Chapter 22: Arya II
Each night before sleep, Arya muttered her prayer into her pillow.
"Dunsen, Ser Ilyn, Ser Meryn, Lord Tywin, Queen Cersei, King Tommen..."
On and on the list went, and Arya wished she knew the names of the Freys that had been there on the night of the Red Wedding. I'll kill them all, she swore to herself.
"My lady," her gaoler asked her one day from across the room, "what are those names you whisper?"
She chewed her lip and shook her head and turned over. "The names don't matter."
Dame Brienne shot her a worried look from her own bed, the outline of a blade tucked between her breasts visible from under the sheets. Brienne always had a weapon on her. Sometimes a dirk, sometimes a longsword.
Brienne wasn't anything like the Hound, Arya had found. For one, she had sworn her vows, and meant every word of them. Once, the chance to be a squire - to learn how to truly fight - would have filled her with a fantastic thrill, but now she resented it more than anything. It felt hollow, somehow. Every morning, the two of them would head down to the training yard to practice with sword and shield, with a thousand mocking eyes watching them.
"Yard's not a place for girls," one squire had said to her when they first arrived.
Arya had wanted to punch him, but instead resolutely ignored him. She knew better than to start a fight she couldn't win. For now, she thought, I remain more mouse than wolf. But I will be a wolf, one day. Then I'll come back and bite you. The squire had seemed ready to grab her in rage when she turned the other cheek, and for a second Arya thought she would have to scarper, but a harsh look from Brienne sent him running.
She had never been more appreciative of her gaoler than in that moment.
She was also a bastard now. One of the late King Robert's, to explain the sudden interest the king would take in her, and to explain why the dame might take her on as a squire. But even as she met with Tommen, ostensibly under the pretence of the king getting to know his extended family, she saw how his maid's eyes flicked over her.
She recognised those eyes...
Jeyne Poole! At first, Arya hadn't believed the tale the king had told, but Jeyne confirmed his words later. It was all true. It was Littlefinger. Arya had never really liked Jeyne, but she didn't deserve that. Nobody did.
That very same day, Arya added another name to her list.
From Brienne she would learn the art of war. Almost like she had once learned it from Syrio, but not quite. There was no chasing cats with Brienne, no dancing. Her moves were always powerful and sharp and direct - intended to leverage her weight and height. But Arya did not have much weight to leverage, and so when she could find the privacy, she would practice her needlework. And though her duties as a squire kept her busy most of the day, she'd duel against her shadow in the light of the evening sun, even as she got the tell-tale crawl under her skin that told her someone was watching.
Needle sliced through the air with a deadly accuracy. The blade sang for blood with every swing. The king had given her Jon's gift back. 'A gesture of intent,' he said it was. To show her he meant her no harm.
Somehow, Arya doubted that.
Her newfound bastard name was the king's idea as well. 'Hiding in plain sight,' he called it. Everyone knew the late King Robert's preference for northern girls. Nobody would offer her a second glance.
"My lady," Brienne whispered to her one day, "His Grace commands your presence in his chambers."
Arya had wanted to object, wanted to make threats, but all she ultimately did was sigh and nod and follow along. All the way through hauntingly familiar halls and up the steps to Maegor's Holdfast. One of the Kingsguard was stood waiting outside. Ser Loras, Arya guessed by the armour. He offered Dame Brienne a tight nod and waved them through to where the king was sat.
He was behind his desk, his nose buried in some dusty old book, quill scratching down notes in his free hand. When he heard their footfalls, he looked up from his work and offered them both a smile.
"Dame Brienne!" he said. "And Lyra! Welcome! Come, take a seat. We have much to discuss."
"Your Grace," Brienne said with a slight bow in her neck, silently refusing to sit.
"Well," Tommen said, looking at her, "how are you settling in?"
"Where's Sandor?" she asked instead.
"Still in his cell. He's recovered, mostly, but I'm still trying to decide what to do with him."
"Are you going to kill him?"
The king shrugged his shoulders. He's not kind, Arya reminded herself, he's just too clever to be cruel.
"Your Grace," Brienne cut in, "why did you ask us here?"
Tommen nodded and reached down, withdrawing a thin sheaf of blank pages from one of the drawers under his desk and dropping it onto his desk with a gentle thump. "Letters," he said. "The time has come for you to pay the price for your freedom."
Arya glared at the papers and then glared at the king. "No."
The king cocked his head to the side. "I'm afraid this is not a choice, my lady. Your relative freedom is conditional on this. Otherwise you go back in the cell. And I swear I won't tell you what to write, just who to write it to."
Arya licked her lips and scowled. "Who?"
"Lady Sansa, Lord Jon and... Lady Catelyn."
"What?" Arya's glare intensified into a confused rage, a shadow of hope stopping her heart for a beat. "What are you talking about?"
"Your Grace..." Brienne half-whispered, half-demanded, "is my lady alive?"
The king sighed and shook his head and offered Arya a pitying look. "Believe me or not, I never wanted bad things for your family." Liar, Arya thought. "I did my best to keep you all alive. Bran is alive, Rickon is alive, Sansa is alive, and so are you. But even my influence has it's limits. I can only do so much. And I could not protect your brother from his own foolishness-"
"Robb was not a fool!" Arya burst out.
The king smiled a soft smile. She wanted to rip that smile off his face. "No, of course not. He'd not have won all those battles if he was a fool. But even the wisest and smartest of men suffer from bouts of foolishness and are struck by strange fancies from time to time," he said. "Lady Catelyn... is probably dead. But I am told there is a chance that she is, well, not quite alive, I suppose, but...?"
"What do you mean?" Arya demanded. "Is my mother alive or not?"
"I don't know," the king confessed with a weary shake of his head. "But if she is, she is not the woman you remember."
"But you still want me to write her a letter?"
The king nodded. "Better safe than sorry."
"A letter saying what?" Arya asked.
The king shrugged. "That you're alive, and in my caring custody. The rest is up to you. If a raven can carry it, you can write it. But please bear in mind I will be reading your letter before I have it sent, in case you ask to have me killed or any such tripe."
"And to the others?" Arya asked.
"Same situation. They're your family, Arya. Write what you please. Just bear in mind I'll be reading those letters as well."
Arya swallowed and stared down at the blank page before her.
The king tapped the table and stood from his seat. "Well," he said, "I have places to be. Busy ruling a kingdom and all. My thanks again, Dame Brienne, for seeing to this task. I know it's not in your nature to lie."
"Of course," Brienne said, bowing her head again, "Your Grace."
"I expect those letters to be finished by the time I get back, Lyra," the king said as he left.
Arya watched him leave and then sat and stared at the page. She stared and stared and stared even as the snakes twisted in her gut and the silence dragged on.
"My lady?" Brienne asked, shattering the silence, concern lacing her tone.
"My mother," Arya began, and then stopped again. Her mouth suddenly felt dry. He could be toying with me, Arya realised. Trying to prevent me escaping with sweet secrets and whispers instead of sharp swords and thick walls. Arya shook her head. "My mother is dead."
"And your sister and brothers?" Brienne asked, pulling herself up a seat.
Arya lifted a quill from the table, dipped the nib in the inkwell, and pressed it to the page. "I have some letters to write," she sighed.
Jon, she scratched, suddenly recalling that she had never had the best handwriting, I'm still alive.
Don't really know what else to say. Still have Needle - lost it and found it again a bunch, but I still have it. By now you should know Joffrey's dead, and that Tommen's king now. He's nothing like I remember. Smarter and more callous, but I suppose having a cunt for a brother and a cunt for a mother will do that to you.
Arya paused, considered whether the king would let her send that, and then turned to see Brienne peering over her shoulder. Arya simply looked at her even as she flushed and stood from her seat to walk across the room and seat herself back down near the opposite wall. Arya turned back to her page.
Anyways, she continued, I want you to know I'm not being hurt. Tommen set me up to hide from his mother as a squire. New name's Lyra. It's not been too bad. I practice swordplay in the morning, riding in the evenings. Learn how to clean and maintain armour, how to joust, even how to cook. I'll be as strong as Robb, one day. Tommen's promised to send me to you when the time comes, and I think he'll keep to his word on that. Then again, I could be wrong. He is a Lannister, after all.
Hope you're safe, Jon. Love, Arya.
Arya stared at her own handwriting for a while, felt the throbbing ache in her wrist, dipped the quill in the inkwell again, and then turned to write Sansa's letter.
Sansa, she wrote, I want you to know I forgive you.
Tommen told me what you did, getting father killed. I had it tough for a long while, out in the cold, on the run from the crown because of you, but you were stuck with Joffrey, so I reckon you've suffered enough. And I hear you had a hand in killing Joffrey. Good work with that. Somehow, I wound up back here in Kings Landing, as a prisoner. Tommen's king now, and I guess he had me hunted down. Made me a squire to hide me from his mad bitch of a mother, and it's been working so far.
He told me that you're in the Vale, with Littlefinger. Baelish is using you, Sansa. I don't know what else to say. Tommen tells me that Littlefinger was the reason for father's death, as well as Joffrey's. And then he said something about him killing Aunt Lysa. Apparently he pushed her out the Moon Door? I don't know whether to trust Tommen about that or not, but you definitely shouldn't trust Baelish. You know Jeyne Poole? Well, Baelish got her, and he had her raped and whipped and forced her to whore for him. I wouldn't have believed Tommen when he told me, but I spoke to Jeyne as well, and saw her scars. Be careful. He might try and do the same with you. So try not to tell Littlefinger about this letter, if you can.
Stay safe. Arya.
Arya leaned back in her seat and set the quill down on the desk and flexed her aching fingers. She turned her head and looked out the window, watching the cool autumn breeze waft gently past the hangings. The sun had fallen lower in the sky since she had arrived. Had it really taken so long for her to write just two letters?
"My lady?" Brienne asked from across the room after a long moment of still silence.
"Why is he making me write these letters?" Arya asked, even though she knew the answer.
"Leverage," Brienne simply answered. "He's using you."
Arya sighed and scratched her brow. "And they say the king is a good boy."
"Better than his brother," Brienne said. "And better than his father too, by the sounds of it."
"There is that," Arya admitted. "Jeyne Poole," she suddenly said. "Do you know her?"
Brienne frowned. "The name is unfamiliar to me, my lady."
"She was Sansa's attendant, when we first came down south. The daughter of the steward at Winterfell. Now, she's Tommen's maidservant."
"I've seen her," Brienne said nodding, eyes busy with thought. "Didn't think much of her, but..."
"She was raped," Arya abruptly said. "The girl's only a couple years older than me, and though I never really liked her, I knew her well enough. They beat her, whipped her, and raped her bloody. I spoke with her a few days back. She's like an entirely different kind of girl now. Broken. Guarded. But when I ask about Tommen, her eyes light up like they used to when she talked about the boys she liked. She only has praises to sing for her beloved King Tommen. Says he held her when she cried, treated her kindly, rescued her. She's fallen for him."
Brienne's eyes met hers, even as she shifted her weight uncomfortably in her seat at the mention of rape.
"I hate him," Arya confessed. "Tommen. For dragging me back here. But I see Jeyne, and I keep thinking to myself: 'That could have been me.' And no matter what else, Tommen showed her mercy when nobody else would."
Arya still reckoned it was more cynical than that. Keeping Jeyne close meant keeping some other unknown woman away, and making her love him reduced the chances of a betrayal. Especially when Jeyne followed him about like a lost puppy.
"What are you saying, my lady?" Brienne asked.
Arya held up the blank page for Brienne to see. "This letter to my mother," she said. "Is he trying to torture me, do you think, or is he telling the truth?"
Brienne furrowed her brow in thought. "I think he's telling the truth," she said after a long moment. "I've never known His Grace to lie to me, my lady."
"He's lying to everyone about me," Arya countered.
"To keep you safe, my lady."
Arya hummed and set the page back on the table and picked up the feather quill again. As she dipped it into the inkwell she gripped it so tight her fingers went white, and her hand trembled as she pressed the tip to the paper and began to write.
Mother...
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P.S. May be subject to a rewrite or edits in the future