Chapter Four. Stamp on the Ground (Jump, jump, jump, jump)
Thank you once again for all of the beautiful reviews! Loving all the sibling tales that came out
ALSO! Australia has a new pterosaur! Butch was released on October fourth, and his scientific name is Ferrodraco lentoni - if anyone is interested, google the scientific name and nature dot com, it should be the first thing that comes up.
Chapter warning for canon-typical violence and sexism.
"Wake up!"
With a growl, the King of Winter and the Trident jerked up and away from his wife, right off the bed and onto the floor. "Oof!"
"What on earth has you making such a fuss in your sleep, Robb?"
Rubbing at his rear and squinting back up at her, he said, "What? I was not."
"You were howling, dear. It woke me up. What were you dreaming of?"
"The boys, and Arya. They're all alive! The direwolves are connected, Grey Wind was able to show me Summer and Shaggy and Nymeria. Arya and Sansa aren't that far away at all, I can ride out with Grey Wind and collect them, and we'll be back in a few days!"
"And if you ride off into the sunrise to chase down your sisters based on a dream, you will have no army left when you return." Talisa snapped. "The girls have sent so many letters saying that they are traveling here – let them come to you, my love. You are their King."
"… Just because I'm the King, doesn't always mean I should get my way," Robb says ruefully. "Arya gave me quite the tongue-lashing last night!"
"Well, she sounds very sensible to me," Talisa says primly, a smirk tucked away in the corner of her mouth.
Robb gives her a big, silly dog grin for that. "After you have met her, I challenge you to say that again, my love. Be that as it may, though, I'd like to at least send someone out to help escort them back. They are still only girls."
"Only?"
"Sansa is not yet five-and-ten. Arya is only just turned three-and-ten."
"And yet the letters we have received tell us that they have both escaped, mostly unscathed and with very little help. They are making their way to you, and have avoided capture so far. They will be fine – stop worrying."
With his head cocked to one side, unerringly like Grey Wind, Robb asked, "And do you not worry for your own little brother?"
He can't read the look his wife gives him for that. Finally, she huffs and says, "A few days, you say? Where are they?"
"Off the River Road, between Stone Hedge and Raventree Hall. Two days from here one-way."
"Can you be without Grey Wind for half a week?"
"Wh – yes?"
"I have a plan."
The half-day trip to Stone Hedge had been thankfully uneventful. Arya and Gendry hadn't gotten quite as much for the two nags and the tack as they would have liked, but they made up for it in smithing. Their breaks for food were also used for extra sword practice, with Gendry going through the drills that Ser Brienne had been teaching him, and then going through Syrio's lessons with Arya. They had spent the night in an inn, paying with their coin from the smithing so that Sansa and the others couldn't complain. They had awoken early the next morning to get in more practice and to do another half-day of smithing, bought some bread and cheese from the market, and rode back to the group on Wolverine, who they supposed Sansa must have sent after them – the note asking that they try and purchase salt was in her pretty hand. They'd used the note to help Gendry practice his letters, too, so all in all they felt like they had had a very productive two days.
They arrived at their little clearing to Hot Pie stirring a stew, Brienne and the Hound practicing together, and Sansa tending to the Kingslayer's hand once more.
"Thank you for Wolverine, Lady Sansa," Gendry called, hopping down from the mount. Sansa gave him an absent-minded smile over her shoulder, tying off the bandage and then swooping down on Arya.
The hug her sister gave her was tight and warm, and the look Arya received when Sansa held her out at armslength was fierce.
"We are a pack, and we need to start acting like it. I've been talking to Bran, trying to figure out what our next move ought to be, but I want to hear your thoughts, too." An arm shot up and grabbed Arya's ear in a vice-like grip, twisting when she struggles. "Stop running off, and stop being a brat. I want you and Gendry to go practice with Sandor and Lady Brienne for another hour before dinner. I'll tend to Wolverine, thank you."
Spinning Arya around by her ear, Sansa pushed her towards the Hound, and gave Gendry an expectant look. The Hound was upon Arya before she had much of any chance to complain past cursing and drawing her stolen blade, and Gendry resignedly went to the Lady Knight, drawing his sword too and taking a stance opposite the hulking woman.
The hour passed in what felt like both a blur and an eternity to Arya, as she spun and danced around his tall frame, knocking aside his blade when she could, and tumbling whenever she couldn't. Precious Sansa spent the hour sewing, from what Arya could see.
"Ser Hound! Lady Knight! Dinner is ready!" Arya could have kissed Hot Pie when he finally put an end to their "training session". Like anything Hot Pie made, the stew was delicious, and doubly so for the hunger their training had brought on. The bread and cheese that they had bought at Stone Hedge went well with the meal too, and Arya felt almost like a King, for the feast.
She sobered quickly when she realised that her brother was King, now.
"How long until Nymeria arrives?" Sansa asked her.
"Three nights."
"Could you get to Raventree Hall and back in that time? Sell some of the other horses?"
"We have nine left to get rid of before we reach Robb – I can't sell too many at a time, it'd be suspicious."
"Two at Raventree Hall, and then one each at the inns and smaller holdfasts along the way to Riverrun, and we should be fine. When you come back from the Hall we should have the pack, and we can spend the travel to each of those locations planning so that we're ready to join up with Robb and make our moves." Sansa hesitated, before whispering, "We will need to split up, at Riverrun."
"What? No! We just found each other!"
"Robb needs more forces, and Jon needs help too." Sansa snapped. "I'm going to go to the Vale to ask Aunt Lysa and cousin Robert to back the King of Winter, and I'm going to exact justice on Petyr Baelish."
"Littlefinger? What did he do?" Arya demanded.
"He is the reason that Father is dead rather than at the Wall, or home, and he told terrible lies about Mother." Sansa snarled.
"Let me come with you, then, I can help –!"
"No, Arya. I need you and Nymeria's pack to take back Winterfell and the North, and to rescue Bran and Rickon."
"So you're just going to go off to the Vale with him?!" She pointed violently at the Hound.
"If he would come with me, I would value Sandor's company." Sansa answered coldly. "Hot Pie and I have spoken, and he will look after Robb for us, and intercept my ravens for him too. I would have you and Gendry go with the wolves. If we can convince Robb, I would send Lady Brienne and Ser Jaime with you too, on their way to the Wall."
Arya gaped. "You want to send him to the Nights Watch?"
"They need trainers, and Ser Jaime has been called one of the greatest swordsmen in the Seven Kingdoms. Sandor already said that none of the Lannisters would end the war for his freedom, so we may as well send him somewhere useful. If Mother would allow it, I have asked Lady Brienne to act as a guard for you on the trip up and back."
"So, what, once we take Winterfell back, what would you have me do, Sansa?"
"Rule on Robb's behalf. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell, and the boys need you. You are the fiercest of all of us, little sister, and the next eldest after Robb and I."
"I want to be able to fight in this war too," Arya growled. "I am a Direwolf, and done with wooden teeth."
"Then we shall see if we can't find some way for the boys to be surrounded by loyalists, and then you and Gendry can head back south again, if you really want to."
"We'll need more than wolves to retake our home," Arya sighed finally, after a lengthy pause. "They can't scale walls."
Sansa is silent for a time, thinking hard. "Not all of the Northern host went to war with Robb, did they? Why not ask the Mountain Clans – Father's grandmother was a Flint, and you were named for her, and have the Stark look besides. Speak with them."
"If they wanted to fight, wouldn't they be trying to rout out the Ironborn, already?" Arya demands. "If they won't fight on their own, why would they fight for me?"
"S'not as if we would have fought, before," said Hot Pie. "if you hadn't fired us up, Arry."
"He's right," said Gendry. "We'd've just stayed at Harrenhal, but you convinced us to go and fight back. If anyone can do it, you can."
"They're still not enough, though, are they? We'll need more men than even the Mountains can give us." Arya grumbled, trying to hide her blush.
Hesitatingly, Sansa said, "Do you remember… When they found the direwolves, it was the first time in two hundred years that any had been seen south of the Wall? And they – Father and the boys – had gone to execute the third Nights Watch deserter that year. What made that year different? Why so many deserters, what reason would a pregnant Direwolf have to leave her home? Why so many Wildling raids, and why is Jon with them? I need more information."
"You spend more time in your birds than out of them, these days," the Hound growled at Sansa.
"It cannot be helped. I'll be fine, Sandor, don't worry."
"Wildlings, then?" her little sister presses. "D'you want me to treat with their King for Robb too, and bring them all across for Winter?"
Sansa frowns back at her. "I didn't say that, I said I need to know more!"
Arya licks her lips, says, "Tonight, ask Jon why he is with the Wildlings. I'll put this plan of yours to Robb, and see if he will back us."
"It's not even a plan! Arya, listen, we cannot put anything before the King until we are sure of our course and our actions!"
"But he's not just a King, he's Robb!"
"Do you think I have lived so long by acting familiar with royalty?" Sansa spat, launching to her feet. "Do you have any idea what I have been doing, since they took Father's head?"
"I was there, I saw you and your pretty dress and your pretty hair!"
"And did you see them take Father's head? Did you have to watch it rot, day after day after day, for as long as it pleased the King for you to look? Did you get beaten for every single success of the Northern campaign?"
"What?" Jaime croaked from the side. "You were a political prisoner – you shouldn't have been harmed!"
Sansa has their mother's blue eyes, but in that moment it looks as though they are filled with such a raging fire that Arya is worried someone or something will catch alight. "I should not have been touched, Ser Jaime. And my father should still have his head. But here we are. Perhaps you would like to see my back? There are still bruises healing from the mailed fists of the Kingsguard. Or perhaps the backs of my thighs – there are yet cuts that still weep from Meryn Trant's blade."
She turns that furious look back onto Arya, but even as they're watching the fury is drained and replaced by a look of calm diplomacy. "I'll ask Bran and Jon what they know about the Wildlings, and the Mountain Clans. Is there anything else?"
Arya draws in a deep breath, steadies herself, and then finally says, "Tell them I love them and miss them. I'll tell Robb the same. Gendry and I will leave before the predawn – is there anything else you would like us to get at the Hall?"
"I would like more thread – black, grey or white if they have them – and whatever dark cloth is easiest to barter for. Hot Pie, you said something about wanting flour?"
"I mean, if you can, Arry, I'd love some!" The little cook piped, trying to make his cheer seem less forced. "And some potatoes or a pumpkin or two, if you can."
"I'll do my best. Anything else?"
At the negative response from the circle, they broke to sleep and everyone headed for their bedrolls.
The night before them was long and dark, and no one was sure of what terrors awaited them.
Sandor was, perhaps, right to worry for Sansa. The more she warged her ravens, the harder it was becoming to go back to being just Sansa Stark. She hadn't noticed immediately, with everything else happening, with her own desire to gather what information she could and then race back to her own body, but since they had settled in the little clearing to await the pack it had started to become more obvious.
Ding did not welcome her any more than he had previously, but it was perhaps a little easier to convince him to go to Jon. Her half-brother was in a bedroll of his own, with Ygritte camped very close to him indeed.
hiissssssAAAARRRKK, she croaked. Jon was too difficult for Ding to say as of yet, and whilst Snow was possible, Sansa needed to get her brother's attention. She needed to let him know how she saw him.
Jon shot up as though she'd slapped him, startling Ding and making Sansa work to keep the bird at the end of the bedroll.
"Sansa?" He demanded, hope bright in sleep-dull eyes.
aaaaaayyee
"Are you well? Are you with Robb yet?"
A nod to the first, a headshake to the second.
"Is something wrong?"
With a croak, Sansa hopped forward to tug at Jon's wildling furs, cocking her head to one side.
hhhoooooooowwwww?
Her brother's face did something complicated, and his eyes shifted about the camp. So she gave him a nod, and croaked, whhhhyyyyyyyyuh?
"… You'll think me mad, but I swear it's the truth. On Father's soul, I swear it."
Sansa jerks them back, and stares at her brother with the widest eyes a raven can make. She is not going to like this.
Jon swallowed, licked his lips, and whispered, "The Dead are coming. Just like in Old Nan's stories. I've seen them myself, fought them myself. They do not feel pain, nor exhaustion. Fire is the only thing that seems to work on them. That's why the Free Folk are trying to scale the Wall."
… She does not like this.
She taps the ground and sketches a question mark, hoping that Jon understands.
"How many? I don't know. An army, if I had to wager, of man and beast alike. I've heard… stories, of clans wiped out and bands going missing overnight. When I was at Craster's Keep, I saw him take his newborn son, his ninety-ninth son, into the woods and give him to a White Walker. Mance says that the babes are turned into new Walkers."
Ding – Sansa – their body shakes all over, and it takes every hard-won court-learnt nerve to still their shared body, and try to get Ding's beak around Ghost. She has an answer for Arya and Robb, and now she needs to change the subject for her own strength of mind.
"Ghost? I'm not sure where he is."
wAAAArg. Warg does not come to them easily either, it seems.
"Warg?" Ygritte's voice is cheerful and right in Sansa's ear, startling Ding so badly he almost throws Sansa out of his head. Sansa hisses and scolds Ygritte accordingly. "Sorry, Sansa Stark!" The ginger says unrepentantly, grin bright. "Didya mean that your brother is a warg too?"
Still fluffed up, Sansa nods.
"Sansa, I'm not," Jon grumbled. "Is that what you woke me for?"
She stares at him, hopping forward to his chest and croaking, wAAAAAARRRRRRggg, hssOOOHssssstuh.
"Sansa, I'm not a warg. Ow!"
Sansa pecks at him, then tries to wrap Ding's beak around what she wants to say.
rOOOOOOOb. hisssssssAAANhnnsaaaaa. AAAARRRRyaaa. bahrAAAAAAAANNNNN. wAAAAARRRRRgg.
"Just because everyone else is a warg doesn't mean that I am, Sansa. You didn't say Rickon's name, either."
She hisses at him, and Ygritte pipes, "Is that because your Ding can't say it, Sansa Stark?"
She nods, and looks to her brother expectantly.
"No, Sansa, I'm sorry, but – "
She caws, cutting him off. Bran had told her of their shared mindspace; Lady is dead, so Sansa can never join her siblings in this way. But Ghost still lives, and there is a chance yet for Jon. If Jon can join with their siblings, can join with Arya at the least, or even Bran, then Sansa can gain the information she needs and try and plan from there.
"Do you dream, Jon Snow?" Ygritte asks, voice barely more than a breath. "Do you dream yourself a beast?"
"They're only dreams –!"
"Dreams ring true, Stark, don't you listen?" Ygritte snaps. "Sansa, is there a reason you want him to warg?" At Sansa's nod, understanding blooms in Jon's eyes.
"That's why you want me to call Ghost?"
"Ghosts can't help us, Jon Snow."
"No, my Direwolf. We all had one – Ghost, Grey Wind, Lady, Nymeria, Bran's wolf and Shaggydog."
sssssssUUmmmmmerrrrrrr
"He named his wolf Summer?"
AAAAAyyyyeeee
"Well, at least he came to a name."
"Is there anything else, Sansa?" Ygritte asks cheerfully.
There are a lot of things Sansa would like to ask, but Jon can't hear her as Bran can, and she has no wolf to join him with. So she shakes her head, and goes to drop the warg.
"Sansa, wait!" Jon begs suddenly. "Before, did you call me Stark?"
She hops closer to him, so that she might comb through his hair with Ding's beak as she had done once before for Arya with Sorrow.
hiissssssAAAARRRKK
She drops the warging.
"Go on then, Jon Snow," Ygritte says as Ding flies away, simply a bird once again. "Call your Direwolf. Call to Ghost, and run with your brothers and sisters."
"I don't know how!"
"Well don't look a' me, I'm not a warg! Think on your Ghost, and call to him. That's all I've got for you."
He thinks on the wolf as hard as he can – the tiny runt that he had first found, separated from his siblings, the gangly creature that Ghost had been when the King arrived, the leggy animal he had been when first they joined the Watch, the wolf-sized pup he had been when first they went ranging. So wrapped up in his memories of Ghost is he that Jon almost misses their joining, the slip from two legs to four instinctive and easy. It is then that Jon realises that he has done this before, in his sleep – Ghost has always been there with him.
His wolf is happy to feel him aware of their connection, and even happier to see that it was Sansa who had shown him the way.
Little Sister's girl grew teeth. As well she should, with the death of the Little Sister.
Lady is dead? Jon demands, shocked. Is that why Sansa is using ravens?
Ghost gives the impression of a shrug, before hunkering down and inching forward on his belly. He is trying to catch a hare, and whilst he misses Jon and loves him terribly, he is also hungry, and will not pass up this opportunity for a meal.
Little Sister died many moons ago. Her girl has been broken since. Her girl might have felt the need to use birds without access to a real companion.
Jon hadn't thought his wolf could be so dismissive or scathing, but then again, Ghost had often been denied attention from Jon in favour of Maester Aemon's ravens. Perhaps it made sense that he would be bitter still.
Where are you, boy? Will you come back to me?
Not yet. Things to do first. Have to look after your new pack. We will join again soon, though. He gives the memory of rescuing Sam from a wight, and springs on his prey. Jon tries to distance himself from the sheer rush of blood, but isn't quite quick enough. Wolf pride-pleasure-victory and human disgust war, but Jon is in Ghost, to whom this is survival.
Have you mated your woman yet? Ghost askes, almost as an afterthought.
Jon splutters. I swore oaths!
You are a wolf, Ghost scoffs. She is beautiful, and wild and fierce. She will give you strong pups, and watch your back when you or I cannot. I approve. Move quick, though, for she is desired by others. You might not see it, but I can see through you.
Jon feels himself blushing fiercely.
Call to me when you go past the massive-magic-manrock, and I will come.
When he sends the image of the Wall, Jon sends back the impression of a nod. Be safe, he bids his wolf, before drawing back to his own body. Ygritte is watching him, expression proud and hungry.
"You did it?"
"I found him. He's with my friend Sam, trying to keep him safe from the White Walkers."
"Is he big, your Direwolf?"
"Ghost? Not yet, he's only half-grown."
"Is he old, this Sam?"
"No, he's of an age with myself."
"But your friend needs a pup to protect him?" Ygritte asks, confused.
"He's not the best at arms," Jon admits, scratching his neck. "He was the heir to Horn Hill, and his father made him take the Black because of it. Sam is a reader, though, he's really clever."
"How can anyone be that bad at arms?" Ygritte demanded.
"It's different, in the South. Sam's from the Reach, and they don't have to worry about training as much as a Northern heir does. I heard that lots of Southerners are like that. But I suppose when you have crops all season, every season bar the winter, and never see snow until the winter, that'd make sense."
Ygritte looks intrigued by the idea, but seems to decide to follow another course of action instead. "So. Wha's it like to be a warg, now?"
Jon tries to find the words, and comes up short. "It's… it's different, other. Ghost thinks and feels and sees differently to me. I heard what he thought in words, only because that's how I could best understand it. He heard me in … impressions? In sounds and scents and memories. Words don't mean as much to him, but he knows that I need them, so he used them where he could. He is just as much in my head as I am in his."
She cocked her head at him, raven-like – with that hair, fox-like. "I've never heard it described that way before. You Starks… you're something else." That hungry look is back in her eyes. "Come with me, Jon Snow. Lemme show you something."
She had wrapped up her roll whilst he warged, and so brings it with her when she takes him out into the forest, deeper and deeper until he really truly starts to worry.
"Ygritte?"
"I wanted to wait. There's a cave another few days march from here, and we were gonna camp near it, but this will have to do." She turns to him, face alight. "You made some vows. I want you to break 'em."
"Which ones?" Jon hedges, trying not to show any fear.
"That you'll take no women for your own. I want you, Jon Snow, and I know you want me. I want you to see me, all o' me, and if that has to wait until the cave then it'll wait. But I want you, and I would like to have you."
Ghost's voice echoes in his head, beautiful, and wild and fierce; give you strong pups, and watch your back, and Jon tries to think instead of his vows, take no wife, father no children, and doesn't know which way to turn.
He always swore that he would never give the name Snow to another.
"We shouldn't. There isn't anywhere to do it, anyway."
Ygritte's eyes light up – and even if she is no great beauty, she is beautiful to him in this moment, hungry and human and, if not wolfish, then certainly canine and carnal in her desire. "We should. Right here, on the ground and under the stars, in this here roll for warmth. Come now, Jon Snow. Afraid of a naked girl?"
She kisses him once. A second time, biting his bottom lip and dragging him towards her and down to the roll. A third, biting even harder, licking the sting from his lip. Later, he will blame Ghost's lingering thoughts of mates and pack and joining. But for now, it is all he can do to keep his wits about him, as he crawls into the furs and kisses down her chest and further.
If nothing else, he knows his wolf will be proud of him.
She opens her eyes again, and she is still Sansa but now she is also Bir. Bran and Rickon sleep beneath her, and as quietly as she can she drops down to the elder of her little brothers, and tugs on his hair gently.
Bran launches himself upright, sending Bir flying and successfully flinging Sansa from her raven's mind. The rejoining to her own body is painful and unappreciated, so with a mental hiss Sansa throws herself back again.
Bran is babbling apologies when Bir flaps back down to his lap, hissing and spitting with Sansa's ire.
Can you call to Robb again? She demands, fierce and furious. Her head is pounding from three consecutive wargs over such great distances, and the stress of the last few years days has finally caught up to her. She is not happy.
"I – I can."
I'm going to give you information, and you need to relay the whole thing back to him. Can you do it?
"Of course I can!"
Sansa concentrates on the scene with Jon, highlighting the information she feels is most necessary for Bran to pass across.
Bran's eyes are so wide with terror, she can clearly see the whites of his eyes. "Marching Dead? Sansa, are you sure?" He chokes out.
That is what Jon says. Ygritte did not discredit him.
Bran draws in a shuddery breath, and then raises his voice. "Osha?"
The Wildling woman is up and has her steel bared within seconds. Sansa is impressed, and glad that such a woman is protecting her baby brothers.
"What is it, Little Lord? What's wrong?"
Bran clears his throat, and asks, "What lies beyond the Wall? Why did you leave it?"
The woman has tawny skin, but the moment Bran asks his question she turns as pale as Sansa herself. "What's this for? What's brought this on?"
Bran licks his lips nervously, looks at Sansa and then back up at Osha. "We're wargs, aren't we? Rickon and I."
"… Aye. That's what we'd call you back North, anyway."
"Sansa is too. And Robb, and Arya, and Jon. This raven is Bir, one of Sansa's – partners? Is that the right word?"
Sansa gives him a bird-shrug and a confused trill. She doesn't know either, but she does like the term.
"Sansa just spoke with Jon, through another one of her partners. He says that the Dead are marching South. Are they right?"
"What does it matter?"
She's avoiding the question – it is true, and she has a story of her own, Sansa advised her brother.
"Who came back to you, Osha?" Bran asks, voice very, very quiet. "Please."
Osha looks like she wants to throw up. "I had a man, once. A good man. Bruni, his name was. I was his, and he was mine. But one night, Bruni disappears. People said he left me, but I knew him. He'd never leave me, not for long. I knew he'd come back, and he did. He came in through the back of the hut. Only it wasn't Bruni, not really. His skin was … pale, like a dead man's. His eyes bluer than clear sky. He came at me, grabbed me at the neck, and squeezed so hard, I could feel the life slipping out of me. I don't know how I got the knife, but when I did, I stuck it deep into his heart. And he hardly seemed to notice! I had to burn our hut down, with him inside. I didn't ask the gods what it meant; I didn't need to, I already knew. It meant the North was no place for men to be, not anymore."
Sansa has terror licking up and down her spine, and it is only long practice that keeps the fear separate from her thoughts, let's her think on what needs be done next.
If the Starks and Winterfell offered Brandon's Gift to the Wildlings to tend during Winter, would they accept? If we asked that they mind our laws whilst they're on this side? Sansa whispers to Bran. He repeats her questions to Osha slowly, watching the raven that is his sister all the while.
Osha thinks on it, head swaying slowly from side to side as she mulls it over. "Some, mayhaps. Depends on what rules there are, how many. Depends on whether you get Mance Rayder behind it."
"You've said his name before," Bran said. "When we first met, you said you could sell me to Mance for favour with Uncle Benjen. Who is he?"
"He's the King Beyond The Wall, boy. A fierce warrior, and an even better talker."
Ygritte and Jon mentioned him, I think. The band that Jon is with might have something to do with him?
"Could you relay that to Jon?" Bran asks her. "If he's with Mance, he can act on Robb's behalf."
Sansa shakes her head. You're the only one who can hear me like this. I've tried with everyone except Robb.
"Why haven't you tried to talk to Robb yet?"
I'm still ⎼ I will try, but I don't think it will work. Can you talk to him about this in more detail for me too, please? I think that Arya was going to try and speak with him via the wolves again tonight.
"I can do that, Sansa, don't worry. And, um, sorry again, for before."
You better be, little brother.
"You can have all of my lemon cakes for a whole year when we get back to Winterfell, I promise."
Hopefully between Arya and Bran, Robb will believe them. Hopefully, if she can word this correctly, if she can make everything make sense, if she can preempt every argument that the lords will put forward, she can make this work. For now, all she can do is pray.
I love you, Bran, you and Rickon both. Arya does too, and Robb and Jon. Don't forget. We'll come for you soon.
When Summer joins Bran to his siblings, it is to hear Arya and Robb screaming at each other. Shaggydog and Rickon join just behind them, and both are just as confused as Bran and Summer.
What's wrong? Rickon demanded, high and piercing.
Robb is a great big idiot!
Arya is a horrid little brat!
That doesn't tell us anything, Bran says despairingly. Can you stop for a moment, please? Sansa gave me something to share.
Was it a continuation of her mad scheme to have Wildlings come South of the Wall? Robb snaps. The Northern and Riverland Lords gave me my crown, they can just as easily take it and my head! We're losing this war, our political position is dangerous at best, and the lords are already grumbling. This could be what ends our house!
They are all of them still - Rickon is too young to fully understand, but Arya and Bran can see exactly what their big brother means, and Arya lets a loose thought through, Sansa reprimanding her about putting an idea towards a monarch without fully considering every angle.
Another breath, and then Bran draws up Sansa's memory of Jon, his own memory of Osha, and shares them across their bond. Rickon's presence draws closer to his for comfort, Robb jerks back and Arya gives the impression of going still.
We can't leave all of those people to fight the Dead alone. Bran says firmly. Once the Dead run out of Wildlings to fight, they'll try to take the Wall and then come after us. Besides, there isn't much of anyone left in either of the Gifts – why not let the Wildlings make something for themselves here, for the Winter, and then send them back when the Dead are taken care of? Let them fight for us, let them help us take back our home, and help Arya and Rickon keep the North safe.
What about you? Arya demanded sharply.
I need to find the Three Eyed Raven. I have to go Beyond the Wall. I need to know what's happening to me, and how to control it.
What does that mean? Robb snapped, bigbrotherworry roiling off his impression in waves.
My dreams come true, I can – I warg more than I should. Osha says that regular wargs have one partner, until one or the other dies.
… But Sansa has four birds, Arya said quietly. Sorrow, Mirth, Ding and Bir. I asked her – and, and Nymeria connects me to her pack!
Birds are easy, Osha says. Dogs, too. The bigger something is, the wilder something is, the harder it becomes to warg. Wolves are supposed to be the hardest, and – and not many people can warg a Direwolf. Nymeria controls her pack, and she shares that with you.
They are all quiet, at that.
In my dreams, I see a three-eyed raven. It calls me to it, and Jojen says that there's someone Beyond the Wall who can help me.
I'm not leaving you! Rickon snarls, more wolf than boy. His emotions are the clearest of all of them, panic-grief-fear swirling in and around each other in a veritable storm.
You can't come with me, Bran says softly. If anything happens to me, then you're Robb's heir. You and Arya have to take Winterfell back, and you have to keep it. In my dreams, the crypts keep calling to me, saying that there must always be a Stark in Winterfell. We can't leave it to someone else. I don't know why, but something… really bad will happen, if Winterfell is without us. Please, Rickon, Arya, you have to take it back!
We can't take it back without any help! Arya exclaims. Robb, how many can the Mountain Clans give us – a thousand men? Two?
… Less than that. Many sent men south with me.
Nymeria's pack numbers less than five hundred. You want me to find Rickon, take back Winterfell, hold it, and rule in your place with maybe a thousand fighters, half of which can't even scale the walls?!
The Wildlings are going to cross the Wall regardless, Bran offers. That's how Osha's here. Speak to the lords. Speak with Mother and your Mate. Try and find a way for us to get the Wildlings on our side, get Jon south of the Wall, and bring our pack back together again.
The wolves have been hanging off of their thoughts and following closely – Summer and Shaggy from their place amongst tree roots, Grey Wind from Robb's featherbed, Nymeria stalking a beast for her dinner. They four all back what Bran's saying, but just because it fits wolf-logic doesn't mean it will work for man-logic.
It isn't that easy! Robb growled, giving the impression of running his fingers through his hair. How in seven hells do I explain all of this to my men? They would laugh me from the room, if not demand my head right there!
Then we need to convince them, Arya snapped. We need a way for you to be able to talk to Sansa too, Robb, she's good at ideas now that she's not pretending to be an idiot. When we get there, Sansa and I will have to find a way to make it common knowledge, what we are and what we can do. Hopefully we can make them see that this is what we need to do!
If you're to be in Robb's Small Council, they may as well get used to it, Bran offers, his impression tired and ready to actually sleep when he's asleep.
Robb was taken aback by the statement. What do you mean?
Sansa is your Master of Whispers, Rickon said. And Arya your Master of Law. Right, Bran?
The impressions flicker across from King to Wolfgirl like lightning across a stormy sky.
Shock-disbelief-humour.
Rage-pique-determination.
Horseface-Underfoot-ratnesthair-and-knobblyelbows-and-scabscollectedliketrophies-and-blurtinganythingandeverythingthatcametomind. Perfectlady-futurequeen-sewing-and-stories-and-lemoncakes-and-courtesies-and-fancyhair.
Arry-Lumpyhead-Stickboy-Rabbitkiller-Weasel-Nymeria-Nan-Squab-No-One-Waterdancer-warrior-wolfblood-bloodslickonfingershandtightonthehilt. Sansa-practicepracticepractice-stringdrawshoot-singthebirdsdownstealtheletterstakeitinandkeepit-arrowheavyinheartthroatbelly-pullitoutandcleanitdaintilyandsmile.
Shock. Disbelief. Worry.
We'll show you, Arya snarled. Nymeria's presence growled over and under hers, the two blending together such that it was difficult to tell where girl or beast began. Sansa has her birds, has her reports. I will mete the Northern justice. I will make the Lords listen, and you too, if I have to!
Nymeria and Arya leave the joining. Rickon and Bran exchanged "looks", before turning to Robb.
She'll sheep-shift you, was Rickon's verdict.
I wondered what it was, that had Sansa so mad at you, said Bran. She's refused to speak about you the last few times she's warged to me. If you're not careful, she'll help Arya, and you'll have earnt it.
They're girls. My Lords won't listen to them, and will have all our heads for it.
They are Starks, Bran corrected.
They are wolves, Rickon added. They both killed people, trying to get back to you. They'll kill more, if they need to. I'm sleepy – tell Mother I love her. He and Shaggy were gone, too.
Robb and Bran were left to "stare" at each other's impression.
You can't treat us like babies anymore ⎼ we aren't the same people who left Winterfell. We need to work together. Hear their ideas.
How? Any plans Sansa might come up with will be sensitive, and you can't trust that to a ravenscroll. I can't hear her, like you can ⎼ I know she's been in Mirth in my presence before, and I never heard a thing.
Bran's impression is that of a gnawed-on lip, thoughts skipping across the connection like so many ripples in a pond. She writes things out for Jon, and I think she did the same for Arya too. If you have something handy for her, like a pre-written alphabet that she can peck out for you, that might help!
Robb's own mind is roilling now, thoughts flashing nearly as quickly as Bran's. I think I can work with that. Thank you, Bran.
Bran's impression glows at the praise. I'm tired too, I've been warging too much. We'll talk more tomorrow. Love you.
And I you, little brother. Be safe. I have… a lot to think about.
They leave before the predawn, once again.
Don't give an inch, Arya had told her before she and a half-asleep Gendry had ridden out. Bran told us of your plan last night – figure out the logistics. Get the numbers, of any and every house you can. Find their loyalties, prove yourself, and fuck the lords up.
Sansa hadn't had the wherewithal to scold Arya for her language. She was too caught up in the rage that burnt bright and hot in her sister's eyes, and in trying to determine how she would achieve such a request.
We are Northern too, we daughters of Winterfell. And we're going to show them!
None of this, of course, told Sansa anything actually helpful, did not give her the backstory and the context necessary to narrow down her search. Oh, how Sansa misses the Arya of old, who never stopped talking and would explain anything and everything given half a chance! Whatever had happened in the night, whatever decisions had or hadn't been made, Arya had not felt the need to share it with Sansa before she dragged Gendry and two spare horses to the Hall.
Porcelain. Ivory. Steel.
She drags in a deep breath and calls up her goodsisters, Talisa and Ygritte Always before she had relied on thoughts of Winterfell, of Mother and Robb, to give her strength. Now she needs a different kind of strength that perhaps she could not find in even her fierce mother.
Another breath, and she combs her hair out with her fingers, keeping her breaths even and thinking everything over. Carefully, she sorts out her thoughts and pulls the hair from the front of her forehead back and braids it carefully. Sections it off at each temple, braids it back again. Braids the three together, ties it off, leaves the rest free, like Ygritte.
With every piece of hair that she tugs into submission, she calls up what she does know, the problems she must now face, the solutions to them.
The Northern houses, best she can tell, are all loyal to her brother. She would assume the same for the Riverlords, but she knows that Walder Frey holds no love for either her brother or grandfather. So, how does she determine their loyalties? Her birds are the obvious answer, but words are wind. Could she warg ravens into the chambers and solars of every lord in the Riverlands? No, surely not – she would go mad! And have no definitive proof, besides.
She needs to pull in more ravens. She needs to know. She needs to ⎼
She needs to sing.
It is too dark, yet, but she is sure that once the dawn kisses that horizon, if she sings and dances to Three Ravens once more then she could call more birds to her. She has faith in this and in herself.
This is the solution to but one problem. She has a veritable list to work through, so keeps going, breathing steady and slow, hands sure in her hair, as she slowly plaits the rest of it into the loose fashion she has seen Talisa favour.
How shall she best present her knowledge to Robb's Small Council? The marriage requests that she has intercepted, those she shall keep to herself – certainly if the marriage doesn't affect the war effort, then the Lords who surround her big brother won't much care for that knowledge. The discussions of inheritance may prove useful later on, but not while the Northern host is still in the Riverlands.
And of course, there's the mess with Walder Frey that is still unclear to her. She might be able to tell Robb of what she knows, but there is not enough knowledge to justify – anything. She needs solid information, and she needs to know how to keep her brother's head upon his shoulders. She could not watch a second Stark beheading. She is certain that she would surely break, if it were to happen again. She cannot – she cannot – lose any more of her family, especially not now that she is so close. So, she needs another bird to place at the Twins. She can … Sorrow she called to her, and Mirth too, with her singing. Bir and Ding she found by dreaming of her brothers. Can she do the same with someone she has never met? She supposes that she will find out with the dawn. Five is for laughing.
And then there is the mess that is the Eyrie: Petyr Baelish, Aunt Lysa, the Knights of the Vale. Aunt Lysa had refused Mother already, Sansa thinks – Lord Tyrion had mentioned that Mother had kept him captive there, during the early days of Father's captivity and her own political cage. The Vale has thus far remained neutral in the War of Five Kings, so there must be something that caused Aunt Lysa to deny her men to her nephew's cause. Which means she probably needs another raven for the East. Six is for crying.
She still has a ways to wait until the dawn. Time enough to collect herself further, ready herself for the wargings and calling ahead of her. Time enough to plan.
She sketches out a map of Westeros in the dirt, marking towns and hamlets with pebbles or rocks, larger castles with a stick shoved into the ground. She makes little boats out of leaves, places those around Dragonstone, Lannisport, Sapphire Isle, Pyke, the Arbour. Her pack is filled with loose feathers from Sorrow, Mirth and all the rest of them; she uses these to denote lots of hundred soldiers, based on what her correspondances and Arya have been able to tell her, what she remembers from her long-ago lessons with Maester Luwin and what she overheard herself in court.
When the grey light of dawn slowly brightens their clearing, she is ready. She knows the words, how she'll sing them and how she'll dance them. She knows how many birds she would like to call to her, and, with that done, she will then try for her fifth and sixth companions.
"There were three ravens, sat on a tree,
Down a down, hay down, hay down,
There were three ravens sat on tree,
with a down,
There were three ravens sat on a tree,
They were as black as they might be,
With a down, derrie, derrie, derrie, down, down."
The court was quiet this morning, far more reserved than they had been before, excepting when the word of Ned's ⎼ of Ned had come through. Talisa had gone with young Jorelle Mormont to collect herbs, or something, and her absence from the council meeting was noticed and very obviously Not Commented Upon.
There were heavy bags under Robb's eyes, and despite the beard he had been growing over the course of this war, he was still just a boy, her first boy, and her heart ached to see him so world-weary so young.
"My Lords," Robb began, taking his seat at the head of the table. Sansa's strange bird, Mirth, was on his shoulder, and there was a slate and chalk by his elbow, already scribbled upon. "Some of you are already aware that my sisters are no-longer in the Lannisters' hands, and have been making their way here to join our company."
There were cheers and fists banging on the table. When it had quieted again, Robb looked each man in the eye, his face hard. "You know what they say about the Northern Host, my lords. You know what they say of our ancestors from the Age of Heros, and the magicks that they would utilise. Even the Lady Maege holds claim to the title - warg. Skinchanger. My Lords, you've grown familiar, too, with this raven."
Catelyn felt her own eyes widen as she places what it was, exactly, that her son was implying.
"My sisters are close, and have gathered information for our cause, at much personal cost. They have captured the Kingslayer, and will bring him here when they know that their demands are met."
Outrage.
No one lord can be heard over the others, but when Robb slams the hilt of his sword onto the table, they are all equally silenced.
"Lord Karstark, you want Jaime Lannister's head for the sons that you lost," Robb growls, eyes lit with a barely-controlled rage as he slides the blade back into its sheath. "Your bloodlust is well deserved, your vengeance something I wish to give you, now that there is no risk of my sisters' suffering in exchange. The Red Crow and the Water Wolf both, however, ask that you send him to the Wall to act as a trainer to the Nights Watch recruits." Lord Rickard's face twists, but Robb snaps over top of him.
"They do not ask this lightly, my lord! There is more." Here those angry blue eyes turn to Roose Bolton. "The men you sent into Harrenhal ⎼ did they speak of a weasel soup at all, my lord?"
Implacable as ever, the Leech Lord doesn't even blink. After a beat of silence, he inclines his head.
"Speak to those men again. Ask them about the little girl whose bravery allowed them to escape back to us. Remind me, Lord Bolton ⎼ how many men did she save?"
"One hundred men, your grace. Though, I would hesitate to say saved ⎼ the men there were part of a ploy to ⎼ "
"They arrived just as Lord Tywin had ordered the execution of every single person that was not a Lannister soldier. Arya's actions are all that allowed those men to escape, and to keep their lives. Greatjon!"
"Yes!"
"The number of Night's Watch deserters have increased in the last five years, have they not?"
"Yes, my king." The big man nodded, puzzled.
"Do you know why? Or why the Wildlings have been trying harder than ever to cross to this side of the Wall?"
"...No, your grace."
Robb nods back, runs a hand through his hair, and speaks lowly. "The woman who helped my brothers escape the sacking of Winterfell is a Wildling called Osha. She says that the dead are stirring, that wights and White Walkers march on the Wall. Her husband died and came back, and tried to kill her. The attack is what prompted her to cross the Wall. My brother, Jon Snow, tells me that he has seen the walking dead, too, has seen living babies taken to be turned into something else. He is with the King Beyond the Wall as we speak, gathering information on behalf of the Watch."
The bird on his shoulder is slumped and weary, but when Robb glances to it, Mirth straightens and gives an encouraging sort of nod.
"My sister Sansa wishes to take the position of Master of Whispers for the Northern Sovereignty. The information she has so far collected is not yet on par with the Spider, but she is young and learning still, and promises me that by the years' end she will be on par with, if not surpassing, Lord Varys. She believes that she can sway the Vale to our cause to help us finish this war." Robb looks to Catelyn then, and now she knows why she was invited to this council. "Mother, Sansa wants you to write everything you can concerning Aunt Lysa, the Vale, and Peter Baelish out for her. No memory, fact or rumour is to be discredited. Current estimates put the Vale forces at around forty-five thousand men. Should Sansa be successful, she asks that all of the Northern Mountain Clans go back north with Arya, to help retake Winterfell and free the North from the Ironborn."
Hugo Wull stands at that.
"The Mountains can only provide shy of a thousand men. That's enough for Winterfell, aye, but not enough for Pyke."
Robb nods again, standing and moving to the war table. "We know. I've discussed this at great length with both of my sisters, and they have an idea. My lords, you will not like it, but it is all we have left to us."
Mirth hops from Robb's shoulder to the table, picks up a series of feathers and buttons that were behind the section of map that marked the Wall, and steadily places each piece in Brandon's Gift. Stark Wolves are rolled from Riverrun to the Northern coastlines, and Arryn Falcons are pushed into the Westerlands. Mirth looks up at the gathered lords, gives a chirp and a bird bow, before taking up residence at Robb's elbow, by the slate.
"Winter is coming." Robb says, every inch the King in the North that they have named him. "We all know it, my lords, this long Summer is going to end. We can't waste the time that remains to us fighting when we need to gather our harvests for the Winter - for if the Summer lasted ten years, what is to stop the Winter from lasting just as long?"
Grumbles of acceptance sound from most of the lords, but there are those who look suspicious, eyeing the markers that Mirth had shifted.
"We can't spare anyone from the war effort. We can't expect our women to do everything on their own. My lords, as much as it pains me to say it, we need help. If we allow the Wildlings beyond the Wall for the duration of Autumn and Winter, we can use them to help with the harvest, route the Ironborn, and defeat the Dead without adding too many more to their numbers."
This is it, Cat thinks morbidly, this is how he dies, and the gods see fit to make me watch.
"I would hear your council, my lords, one by one. Lord Umber, the Last Hearth is the closest holdfast. What say you?"
The Greatjon rarely hesitated, but Cat supposed there was a first time for everything. "Wildlings have raided, raped and murdered Northerners for generations, your grace. What makes you think that they will hold with us for the next dozen years?"
"Their current King is well-respected, by all accounts. If we deal with Mance Rayder, he will keep his people in line. If he does not, then they will suffer the same consequences as any Northman would. We all want to live, and I can only imagine that the Wildlings would be the same.
"Lord Norrey, Lord Flint? What of the Mountains?"
Brandon "the Younger" Norrey and young Donnel Flint exchanged looks. Both were young men, and both were older than Robb, one by ten and the other by five years, respectively.
Donnel pulled a face, and quoted, "I am the sword in the darkness, the watcher on the wall. I am the shield that guards the realms of men. All Mountain men know those words, the First Flints and Norreys especially. We have given many sons and the occasional daughter to the Night's Watch, and ever have we wondered why such a huge piece of magic was needed to block out common men. Ever have we wondered on the oath ⎼ guards the realms of men. It is an unusual oath, and one we had thought the answer to which lost to time. But if what your brother says is true, that dead men march on the Wall ⎼ that gives the oaths new meaning."
Brandon grumbled something under his breath in what Cat was sure was the Old Tongue, before adding, "I don't like it. Most won't stand for it, not the Norrey and not the Flint, and not any of the other Clanheads to the Mountains. But the Ned is gone, and it's the Young Wolf what'll keep us through the Long Night. If the Water Wolf is taking back the North, have her take notes to the oldies too, your grace. Mayhaps your words will reach them, and mayhaps your sister will convince 'em. Won't know till we try."
Robb gives them both a nod, before turning to Rickard Karstark and Galbart Glover.
Rickard bares his teeth and keeps his council ⎼ a small miracle! ⎼ whilst Galbart fidgets his fingers, thumb to fore, thumb to fore to middle, thumb to fore to middle to ring, thumb to fore to middle to ring to pinky and back down again. It was a practiced motion that the wartable recognised as a sign of deep thought, for the Lord of Deepwood Motte never seemed to notice that he was doing it.
"You are right, my King, in that few will like this plan. But my seat, my brother and his family and our ward, they are all prisoners to the Ironborn, and I would do almost anything to see them free again. I do not know if this is one of them."
"If the laws that we wished kept were written up and distributed to each settlement, with the rules and their consequences outlined and the word of the King Beyond the Wall in place, would that move a ways to settling your concern?"
The finger twitches were now happening on both hands.
"No raping, no stealing, no murder," Galbart said finally. "So long as it is understood that these, most of all, will not be tolerated, then I could live with it."
Mirth flits away and back, bringing a sheet of paper, then a quill, and finally an inkwell to Robb's side. He jots down notes, before turning to Lord Rickard. Still the old Lord is silent, so Robb turns to the next lord, Roose.
There is no change in the Leech Lord's face that Catelyn could perceive, and yet her daughter's bird suddenly straightens out of it's exhausted slump, turns so that it's back is to the table, and taps at the slate at six different spots. Robb's eyes tighten at the corners, and then both return their attention to Lord Bolton.
"Forgive me, your grace, but just so it is clear to me: you mean to let savages through the Wall and allow them to settle the North. You intend to allow them access to our food, our lands and our women, whilst we are away. You expect your younger siblings ⎼ boys of ten-and-two and nine, and a girl of three-and-ten ⎼ to be able to control and order these … people enough to take back the North?"
Mirth made a hissing noise, stalking forward with an angry croak, wings out to either side.
"Mirth," Robb spoke firmly. The bird pulled itself up, gave another, more threatening, hiss, and hopped back to Robb's side. "You have fair points, Lord Bolton, though I fear you have taken this far out of proportion. I have full faith in my siblings. They are children, true, but they are still alive, and that speaks highly in their favour during this War. Bran handled the rule of Winterfell better than any had though, despite his age and disability, prior to the Ironborns' attack. Arya has been on the road and surviving since our Father's death, has rescued more than just the men of Harrenhal. Sansa has escaped Kings Landing, has thrown together her own network of whispers, her own contingencies to help the war effort. If nothing else, my lords, give them a chance. We are Starks and Wolves both. We will not fail the North, not with the coming storm."
Emotionless as ever, but that damned bird is puffing up again, taps one foot six times, as if in reminder. Robb brushes one finger down the black back, makes a low noise in the back of his throat, and looks every lord in the eye.
Maege Mormont stands.
"We named you King," she says, projecting her scratchy voice about the room. "We named you King because we put our faith in you to lead us, to help us protect our homes. Are you sure this is the best way?"
"My Lady, this is the only way. If we do not act soon, we will die."
She stares him down, then turns to the bird. Mirth pulls itself upright, almost proud, and old Maege cackles. "Well, alright then! Bear Island will accept fifty Wildlings - our island is small, but if they promise to behave, I'm sure we can work something out! Lyra, write to your sister. And you, you hesitant shits!" This she snaps out to the gathered lords with her usual caustic humour, eyeballing the Lords Umber, Norrey and Flint in particular. "What will you allow past the Gift?"
Raventree Hall, it turns out, was a great big fucking mistake.
Oh, it was all well and good to begin with - they got the threads and cloth for Sansa, the vegetables and flour for Hot Pie, sold the horses and smithed enough to keep their coffers and Gendry's senses happy. But they had thought to indulge themselves again, share a room and a featherbed at the inn and enjoy food that wasn't mostly rabbit and wild herbs.
When they return from the forge ⎼ later than they had meant, staying back longer to finish a series of horseshoes that could be sold at the hamlets they had seen on their way to the Hall, nails that could earn them an extra pretty penny, if they were careful ⎼ it is to find the innkeeper's daughter being taken by two men in the back corner. She had smiled at them this morning, winked at Gendry and told him he was sweet for looking after such an unruly little brother, had mussed Arya's hair and informed her that she would grow up handsome. This morning's locals are gone, the barflies are gone, and there are Lannister soldiers supping at the tables.
Worse, there is Polliver, and at his belt is Needle.
They both of them freeze in the doorway, but before they can try to escape, they are pulled into the inn by one of the men, some pimply man-child less than twenty but more than five-and-ten. Arya's senses she sends out to Nymeria, sends out her terror, urging her wolf to rush. The link between the wolves is open, though, and in the back of her head Arya can feel Grey Wind, Summer and Shaggy all lifting their heads to join Nymeria's howl.
"That's good steel, castle forged." Polliver growls out, piggy eyes latching onto the swords at their hips ⎼ Arya's Lannister blade, Gendry's Bolton forged. "How did a couple of chickens like you end up with that?"
"I'm a smith," Gendry stuttered, tugging at the back of Arya's tunic, trying to get her behind him.
"You made these?"
Gendry can't lie, Arya knows this, whether he answers them verbally or not won't matter because his guilty face is what will get them killed, so she pipes up for him. "Took 'em from a battle corpse, m'lord. Weren't no one living using 'em, they just bin left behind, like."
Wolf howls echo in her head. She prefers it to the screaming of her heart, her memories, maybe I'll pick my teeth with it.
Where are the castle guards? Whatever lord is here, surely they cannot abide this happening to their smallfolk!
"Stole 'em, did you, boy? Stole from the Crown?"
"It weren't stealin', m'lord, it was just out in the open! Noone wanted it!" There are five men, including Polliver. They are all armed and armoured. Gendry is improving in leaps and bounds thanks to Brienne and the Hound, and Arya's own skills grew daily, but they were still learning, and these were battle hardened soldiers.
They were so close to her family, and they were going to die.
Gendry's hand is fisted in the back of her tunic, and it is shaking. He knows it too, and she regrets the times she called him stupid bull. He isn't, not really, and she knows these thoughts are surfacing because of their impending deaths.
The man who dragged them inside steps forward, smiling terribly and drawing his own sword. "What do you need blades for, if you can't even use them?"
Sorry, she breaths to Gendry before she launches herself forward with her blade leading. Brienne advised her to use her speed against larger foes, to play to her advantages. She can only hope for the best.
aaaaaaWOOOOOOOOOOOOoooooooo!
It is five to two and they can't do this, they can't, but they can't give up either, and she has slipped inside the guard of the soldier and cut his throat with her beltknife and Polliver and another are on her, and Gendry has the other two but he's been cut, and it's only a matter of time before she is injured too, and they. are. going. to. die.
The door slams open, and a direwolf barrels inside. Arya has enough thought to register grey fur and snarling jaws snapping shut about the throat of the second guard, before her sword cuts into Polliver's now-exposed back.
"Something wrong with your leg, boy?" She growls, kicking him over so that she can look him in the eye. "I'll need to carry you?!" She sheaths her belt knife, takes her stolen sword into her right hand and yanks Needle free with her left. Holding her sword aloft, she hisses, "Maybe I'll pick my teeth with it!" Needle darts into his neck just as terrified understanding blooms in Polliver's eyes, and then Arya is off again, flinging herself at Gendry's attackers. Galloping hooves signal from outside, and then there a person throwing themselves through the door.
An axe takes off the head of the second man on Gendry, and Arya is freed up to try and run-through the man who had hurt her friend. The Lannister sword and the axe swing in at the same time and meet in the middle. The last guard is dead, and Arya finds herself staring at a stocky girl-child of perhaps four-and-ten. Behind her is a taller woman with dark skin and darker hair, a healers apron on and her hair in a loose braid, a heavy satchel over one shoulder.
The Direwolf gets up from his meal, stepping forward to sniff at Arya.
"Grey Wind," She breath, scuffing behind his ears. She looks at the two women again, takes in the green bear on the girl and the exasperation of the woman.
"Arya Underfoot?" The woman askes.
Arya's hands shake, even with her fingers buried in Grey Wind's fur. "You're Talisa, aren't you? It is ⎼ it is good to finally meet you, goodsister."
"You have great timing, your grace," Gendry says, dipping into a bow that ends in a feint. Godsdamnit, at least they aren't fucking dead.
"Can you be without Grey Wind for half of a week?"
"Wh – yes?"
"I have a plan. I'll go to the girls with Grey to tend to any injuries, and see what is keeping them away. What you are going to tell the men is that I needed more herbs, special ones. I'm travelling to collect them with Grey Wind, and will return soon. Lend me one of Lady Maege's daughters, the youngest one here, as a guard and proof of loyalty. I'll find and tend your sisters, and we'll all come back to you together. How's that sound?"
Robb scoops her to him, holds her tight and breathes in the scent of her with his nose smashed against her neck, before kissing her hotly. "Thank you, Talisa. Thank you."
"I expect you to do the same, should my brother ever come across the Narrow Sea. Now give me a proper send off – if I'm going to be travelling around on your wolf, I may as well smell of you as much as we're able."
With a happy growl, Robb rolled his queen over, kisses raining hot and heavy, hands moving to touch and hold as much of her as possible.
It's NaNoWriMo season! Remember me fondly, and hopefully we'll be able to hook back into some semblance of normality before Christmas.