Robett
"I don't care how long it takes," Robett said, glaring at the lumberman shivering in front of him, "get it done. I want these walls as strong as the day they were first built." Deepwood Motte was no fortress like Winterfell, but as long as his army was strong and stationed, it would take thirty thousand men to overpower them since those bloody corpses didn't use fire or siege weapons.
As long as the bulk of the battle was at Winterfell, Robett knew that his people and his family would be safe here. All those Wildling cocksuckers and Targaryen arse kissers would perish away and the world wouldn't blink twice about it. He was a true man of the North, a descendant of the Iron Fist Kings. He knew his loyalties truly were in his home and people, not savages and mad blood.
Robett brushed his disgruntlement aside in the moment. It was barely after dawn and he had much to do today. He was going to monitor Gawen teaching the new shield wall formation during drills to see if he had any of his father's natural leadership. And then there was taking inventory of the grain stores being deposited today.
So much to do, any normal man or boy lord would crumble under the weight of the duties he had. But always to the contrary for Robett, he enjoyed his work, reveled in it almost ever since the duty as Lord of Deepwood Motte fell to him after Galbart and Arnolf died for the King who lost the North.
It was time the North had a proper winter war to remind those southern cunts just who the true strength of Westeros was.
Riding with his guard steadily through the village back to the castle, Robett saw that all around, his people were glancing back at him, some respectfully, but others with clear and present doubt.
Odd, Robett thought, since the past two moons when he declared his denial for the summons at Winterfell, his people were just as hard at working for Deepwood Motte as he was. Did something happen? Was it the developments in the south with the Dragon Queen or the Stark boy's absence?
The thoughts were dismissed when ahead at the gates to the castle yards, an argument was growing loud between two guards. Orwell, his captain, was berating a man Robett didn't recognize who was not giving two pennies to what was being shouted at him.
"Bloody cowards," the unfamiliar man shouted, "the lot of you! Even him!" He said when he saw Robett and his group approaching.
"How dare you-" Orwell started, but a solid fist hit him in the jaw and brought him to his knees. Before Orwell could get a hand to his sword, Robett's voice bellowed.
"Enough!" He rode up in front of the guards gathered. "Who is this?" he asked, looking at the guard who threw the punch.
"One of the conscripts," Orwell said, rubbing his chin and spitting out some blood. "He dared to insult us and your lordship, calling us cowards."
Before Robett could get a word out, the other guard shouted loudly at all the men gathered around which had become roughly thirty since the exchange started.
"What else do you call men who hide from the White Walkers? The Starks are facin' them without a single falter to run away, I won't stand to be cooped up on my own cold shit when that day comes. I'm going to Winterfell to fight!" The guard threw off his helm and shoved his way past the crowd.
"Let him go," Robett allowed. "If the fool wants to bend over for traitors then so be it." A few chuckles came around the crowd, but to Robetts surprise, some of the men kept their eyes on the man, as if he was making a point. "Back to your duties! Summer's not coming tomorrow, so stop acting like it is!"
By the time afternoon had come, the drills were finished and Gawen proved himself an excellent leader, ready for the day he would lead men into battle and glory. Unfortunately, word about the scuffle at the gate had gotten out, and some of the guards were lingering on the subject. It was quicker that some of them looked at Robett with the same eyes the people in the village did.
Robett didn't let the subject fester in him though. These doubts would die out by tomorrow.
At least, that is what he had hoped.
It wasn't even noon yet when he was writing out ravens to his vassal Houses with Maester Credence that the sudden sound of a little girl crying took his attention. There, running past his door in tears was his granddaughter, Erena.
"Finish these for me, Credence," Robett ordered as he rushed off after Erena. He found her in her room, sobbing into her pillow. "Little Bluebird," he called her soothingly, "what's got you in such a sadness?" He came and knelt at her bedside, stroking her shoulder gently.
Erena peeked an eye out to him and sniffed. "One of the girls from the village. She t-told me a lot of scary things!" She cried into the pillow again.
Robett's fist tightened. Whoever hurt her granddaughter would get a beating with a cane. "Who did? What did she say?"
Erena choked up before getting her voice again. "She- she said how we're all gonna die here be- because her uncle's at the Wall and- and he was there when the Wildlings attacked. She said if only a little bit of the Wildlings were rescued, then there are thousands and thousands who became the monsters and we're going to die!" She sobbed into her pillow harder just as Robett's daughter by law came in to tend to things.
Seven Hells! Enough with this damn smalltalk!
Robett marched back to his solar with a fury in his step. "Credence," he said harshly, "call everyone to the yard. I have some words to say."
It only took an hour for just about every man, woman, and child of Deepwood Motte to gather on the hill outside of the castle, and Robett was above them all at the top of the gates.
"Now hear this!" Robett shouted, his voice carrying over the cold air with a natural gusto, "it's come to my attention that our place in Deepwood Motte instead of Winterfell is in question. Many of you are letting fear and nonsense take hold of your senses! The Wall has stood for thousands of years. It takes Wilding savages hours to climb it unless they fall! What makes you think a dead Wilding can do any better?"
He let the words sink in, letting his people get a grasp of reality again instead of the idiocy going around.
"What makes you think they can't?" A man called out from the crowd. He was rather round bellied and looked fresh from recovering from being drunk. "Didn't you hear what they did at God's Eye? Those fuckers rose up from the lake, waiting at the bottom since they don't have any breath to hold. Makes you wonder what else they can do when they're not in chains."
"That's enough!" Robett shouted, but the man's words sank too deeply into others to be ignored.
Another voice came from the crowd, it was Red Earl, the innkeeper. "I heard when King Aegon went north to bring the Wildings, they got attacked and the dead tore down log walls as tall as ours! How will we get better off than they did?"
"I said silence!" Robett shouted louder. "Deepwood Motte has stood for thousands of years!"
"Winterfell's stood for longer!" The drunkard shouted back. "Stone walls and thousands of knights defending them are far better than wood and conscripts! The White Walkers have dark magic too! What do we have without dragons?"
Suddenly, the host Robett had ordered to be gathered so he could calm things down was erupting in objection. "What if they do get through the Wall? What if they come here first?" A young woman cried out fearfully, clutching a tiny babe in her arms protectively.
The drunkard shifted his potbelly. "I heard those things brought two dead dragons from the muck of the lake when Aegon and Daenerys fought them! What other powers will we have to face like that?"
Panicked uproar came from the crowd. "They can raise dragons!"
"We're not gonna last an hour here!"
"How is the King still alive?!"
"Calm down, everyone!" Lord Glover ordered the smallfolk. "The Ironborn raids tested our strength, that I will not deny. But these creatures are not soldiers. They do not erect siege towers or trebuchets! They are mindless and tactless. We do not need the aid of southerners or Wildling savages to withstand the dead!"
"It's about your pride?" The drunkard shouted up. "Fuck your pride if it means we get to live!"
Before Robett could respond to such an insult, everyone was in an uproar and started to try pushing forward as if to storm the gate of Longhall Keep.
Robert caught the eye of the drunkard who caused all this commotion and a bit of a grin appeared on his ruddy face. Reacting as if struck, anger bubbled in him.
"Coward!" Someone shouted from below.
"You condemn us to death!" Another voice carried up.
But the first cry was soon picked up by all. "Coward! Coward! Coward!"
Disgusted, Robett turned and stormed back inside the keep. So enraged he punched the stone wall, ignoring the throbbing pain of his split knuckles and bruised bones underneath his gloves.
"Father?"
He looked up to see a concerned Gawen staring at him. "Disperse the crowds, and find that fool who seemed to enjoy this. I want him hanged!" From the expression on his face, his son said everything even as he said nothing. "What are you waiting for!?"
"You'd only make them angrier and a martyr out of that man."
"They are deliberately disobeying my orders!"
Gawen trailed off, biting his lip. "I'm not here to fight with you, father, but they are our people. Fathers, mothers, husbands, wives. They are afraid."
"And I'm not? I'm not afraid that I'll lose you, or my grandchildren, and all the rest of those I strive to protect? They stood by my decision to not fight with the Wildlings before, but now they want to? Do they quickly forget the blood of the North those goat fuckers have spilled?"
"The Boltons helped give us all our home back. Staying out of that battle was not a dishonor to us and fuck anyone who says it was. But these dead men are not coming to rule over us and be neighborly, they are coming to kill us. And if I have to fight next to a Wildling for a better chance for my children to live through it, then I will."
Robert was stunned to hear the words come out of his son's own mouth.
"If you won't lead our men to Winterfell, I will. And you can stay here and wait it out with your pride intact just like you want."
His eyes widened. "You'd betray me?"
Gawen stood his ground. "Yes. But I don't wish to."
There was a pregnant pause, Glover lost in pensive thought. Assessing the options he had left… until he realized he didn't have any. With a deep growl of his breath, he almost had the desire to punch the wall again. "Tell the people we will make way for Winterfell."
Arya
"And it didn't even take the whole day," The drunkard scoffed to himself impressively, looking out to the castle before tugging on the skin of his chin.
The face slipped off Arya smoothly. She opened her satchel and set it inside with the others. She had brought all six of the faces she stole from the House of Black and White, and yet she only needed three. A guard, a child, and a drunkard. She had prepared to go even further as a pig farmer and the lovely serving wench face, but enough was enough she supposed.
Once she was changed out of the baggy clothes and back into her own attire, Arya departed Deepwood Motte, knowing full well that by the time she reached Winterfell, Jon and the others would see the Glovers right on her tail.
In addition to her efforts, fate had it kind that the journey back home would be without much trouble. The snow was high, but the roads were tread and open just as the skies. It would only be two days before she finally got to see Winterfell and her brothers again after all these years.
By nightfall she had made it to a village on the outskirts of the two conjoined round towers of House Woods in the southern Wolfswood, however there was barely a soul in sight when she got there. Back when she had gotten to White Harbor nearly a fortnight prior to tonight, she learned of Rickon's summons that every man, woman, and child evacuate their villages and keep to reach sanctuary in Winterfell against the winter and the dead. A smart move on his part. If the dead did manage to cross the Wall then they would add whoever they could to their ranks.
Thankfully, a skeleton of guardsmen remained as did the innkeeper of the Squirrel's Nest Inn. It was nice that she didn't need to make camp out in the open, enjoying the nice warmth of a feather pillow and wool blanket.
The next morning, she was treated to a warm breakfast and a loaf of pine nut bread. Given the circumstances and distance she was from home, she didn't pay the man the two silver stags she owed, but two gold dragons.
The morning was quite cold, near freezing, but once the sun was up its light was a good bath of warmth. It was high noon by the time she stopped for a quick rest for herself and her horse by a stream that was not completely frozen over just off the road.
Arya sat up against the trunk of a tall ironwood, biting into a piece of chicken and looking at her map. She still had quite the journey. If paced her horse well enough, she could be home by nightfall, otherwise she would be there in the afternoon tomorrow. Considering she had planned to be in Deepwood Motte at least two days planting the doubts and truths in the ears of the people, she was already making good time. She didn't realize just how uncomfortable and afraid the people truly were about this war.
But then her mind was taken away from her map when her horse started to jostle and neigh.
Getting up to her feet, Arya went over to calm her horse down until she heard the faint rustle of the snow and leaves somewhere close by. She stopped in her tracks, placing a hand on her dagger and looking all around.
Far off in the trees, she saw shapes darting between them so fast that she couldn't keep track of how many there were. She drew her dagger from the sheathe and stood at the ready. From what she could tell, these weren't men, but beasts which meant they would be harder to fight since they did not behave or fear like men do.
A shiver went down her spine when the shapes got closer, no longer keeping to the cover of the trees, revealing themselves as a pack of wolves. There were seven of them and they surrounded both Arya and her horse, barking and snarling at her. The mercy of animals like them was hardly, especially with the eyes of hunger they each had. Her body began to feel the panic and her mind raced with the question of what she was going to do a thousand times over.
Then a deeper noise broke through, a very powerful growl from behind. Arya turned around and found one more wolf, the leader of the pack larger than all of them, a direwolf.
Her heart was beating out of her chest and her lungs were cold in every breath as she stared into the eyes of the wolf before her… the eyes… she knew those eyes, and the color of that fur… could it be?
"Nymeria?" Arya breathed, but the direwolf still bore her fangs at her. Slowly, Arya kneeled down and set the dagger on the ground. "Nymeria, it's me, it's Arya."
When she stood up, the direwolf seemed to calm, and the predatory eyes softened into a still gaze at her.
Yes, it was her, she knew it in her heart. "I'm going home, girl. I'm going to Winterfell to see our family again." She lifted a hand up, reaching for the mane of her friend she had missed for so long.
Arya's arm extended as far as it could, inches away from Nymeria's head, but she could not find the will to take a step forward. The gaze of her wolf held her there powerfully like a spell.
There was recognition in Nymeria's eyes and she finally learned her head forward, resting it into a soft touch of Arya's palm.
Liberal with her pets and strokes, Arya laughed as the child she no longer was but still looked back on with fondness. "I missed you…" Arya looked up at the pack of other wolves, no longer with fear but amusement. "Seems you did well for yourself."
Nymeria looked up at her, tongue lolled out and panting softly as she remembered from their youth, expression almost silly.
"I'm going home, back to Winterfell to be with our family." She ruffled the wolf's head. "Come with me?"
Nymeria seemed to still herself at the offer but her eyes were always locked on Arya. Slowly she retreated herself from her former bonded companion, massive form angling away and gazing at the pack.
Arya's breath hitched as her outstretched hand dropped by her side. When Nymeria had first come to her in their reunion, she had first thought the God of Death had granted her a great mercy. Reunited with the symbol of her lost innocence, but it wasn't to be.
Wolf and mistress stared at each other, each the same height. Equals.
Arya found it in herself to smile, realizing the truth and accepting it. "That's not you."
They had changed, but some things wouldn't change. Underneath the fierce pack leader Nymeria had to become, there was still that young wolf that had so loved Arya.
Just as it was true for Arya.
Nymeria then trotted back to her pack. Soon Arya was left alone, and with a sigh she went back to her horse and mounted it. It was time she finally headed back home, and she was all the happier for it.
Night came fast as it did in the winter, and all throughout the remainder of her ride, Arya would listen carefully through the forest around her and only once she heard the echoes of a wolf pack howling to the moon. Eventually the trees grew thin until they finally parted and the view of her childhood home splayed out before her in all its glory against the dark horizon. Torchlight illuminated a shadow of the castle against a deep blue sky, giving enough shape and color for the memories of a life long left behind return. Arya shuddered, a bit of a cooling ease spreading out from her heart. Some of the remaining weight that had been compressing her chest was finally gone. Home… Mother wouldn't be there, nor would father or Robb, but it was the den of the Stark pack nonetheless.
Wintertown was abuzz with activity as she passed through it. This Arya expected, but the faces of the workers were cheery and excited rather than grimly resigned to the task of defending against an army of undead monsters. What also drew notice was just how many were there, of all portions of the combined realms. Northmen and Wildlings, Dornish and Valemen, Reachmen and Unsullied. Westermen and Dothraki. Truly a united force, more vast than even the armies of the long dead Targaryens that preceded Jon and Daenerys.
None paid the lone rider any heed, nor did Arya recognize any of the Northmen of Wintertown. It was a stark reminder that even though this was her home it had changed along with her. Nostalgia would never find it perfect as it was, though Arya chose not to let it bother her too much.
Passing through Wintertown hadn't gotten her noticed, but as Arya approached the main gate a group of guards stopped her. "Halt. State yer business."
She rolled her eyes. "I live here. I'm Arya Stark."
The older of the two took a step closer and leaned down, gazing hard at her face. "I remember when Arya was a wee little thing. Pretty as a button she was. Hm… you do have Ned Stark's ears."
"Are you sure it's her?" The other guard asked.
The older one stood up straight. "The King did tell Lord Stark that Lady Arya would be late." He looked back at Arya with a pleasant expression. "Welcome home, milady." The guards stepped aside and let Arya in, but to her surprise, the older guard followed behind her horse and a booming voice erupted from him.
"Lady Arya Stark has returned home!"
Arya flinched at the announcement. She would have rather just crept in than be the center of attention as she had just become.
"Arya!?"
That was a voice Arya hadn't heard before, but she was able to recognize it through the changes there were. Dashing from the balconies above, the rosy-cheeked boy Arya remembered was gone and instead emerged a young man just having started to come of age. Looking so much like their father it was uncanny.
"Rickon," Arya choked out, a tear in her eye.
Rickon stared at her as if she sprouted two heads, but his lip was quivering. "Arya… you're back." The beginnings of a smile formed on his lips.
The full smile formed on Arya's lips. "You've grown." Without a further hesitation, she threw herself at him, or he at her. Whomever went first, they were laughing and crying and hugging tightly, simply joyous of being alive and reuniting. "I missed you, little brother."
"Little? I think I'm just about taller than you now." he replied, slapping her back. Seven Hells, he was as tall as she was, and would certainly be even taller once he came fully of age.
It wasn't until they were through the gate and within Winterfell that she allowed herself to ask the question that was on her mind. "What's with the place looking like a beehive poked with a stick?"
Rickon chuckled, looking up at her with glee. "We're preparing for the festival, sister."
"What festival?" What was he talking about?
"We're going to celebrate being alive before the armies of death try to shut us all up forever." He spread out his hands as Arya handed her horse to one of the stableboys. "It's about time we have some fun around here, and since Jon and Sansa've been busy, I'm taking charge of it.
Looking around her at the cheery faces of the guards and smallfolk, singing and trading banter with each other as they worked, she chuckled and hugged him. "Sounds like a damn good plan, Rickon… was it your idea?"
"Aye." He shifted his feet.
She sighed out of relief, gazing at the place she had grown up. Covered in freshly fallen snow, white and beautiful. "Seven bloody hells… I'm happy as anything." Arya clapped Rickon on the shoulder, her brother matching her smile. "Father would be proud." Aye, there was still much left in them that Cersei, Tywin, Joffrey, and Ramsay couldn't kill off. "Where's Bran at? I want to see him too."
"He's in the Godswood right now doing his magic. Who knows when he'll be done."
"Right, Jon's said a little about his power. I guess we've all faced the mysteries of magic, haven't we? What about Jon? I have news about the Glovers you both should hear."
Rickon's face scrunched up a bit. "He's with Daenerys and Sansa doing… you know."
Arya scoffed and rolled her eyes. "Well I'll have you know at least that because of the unrest at Deepwood Motte, the Glover's will finally be joining us for battle."
Rickon's face grew serious. "Good. Robbett just saved his head from Ice." He shook his head of his serious mood.
"Pardon me," a young looking soldier of another realm came walking over to Arya and Rickon. "Lady Arya?"
"Yes?" Arya confirmed.
"What is it, Podrick?" Rickon asked.
So this was the famous Podrick Payne.
"His grace informed us that when Lady Arya returned, she is to wait for him in the armory. He says that it's time she and him settled who's the better fighter."
Arya felt the hunger for a challenge grow and her spirit light up. So Jon really was getting his head out of his arse then. It was about bloody time. "I'll head over right now. But tell his grace not to keep me waiting."
Podrick PAyne nodded and set off.
Arya turned back to Rickon. "I'll see you at supper. I want to hear about everything I've missed and I have about a hundred stories to tell you."
"I can't wait." Rickon smiled and hugged her once again before they parted.
Finding her way through her ancestral home without having forgotten a single turn or step, Arya found herself in the castle armory alone and waiting. She took in a deep breath. The air and smells were something different than what she remembered, but that was to be expected since half the place was rebuilt from rubble.
As soon as she saw him approaching her, Arya knew Jon was a little too happy. He had that look about him, ramrod straight in gait and posture but also relaxed. Like a wolf after having devoured his prey, all satisfied and such. Given that he was ever honorable and faithful there was only one possible conclusion… "You're gross, you know that?"
He stopped in his tracks, brows furrowing. "Even for you that is a unique way to greet your brother."
"Please, I know why you look so joyous and calm." She crossed her arms. "Our sister, truly?"
"I am a Targaryen." Arya rolled her eyes. "And you already know everything about us."
That was true, she did. "You're still gross… but if Sansa could be with anyone after what she went through, I'm glad it's you. Still, it'll be strange for a while. Take some time getting used to my sister and the man I knew for so long as my blood brother to be a romantic pair."
Jon nodded. "I'm still getting used to it myself, but I love her. And she loves me."
Arya smiled. "I'm glad." They were both dressed in basic clothes, ironically matching in grays and blacks aside from the cut of their outfits - her trousers and tunics styled for a slender, petite female body as hers was. Arya's way of being 'feminine.' As such, she leaned on a column lining the courtyard. "So, what brings you here?"
While it felt wonderful to be back to their usual routine of banter and fun, immediately Jon began to ruin it as his expression grew serious. "About the distance I put between us…"
"Don't, please." She just got her brother back. Damned if his guilty conscience would make it awkward.
"Arya… please, it's just I couldn't know if you were truly my sister or just another faceless man…"
"Don't, brother," Arya replied. Hoping to at least spare him one part of the stress and guilt weighing him down, especially since on some level he was right. "We all changed, we all went through our shit, and mine moreso than most. I don't hold your actions against you."
"But…"
"I said don't," she warned.
"Alright," he ended up smiling. "At least let me say I'm sorry. I've been a giant's arse-"
"Damn well you have been, Jon," Arya finished with a scoff. She couldn't lie to him. "Honestly, it's been like talking to a damn stranger."
Of all ways to react, Jon actually smirked. Arya was sounding like the girl he left in Winterfell so many years ago instead of a high nosed priss with a sword. "I don't suppose saying I'm sorry is enough for your forgiveness?"
"Dumb git, I'll always forgive you." He cocked his head, as if demanding more of an explanation. "Alright, fine. If you weren't my brother then nothing would. But since you are, I'll think about it and maybe one day ten or twelve years from now, I will. Is that what you want, you bloody idiot?"
Neither could keep up a straight face for long, and immediately they started chuckling. "Well then," he tried to shrug, stifling his grin. "I guess I'll be holding onto this for a long time until you do." from behind his back, hidden by his cloak, he pulled out a smallsword resting in a fine sheath and twirled it around in his hand once.
Arya immediately stood up when she saw the blade. It was the same type as Needle, but a little longer and with a hilt of steel instead of bronze. She wanted to seize the blade and look at it closer, but then that meant Jon won. "Was it your intent to bribe me for forgiveness?"
"Bribe? No. offer a physical form of apology… perhaps." He flipped his grp to the sheath, offering the hilt to her.
A smirk couldn't be helped as Arya took hold of the oak handle and pulled the blade free. The balance was absolutely perfect, in fact from all her training she was expecting a heavier weight because of the extra length. But then she saw the blade. "You're giving me Valyrian Steel?"
"I asked Gendry to make it once we finally had the ingots covering our debt finished. Just tried to find the right moment." He walked over and sat down on the stone bench and watched as Arya began to maneuver the blade around her hand and do a basic set of Water Dance steps.
The last move Arya did was a perfect lung and thrust at the heart of her enemy of air and imagination. Her head turned to him. "I'll make you a deal," she stood up with the sword held at her side elegantly, "duel me, and at the end of it I'll forgive you or not."
There was a small silence between them, but Jon set aside the sheath and stood. He shed his cloak and his sword belt, but drew Longclaw from the scabbard.
It was a surprise at first. Arya had expected him to simply keep bartering on rather than indulge her request. Regardless of her expectations, she was happy that he was standing before her now, sword held aloft and ready for a fight.
Arya brought the blade of her sword up to her face, almost as a salute of respect to her opponent before bringing it behind her back, hiding it from view of her opponent and switching to her left hand. "I'll try not to cut you."
Jon smirked. "Perhaps you should try not to get cut instead." He took the first step and immediately Arya pivoted her body in a fluid motion to flow with Jon's Movements, bringing her sword out and blocking Longclaw and following with a riposte that would have ended wit the point inches away from Jon's face, but Jon was faster than he appeared, knocking the blade of her sword aside with the white wolf head pommel and stepping close to her. Arya ducked and weaved away. Since neither of them had a dagger, no one would be winning if they were touching chests.
They were standing across from one another again, but now Arya had her sword out in front of her and Jon didn't wait for a standoff. He swung his sword with careful strength in each move, making his movements more precise and controlled against such a fast weapon that Arya had.
At one point, Arya attempted another duck and weaved, intending on swiping her sword at Jon's belly for a competitive slash, but the hilt of her sword was met with Jon's left forearm when he let go of Longclaw in his left hand. He followed through by grabbing over Arya's hand on the handle and stepping on her foot. The next thing she knew, Longclaw's point was aimed right at her neck.
"Yield?"
Arya sighed. "I yield." Jon lowered Longclaw and wrapped Arya in a hug.
"Beat you, but gave me more of a scare than the dead ever did. I'm impressed."
She smiled up at him. "I lasted that long against you under tourney spar conditions, and you're much stronger than me." Arya hugged him back, it almost felt like they were back in the days before they first said goodbye.