Chapter 32: Arya III

The godswood at Winterfell had always been quiet, Arya remembered.

As she trudged across the leaf-covered ground, boots tromping in snow, she passed by thickets of ash, chestnut, oak and ironwood trees towards the pale branches of the heart tree. Blood-red leaves formed a thick canopy over the heart tree itself, covered on one side by a thick sheet of white. The snow seemed to get deeper around her. She was up to her knees in it now, legs numb and feet frozen through.

Little flakes of snow and ice battered her face as she advanced, a sudden gale blowing against her, pushing her away from the pale trunk of the heart tree. Her hair whipped about her face, her cheeks flushed red in a futile attempt to fight away the worsening chill. She had only a scant dress on, she now noticed, a silken gown of the type she had always imagined she would hate to wear. The cloth was so thin as to almost leave her nude, and did next to nothing to ward away the cold. It was the sort of garment a young bride might choose to don to please her lordly husband.

Why would I ever wear such a stupid thing? Arya asked herself. Where were her furs, her leathers? Where was Needle?

Nevertheless, something about the tree spoke to her; the eerie, still face carved into the wood speaking to her in some indistinct, unmoving tongue. Arya shielded her face and eyes with her forearms as she pushed forwards, suddenly barefoot in the snow. The tree seemed to get further away the further she went, but she didn't stop. Her body was so slight, the wind so strong that she had to lean forwards into the gale, shivering with every step now, still struggling even as she felt the brief panic that came before the cold pierced all the way to her heart and ended her life.

When Arya finally touched the trunk of the tree, the gale disappeared, and she fell face first in the snow. When she arose she was completely bare, the face in the heart tree as still and lifeless and eerie as ever, and in the distance she saw a column of smoke rise. The cold was gone, the gooseflesh that had erupted on her skin flattened to perfect smoothness.

The column grew thicker in the distance, and possessed by a sudden curiosity, Arya ventured forth. She couldn't quite bring herself to venture from the protective shadow the heart tree, the branches stooping over her almost as if to ward her from danger. Yet Arya went as far as she dared, climbing up the side of a snow-covered hill even as the branches of the heart tree seemed to stretch to shield her.

When she scrabbled to the top and peered over the crest of the hill, she saw the cause of the smoke.

Winterfell was aflame.

Men charged at the walls in waves, clad in furs and bones and plate alike, clambering up the walls and being hurled back down from them. Corpses littered the ground, thick as a rich Myrish rug in some places. The stench of death suddenly filled her nostrils. Blood, bile, shit and piss. Fear and rot and hate. The broken tower had seemingly toppled over, the glass gardens had shattered into a thousand tiny pieces. Down the way it seemed as though Wintertown had been entirely flattened.

She awaited the inevitable panic to come, and yet nothing was aroused within her at such a sight. Not a single tear glazed her eyes, not a single shiver shook her limbs, not a single sob slipped past her lips. She observed the chaos coldly; impassive, uncaring.

Here my home is aflame, she thought. But it is not my home, for there must always be a Stark at Winterfell.

"Aye," a hoarse, breathy voice hissed behind her as a pair of spindly, bony, rotten hands grasped her bare shoulders, ice-cold to the touch.

Arya awoke that morning with a scream ripping through her throat. Brienne loomed overhead, hands grasped tight around her shoulders, pinning her to the bed, her brow furrowed in concern. "My lady?" she asked as Arya stopped struggling.

Arya sat unmoving for a moment, and then shook her head. "I'm fine," she immediately insisted, through gasps of air. "Just a nightmare."

Brienne lingered over her for a second more, and then slowly leaned back, easing her bulk off Arya's shivering, sweating form. "Anything you'd wish to speak about or share with me, my lady? In my experience it can help ease one's burdens."

Arya shook her head defiantly. "A good few hours in the yard will ease my burdens plenty enough, Brienne. I need to hit something."

She hauled herself out of bed, feeling sick to her stomach, and hurriedly went to don a fresh pair of breeches and her jerkin and swordbelt, Needle sliding smoothly into it's sheath at her hip. She revelled in the feel of the worn leather of her boots, grateful to not be standing barefoot in the blustering winds. Silently she awaited Brienne, waiting for her to don her armour, almost quivering with impatience.

There were some new entrants into the training yard, Arya noted when she arrived.

A more savage group than the rest, she immediately knew. Ironborn. Their jerkins looked sea-worn, the leather faded. They wore tattered skins and bones atop their mail instead of plate, crudely fashioned to scare instead of stop any true blows.

Brienne demonstrated that well enough on the first day they showed their faces, where they dared to gawp and jape and then challenge her to a bout. Needless to say she beat them black and blue, up and down the muddy length of the yard. The edge of her blade fell like a hammer, and as the men limped away Lyra noted a few limbs clutched in a way as to indicate a break or fracture.

It was an almost aspirational display, the way Brienne moved. There was none of the finesse of Syrio, as she already knew, but there was no savagery either. Here was a woman in control of herself, aiming each blow with lethal intent.

Intent echoed in the eyes of the watchers.

At first they had been hidden from her, and now they lurked out in the open, indistinct faces peering through murder-holes and windows and over parapets and balconies. All day long her hackles lay on the verge of rising. Were they the king's men? Were they Lord Tywin's? Or was there someone else taking an interest?

Does someone know Needle's whispers? Arya thought. It seemed likely. Her appearance had barely been changed. Tommen's lie was a good one, but it was not immune to scrutiny, and she knew all too well just how bloody Kings Landing politics could become. If Baelish could pit wolf against lion and start such a bloody war what could someone with real power do? Lyra wondered.

Not for the first time, Lyra longed for Winterfell. The bitter cold of her dreams was well worth the thought of seeing the old stone walls again, of seeing the broken tower and the First Keep and the godswood and the Glass Gardens. Her chest heaved, heart pounding as she whipped her sword from side-to-side, raising and lowering her guard, darting forwards for a strike and then retreating just as quickly to evade the riposte.

The squires that frequented the yard had learned to respect her in recent weeks, even if she lost more bouts than she won by a large margin. She always gave her all, and suffered bloody lips and bruises without complaint, attacking at times with what one of the boys called a 'savage intent'. She knew better than to trust any of them, but she couldn't help herself from liking them. There were a few bullies and future brigands among them, but most seemed to want to live up the oaths they were due to take, untarnished by the notions of older men.

In short, they seemed as stupid to her as Sansa had been last she'd seen her. It was almost admirable, in a way.

Yet, like always, her smaller frame and slimmer arms gave out only a few hours in, and she left with Brienne behind her just a few hours after entering the yard, filled with no less nervous energy than when she had entered.

At least the aches were soothing. The throbbing pain reminded her that what she saw was real. There were no bony hands on her shoulder, no smoke lingering in the air besides that of cooking fires.

A strange sense of dissatisfaction hung over her as the sweat dried from her skin, as the pounding of her heart slowed to a normal rhythm. No, not dissatisfaction, but rather unease. It was no secret Tommen was beginning to tighten his grip on power, but things were moving faster than she could follow. Lords flitted through the halls at breakneck speeds, all seemingly on urgent business. Messengers came and went with petitions and promises. Ravens seemed to fly to and from the rookery at all times of the day, and sometimes even at night. The servants bows seemed just a tad deeper, a little more deferential than just a few weeks ago.

The keep certainly felt tense, and the sigil of the kraken on the sails of the longships docked in the bay surely didn't help matters.

It was little surprise, then, when her weekly summons came a few days early.

Through the halls and passages of the keep she walked, Brienne just behind, her boots heavy on the stone floors, the plates of her armour clicking. Not for the first time, Arya felt a touch of irritation at how loud the older woman could be. She's not bad, Arya thought, but even if I could somehow convince her to flee with me, those big feet of hers would surely get us caught.

Not that escape was ever really possible, not with shadowed eyes following her every move, but that didn't make Brienne's stature or stride any less annoying.

And so Arya arrived outside the king's solar with a sharp stiffness in her step, her brow pushed down in a petty frown. She had to wait a few minutes before the king became available, Ser Loras not paying her any special mind even as his gaze stuck to Brienne like a limpet, alternating between a scowl, a strained smile and simple flatness. It was no small mercy, then, when Lord Tywin emerged from the solar, shut the door behind him, a sheaf of papers in his hand, and stopped to glance at them.

Since that first unfortunate night - the night of her arrival in Kings Landing as a captive - Arya had only encountered Lord Tywin on one other occasion.

She occasionally caught glimpses of him and the king from around the keep, usually immersed in some sort of discussion. It was rare their eyes would ever meet. But today he spared her no such mercy, his irises cold as their emerald colour, and Arya felt her courage and irritation bleed away. She averted her gaze from his, yet the strange tingle that had started in her brow merely moved to her cheek.

His gaze felt almost like a cold burn. A tingle to indicate damage that peeked through a curtain of numbness. Arya felt herself begin to shiver.

No wonder he's Tommen's Hand, Arya thought. What use is an army or a sword when a single look is enough to make a man piss himself?

And then, just as suddenly as he had emerged and locked his gaze upon her, Lord Tywin offered Brienne a solitary nod, turned wordlessly on his heel, and marched away. And as his eyes flicked away, Arya could have sworn that the corners of his lips twitched up into the ghost of a smile.

Ser Loras bid her enter, but she almost didn't hear him, her ears ringing with the clicking of heels on stone in time with Lord Tywin's gait. Only Brienne's tight grip on her shoulder kept her steady as she walked into the king's solar in a daze and claimed one of the two seats before his desk. The cold breeze shifted the curtains beside her, making the folds dance, the scratching of a quill on parchment emerging as the only sound during the brief moments when the breeze died.

Only when he was finished with his letter did he set his quill gently down on the surface of his desk and lift his eyes to meet her own. The same shade as Lord Tywin's, she couldn't help but note.

"Are you well?" he asked, his tone soft, gentle, almost maternal. She might have believed he genuinely cared if she hadn't known better.

"Why am I here?" Arya retorted, some of her bravado slowly returning to her.

Tommen sighed and pursed his lips as he leaned back in his seat. "You said you wanted to meet the Hound, yes?"

Arya's eyes widened first with surprise and then narrowed with suspicion. "Yes..."

"Well, he's doing quite a bit better now than he was doing when you first asked," the king said. "So, if you still want to meet him..."

"I do," Arya confirmed.

"Good," Tommen said flatly. "You'll be glad to know he's on his way up from the cells. But till he gets here, I think it's important that we talk."

"About what?" Arya asked.

Tommen reached down and pulled a single letter from one of the drawers on his desk. He tossed it down onto the surface of the table, the seal already broken. "For you," he said. "From the Wall."

"Jon?" Arya breathed in disbelief.

"Lord Jon," Tommen corrected her. "But yes. I want to be clear that this doesn't mean I'm allowing you to in any way write him. The political situation at the Wall is still far too unstable for my liking, certainly too unstable for this. Your brother may be Lord Commander, but that doesn't mean his control is absolute, especially with Stannis and his men seeking his aid. How do you think it would look if Stannis discovered Jon had a sister under my control? What do you think he would do?"

"He would brand Jon a turncoat," Arya realised.

"And then he would kill him," Tommen finished, "and seize the Wall for himself."

"So you're saying I can't respond?" Arya asked.

Tommen nodded. "Not for a while yet. This secret of ours might be poorly kept, but there is still much value in it. That letter is yours to keep, and yours to cherish, but till I deem it safe I think you ought to know it's not wise to do anything more than read it."

Arya ran her finger across the folded parchment with tears pricking her eyes. One of the wolves from my pack still lives. But instead of opening it like Tommen no doubt expected, Arya tucked it away into the pocket of her doublet. She would open it and read it later, in private, where she could weep and mourn freely without making herself look weak. She blinked away the emotion before it could run off onto her cheeks.

"And you, Dame Brienne?" Tommen asked. "I trust you are faring well?"

"Well enough, Your Grace," the larger woman answered.

"I saw your performance in the yard this morning," he said. "Yet again, you excel yourself. The power, the ferocity! I remain, as ever, impressed."

"You flatter me, Your Grace."

Tommen smiled. "Hard-earned praise is scarcely flattery, but it is nice to know you have not lost your humility, nor your honour. Patience, my lady. I can tell you lust for movement - for purpose. Alas, I cannot provide. All I can do is ask for patience."

"You have it, Your Grace," Brienne said, shifting her weight in discomfort at being the object of the king's attention.

She was saved at that moment by a knock on the door, and the sight of Ser Loras emerging into the solar a moment later to announce Sandor's arrival. Tommen waved him in and Arya turned in her seat to observe her former guardian. And there he was, just as she remembered him, with his helmet tucked under his arm, clad in plate and mail and missing an ear with burns down half his face. That main difference was that he seemed considerably slimmer, his frame having lost much of it's strength in recent weeks.

Yet if one could have called him humourless before, he was almost lifeless now. The fire she knew to linger behind his eyes had been reduced to a few stray embers.

"A little courtesy before you leave," Tommen said to Sandor as he stood from his seat and gathered some papers in his arms. "I thought you two might like to talk. Come with me, Dame Brienne, you can wait outside."

Sandor's vision shifted to Brienne even as she arose from her seat, eyeing her up and down. Brienne met the Hound's looks head-on, a warning in her eyes. Then, following the king and Ser Loras, she disappeared through the doors and vanished from view.

Silence yet again reigned supreme. Seconds passed awkwardly, then a minute, then two. Sandor didn't meet her eyes.

"What did he mean 'before you leave'?" Arya suddenly asked.

"Ironborn," Sandor answered in his gravelly tone. "I'm meant to go with them and keep an eye on them for the crown."

"So you're a dog again?" Arya asked with a touch of venom in her voice. It was more an accusation than a question. You're leaving me.

Sandor scowled and grit his teeth, yet kept his peace. Then, with a deep, shaky sigh, Sandor unclenched his jaw.

"I'm sorry," he said, without emotion.

Arya shook her head, refusing his apology. Guilt suddenly gnawed at her. "Tommen isn't Joffrey," she said. "You have nothing to be sorry for."

Sandor briefly turned his gaze to the door. "No, he isn't," he agreed.

"What did he promise you?" Arya asked.

"Redemption," Sandor said, then scowled, as though offended by the notion that he needed to be redeemed. "Freedom."

"He promised to let you off your leash?"

Sandor shrugged.

"So not freedom, then."

Sandor's eyes finally met hers, brow furrowed as though to indicate he was at war with himself. "I'm a dog," he agreed. "But I won't be one forever."

"Promise?"

Sandor nodded, the embers in his eyes briefly flaring into sparks. "I swear it."

Arya accepted this without saying a word, and let the seconds pass yet again in silence. Not long after, Brienne returned through the door, Sandor offered her one last look, and then turned his gaze away and marched stiffly through the doors. Part of her wanted to stop him, to pull him into a tight hug and weep and never let go. Another part of her wanted to stab him for all he'd done. You killed the butcher's boy. Yet in the end all she did was stand and watch as he walked away from her, feeling hollow inside.

The next morning, after a night of dreamless yet fitful sleep, Arya leant against one of the windows in her chamber, overlooking the bay as the Ironborn longships departed from the harbour and started on their voyage to the Stepstones. She noted the ship Sandor would be on, following it's path till it vanished past a set of cliffs after several excruciating hours.

She sat alone, having dismissed Brienne for the day, promising not leave her chambers without calling for the larger woman first. She ran her thumb over the parchment of Jon's letter, hesitant to open it. It had been sitting in her lap all day. What if he's like Sandor? What if he's changed?

She felt drained, exhausted even though all she had done all day was sit by a window and eat. Not even the prospect of escape seemed to excite her anymore. And though she had yet to cry, she felt too tired for tears.

Arya sighed, unfolded the parchment, and started to read.

Sorry for the delay. I had a work deadline and some family troubles to deal with that disrupted my regular schedule.
Regular fortnightly updates should resume hence.
Chapter was written in a bit of a rush, so apologies if it feels a tad like filler.
Feel free to comment and let me know what you think.
Hope you guys enjoy!

P.S. May be subject to a rewrite or edits in the future