Arya
It was a freezing morning. Freezing for the south, that was. The South knew nothing of cold, and yet it was the coldest place Arya had ever felt. She never felt so icy and numb in Winterfell, which was where people complained the true cold was. The air might have been filled with snow, Arya thought to herself, but it never cut to the bone. It never touched my heart. The cold here touched her heart.
She had to wear a jacket over her thick hoodie, a boys jacket of course. Even so, she wished for the gloves she used to carry around with her like some sort of charm. Her fingers were cracked and cold, and she had to rub them together to rid herself of the numbness in her bones. Cracked old woman's hands, that's what I have, she thought to herself. No, man's hands. I have the hands of a boy now. That's what I am.
She followed sullenly behind Yoren, her head bent low. The sun had just come up, and it would warm everything soon, and then everyone would forget the cold. But Arya never would. No sun could warm the chill that had settled deep within her core. While everyone walked free, Arya walked in chains, bound and dogged by things she dared not even speak of. There's no point in thinking about it if you can't talk about it, she had told herself that morning when she lay awake, unable to sleep. So she did not think about it, or at least, she tried not to think about it.
That was the thing about ghosts, they haunted people.
"Keep your mouth shut," Yoren snarled, breaking her from the cold and her wondering thoughts. "And remember who you are. This lot would sooner rape you than help you, and they'd turn you in to those blonde haired shits faster than I can break wind, so keep you damned mouth shut."
"I'm Arry," Arya recited dully. "The orphan boy."
"What is this, the fucking Grimm brothers?" Yoren snarled. "You sound like you're reading me a fairytale."
"I can lie," Arya snapped sullenly.
"So could your father," Yoren said, equally as sullen. "I don't care if you can lie. Any half wit idiot can lie. I want you to lie well."
"Don't talk about my father!" Arya shouted, furious.
"No, that's right," Yoren said, taking her roughly by the arm and whipping her around to face him, "you don't have a father, do you? You're just some orphan shit, aren't you?"
Arya glared at him, feeling tears of defiance flood into her eyes, but she pushed them back. She would not be a crying little girl now. That was her elder sister, Sansa's job. Sansa. She pushed Sansa away too. She was no longer Arya Stark, who lived in Winterfell with her mother and father and brothers and sister. She was no longer a girl of sixteen, soon to be seventeen. No, she was a boy now. A nobody. Because Arya Stark was in danger, and they had taken all those lovely things from her. Her family. Her father.
"That's right," she said, her voice ringing in her ears, as though it wasn't even hers. "I'm just another piece of shit on that damn bus."
Yoren leaned back, and then he laughed.
"Don't trust anyone, boy. And don't cause any trouble, or draw any attention to yourself," he said sternly, and for a second, Arya wondered if he actually cared. But it was gone as soon as it came, and he was just a disgusting man who worked for the Night's Watch.
"Now hurry up," he snapped, pushing her forward. "I've got no favorites, mind. You are like you said: just another piece of shit on that bus."
Arya slouched towards the great big bus, her hands shoved in her pockets and her head bent low. She didn't want to be noticed. No one, no one could know that she was a girl. It was good that she was small, she would blend in better.
"Would you look at that shrimp," a voice hooted and Arya flinched. Apparently it wasn't a good thing to be short.
"I bet he hasn't even gone through puberty yet," another said, equally as mocking. "He looks like a girl."
"I am not a girl!" Arya shouted, wheeling around to face them.
There was a fat boy, almost as wide as he was tall, gloating at her, a stupid expression on his wide, flushed face. Next to him stood a gangly youth with hands that looked like they were died green, of all things. He was ugly too, missing a few teeth and his hair probably hadn't been washed in ages.
They were both laughing.
"You sound like one!" The one with the green hands said. "And you're skinny. What are you, some sort of chick with a dick?"
"I'm a boy!" Arya shouted, growing angry. "Leave me alone."
She drew out Needle, she had been resting heavy in her pocket, and flipped the button on the switch. The blade glinted in the morning light.
"Oooh," the fat boy said, his eyes round and almost lusty.
"I like that," the one with the died hands said. "I want it. Give it to me."
"I'll sooner cut your hand off," Arya snarled. She would never, ever let go of Needle. Needle was her knife, and her half brother Jon had given it to her. Holding Needle was like holding onto her family, and she was not about to let some stupid delinquent take it from her.
"Let's have it," the fat one said, swiping for Needle. Arya jerked her blade away. "Give it to me or I'll kill you."
"What are you going to do, sit on me?" Arya demanded. Someone in the crowd snorted.
The fat boy's face turned bright red.
"Listen ugly, if you don't give it here-"
"Oh leave him alone," a deep voice behind Arya said, cutting off the boy with the green hands threats. "Or it'll be me you deal with."
Arya spun around so fast she almost tripped and fell, which would have been disgraceful. When she was Arya Stark, and her father was Ned, she had a fencing master, named Syrio, and he had taught her to be light on her feet. What would he had said if she tripped and feel over her own feet? She would have won all sorts of medals and trophies if she had been able to continue her lessons. But now... Lessons seemed stupid and pointless.
"Steady there."
A large, firm hand gripped her arm, steadying her. Arya wrenched away quickly, embarrassed, and looked up. She nearly screamed.
That's it, she knew in a rush. It's over. It's over and I'm dead.
She wished she could take it all back. She wished she had just kept walking when they called her a girl. She wished she had never even gone to that stupid boxing match.
But she hadn't had a choice, she hadn't! She had to go. There were things she didn't understand, her dad had told her, but she did understand. She understood that Arya Stark was the daughter of Ned Stark, and Ned Stark, in another life, had been part of the mob. And when you were part of the mob, it never left you.
It had come back to haunt her father, and all of them, only a few weeks ago when Robert Baratheon had rolled into town in a white limo and demanded that Ned come back to the old life with him. They had been best friends, and Arya knew that there had been something going on, something that she hardly knew about, but it made her father go with Robert back down south.
"To help run the casino," Ned had told her, but she knew that was a lie. Yoren was right about lies. Anyone could lie. Not many were good at it.
So they had gone, her, her father and her older sister Sansa. Down to King's Landing, to live in Robert's casino called the Red Keep. The casino was a front, Arya knew. A front for even less savory deals than those on the betting table. It was a sweet front, fancy and elaborate. Sansa had loved it. Sansa seemed to have an aptitude for loving things that looked pretty on the surface but were really rotten on the inside.
Robert Baratheon had wanted the boxing match. While Sansa loved pretty things, Robert Baratheon seemed to love violent things. That was all he ever talked about, 'the good old days' with her father by his side. Arya hated to think of her Dad the way Robert talked about him. Ned seemed to hate it too. Every time Robert would mention a job, or something from the past, her father's face would turn to stone.
"You have to go!" Sansa had fretted. "Robert wants us to, and you know who he is-"
"If I gave two shits about who he was-"
"You're insufferable!" Sansa had cried. "I am so done even trying with you!"
And with that she had stormed off into the dressing room, her pink dress she had been trying on trailing behind her. Dress shopping was something that Arya hated, but Sansa loved, and Cersei had insisted that they do.
"A treat on me," she had said with a poisoned smile, her teeth looking like a snake's fangs. Arya hated Cersei, Robert's wife, almost as much as he did. She was a horrible woman, but Sansa loved her of course. Sansa was stupid.
But I miss her. I miss her all the same.
Once they had found Sansa's perfect dress, and Arya had found one that didn't make her want to rip it off and put it through a shredder, they had walked back to the casino through a flea market. That was where she had found it. The wolf necklace.
Sansa had tutted and whined about being late, but Arya paid her no mind. She had been transfixed by the shape of the metal, melded and blended so beautifully. The wolf seemed to move as she shifted it back and forth in her hand, the sun sparkling against it.
"A local artist," the vender had said with a shrug. "Works in a car shop and does these on the side sometimes. It's ten bucks if you want it."
"Ten?" Sansa had scoffed. "Hardly worth one."
Arya had paid the whole ten gladly, and wore it around her neck that night. Never had she enjoyed wearing a piece of jewelry more. Sansa's horrified tattling had been an added bonus.
"You're wearing too much make-up," Sansa had fretted. "And the cut of that dress is far too low!"
"What do you care?" Arya had snarled. "You're always saying I don't have tits anyway."
"I never say that!" Sansa had protested.
"Just shut up," Arya had groaned, tired of all her stupidity. Sansa had given her a look of pure hatred before turning on her heel and flouncing away. She even flounced prettily, damn her. Sansa did everything prettily, but her tits were nothing to brag about, Arya remembered thinking grumpily as she followed her down to the Pit.
The Pit was the place where Robert Baratheon held his illegal boxing matches. It was huge, as big as a bowling alley. Bigger, probably. There was the ring, where the opponents would be knocking each others teeth out, and then there was a large area on three of the sides of the square ring, where the people who had paid their way in could stand and watch and cheer. On the other side there were a row of seats. Seats where Robert already sat, barely fitting in his chair, his blonde wife Cersei sitting next to him, and then his son Joffrey.
Sansa smiled at Joffrey. Arya nearly puked in her mouth. She hated Sansa's new boyfriend. Joffrey was disgusting and vile and horrible. He was every curse word Arya could think of, but of course Sansa was blind. She would never see it. Stupid. Can't you see past the shine to what's really underneath?
But she hadn't. Sansa, in some ways, was younger than Arya ever was. She loved to be the center of attention, with her beautiful blonde boyfriend and her pearls that he had given her, and her green flowing dress that fit her perfectly. Her hair done up in coils, just like Cersei's. Everyone loved her.
If everyone loved Sansa, it was not the same for Arya. There were whispers from the older women and her father just shook his head. Cersei's glare followed her, though, and Arya glared right back. Let the bitch glare. By now it almost suited her face.
Arya wore a black dress with a scooping neck and a skirt that was fitted. Her arms were bare, and she wore no other jewelry other than the wolf necklace, that swung from her neck on a thin strip of leather that smelled of car grease. Her eyes were lined thick, and her eyeshadow a deep black and purple, but she cared not what everyone thought. Let them think I'm a whore. She had thought vindictively. They're all whores anyway.
The fighting had been dull at first. Sansa was in all a dither about it, blabbering on and one about how hot so and so was. Arya tuned her out and watched the fighting, her eyes on the technique of the fighters. Most had no technique and just hit like stupid apes, but some had skill, and danced like she had in fencing.
Loras Tyrell was good, and his family had ties with the mob as well. There was a huge, hulking man they called The Mountain, appropriately named and lethal. He hit a young man so hard his neck snapped and broke.
That had caused some hysteria from the girls in the crowd, daughters of mob men, and they were escorted promptly from the Pit. To Arya's surprise, Sansa was not one of them. She looked surprised, and a bit white faced, but there was a fascination in her eyes, and as she looked at the man being dragged away, she took Arya's hand in hers and gave it a squeeze. It was so unexpected that Arya didn't pull away. Not right away, anyhow.
"Look Arya," Sansa said, as if forgetting herself. As if forgetting that she disliked this little sister who embarrassed her. "Here comes Jory."
Arya did look, but it was not Jory that caught her eye. It was his opponent.
"Oh dear," Sansa said, "he looks scary."
He did not look scary.
"He's strong," Arya corrected her sister.
And he was. Bigger than Jory, but not older. He couldn't be older than twenty-one, broad shouldered and thickly muscled. He shook his head and flicked his thick shaggy black hair out of his eyes. Arya couldn't see what color they were.
It was apparent he had no technique, but his strength impressed Arya. He had taken Jory out with only a few blows, and Jory was no twig. She wished she was that strong. If she had his strength, Joffrey would never be horrible to her again.
He did fairly well for himself in the ring, and Arya suddenly found herself following him as Sansa followed Loras, who was beautiful and good looking even though he was covered with blood and sweat. The strong boy wasn't bad looking either, Arya decided, but that mattered not to her. All she cared about was his strength, she knew.
But then, well... He had to step into the ring with Loras. Arya and Sansa were on the edge of their seats, both rooting for the other young man. Sansa fretted and bit her lip as the black haired boy delivered a thunderous blow to Loras's jaw, sending him flying.
"HIT HIM AGAIN!" Arya found herself screaming, leaping to her feet and beating at the railing. Sadly, the black haired boy never got the chance. Loras, it turned out, was full of technique, and soon the black haired boy was on his knees, gasping.
"COME ON!" Arya cried, bouncing on her feet, but it was no use. Loras finished him, and he was out cold and being dragged off the mat in a matter of minutes.
The rest of the match was a boring blur to her. Loras won, and gave Sansa a rose, and of course Sansa would not shut up about that damned rose. Or Loras.
"You have a boyfriend," Arya had snarled, sour as they sat and waited for the crowd to thin.
"No thanks to you," Sansa had sniffed, clutching her rose to her chest. Arya had rolled her eyes and stood up, tired of waiting.
They wove through the crowd, but there were too many people, and one minute Sansa was next to Arya, being annoying, and the next she was gone, disappeared between a smelly fat woman and a skinny looking drunk.
"Sansa?" Arya had called out, but no one replied.
Frantic, she pushed through the crowd, getting pushed and prodded as she did, her head whipping around, searching. And then her eyes caught something, just as Sansa returned to her, fretting. She had seen the boy with the black hair, and she had seen the color of his eyes. Blue.
The very same blue that she was looking at now.
The black haired boy was here, on the drive to the Wall, and he was staring right down at her.
Cliff hanger dun dun dun...