Alright, so I may have lied. Well, maybe not lied. I am supposed to be writing my last final paper, but I can't help myself. Procastinating is a part of my process and I'm so into this story right now. After this chapter, you really won't be getting another until the end of the week. Well, probably not. If I procrastinate some more or finish the essay in one swoop tomorrow, you might get another chapter on Thursday. But no promises!
Vaulting over the ledge of Winterfell's inner wall, Arya lands agilely atop the Great Keep before leaping from the slopped and slippery roof onto the snow-covered ground of the courtyard below. She lands only a short distance away from where Ramsay Snow and Roose Bolton stand. Before them, held with the sharp edge of a longsword beneath his jaw and a harsh grip on his curly auburn hair, is her little brother. The fear and rage in his eyes lessening slightly in relief at the sight of her, the weight of his trust settling over her like a shroud.
She draws Needle from her hip and holds it loosely in her hand, the winds of the winter storm raging above them whipping her hair into long, dark tendrils that snap around her head harshly. Roose Bolton looks exactly as she remembers him. He has an unremarkable body–all pasty skin that is neither plump nor thin nor muscular. His face is plain, beardless, and ordinary, his only noticeable feature is his strange eyes, paler than stone but darker than milk–like two white moons. Ramsay Snow, on the other hand, looks almost nothing like his father. He is an ugly man, even despite the finery he has draped himself in. He is big boned, and slope shouldered with a fleshiness that indicates he will be fat later in life. Ramsay's skin is pink and blotchy, his nose broad, and his hair long and dark. Although his mouth is small, Ramsay's lips are wide, meaty, and wormy looking as he smiles a wet-lipped, manic smile at me. His only resemblance to his father is his distinctive eyes–small, close-set, and oddly pale, like two chips of dirty ice.
Father and son both smile at her–their expressions so different and yet so similar. Lord Bolton steps toward her with his hands extended diplomatically as Ramsay continues to hold Rickon, his blade pressing firmly against his throat. Before either could get the chance to speak, she decides to take command.
"I am pleased to finally meet you, Lord Bolton. I just wish I could have met my good father before I learned I had wed his son."
Lord Bolton and Ramsay both pause, slow recognition and confusion eclipsing their respective faces, but she does not give them time to respond before she continues, "Come to think of it, it would have been nice to have been present for my wedding, at all."
Roose frowns at Arya, his small and soft voice hard to hear over the howling winds, "I knew that girl was too weak to be a Stark. Your father would often speak of how strong and willful you were–something that whimpering fool of girl never was. Even before Ramsay ruined her."
The Bolton bastard scowls, "So, I never married Arya Stark?"
She smiles ferally, "No, you married the steward's daughter. A fair match for a bastard."
His ugly face reddens with his fury, and she can see his grip on the longsword beneath Rickon's chin tremble with rage. She watches him for a few moments to make sure he would not hurt her brother before his father's signal before turning her attention back to Roose. His plain, beardless face still caught in an impassive expression.
"Without a Stark to aid your claim, you are just invaders–traitors to the North and your liege lord." Arya pauses and smiles another sharp grin, "Surrender Winterfell to me peacefully, and I will allow you to leave here with your lives. If you refuse, house Bolton will meet its end."
Lord Bolton's inexpressive face remains unaffected, "And if I simply capture you and remarry my son to the true Arya Stark?"
Her grin turns wolfish and she watches his emotionless face twitch at the wintry fury within her icy, grey eyes, "Then you will need to marry him to my corpse."
Tensing her body, she wargs into Nymeria outside of Winterfell's walls and howls harshly into the cold, snowy night. Snapping back into herself to the ominous sound of hundreds of howling wolves, she moves with the swiftness taught to her by the faceless killers of the House of Black and White to throw one of her daggers into the back of the hand that holds a blade to her brother's neck. With a pained shout, Ramsay drops his longsword from Rickon's neck, and her little brother leaps out of his grasp to rip the dagger from the back of the ugly bastard's hand.
With an vaguely irritated grimace, Lord Bolton draws his sword from his hip and starts towards her sedately. Over his shoulder, she watches as Ramsay picks up the sword he had dropped with his left, uninjured hand and hold it aloft awkwardly towards Rickon. Similar to how he had held the dagger against her in White Harbor, Rickon widens his legs into a swordsman's stance and grasps the dagger he had plucked out of Ramsay's flesh with both hands as he prepares to duel the Bolton bastard.
Then, with a strident clanging that can be heard even from where they are gathered before the eastern gate, a harsh noise that can only be the northern gate opening echoes through Winterfell. Feeling briefly pleased that Osha, Lord Glover, and Ser Davos had found a way to open the gate, she grins at the Leach Lord fiercely. Only for the grin to be swiftly wiped off her face as the loud noise alerts the Bolton guards within the armory and guards hall, sending a host of men pouring out of both buildings and into the courtyard. The harried guards, however, do not get very far. Rushing in from the northern gates comes Nymeria's pack of wild wolves, with both of the dire wolves–one of a solid black and one with dark, golden eyes and grey fur–leading the charge.
Roose Bolton's sword slices through the air right before her, and she skitters back a few steps as he forces her attention back onto him. Setting her gaze onto the elder Bolton, she brings Needle up before her and settles into the long familiar stance of the water dance. The Leech Lord thrusts his longsword towards her with a ferocious lunge, and she dodges before snaking Needle deftly around wrist to dislodge the blade from his grasp. The sword falls onto the ground of the courtyard with a dull thud and, with a twitch of her wrist, she slashes a small, shallow cut onto his cheek.
As Lord Bolton flinches back, startled by the pain, Arya darts forward and scoops up his longsword from the snowy ground with her right hand. Rotating swiftly to gain momentum and strength, she slashes through the elbow of his right arm with a single, decisive blow. The pale arm lands in the snow and quickly turns its surroundings a bright red, the short, wide fingers twitching as if still attached to its body.
The Lord of the Dreadfort releases a short, but piercing cry at the loss of his lower arm and stumbles down to his knees in shock and pain. After ascertaining his surrender, Arya switches her focus from the man knelt before her to her youngest brother. Rickon darts around the Bolton bastard with an admirable ferocity, the dagger she had thrown still clutched securely in his grasp. Ramsay's body is now bloodied beyond compare with long, vicious cuts that litter his arms, legs, chest. The finery he wears offering no protection at all to Rickon's viciousness.
The snarls and snaps of Nymeria's wolves echo off of Winterfell's stone walls, only outdone by the fearful screams of the Bolton bannermen who had come running out of the guard hall in their liege lord's defense. Arya sends a careful eye over the wild carnage around her as she approaches Rickon, his battle with the Bolton bastard beginning to wind down and her own fury settling back into a smoldering pit deep within her stomach.
Mance Rayder and the women who accompany him hurry down the staircase that leads up to the battlements, calling out to her jovially over the wolves' growls, "Well, that was certainly quick! I suppose Winterfell is yours, now–whether you're truly Arya Stark or not."
She barely spares the wilding man a glance, catching Rickon by his shoulder and feeling how hard his breath is coming with the small touch. Her brother tenses beneath her firm grip and she squeezes his shoulder solidly, "That's enough, little brother. It is done."
"It is not!" Ramsay Snow screams, spittle spraying from his mouth like rabid dog and his eerily pale eyes wide like a spooked horse, "I am the Lord of Winterfell!"
Arya's cold, grey gaze slides over his large and hunched body, taking in the desperate, almost hysterical way he lurches over the courtyard. His ugly face distorted into a manic and frenzied snarl, slashing his sword falteringly through the air within the awkward grip of his left, nondominated hand. Rickon lurches forward in her grasp as to attack the hysterical, crazed man again but her hold on his shoulder remains firm.
"No." She coolly commands, her voice cold and pitiless, "You, Ramsay Snow, are a bastard. I am the Lady of Winterfell and the new Warden of the North. You were never anything but a bastard, and now you are my prisoner."
She turns to face the wildings gathered behind her, "Mance, could you take Lord Bolton and his bastard down to the dungeons?"
Mance's charming face grimaces and he motions towards Ramsay who is still waving his longsword around like a crazed mummer, "Not when he's like that."
Giving the him an exasperated look, Arya steps forward and snatches the blade easily from the bastards awkward, left-handed grip, "And now?"
The cheeky wilding man gives a theatric bow, "As the lady commands–come on girls!"
Mance and his woman collect the father and son–Lord Bolton clutching the area just above where she'd lobed his arm off and Ramsay screaming something about reeking. She watches the women carry off the two Northern men intently, noticing their none too gentle treatment of the both of them. Mance had called them monsters with the faces of men and she wonders if they had continued the practices of the ancient Red Kings–if they had been flaying people, that's just another thing to add onto their list of crimes.
"Sperate cells!" She calls after them, "And have someone wrap that arm!"
She sends a glance around the ravaged courtyard once again, absentmindedly noticing the wolves slowly leaving Winterfell's walls, and Nymeria and Shaggydog wondering through the open iron gates that lead to the godswood. Her grip tightens on Rickon's shoulder and his now subdued face looks up at her with tired, Tully blue eyes in question. She offers a weary smile for him and her gaze drifts back towards the godswood, a tugging in her navel telling her to follow after the dire wolves.
"Come, Rickon," Arya commands softly, "let us go offer our prayers to the Gods. Mayhaps mother and father will hear us, too."
He does not reply but follows after her as she strides into the ancient wood filled with childhood memories. The godswood's multitude of trees offering a dense canopy over old, tightly packed earth, humus, and moss. At the center of the grove stands an ancient weirwood tree with a face carved into it–a heart tree standing over a pool of dark water. It's bark as white as snow and the red leaves a blaze of flame against the green canopy. Her chest aches with too many emotions to identify as she leads Rickon to kneel at the old, winding roots of the ancient tree. Arya following soon after, gazing up into the face carved into the pale trunk of the weirwood tree respectfully–the old wounds still leaking the red, blood-like sap.
The godswood is a dark, primal place–three acres of old forest untouched for ten thousand years as the majestic castle rose around it. The wood smells of moist earth and home, and reminds her of her father's seldom smiles and of playing lord of the crossing in the warm pools. She thinks of the old gods and closes her eyes, the image of the distraught expression carved into the bark of the weirwood tree seared into her mind. Father used to say that the face is one of the gods, captured within the bark in a moment of great emotion.
Arya swallows thickly, "Father used to say that no man can tell a lie in front of a heart tree. He would come here to reflect after each time he had to execute a man. After I execute the traitors tomorrow, I will honor that tradition."
There is a pause before Rickon speaks, "Me and Bran hid here with Shaggydog and Summer sometimes after the ironmen came. Sometimes we would hide in the crypts–Theon would visit and bring us food until he got too scared."
They glance towards each other before looking back towards the heart tree's weeping face–Arya feels oddly contemplative, "Do you think the old gods can truly see us here, Rickon?"
Her little brother frowns, using a finger to pick at the bark of one of the exposed roots, "I don't know–maybe. Do you think mother and father can see us?"
She peers up into the distressed carved expression, "I do. They're crying for us–see? They're happy we're finally home."
He frowns at her now, "It's always crying."
"But now it's crying for us–there's a lot to cry about in the world, little brother. A lot even just in the North. Right now, it's crying for us."
Rickon is quiet for a moment before he nods firmly, the both of them settling down into a pensive silence. Without taking her eyes off of the weeping face of the heart tree, she extends a hand to grasp at Rickon's wrist before sliding down to clasp their hands together gently. His small, rough hand squeeze hers tightly and she fists a hand in her lap as the sting of long held back tears prickle at her eyes.
"My lady?" Lord Glover's deep, rough voice cuts through the silence, "Pardon my intrusion, but Lady Wylla is asking what you want to be done about the Manderly host you had her apprehend earlier."
Arya sighs but does not move from her place, "Place them in the guards hall for now. If that is not acceptable, we will figure out something else on the morrow."
"Yes, my lady." Lord Glover's voice responds, and she hears the crunching snow beneath his retreating steps.
"Robett?" She calls, listening as the sound of his footsteps halt.
"Yes, my lady?"
"Have Lady Wylla, Ser Davos, and yourself meet me within the maester's turret in a quarter hour. We have many ravens to send."
"Yes, my lady."
Sunrise could not come soon enough. After she and Rickon had left the godswood, she had asked Osha to escort Rickon to his old chambers for the night and made her way to the maester's turret to meet Ser Davos, Lord Glover, and Lady Wylla. By the time the moon had made its way halfway across the sky, the four of them had sent out over a dozen ravens.
Osha had informed her that Maester Luwin had died after the sack of Winterfell by Ramsay Snow, and so they wrote Oldtown for a new maester to be sent. With the exception of the Boltons, the Dustins, and the Umbers–who had taken part in Winterfell's latest siege–Lord Glover advised her to write to all the notable Northern lords. So, with no maester to assist her, she wrote letters to the Cerwyns, Flints, Hornwoods, Karstarks, Mormonts, Reeds, Lockes, Ryswells, and Tallharts declaring herself as the new Lady of Winterfell and Warden of the North. As requested, she also wrote a letter to Lord Manderly informing him that she had retaken Winterfell, and that Wylla arrived safe and sound.
The moon hung low in the sky by the time Arya finally made it to bed–exhausted and emotionally drained–choosing to sleep in her childhood chambers rather than the bedchambers meant for the lord of the castle. Though, she knew she could not avoid the quarters for long. The lord's solar, where she predicts she will be spending a great amount of time in the coming weeks, directly adjoins the bedchamber.
And yet, despite her fatigue, she could not sleep. Somehow, being back in her childhood bed and home is more unsettling than being on the streets of Braavos. She remembers when she could not sleep as a child, she would creep into Jon's room and curl up beside him. His comforting presence alone enough to sooth her to sleep.
But Jon's not here anymore. He is in Castle Black, sleeping in the bed of the Lord Commander. She wonders faintly if he is happy there–if he had found what he left Winterfell in search of all those years ago. Perhaps she could plan a visit to Castle Black when all was said and done. It would be nice to see her favorite brother again.
Her mind turns to her second favorite brother–though she would never tell him that to his face–Bran. Rickon had said he had gone beyond the Wall. It is hard to imagine her crippled little brother traversing the unknown wilderness that exists beyond the Wall, and she wonders why he went. Was he simply searching for adventure? He and Arya used to fantasize about become knights and traveling the realm together in search of adventure, but that was a child's dream. She supposes she cannot fault him for leaving–she's had a great many adventures of her own, after all. Though most were nothing like the glorious imaginings she had as a girl, most were horrific and terrifying and ghoulish all at once.
It is thoughts like these that plagued her mind until the sky began to lighten, and she allowed herself to rise from her bed. Just as tired as she had been when she laid down, but, also, somehow more settled. She sheds her nightclothes and dresses herself as she imagines her father might dress for a trial and execution–dark, dour colors mixed with the greys of house Stark and a stately surcoat buttoned atop the woolen clothes she dons for warmth.
Arya strides from her childhood chambers grimly. Though, she is no longer disturbed by death or killing men, she has never executed anyone before. Well, lawfully executed. To keep up the appearance of fairness, she will hold a trial in the Great Hall. She will sit on the throne of winter that her father, his father, and all the old northern kings that lived long before them sat upon and dole out her judgement.
Just before she could exit the Great Keep, however, the sound of a pair of frantic footsteps echo through the corridor behind her. She pauses and turns to glance over her shoulder to the sight of a determined and drowsy Rickon sprinting down the corridor towards her with Osha and Shaggydog chasing after him. He comes to a stop just before her, and she purses her lips down at her sleepy little brother.
"What are you doing awake at this hour, Rickon?" Arya frowns, "You should still be resting, we had a long day yesterday."
He scowls up at her, somehow appearing both furious and tired, "Osha told me you were going to execute the traitors without me!"
"This is not something children should have to see, little brother. We have seen enough death for as young as we are. Let me keep these few deaths from your gaze, at least."
Rickon stomps his feet, "No! I am in charge after you, right? That means I have to be there with you!"
Arya's gaze shifts up to meet the wilding woman's eyes and Osha shrugs her slender shoulders inelegantly. A sigh escapes her mouth, and she crouches down before her younger brother with the weariness of someone double her age. She meets her brother's brilliant blue eyes steadily and–seeing nothing but honesty, determination, and willfulness with his gaze–lets out another sigh.
"Fine." She pushes herself back up into a standing position, and victory blazes on his face like a torch in the night, "But you must stay by Osha's side the entire time, agreed?"
Rickon nods ardently, hesitating only a moment before throwing himself onto her in a painfully tight hug around her waist. She ruffles his curly, auburn hair fondly before grabbing his shoulder and tugging him away.
"Come along then, little brother. Let us hear what the traitors have to say for themselves."
With that, the three of them exit the Great Keep together and cross the castle yard into the Great Hall. The Great Hall is typically used for receiving guests and the place where their family used to dine together every evening. It is made of grey stone and has wide doors made of oak and iron. Inside, there are eight long rows of trestle tables with four to each side of the central aisle. There is a raised platform for noble guests, and the walls are covered with the banners of all the Northern houses. The hall contains the high seat of the old Kings in the North–the cold, ancient stone polished by the many lords who have sat upon it, and its massive arms decorated with the carved heads of snarling dire wolves.
Above the winter throne hangs a large banner of house Bolton's coat of arms–a red flayed man on pale pink strewn with red drops–probably hung there by the Roose Bolton after he had was named Warden of the North. Lord Glover and Ser Davos are already awaiting her arrival, with the captives–Lord Bolton, Ramsay, Lady Barbrey Dustin, Whoresbane Umber, and Lord Harwood Stout–standing before the throne in shackles. Theon, Jeyne, and Wylla are also within the audience, and all three watch her with grim expressions.
Swallowing her disgust at having to sit beneath such a banner, Arya strides past the prisoners silently to sit upon the stone throne. She gazes down into the faces of those lined up before her, hoping her expression is portraying the solemnity and grimness her lord father used to be so renown for. By the looks on their faces, she succeeded.
Protocol would have her sitting in a stony silence as the steward announces her and then lists the captives' crimes, but–with the death of Vayon Poole along with the rest of the Northern men father had taken south with them to King's Landing–Arya is left to do the announcing herself.
"You stand before Lady Arya Stark of Winterfell, Warden of the North and daughter of the late Lord Eddard Stark. Each of you have been accused of crimes against the North and the late King Robb."
Lord Bolton's plain, beardless face remains as still as undisturbed water and his bastard son's face twitches in large flinches as if some invisible foe is striking him. Lady Dustin stands tall and unbent before Arya. She has wrinkles around her mouth and dark eyes, and her hair–an equal part brown and grey–is tied behind her head in a widow's knot. She is Lord Bolton's good sister through his second wife, and Arya knows the elder woman holds some grudge against her family. She remains unflinching before Arya, her eyes alight with an old fury. Hothor "Whoresbane" Umber is old and gaunt with flinty eyes and a long white beard. His face is hard as winter frost but seems remorseful and weary. Lord Harwood is a grizzled, hardy looking old man and is missing an arm. He seems resigned to whatever she will sentence him to.
"Lord Umber," she calls evenly, "you are accused of supporting the Boltons in their unlawful siege of Winterfell. What say you to these accusations?"
The Lord Umber takes a faltering step forward, his manacles clanking with the stilted movement, "I can say nothing worth any value, my lady. Words are wind, and my actions have spoken clearly. All I can offer is the undying fealty of myself and house Umber–something that should have been never called into question. Everything my brother and I did was for my nephew who is still a captive of the Freys at the Twins."
Arya eyes the elder Umber, "Greatjon is still held captive at the Twins? Is this true, Lord Glover? Ser Davos?"
The two men exchange a glance before Ser Davos turns back to her, "I am not sure who is still held captive, my lady, but I know the Freys are still holding those they captured at the Red Wedding within their dungeons. Greatjon Umber could very well be among them."
She turns her attention back to Hothor Umber critically. Arya has been trained by the Faceless Men to spot a lie within anyone, and she can tell that he is telling her the truth. It makes sense that the Umbers would not have willingly offered an alliance with those who had orchestrated the slaying of their kinsmen at the Red Wedding.
"I see. You are pardoned, Lord Umber."
The elderly lord lets out a breath of relief and Arya motions for the shackles that bind his hands together to be removed. Lord Umber falteringly makes his way to a chair upon the raised platform for noblemen. Ser Davos offers his arm to assist him but is brushed away.
"Lord Harwood," she calls coolly once Lord Umber had found a seat, "you are accused of supporting the Boltons in their unlawful siege of Winterfell. What say you to these accusations?"
The lord jerks his chin up defiantly, "I stand with Lady Dustin. She chose to follow the Boltons and so I did, as well."
Arya narrows her eyes at the hardened Northern lord, "You have no remorse for sacking Winterfell and driving my two youngest brothers–one who was barely older than a babe and one who was crippled–from their home?"
She can see his throat bulge as he swallows from where she sits upon the cold winter throne, "I do not."
"Then you have two choices, my lord–take the black or lose your head."
"I will take the black."
Arya sighs, "Very well. Lady Dustin, you stand accused of supporting the Boltons in their unlawful siege of Winterfell. What say you to these accusations?"
Lady Dustin throws back her shoulders, "It is no secret that I am not fond of house Stark, but neither am I fond of the Boltons. I did not mean for any harm to come to your brothers, but I do admit to wanting to hurt house Stark. I have no remorse for what I did and will tell no lies."
She frowns down at the older woman, the Lady of Barrowtown's unrepentant face set into a firm and resolved scowl, "What has house Stark done to earn such resentment?"
Lady Dustin sneers, "Your dear lord father refused to return my husbands bones to me after calling him down to the Tower of Joy to rescue your aunt Lyanna. All he returned was the horse my husband swore to ride back to me on and Lyanna's bones."
Arya sees the truth and the hurt on the lady's face as clearly as she can see the sky lightening from out of the Great Hall's windows. She wonders why her father did not return Lord Dustin's bones to his wife–it does not seem like something her honorable father would do and yet she can see the truth on the elder woman's face plainly.
She comes to a decision, "Lady Dustin, in payment for your crimes you will send men to Winterfell for any reparations needed and swear your fealty to me–Lady Arya Stark–for the rest of your days. You will also be confined to Barrowtown until further notice. Consider this recompence for the insult my lord father had done to your house."
Arya can see the surprise on Lady Dustin's face along with all the faces of those in the audience at her decision. She can see that they all think her weak, now. Nothing but a soft-hearted woman. They will not think so for much longer.
"Ramsay Snow-" Arya begins only to interrupted.
"Bolton," the crazed bastard spits, "I am a Bolton!"
She eyes the hysterical man for a moment, taking in the multitude of cuts that litter his body from his duel with Rickon, his ugly and blotched face, and the crazed look in his eyes before continuing, "Ramsay Snow, you stand accused of both treason against house Stark and flaying–which has been outlawed for a thousand years. What say you to these accusations?"
A demented snarl twists his already ugly face into something horrific, "I am Ramsay Bolton and the heir to the Dreadfort! You cannot do anything to me! Without me, Dreadfort will have no lord! I am-"
She allows herself a small, feral grin as she cuts him off, "Very well. I, Arya Stark of Winterfell, hereby sentence you to death. You will not get the option to join the Black Brothers."
Arya allows a brief pause to fill the Great Hall with the bastard's frenzied snarls before continuing blithely, "Lord Roose Bolton, you stand accused of treason against house Stark, treason against the late King Robb–King in the North, and of willfully breaking guest rights. What say you to these accusations?"
His eerie, pale eyes lift to meet her unyielding gaze, "What would you say if I were to proclaim my innocence and accuse you a traitor of house Bolton? The house who was named Wardens of the North by King Tommen Baratheon."
She smiles sharply, the grin curling at the edges into something more ominous, "It would matter not, my lord."
Roose smiles grimly, seemingly resigned to his fate, "As I thought."
A trill of pleasure shoots through her, and she remembers the horror of the Red Wedding as if it had happened only a few days ago instead of years. The sight of Greywind's head sewn onto her eldest brother's body, the image of her gentle lady mother's corpse–bloated by her time spent floating along Green Fork river, and the vision of the Lord who now stands before her so passively sliding his sword into Robb's stomach all flash before her eyes. There is no regret or second thoughts of what she should say next.
"There will be no choice of the black for you, either, Roose Bolton. I, Lady Arya Stark of Winterfell, sentence you to die for your crimes."
Ser Davos and Lord Glover grab the father and son and lead them out of the Great Hall without further ado roughly. Arya stands from the throne and casts an eye around the room–meeting as many gazes as she can–before she, too, leaves the Hall. A commotion follows her movement as many rush to follow her out onto the castle's yard.
She exits to find Lord Bolton and Ramsay knelt in the snow with their heads head down by Lord Glover's firm hands. As she approaches, followed by the Great Hall's audience, Ser Davos unsheathes his sword and moves as if to prepare himself to behead Ramsay Snow himself. Arya crosses the yard quickly and places a hand on the old, weathered knight's arm to still his movements.
He looks to her in confusion as she takes the longsword from his hands and gives him a firm nod. As she turns her attention onto the men knelt unwillingly before her, she can see Ser Davos look around in confusion at the unsurprised faces of all who had followed them out of the Great Hall. Lord Glover steps away from the two captives and she raises the blade up above her head with a deep breath–meeting Rickon's righteously blue gaze from where he stands beside Osha.
As she releases her breath, Arya brings the sword down and through Ramsay Snow's neck, stepping over his limp body to do the same to his father swiftly–their combined blood quickly staining the pristine snow a brilliant red. She stares down at the two bodies in grim satisfaction before turning away and striding off without a word. Faintly, she hears Ser Davos' horrified intake of breath and disturbed enquiry about her actions, followed by Lord Glover's solemn answer.
"He who passes the sentence must swing the sword."
So, this chapter is almost double the length of either of the first two and one thousand words longer than the last chapter. It was a whole thirteen pages on Word. I'm pretty proud of it, to be honest. There might be some typos, but I'll go over it either later tonight or tomorrow and fix any that I find. Anyway, I hope you enjoy and please let me know what you thought! I love getting reviews! Also, tell me what you think of the canon that I've changed thus far and what you think I should do going forward. I have some ideas of my own, but I'd love to hear yours, as well.