Mid October, 298 AC
Quiet as a shadow. It was growing harder and harder for Arya to slip away from the guards. The closer it got to their departure, the closer they watched. Her water dancing lessons with Syrio were now the only time that she had to herself. Since they did not finish at the same time every day, she'd taken to visiting the godswood after her lessons.
It was even more difficult for Sansa to slip away. Septa Mordane kept a close eye on her as she helped the septa teach Merissa. The milkmaid knew how to mend her own clothes and how to make a simple dress, but she knew nothing of the embroidery done by ladies and their maids, or how to curtsy for a knight versus a lord.
"I miss the sapling," Sansa had confided last night, after Merissa and Jeyne fell asleep. "I promised I'd take care of it, and now..."
Feeling guilty about her own freedom, Arya had promised to tend the weirwood tree. She'd stopped by the kitchens after her lessons, getting her hands on a few leftover fish. She'd even managed to get a raw steak, telling the cooks it was for a bruise on her cheek. The afternoon sun was warm as Arya used her hands to bury the steak in the soft earth by the sapling.
Now for her other task. With soft feet Arya crept under the old oak that served as the heart tree, pushing aside the bushes so she could crawl beneath them.
The mama cat chirped, excited by the smell of fish. She ate delicately, stripping skin and flesh in bites so ladylike they would have impressed Sansa. Then, she nosed at her kittens. The ginger and white, who was always hungry, was the first to dive in. The two tabbies were close behind, while the grey, blonde, and ginger kittens seemed less interested.
"I'm going to miss you," Arya whispered to the mama cat as she scratched under her chin.
The mama cat licked her thumb. It had been pleasant having the extra food and attention, though the mama cat didn't quite understand why Arya was leaving. It's dangerous, Arya told her, there's lions all around.
The mama cat wrinkled her nose and sneezed, offended. If there were big predators around, she would have smelled them. And if a girl was daring enough to catch the Beast, two-leggers shouldn't scare her. The Beast? Arya asked, scratching the mama cat's ear.
An image floated in Arya's mind. She was much smaller, and her vision had less color. An old black tomcat with a torn ear hissed at her. The mama cat couldn't imagine anything scarier than the tomcat. He'd been lord of the castle since before the mama cat was born. Her own mother had warned her not to take his food or get in his way.
Two-leggers are meaner
, Arya told the cat as she curled up beside her. Her lessons had worn her out, and it was a nice soft place for a nap.
The she-wolf's tail wagged as she leaped onto the smaller wolf. Their bellies were full of meat, their thirst sated by the stream nearby. Now the pack tested their strength against each other, pouncing and wrestling like pups.
Arya stirred. The mama cat was licking her nose. Covering a yawn, Arya was about to stand up when she heard voices. She froze, careful not to rustle the foliage that concealed her.
"—why you called me here, Lord Stark? To pose me riddles? Or is it your intent to seize me, as your wife seized my brother?" The woman's voice was familiar, but Arya could not quite place it.
"I sent a raven over a week ago commanding my wife to release him," Eddard said softly. "Did Grand Maester Pycelle not inform you?"
There was a long pause. Arya rubbed her eyes, pushing away the remnants of drowsiness.
"Has he done this before?" Her Father sounded sad.
"Once or twice." At last Arya recognized the queen's cold, elegant voice. "Never on the face before. Jaime would have killed him, even if it meant his own life."
Arya carefully adjusted her position, peering through the leaves. Her father sat on the grass, his leg with the plaster cast extended awkwardly. Beside him sat the queen in a long brown cloak, the simplest thing Arya had ever seen her wear. Her cheek was swollen.
"My brother is worth a hundred of your friend." The queen was saying.
"Your brother?" Father said evenly. "Or your lover?"
"Both." Arya pressed her hands to her mouth, covering the gasp that had almost escaped her.
"Since we were children together. And why not? The Targaryens wed brother to sister for three hundred years, to keep the bloodlines pure. And Jaime and I are more than brother and sister. We are one person in two bodies. We shared a womb together. He came into this world holding my foot, our old maester said. When he is in me, I feel... whole."
The queen smiled, and Arya felt sick.
"My son Bran..." Arya had never heard her Father sound so lost, yet so certain.
"He saw us." The Queen said flatly.
It took Arya a moment to understand, then rage flowed through her veins. If only Needle weren't back in Sansa's chambers! Arya would have burst through the foliage and stuck the queen with the pointy end. The voices dulled, becoming a soft hum as Arya thought of revenge.
Then, a slap rang out. Father's cheek was red and the queen was shouting at Father, shouting at him about Jon.
Father answered softly. Exile? Father was going to let the queen and her brother live? Arya supposed that it wasn't dainty Myrcella or chubby Tommen's fault who their parents were, but the queen and the Kingslayer had tried to kill Bran, and Joffrey had tried to finish him off.
At last the queen pulled up her hood and slipped away into the dusk. Her father sat like a statue, his eyes uplifted at the stars that shimmered coldly in the deep blue sky.
The minute she saw the layer of mud and grime on Arya's clothes, Sansa's lips tightened. Then, she smiled, a placid, proper smile that chilled Arya to her bones.
"A lady's maid often helps her lady bathe," Sansa said sweetly, gesturing for Merissa. Jeyne Poole sat beside her, needlework on her lap.
Arya backed up, holding her wooden sword out in front of her. Her news was more important than a bath. Jeyne chuckled, and Arya stuck her tongue out.
"You'll have to excuse her," Jeyne said. "She prefers swords to sewing. Or bathing, apparently."
Arya rolled her eyes. She didn't mind taking a bath, but it took time she didn't have right now.
"I need to speak to my sister. Alone," Arya said firmly. Sansa tilted her head, then smiled.
"Jeyne, why don't you take Merissa to your chambers and teach her a new braid?"
When the door shut behind them, Arya began speaking quickly, explaining everything that had happened after her water dancing lessons.
As she began to recount the conversation between their Father and the queen, Sansa rose to her feet, pacing, her face pale. She was breathing loudly. Arya half-expected Sansa to shriek in outrage when she heard that the Kingslayer was Joffrey's father, that they had thrown Bran off the tower, but Sansa just breathed faster and louder.
"—and then the Queen said when you play the game of thrones, you win or die, and then she left," Arya concluded.
Her sister wobbled on her feet, clutching a chair for support. It wasn't enough, and she sank to the floor. Sweat shone on her face, and her hands trembled.
"Sansa?"
Sansa pulled her knees up, wrapping her arms around them as she panted, her eyes wide with fear.
Oh, if only Maester Luwin was here, not that awful Pycelle. Shallow breaths are the sign of a beaten foe, Syrio's voice echoed. They'd been practicing for hours, and she was tired and sweaty, her breaths coming quickly as she gasped for air. A water dancer breathes slowly, deeply, his mind and body calm.
Arya grabbed Sansa's arms, her grubby hands smearing the ivory silk. Usually Sansa would have shrieked and batted her hands away before she could ruin such a fine gown. That she didn't was a very bad sign.
"Breathe with me, Sansa," Arya ordered.
She inhaled, counted to four, then exhaled, counting to four again. Arya had to repeat the count several times before Sansa began to breathe with her, her breaths ragged.
"The queen will have us killed, the queen will have us killed like Lady and the butcher boy," Sansa gasped, tears sliding down her cheeks. "Or she'll send the Kingslayer to kill Father like he killed Jory!"
"She wouldn't dare," Arya said, digging in her pockets for a handkerchief that was only somewhat dirty. She handed it to Sansa, who blew her nose.
"We'll be on a ship in a few days. The king hates the queen- I bet she's already packing to leave. Besides, they can't touch Father," Arya said, trying to sound more confident than she felt.
"But what if they come for us before then?" Sansa whispered. "What if they come for me like they came for Princess Elia?"
Silence fell. Arya was glad she had not shared Sansa's dream— her imagination was frightening enough. The longer the silence lasted, the more Arya felt the need to move, to do something. She fetched her wooden practice sword and ran through a drill, her arms screaming with exhaustion. At last, as she put the wooden sword away, an idea came to her.
"Princess Elia was all alone," Arya said, coming to stand before Sansa. "You have me."
She drew Needle from its sheath. The firelight flickered over the cold steel as Arya took her stance, holding her blade as a bravo would. Sansa stared, her lips parted.
"I'll be your sworn shield," Arya said, summoning up all her courage. "I'll swear an oath and everything. Beneath the weirwood tree."
Sansa sat up.
They made no noise as they walked to the godswood, their path lit by moonlight. Arya had expected Sansa to trip or catch her skirts, but she seemed to see better in the dark than Arya did. Once, Sansa stopped Arya, pulling her against a wall. A few minutes later, a guard walked past, his armor clinking quietly.
The weirwood sapling was taller than Sansa, its bone white branches slender but strong. The red leaves grew in thickly, covering the ends of the branches, and here and there little white flowers bloomed.
Sansa stood beneath the tree, her ivory gown shining in the moonlight under her cloak.
"I, uhm, I don't know the words," Arya confessed. Sansa sighed and shook her head.
"I can teach you, the oath is short."
Sansa repeated the words several times, making Arya say them until she could remember the entire oath.
"Now what?" Arya asked.
"A knight begins by kneeling and laying his sword at his lady's feet," Sansa said. Well, she wasn't a knight, but Arya knelt anyway, laying Needle before Sansa.
"I will shield your back and keep your counsel and give my life for yours, if need be. I swear it by the old gods." A sense of purpose flowed over Arya like a cloak.
"And I vow that you shall always have a place by my hearth and meat and mead at my table, and pledge to ask no service of you that might bring you into dishonor. I swear it by the old gods."
Sansa picked up Needle and handed it back to Arya, her eyes solemn but her lips quirked up in a smile. Gone was the girl so scared she could not breathe. For the first time, Sansa reminded Arya of their Father.
"Arise."
Arya stood, her knees creaking. "The ground is cold," she said, brushing bits of grass off her legs. She glanced at Sansa- she was stroking the weirwood's bark reverently.
"You'll need a face soon," Sansa whispered, caressing the trunk.
"Sansa!" Arya hissed. "We need to hurry back before we're caught!"
With a sigh Sansa released the tree and stepped back. She looked up, as though drinking in the sight of it. Suddenly, Sansa frowned, her eyes fixed on the leaves.
Arya followed her gaze. She couldn't see anything, so she moved closer, standing beside Sansa. There was a deeper shade of red against one of the branches. With careful fingers Arya reached out. Her hand closed around something round and smooth, and she pulled gently. With a quiet rustle she plucked it from the tree, then held her hand open to examine it.
"What is it?" Sansa said softly.
It looked like a pear, but it was a deep crimson red. Arya rubbed the fruit against her tunic, turning it in her hand to see how it shone in the moonlight. She had never heard of a weirwood bearing fruit.
The fruit looked plump and juicy, and for a moment Arya wanted nothing more than to bite into it. The leaves rustled, almost as if the weirwood was trying to speak.
"Arya?" Sansa whispered, her hand reaching out.
Somehow, Arya found the strength to yield the fruit to Sansa.
Sansa sank her teeth into the skin of the fruit, bone white against blood red. Juice smeared Sansa's lips as she took a dainty nibble. She grimaced, pausing for a long moment before forcing herself to swallow. Yet she took a second bite. This time Sansa swallowed without hesitation, her pupils blown wide.
Arya stepped back as Sansa devoured the fruit, ravenous, her teeth ripping at the flesh, her pink tongue lapping at the dripping red juice. At last she licked her lips clean, a cluster of white seeds all that remained.
That night, Arya dreamt of blood.
