The heat was slowly becoming unbearable. So many people in such a small space, the fires burning in the hearths all around, the tight leather around her chest, restricting her breathing, heating her up. And then the noise - people dancing and singing and shouting, it never seemed to go away.

Lady Catelyn had somehow acquired a soldier's garb that fit Elle - though the helmet was something she needed to get used to - and braided her hair into a tight crown around her head. She had assigned Dacey Mormont to keep an eye on her - not trusting her completely, despite having her swear to protect her son at all cost.

Now she stood in the shadows of the wall, gaze wandering over the feast. Servants came from behind the high table, supplying the guests with more and more alcohol.

Mayhaps she had been wrong. There seemed to be nothing amiss in the hall, or outside as well. Despite the scroll inside her pocket which clearly stated otherwise.

Mayhaps Benjiamin had lied. Had used the threat of something awful happening to get closer to her once more. It would not have been the first time he had done so.

Mayhaps the plan had been real, but it had fallen apart with Benjiamin's death. The commander of the enemy forces lying dead and rotting in a ditch somewhere could not be helpful.

Her necklace hung heavier than usual around her neck. She had put the ring Benjiamin had forced into her hand around the chain as well, feeling that if something did indeed happen, it would be safer hidden underneath her tunica than on her finger. But she would not return it. Not after what he had done to her.

Her eyes wandered across the hall once more. The doors had been closed, men in armour standing in the shadows not unlike her. Hands on their swords, backs straightened, eyes surveilling the feast.

Then, the music changed.

The song had not been particularly liked in Dorne, and had been plain out forbidden at court, yet that had not stopped singers in the streets from performing it. She had learned about its history as well. And who it was performed for.

She looked up, towards the musicians on the balcony far above the high table. Lutes, violins, harps, flutes - and a crossbow.

Swear on the Old Gods and the New that you will protect my son at all costs.

Before the first arrow could be let loose, she had started running. A sharp wind passed her ear as she threw herself against Robb Stark, bringing them both to the ground. She grabbed his arm, quickly dragging him behind a table as screams started drowning out every other sound in the hall.

He barely had time to question her presence. The fear and confusion on his face as he looked around the fighting was surely mirrored on her own.

This was a wedding, a time for celebration. There were ancient promises, traditions protecting the guests-

A man came running at them, sword raised high above his head. She quickly swept his feet out from under him, drew her dagger, and plunged it into his throat before he hit the ground.

She froze.

The blood sprayed in all directions, coating her hand, her arm, the floor beneath. He clawed at the dagger, gurgling, trying to scream but bringing out no sound. She pulled the blade out, aimlessly hoping it might stop these awful things, yet only more ugly fluid came splashing forth.

Her heart beat loudly in her chest, hearing every pounding, flooding her senses, overwhelming her, not permitting her to think about anything else. She tried to breathe in, more and more and more, air, cold, anything. But she couldn't- It was too fast-

His body had gotten limp, arms falling to the side, yet the terror was still in his eyes.

She killed him. That had been her. She had taken a life.

The noises came crashing down upon her, every scream reaching her ears all at once, every slash of a sword, every whirring of an arrow, every clashing of shattering glass.

Make it stop, make it stop, make-

Trying to wipe her hand clean of the blood only spread it more. Even closing her eyes and pressing down on her ears did not make the feeling go away.

She couldn't do this. She had to go, to flee, to get out of this hall, this heat, away from the tugs around her heart, pulling her forward and back and left and right. It was too much, strangling, suffocating-

Had she not been knighted? Was this not what knights were for?

Fear is my greatest enemy. It can only lead to death and grief.

She dug deep inside herself, searching for that thing hidden deep, deep down. It would not be allowed to break free, but merely a drop or two of it would suffice to get her through this.

Father, please forgive me.

She opened her eyes.

The first three men fell easily to her, almost seeming surprised at her being able to fight back. A fourth had his throat cut open just as an arrow whirled past her shoulder and hit the wall before her.

The musicians had dropped their act, every man on the balcony holding a crossbow and firing into the masses below. There were short moments of pause where they had to reload.

She would not survive this if they were allowed to continue with their onslaught.

In one of the reprieves, she grabbed whatever sharp object she could find from the table before her, and in the next she started reciprocating the fire. One after the other, the bowmen collapsed to the ground, throats and eyes and chests pierced. A single one even fell over the parapet and crashed onto the high table below.

She was about to let loose on the last knife when a searing pain erupted across her back. Barely keeping herself from crying out, she whipped around and buried the blade into her attacker's head.

The skin on her back was shifting strangely with each of her movements. Warm liquid ran down her body, soaking her ripped tunica. But that did not matter now. It could not matter. There were more important things to do.

She quickly got her hands onto a spear, yet in the thick mass of bodies both dead and alive it was more of a hindrance than a help. Men died anyways - throats slashed, hearts pierced, heads half removed from their bodies. She had long lost her helmet, and was glad for it.

An axe almost buried itself into the stomach of the lady that had been charged with watching her, but with a quick thrust of her spear the man joined his collaborators on the ground. The lady thanked her, but got no reaction back. This was not the time for pleasantries.

The king had picked up a sword as well, ready to defend himself and his lords, yet she quickly pushed him to the ground and told him to stay there. She could not have him running around playing hero. Heroes died, and he needed to live.

"Paladin!"

A man in a pink cloak dragged the lady she had made her promise to forward, a knife held to her throat. Some of the fighting around them ceased, either due to interest in their conversation or because there was no one left to kill anymore.

"This isn't your fight. Hand over the traitor king, and you and Lady Stark can leave."

The king in question was about to run forward, desperation in every ragged breath, but she held him back, spear raised before them both.

Now that she had paused, the pain from her back threatened to creep up into her mind. She didn't allow it.

"I could return you to your family. No caveats, no conditions."

She met the ladies' gaze. The expected emotions lay in it - fear, desperation, sadness. Yet the begging was what strengthened her resolve and convinced her to stay true.

"Is this truly what you want? To die a pointless death in a war that has never involved you?"

"Some people hold their oaths more highly than others."

He grimaced. "I'll get him either way."

The blood sprayed from the lady's throat, her limp body collapsing to the ground. And so the fighting started anew.

At some point a circle of men had formed around the king, taking every blade and every arrow meant for him. The gates had opened as well, only to let in a new slew of attackers, falsely dressed in the furs and leathers of the men helping her.

"We need to get the king out of here!" someone screamed at her after throwing a man against the wall.

"There is a servant's entrance behind the high table." She ripped her spear and a handful of organs out of the man underneath her.

"Are you sure it's safe?"

"If you ensure our escape, I will get him out of here."

She did have experience running away, after all.

The king had, despite her best efforts, grabbed a sword and started defending himself. When she tried to take his arm, he moved away, a feral look on his face, saying he could not leave his men to die.

She grabbed his collar and pulled his face close to hers. "Get your act together, Stark. If you die, this rebellion dies with you."

His look soon turned from feral to horrified. Did he only now grasp the full weight of the situation?

"Just- Let me do one last thing. For my people."

He picked up a crossbow and stepped onto a chair, raising himself above the bodies piling onto the floor.

"Lord Walder." He raised the crossbow. "Thank you for your hospitality."

The bolt pierced the old man's face, pinning his head to the high chair he was sitting on.

She felt the blade before she saw it. The man with the pink cloak had approached the king and was about to plunge the still bloody knife into his body. Her spear had hit the lord's thigh long before, however, and she quickly closed her hand around the king's arm and pulled him after her.

On the way to the back of the hall, she ripped her dagger from a body's eye socket. There were barely any men blocking their path, and the door was not even locked. No one had seemingly expected this way could be used.

The stairs they descended laid in almost complete darkness. Her tunica barely clung to her shoulders, the cool breeze in the passage caressing the exposed skin and flesh on her back. She ignored it.

Their path led them through the castle's kitchens, the servants cowering against the walls, hiding behind mountains of untouched food.

They finally broke through to the open air, and were immediately hit by a wave of heat. The camps before them were wide aflame, the screams even louder than in the hall they had just left. He froze behind her, eyes wide and any conviction he might have had gone in the blink of an eye.

A person came running towards them. She pushed the king behind her, raising her blood-soaked dagger before her. He would make it to safety, she would fulfil her promise-

"Robb!"

"Arya?"

He pushed past her to embrace his sister, the girl looking not too dissimilar to the last time she had seen her. Coming up behind her was a scarred man she felt like she should recognise as well, though she could not fathom why.

She quickly found two horses, spooked out of their minds, but saddled, so she forced the king to abandon the arms of his sister and mount one of them. He followed her commands slowly, as if not in complete control of his body.

Despite the rising pain, she mounted her horse as well, having to catch her breath once she sat in the saddle.

Together, they rode through the fires, the blood, the screams.