Chapter Two: Quiet as a Shadow
Thank you all so much for the lovely reviews on the last chapter! However, I'm not really sure how to take all of the questions about whether I had abandoned Kings, Sisters and Arya the Unlikely, and am trying to remain positive that everyone is enjoying my writing. If I don't touch my fics for more than twelve months, ok, asking about abandonment is a valid question. If I updated the week/month before, please just assume that I'm working on the next chapter – I am a fairly slow updater. I work in tourism, and our season just started. Huge shout out to young Miss Molly and her granny Irish Ann for proofreading, sound boarding, and feeding me. You should see the plot boards.
also, FUCK YOU EPISODE FIVE YOU ABSOLUTE CACTUS SHIT!
The wildling woman who guards the youngest Stark is called Osha, and by the time they have made it to the dais for lunch, she has twice offered Sandor a roll in the hay. Sandor doesn't know how to answer that question, so he has pretended not to have heard her on both occasions, and had to put up with the tawny woman's cackling.
Despite his colouring, the little lordling reminds him more of the Wolf-Girl than the Little Bird – fierce and sly, often being reminded to use his manners, with a banked anger burning in his eyes like coals in the hearth at midnight. Rickon Stark uses a few scattered pleases and thank yous to get them lunch, and then begins tearing in to the food as though someone will take it off of him if he is too slow.
"We're in a fucking castle." He growls at the boy. "You don't need to eat like that. You're the lord here, no one will deny you food." Cheeks stuffed full to bursting, the brat actually growls at him when Sandor tries to hand him his knife and fork. Sandor growls right back. "How old are you, boy? Thirteen, fourteen?"
Osha, who had been eating just as quickly, if a little less explosively, grunted out, "One-and-ten, he is."
"Ah, a tall man you'll be, then." Sandor says. "I knew your sister at that age – tiny, weedy little thing. She hasn't grown much since."
"Arya's gonna be the King until Bran comes back," Rickon Stark says amongst a shower of crumbs. "Don't talk about my sister like that."
"Knew the older one too," Sandor continues deliberately, flicking crumbs off of his own plate, dragging it closer and placing one hand up as a blockade.
"Sansa?"
"Aye, that's her. I tried to keep her safe from the cunts down in Kings Landing, and sometimes I could. A lot of the times I couldn't. I tried to get her out of there, and when that didn't work, I rescued the Wolf-Girl. Tried to get her to your King brother and mother, but we got there too late. Tried to get her to your aunt in the Eyrie, and was too late then too. We ran out of money, and we ran out of food. We knew hunger, like you have, but you don't see me or her eating like some wild thing from the forest."
Rickon eyes him warily, and actually finishes chewing and swallowing his mouthful before he speaks again.
"So you want me to slow down, in the man-rocks?"
"The fucks a – yeah, fine, whatever you want to call a fucking building. If you've got a roof over your head or walls on either side, you eat like a proper little lord, d'you understand?"
Osha is watching him with those obsidian-bright eyes again, and Rickon is staring at him like a starving wolf. An eleven-year-old should not look so predatory, and Sandor had spent enough time with a bloodthirsty Arya Stark to say that with a good deal of confidence and discomfort.
"Alright," he finally agrees. "But in return, will you teach me how to use a sword properly? Arya said you were good."
He considers saying no, but it's been a while since he taught anyone anything (this is where the heart is) that he lets the nostalgia sway him. "If you eat everything on your plate, slowly and with the cutlery."
A chicken-filled mouth opens, and he hurriedly corrects, "Knife and fork, boy. Those. Now, where the buggering hell has your sister gone?"
"Sansa went North to Jon, we think," the boy says as he awkwardly tries to use knife and fork to cut up his chicken. "And Arya has gone to the Twins."
The memory swims unbidden to the surface – the burning Direwolf flags, the screams of men cut down and alight, the glassy eyes of the tiny girl he held close to his chest as they galloped away from the slaughter. "Why the fuck would she willingly go back there?!" He hisses.
"She's going to get Robb's crown back," The little boy tells him solemnly, that dull-ember rage brightening to a roaring hearth. "And she's going to avenge the North. We remember, Clegane."
"And how's she going to do that?" Sandor snarls. A vein of fear trickles down his spine.
"Poison," Osha says from the other side of the boy. "in the wine, she said. Though she has something special for Walder Frey."
"Special how?!"
"Something about a Rat King," Osha shrugged. "But I think she's gonna steal his face, like she did Ramsay's."
Steal his face … I have friends in Braavos … I know a real killer.
That trickle of fear down his spine now has a vice-grip on his heart.
"She went to the Faceless Men?" He demands.
"She went from Saltpans to Braavos," Rickon shrugs instead. "She stayed in Braavos' House of Black and White until we were captured, and then Nymeria called her back. Will you help me with the sword later?"
"… Aye, boy," Sandor agrees quietly. "But I won't go easy on you, understand?"
Rickon's cheerful babble passed over and around him, and all Sandor could do was think on those little girls – one full of songs, the other full of rage, and both with a belly full of fear. He had never been a religious man, despite Septon Rae's best efforts, and yet he offered up a prayer to the Seven all the same. You keep these Starks that are left alive, and safe, and bring them home, you gods. They have suffered well enough.
With fewer pack members and a much slighter weight on Nymeria's back, the Pack was making great time. As dusk was setting, they had already crossed in to the Barrowlands, and Arya and Nymeria expected them to hit the Neck by the same time tomorrow. Hunting is easy for the Direwolf's Pack, and Arya had packed well. It is her nature now to preserve her food stores for as long as possible, however, so she only nibbles on a little bit of bread and cheese.
The spruce trees here in the Barrows produce a sap that is rubbery, and can be chewed on to enjoy the flavour and trick the body into thinking itself full. The inner bark is also edible, if not particularly tasty. Maester Luwin had taught Arya of it once upon a time, and she takes the time to collect globules of the sap from a couple of the trees, wrapping it in the inner bark and slipping some in to her pockets, and the rest in to her sack.
Nymeria tugs at the edges of her mind, and Arya goes willingly.
Need to stop being lone wolf, Nymeria whispers. Will show you how to be Alpha. Need to practice, for when the older sister comes back, and the White Brother.
Arya sent back her confusion. Sansa is older than me. So if she comes back, that means she would inherit Robb's crown.
Nymeria scoffed at that, at such a human concept. You think I became Alpha because of my brothers? Because of my dam or sire? No! I made these others see me, me, as the best choice for Alpha. You will have to do the same with your silly humans.
Wry amusement filled Arya's chest at the actual disdain in her wolf's mental voice.
Prove your strength. Take back the big man-rock of your dam, avenge your brother and punish your pack's betrayers. Help your pack survive the Winter, and then avenge your sire too.
Surviving the winter in the terms of a wolf meant shelter, food and water, company. Which meant that Arya was going to need to have inventories conducted at every single castle, holdfast, hamlet and farm in the North, take stock of all of the stock, all the grains, all of the fruit and vegetables that had been harvested already. She would have to speak properly with Lord Manderly and his granddaughters about trade agreements with Essos, Dorne and the Reach. She knew from experience that the Riverlands would have to have agreements drawn up too, after the raids of the Lannister forces.
Fuck. Was she about to make herself King of the Trident too? Fucking Rickon, and his big ideas, and his stupid dreams. She'd thought he was like her, a realist, and like Robb, a planner; but of course, Sansa had been his favourite when theirs was still a happy family. He was a dreamer, and ambitious, and greedy and hungry as any of the wolf-kings of old.
Nymeria huffed a laugh at her.
The little wild brother is greedy, is hungry, is a wolf in a man's cloak. And he is right; he makes you a fine Beta.
You have no Beta, Arya observed, scowling.
Nymeria bares her teeth. I don't need it – my pack is hundreds strong. Yours will be even bigger, and you cannot rule your men as I rule my wolves and dogs. My lessons are just… guides.
The wolves were snacking – frogs, small rodents, ground-dwelling birds, just enough meat to give them energy until the pack could find something bigger to take down. Nymeria had caught a quail earlier in the evening, just before Moat Cailin, and of course Arya had her bark and sap to nibble on.
Alpha. King. Doesn't matter what you term it, my Arya Stark. You and I, we are going to rule our lands, save our people, and survive the Long Winter.
Aye, Arya thought back to her. We're still here. We're here to stay.
Arya's Hound had not lied, when he'd told Rickon that he would not hold back. Initially he had walked Rickon through grips, strikes and blocks – easy, simple things that the little prince had once been taught by Ser Rodrik and his big brothers. He had shown Rickon how to swing the blade, and then the dance had begun.
Dance was only a pretty term to dress up what was happening. Rickon was a half-step away from being beaten more brutally than anything he had ever seen – if he slipped, if he was too slow, he could not say that the Hound would stop to spare him. It was thrilling!
"Dog man!" Osha called. "Are you going to let the little Lord do his princeling duties any time today?"
The Hound pulled back, and Rickon scrambled to put distance between them himself, panting and grinning and flicking sweat out of his eyes. Shaggy finally came forward, licking him all over as if Rickon were a newborn pup, which made him laugh.
"Aye, alright. Well then, boy, how was that?"
"Great!" Rickon grinned back at him. "Arya didn't lie when she said you were good! Did you train her like that too? It doesn't feel like anything she tried to teach me."
"She taught you?"
"Aye, down in the crypts, where we were hiding. Her style was more dance-like than this, but she said you travelled together for a while."
"… Aye, we did. I can't say I much trained her in the blade. Her water dancing was taught to her by a Braavosi. Syria something."
"And he died, didn't he?" The Hound only nods at that, and Rickon isn't sure how to continue the conversation – so much of the time he spent with Osha and Shaggy was spent not talking, and if they had to communicate something, then they would use their bodies to do it. The Hound doesn't look like he knows much of the wolf-language, so Rickon takes a type of pity on him, and tries to use man-language instead.
He needs to work on that, if he's going to be surrounded by men again.
"Arya said you could help with the Lord stuff?"
"I can try. What are you to work on, boy?"
"Reading. Inheritance. Stockpiles and arithmancy and planning."
Learning to read is fun. Seeing how the castles and lands pass from one hand to another is stupid, but he's making himself learn. Stocktaking is interesting, but arithmancy and planning are just dumb, and Rickon hates them. Arya said he had to learn them though, so he's trying his best, even if it is boring him to tears.
"Not a reader, boy?"
"It's been so long since Mother and Maester Luwin taught me that I forgot it all," he answers honestly. "I had to learn other things, so I let it go; it wasn't helpful."
"I'll bet. Well, where are we going, then?"
"To the library for relearning letters, then to the stores to stocktake, then to the kitchens for reports, and then we'll go into town so I can talk to the smallfolk." Rickon pulled a face. "It's busy today. I want people to forget that Arya is gone, and concentrate on getting the pack through the winter." Shaggy nudged his shoulder. He wants Rickon to hop on his back, but Rickon is still worried about the wounds the Umber's flying-claws caused, and wants Shaggy to heal faster, not slower. So he gives his Direwolf a good scratch around the ears instead, and takes off at a trot.
He is tired and sore from the lengthy spar, but he has been tired and sore before, and no doubt will be again. All he needs is a drink of water, and maybe a snack, and he will be fine.
"Are you coming, Hound?" He calls. Osha joins him quickly, and with a put-upon sigh and grumbles about brats and cunts, the hulking man follows too.
Relearning his letters goes about as well as it has any other time – slow, boring, and almost condescending from Maester Wolkan, now that his scary sister is gone – and the stocktake of the stores is not greatly different to what they had anticipated it would be from last weeks stocktake. Rickon spends most of it sticking his nose into whatever he can so that Shaggy might smell everything, as the poor wolf has been banned from both the stores and the kitchens.
And the kitchens! Rickon spends the whole time pretending he isn't drooling over the honeycakes that had been made for tonight's desert, honestly, and he knows everybody else knows exactly what he was trying not to do, which is irksome. The Hound only snorts at him and chivvies him from one task to another, but once they are making their way to the Wintertown, he gruffly gives Rickon a stolen cake and pushes him down the main road. Rickon thanks him brightly and gives the old dog an affectionate headbutt, splitting the cake up carefully so that everyone has a bite, with Shaggy licking the crumbs and remaining honey drizzles from their hands. Shaggy agrees with Rickon that the honeycakes are the best deserts, and Arya and her almond cakes can suck it.
Their first stop in Wintertown is the brothel, which makes the Hound choke.
"I'm not letting you in there! Your sisters would both string me up by my balls, and I wouldn't stop 'em!"
"Sansa might, but Arya won't," Rickon scolded. "She's the one who told me to go in here. We need to make sure that the girls are being looked after properly, that everyone is healthy, and that the sums are all in order. We'll go to the next seamstress, then the masons, the carpenters, the markets, the farrier and the smith, and then the inn. From there we can visit whatever farms are closest, and check the further ones tomorrow."
There is a pained look on the old dog's face, as though he isn't sure how he is to respond to the information. "Anyway, old dog, if Osha isn't to your liking, I'm sure we'll find you someone here," Rickon called carelessly over his shoulder. The Hound spluttered behind him and Osha cackled. Shaggy collapsed with a huff by the front door, and Rickon let himself in.
The whores were just as shocked to see him as the Hound had been and tried to politely kick him out, but Rickon didn't take offense. His pelt was thick and his mind quick, so he looked at what he needed to and stuck his nose into each room while he was at it. The whole place smelt like mating, and Rickon could feel Shaggy getting excited outside, but he ignored him.
"And how many how your girls were hurt by Ramsey?" Rickon asked the matron as he took down the rest of his figures in the little pocket book Arya had given him for this purpose.
"Three, m'lord," the matron said, wringing her hands.
"Did they leave any family behind? Pups or litter-mates?"
"Pu - Babes? Only the one, m'lord, but the babe was lost to the colic not long after we lost the mother. The other two girls had nothing and no one."
"I'm sorry to hear it," Rickon said honestly, looking up from his painstakingly slow notes. "Is there anything I can do?"
"No, Lord Rickon. But we thank you." The matron hesitated, then begged, "Only, could you move your Direwolf? He's not good for business, he turns the appetites."
Rickon grins at that. "Done. Send a messenger for me should you need anything, though. I mean it. Well, old dog?"
"Fuck off," the grump growled under his breath, leading the way out of the brothel. Osha and Rickon laughed with each other all the way to the loomhouse. Shaggy stuck his head inside of this wooden-little-man-rock, but the women inside screamed so much that he ducked back out again. This time it was the Hound who roared with laughter, and Rickon couldn't really deny the humour of the situation.
"Sorry!" He called ahead, giving the cheekiest grin he could manage. "Can I speak with someone about the accounts, please?"
"Lord Rickon, you have a steward to ask these sorts of things!" An older lady that sparked some half-forgotten memory swept forward looking worried. "You're a prince now, m'lord, really! Are you shirking your duties again?"
"Not me," Rickon informed her proudly. "Arya put me in charge of this until she comes back."
The older woman huffs, but gives him a fond look all the same. "Well then, my prince, let's go over everything together. Through here, if it pleases you."
They go upstairs and past the seamstresses into the office, where information is stored in locked drawers. This is easier than the brothel had been because all the interesting sounds and smells are in specific spots, and they are all half-remembered and not as interesting for it.
As they are leaving though, they come across one of the girls giving Shaggy a good scratch behind the ears and under the chin, which is his Secret Scratching Spot. Rickon is impressed that she is brave enough to come close to his partner, and impressed again that she would scratch such a large creature.
"Go left more," Rickon advised, causing the girl to start. She looks up at him with bright blue eyes set in a square-ish face, jagged black hair cut short and left free about her face to try and hide the terrible fresh burns on her left cheek. "Don't stop. Shaggy was enjoying that."
The girl curtsied hurriedly, stammering out apologies that Rickon waved off. "Who are you? You're new, aren't you?'
"Irene, if it please my lord. I'm still new to the loomhouse, yes."
"Where are you from?" Rickon asks. She does not smell like the North, not really. And she doesn't smell the same as the seamstresses, even if she smells of them.
"Here, now, my lord. South of the Neck originally, though."
Rickon can practically hear her heartbeat and smell her fear himself. "I'm not like Ramsay Bolton," he tells her with a frown. "I'm not going to hurt you. Stop being so scared."
"Don't ask for miracles, little prince," the Hound drawls behind him. "Let the girl be. We're losing daylight."
He's right, unfortunately. Rickon gives him a nod, before turning back to Irene. "If you need anything, you send for me at the castle, alright?"
She ducks her eyes and nods, giving Shaggy a last scratch and Rickon a quick curtsy before disappearing back into the building.
Rickon looks at Osha first and then the Hound. "You both picked up on that, didn't you?"
Osha hums idly, eyes trained on the door and fingers dancing on the handle of her dagger. The Hound has a perfectly blank face on when he says, where to next, princling? They are all the answers Rickon needs. He turns to Shaggy, slipping his skin briefly. In Nymeria's absence, Shaggy has taken up as alpha of the pack. The pack are given Irene's scent, and asked to set a watch to her.
We'll see what happens now, Shaggy thinks at him with a huff. She gave good scratches.
Arya had thought it would take them another day or two to make the Twins, but she had been thinking in man-terms of horses and roads. Nymeria had scolded her for forgetting, trying to share the wolf-knowledge with her, but it was too much too soon for Arya. Instead they had slipped in to a comfortable, shared mind-space, Arya running her plans past Nymeria to see what the she-wolf thought.
Nymeria was not human. She liked things simple, but she also liked Arya's revenge for their brothers.
When they reach the Twins, Arya has Nymeria order everyone to take a break. They will sleep away the rest of the night and then the show will begin. Until then, Arya has some spying to do.
It takes nothing for her to slip in to the keep on their side of the Green Fork, Ghita's face once again in place. She regrets her choice quickly, however – there are not many pretty girls in the Twins, and Ghita was an Essosi beauty. There are hands and touching and offers, and Arya is hard pressed to get away without drawing attention to herself.
She wishes she had another face, but if she changed now it would be even more suspicious than a new face in the castle. Continuity demands that she stick to it. Vengeance demands that she start taking fingers. Justice demands that she bide her time. She needs to find Walder Frey, and get everything out of him – Robb's crown, Uncle Edmure and his wife and babe, Robb's bones, if it's possible.
The old Lord of the Crossing is easy enough to find. Heavy application of wine and flirting gets her the answers she wants, and a sleepy powder in his last cup gives her the space she needs to slip away.
The crown is kept in old Walder's bedroom, so she gets another maid to help her carry the Lord back to his chambers, goes back to the kitchens, and waits. She scrubs dishes and listens, as Syrio and Jaqen both had taught her. When all is dark she sneaks herself back upstairs, quiet as a shadow, and slips back into Walder's room. Step one, completed. Next step – find Roslyn Frey and toddlering Robin Tully.
She isn't sure how to feel, that her uncle's wife decided to name her son for the goodnephew she had allowed to be murdered under guest right. The old Arya, No One and nothing, would have simply killed the woman with all the rest of her horrid family, and taken the babe with her to Riverrun. She cannot be that person, so instead she decides to question Roslin for herself.
Despite the late hour, Roslin Frey is yet awake. She calls a quavering come in to Arya's my lady?, her chubby-cheeked son as red-headed and blue-eyed as Rickon had been at that age. There is no doubt in Arya's mind that this is her cousin.
"I don't know you," Roslin says, dragging her son behind her and up on to the bed, stepping in front of him. "Who do you serve? Why are you here?"
"Valar dohaeris. I serve the North." Arya tells her plainly. "Winter is coming."
Roslin's breath is shaky. "You can kill me for that farce of a wedding if you must, but don't touch my son! He had no part of it – I knew nothing of it until that morning, I had been so, so happy until they told me what would happen! If I could have done anything to stop them, I would have, but I couldn't!"
"People will say anything, when they think that they're about to die," Arya says coldly, watching closely.
Roslin is blinking tears from her eyes, shaking but standing firm between Arya and her son. "On my honour as a Frey, on my honour as a Tully! I swear to you and all those my family have devastated; I didn't want that! I wanted to marry my husband, whomever my family thought best, and give him children and help him run his household, and maybe have a better marriage than my parents and grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins! I wanted my children to have a future, and live long and happy lives! I swear it!"
The Faceless Men taught Arya how to read every single tell in a person. Roslin Frey is telling her the truth.
"And if you could do those things? Go to your husband, run Riverrun with him, give him more children? Would you do it?"
"What would I have to do?" Good, Arya thought. She's clever, at least, and cautious.
"Would you trust a Stark?"
"If there is a Stark left, I would hear their words."
Arya grins at her brightly, holds her fingers to her lips, and then removes Ghita's face. "My name is Arya Stark. I've come to reclaim my brother's crown, and both his titles. Will you help me?"
Roslin is still shaking and still scared, but there is a light in her eyes that Arya approves of. "Do you swear that you will allow no harm to come to Robin?"
"My cousin has the protection of House Stark and the great wolf pack, of this I swear. I want you to know that I will be taking my brother's crown and my country and House's vengeance before I go to reinstate Uncle Edmure as the Lord of Riverrun. I want you to tell me those who are innocent, and I want you to have everything you and Robin will need ready to go soon. Will you do this for me?"
"You will spare the innocents?"
"Aye. Who of them would you have me place in the Lord's position once the guilty are gone?"
"Anyone?"
"Anyone."
"Tyta. They call her the Maid, even if she's six-and-thirty, but she has a solid head on her shoulders, and she would be the next eldest of Father's children to yet live when you finish. She will do whatever she must to keep the others in order."
Arya gives her that hungry wolf smile, bows, and says be ready.
"Your grace!" Roslin calls just as Arya touches the doorhandle. "If – when I have a daughter, my Queen, would it be alright, if, could I name her for your mother?"
Arya's hands spasmed on the knob, and it took all her courage and all her training to keep her face blank.
"My title is King, Lady Tully. And if my uncle is amenable to it, then I would be … honoured."
She sneaks from the room and ghosts up to Lord Walder's once again. She will have her vengeance on the blight of a man. She will avenge her family. And in only a few years, if everything works out, there will be another Catelyn Tully in the world. For now, Arya has to contend herself with that.
"Lord Walder. Wake up, my lord. Wake up!"
She has donned Ghita's face once more, and gives the prettiest smile she can, copying the early memory she has of her sister in the presence of Joffrey and overlays the whores of Braavos atop it.
"Eh? What do you want, girl?"
"You, my Lord."
Rheumy eyes drag up and down Ghita's figure. "…You're not one of mine, are you? No, too pretty by half. Eh, eh. Well then, girl, come here."
Keeping the pretty, vapid look upon her face, Arya settles herself on the edge of the bed. Closer, Walder urges, and closer again until she is nearly in his lap. She promises herself that she will have the longest, soapiest bath of her life when this is over.
"I want to tell you something, my lord," She whispers, copying the sultry tones of the whores who had bought the oysters and clams and cockles from Cat of the Canals, back in Braavos. She learns forward, and asks, "Will you hear it?"
"Eh, eh! What is it, girl?"
"My name, my lord!" She giggles, leaning close enough that she can smell his horrid breath, feel it puff across her face; she stays far enough away that he cannot easily kiss her. "Will you hear it?"
"Well, get on with it, girl!" He growls, eyes hungry on Ghita's face and chest.
She fingers the knife she tucked up one sleeve. Her smile changes from love-struck to a hunger of her own, and she breathes, "My name is Arya Stark. I want you to know that." She leans back, pulling Ghita's face from her own. "The last thing you're ever going to see, is a Stark smiling down at you as you die."
She wants to cut his throat, as Mother's was. She wants to stab him in the heart, like Robb, or in the belly a half-dozen times, as Robb's mate had been. She wants him to choke on his own blood, on poison, to drown in his tub, to strangle him with his own belt or chain of office. She wants him to suffer, gods be good, she wants to pay him back for everything that had happened at the Red Wedding and after, and she can't. A King ought to be just, even in vengeance. So she plants her knees on his upper arms, places her own forearm against his throat and pushes. And she makes him suffer.
"I'll call them all back; all your blood who participated in the murder of my family. I'm going to poison the wine and kill them slow for what you did. And I will make sure that they know it was a Stark who did it. I'm going to give Riverrun back to my Uncle, I'm going to be King of Winter and King of the Trident, as Robb was. And Walder of House Frey is going to vanish into the history books." The light is disappearing from his eyes when she spits, "Winter has come, my lord."
It doesn't take much to call all of the Freys together. There are many who are participating in the siege of Riverrun, and the pack would deal with them in time. In the morning Arya slips about in both old Walder's face and Ghita's, and even her own when she goes to Roslin for information on who to kill. Roslin offers her tea and biscuits, and though her belly rumbles and her throat is so dry, Arya declines.
"Your Grace, you must eat!" Roslin stammered, brown eyes worried. "You are already so thin, so small!"
"And break guest rite, myself?" Arya snaps. She doesn't mean to be angry with this wisp of a woman; she is just so hungry. "Tonight, and all shall be well. Have you spoken to Tyta yet?"
"A-aye, my king. She begs you spare the innocents, but elsewise accepts your terms. House Frey will serve House Stark from now until the end of time, on pain of the extinction of our house."
"And have you packed everything you and Robin will need for the journey?"
"Everything bar food is ready to go, your Grace. I didn't want to be too suspicious."
Arya nods at the sense of it, and looks about the room. "May I?" She asks, gesturing to Robin.
"If he'll let you, my king. He's slippery as a river-polished, algae-covered rock."
Arya smiled, and whispered, "Nay, sweet aunt. He is as slippery as a Trout. Robin, come here, please."
The boy stumbles towards her, babbling something or another, and Arya scoops him up. It both was and wasn't all that long ago, that she did the same with Rickon, or the smallfolk of Winterfell.
"You will be lord of Riverrun, one day," Arya whispers, tickling the little boy's tummy and making him squeal with laughter. "And you are going to remember your cousin Arya, and know for whom you were named, and how you were spared. Family, Duty, Honour, Robin, remember that." Turning back to Roslin, she says, "Please make sure you have two sturdy horses ready to go. One will take you and Robin, and the other is going to carry your supplies, alright?"
"Aye, your Grace. When, ah, when will we leave?"
"On the morrow, I suppose, if not as soon as my business is concluded," Arya hums. "Long enough for me to install Tyta and make sure that her will is followed, and that my will is followed, first and foremost. We'll be traveling with the pack, too, so make sure the mount you pick isn't too high-strung. I've already sent half of them on to Riverrun to harass the seigers there."
"Yes, your Grace."
She flits about for a few hours longer, even stopping in to speak with Tyta the Maid for a short time herself, hashing out exactly what she wants, and reminding the new Lady of the Twins just what was at stake if she did not follow Arya's rules. There is an agreement to send the Northern bones back to their families, where possible, and a request to foster one of the babes. And then finally, it is time.
Wearing Walder's face once more, she sits upon the dias and watches the gathered monsters just below her. Catching the eyes of Roslin and Tyta, Arya inclines her head. Both women stare back at her, sad and resolved in equal turns, and give nothing away when Arya thumps Walder's goblet a few times to grab the men's attention. She gives them a pretty enough, realistic enough speech about the greatness of this House, makes a joke about Walder's tight pockets, and then raises the goblet of poisoned wine.
"A toast! Now this isn't that Dornish horse piss; this is the finest arbour gold! The finest wine, for proper heroes! Stand together." The men drink, and Arya stops the poor new wife, widow, of Walder Frey from partaking too. "Maybe I'm not the most pleasant man, I'll admit it, but I'm proud of you lot. You're my family, the men who helped me slaughter the Starks at the Red Wedding! Yes, yes, cheer. Brave men, all of you. Butchered a woman pregnant with her babe. Cut the throat, of a mother of five. Slaughtered your guests, after inviting them into your home." Those who Tyta and Roslin had advised against drinking are looking about them in apprehension. The men who drank are all starting to cough, and clear their throats, and Arya knows what is coming. But, you didn't slaughter every one of the Starks. No no, that was your mistake. You should have ripped them all out, root and stem. Leave one wolf alive, and the sheep are never safe." She pulls off Walders face, and smiles down at the dying me. She is the last thing that they see. And fear is all she can see in their eyes. This went better than she thought it would.
Turning to Kitty Frey, she smiles again and says, "When people ask you what happened here, tell them the North remembers. Tell them, Winter came, for House Frey. Lady Tyta, I leave you in charge of this Castle. From this day, until the end of your days, House Frey will serve House Stark, and all mine rules. Roslin? Fetch your boy."
She calls upon her memories of her lady mother, and does her best to glide from the room. (she is not a lady – it is less a glide and more of a shadow's slide, an assassin's prowl). She will not clean up this mess. She shall leave it to the Freys, to drive her point home.
She cannot stop at the kitchens, for she fears what the Old Gods might send her if she did. So she goes to gather Robin and Roslin's luggage, and has Roslin do it in her stead. Outside of the castle, Arya chews on some of the sap and bark she had prepared back in the Barrowlands, and calls for the pack. Nymeria and half of the hundreds of wolves who had come back south with her swarm in to the castle grounds, howling and baying a frightful song. Arya asks for volunteers; those who agree will bare her words to all those who need to know – Northmen and Riverlords and all.
The North Remembers. Winter came to House Frey; Tyta Frey is new Lord of the Crossing, by my hand. Valar Morghulis.
It is signed with a Direwolf in white-on-black wax, in what is to be her own personal sigil. It is signed Arya Stark, Daughter of Winterfell. King of Winter and King of the Trident.
The little wolf-bitch had been gone for a week when a wolf appears with a missive tied to it's neck with a strip of leather, and the lead for a pony held in it's jaws. There's a little rat-faced girl seated in the saddle, looking at her surroundings miserably.
Shaggydog,
Rat King given his due. Twins handed to new mistress. The girl Della I have taken on as a handmaiden. She is deaf and one year younger than yourself, so be kind, and have her assist you however you best find her able.
I've gone on to the River with our cousin, as you suggested. Perhaps another week, dear brother, and then I shall come back to you. Send missives to the holdfasts to conduct an inventory of their stores, and please return that horse. The Moose should be close, don't do anything stupid, lean on Hound for advice where necessary, look in to marriage with the female line. Any word from Ghost or Lady? There are rumours about what stirs beyond the Wall, talk to Osha. Will we need to open lands up after all?
All my love, Nymeria
"Another week?" Sandor demands, having read over the little lord's shoulder. "What's all this mean, anyway?"
Rickon gives him a biting smile, and instead says, "Let's settle Lady Della in. Would you see to her horse, Hound?" The prince gives the lady a good attempt at a gallant bow, and offers his hand to help her down. She squints back at him suspiciously, but more-or-less allows Rickon to help her dismount. She doesn't do or say anything when Rickon takes her bags and offer his arm, and she only looks a little panicked when Sandor takes her horse.
"Shaggy?" Rickon calls, and to the girl's credit she doesn't react when the massive Direwolf launches himself at Rickon, tongue lolling, and then proceeds to sniff and lick her all over. Rickon smiles brilliantly, pats the little Lady's hand, and starts to tug her towards the main keep. "We'll put Lady Della in Arya's old room, please," the boy calls to the stressed steward. "Arya will be back soon, too, so please ready the Lord's chambers for our King."
Sandor thinks that when the boy forgets that he's half-wolf and half-wildling, he does a spectacular impersonation of his lady sister and her courtesies.
Rickon takes them to what had once been Eddard Stark's solar, escorts Della to a chair and gives her a bow. The wolf who had born the message had followed them cheerfully, stopping by the front door to piss and to nip at one of the larger dogs, and had taken up a guard post by the solar door. The dog and one of the half-grown pups joined it; the princeling snorted at them, gave them all a scratch behind the ears, and then closed the door once Shaggydog had taken his place by the hearth with a huff.
"So who's this then?" The wildling woman asks, leaning against the wall and watching the little lady with cold eyes.
"Della Frey," Rickon says, rummaging through the desk draws. "She's gonna be Arya's handmaiden, whatever that is."
Sandor snorts. "She's supposed to help your sister look appropriate; do her hair, set out her clothes, run missives for her, make sure everyone knows that the King is coming. Those sorts of things."
"That's stupid," Rickon scowls at him, a goosefeather quill tucked behind one ear as he mixes up some ink. "Arya's grown, she can do all of that herself."
"Kings and Queens and Lords and Ladies are supposed to be fancier than everyone else," Sandor tells him, trying not to laugh. "So they have people to do everything else for them."
Rickon snaps out something in what is probably the First Tongue that makes Osha give a harsh cackle. Sticking his tongue out in concentration, Rickon writes out a scratchy note for the lady – do you reed?
"Read has an 'a', not two 'e's," Sandor offers whilst the Lady is looking over the boy's terrible handwriting. "Otherwise you're talking about the plant."
Rickon bites at him half-heartedly, and the little Lady looks up to give a nod. Rickon grins at her, and pulls out a sheaf of papers and hands over the quill and inkwell. She takes it, and sets up a growing list of questions.
As she writes, Rickon straightens out Arya's note once again.
"Walder Frey is dead and replaced. Arya's gonna be longer since she's taking Uncle Edmure's wife and babe back to Riverrun. She wants us to send out missives to all of the castles to see if we can last the Winter; if they cannot, Arya has plans for foreign trade. I need to take Lord Manderly back his horse, so I'll probably talk to him while I'm there about some of the plans she sketched out. The Hornwood bastard should be arriving soon, so we need to get his mettle, and see if there are any daughters from the female Hornwood line that might accept marrying him to rebuild the House. We should probably send another message to the Wall to see what is keeping Jon and Sansa; the pack who went to track them were confused and lost the scent at a river, but they're still looking for us. Osha, that thing that wasn't Bruni, the reason you left the Real North – is there more of them?"
The woman has gone white. "Aye, little lord. There's a whole army of the Others up Beyond the Wall."
"Fire stops them?"
"It stopped Bruni."
"Then we'll write missives warning about the dead men who walk, and advise that all holdfasts, villages and hamlets keep a central fire burning."
Della looks up at them then, tapping on the desktop to grab their attentions. The letters were far neater than Rickon's, but that wasn't particularly hard to begin with.
I am Della Frey. I have been sent to act as a handmaiden to the King of Winter and the Trident, Arya Stark. Who are you? Why is the King not here? Why is she not called Queen? How long am I to act as handmaiden? Am I supposed to marry in the North? How did her grace become King? Why are your letters so terrible?
"We'll be waiting too long if we let you answer all of that," Sandor growls, dragging a new sheaf towards himself, and writing large enough for the other three to see.
Sandor Clegane; Prince Rickon Stark; Osha; Shaggydog.
Arya retaking Riverrun, should be back in a week.
King because she wanted to be, it's King in the North or King of Winter, not Queen. Took the title for her people, for her home, for her ghosts.
Don't know anything about your future.
Rickon hasn't had to know his letters in years and forgot.
There is a fine tremble in the little lady's hands, but otherwise she is perfectly poised.
"What army are you talking about?" Sandor growls at them, whilst they wait for Della to finish reading his replies.
"The dead are marching South," Osha says simply. "It's the reason why so many Free Folk were tryin't cross the Wall. We want to live."
"You expect me to believe that horsepiss?" He snaps back, hackles raised. He nearly died for the Wolf-bitch in the War of Five Kings. He does not wish to risk the same again in this war for the living, especially if fire is the only thing that will beat them.
Della taps her forefinger to the desk twice, almost delicately. It grabs their attention, and postpones the fight before it can truly begin.
The Frey army has been trying to reclaim Riverrun for near two years. How does her grace expect to reclaim it within a week?
Sandor looks to Rickon, reading the question aloud for the little prince.
Wolves and poison, is apparently the answer. Sandor wishes he could see that!
Am I to be confined until the King returns?
Rickon takes the quill back, and painstakingly scribes, Do you no know how to run a household? At Della's nod, he continues. Then you shall follow me and help me until she comes home.
They are nearly to Fairmarket when the scouts, or vanguard, or whatever other human words want to be applied to them, have found a cottage up ahead. Nymeria sees it through the eyes of the scouts, and Arya sees it through Nymeria. She knows it. This is where Sally and her father had taken Arya and Sandor Clegane out of mercy; Sandor had robbed them so that he and Arya could live.
The scouts say that they yet live, if barely, so Arya begs them find father and daughter and bring them to her alive. The scouts aren't impressed, but comply all the same.
She and Roslin keep moving forward at a steady pace; Ayra explains the basics of what is happening to Roslin, before looking through the pack's eyes.
Sally and her father, understandably enough, aren't impressed either when a handful of wolves let themselves in to the cottage, sit, and glare at them. White trouble-mischief-quick and brown steady-*growl*-cranky don't really know how to handle humans, so they try and treat the terrified people as wayward, slightly slow pups. Whining, growling, gesturing their heads and even snapping, Trouble and Steady herded Sally and her father northwards and east in to the path of Arya and the rest of the pack.
It takes time on both accounts for them to finally meet in the middle. Arya has her cowl bound to her head with a scarf, the former low on her forehead and the latter high on her nose so that only her eyes are easily visible. Roslin and Robin are equally protected from the harsh almost-winter winds; the three of them must strike an impressive figure.
"Who are you?" The man demands.
"My name is Arya Stark, of Winterfell," She says softly, tugging at her scarf and cowl. "Once, some years ago, you harboured a giant man and a girl he called his daughter. The man was named Sandor Clegane. The girl was me. We did you a disservice, and I'm sorry. I should have tried harder to get your coin back to you, but we were starving too." Arya looks to Trouble and Steady, through her eyes then Nymeria's then her own again, and the two back away from the humans. "You are suffering because of our actions. Let me repay the debt I owe you."
"Have you any more coin or food to your name than when last we met?" The father sneered. Arya stares at him, so he spits, "Then we shall survive on our own."
"You won't. You can't. Winter is coming, and you have nothing left to your names. Let my wolves take you to Winterfell where you can find work and food and shelter." She dismounts from the second horse, and strips what she and the Tullys will need, and leaves enough for Sally and her father. "Trouble and Steady will go with you and keep you safe, and guide you to Winterfell. My brother Rickon will look after you until my return."
"And where are you off to, that you will not escort us yourself?"
"I have to return my aunt and cousin to Riverrun, and help my uncle and great-uncle take it back from the Lannisters. It shouldn't take too long." Arya rummages through her bag for paper and quill. "I'll send a message with you."
"What would you have us do, m'lady?" Little Sally asks, voice quieter than a sept-mouse.
"Your Grace," Roslin corrects gently. "Arya Stark is King of the Trident, and King of Winter, as her brother before her."
"There is much farmland that needs tending, in the North," Arya offers. "Elsewise, there is plenty of positions to fill in Winterfell itself; in the kitchens, as a maid or manservant, the kennels, the stables."
"You carry a sword?" Sally whispered again, black eyes wide.
"I do. I don't have a squire, if you'd like to fill that position instead."
"It isn't a girl's place to fight," Her father spat.
"And yet, it's something I happen to be very, very good at. If you would like, I'm happy to teach you your letters, Sally, your numbers, the running of a holdfast – gods know I'll need a hand keeping my brother in check, in the years to come. But if you want it, I can teach you the sword, the staff, knifework, poisons and antidotes. I can teach you how to be anyone. But that is up to yourself."
She turns to Roslin and says, "We may as well break here. Let Robin stretch his legs, the wolves will mind him for us."
"Are you sure, your grace?" Roslin asks, worried for her son.
Arya ignores the doubt – her own mother had been worrying about such things right up until they left for Kings Landing, and her children had been six and ten and eleven and thirteen and seventeen, and well past the age of being worried over – and instead sets about setting up a simple camp, cookfire and blankets beside it.
"Your name?" She asks the father.
"Lothor," He growls out.
"Lothor, Sally, would you like to come with me to Winterfell, then?"
Lothar grumbles and growls, far crankier than Arya remembers him being – hunger does that to a man, Arya's found – but eventually, he acquiesces. Arya offers Nymeria to take him back to pack up what he needs from the cottage (not that she imagines that there is much, but all the same), and says she will have food ready by the time he returns. He is unwilling to leave his daughter behind with Arya, but Nymeria doesn't really have the room for two. He could take the horse, he argues, but Arya isn't a hundred precent sure the beast would come back to her, elsewise.
The fire is built and a pot of tea is burning when he finally takes his leave. As soon as Arya knows that he cannot hear her, she turns to Sally and gives her a smug smile.
"Sword, staff or dagger, then? It's your choice."
Larence Snow is the bastard of Hornwood. His father died at the battle on the Green Fork, and his half-brother Daryn had died at the battle of the Whispering Wood. The best he could have hoped for, whilst they lived, was to perhaps become Daryn's Master of Arms, or Steward, or something similar. Certainly, that was what was covered in his education at Deepwood Motte, where the Glover's had kindly fostered him over the last six years.
But now his family is all gone, even Lady Donella, and he is the only Hornwood left.
(Father's sister is Lady of Torrhen's square, and Father's aunt had been the wife of Arnolf Karstark – there are yet those with the Hornwood blood. His is just the closest claim to the name, even if he is a Snow.)
The summons to Winterfell worry him. He has been on the road all week, since the message first came, and the whole time he has been thinking of Lady Donella. They had not been close, not by any stretch of the imagination, but to starve to death is not something he would ever wish on anyone. Even if the summons had been signed with a Direwolf, the wax used had been black instead of white or grey, and neither Lord Glover nor the Maester had known what that meant. Was it the Lady Sansa, who had been forced to wed the Bastard of Bolton? Was it a trick? Or perhaps it was something else entirely – could Jon Snow have left his position as Lord Commander to rescue his true-born sister? That's what little Lady Erena said, but she was not even eight yet, so what did she know.
But a summons from the Liege Lord was a summons from the Liege Lord, so here Larence was. Lord Robett had wanted to accompany him, but just in case it was for the worse, Larence had begged to go alone. There had been times when he had regretted it, when he was lonely or when there had been strange noises at night, or the sounds of large companies of men racing past, but now he was here. Winterfell loomed above him, and Larence found himself shaking with his nerves.
What was to happen to him? Was he to be flayed? Fed to dogs? Instated as Lord – hah! Not likely, that last one!
"Staring at it won't open the gates, y'know." Larence nearly fell off of his mount he jumped so, when a voice piped up from his elbow. It was a boy, young and willowy, with copper curls and icy eyes. "Who are you? Why are you here?"
"L-Larence Snow!" He squeaked back, before calling on what courage remained to him. Righteous in Wrath. "Who are you, boy?"
The return smile was sharp, and far better suited the wolves that had risen up out of the snow than the boy they flanked. He shifted so that his cloak revealed a leather-backed gorget with twin direwolves. "I'm Rickon Stark, Prince in the North. My sister has been expecting you. Come – we have much to discuss."
A massive black Direwolf rose from the clump of bushes beside Larence's mount, but despite the horse being a spirited mare who was known to jump at kittens, the beast held steady. Prince Rickon's eyes looked to roll in the back of his head for a moment, but were back to their icy blue-grey once again. The boy swung himself atop the great Direwolf, and gave Larence such a cheeky smile that he felt a matching grin sneak across his own face.
"Shall we?"
Boy and wolf took off at a quick pace, and Larence tapped his heels to the horse's withers and tried to catch up to them. The regular wolves who had originally flanked the Prince split in to two factions – three followed the road with them to the castle, whilst the remaining four spun and started to run a perimeter.
As they came upon the gate, Rickon called out to the guards, "Larence Snow, bastard of Hornwood! Stand down!"
They cantered in to the courtyard, the young prince jumping from his wolf as the great black beast skidded to a stop. There was a little girl waiting for him, arms folded like a perfect lady and dress finely cut in a dark blue, rat-like face serene. Rickon bounded up to her, a massive grin on his face and fingers twitching about in slightly exaggerated descriptions. A thumb was jerked back at Larence, and then a soft, almost wavy motion with both hands above the head, drifting down like snow. The girl only raised her eyebrow haughtily, before turning away from Rickon to sketch Larence an elegant curtsy.
"Larence Snow, this is Lady Della Frey. Put your horse away over there, and Shaggy will bring you to us." The wolf panted happily at being addressed, giving a doggy grin. Rickon turned back to face the young lady once again with a smile, only for her to lean forward slightly, raise both brows and shake both flat hands at shoulder height. Rickon pointed again, hands flying up to demonstrate something in the odd language of the pair. Larence felt a moment of jealousy – what a great friendship the two must have, to have a secret language together. What it must be like, to be a young trueborn noble and carefree.
The black Direwolf escorted Larence to the stables and back to where Rickon and Della continued to wave their hands at each other. Before he could do more than draw his breath to announce himself to his lord, there was a most human growl behind his back.
"There you are you little shit," the man himself was tall, tall as the Umbers, with North-dark hair and bright eyes and terrible scarring across the right of his face. He was dressed in the Northern style with three black dogs stitched at the collar of his jerkin. "First I chase the Little Bird across the Red Keep, then I follow the Wolfbitch across half the Riverlands and back again, and now I have to deal with you? It ain't happening, boy, I do this only as a favour to the girls. Stop leaving me to the tender mercies of the wildling bitch of yours!"
Rickon gave a hard look to the tall man. "Don't call Osha names. If you don't want to bed her, just tell her so and she'll leave you be. What did you want?"
"The Wolfbitch sent another message whilst your lordship was hiding from his duties in the wild," the man snarled sardonically, handing a small scroll to the prince. "Also, the steward wants you. Stop running off. You – who are you?"
"Larence Snow, ser."
"I'm not a ser, boy. Come on then, let me test your mettle – you know how to swing a sword?"
"Yes!"
"Good. Brat, what does your sister say?"
"She's taken a squire, she wants to know my opinion of the new lord, if I did the research she wanted me to and if I'm looking after Della properly. If Jon and Sansa have contacted us, again. If I've been practicing the staff moves she wanted me to, and whether or not I've shown them to Della. If I've killed you yet, or you me."
"She has such faith," the burnt man growled. "Write her back, then, and once you've finished you and the girl come back for another round at staves. You, Snow – with me."
Lothor doesn't like Arya, and thinks her mad. Sally idolises her, and thinks she's amazing. Little Robin loves her dearly, and Roslin thinks her too clever for her own good, and too brave by far. Nymeria is amused by the new additions to their tiny pack, and most of the rest of the wolfpack is too busy harassing the Frey siege to really care.
What ought to have taken Arya and the wolves another day and a half, what would have taken her with Roslin and Robin nearly four, ends up taking close to a week. It would have gone quicker if Lothor and Sally had just taken the second mount and headed for Winterfell on their own, as Arya had intended. Instead the grouchy farmer had insisted on travelling with the girls and babe, as "protection". Arya had shown off some of her water dancing and House-trained staff techniques to persuade him of her capabilities, but all it had done was have him insist that she teach him and Sally both in the way of both instruments. Arya was at her wits end with him, and held him responsible for the babe trying to take up the sword too. All three girls were in agreeance that Lothor's insistence on taking up arms was the reason they all had stick-bruised shins.
It was with great relief that they finally spotted the smoke of the camp fires of the Freys. Arya and Sally had snuck to the top of the ridge to spy on the encampment, Sally's sharp young eyes and Arya's experience favouring them indeed. It was clear that the Freys had no idea about how to lay a siege, and clearer still that the wolves had been successful. Through Nymeria, Arya had warged the great pack to pick certain herbs and sneak them into the campfires for hallucinations, into the cook pots for the runs, and into the water barrels to slow and poison the general troops. To see the results of everything brought a truly wicked smile to Arya's face, and a savage pleasure to roost in her chest.
"How many do you count, squire?" She whispered.
"Shy of three hundred, my King." Sally answered promptly. The girl was quiet, certainly, but that did not mean she was anything less than sharp. "But a company approaches from further South."
Surprised, Arya flicked her eyes where Sally pointed. Calling to Nymeria, she sent the wolves out to terrify and harass, and bundled Sally back down towards their little group.
"Lothor, Sally, stay down and stay hidden," Arya snapped. "Roslin, mount up. Our chance here is slim."
Pulling a face from her pack, Arya drags herself up on to the spare horse, turning to Roslin and asking quickly, "Tell me of this brother of yours, Roslin, quick, all that you can!"
Roslin shrinks back at first, before spilling a thousand stories about a terrible brother who took great pleasure in being as horrible as possible and fucking anything that would stay still long enough. Arya wishes she'd taken literally any other face than Walder Rivers, but it's too late for that now. Between Roslin's memories and the Faceless magic, Arya feels that she will be able to pull everything off. Their combined Frey faces are enough to get them through the milling "warriors", enough to get them to just behind Black Walder and Lame Luthor.
"I slit your niece's throat from ear to ear!" Walder calls up to the battlements, to an elderly man with Mother's nose and a fish centred on his armour. "Where were you? Running and hiding like a fucking coward! Yield the castle, or I cut his throat!"
"Hail!" Arya calls, dismounting and striding over to the two Freys and a battered Edmure Tully. Roslin and Robyn she has remain astride, just in case. "I bring word from the Twins!"
"Fuck off, Rivers, we're busy," snapped Luthor.
"Lord Walder is dead," Arya projects, so that all might hear. She is not as good as Sansa, cannot make it seem as though her voice cuts across all distances clearly without any effort, but she does her most subtle best. "As are most everyone who was involved with the Red Wedding. Tyta's been put in charge, by order of the King."
"What the fuck?" Gasps out Black Walder, grip on Edmure Tully going slack. Arya moves closer. "What King?"
"Arya Stark, daughter of Winterfell. She poisoned everyone with the wine."
Lame Luthor hobbles closer, rubbing at his jaws. "But you and Roslin –?"
"You need to return Roslin and Edmure to Riverrun, and hand the castle back to the Tullys." Arya says firmly.
"But how are you here?" Black Walder demands. "You're as guilty as any of the rest!"
"I'm the messenger," Arya says simply, trying for a touch of fear. "The North remembers. Winter came for House Frey, and unless we give the castle back to the Tullys, we're all dead."
"A girl calling herself King can fucking try!" Luthor snarls, releasing Edmure to stalk towards Arya. "We'll turn the brat back and show her! We stand together!"
"Well," Arya sighed back to Roslin. Her aunt took her cue well, turning Robin's head to her chest to hide his eyes. "You had your chance. You," she snaps at her uncle. "On the horse."
Needle practically jumps from its scabbard to her hand, flashing out to poke clean through both Walder and Luthor's necks, and slice Edmure's noose. Grabbing her uncle and tearing Luthor's face from her own, Arya swings them both up on to the spare horse and kicks them straight for Riverrun, even as the remaining members of the pack loose a death knell, tearing through the camp and attacking whomever they can, sowing discord in their wake.
The two horses are racing for the bridge, and the blasted thing is still raised. "Lower the fucking bridge!" She screams. Nymeria is racing for them too, Lothor and Sally on her back with their staffs to hand, knocking heads of any who are fool enough to race towards the Direwolf. "Your King commands it!"
Perhaps it is her Stark face. Perhaps it is her title, or the bronze-and-iron crown she draws low on her brow in place of Walder Rivers' face. Perhaps it is simply Nymeria. It doesn't matter; what matters is that they lower the bridge with just enough time for both horses and Direwolf to jump to safety, galloping into the main courtyard and skidding to a stop.
Arya flings herself from the mount and stands proudly before the soldiers of Riverrun, one hand on Needle and the other holding her bag of tricks close and closed. Her great-uncle stands before her on the bottom step of the battlements, something like wonder on his tough old face.
"My name is Arya Stark, King of Winter and the Trident, if you'll have me. Please have baths drawn for Lord Edmure, Lady Roslin and little lord Robin. If meals could be spared for myself and my staff, I would appreciate it. If any ravens yet live, might I borrow them, great-uncle?"
"Heh. For all you resemble your father, your grace, you open your mouth and all I hear is your mother." The Blackfish says fondly. Whilst Arya is jerking back in surprise – she has never been compared to her mother before, ever – her great uncle turns around and bellows, "You heard the King! Hop to it, lads!"
He approaches her slowly, taking her in and taking her mettle both, and finally sinks to one knee five paces from her. "Riverrun is yours, your Grace. Our steel and counsels are yours to do with as you like."
He thinks she is like Mother – her – so Arya drags the memory of Catelyn Stark about her like a cloak. "Thank you, Ser Brynden. You have my word as King – Riverrun is once more under House Tully; arise. Be prepared, though, for the Lannister army marches upon us with a force of eight thousand. Lothor, would you attend to the horses? Squire, with me."
She never managed to master the proper Ladies Glide like either her mother or sister. But she did master the assassin's equivalent, slipping like a shadow those last five paces to the Blackfish, every movement deliberate and deadly. She stares up at him, taking in what is familiar and what is different with Sally at one elbow and Nymeria at the other. "I have an army stationed outside the walls, and already they move against the Lannisters. I need a bow and a writing desk before anything else."
Brynden inclines his head, and rumbles, "At once, your Grace. We'll station extra guards at the Southern wall. The ravenry is this way, if it pleases you."
Arya nods back at him, back straight. "Valar morghulis. Winter is Coming, and we have much to do."
Oh my gods, this chapter just did not want to be written! I tried to get this out before season 8 started, but clearly that didn't happen. For those who are screaming over the injustice done to us by said season, worry not. This story started with the intention of being a season 7 what if/fix it. Large sections of s8 are about to become defunct. Any particular issues you have with either season, let me know so we can see what we can fix.