"There must be something ghostly in the air of Christmas—something about the close, muggy atmosphere that draws up the ghosts, like the dampness of the summer rains brings out the frogs and snails."-Told After Supper, Jerome K. Jerome
Pia brought the mail in just after noon, along with a tray of tea things and enough sandwiches to feed an army. I was perched on a chair at the little desk in the parlor trying to finish off a letter to Brienne, biting industriously at the end of my pen when she cleared her throat meaningfully and announced, "Lunch, my lady."
"In a moment," I said around the pen. "Jon, darling, does it sound better to take the train down or the car? Brienne needs to know by the end of the week or else she says Jaime is going to hare off and come get us."
My better half was attempting to be industrious himself, brushing out Ghost's coat but mostly managing to wrestle the poor beast across the rug. "All three are delightful concepts," he said and chucked the brush aside. "Tell her we'll take the train and he can meet us at the station, preferably in a car. Will that satisfy?"
"Idiot," I said fondly and scribbled another line. "He's hardly going to parade out his best horses and make us ride."
"There's always a chance," Jon said and stretched with a creaking groan. "The only sensible thing the man's ever done is marry Brienne. Off with you," he told Ghost, who whisked himself from the room in a small blizzard of white hair.
"Cold ham and mustard, my lady," Pia said again, patiently.
To be frank, I wasn't particularly hungry but swept aside my little sheaf of papers to avoid the fussing. "Have at it, then," I said, capping the pen.
She lay the tray out and began pouring out tea. I'd never seen Pia spill a drop of the stuff and it was always the perfect temperature-hot enough to drink without quite scalding your mouth. It was some kind of magic, I was convinced, but queries into the matter had been deftly deflected.
"What's this?" I asked, picking a little white envelope up from its precarious tilt against my teacup.
"The mail, my lady," Pia said. "Perhaps a sandwich first, before you open it?"
There was no use arguing with her. I let her give me a plate and cup and left Jon to deal with the rest of the tray. My head had been aching all morning and it was a relief to take my things and lay out across the sofa with them near at hand.
Jon, dear man that he was, tucked my feet into his lap the moment he joined me. Before he could ask the dreaded question, I told him, "Yes, I'm feeling well enough. But has your own handwriting ever given you a headache? I find I can hardly stand mine now."
He laughed. "No, dearheart," he assured me. "I paid far more attention to my studies and can manage a fair enough hand." Around a bite of his sandwich, spilling crumbs across my stockings, he asked, "Shall I finish off your letter? Only tell me what to write and I promise not to embellish a whit."
It was an attractive concept. I was greatly looking forward to visiting Casterly Rock, especially considering we were planned to only just escape the first real winter snowstorms, but letter writing was hardly my forte. Everything important I had to tell Brienne was better said in person, and everything unimportant was hardly worth the price of the postage.
"Mayhap," I said and threw an arm over my eyes. "Pass me my letter and I'll decide after I read it."
The letter was forthcoming. He even took a moment to rip the envelope down the side so I wouldn't have to fuss with the flap of it.
Dear Arya, it began and skipped right over any pleasantries to state, I am writing to cordially invite you to Winterfell this year to celebrate Seven Nights and Year's End with your family.
"Oh Gods," I said in a groan. "It's Mother. She wants us to come for the holidays."
"Read it out loud then," Jon said and rubbed my leg comfortingly. "We might as well share the misery."
"It has been far too many years since we last all gathered together," I read out. "Your brother Robb and his lovely wife have agreed to act as hosts this year, as per tradition, and he is most looking forward to introducing you to Lady Jeyne Westerling-Stark. Sansa is also bringing her fiance and Rickon and Bran are returned from their schools for the year's end break. All I need now is the presence of my lovely daughter to make my Seven Nights complete.
"And I am not the only one who feels so. Sweet Rickon is most insistent that you return and both Bran and Robb have chorused how unfair it is that Sansa has visited with you but not they.
"Please write as quickly as you're able with your acceptance and I will arrange travel for you. Any assistance you need is more than welcome as well, or we will hire a night nurse for you from the village. All my love, your doting mother, Catelyn Stark."
"Well," Jon said after a moment, "she certainly didn't bother to beat around the bush with that."
I dropped the letter on my lap and threw my arm back across my eyes. "I'll write and tell her I am still far too fragile for the cold," I announced. "No, better, you may write back and tell her I am too ill and you are taking me to the seaside for the air. Gods be willing, she will be too enraged to write back and harass us any further."
"Gladly," Jon said with a sigh and I felt him pick the letter up. "Sansa's wedding is soon enough for me to see Aunt Catelyn, though I will admit the thought of seeing little baby Rickon is tempting."
"How many years has it been?" I asked. "Gods, I cannot remember."
"Since before the war, at least," Jon said and the paper rustled.
"We should invite him to spend his midyear holiday with us," I told him. "We will go somewhere fantastical and warm and spoil him thoroughly. Not," I added preemptively, "Dorne. I am still far too ill at the thought of Dorne to spend any more time there."
"Aye," Jon said but absentmindedly. I threw my arm off again and sat up to poke him with my foot.
He caught my ankle, holding it still, and finished reading the letter. "What?" I demanded. "Did she enclose some secret message for you?"
"Hardly," he told me, "but you missed the postscript, dearheart." He held out the paper again and I could see clearly that someone had written across the blank back.
I took it and read with some alarm the strong hand. Jon, the post script read, I hope this letter finds you and Arya both in good spirits and good health. The sentiment written within is true for me as well and I wish only to add that I would be more than pleased if both of you came home this year. If not, please write back and we will arrange a more favorable time for you both to visit. All my love and prayers, your Uncle Ned.
"Oh Gods," I groaned again and tossed the letter aside. Father never, ever asked us to come North.
"We'll have to go," Jon said after a moment. I knew he didn't dare deny one of Father's few requests and I found I didn't have the heart too, either.
"Have Peck call ahead and find a room in the village," I said with a sigh. "I'll send Pia out to buy some warmer clothes." Winter was barely creeping in-everyone predicted it would be a long one, two years at least-but all my current winter clothes wouldn't stand up to even the slightest Northern breeze.
"If your healthy truly is too fragile-" Jon started with a worried edge but I cut him off irritably.
"My lungs have hardly transformed into cheesecloth," I snapped. "And I promise you shall be the very first to know if they do. No, Pia will buy me some warmer clothes and I expect her to bundle me in them thoroughly. I shall be fine."
Jon didn't look happy about it but he hardly ever did when the subject came up. I prodded him with my foot again and this time he let me. "I promise that if I get sick we shall make our excuses and leave for the Rock as we planned before. Jaime and Brienne would hardly grudge us changing our minds two or three times."
"Aye, alright," Jon said and bent to kiss my ankle.
My head was throbbing terribly now. The tea didn't help much and I knew any more lunch was a wash. I'd give my sandwich to Nymeria, I decided, and lay back down.
"You may write to all of them, if you don't mind too much," I told Jon. "I think a nap is in order."
Sweet as he was, the dear man brought me a blanket and another pillow before he resigned himself to the desk and my much chewed pen.