Arya POV
Arya dreamt of Nymeria and blood seeping from the auburn sky when the Hound snatched her from the cave; bringing throbbing pain to her brow as brawny hands lifted her as easily as a sack of wheat. She screamed, disturbing half the men of the Brotherhood, but the Hound's great charger was swifter than sound. The full moon illuminated the entrance, and Arya saw no rescue emerging from it. Not again, a desperate thought blazed within her.
At first, she writhed a bit, to no avail; his left hand was too strong a noose around her chest. The cold touch of rusted armor brought shivers through her clothes, biting like fangs on his war helm.
"We must go back," she yelled at the dog helm, but no voice came from the closed jaw, only moonlight playing a game of shadows on the iron surface, making the ugly helm even more sinister. Harwin had told her she was soon to go home, to Mother and Robb; all arrangements had been made. "I'll kill you," she furiously battered the mailed hand, only to feel the sting of pain itching her skin.
"If you could, I'd be more scared of the big shit I took last morning. Shut your mouth, it's easier for both of us," the Hound barked. "Cravens took my coin, Little Bird. Either I fight through their damned lot for the return of my purse, or I turn you into a purse."
Turn me into a purse, Arya was confused for a moment, only to grasp the Hound's words, "You're planning to sell me out." Three masks dissolved from Arya's face; she was no longer the orphan boy Arry, nor a weasel from the kitchens, but Arya Stark, the daughter of late Lord Eddard. The Lannisters had wanted her since she escaped King's Landing with Yoren, and at Harrenhal, she came dead close to capture. One death still remains to me, one name Jaqen owes. Chiswyck, Weese, and... no one. But Jaqen had marched out with the rest of the Lannister forces before she could name a third. It should have been Tywin, or Cersei, or Joffrey. I was so foolish.
"Aye, fool of me to think the ginger was the smarter sister," the Hound rasped an insult, refusing to look Arya in the face, instead gazing at the gloomy woodland road, a dark serpent coiling upon the ground.
"Sansa is auburn, not ginger," Arya spat back without thinking.
"Like if bloody matters. Now be silent; the long road is ahead of us. I'll not allow your shitty whining."
"I am not going back to King's Landing," she was determined. Even dogs sleep, she reminded herself, when he does, I'll hit him with a stone, dent that ugly helm right into his skull. Every man bleeds, every man dies.
"Who the fuck mentioned King's Landing?" The Hound seemed irritated and rested at the same time. Just like in the cave, the Clegane brother had a stupid reply for anything, always thinking himself smarter beyond the dumb brute he was. Arya knew his lot all too well.
"I am not a fool; I know whom you serve, Joffrey. The Lannisters are paying for my head." The words of House Lannister were so well-known that Maester Luwin didn't need a book to teach her about their lineage. A rich house, the richest in the realm. And when the details came later, they proved interesting enough that she quickly absorbed the requested knowledge. The sister is the queen, the elder brother a Kingsguard who slew the king, and the younger a dwarf. After meeting them, Arya would have preferred if they remained mere words on Maester Luwin's slow tongue. Cersei—a name she was destined to cross.
The Hound laughed, making her uncomfortable. His laughs was strange, a mix of rasp and heavy breathing; he must do it so rarely that it pained him. "The Lannisters are more concerned with keeping their own heads now, Little Bird. And Joffrey," the Hound's laughter now turned sweet, "the one-time cunt took a sword for real, he lost; to a crippled king."
The Dragon King won, Arya finally took the full meaning; Joffrey had lost the throne. Half of her list must be gone. "Why are you not dead? A dog should die alongside his master."
Stranger neighed harshly as the Hound wildly pulled the reins, and Arya nearly collided with the horse's head as the beast leaped over a trunk blocking the path. "Shut your snout, or I might just toss you in the river; at least then my head wouldn't ache."
"Do it!" she expelled all the anger from her lungs. She was supposed to go home finally; Harwin had promised her, and the Hound had spoiled everything. The Hound refused to reply, merely raising the visor of his helm. Arya remembered his dog-shaped iron helm, the one he had worn at Winterfell, the one he donned at the Hand's tourney, winning honor from ser Loras.
"Then how will the little wolf see her mummy again?" the Hound rasped, confusing Arya even further.
"Mummy?... where are we going?" her girlish voice demanded of the Hound.
Moonlight pierced through tree canopies, revealing the Hound's ugly face beneath the iron helm. "To Riverrun, if I don't kill you before. Or cursed be, wherever your brother is." The Hound's voice took on a menacing note, turning into a sniveling laugh. "We ought to hurry; the Dragon King might catch your brother first, and lose me a buyer."
Arya's anger flared. "Robb shall slay the dragon. He's never lost a battle."
"And he only needs to lose one. Even those bannerless cunts know that. Half of them are galloping south faster than a loose wind to proclaim for a new king. How convenient that the fire god told them they should choose the king who won the war. You're just stupid enough to see: I'm not the only one selling highborn goods."
Cold tingles passed through Arya, leaving her as afraid and confused as she had been at Harrenhal. Harwin had promised, he was Father's man, a Northman. Would he lie to her?
Waddling in the saddle made her dizzy; she hadn't eaten anything since noon. A slap of haze came out of nowhere, clouding her mind into a dull pain. The night around her swirled, and then she opened a different pair of eyes, wolf ones, to a new sight. The leaf-filled ground beneath her paws became a blur as she rushed through the woods. The moon called to her, and she answered with a call of her own, hundreds of her smaller brothers and sisters following suit, disturbing the peace in the woods. All of a sudden, she caught the scent of her other self and the scent of the Hound. The last time she was this close to that man, Nymeria was thrice smaller, running for her life. Her grey sister was alive back then. The wilderness boomed within her, and she outpaced all the little cousins she had gathered in a pack, rushing to unite the two halves of her being.
The moon was a silver coin in the nightly sky one moment, bursting into a dozen flashes like the sun, in the second. Sudden light woke Arya from her dizzy, wolf-eyed state, and she shifted her gaze to the Hound's face, seeking answers. Fear glinted in the dark eyes hidden behind the dog's jaw, fixed on the score of flaming swords surrounding them.
A tsk, tsk sound came across the clearing where the road rested against cloudless night sky. "The Lord of Light honored you with freedom, Clegane, but you'd rather spoil His design," Arya recognized the voice of Thoros of Myr.
"My fucking sword brought me freedom. I cut down Dondarrion. Which one of you is next? Maybe you, Priest, ought to meet that god of yours you're constantly babbling about, or you, doll," the Hound then turned his gaze to the Greenbeard.
The light of the flaming sword revealed a hint of fear on the Tyroshi man's face. In contrast, Thoros merely shook his head, pulling the reins as his horse writhed agitatedly. "No need for a trial this time. Each man here is a witness; you kidnapped the girl. In the eyes of our Lord, we are duty-bound to deliver justice." Arya barely heard his words over the strong neighing of the horses. The beasts seemed disturbed, all except the Hound's Stranger.
"Spare me your false justice," the Hound frowned upon the men. "Like all cunts, you hide your interests behind the will of gods."
"Let's cut the dog's hands; he stole a girl, if that doesn't make him a thief, nothing does," sneered Lem Lemoncloak.
"Touch my hands, and I'll fucking paint that beard red." The great sword in the Hound's hand was the only thing not aflame. Nevertheless, it looked long and sharp, even in the shroud of darkness—much scarier than the torches in the hands of the Brotherhood.
"You are a thief, Clegane. The girl was not yours to take," Thoros declared plainly, as if accusing the Hound of being tall.
The grip around Arya loosened, metal shrieked as the Hound clenched gauntleted fingers around his sword's hilt. "Aye, I am," Clegane acknowledged. He charged towards Thoros, Stranger moving swiftly over the muddy ground.
"On him together," a voice shouted, a plea for others to scramble united against the large foe. Metal clanged all around Arya, the Hound's wide oaken shield still hung on Stranger's back, he fought without protection. Steel clashed about her, flashes of light whooshed; she barely registered so many silhouettes. Even a man of the Hound's size cannot fight so many opponents, surely not alone, she realized how his defeat was imminent.
Until silence fell out of nowhere, for a moment, all motion ceased, as if the cold summer night had frozen the streamlet in Winter Town solid. Arya remembered licking ice, hiding large chunks in the pockets of Sansa's dress to melt later. Without much thought, her sister knew Arya was to blame, running in tears to their lady mother. The sweet memory lingered on the shifting colors of ice, the serene freedom of crisp air. The ice broke then, crackling, shrieking an unpleasant noise, morphing into the cries of dying men. The shrill sound of death yanked Arya from her dream; death was all around her.
"Wolf!" The cry of fear rose as a high growl, a call of the wild, coming from the forest. A familiar presence stirred butterflies in Arya's belly, a known wild scent cutting through the cloud of wine and stench circling around Sandor Clegane.
"Nymeria," Arya whispered the name of the she-wolf before tumbling to the ground. Horses neighed, rebelling against the desperate commands of their masters, men screamed senselessly, forgetting why they were there. Crawling in the mud, Arya dodged hooves; a flaming sword flashed above her head, stealing her breath. The blade landed a few feet away, the wet mud extinguishing the fire with a loud sizzle. She raised her head to see where the sword had come from, finding Nymeria's wide jaws severing a man's head. Several mutilated corpses already stained the mud red, puddles glistening under the moon's glow.
"Nymeria," Arya called to the wolf, tough still in a rage, the direwolf dashed through the trees, pursuing the fleeing men. Damn, she was so near, and so fast,Arya was proud.
"Hey, over here, come here. Lady Arya," a gentle voice beckoned from behind a stout tree. Rising, Arya vaulted over a broad root to find shelter.
"You," her mad stare fixed on Edric Dayne. Bereft of a sword, Arya grasped a dry branch, lunging at Ned. "The Hound said you intend to sell me." A flicker of fear crossed Ned's features, albeit fleetingly. The staff in the young squire's grip parried Arya's makeshift weapon. The muffled clunks of their wooden skirmish were nearly drowned out by the surrounding tumult of screams. Edric was better than her, far better; he glided like a shadow, too fast, uncatchable, while she floundered as a girl, too clumsy to compete with a squire.
Her branch snapped in two, leaving her clutching only a false hilt. If only Father had allowed me to train with Bran and Jon, no one could match me with a blade. Her training days with Syrio Forel ended too abruptly, before she could master the deadly elegance of the water dance.
"I wish you no harm, my lady. Please, put the branch down," Edric attempted to make his voice deeper.
"To whom am I to be sold? Do not lie to me, I know I am not going to my family."
"It is not my place to answer, Lady Arya. Lord Beric has commanded," the boy's reply was cut short as he dodged the piece of wood Arya hurled at him.
"No lies, you are merely a pet of the Lightning Lord," Arya hurled the insult. A troubling anger crossed Edric's gaze, yet he was not mad at her, but at himself for lying. Brave knights do not lie to maidens.
"To King's Landing," he confessed shamefully, "We are the King's men, and Lord Thoros beheld the face of a new king in the flames. The pale, fair face with violet eyes—the kind the tales say Targaryens possess because in those times, brother lay with sister. Alas, all our men and women are to march south to pledge allegiance to him. The king shall decide your fate."
A sharp pang of realization struck Arya, she had been duped once again. Stepping back, for the first time in ages, she felt the urge to weep, to flee into the night as Nymeria had.
Edric Dayne's shocked eyes gazed through Arya, it took her a moment to realize he was not looking at her. Turning back, she saw Sandor Clegane, drenched in blood, slowly limping, using his great sword as a crutch.
"Was that your bitch?" he asked Arya.
Just thinking of Nymeria gave Arya a surge of strength. "Once you rode in the woods by Darry, wanting to kill her. What about now? Is the same bravery upon you?"
The Hound removed his helm, long burn scars gleamed. "My steel is as sharp as it was then."
"It's all over for you. Nymeria knows you; she is of the North, she remembers. You will not live to see another dawn," Arya froze her face in a damning stare. "Not without my permission."
"Is that so? The Little Bird forgets herself. That wolf is no longer her sweet pup. She's tasted blood, roamed free; she'll never be any man's pet."
"Unlike you," Arya replied simply. "Nymeria was never a pet."
"Damn this," he muttered under his breath, "No amount of coin is worth this trouble." Raising his voice, he called to Stranger. The great charger was the only horse remaining, the sole survivor, the rest fell prey to Nymeria or vanished into the woods, to die soon enough, Arya had no doubt. Stranger obeyed the master's hail, just as Nymeria had once heeded Arya's.
Arya felt strange tingles again, before her gaze locked with the golden eyes of her wolf. The direwolf sneaked upon them, blood smeared across her soft grey fur. Stunned by fear, Edric gasped, while the Hound, weakened by his wounds, struggled to mount his steed, still oblivious to the wolf.
"Do not run, or you will die," Arya warned Edric, as Nymeria crept ever closer, her silhouette as large as Stranger.
The Hound turned, facing Nymeria directly. To his credit, he didn't flinch in the slightest, nor did his horse. No one spoke for a long moment; the entire scene resembled the century-old carvings decorating the main hall of Winterfell. Man and direwolf, armor and wilderness.
"Go on, girl, command the wolf to tear me apart; I'm bloody tired of waiting," Sandor broke the silence.
"Halt," Arya commanded assuredly, "You are taking me home. Refuse, and you die."
"What choice is that? Death now or at Riverrun. Your King brother will find me guilty of serving Lannisters and behead me. Still, a better blade than fangs."
"You are coming too, as my captive," Arya measured Edric.
"Fuck me, now I have to look after two brats," the Hound muttered a complaint.
Ignoring the comment, Arya slowly approached Nymeria. The she-wolf lowered her head to Arya's height, their sizes having reversed in the year they were apart. Arya was dwarfed by Nymeria.
"Hey, I missed you," Arya whispered, scratching the wolf's head, her fingers passing through the soft fur as though it were long grass. Nymeria was serene, responding with a low purr, lying on the ground. Devoid of fear, without much thought, Arya mounted the wolf, rising as high as the Hound on Stranger. A hint of respect showed on the stone face of Sandor Clegane, while Edric Dayne was in complete awe.
Between the wide trees, the Hound moved towards the road, but Nymeria headed in the opposite direction, carrying Arya.
"Hell, I told you so. The wolf has a will of its own. Riverrun is to the northwest," the Hound cursed.
"Perhaps it wishes to be followed," Edric said, still on foot.
Irritated, the Hound shot him a sharp glance. "Oh really? Do the Dornish now speak the tongue of wolves?"
Arya felt Nymeria's want. "We go where Nymeria leads; Edric shall ride with you," she said, mocking the Hound with a teasing smile.
Whatever Nymeria intended for her to witness was not close at hand. The sun brought light into the woods, and it took them half a day to leave the forest, and another half to enter one even more ancient, Arya could sense. What Nymeria felt also became Arya's feelings; the wolf's knowledge somehow flowed into her. That day, they feasted well; the woods teemed with game, and Nymeria provided for them with ease. The food almost altered the Hound's view of the direwolf, especially when she returned with a rabbit or a fawn. However, he loathed the following night; more than once, Arya heard him grousing as a hundred howls erupted around them, so loud that even Arya found no sleep. It soon became clear that Nymeria was not alone; many dark silhouettes trailed them during the night, many shining eyes in the distance.
"The damn beast has taken control of every wolf in Westeros," the Hound grumbled on their second morning, as some of Nymeria's pack ventured close, one so near that Arya noticed it bore a scar in place of an eye. Yet, the wolves never strayed too close, not even when Nymeria was absent, hunting food for the three of them.
"At least we know they won't eat us," Edric remarked, though his tone betrayed a lack of certainty.
Wherever they went, mud awaited them, the wood always smelled freshly of rain. Travel wasn't hard; Nymeria always found them the easiest paths through.
But even that couldn't calm the Hound. "We're going nowhere; the wolf does as a wolf will."
Arya brushed off his protest. "She knows."
The sun was weak behind clouds when Arya finally sensed they were near; the great white wood appeared in the distance, morphing into a Weirwood.
"You want us here..." Arya's words were cut short as the body below the Weirwood branches came into view.
"There's someone lying there. A woman," Edric stated the obvious.
An unpleasant smell, intermingled with dampness, clung to everything green and brown around them.
"A dead woman," the Hound gave meaning to the stench.
A cold dread captured Arya's heart with each pace closer, tingles appeared within her again, stronger with each beat, soon she felt a strong heat inside, as if her very soul was boiling.
She saw the face, framed by auburn hair...
The moment stretched into eternity, every sound in the woods vanished, the birds ceased their chirping, Nymeria's smaller kin stopped their howling. Edric and the Hound disappeared in a flash, and Arya was adrift in nothingness, in a white void, her heart pounding so fiercely she could almost sense cracks forming within it. Deep blue eyes framed a fair horizon, crowned with an auburn sunset... Arya couldn't endure the pain, her skin was scorching hot as a log consumed by a flaming hearth, yet freezing like the coldest northern night. Dizziness overwhelmed her, she was melting and freezing at the same time, her body losing all notion of time and space.
One moment she saw the corpse of her sister, a noose of dark blood around her neck; with the eyes of Arya Stark; the next, she was Nymeria, but the foul sight remained the same cruel one. Pain thrust her back into Arya's skin, her aching heart forced her out of the girl's skin into Nymeria once more. She couldn't fathom how many times she became Nymeria and how many times she was Arya Stark
She mustered some strength and lifted her gaze to the face carved in the Weirwood, which for a fleeting instant, bore a resemblance to Bran, though aged, much older.
At last Arya Stark let out a scream; she wasn't sure if it was her human voice or Nymeria's wild howl. Only that sound could be heard all the way to Winterfell.