Arya the Unlikely
Chapter Five: Strong as a Bear
You can thank NaNoWriMo for this chapter. Thank you everyone for your kind reviews on the last chapters, and for putting up with my slow updates. Come say hi on tumblr (Fairy of the Friz) or instagram (WaltzingTheFaePaths) if you like my work. If you want to leave a review and don't know what to leave, drop me an emoji! If you don't know what emoji best suits the chapter, drop me a dinosaur or a \o/ ;)
Chapter Warning for period-typical language, Ramsay Bolton, and everyone's general potty mouths.
It is nightfall, and on Davos' suggestion they have stopped their march of Free Folk and Northerners only a few leagues away from Winterfell – the lights of the Wintertown are visible over the moors, and it aches at Jon's heart that they cannot advance, cannot meet their baby brother at the castle and spend the night in their childhood home. Sansa, he thinks, is perhaps happy to have another night to prepare herself before returning to what had been the latest in a long line of prisons.
They are gathered round their fire, Tormund, Davos, and the 'wolves their only company, with Lady Lyanna and Lord Robett keeping to their own men for tonight. A squire in a dusty brown cloak sown from many, ill-treated rabbit furs comes up to them, and asks if they would be wanting anything else.
"No, thank you," Sansa smiles prettily, looking up at the hard-faced boy before them. "I'm sorry, I do not know your name – did you join at the last village?"
The squire looks star-struck, asking how Sansa had known.
"We cannot lead who we do not know," Jon offers with a small smile. "Sit and drink with us a while, if you like, and tell us of yourself."
The squire chuckles softly as he takes a seat beside Jon, and behind him comes a chuffing wolf laugh. A great black Direwolf flops down in front of the fire beside Ghost, the wind from his movement throwing sparks into the air. Jon and Sansa gasp out Shaggy Dog!, and gasp again when a lanky man-child throws himself down between the two 'wolves.
"Rickon?" Sansa warbles, half-rising. Jon is frozen in his seat, and the squire takes his alehorn and drinks.
Grey-blue eyes skip over Sansa's face and Jon's both, then flicks to Tormund, Davos, and lands squarely on the squire. Rickon snorts, pulls a wineskin from within his cloak and throws it to Tormund.
"Heill ok sæll, Mead King. I want time with my siblings, so fuck off."
"Rickon!" Sansa and Jon both exclaim. "Manners!"
Tormund roars with laughter, gives a fake, flashy bow and calls Rickon Prince amidst a flurry of First Tongue on his way past, dragging Davos along behind him. The squire continues to drink, watching Shaggy with awe.
"That was the First Tongue," Jon said to Rickon slowly.
"Aye, Osha taught me," Rickon nodded, easing himself back up from his slouch on the ground and stretching. "Arya, get that face off, I didn't spend the last three hours sneaking out to play pretend now."
The squire stared at Rickon before huffing, amused and voice somehow different from before, and then he reached up to pull his pockmarked face away and reveal the familiar long Stark features of Jon's youngest sister. "How did you know it was me?"
For the second time, Jon and Sansa both exclaim their younger sibling's name. Rickon scrunches his nose and huffs, tilting his head so his wild curls fall in his face.
"You stink, when you're wearing another's face." He grumbles. "Magic stinks. I got turned around before because I followed the Magic smell to some fire-kissed woman." Here his eyes cut up to Jon. "You smell like her magicks, but not like you mated her."
"Melisandre, Priestess of R'hllor of Ashai," Sansa says in her calm Court voice, "is who brought Jon back from death."
"Her?!" Arya demanded, face twisting before she wrangles it back into her own emotionless mask. "And what was she doing at the Wall, to bring Jon – bring you back from what, brother?"
"He died and came back," Rickon says, leaning forward and making a cup-tipping motion in front of his face with his right hand, twice. Arya jerks back and away from Jon (he tries to hide his hurt, but doesn't think he's successful), her eyes tracking over his form again and again.
"Him of Many Faces doesn't return what he takes," she snaps. "Dead is dead! I've seen Berric Dondarrion, and every resurrection cost him more and more of his soul!"
"'Every' resurrection?" Sansa demands.
"He'd come back eight times, when I knew him."
"I don't think all of me had died," Jon tells her with a shake of his head. "After they stabbed me, I was inside of Ghost."
"You warged on your deathbed," Rickon nods sagely, making the drinking gesture at Arya again. "Osha says that if you're ever going to kill a warg, you need to kill their familiar first, so they don't come back in the animal."
Arya stands and sits beside Rickon, passing over Jon's alehorn. That stings, again. His little sister, who had always been his favourite sibling, and his closest confidant after Robb, wants nothing to do with him and is almost afraid of him, and it hurts, godsdammit!
"Your squire?" Rickon asks Arya, sipping from the horn.
"Sally and her father ride with the Lannister army I stole, as does the Lady Knight and her squire. I also took on a second squire at the Twins – he served Robb, and apparently he tried to fight for Robb's right to life before the Red Wedding. They're perhaps a half-day ride behind me, I'll slip back again in an hour once Nan's rested."
Rickon huffs and leans up against Arya's side. "Old Wolf will have figured out where I am by then, so I should leave too."
"Who is the old wolf we keep hearing about?" Sansa asks.
"Sandor Clegane." Arya says softly. "Rickon made him the Master of Arms while I was away, but if you're uncomfortable with him I can send him somewhere else."
Sansa stares at her with wide eyes, before finally breathing, "He's alive?"
"Aye."
"Please, let him stay. He was my one friend in Kings Landing, and I would thank him for his kindnesses."
Rickon chokes on his stolen alehorn, gasping out kindness?! before passing the horn back to Arya with force.
"I travelled with him, for a time," Arya says, taking a sip herself. "Your shield knocked him from a cliff, and he begged I put him out of his misery. He told me he should have taken you, should have fucked you bloody. Are you sure you want him to stay?"
Of all things, Sansa laughs. "He would never hurt me. He meant to take me from Kings Landing, but I denied him. I gave him a song and he gave me a cloak, and I have not seen him since. I should like to see him again."
"As you wish," Arya nods, taking a sip.
"Can," Sansa begins, stops briefly, before rallying herself and asking in a small voice, "can Jon and I hug you both? Please."
Arya shrugs carelessly, moving to Sansa first and then, hesitatingly, to Jon. Rickon watches her, and when Arya has stepped back from both of them, Rickon huffs again and hugs Jon first, nose shoved into Jon's neck, before doing the same quick, firm hug to Sansa, as well. Rickon steps back from her with a frown, and Shaggy rises and comes to sniff her too.
"What is it, sweetling?" Sansa asks him.
Rickon licks his lips, exchanges a look with Shaggy, then looks back to Sansa. "You – um. You're with pup." Sansa's face drains of blood so quickly Jon worries she will faint, and the way she staggers worries him further. "I know the herbs to help you lose it, if you want!"
Jon reaches a hand out to Sansa, which she takes with a death grip before collapsing back onto her seat.
"You're sure?" Arya demands.
"Aye, Shaggy checked too. And Osha's been teaching me how to help with babes, so I know what to do either way."
Sansa sways again, and now Arya is beside her and taking her hand as well.
"You don't have to carry the babe," Arya says, fervent. "If Rickon's method doesn't work, I have one too – straight from the brothels of Braavos!"
Sansa chokes on a sob, and Jon wraps her in a hug, holding her while she shakes. "I thought I would finally be free of him!"
"You don't have to –" Jon starts.
"It's not the babe's fault!" Sansa wails. "And it would help cement our line, besides!"
"It doesn't have to!" Arya snaps. "Sansa, you can lose the babe and no one will be the wiser! House Bolton can die with Ramsey Snow."
Sansa sobs into Jon's chest; Rickon growls at her, and then snaps his teeth and snarls.
"Look at me!" Sansa jolts into Jon further, gulping back her sobs with obvious difficulty. Rickon snaps his teeth again, stands tall with neck and teeth bared. "You are Sansa Stark of Winterfell, and Ramsay Bolton is dead. We are your pack, we are here and we will protect you and support you however you need us to. No one else can tell you what to do with your body, sister, and if they do then I will help you take their throat!"
Sansa grabs him by the shoulders and tugs him into a tight hug, her whole body shaking. Tentatively, Jon and Arya lean in as well until they are all mushed together like a human-shaped puppy pile. When Sansa's shakes have stilled, she grits out,
"His Words will disappear. His House will disappear. His name will disappear. All memory of him will disappear. I wanted him dead and gone and forgotten, and I wanted him to suffer as I had suffered…. But for so long, I had wanted children of my own to love and hold dear, and to name for our fallen family."
"You can be in two minds over it," Jon says softly. "None of us will hold that against you, Sansa. But when you have decided what you will do, we will back you without question."
"I used to think Joffery was a monster," Sansa whispers. "And he was, of course – but there are worse monsters than Joffery Baratheon in this world."
Rickon is the first to stretch out his mind, rubbing up against Jon's consciousness like Shaggy had done to Ghost when first he arrived. Arya's soul joins them quickly, her emotions still locked down tight but her presence larger than life. Together the three of them brush against Sansa's mind, again and again, until she lets them cuddle up against her, too.
They remain wrapped, physically and mentally, around each other until Nymeria appears, sniffing excitedly at Shaggy and Ghost.
"We shall all meet in the Great Hall tomorrow," Arya says decisively, in what must be her Kings Voice, pulling back from their tight group hug. "Rickon, have your herbs prepared quietly and without anyone's awareness just in case, as will I. We shall not speak of this again until Sansa wants to, and when we do we'll do it in the crypts where there are no ears."
They all nod in agreement, but Jon has to ask before she disappears again, "Arya, what – how did you wear another's face, before?"
"I did try to get to you, you know," she says softly. "After the Red Wedding, and Aunt Lysa's death, when it seemed as though we two were the only Starks left – I tried. I caught a ship at Saltpans, and tried to find one going to East-Watch, or White Harbour, but there were none. So I went to Braavos, and while I was there I trained to become a Faceless Man. The Wolfblood meant that I excelled at the arms they taught me, and I can act well enough, but – I could never forget Arya Stark enough to become truly Faceless. Nymeria called me back to save Rickon, which was probably well-timed. I think they had tired of my failures to forget." She swings herself back atop of Nymeria, and in the blink of an eye they were both gone.
"She can act, alright!" Rickon scoffs, cracking his back and then swinging atop of Shaggy. "Well, we better go too. See you tomorrow?"
Jon and Sansa voiced their reassurances, and then he was gone, too.
"Are you alright?" Jon asks Sansa softly, one hand on her shoulder.
She choked out a bitter laugh. "Would you be, in my position?"
"Well, that's fair enough?" He chuckled awkwardly, before tugging Sansa into a gentle one-armed hug. "They were both right. Whatever your decision, we'll stay by you."
She's quiet for a long time, mulling over her words as she has always been wont to do, before finally saying in the quietest voice yet, "I want my own baby. But I didn't want his baby."
"Then take Rickon's herbs, and we'll find you someone worthy of you. We'll find you someone who you may love, who will be brave and gentle and strong."
That startles a laugh out of her, though that was not his intention.
"That, uh, that was what Father said to me, before he tried to get us out of the city," Sansa tells him, voice still soft but louder than it had been. "Thank you, Jon. But, I don't think I could marry again, not for –"
"A good long while," Jon says diplomatically, when she trails off into quiet. "Shall we to bed, as well?"
Shaggy had gotten them to the Godswood quicker than anything; Rickon had climbed the walls and back into his room via the window, whilst Shaggy took the corridors and pretended he had simply gone out for one of his nighttime pisses. The plan was simple, with little chance of failure. Before climbing over the window sill, he even scented the air to be sure there was no one else in his room – he was cautious, dammit!
As he was slipping off his second boot, Clegane's voice growled out, "For fucks' sake."
"Beiskaldi!" Rickon jumped backwards and pulled his dagger out with one hand whilst trying to correct his balance with the other.
"Went to your siblings after all, did we?" Clegane was without his armour and dressed in only trews and undershirt, wrapped tightly in Rickon's blanket by the fireplace – he had learnt quickly then, how strong Rickon's nose was, and hidden his scent under Rickon's own.
"They're close," Rickon snapped at him, sheathing his dagger and slipping it under his pillow. Rickon removed his cloak and spread it over the bed, unbuckling his belt and armour. "I haven't seen Arya in weeks, and I barely even remember Sansa or Jon."
Clegane scoffs, unwraps the blanket and spread it back on Rickon's bed. He's quiet – he's hesitating, which is unusual. Rickon throws his gloves and vest onto the foot of the bed, tucking them between the blanket and cloak, and watches. When he matches Clegane, he pours them both a cup of water and says softly, "I have had no swestrigin since Bran and I split our bands nearly four years ago. Can you really blame me for wanting to be with them again?"
"You're a prince," Clegane growled. "And Starks are few and far between. How many of you have they gotta kill before your kin learn sense!"
"Oh, and you're a part of why Sansa survived Kings Landing?" Rickon pounces, eyebrows arched.
Clegane jerks as though he's been slapped. "… Some, mayhaps. The Little Bird stayed alive through her own chirping."
Rickon hums, eyebrows raised. "Oh? She spoke of you, when we said you were here."
A hidden flinch; the scent of shame, fear, sadness. "Where am I going and when do I leave?"
"What?"
"Don't what me, boy!" A cornered dog with a game leg, lashing out at the wolf because it finds it threatening. "Your pretty sister wants me gone, so where shall I go so she doesn't have to see my ugly mug?"
Rickon clicks his teeth, taking a seat himself and sitting in it backwards, chair back to his front. "Arya offered to send you away from wherever Sansa is, but she refuted. She called you her one friend in Kings Landing," Rickon tells him honestly, elbow on the chair back and chin on his propped fist. "She was glad to know you weren't dead, and that you had done so much for Arya and now for me."
"Liar," Clegane croaks out.
"Dogs and wolves aren't so different, you know," Rickon shrugged at him, smiling lazily. "We are killers, true, but not liars. Believe me or no, that's your business. She'll be here tomorrow by midday, so you can ask her yourself."
"We still have practice at dawn," Clegane grunts, making a quick exit. Rickon smirks to himself, and when Shaggy lets himself back inside they have a quiet laugh to themselves, before they both flop onto the bed and go to sleep.
The next morning, Clegane is a monster in the yard, pushing Rickon and his pack harder than he ever has before in the grey of dawn. Della taps out first, gulping big lungfuls of air whilst signing stop over and over, a flat palm at waist height. Irene isn't too much further behind, choppy black hair in disarray around her burnt face – which is telling, because usually Clegane has a softspot for her, since her facial burns are almost as extensive as his own. Reney ends up slouched and gasping against the castle wall with her staff in hand. Larence doesn't last too much longer after her, her stubbornness matching his pre-existing experience in the training yard. Rickon has experience, stubbornness, and wolfsblood to keep him going, but even he eventually must admit defeat.
"The fuck is your problem today?!" Rickon snarls once he has enough breath back. "Sansa can't be that scary!"
"Fuck off," Sandor snaps back.
"No! Why are you so scared?!"
"I'm not –!"
"Bull-fucking-shit, you reek of it!"
"The fuck did I say about sniffing me, you animal!"
"Oh I'm the Hound, I'm the scariest motherfucker in Westeros but I'm afraid of a lady!" Rickon catcalled, standing straight from his slouch and readying his staff once again. Sandor only sneered at him, so Rickon pushed some more. "She named you her one friend in Kings Landing, and you won't even face her? You're ready to run, even after I said she wanted you here? You're punishing us so we'll punish you – why? What did you do, that you won't face her?"
Shaggy sends a sliver of thought to him, but Rickon can't afford the distraction now that Sandor is swinging for him again. Sandor might be more emotional than he is, but Rickon is still smaller and weaker and less-experienced than he, and if he doesn't want to accidentally lose anything, he needs to concentrate.
"What, do you blame yourself for my sister's misfortunes?" Rickon demands in an almost-lull. "Should have taken her with you, after all?"
Had he blinked, it is likely Rickon would have lost a limb if not his life. Sandor stinks, painsorrowrageregretshame burning Rickon's nose even as he lunges, spins and deflects the leaping steel.
"If I had taken her with me, none of this would have happened!" Sandor growls wetly. "No Littlefinger or Ramsay or whichever other cunt has hurt her; I could have kept her safe, like I promised! Like I promised the Wolfbitch, before she left me to die."
"Without Littlefinger and Ramsay and all the rest of them," Sansa's voice rings across the courtyard, and the both of them spin to see her perched atop of Shaggy. Jon is beside her atop of Ghost, and two wolves lie panting at Shaggy's feet. "I'd have stayed a little bird all my life."
Rickon bounces back a few steps, and then staggers over to his sister to help her dismount and give her a hug.
"You're early," He croaks. She swats at his shoulder gently.
"And you have nothing to do with Shaggy insisting we ride ahead of the march?" She asks him archly. She draws him into another hug while Jon is dismounting, and breaths at his ear, I'll take those herbs.
Rickon forces a laugh to disguise it, and moves into Jon's waiting embrace, both of them watching as Sansa glides across the courtyard to where Sandor has dipped down to place his sword at her feet.
Princess, he addresses her, soft in a way that Rickon has ever known him to be.
"You have never held with titles before," Sansa says, amused. "And Rickon is right, that you cannot blame my misfortunes on yourself. Mayhaps I should have gone with you, mayhaps I would have dodged the blows that fell upon me – gods know I've had the thought myself, often enough. But, Sandor," and here the big man jerks, and Rickon smells his sheer shock from across the courtyard, "do not blame yourself on my account, please. And do not stand on ceremony. Come - Arya says you're our Master at Arms, now, would you speak with Jon and myself on Rickon's training, and his running of the castle in our absence?"
As they walk back over to Rickon and the wolves, Rickon turns to Jon and whispers, "That was strange, yeah?"
"It was different," Jon whispers back, before gesturing to Rickon's friend-pack, still plastered to the wall. "Would your friends like to come over too?"
Rickon flashes him a brilliant smile, turns to his friend-pack and waves an arm for attention, before holding his right hand up palm up and fingers bent up a little, and curls his fingers into his palm five times quickly. Della is still leaning heavily on her staff, and Larence is trying to offer Reney his arm, but she has her head bent and seems to be ignoring him; they all make their way over.
"Why didn't you just call out to them?" Jon asks.
"Della is Deaf, so she wouldn't have heard. I want it to be fair amongst my pack, so I get everyone's attention and teach everyone the signs so that they all understand."
Jon beams at him, eyes bright with pride, and then the pack are by them and Rickon is signing and speaking at the same time, body angled so that Della can see his signs clearest.
"Brother, this my pack: Lady Della of House Frey, Lawrence Snow of House Hornwood, and Irene Weaver."
The girls execute curtsies and Larence bows, eyes shining himself. Rickon knows that Larence looks up to Jon – bastards don't have much social standing by Westerosi law, and Jon had risen as high as he could in a very short amount of time. Irene called it hero worship.
"Unless Arya goes ahead of her group as well, she shouldn't get here until midday," Rickon says, cracking his back. "Is the plan still that she and Sansa go to the Dreadfort?"
"Aye, while you and I wait for Bran. Once the Dreadfort is sorted and Bran is back, you and I are going to Hornwood with Larence, here, and will stay as long as it takes to settle ruffled feathers."
"Hm. Arya's Braavosi friend, Yorko, he's set sail down the river with Wylla Manderly to start the organisation of everything for his trade on the Essosi side, now that he knows his venture will bear fruit. When Wylla comes back, I want to sail with her and Osha to Skagos."
"What?!" Jon demands, while Irene's head shoots up and she snaps,
"My prince, you cannot! That's not a part of the plan!"
"Bran's last message says that dragonglass works best on the walking dead," Rickon says calmly. "And I know for a fact that there's lots of dragonglass on Skagos, and Osha and I can speak with them and trade with them for it – it's just a pretty rock to them, and we can let them know what's about to happen while we're there."
"But my prince, it won't affect them on an island!" Irene tried again.
"Might do, if the ocean froze over enough for the dead to walk to the island," Rickon shrugged, finger moving from signs to pick his nose only for all three of his pack to swat at his arm. He scowled at them all, but continued. "Even still, we need the 'glass. We can't afford to ignore a perfectly good deposit just because everyone's afraid of a little cannibalism."
Lawrence groans into his hands and Irene mouths a little cannibalism in mounting horror. Della is still training herself out of the Court Mask her 'family' had forced her into, but Rickon sees her fingers twitching as though she wants to wrap them around his neck.
"Maybe it would be better if Osha went with someone else," Jon offered weakly. "A seasoned warrior – the Hound, whenever Sansa is finished with him!"
Rickon sneers at them all in disgust; he raises his right hand in front of his head, palm to his face and just touching his nose, before pulling it away to the side, palm outwards, and then down to be about level with his clavicle.
"I cannot and will not call myself Prince, call myself Beta of the Northern Pack, if I won't trade for my people's safety," He snapped at them all. "I'm going to Skagos, and none of you may say otherwise."
The shock on Jon isn't nearly as strong as it had been on Sandor before, but still he reeks of it.
"Rickon, what mightn't we speak against?" Sansa calls, herself and Sandor – herself with her arm tucked into the crook of Sandor's, what the fuck – almost upon them again.
"I'll go to Skagos when Wylla Manderly comes back, and do a deal for us to mine their Dragonglass," Rickon says, holding his head high as he says-and-signs it. Something flickers in the depths of Sansa's eyes, but she responds with her own Court Mask still in place.
"Let us wait for Arya's return, shall we? We may speak of the matter with her grace later."
Rickon has no Court Mask, though not for lack of trying from the girls' part. Rickon raises his eyebrows and looks down his nose, disdain clear, and says and signs as clearly as he can, "Arya will agree with me. We can't expect the Skagosi to take us seriously if we don't send one of our litter –"
"Just say your fucking family, you animal," Sandor sighs, signing family to Della: the pointer and middle finger of both hands crossed, left hand over right, coming out in a wide circle and then joining together with the right over left.
"– and we need someone who speaks their language, which is Osha and I. So, we'll both go."
Sansa has another look in her eye, but it is buried too quickly for Rickon to determine what it was.
"Have you finished your session?" she asks, speaking clearly and slowly for Larence, who's turn it is to translate for Della.
Della nods very emphatically at that, and when Sandor opens his mouth to say something she shakes her head fiercely, and signs stop again in his face.
"Yeah, we're done, Little Bird,"
"Break your fast with us?" Rickon asks. "I'd asked the kitchens if anyone remembered what you liked, but they could only recall lemon cakes, and we didn't have enough lemons."
Sansa smiles softly at him, agreeing for both Jon and herself after shooting their brother a look. "That would be wonderful, sweetling, thank you. Sandor, would you tell us of your stint as Master at Arms while we walk to the Hall?"
She asked him and he did it!
His signing was slower than the rest of Rickon's pack, so he only signed the key words of any sentence so Della had some idea of what he was saying, but when they query her, Della says she isn't so fussed on hearing their progress now, and they can tell her whatever she needs to know later.
Jon tries to leave both Ghost and Shaggy outside, and Rickon looks at him oddly for it. "They're our pack too," he says, signing as he does so. (He says it often enough to the various workers around the castle that Reney and Larence sign it with him, smirking at Della and including her in the joke. She puffs a laugh, which is always adorable.) Rickon swats at his pack, and continues to talk to his siblings, signing even more forcefully at his pack because this is important, even if the three of them are signing with him in jest. "We are Starks and Direwolves both. Direwolves and their small cousins will always be welcome in the halls so long as I have any say in the matter. Ghost and Shaggy are coming."
"Well said," Jon ruffles his hair, and Sansa smiles proudly, and Rickon feels like things are finally coming together.
"Lord Baelish," Arya mused from Nymeria's back. "Would there be a reason for all of these Vale men to be in my Kingdom?"
"... Arya Stark?" Baelish looked shocked, eyes calculating behind a façade of feigned shock. "You're alive!"
"As you already knew, no doubt," Arya corrected him, raising her voice subtly enough that the gathered Knights might overhear. "I threw three of your spies from Winterfell before I went to the Riverlands, and Rickon has tossed another two since. Tell me, if you were already aware of the tortures my sister was going through, why did none of you act?"
"Tortures?" Piped the young Lord beside Baelish – her first cousin Robin, no doubt. "What happened to Sansa?"
"Ramsay Bolton," Arya tells him coolly, "made my sister scream every night throughout their marriage through his depravities. Much of the bruising has yet to fade, and many of the scars never will. She's lucky she did not birth him a son, else she would no doubt be dead."
"She had a girl?" Demanded an older man in bronze, rune-inscribed armour. Arya recognises him from her girlhood,
"She has had no children, Lord Royce, and she is luckier for it," Arya informs him sharply.
"Your Grace asked you a question!" Sally pipes from her pony, previously hidden behind Nymeria's bulk, and glares down at Baelish.
"Your Grace – you are Queen?" Baelish demands, only for Arya to smile the Waif's coldest, hungriest smile at him.
"Arya Stark is King of Winter and King of the Rivers," Sally informs him, slipping to the ground and glaring up at him fiercely.
"Thank you, Sally – Lord Baelish, why are you on my land?" Arya slipped from Nan, too, and flipped her hood back to bare Robb's her crown.
"We were running training exercises for our Lord, your cousin, Robin Arryn," Baelish says quickly.
"In the North? I was under the impression that those of the Eyrie wintered at Runestone, not the Barrowlands."
"In case your sister called upon us, we would be available." Baelish oozed.
"Really?" Arya hummed. "Sally, go and fetch our two companions, please. I'm sure they'll love this conversation. Have my new squire lead the rest of the contingent North, and tell him that we'll be along shortly. Cousin, would you have any tea, perhaps?"
"You have a squire?" The young lord asked with stars in his eyes.
"I have two; Sally was the first, and Olyvar we picked up most recently on our return journey."
"But you're a girl!"
"My first sword-master informed me that those who dedicate themselves to a weapon are neither male nor female, but simply an extension of the weapon," Arya says. "So I suppose the correct term for me would be sword, not girl."
"My lady –"
"Your Grace," she corrects him absently, eyes flickering around the gathered crowd of Knights.
"It is good to see you again after so long, your grace," Baelish tries again.
"Harrenhal was not good, Littlefinger. I watched countless tortures and rapes before Lord Tywin took over the castle from the Mountain, and watched a few score more after. My sister tells me you had informed her of my presence there when you first tried to squirrel her away from Kings Landing – tell me, did you tell my mother too? Did she die knowing I was alive, and that you could have delivered me to her but chose not to?"
She keeps her voice pleasant, her face as open and as pretty as best she can, trying to summon her sister. She knows how mentally throwing such dichotomy can be, after all.
"I beg your pardon?" Baelish chokes out.
"Then beg," Arya returns, seemingly dismissing him as she turns to Robin, and inquires after his training.
Robin chatters blithely about his progress with bow and blade, and Arya invites him to take a few passes at her with his sword, drawing Needle.
"Your blade is too small!" Robin insists. "I'll win super easily!"
Arya gave him another pretty Lady's smile, and assures him, "I won't cut you, don't worry."
Robin readies his sword and runs at her with a yell; she sidesteps neatly, tapping his turney sword on his way past. She tutts, and summons the ghost of Syrio Forrel and his valued lessons.
"You are too stiff, cousin. Be like water and flow."
"I am a Falcon of the Eyrie!"
"And I am a Direwolf of the North, and as necessary, a sword that flows like water. Come at me again."
Instead of charging like she expects, Robin squares up and comes at her carefully, blade held in front of his body in a guard position. She smiles at him and nods encouragingly, and when he does not swing at her, she pokes at him. He smacks at Needle, but she swivels and ducks and has the point of her blade against his throat in a moment. She steps back once he registers that he has lost this round, and then she gestures again. They continue thusly for the entire ten minutes it takes for Sally to return with Ser Jaime and Lady Brienne (and Podrick Payne).
There are shouts and cries from the Vale men, and Arya and Nymeria are immediately between the two factions.
"Ser Jaime has been kind enough to lend me an army," Arya smiles that sweet Lady smile again, Needle balanced and unwavering from her ready position. She hears Ser Jaime draw in a breath, and she twists the hand that she has behind her back so that she is flipping him off. "I would appreciate it if you would keep a lid on any murderous desires you might have against him."
"My Lady –!" Lord Royce begins, only for Sally and Podrick to immediately correct him, Your Grace! "Apologies, you grace, only – you are aware of what this man has done to your family?"
"Of course," Arya answers, glib like Ser Jaime and all the more frustrating for it. "As I am aware of how most people in Westeros have betrayed my family. And like with those others, I will have my justice, when all is said and done. Until then, we have rather more pressing matters to attend to."
"And what might that be, your grace?" Baelish oozes.
"The Nights King and his army of the Walking Dead march on the Wall," Arya says with her Kings Voice and Face wrapped tightly around her shoulders. "With Winter upon us, they are rather more threatening to me at this time than Cersei Lannister and her pet pyromancer, or Daenaerys Targaryen and her Dragons."
"The Targaryen girl won't come to Westeros," an older Lord towards the back of the crowd scoffs.
"She will and soon, if she isn't here already," Arya says firmly. "I have spent time in Essos rather recently, and can assure you that she and her Dragons and her hoard all plan to sail at the earliest convenience. I do not believe that she will come North with any sort of hurry, so she and Cersei can fight it out amongst themselves and keep themselves busy while I deal with the Nights King." She gives a wry smile. "It appears that the War of Five Kings and the War of the Dawn are about to repeat themselves. Oh!" She exclaims, as though she has just had an excellent idea. "Why don't you and your men travel to Winterfell with us, cousin? That way the Vale can be included in the preparation – or at the very least, become aware of what approaches."
Before anyone can stop him, Robin Arryn shouts, "That's a great plan! And, and I can see Sansa again, can't I?"
"Of course," Arya smiles brightly back at him. "I'm sure she will be glad to see you again! She spent time in the Vale with you, didn't she? Would you tell me about that time, please, cousin?"
Robin babbles about Sansa, the Vale, and what happened whilst she was there; the Knights break their camp, and finally they all join back up with the army Arya had pinched from under Cersei Lannister's nose.
She had hoped to be at Winterfell in time for lunch, but considering the extra warriors she has now accrued, she hopes that her siblings will forgive her for her delay.
Later, when Robin has lulled off in his babbling, Ser Jaime rides abreast of Arya and says lowly, "Daenaerys Targaryen was not a part of our deal, She Wolf."
"No, she wasn't. My plan for your men is to have them assist with fortifications, arms training, and distribution of foodstuffs, and then you can all fuck off back down South again straight after."
"Kind of you," Ser Jaime drawls.
"Practical," Arya corrects. "Your army is full of Southerners who won't believe anything I say without proof, and will believe themselves above me and mine because we're Northern and I have breasts and a cunt. May as well get their worth in labour while I can, and deal with whatever comes afterwards, afterwards."
"No need for vulgarities, She Wolf," The Kingslayer hums, fingers tap-tap-tapping away on his reigns. "Your little squire – she says you met Baelish at Harrenhal. Did you ever meet my father?"
Arya snorts with amusement. "I was his cupbearer. He had figured out that I was a Northern Highborn girl, despite my lowborn, Southern boy disguise – and yet despite it all he never figured out that I was missing Arya Stark he was searching for. It was a near thing, when Baelish recognised me; I was sure I was about to be sent back to Kings Landing in shackles, and my friends beheaded."
"It must have been difficult."
"Compared to when the Mountain ran Harrenhal? It was a walk in the park. At least the rat and fire tortures stopped when Tywin took over; it was blunt force or rape afterwards, and half the time the prisoners had already been beaten into submission and gave whatever answer the guards were after when asked."
"... How old were you?"
Arya shrugged, nonchalant. "I don't know, thirteen, maybe?" Twelve. She and Hot Pie had been twelve, and Gendry only a handful of years older than them, when they first arrived at Harrenhal. She had hoped to ride as far South as the Inn that had bought Hot Pie, see if he was still there and see how he was all these years later, but the opportunity hadn't arisen. Maybe she would have the time to do so after the Nights King was dealt with?
The ride from the Barrowlands to Winterfell was steady and mostly quiet. Ser Jaime kept his chattering to Lady Brienne or the Ser Bronn that rode with him, and Arya kept herself to her squires and occasionally a Lord or her cousin, whomsoever was after her attention at the time. The wolves loped up and down the company line, making sure all knew who it was that they rode for and with.
Arya was coaching Sally and Olyvar through the motions for juggling when they finally reached the moors of Winterfell, and she felt it when Shaggy could keep himself in check no longer.
Howls echoed from the forest, bounced over the moors and ululated from the throats of hundreds of wolves. A great black beast raced from the castle with a tiny spot of colour on his back; Shaggy and Rickon. Jon and Ghost followed only moments later, a black spot on a hulking white wolf. Arya whooped a laugh, threw her head back and howled for her pack, Nymeria launching herself ahead of the company joyfully. They meet somewhere in the middle between the castle and the company line, Arya flinging herself from the back of her wolf to scoop her baby brother up into her arms and spin him around, both of them laughing and hollering. Jon slips, silent, from Ghost's back and watches them fondly, waiting until they are finished before offering an arm to Arya. Now that she has had the time to think on Rickon's stories of wargs living on in their animal companions, she isn't as afraid of him, so goes to him gladly and sweeps him into the bear hug she denied him in the night.
"That army is huge," Rickon whistles appreciatively.
"That's two armies," Arya tells him smugly. "Westermen and Valemen. Sansa's earnt their favour, or perhaps the other way round, and the Vale have been wintering in the Barrowlands whilst they awaited instructions from their lady."
"That's unusual," Jon murmured, a line across his brow.
"Mm, and they're led by Petyr Baelish," Arya says grimly. "We've already tossed five of his spies from the –"
"Six," Rixkon corrects. "Sansa tagged another at the morning meal, she and Old Wolf are interrogating them now. Della and Reney are watching."
Arya hums again. "Ask Old Wolf what he remembers of Littlefinger, and have him confer with Sansa on what his motives might be. We'll have a meeting after lunch, with our immediate staff, the Lords, and any of the people who are interested and can squeeze into the Great Hall. Jon, speak with the leaders of the Free Folk, I want them in attendance and ready to add their voices as they see necessary. Rickon, I want your pack, my squires, Old Wolf and the Lady Brienne close to the dias but not on the dias, alright? We need to set people's impressions, and reinforce that we are Northern and not Southern. Make sure the kitchens are ready for the numbers we have coming through, and send half of the wolfpack out to act as guides for each segment of the army. I'll start sectioning and advising, and we'll go from there."
Rickon nods, hugs her fiercely, and then launches himself atop of Shaggy right as the great Direwolf takes off, clinging to his back like a limpet, cloak flapping behind him as they went.
Arya and Jon both snorted at his dramatics, but recovered quickly.
"The Free Folk are camping in the Wolfswood?" Arya asked, reconfirming.
"Aye, just to the other side of the Godswood. I'll make sure Tormund and some of the others are in attendance. We put Lady Mormont and Lord Glover and some of their higher-ranked lords in the castle already, but most of their men are on the northern side of the castle just outside of the 'Wood."
"Lovely – I'll put the Lannisters here on the Southern side, and the Valemen can be on the Eastern side between the two."
"A defence on all four sides," Jon says admiringly.
"Or an attack," Arya corrects grimly. "It wouldn't take much for the Lannister Army to decide that the Kingslayer is no longer worth following, or for Littlefinger to try and incite someone. Advise the Free Folk to avoid the Southerners as much as possible."
Jon nods, hugs her tightly, and swings himself atop of Ghost with far less grace than Rickon had Shaggy. "I'm proud of you, Little Sister," Jon tells her. "Father, Robb and your Mother would be, too." Before she can respond to that, Ghost turns and takes off for the castle, too. Numbly, Arya swings herself back atop of Nymeria, and turns around to start directing and distributing her two new armies, wolves pouring out of the castle and Wolfswood to help with directions. By the time she is finished, and it is only the Lords who will be staying in the castle left.
"Lunch, and then we can start to iron out the details for the Winter," Arya calls to the thirty-odd Lords and knights before her, Sally and Olyvar on her right and Brienne and Podrick on her left. "It is, after all, Coming."
AN
Norse/Free Folk Translations:
Heill ok sæll – be healthy and happy, traditional Viking greeting.
Beiskaldi – bitch
Swestrigin – siblings, one's own tribe/clan/family
AusLan Translations:
Cup tipping motion in front of face – drink, cup in proper AusLan with one tip motion, but this is the outback version where two tips in front of face usually means "share ya grog" or "do you want a drink"
A flat palm at waist height – stop, halt, decease, to no longer do a thing
Brother – fists shuffled against each other at chest height
Sister – knuckle of curved index finger of right hand tapped against the bridge of the nose
Come here – right hand up, palm up and fingers bent up a little, and fingers into palm five times quickly
Family – the pointer and middle finger of both hands crossed, left hand over right, coming out in a wide circle and then joining together with the right over left.
Disgust – right hand raised in front of head, palm to face and just touching nose, pulling it away to the side, palm outwards, and then down to be about level with clavicle