Chapter Text
“What?” Arya asked.
She hated how her voice quivered as she spoke the one-worded question. She hated the way her palms felt slick with nervous sweat. She hated the way her eyes were burning as she fought not to look away. She hated the look Yoren was giving her right then. She hated that all she felt like once again was a stupid, scared little girl.
She was ‘Arry now—An orphan boy, and boys don’t cry.
Except they did. She’s seen Hot Pie cry, once when she beat him up, and the other times in the dark of night when he thought no one could see. She saw Joffery cry too, and she watched Lommy pretend not to cry while the boat rocked in that sea storm just a few weeks ago. She bit down on her lip, it hurt with the way it was worried in her teeth.
“‘m sorry, lad. It’ll be. . .difficult to turn back now and head south.”
“Why south?” She felt like she was floating. The Castle’s in ruins, that’s what they said. Her home—in ruins. Burned down. Gone. Winterfell.
Your Father’s ward, he had said. Theon Greyjoy took the Castle.
“For your mother, and your brother. Last I heard the King in the North was in the Westerlands, and your mother in Riverrun.
“But, I can’t go.” It wasn’t a question. She knew it couldn’t be. She tried to think of her mother’s face. Her long auburn hair that was just like the rest of her siblings. How red had it been? How long? She thought of those blue eyes they all shared as well. Robb and her mother and Sansa were south.
“No, lad. You can’t go. We are going to keep marching towards Castle Black.”
Where Jon was. Where her Uncle Benjen was. That was fine. It would be fine.
She nodded. She could taste blood in her mouth; her lip was bleeding.
Yoren didn’t comment. He gave her shoulder a pat, his face the same as it was. No pity, no sadness, yet there was a subtle kindness in his eyes.
“Yoren—“ She called out before he could walk away, “What about—“ she licked her lips, dry and cracked as they were. What about her brothers? Bran and his broken legs, and little baby Rickon?
He read her face easily. She never had to ask.
“The boys are gone too.”
Gone .
She found out later that their heads had been cut off. Like their father’s had been. She hoped the blade that did it was sharp — Ice must have been. Would Theon have cared, turncloak as he was?
Theon. She remembered the older boy; the eldest of all of them. She saw a man with dancing eyes and black hair. A bow over his shoulder. Robb was always the closest to him, being so much older than the rest of them. Their father’s ward was almost a stranger, at least to her, despite that constant presence within their walls. Did Bran and Rickon see someone they trusted in their last moments? What flew through their minds as Theon brought them iron-rath?
What were her father’s thoughts as Ilyn Payne took his head? Did he look to Sansa who had been closest to him on those steps?
She didn’t know if anything had been done to her father’s head after, but Bran and Rickon’s were dipped in tar and were then put up on Winterfell’s walls. Bran was always the happiest of them; she remembered how he’d smile at the most gruesome of Old Nan’s stories. He was sweet too. And baby Rickon was always running about on little legs; did so as soon as he started to walk. Babies were boring, usually, but Arya wasn’t sure what she wouldn’t give to run around the Godswood with him again.
They weren’t like anything now, she supposed. They were dead. She hopes that Robb will come North; she hopes he will kill Theon for the traitor he is, if he wasn’t dead already. Maybe he would have Grey Wind tear out his throat. The thought pleased Arya.
She wondered what happened to Bran and Rickon’s wolves. They weren’t dead. She couldn’t quite grasp how she knew, but she did. She remembered just fleetingly what Shaggydog looked like, black fur and intense green eyes that matched his wild personality. For a moment she even heard that sad song Bran’s would sing after he had his fall.
She bit down on her lip, gazing at the distant visage of what must be Castle Black. She wondered how Jon would react to seeing her again. Would he muss up her hair and call her little sister like he always did? Would he even recognize her, with her hair shorn short as it was? With how dirty she was? Not that she was ever a perfect lady, not like Sansa, but Jon never cared. She hoped he wouldn’t now.
The horn sounded out like the bay of a hound; one long moan that made the hairs on the back of Arya’s neck stand straight. It sent a shiver down her already cold bones and her fingers held the reins of her garron all the tighter.
Soon.
She swallowed bile. She glanced backwards for just a moment at where Gendry rode on his gelding. Hot Pie was just behind him, riding right next to Lommy who sat atop a donkey.
She shifted her gaze back to Castle Black. If it could even be called a castle. It was nothing like Winterfell. Nothing like some fortress she imagined it’d be to serve the purpose its men did. No walls surrounded it, except the giant wall of ice behind it. It looked like just a bunch of houses and towers—like it could be a village, almost. It really didn’t look like a castle at all. She wondered if Jon’s thoughts were similar when he first arrived to the desolate, grim ‘castle.’ It mustn’t have dissuaded him.
Please, she thought silently, let him be here, and be fine. Let him and Uncle Benjen know her and have everything just be fine. Maybe they could even leave. They could all go to Robb and they could get Sansa from King’s Landing, and she could watch him take Theon’s head. Cersei, and Joffery too. Maybe she could even do it; wouldn’t that be a wonderful dream? She wasn’t sure who the prayer was for, but her father’s gods were strong up north, that’s what everyone said. They were as far north as they could get, so maybe just this once those old trees would actually hear her.
But being north hadn’t saved Bran or Rickon. It hadn’t saved Winterfell’s grounds and people from burning in this stupid stupid war. Maybe the heart tree burned too—Arya never saw it. She thought back to the times her father would sit with her below it, showing her his gods and his father’s before him. The old ones. The ones that didn’t save him either in the end.
Yoren dismounted from his horse, he was speaking to some man clad in blacker blacks than Yoren’s off-grey ones. They really did look like some odd big birds; the both of them like a flock of crows or ravens with how their cloaks looked near each other while they spoke.
“I can barely see the top.” Hot Pie muttered from the place behind her, “How do they get all the way up there?” He sounded half breathless.
Arya glanced up with him. He wasn’t wrong, she mused, you could barely see where the tip of it blended with the cloudy, overcast sky. It looked like stone. Seven-hundred feet, she recalled Old Nan saying once. Seven-hundred feet of ice, thick and imbedded with old magic to ward off the beings beyond the wall. Giants, ice-spiders, Others, if the tales were true. Put into being by Bran the Builder, she couldn’t recall just how many years ago. Bran would probably know. Old Nan definitely would. Her heart did a painful twist.
“The lift.” Gendry answered, a scoff merged with a tinge of amusement.
“There are stairs too.” She nodded, recalling what little details she knew, “These ones aren’t ice either, like the Nightfort. That’s one of the castles in the wall. There I’d bet the steps barely exist anymore. It’d be like climbing the wall with just your hands and feet. You’d probably slip and die bloody on the earth before ever making it up.”
Hot Pie paled and Gendry huffed a snort through his nose.
”No one’s said you had to climb ice stairs.” He laughed, and soon Lommy joined in. Arya couldn’t get herself to do anything more than smile.
Gendry’s brows furrowed. She blinked herself out of the stare. She wasn’t scared. She wouldn’t be. She turned back around without a word, towards the castle. Jon was here anyhow. She could protect herself—but Jon was here. Her Uncle Benjen too. They were both here. Was Jon a ranger like him? Her eyes darted back to the towers; to Castle Black. Did they get ravens even? She was sure they must. Did they hear about Bran and Rickon? Of Theon the turncloak?
It was sooner than later they were shuffled into the borders of the castle.
It was empty, she quickly realized. Desolate, cold, quiet, and empty. She counted only just eleven men posted up—one of who was the one Yoren spoke to. Marsh, she quickly found out was his name. She quickly gathered he was put in charge. She reckoned there couldn’t be more than a hundred men inhabiting the place. Maybe less. Probably less.
The notion caused the skin on her arms to turn into gooseflesh. The wind continued to claw at her eyes. Her heart felt swishy, like water being squeezed from a sack.
It wasn’t hard to slip away from everyone and find a black brother of the watch to interrogate. Mostly everyone fizzled into the dining hall for food. As much as Arya yearned to join, her stomach giving her a prolonged grumble, she forced her feet to continue on.
She found a man working away in the smithy, with a big belly and a broad a flat nose. One arm too, to boot. He worked well with his stuff despite such. She’s never seen a smith missing a whole arm.
“Benjen Stark? I heard he was first ranger.” Arya asked after goading him into earlier light questions.
“Oh.” The man frowned, “He’s been missin’ ages.” He answered. When he opened his mouth Arya saw nothing but yellow and crooked teeth, quite a few missing. “Dead’s my bet. Right shame. He was a good man. Good Ranger.”
Dead. Missing. Her fingers pricked at the dead skin on her palms. The wind’s bite was cold, but she didn’t have anything to stuff ‘em into to shield from the wind.
“What about—“ Her tongue licked at her lips in slight hesitation, they were still ever-dry and cracked and bloody with all the biting she did. Would asking give herself up? If he was here she would find him soon. Logic didn’t win. “His nephew.” She said, playing off of the earlier query of Uncle Benjen. “Is he here?”
The man’s face wrinkled up like crumpled parchment, “Ah—The bastard?” He didn’t say it with malice on his tongue. Arya scrunched up her shoulders anyways.
“Jon Snow.” Arya clarified, her heart flaming with brief indignation for her brother’s sake, he wasn’t just a bastard. She gathered this man knew that, with the way he nodded to her correction, but she was still glad to defend him. “He should be here.”
“Yes. Jon.” He said it with an odd looking smile on his face, Arya wondered if he knew him well. “Well—he’s not. The Old Bear took two hundred north the wall. After all ‘em missin’ rangers.” The words were but a mutter of stanky breath.
“When will he be back?” Arya retorted, words as sharp as she could make them. At least he wasn’t missin’ or dead, or so she told herself. She imagined her tongue a whetstone in her mouth, whisking away any quiver that tried to emerge from her lips. The emotion took her sudden. She shifted on her feet. It hit her right then—She only had two brothers left. Robb, down south, and Jon who should be here. Only to be actually further North. Putting her right in the middle of them once again. Still alone.
The man gave her another glance. His big black cloak swished in the wind. He smelled sour. She understood the whisperings about the men of the Night’s Watch’s likeness to crows, but crows didn’t smell as bad this one man did; her nose was filled with smoke and sweat.
“Probably never.” He answered, a frown on his lips and a maybe even some sadness laced the words, “What’s it to you, little boy?
Arya’s fingers wound themselves into tight fists. She had half the urge to steal the glove right off his hand, as he did only have the one. She was quick, she could do it. She didn’t even know what much good one glove would do her. She held still.
“Nothin’.”
Slipping back with the others wasn’t hard. Some were still dining in the hall, but a quick look around was all it took to note both Gendry, Lommy and Hot Pie’s absence. Even so, it wasn’t long until she found the three of them held up in Hardin’s tower. The building was in a right mess of disrepair, but she figured it didn’t matter to anyone where people slept. She was just grateful to have a bloody roof over her head for the first time in ages.
“Ya think so?” Hot Pie was asking Gendry.
“Nah, but who knows? I don’t see you makin’ much a difference with that sword-hand of yours. They’d probably see that too.” Gendry returned. She knew her feet bore no sound as she walked, but all the same Gendry’s head swiveled as she entered.
He gave her a look and she hated him for it. Him and his looks. Him and his thoughts. He hasn’t told anyone who she was though.
“You may end up a steward or chef—but ima be a ranger.” Lommy told them all.
“Well, I mean, I could be one if I wanted.” Hot Pie backtracked.
Gendry scoffed, as he resumed whatever it was they were conversing about, though his eyes never left her,“You don’t want to. ‘Arry’s nothin’ but a stick and he beat you bloody. With a stick, at that. My bet’s a wildling babe’s more of a threat than you otta be beyond the wall.” He jested. Hot Pie gave him a glower.
“‘Arry’s used a sword more than me.” He muttered in his defense, eyes glancing to Arya’s own.
“Don’t worry Hot Pie, one look at you cowering on the ground even a wildlin’ babe would take mercy.” She comforted falsely, a smile somehow dancing its way to her lips.
Hot Pie scoffed at her tone and gave her a glower. Gendry barked a laugh, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. Hot Pie stood up as Arya sat down on the floor near where Gendry was sat.
“Good luck fighting that babe.” Lommy told him.
“I’m finding a privy .” Hot Pie returned as he stalked away.
Lommy got up just after him, he looked to Gendry and Arya, “Ima go protect him from any babes in the dark, don’t worry.” He said.
“Oh, leave off him.” Arya couldn’t help but say, even if she played a role in starting that. Lommy smirked again and waved her off.
“Just joking is all—I needa shit too.” And then he was off after Hot Pie.
The smile faded from her face.
“You find what you needed?” Gendry asked, voice low. She thought for a moment of what he meant, not for long though. She knew. Though there was the question of her Uncle Benjen or Jon?
She shook her head. Her eyes not meeting his. Answer to both would no anyways. It was all so stupid. Unfair. She doesn’t think she’s ever felt so tired, except for maybe one of those days spent in the streets of Kings Landing after the Lannisters murdered her father.
“Sorry, ‘Arry.” Gendry told her, a frown on his lips, reading her like filth .
“Me too.”
Sleep came quick, and her dreams were of wolves.