish to leave. I can't just take the army away!"
"Send a raven to your King explaining the whats and the whys, and just do it anyway," Sally shrugged, both hands now on the banner and leaning on it heavily. Trouble is still seated on his haunches, but is watching Ser Jaime closely and licking his chops.
"And would you do such a thing to your King, little girl?"
"Her grace would already know everything before I had anything to report," Sally shrugged. "And if the options were save the lives of our fighting force, versus sentencing them all to death in the night? I would choose the men's lives."
The squire is tiny, has been training under Arya for not-yet a week, and reportedly was shy and timid at the start of her training. Yet she looks Ser Jaime in the eye when she speaks to him, is confident in her King's abilities, and holds herself ready for verbal and physical battle both.
"You are a child –"
"From the mouths of babes, Kingslayer," Sally snaps back, fingers flexing on the pole. "Do you have an answer for my liege or not?"
"Welcome to the Wolfswood," Wylla said, hands steady on the rudder.
"It's bigger than I thought," her companion said, staring up at the ancient conifers with awe. "How big do you think these are?"
"Some would be close to a hundred yards tall, I'd reckon," she mused, flicking her eyes about carefully. They had been fortunate so far, in that seemingly no one had spotted them on their race up the White Knife, but one could never be too careful. "Well, Yorko? Have we a deal?"
"What is it you say – aye. Aye, Fin of the Harbour, we can make a deal. Braavos will make many a penny working this timber!"
"As will the North, I trust?" Wylla asked coolly.
"Aye, of course! My father told me I was a fool to trade with Westeros, but I knew I was right! Salty would not lie to Yorko."
"Salty?"
"You would like her, I think. She was a Northern girl dressed as a boy too, wanted to go to the Wall and her brother, but my father could only offer passage to Braavos."
Something twinges in the back of Wylla's mind, and she stares. Surely, surely, this is too great of a coincidence.
"Oh? What did this Northern daughter look like?"
"Ghost eyes," Yorko says, making the sign against illfortune. "Grey, you call them? Small, hair darker than yours. A little bravos blade at her hip. She was right to sail with us; Saltpans went up in flames to that Hound soon afterwards."
Wylla kept herself carefully fluid, breaths even and muscles unlocked and eyes clear. Inside, she feels like laughing. Of course her grace is the reason that the mother of all trade deals has landed in Wylla's lap! She swears to put out offerings for all of the Seven when they reach Winterfell, and to spend some time in the Godswood besides. This could be nothing but divine intervention, Wylla was certain.
"Very lucky," She agrees, beaching the boat and getting Yorko to help her drag it up and out of the water. They moor the boat, cover it in brush, and dust away their tracks. "Right! This way, then. We're about a day's ride from Winterfell, so on foot it'll take us – fuck!"
They had been alone when they moored, Wylla was sure. On the path in front of them stands a horse with its lead held in the mouth of a shewolf.
Divine. Intervention. Maybe Maester Theomore was right to threaten to send her to the Sisterhood?
"You are seeing this too, yes?" Yorko asked tentatively.
"Aye, I see it. Here, wolfie wolfie wolfie…?"
The wolf snorts at her, scratches at its throat, and shows off a leather thong with a scroll attached. Because why the fuck not?
The handwriting is the atrociousness she might associate with a small child first learning their letters. The wax is black, and a single black wolf hair and an auburn curl are caught in the middle. Because nothing says subtlety like attaching hair to wax instead of your actual seal!
Here's your horse back. My sister wished to return it herself, but she has been delayed South. There will be pie for dinner, and Frog will show you the quickest way back. Travel safe – Valar Dohaeris. Winter is Coming.
No! Subtlety! Whatsoever!
"What's it say?" Yorko asks. "Is this your – how you say, Forest Children?"
"Children of the Forest," she corrects automatically, staring. "I, uh. Let's mount and go? The wolf will take us to Winterfell."
Yorko makes the sign against illfortune again, and Wylla half wants to copy him. Instead she pulls herself atop the beast, and extends a hand to the Braavosi.
"I think I will walk," he says faintly. She grabs him by the collar and pulls him halfway up the horse. He scrabbles at the saddle briefly, then joins her astride the mare.
"Alright, Frog," Wylla says to the wolf. "Take us to Winterfell!"
She yips, and they are off at a fast lope. Yorko makes a high-pitched noise of his own, and Wylla holds her breath.
Frog is at least somewhat considerate of the horse, alternating between the lope and walking every half-hour, and stopping to let the humans off and to spell the horse every two hours. The path they take is meandering through the Wolfswood, until both sailors are utterly turned around for the trees and strange deer tracks that they have been following. Sometimes it seems as though the only path they are following is Frog's fancy, but by the end of the day they can see the castle out on the moors.
The Ironborn and the Boltons have both held the castle since the last time Wylla was here; the Harvest Festival the year before Fat King Robert took the Starks out of the North. The damage she can see even from this distance is nearly enough to bring her to tears, but she holds them back and breathes as evenly as she can so that Yorko doesn't pick up on it.
At the gate they are greeted by a grinning black Direwolf, and a tall boy with red curls and light eyes.
The moment that they are close enough, Wylla is dropping from the saddle and giving a flashy bow. "My prince,"
Rickon Stark looks at her, looks through her, and says with a cocked head, "I don't know which one you are. Frog spotted you yesterday and told Shaggy, and Shaggy told Nymeria who told Arya, who told me where you were from."
"Fin of the Harbour is fine for now, my prince. My companion is Yorko Terys of Braavos – Yorko, may I present his highness Prince Rickon of House Stark."
The man-child nods regally, pulls himself atop his Direwolf, and heads inside the gate. "Valar morghulis, Yorko Terys. Well met, Fin of the Harbour. Dinner first, and then we'll talk; Larence will take care of your mare, he ate earlier."
Somewhat in a daze, the pair follow the young prince into the castle, the main hall, and atop the dias where bowls are waiting for them. Rickon eats like the meal will be taken from him if he isn't quick enough; Wylla supposes that they're lucky the boy uses his cutlery at all, she's sure that the woman to the other side of him, Osha, is a Wildling.
Once all have eaten what they can, Rickon takes a sip of the small cup of ale before him, and invites them to tell him what brings them to Winterfell.
"I bring a trade preposition for you, your grace!" Yorko says cheerfully. "I wish to sell your timber to Essos!"
Prince Rickon's eyes take on an excited gleam. "Oh? My sister will be interested to hear your proposal. Until she returns, tell me: which timber, what trade routes, what prices?"
Wylla has already quizzed Yorko thoroughly about his proposal, so she schools her face into one of deep interest, but castes her senses about to assess the state of the smallfolk. She remembers the Arya and Rickon of before, but, what sort of people are they like now?
The smallfolk have the haggard look of ones recently starved, but their shoulders are straight and there is chatter and laughter aplenty. There are few rumours floating down the river, so there is no scuttlebutt for Wylla to fall back on. Ramsay is dead, she knows, and King Arya was probably responsible for it, but the how is still unknown. The sheer amount of damage done by the Boltons is still unknown. How her grace had managed to completely avenge the Red Wedding is still unconfirmed (Wylla had heard no less than five rumours before she came up the Knife with Yorko, some as tame as poison and some as outlandish as an army of wolves that ate the whole of the Frey's household before transforming into bats and flying away). What was still keeping her grace in the South was still unconfirmed, though she suspected that the prince might yet be able to enlighten her, and what was happening with the Lady Sansa and the Lord Commander was also yet unconfirmed.
Fin of the Harbour was as much a title as a name, the ear to the rumour-mill for the North and the Master of the Underground. Few things happened in the North without the Manderley's knowing about it – or at least that had been true, before the War. Wylla already had a long list of questions she needed answers for before she set sail, and Wynnie and their Grandfather had had even more. The moment that she politely can – the moment that Yorko is shown to bed, or the moment that she can sneak out of whatever chambers she is assigned to scout out the night staff – Wylla intends to learn everything.
She listens again as Yorko tells Rickon of the timbers he desires, the amounts he will require per ship to make a trade worthwile, the businesses that have provided expressions of interest in Braavos, and she watches the people in the Great Hall. She notices when three younglings – two girls and a boy – come in along the side of the room with two wolves at their heels, and especially when they join the dias. The boy is tall and broad and brunette, one of the girls had a rat-face and dark eyes, whilst the other had short black hair and fresh burns on her face.
Prince Rickon is talking to Yorko, but he still offers a bright smile for his companions and two hand gestures that Wylla hasn't seen before: the curved index and middle fingers of the right hand hooking in front of the face, and his right hand coming up to cover his mouth and nose like a muzzle before pulling it away from his face. The rat-faced girl looked to the other two, and the boy jerked his thumb over his shoulder. They sit on the prince's right, leaving a spare seat between themselves and the Wildling Osha; rat-face, boy, burns. The wolves settle under the table, and the burnt girl tears her bread roll into quarters and gives a piece each to Shaggydog and the wolves and keeps the last piece herself.
Wylla doesn't have to wonder too long over the matter, because the Hound of all people appears then, and he joins them on the dias?! Wylla's hand drifts to her belt-dagger, but the Prince holds up a hand to interrupt Yorko's selling pitch.
"Yorko Terys of Braavos and Fin of the Harbour; my Master of Arms, Sandor Clegane; my companions, Della Frey, Larence Snow, and Irene Weaver. Yorko wishes to set up a timber trade between the North and Braavos." He signs as he speaks, and cocks an eyebrow at the end, inviting his companions to offer their own input. The rat-faced girl, Della, signs something quickly and tightly, her motions close to her body, like the equivalent of a whisper. The prince pulls out a pocketbook and stick of charcoal and hands it to Osha and the Hound to pass to her in turn, which gets him a grateful nod.
"What timbers, and what sort of turnover?" The burnt girl, Irene, asked excitedly. She signed as she spoke and caught Della's eye before she began.
Yorko launched back into his pitch, with the Prince signing to Della as the Braavosi spoke. Once everyone was caught up to where Yorko had been before, Rickon gestured to Irene, who started to ask the sort of questions Wylla would expect from a hardened tradesman or fishwife – this is someone who knew finances, knew business. Wylla didn't allow her face to change as she watched closer, and took in what she could of the girl, for no Northern weaver so far inland should have this sort of knowledge. So who she?
The black Direwolf raises his head and looks at Rickon, who huffs and signals to Irene before his eyes promptly rolled to the back of his head. Wylla and Yorko both exclaimed in shock, Wylla standing abruptly and reaching for her liege, only for the Hound to raise his hand to her and say gruffly, He's fine.
"The Prince is speaking with his siblings," Irene tells them calmly, still signing to Della as she does so. "It may be but moments or a few minutes, it depends on what is being said. They are wargs, these Starks who are left, and they speak with each other via the wolves."
Yorko curses in Bastard Valyrian, and sketches the symbol against illfortune, and another against magic. Wylla almost wants to join him on principal.
Rickon makes a highpitched noise, his eyes rolling back to normal for only a second before he is gone again.
Osha narrows her eyes, and takes his hand. "You alright, Little Lord?"
The eyes roll back again, and he gave a brilliant smile. "It's Bran! He found me, he's coming back!"
"Thank the gods! You was telling the others, when you warged the second time?"
"Aye, I had to let them know he was ok." Rickon licks his lips, and drains his goblet dry. "He says that the Nights King marches on the Wall, and that we need to prepare for the Long Night. Irene, Old Wolf, stay with Yorko and get all of the information we need to start preparing for this trade venture – write everything down. When you're done, Irene start drafting letters for the Karstarks, Glovers and Umbers to tell them the requirements for the timber, and again for the Manderleys to let them know what to expect and when. Larence, Arya should be here within another week to legitimise you, and then you can go to Hornwood to do the same, so stay and learn from Irene. Sansa and Arya will head to the Dreadfort to sort out that disaster after they have returned here, while Jon and I increase the training and distributions of Free Folk to train the people. Della, Osha, and Fin, you're with me."
The light of the candles caught his grey-blue eyes and set them alight. When he drew himself upright and settled his shoulders, Wylla had to hold her breath; in that moment he looked so much like King Robb.
"Winter is coming."
Auslan translations:
Curved index and middle fingers of the right hand hooking in front of the face – old
Right hand over mouth and nose like a muzzle and extending out from the face – wolf/fox/muzzle/snout. In this context it's meaning wolf and referencing Sandor because so far as I could find, Auslan doesn't have the word hound, only dog, which I didn't really want to use here.
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.