DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN A SONG OF ICE AND FIRE/ GAME OF THRONES, NOR DO I PROFIT FROM THIS WORK
Alright, so this story, Speak To Me Softly, has now been posted for quite some time, and I am delighted by the response and feedback that I have had since first posting it on this site. However, it has come to my attention that my style of writing has changed greatly since I started writing it at age fourteen, and how I write now, hence my decision to come back and rewrite chapters to better reflect the present story. This will not dig out of my writing time- I have enough chapters written now to take us to April of 2021, even if I did stop writing new content.
New chapters are added on the 7th day of every month, and in-between updates I will be rewriting the original first chapters. I also have a short story on my page, The Cold Touch of the Void, and a few works in progress, so if you do like this story, please do keep an eye out, as they will act as companion pieces to this story. I am planning, currently, to do a sequel to STMS, though this will be a long time coming.
I really, really hope you guys enjoy this story. Arya is a character who always fascinated and inspired me for her bravery and resilience, her perseverance through adversity and her refusal to give up in the face of loss, grief and constant anguish. I hope that I capture her in this story, and do her justice- a feat I am sure no one but GRRM will ever be able to truly achieve.
So, on with the show, I suppose. Over and Out xoxo
Mickon grunted as he ran his sword through a wildling's chest, the blade slicing through layers of fur and leather and skin, the heavy metal crunching through bone and sinew, closing his mouth as warm blood splattered his chin and neck, hot in the cold air. He shoved the twitching body off of his blade with his foot, ignoring the heavy thud as it dropped into the snow, brilliant red blood staining the sludge, before ducking, and pushing his sword through another's neck. The noise of the battle was drowned out by the constant ringing in his ears, as he spun around, slipping in the snow and ice. Despite the freezing cold, the air seemed to hang heavy with blood and sweat, a metallic yet stale scent that reminded him far too fondly of wars that had torn his life apart in years gone by- a different war, with different foe.
Sweat ran down his chest, icy cold underneath his jerkin. Hastily, he wiped blood from his brow- his blood, or someone elses? It had started to thicken, and it clung to his glove, but he paid it no mind, the adrenaline sharpening his mind to the battle around him. Men dressed in heavy black wool and dyed cloaks and jerkins, green boys of summer and wizened men who remembered winters far colder and far more cruel than any Mickon had ever seen, and the half crazed, savages with long hair and tough beards, crude weapons and a course, rugged kind of bravery that spoke of lives lived without a civility.
Breath left his chapped, dry lips in heavy pants and the saliva in his mouth had turned to thick tack. He spat it out distractedly, but it clung to his lips. The battle seemed half done, each side at an impasse- already some wildlings were running off into the cover of trees, no doubt bound for somewhere that neither Mickon nor his brothers would dare set foot unless honour demanded it, many of whom appeared as lost as he, spinning around and searching for threats from enemy blades.
He span around as a yell came from behind him, and lifted his sword, ready to meet steel with steel, but exhaled shakily when he realised it was not aimed at him, but some distance behind; a wildling, smaller and more elegant than any he had seen, danced around one of his brothers, almost as if playing a game with him, a cat toying with a mouse, before ending his life swiftly with the smallest blade Mickon had ever seen. He watched, mesmerised, as this strange warrior cut down man after man. Mickon blew out heavy breath after heavy breath, hefting his sword in hand as the figure turned towards him, preparing himself for the shadow of death, when the hood fell. Breath froze in his lungs.
The hood gave way to long, dark hair, and shadow was banished to reveal pale flesh, and eyes- haunting, grey eyes, that he should never have been able to see at such a distance. He watched, captivated, as the girl, surely far too young to be there at all, slashed sideways. Blood sprayed from her victim's throat, who had no doubt seen what he believed to be an easy kill, only to find himself dispatched of quickly and so coldly he couldn't have seen it coming until it was upon him, but she was already gone, so quick and elegant on her feet that it was as if she glided, sharp and precise like the larks that used to nest in the crumbling old mill in the village where he had grown up, but far, far more deadly.
He stood, transfixed, as if his bones had turned to lead, as she spun and whistled. His ears rung too loudly to hear the sound, but he recognised the twist of the lips, the sharp blow of air, and moments later a movement some distance away drew his eyes from her. Blood turned to ice in his veins.
A hulking, great beast prowled from the trees, larger than his garron, with jaws powerful enough to snap a man in half with one effortless crunch, with teeth stained yellow and red, and hard, yellow eyes that shone in the dusk light, and in them he saw only death. The creature spoke of something sinister, yet beautiful, something far older than the age of men, something as connected to the earth as as the great iron woods and sentinels in the dark, ancient forest from which it had emerged. The wolf, a dire wolf, surely, for no ordinary wolf could ever achieve such size, ran straight for the girl, and for a moment fear struck him and froze him in place, a warning on his lips for his foe- but just as it seemed the beast would seize her in it's jaws and swallow her whole, her hand wound itself into the thick grey fur of it's neck, and she swung up onto it's back, with the practised ease of the performers who had come to his village with their bright costumes and pure white stallions. But this was no stallion, and the girl was no performer, and each were as deadly and sinister as the land over which they fought.
As she rode away, cutting down each black brother in her way, the battle slowed to a halt as both sides retreated, and Mickon was struck with a sense of familiarity. Even at a distance her face- no, her eyes- had called to him, and Mickon had only ever seen one other person call upon a Direwolf that way.
It was mad to even think such a thing... she was supposed to be dead, and everyone knew it, a mere ghost. Besides, what would she be doing out here, beyond the Wall? His mind reeled as he staggered back to the now opening tunnel to Castle Black. He would have to write to the old Lord Commander. If that girl was who he thought she was, then Arya Stark was finally found.
A pounding at the door roused Jon Snow in the middle of the night. Ghost growled in warning at the noise from where he lay by the fire; it was an unusually stormy night that night, and even though he had thick fur, Jon had invited his familiar into the warmth of the castle. He groaned, and wiped his hand roughly down his face. He hadn't slept well since he left Daenerys in Kings Landing three weeks past. He flipped the covers off of him, and went to the door, opening it with a heavy, tired hand.
"What is it?" He said, his voice slightly raspy. The Maester stood before him, a tall man with salt and pepper hair, and lips made for frowning, deep thought lines marring his forehead and making him appear some ten years older than his five and thirty years.
"What is it, Maester?" He asked, clenching his jaw, praying that it was not unsavoury news about his intended. Dany was one of the strongest people he had ever known, and his brother was quick and smart, yet still he found himself worried for them. He was still uneasy about leaving her alone in Kings Landing, despite the fact that she had the best guard to keep her safe, with the old bear, Mormont, her constant protector, with his deep scowl and wary eyes; Greyworm, the Unsullied warrior with reflexes like a snake; Barristan the Bold, and his wise, watchful gaze. Yet still, Jon could not sleep easy with the knowledge that some five hundred leagues separated them.
"I'm sorry to wake you, my Lord," the Maester said, "but the Lady Sansa insisted that it could not wait until morning." Jon frowned; his sister- or his cousin, rather- had become of the habit of staying up late into the night, either haunting the castle where she had once been happy or gazing, unseeing, into the flames. Whatever the news was, it must be important, for Sansa rarely disturbed him until after they had broken fast.
"I'll be down momentarily," Jon said, after a beat, as the master nodded and walked away. Jon closed the door, dressed hurriedly, and left for the small hall, Ghost trotting at his heels, as silent as he always was. Perhaps Bran had taken ill, or Kings Landing had been attacked. Maybe the Iron Islands had taken up arms as they had been threatening to do, or even the Free Folk had somehow breached the Wall. Peace had prevailed for near a year, but in an instant Jon prepared himself for news to issue orders for his men to raise arms against some new threat.
He stalked through the doors into the meeting chamber, pushing them closed firmly behind him. Sansa was standing stiffly at the hearth, the fire casting long shadows over the room, which twisted and rippled and shifted. She turned around as she heard him enter, parchment clutched in her fists. Jon searched her face, and found himself taken aback by the hope that shone in her Tully blue eyes.
"Sansa," He greeted, as he moved to stand beside her, "What is it?" She did not reply, but to hand him the parchment. Jon took it, and turned to the fire to better read the messy black scrawl.
"Lord Snow.
Please send instructions with haste. She is here. Your sister is here. She was seen with her wolf. Come."
It took some time for the words to sink into his mind as surely as the ink with which they were written had seeped into the parchment, and Jon stared blankly at them. He couldn't think. His heart seemed to weigh heavy in his chest, and his mind sat like stone, unmoving, as he tried to comprehend the words.
A soft hand settled on his shoulder. "It's Arya, Jon," Sansa whispered. Her voice was hoarse. "They've found Arya."
Jon closed his eyes and opened them, unable to believe what he had just read. He looked down at Sansa; for the first time in a long time, hope coloured her ever wary eyes. It made him frown.
It would not be the first time they were led astray. People came from far and wide, claiming to have caught a glimpse of his sister, their deceits and lies a cruelty that instilled in him a rage as black as the cloaks of his once brethren. Her name was a name that had been so long forgotten that people did a little pause whenever it was mentioned. Ned's little girl, they would say, with a sad twist of the lips. A wild little thing. She had been lost to them for so long now that Jon had lost all hope. For truly, what chance did a child have of surviving alone for all of these years past? Jon had dreamed of her often, her childish gales of laughter, which so seldom passed her lips, her wicked smile, how she had a way of knowing things beyond her years, her messy, tangled hair in his fingers as he mussed it. Little sister, he used to call her, To everyone else she had been their lords daughter, the unruly one, the loud, badly behaved one. To her sister she had been an annoyance, and her mother an embarrassment, to their lord father the echo of his dead sister, but to Jon she had always been his most beloved little sister. She would be six and ten now, almost a woman grown. No one could picture her face anymore, for when they did they saw her only as she had once been, eternally young.
But, as always, tales cropped up, too often similar to be discounted entirely. Some of the stories that Jon had heard seemed down right absurd, something that Old Nan might once have told him. Stories of an orphan called 'Arry, of a slave at Harrenhal, a girl called Nan who became a weasel with a strange alliance to a killer, an escapee who was in turn captured by a rag tag group of outlaws. A captive of a Hound, a strange, salty child with a strange coin, who disappeared and was never seen again.
And now this. A lost princess, running with Wildlings in the far North.
Jon's eyes snapped up to Sansa's; hope glistened in her eyes as she waited for him to speak. He sighed, and rolled up the letter. "Sansa..." he began warily, not wanting to upset her. "I know how you feel, Gods know I feel the same... but you must know that it is not likely true." Sansa's face hardened at his words, but Jon forced himself to continue. "Sansa, how many false leads have there been? I hate to admit it, but the truth is that Arya is gone. She isn't coming back, sister."
"Then what of the wolf, Jon?" Sansa interrupted. "He said there was a wolf with her- that must have been Nymeria, don't you see?!"
Jon swallowed. "Sansa, there are thousands of wolves north of the Wall. Besides, Nymeria disappeared years and years ago, before even Arya did." Perhaps if they had never separated she would be alive, he thought, his body turned to lead with grief. Perhaps Nymeria would have kept her safe, when I didn't.
"But it could be her," Sansa whispered. "It could be." She looked up, and Jon's stomach clenched to see tears in her eyes. "Please Jon, if there is any possibility, I beg of you... please, ride to Castle Black, and see for yourself." Jon sighed, and braced his hands against the mantle of the fireplace.
He knew he had no choice; not really. If there as any chance that this girl was Arya, then Jon knew he had to go. He thought back almost a year, to a night so similar to this one. It had been stormy, and Jon had been sat with Sansa in the exact room they were in now. The war had been over for only a few weeks, and people were still grieving their loved ones. Jon had indulged in wine, something he rarely did, and his mind had been hazy to the drink.
"At least we're all together now," Jon had said. "Rickon and Robb are at rest, and we are all home again."
Sansa had downed a glass of wine herself before speaking. "Not all of us, Jon," she said. "Or did you forget you had another sister?"
Jon had flinched at her words; it had hurt, mostly because in that moment, Jon had forgotten. There had never been closure on Arya, and Jon hadn't really known much about it when she went missing; Robb's death had been all anyone spoke of, from Dorne to the Wall, and he had seen Rickon's first hand. But Arya... no one ever spoke of Arya. The Lannisters had covered up the fact that she was lost, and after the Red Wedding she had faded from thought or memory.
Jon was brought back to the present sharply when Sansa placed her hand gently on his arm. "Jon, I know you don't want to, I understand; the idea of getting there only to find that it isn't really her... it would rip you apart. I feel the same. But if it could be her, if there is even a small chance that our sister is out there, alone... shouldn't we go to her?"
Jon stared into her imploring sapphire eyes, and sighed. "Of course I will go to her, Sansa. I couldn't not. But don't get your hopes up. And if it isn't her... I don't think I can keep searching for a girl who died eight years ago. If this isn't her, then we will have a memorial, and put her to rest. I can't keep looking for her only to be reminded of how she was taken from us."
Sansa stared into his eyes, and nodded.
Ok, so there is the first chapter (again!). I hope you guys liked, and we will see a bit more of Arya later on...
Leave a review if you liked! Until next time...
Over and Out xox