As a child, Arya had often imagined how grand it would be to sail on a ship in the open seas. Her favorite game to play had been one with her siblings and Alys and Theon, where they were her subjects and she was Princess Nymeria. They'd had a lifetime of adventures together aboard those ships. They had sailed together from Ny Sar down the river Rhoyne, fought pirate kings on the Basilisk Isles, and defeated the Dornish kings in their conquest. On occasion, Arya had been able to cajole Jory and Ser Addam into playing the roles of their foes. Arya had of course always been Nymeria, and had always delivered the killing blow.
The ship her father arranged their passage on was nowhere near the size of the ships she had commanded in Winterfell. The modest merchant's cog had been far from the largest in the harbor at King's Landing, and much of the room aboard had already been claimed by the merchant's wares. "A smaller ship is more discreet," Jory had explained to her. Her father had paid a hefty sum to ferry them north, and their comfort had not been on the forefront of his mind. Though she understood the reasoning, it did not ease the discomfort of their voyage.
Had Arya been on her own she supposed it would not have been so bad. But Nymeria did not sail alone, and neither did Arya. With her traveled Jeyne, Bran, Jory, and her dancing master Syrio. The small cabin they had been offered had only one bed, and it was barely large enough for her and Jeyne. The rest of her companions were relegated to sleeping pallets on the floor, and when they were all laid out there was no more room to walk. The cabin was dark and dreary even with a candle, and the air was stale and stagnant. The air was only worsened by Jeyne, who had not been made for life at sea and was unable to keep food in her belly.
Arya loathed that small cabin, but it was where she remained for the time they'd been aboard. On the very first day, she had wandered onto the deck with Jeyne. Arya had wanted to see how far Blackwater Bay stretched and to feel the salt winds in her hair and the spray of the ocean. Jeyne had only hoped the fresh air would settle her poor stomach. But to Arya's bitter disappointment the cog never strayed far from the coast and there was no salt winds or ocean spray. The crew were not the welcoming sort either. The men scowled at them, but what Arya hated the most was how they leered at Jeyne.
They had not been aboard ship long before it made port in Duskendale. It was a planned stop, Jory had said. Duskendale was a sizable port, and there were surely merchants and others who would wish to trade before their ship left Blackwater Bay. The port town of Duskendale was not nearly as large as King's Landing, and not nearly as interesting. All Arya had known of Duskendale had come from the histories and stories told by Maester Luwin. It had once been held by House Darklyn, but that was before the rebellion. This is where the mad king went mad, she had remembered. Arya could not recall the name of the house that held Duskendale now, but when she did pop her head above to catch a glimpse, she could see blue and white banners.
Their ship was to continue on from Duskendale to Gulltown, and from there to Braavos, and then from there to White Harbor. As excited as Arya was to lay eyes on Braavos for even a moment, the thought of staying in that cramped room for countless days made her want to rip her hair out.
Arya had leapt at the chance to escape from both the cabin and the crew. None of their group truly wanted to stay in the cramped space more than they already had. They were to remain in port for the day, and between Arya, Bran, and Jeyne, they had convinced Jory and Syrio to allow them off the ship and to stretch their legs. It had not been a difficult feat, as Jory and Syrio were as miserable as them. Jory had been the more difficult of the two, over cautious and wary as he was.
After speaking to the captain as to their departure time, they left the ship. Jory had insisted they take anything of value, be it gold or swords. He did not trust the crew, none of them did really. She had planned to take Needle anyway, as there was no room to train aboard the ship and she had missed the familiar burn in her arms.
They did not linger in Duskendale, and instead sought out a clearing just outside of town. They spread out and stretched their stiff limbs and relished the opportunity to breathe in fresh air. Jeyne settled herself with picking wildflowers, Bran sparred with Jory for a time, and Arya with Syrio. It was a peaceful day, but perhaps Jory had been right to be wary of leaving the ship.
It was when they returned to the ship that things went awry. They had nearly made their way back when Jory spotted a group of guards dressed in blue and white aboard the ship, going in and out of the cabin and questioning the men on deck. Jory pulled them harshly into the shadows of a nearby building where they could not be seen. It wasn't until men dressed in blue and white came up from below and spilled a chest of their clothes on the ground that Jory grabbed them and rushed them out of the city.
For two days they continued on foot, trying to put as much distance as possible between them and the Duskendale men. By the end of the first day, Arya's feat ached like they never had before. By the end of the second she had nasty blisters where her boots rubbed against her feet, and the boots themselves were soaked from when she had stepped into a puddle. The next village they came upon, Jory spent nearly all the gold he had brought with him on horses and supplies to see them north. Arya had been glad for his mistrust of the ship crew then.
From there, they'd set off north in the direction of Maidenpool. "If men were looking for us at Duskendale, they'll surely be searching the Kingsroad now," Jory explained. Jeyne had only cried and asked why the soldiers were after them in the first place, but no one explained it to her, and Arya did not know for certain.
It felt to Arya that Jeyne cried over everything those first few nights. At first it had been the clothes she left behind, or complaints that it was unfair that Sansa got to stay when she didn't. And then aboard the ship she had complained of the smell, or the cramped quarters or the lack of a clean privy. She'd complained once that Arya was encroaching on her side of the bed, and Arya had clean kicked her in the shin before informing her that she was the one doing the kicking, not Arya.
And then when they had to flee, she had started weeping and now everything seemed to set her off. She complained of saddle sores, of the hard and cold ground, of the ruined state of the dress she'd been forced to flee in. We're all uncomfortable, and we've all left something behind, Arya wanted to scream. But the last time Arya had snapped at her she'd teared up and had silently cried to herself the rest of the evening.
Arya felt like weeping herself when they came to the next small village and heard the news from King's Landing. King Robert was dead, and the Hand arrested on charges of treason. She'd had a feeling that her father's plan had all gone to shit, but to have it confirmed was like a nightmare come true. Arya was no child. When her father had told them the truth of what he'd learned and then informed them he was sending them back north she had put the pieces together. He would never have gone through all the trouble of concealing their journey home if not for a reason. And those men on the ship would not have been searching for them so intently had her father's plans gone as they were meant to.
Bran stormed out of the inn when he heard. He had been rearing to turn back to King's Landing and free their father, and he would have been halfway to King's Landing by the time they realized he'd gone if not for Syrio. Syrio had been waiting by the horses and had stopped him, though a small part of Arya wished he hadn't. A small part of Arya wanted to follow her brother and aid his plan, so angry was she. But what good would that have done? Arya helped rein Bran in, but only because she did not want more of her family stuck in that pit. But it would be sweet to have them safe.
Rumours flew around the village inn like so many ravens. One man claimed that her father had killed the King himself in the middle of the throne room. Another man claimed that the Hand had tried to kill Joffrey, and yet another claimed that the Hand had declared Joffrey a false king in order to steal the throne for himself. Lies, Arya had known at once that all of those stories were lies. Her father would never have killed King Robert, and Joffrey was a false king. He would never lie, and he most certainly did not want the throne.
Glaringly absent from all of the rumours and stories swirling around was her sister. Sansa. No one in the inn spoke anything of her sister. So many rumours and so many lies and yet there was nothing of her sister Sansa. Elia Martell and her children plagued her mind, along with every other innocent who had died in that city. Arya had Needle, but Sansa had nothing. What good will her bow and arrow do?
Rarely did they stop in villages, but when they did Jory would ask for any news. No new word reached them over the next two weeks, and none the week after that. We'll be the last to hear when there is news, Arya despaired. How would they hear, when they went to such lengths to make camp far from where they would be spotted?
It was the not knowing that pained her the most. It seemed the farther they traveled from King's Landing, the more Arya's rage grew. She wanted nothing more than to swing onto her horse and race back to the Red Keep and not leave until her sister and father were safe. She would lie awake at night and think of all the horrible things that could be happening. Or she would spend her hours on watch staring at her horse and composing a rescue plan. But she never acted on it, for she knew better.
Instead she put all of her anger into training with Syrio, for all the good that did her. She was too in her troubles, he said. "A sword has no troubles, boy," he had taunted her. Dead, dead, dead, his voice echoed in her head. "If you are with your troubles, more troubles for you." She did her best to put her troubles from her mind when she was with Syrio, and as the days passed she grew more and more successful. But when the day was done and Needle was put away, her worries returned with a vengeance.
She worried over Sansa's fate and she worried for her family back home. Have they heard by now? She worried most of all for her father, for he was the one accused of treason. A small part of her, the part of her that still thought herself Nymeria, wanted to believe it was all a grand jape at her expense. Or that perhaps the men at the inn had been wrong, and the King was still alive and her father free, and that the soldiers who had boarded their ship had not been looking for them after all. But she remembered the conversation with her father before they left, and she remembered the fear in his eyes and the worry on his face. He had truly looked his years then.
The hours at night she spent on watch were the worst. Her mind would wander to dark places and conjure up all of the horrible things that could be happening to her father and sister. Joffrey was not a merciful man, and she knew he would not take kindly to the accusations levied against his mother by her father.
The hours at night she spent on watch were the worst. Her mind would wander to dark places and conjure up all of the horrible things that could be happening to her father and sister. Joffrey was not a merciful man, and she knew he would not take kindly to the accusations levied against his mother by her father.
One night on the road, she took first watch. She sat on a log Syrio dragged over and stole a blanket from her sleeping pallet. It was easier to stay awake, and she often had trouble falling back asleep once she had awoken. She knew not where they were or how far they were from the Trident. Never did she know how far from King's Landing they had traveled, and never did she know how far they had yet to go until home. Perhaps if I knew I would rest easier. It mattered little. As different as their camps looked by day, at night they melded into the same black mass. There was no need for a fire past dinner, and Jory said it was best not to attract attention anyways. Where they were, it wasn't those who the Lannisters sent after them Jory feared, but brigands and thieves.
The shadows surrounding them came alive each night. They swayed and danced with the wind and threatened to swallow them whole. Arya could hear branches cracking in the distance and the chatter of animals, and the wind whispered taunts to her. When Jory woke before her watch was done she nearly jumped out of her skin at the sound of his footsteps.
Jory joined her on the log and she sat with him for a time, too on edge to want to sleep. The woods weren't so bad when he was awake with her. How many more nights of this? The journey south had taken moons, but that was with the King's party and the Queen's wheelhouse. Arya hoped it would not take nearly so long to return home. "Where are we, Jory?" Arya whispered, as to not wake Bran and Jeyne and Syrio. The last thing she wanted to endure that night was Jeyne's fears of the dark woods.
"East of Antlers, south of Maidenpool?" There was enough moonlight for Arya to see Jory shrug his shoulders. "We'll weave our way between the two."
An owl called in the distance and another answered. The leaves rustled in the breeze and clouds passed over the moon. Their camp darkened even more and stole all visibility. "And from there?"
If Jory shrugged this time, Arya could not see it. "We'll cross the Trident just north of Darry. Won't be able to avoid the Kingsroad much then." Arya the blanket tighter around herself.
"What do you think will happen to my father?" She heard Jory let out a deep sigh and the shuffle of his boots.
"I don't know. But I do know wars have been started for less, and I plan to get us north long before it starts." War. Arya tried to imagine Robb waging a war, but she couldn't. She tried to imagine Jon and Theon and herself by his side, but all she could think of was their games as children. "Get some rest, milady. We've a long day tomorrow."
The next day passed in much the same way the others had. They rode along a small road towards Maidenpool that did not seem to be well traveled. The only people they saw were farmers, or perhaps someone from a small village. No longer did anyone pay them a second glance. Their clothes were dirty and torn, much to Jeyne's despair.
"Can't we stop?" Jeyne whined. It felt to Arya that Jeyne hadn't stopped crying and complaining since they had left Duskendale. Or King's Landing for that matter. Arya did her best to remind herself that it wasn't Jeyne's fault that everything had gone so wrong, and that perhaps she was only scared. But Arya was scared too, and Jeyne was older than her. "We've been on the path since dawn."
Arya winced at Jeyne's whining, but she agreed all the same. They had been pushing harder that day, and Jory had woken them just before the sun rose that morning. He had cut their rest for lunch short as well, and Arya had caught him looking over his shoulder more than once. "Please, Jory." Arya piled on.
Jory glanced behind them once more. "It would not hurt to stop, my friend," Syrio lilted. Syrio was a boon to Arya. She could not have bared to leave him behind. He regaled them with tales of his time in Braavos to pass the long days, and the more she heard of the free city the more she longed to visit. "The skies are clouded, and the children are tired." Arya pursed her lips at being called a child.
Jory gave his reluctant agreement and they found a small clearing far off the path. They tethered their horses and began to go about their usual routines. Jory began clearing the ground and Syrio set about starting a cookfire. Bran, Arya, and Jeyne went off together as they usually did, swords at their sides and waterskins in their arms.
They trudged along through the woods and found a small stream. It was a good distance from the camp, and no longer could Arya hear Syrio's constant chatter. They took their time filling waterskins and collecting sticks. It was good to stretch their legs after sitting in a saddle for so long.
Arya pulled off her boots and stockings and laid them on a rock along with Needle. She rolled the legs of her breeches, the same pair she had stolen from Bran on the ship, and stepped into the stream. The water was cold on her feet and she buried her toes in the mud. Arya whipped her head around and grinned wickedly at Jeyne. "Jeyne! Come join me!"
Jeyne wrinkled her nose and continued to collect sticks. "No, I think I'm quite alright." She resumed her task and paid no attention as Arya waded closer. She pulled her foot back and launched a spray of water towards Jeyne, who shrieked and dropped her sticks. "Arya!" She cried. Arya cackled.
"Come now, you're filthy!" Jeyne only glared at her for a moment before her lips twitched upwards. Arya's smirk melded into a bright smile. Jeyne may be a nuisance, but she's dear to Sansa, and Sansa would so hate to see Jeyne sad. Jeyne eyedthe stream and moved to remove her own boots.
The sound of branches cracking and footsteps broke their revelry. Arya searched for the source of the noise, but Bran had wandered further down the stream."Jory? Syrio?" Arya called. She made her way out of the stream and Jeyne backed away from the noise.
It happened all at once. Three men broke out of the treeline and encroached on them, crude metal swords drawn and pointed. Jeyne shrieked. The men surrounded them. They leered at her and Jeyne in much the same way the ship's crew had.
They did not appear to notice Bran, who had heard Jeynes' shriek and was making his way back towards them. Arya placed herself in front of Jeyne. "We don't have anything for you," Arya said.
The man in the middle, the one with the greasy hair and patchy beard, eyed Jeyne up and down. "'Right shame. They 'ave nothin' she says." The other men laughed. He stepped forward and Arya stepped back. Jeyne stumbled. The pot bellied man on the right chimed in, "not yet met a woman who's had nothin'."
Arya continued to step back and slanted her eyes towards Needle. It sat where she had placed it, a bit further down the stream and out of her reach. She searched frantically for Bran, but his voice answered her unasked question. "They said they have nothing for you." He had krept towards them silently, and now he stood behind the trio of men. His sword was pressed into the back of the man on the left, the bald sweaty one.
Arya met Bran's eyes and he nodded slightly. Arya spun and shoved Jeyne away from her and towards where Needle lay before launching herself onto the greasy man in front of her. Bran engaged with the bald man and she tumbled to the ground with the greasy man. His sword fell to the side.
Bran made quick work of the man in front of him. He stuck his sword through the man's gut and wrenched it free, intestines and blood spilling out of him. The greasy man pushed Arya off of him.
The man grabbed his own sword from where it had fallen and made for Bran. He raised the sword above his head. "Bran!" she screamed. Bran spun just in time and met the man's sword with his own and Arya scrambled to her feet.
The third man had Jeyne pinned to the ground. Jeyne kicked at him and scratched his face with her hands, but Arya could tell she grew tired. She sprintedto where she had left Needle and wrenched it up off the ground. The man had his hand up Jeyne's skirt now and Jeyne fought harder. Arya ran back to Jeyne and shoved Needle into the man's throat before his hands could wander further. He gurgled and blood bubbled out of mouth and spilled onto Jeyne. His arms buckled under him and his full weight fell onto her.
Jeyne had been silent all the while, and it disturbed Arya. Not once had she shut her mouth the entire trip, but this was worse. Silent sobs wracked her body and she struggled to shove the man off of her. Her hand beat against him but he would not move and her breaths came harder and harder.
Arya helped Jeyne roll the man off of her and then yanked her to her feet. She grabbed Jeyne's hand and went to run but Jeyne would not move. There may be more of them, there's more of them, Arya began to panic. "Come on!" She cried. They ran towards the camp and Bran joined them. The last man he had been fighting lay in the dirt with half his head cleaved off and bile rose in Arya's throat.
The three of them shoved the way through the bramble. The sticks and bushes tore at her breeches and shirt and bare feet but still she did not stop, nor did she let Jeyne stop. There's more of them, she told herself.
and stumbled into their camp. Jory stood at the far end and Syrio stood closer and was the first to notice the state of them. "What has happened?" The worry in his voice caught the attention of Jory.
"Three men," Arya choked out. No men. That man is dead. Those men are dead.
"Where are they?" Jory asked, panicked.
Arya could not find her voice again and Jeynes body still shook with sobs. He would have raped her. "Dead. By the stream," Bran pointed.
"Lead me," Jorydemanded. He and Bran stepped off towards the stream.
Syrio made to approach them but Jeyne flinched back. "It is alright, girl," he soothed. He approached cautiously and Arya thought Jeyne looked much like a frightened doe. Arya grabbed her hand and let Syrio lead them to the small stones he had set by the fire. Jeyne was shivering, covered in mud and blood. Syrio draped a blanket around her shoulders and gestured to Arya's feet. "Where are your boots, child?"
Arya stared at him blankly. Me, he's talking to me. He pried Needle out of her hand. "By the stream," she answered. Syrio wiped Needle on the grass to clear the blood and moved to do the same to Jeyne's face, but she would not let him.
Arya did not know how much time passed before Jory and Bran returned, but it must have been a while. Syrio had cleaned her hands and properly cleaned her sword, and had even coaxed Jeyne into letting him wipe her face. When they did return, they returned with the abandoned waterskins and Arya's boots. "The men wore no colors and bore no standards," Jory reported.
"Common criminals. Your Queen did not send them." Syrio stated. Jory looked sceptical, but did not respond. Instead he rifled through his pack for a spare pair of trousers and a shift for Jeyne. He handed them to her before pulling Syrio to the side, well out of their earshot. Arya did not care to call them on it nor creep closer.
Instead, she led Jeyne behind a grouping of trees and helped her out of the stained dress. The shift fell below her knees, and they had to tear a strip from the bottom to tie around the trousers to hold them up, but Jeyne did not protest as Arya thought she might have. Instead she followed her instructions silently, save for when Arya brushed against a nasty bruise blooming on her arm. When they returned to the cookfire, Arya tossed the ruined dress into the flames and Jeyne did not argue.
Arya did not register much else for that night, or the nights to follow. She had never killed a man before. All she could see when she closed her eyes was his greasy hair and patchy beard, and she could still feel the give of his flesh as her sword pierced his throat. After nightfall, when the leaves rustled in the wind all she could hear was the gurgle of the man choking on his own blood. The man would have killed Jeyne. He would have raped her, she reminded herself each time. But still she saw his face. She continued to see his face as they journeyed through the Riverlands, and she wondered if Bran saw the two he had killed. Arya knew for certain Jeyne did, for she placed her sleeping pallet as close to Arya as she could every night. Jeyne still kicked, but Arya did not mind.
They did not run into any more trouble, or perhaps it was just that they did not give anyone the chance. Syrio and Jory did not let them go off by themselves anymore, and they did not give villages such a wide berth. When they did come across the Kingsroad, they did not stray as far as Jory had planned.
The closer they got to the Trident the more anxious Arya grew. The ruby ford was not a place she wished to revisit, but she would have to if she wished to go home. First the ruby ford, and then the neck, and then home. The days did not pass near quick enough for her liking and she wanted nothing more than to ride and ride until Winterfell rose over the horizon. She could picture it so clearly. Her mother would be there waiting for her, and so would Alysanne and Robb and Rickon. Her father and Sansa would return to them, and all would be as it should. She could be Nymeria with her thousand ships once more.
But Nymeria and her thousand ships soon slipped from her mind, as did the warm image of home. The Inn at the Crossroads offered whispers and rumours of an army amassing in the north, and some even said that the army had already started south with a wolf at it's head. Wars had been started for less, Jory had told her. She wondered just how true those words were.