A/N: Hey. Cutting it close again, I know. But, it's still Monday where I am, so not too late yet. This chapter is just Arya's point of view of Sansa's last chapter, so there's some overlap there, obviously, but most of it is new stuff. As always, many thanks to my beta reader (and sister) GrowlingPeanut. Reviews are appreciated.
Disclaimer: Everything belongs to Bethesda Softworks and George R. R. Martin.
Rating: M for references to abuse and rape and murder and lots of death.
After the Stormcloak victory in Whiterun, the soldiers stayed for nearly a week, ensuring their command of the city. Once Ulfric was confident in the peoples' loyalty, half of the men remained in the city to keep the peace and oversee the beginning of construction on a new temple to Talos, while the others returned to Windhelm, bloodied and weary. Arry Snow was one of the latter.
When Arya returned to her chambers in the Palace of Kings, she immediately began to remove her armor and then tore at the binding beneath, taking a deep breath for the first time since before leaving the city.
She gasped for air, but even so, it felt as though her lungs couldn't fill, and she was left hiccupping between shaky sobs. Her hands, still stained with blood, were shaking, and she fell to her bed, clutching the edge to try and still the trembling of her limbs.
As she tried to even her breathing, one hand absently rose to the ring that fell between her breasts and she held it tightly. Each night she woke from her nightmares, she did the same, and the simple silver ring was the only thing left to anchor her to reality.
Slowly, she opened her eyes and took a few deep breaths before rising again and moving toward the wooden tub in the corner of the room. Getting sloppily redressed in a loose tunic and pair of trousers, she went and fetched several buckets of hot water, and once the tub was full, she stripped and sank into it.
The warm water loosened her aching muscles and swept the blood and dirt from her skin. Gendry's blood. Vilkas had finally been avenged, and his killer's blood stained her skin. No matter how hard she scrubbed, she wasn't sure that it would ever truly wash away.
Tipping her head back, she closed her eyes and allowed the water to soak into her growing hair. It was nearly to her shoulders again, and though she enjoyed seeing herself again when she looked in the mirror, she knew that she would have to cut it soon to maintain the illusion of masculinity.
Sighing, she opened her eyes again and was about to sit up once more when she caught sight of a slip of paper on the table beside the door. With a start, she remembered the courier, and the letter that he had delivered. In the midst of the preparations for Whiterun, she had forgotten about the young man, and the letter remained unopened.
Struggling to her feet, she stepped out of the tub and walked to the table, ignoring the drops of water that fell to the floor. Absently shaking the moisture from her hands, she picked up the letter and examined the wax seal. Pressed into the small circle of black wax was the emblem of a hand and the sight set her heart to pounding.
Breaking the seal, she began to read.
AS,
Though a girl did not express a desire to hear from a man in her new life, this news is urgent. Our Listener has heard a name from the Night Mother. One not yet spoken, but that has a shroud of death around it. That name is Ulfric Stormcloak's. The Night Mother warns Solara that it is not yet his time to join Sithis in the Void, and that he has a role yet to play, one that should not be altered by any but the gods. Were his name to be spoken in the Sacrament, however, his death would be sealed. A girl must stop this. Pay attention to what is around you. Do not watch, see. The one who wishes him dead must not be far, and it is your duty to the Night Mother to find them and to stop them. Do so.
It was signed 'JH', but below, the script continued.
P.S. You've only grown more beautiful, my lovely girl. And the armor suits you.
A quiet gasp escaped her lips and she cursed herself for her lack of observation. She remembered the faint feeling of recognition when the courier had arrived of course, but knowing that it was simply her trainer under the guise of a black-haired youth made her feel like a stupid child.
"Gods damn you, Jaqen," she muttered viciously, though the thought of him being so close made her heart skip a beat. Even as Arry Snow, he thought her beautiful.
To be honest, Arya was not surprised in the least that someone wanted Ulfric Stormcloak dead. If she had her own way he would have been killed long ago for what he had made her sister endure, but Skyrim deserved a ruler that cared for its people, cruel and bigoted though he might be. Once he had taken the throne, then, he could be properly disposed of.
As for who would want it done, though, she didn't have the slightest clue. Or rather, she had too many ideas. The elves in the Grey Quarter had not been quiet about their hatred for the Jarl, nor had those resigned to the Argonian Assemblage. Aside from them, Sifnar, the palace cook, was certainly weary of his downtrodden position, and it was said that Ulfric's court wizard wasn't as loyal as the Jarl believed.
Sighing, Arya rubbed the water droplets from her skin with a rag and then bound her chest after a few deep breaths and redressed in her full set of Stormcloak armor. Approaching the looking glass on the wall, she retrieved the stick of charcoal from the table by the door and carefully ran it along her jaw and across her cheeks. After doing the same to her eyebrows and using it to widen the appearance of her features, she tied back her hair and left the room, taking the stairs two at a time and then exiting into the city.
The winter wind was cold on her face, but she reveled in the feeling. As her father had always said, "Winter is coming", and she could feel in the air that it was.
She stood overlooking the city, legs akimbo and hands planted firmly on her hips. Do not watch, Jaqen had written. See. So see she would. She would spend as much time as it took, scouring every inch of the city, not watching, but seeing and not listening, but hearing, until she had done as she had been asked, and Ulfric Stormcloak was safe once more.
Though it would be easy enough to simply ignore the letter and allow him to die, Arya had given her loyalty to Sithis and the Night Mother, and had no desire to meddle in the affairs of the gods. Ulfric would live, and nothing would change. For the moment, at least.
Making up her mind, Arya began to move once more, making her way to the market square and taking up a position against the stone wall that separated Oengul's forge from the merchant's stalls. With her armor on, no one questioned her reasons for being there, and so she stood, seeing, and hearing.
"I've heard Nurelion is in his final days. Poor Quintus will have to take on the White Phial all himself once he's gone."
"I'm surprised that Lord Ulfric didn't stay in Whiterun himself after the victory. With Robb Stark's betrayal, I wouldn't think that he should trust any of his men."
"They say that there's a woman in Whiterun who killed a dragon and...took its soul! Imagine, a true Dragonborn...in our lifetime!"
Her feet were just beginning to ache from her rigid position when she heard a useful bit of conversation between Malthyr Elenil from the New Gnisis Cornerclub and Brunwulf Free-Winter, a Nord warrior sympathetic to the cause of Windhelm's oppressed.
"You're a war hero, Brunwulf," Malthyr said desperately. "Ulfric will listen to you."
"It's not that simple," Brunwulf replied wearily. "Ulfric wants a Skyrim for the Nords. He doesn't trust what he calls 'outsiders'. You know that."
"You've seen how we live!" The Dunmer responded, his voice rising in anger. "Cramped alleys, run-down buildings, few guard patrols! Even the name 'Grey Quarter' is a bloody insult!"
"I'll speak to Ulfric soon," Brunwulf said, looking about worriedly. "But I make no promises that I can change his mind."
"That's all I ask." Though Malthyr was conceding to the older man, his eyes were still bright with anger, fists still clenched. "With your help, we have a chance to make a better life for ourselves here. For that, I thank you."
Brunwulf watched the elf as he left, a look of helplessness on his ruddy features. As soon as he turned the corner, Arya followed.
He walked quickly through the streets, returning to his post at the Cornerclub. After a moment, Arya turned and returned to the palace, removing her armor and redressing in the baggy tunic and trousers before making her way to the Dunmer's tavern.
The patrons looked at her warily as she took a seat at one of the tables, but when she made no move to speak out against them, they returned to their drinks, and Ambarys Rendar wearily handed her a tankard of ale when she raised her hand for a drink of her own.
Patiently she waited, slowly draining her first tankard and then a second, and a third, and finally, Malthyr approached her table, straw broom in hand.
After a moment, she spoke, quietly, and without looking in his direction. "I heard you speaking with Brunwulf Free-Winter. Ulfric still won't hear of any improvements to the Quarter?"
The Dunmer looked at her suspiciously for a moment before simply shaking his head and continuing about his chores.
"Perhaps it's time that Ulfric was removed from the throne," she continued, finally meeting his eyes. "There are ways it could be done, quietly, and without any blood on your hands."
Eyes widening, Malthyr shook his head and turned his eyes away hastily. "Do you realize what you're saying, m'lord? That's murder you speak of, and not even Ulfric could make me do such a thing. Brunwulf is a friend to my people, and one day he will make the jarl listen."
After a moment, he spoke again. "Either drink in peace or be gone, m'lord. Our kind are in enough danger without ideas of your sort hanging about us."
He wasted no time in distancing himself from her, and Arya only lingered long enough to finish her ale. Sighing, she walked back out into the city, frowning slightly. She had been fairly confident that one of the Dark Elves of the Grey Quarter would be the one to complete the Sacrament, but if they had done nothing more than give the occasional sullen glance to a Nord in their cornerclub, they surely didn't have the courage or the motivation to call for Ulfric's assassination.
Perhaps one of the Argonians then, she thought. Though they weren't as viciously attacked as the Dunmer, they had still been relegated to the slums of the Windhelm docks, and found little kindness from the native Nords.
The docks were bustling with activity, as was typical, and Arya had to weave her way between the busy sailors to reach the Argonian Assemblage. Unlike the Cornerclub, she had no pretense to enter the Argonian's cramped quarters, and so she loitered outside, waiting for her chance.
It was only a few minutes before the Argonian working at the dock's grindstone looked up, his yellow eyes narrowed.
"The docks can be a dangerous place," he said, looking her over. "Don't expect me to save you if you fall in."
"Do many Nords 'fall' on the docks?" Arya challenged, one eyebrow raised.
He shrugged slightly at that. "The Nords don't appreciate us, but so what? I don't appreciate them right back."
Arya nodded, and waited a moment before speaking again. "They only echo the bigotry of their jarl. Were Ulfric to 'fall', perhaps they would appreciate your kind more."
The Argonian looked up once more, and after a long moment, he shook his head. "It would only make things worse." For a moment, he returned to his work, and when he spoke once more, he did so without meeting her gaze. "We don't have much love for your kind down here. Probably best if you just leave."
Hiding her disappointment, Arya re-entered the city and began making her way to the palace. If there was no evidence that either Wuunferth or Sifnar was planning an assassination, then she would be back to the start.
As she opened the door to the palace, she realized with a sudden start that she was looking into the matter far after Jaqen had delivered the letter to her. Perhaps the Sacrament had already been completed, and Ulfric's death was only a matter of time. Perhaps she was too late.
She hurried through the door to the upper level and then down the hall to the court wizard's chamber, only to see Sansa on her way out. Arya stumbled at the sight of her sister, and in her moment of hesitation, Sansa collided with her and a leather-bound tome tumbled from beneath her skirts.
Without looking up, Sansa snatched up the book and hurried on her way, but not before Arya saw the scarlet lettering across its cover.
A Kiss, Sweet Mother.
Sansa went from Wuunferth's quarters to the White Phial, and didn't see the grey eyes that watched her through the window as she brewed her poison and made off with the alchemists' nightshade blossoms.
As Arya continued to follow her sister, she felt a sense of dread rising in her chest. As a child, Sansa had always loved tales of magick and romance, and to think that her life had grown so dreadful as to turn her into a murderer made Arya feel sick.
More than anything else though, she understood. She knew the temptation of revenge far too well. And she knew what it would do to her sister if she allowed it to consume her. Though she wanted Ulfric dead for what he had done to her, she would save his life, if only so that Sansa wouldn't have to lose herself in the same way that she had after Vilkas' death. She knew now that revenge would not put her at peace. Gendry was dead, and she just felt...hollow.
As the day wore on, Sansa continued her work, collecting a steel dagger from the barracks, Ulfric's circlet from his chambers, and several tallow candles from the palace kitchens. Once it had all been gathered, she hid it beneath her bed in a basket, and then spent the rest of the day as she did so many others, wandering listlessly about the palace, her expression vacant and her new bruises dark against her pale skin.
For his part, Ulfric spent his time in the war room, when he wasn't sitting high atop his throne. He had a satisfied air about him, and his eyes followed his wife as she passed through the great hall, filled with lust. Arya knew that when night fell, it would be in Sansa's chambers that she would find him.
Arya waited in her own chambers that evening, pacing restlessly from one end to the other. She had no desire to wait outside her sister's room and be forced to hear what Ulfric was doing to her.
Finally, she stopped, meeting her own eyes in the looking glass. It was Arry Snow that stared back at her. Arry Snow the soldier, the bastard, the stranger. Sansa knew him only as a kind young man in the employ of her lord husband. If he came to Sansa and urged her to let Ulfric live, she would see him only as a loyal soldier, and the Sacrament would not be stopped. Could not be, in truth, not at the hands of Arry Snow.
Taking a small strip of linen from the supply in the chest at the foot of her bed, she dipped it into her pitcher of water and then returned to the mirror, watching as Arry Snow was wiped away and Arya Stark returned. Untying her hair, she allowed it to fall down to her shoulders, and then unbound the linen from her chest. With Robb's execution, the necessity of the illusion had faded, and it was time that Sansa knew the truth.
Lost in her own thoughts, Arya nearly missed the sound of footsteps from down the hall, and by the time she left her chambers, Sansa had already descended and was walking purposefully toward the palace doors.
The streets were empty and cold, and Arya followed behind at a safe distance, trying to keep from view. When Sansa reached the Hall of the Dead, she glanced once behind her and Arya barely managed to duck away, her heart pounding.
Sansa had entered the Hall of the Dead by the time Arya began to follow her once more, and it was easy to track her through its halls, following the bobbing light of her torch as she wound down, farther and farther with each step.
Finally, she stopped, dropping to her knees beside one of the hollows in the wall and setting aside her torch. With great difficulty, she dragged the body from the cleft, and as the torch threw its light on the corpse's features, Arya realized who it was. It was fitting, she thought, that it would be the flesh and blood of her lover that sent her husband to his grave. If, that was, she was allowed to complete the Sacrament.
When Sansa began to speak, it was a mantra that Arya knew well. She chanted the words of the Sacrament as she tore into the body, and Arya had to cover her mouth to keep from retching at the ungodly smell that rose from its gaping chest.
Sansa hardly seemed to notice the stench or the thick, mostly-congealed blood that ran sluggishly down her arm as she continued her work, creating a skeletal effigy of her husband and abuser. Arya watched carefully, and though she knew that she should stop her, she stayed silent, hidden in the shadows.
It was as she lifted the dagger high above her and plunged it into the heart that Arya spoke, before the Sacrament could be completed.
"Stop."
Sansa froze, and quietly, she continued.
"Don't do it, Sansa. I know you think it's your only choice, but you don't want to do this. Once you've killed a man, there's no going back."
"I have to," Sansa whispered, still turned away. "He'll hurt me again..." Silently, she moved her hand in a gesture that was blocked from Arya's view and then continued, her voice barely audible. "He'll hurt my baby."
Arya's heart nearly stopped at her sister's words, and she felt her eyes filling with tears. Perhaps she was wrong in having stopped her. If Sansa hadn't already tried to cut the babe from her womb, then it wasn't Ulfric's, and if he found that out, then she would likely be killed.
"No he won't," Arya said finally, and by all the gods, she meant it. "So long as I live, I swear to you, I'll protect you. You'll be free of him one day."
A long silence met her answer, and when Sansa replied, she sounded weary. "Who are you? Why do you care about me?"
Arya sighed, and after only a brief moment of hesitation, stepped forward. "It's me, Sans."
She hurried forward to catch Sansa as she crumpled to the ground, sobbing loudly, and pressed a kiss to her forehead.
"It's Arya."
Nearly a half hour had passed by the time Sansa had stopped crying and was able to breathe again, but she remained curled in her sister's arms for long after, hanging on as though she would disappear if she were to let ago.
When she finally spoke, her words were quiet, and heavy with years of grief. "I thought you were dead. After Robb...I thought I was alone."
"You'll never be alone," Arya replied, wiping the tears from her cheeks. "I promise you that I'll never leave your side again."
Sansa looked up at her, and after a moment, her expression shifted, eyebrows furrowing. "You have been with me...haven't you?" She asked, more to herself. "Arry Snow." The latter was a statement, a revelation.
Arya smiled slightly. "Do I make a convincing man?"
Numb to the jest, Sansa shook her head absently. "How did I not know?"
"A man once told me that the secret to Illusion is that people only see what you tell them to. You had no reason to believe that I was with you, and so you believed that I was Arry Snow." The thought of Jaqen sent her mind astray, and a heavy emptiness filled her chest as she was reminded of why Arry Snow had ever been born. She had lost herself to her need for revenge, but Gendry's death had given her no peace. If anything, her nightmares would only grow worse. Suddenly and desperately, she wished to see her trainer again. Perhaps the time had come.
"You should return to your chambers," she said gently, gathering her thoughts. "I'll clean up here."
Sansa began to nod, but then her eyes widened and she grew pale. "No. I can't. I can't go back. He's there. I...I poisoned him...oh, Gods..."
Arya sighed deeply and held her sister closer as she began to cry once more. It would certainly be difficult to explain Sansa's actions, but Arya had sworn to keep her safe, and so she would.
"Stay in my chambers then," she responded. "You'll be safe there."
After some gentle convincing, Sansa agreed, allowing Arya to walk her back to the castle and get her settled. As she turned to go, she spoke up softly, peering out from beneath the woolen blankets.
"Will you stay with me?"
In the years that followed Ned Stark's death, Arya had distanced herself from her name. Making her life in Whiterun with the Companions had been a new beginning, but with Vilkas' death, that had fallen apart, and once again, she had been alone. After forsaking her new family in the Brotherhood in search of vengeance, the same had been true, but now, she was a Stark once more, and she wasn't willing to give that up again.
Smiling softly, she turned back and climbed beneath the blankets.
"Always."