Chapter Text
Her parent's room looked even bigger now. Arya was gone, Jon was gone, the castle was quiet, and there was this stillness weighing the cold air down, and it was like the snowflakes had remained caught in their fall since her little sister left. Everyone was doing as they was bid, training, packing, preparing, but everybody was waiting, waiting for it to be all over. She was all alone in her big and cold room. From her window in the Great Keep, she could observe every person, every creature that wandered in the castle. There was Ghost, on a rampart, just like her, sitting and patiently waiting. But she was not sure about what she was waiting for. During the day, she ruled over the castle, took the important decisions, the logistic decisions, scheduled everything that needed organization. She liked it, she was good at it, but when the sun set, she became Sansa again, the shadows haunting her nights reappeared and danced around her, her insecurities.
A lady ruling over a great house has no time for insecurities, she had tried to tell herself many times, but in vain.
There is no safety, that annoying little voice kept reminding her. Every person she had not her eyes on, she could lose forever anytime.
Arya and Jon, gone to King's Landing, what if it was a strategy to take care of the King in the North? She might never see them again…and this feeling daunted her, stole her sleep and her thoughts, because she was completely powerless again, and she had lost too much, too much to survive another death or treason.
She walked away from the window. Waiting like that was pure torture. She needed air. Real air, and space. Despite the sky darkening already, she went down the stairs crossed the courtyard and found herself in the Godswood. The Face carved in the red maple tree had sap running down it's cheeks, as if he too was mourning, over the departure of Arya, over the long lost days of summer and safety and airiness. But she could not stand staring at that face either. She did not want to see any face that wore an expression that even resembled despair. She swiftly made her way through the trees that reminded her of her childhood, and found herself in the Glass Garden.
A big Garden, as if trapped under a cage of glass and wood and stone, that kept the warmth in. She had never paid much attention to this place, it was only a place used for harvest. There was no one left. Farmers and Gardeners had already returned to their families. The air was warm in there, the gardens were located over the hot spring that alimented the bath chambers, the same spring that heated the Great Keep, allowing them to grow vegetables to put in their stew even during the cold winter. The warm air was not hard to breathe in, unlike outside, where the biting cold made it almost hurtful. There were a few plants, some fruits, she knew too well because it had been the only things she had been eating since months. But she walked to the very end of the long and low ceiling greenhouse, where the flowers were grown.
She did not know why the farmers kept planting them now that winter had come, the were of no use since they would die if they would be replanted outside the gardens. But she could not deny the fact that even here, they were lovely to look at. There were some little white ones that looked like snowflakes, a bush full of those bright red berries Sansa had been taught never to touch as a child. But the flower that captivated all of the attention, the first thing anyone would notice, was the blue winter rose. There were different kinds, each a different hue of blue, some pale and almost white, some a deep royal blue that almost looked purple from a far. The rare flowers of the North, mesmerizing and graceful, yet those roses had twice as much thorns as the regular roses. It was like raw beauty, in it's natural shape and most of all, untouchable. She closed her eyes as a familiar melody invaded her mind.
Six maids in a pool
They're of noble blood
One Fool, but great, on the shore
He'd seen that flower full of love
"She'll be in my garden" - he'd sworn
Her name was Jonquil, pure child
Tough father had made a deal:
By ugly, full of money lord
That beauty will have to be killed, oh
She was murmuring, her voice almost inaudible. But the melody was flying around her, the wind howling outside and the light echo of her soft voice reverberating on the walls accompanying her. She was singing to the flowers, and they seemed to listen.
Oh oh, glorious Florian-
He was the first who had opened her thighs
Oh oh, glorious Florian,
Run from thousands of lies
To the happiest day of their lives
He was a knight of famous name,
The owner of Furious sword
But now he's fool with motley shield
Because of cutting word.
She sang, her delicate fingers brushing against the cold petals of the fragile flower, and she wished this terrible feeling could escape her as easily as the light leaves fly in the wind.
She breathed out, a long cold sigh, closed her eyes, her way to chase the grief away. And everything around her faded, she could not hear anything but her own voice, could not see anything else than the darkness her lids procured her. The usual joyful din of the song was replaced by deep sorrow as the verses escaped through her lips.
Despite of misery and fate,
Pride's what he feels for real
He'll care about vows he gave
With blade of Valyrian steel, oh
Oh oh, glorious Florian-
He was the first who had opened her thighs
Oh oh, glorious Florian,
Run from thousands of lies
To the happiest day of their lives
Oh oh, glorious Florian-
He was the first who had stolen her bud,
Kissing her petals &Whispering swears,
Green grass had coloured with blood.
Oh oh, glorious Florian-
He was the first who had opened her thighs
Oh oh, glorious Florian,
Run from thousands of lies
To the happiest day of their lives
“I finally get to hear it.”, the growl of a voice precipitated her out of her dreamy world.
But she still wondered if she was not dreaming when her eyes met the familiar shape in the darkness. She guessed his gray eyes looking at her, the burnt flesh, and she knew he was smiling. Not a big, amused smile, baring all of his teeth. No, a slight and appeased smile. And there were no words to explain, no songs that ever described well enough this huge release she felt at this moment. It was like the world around them had stopped for a moment, just so he could reassure her by his mere presence.
He was standing right next to her, she asked herself how he managed to enter without a sound, as he was usually not one to go unnoticed. But as she felt the warmth of his body so close to hers, his gaze on her looking so tenderly, she ceased questioning herself and could not help but gently brush her hand against his cheek and feel the burning trails of what had been tears on his wounded flesh.
Just like that evening
She did not think. She just acted. It was like she was watching the scene from another point of view when she realized she was tip toeing and pressing her lips against his. But he did not take a step back like she imagined he would. After the second of surprise, he ducked his head to make her more comfortable, ran a calloused thumb across her flushed cheek the same way she had been carefully touching the winter rose petals a few moments ago.
The kiss was nothing like the previous times she had been kissed. For the first time, she was the one initiating it. It did not feel superficial and wrong and minutely calculated like when Joffrey had given her her first kiss. It was not too sure and thrilling like when Littlefinger kissed her. It was the exact opposite of Ramsay's kisses, not at all owning and terrifying. It was not perfect. He smelled of steel and horses, her hands trembled slightly and she was blushing more than she wanted. It was dark and cold, there was no warm and soft wind toying with her hair, there were no birds singing and filling the silence. But she loved it. It was perfectly imperfect, because it was just them. There were no hidden schemes, no wicked plans, it engaged the both of them to nothing, it was just instinctive. It felt good, plain and simple.
She broke away slowly, scouted every detail of his face for his reaction.
It was her first kiss. Her real first kiss. The first she truly wanted, the first time she truly longed to reiterate it.
“Little bird…I'm leaving North, first light tomorrow.”
He may as well had slapped her, it would have felt exactly the same.
Of course he is leaving
Everybody is
She tried to smile, but he caught the sorrow in her eyes, the falsity in her expression.
Of course he was leaving, they had talked about it in the morning, at their usual gathering. It had been about sixteen days since the first raid went on the recognition mission, and the raven they had taken with them had come back at the break of dawn, but the scroll it was holding was blank. The bird had escaped. They had failed.
Sansa had felt bad, for the children part of the raid, for her sister's friend, the Essosi. But she had urged everyone not to inform Arya. She did not need to know that her lover was probably dead right before her wedding. But they all still needed information about the Night King's progression.
And of course, Sandor had to be part of that second raid. He had seen the army of the dead, fought them already. They needed someone who would come back for sure.
She sighed. A sigh full of despair that explained perfectly how powerless and lonely she felt.
*
He was thinking about her, the little bird, during the journey. They had been riding for hours now. He thought about that kiss, about the way he did not dare to move, too afraid to break her.
Oh, trustful child, he thought, the feeling of her precious lips against his lingering in his mind.
How crazy it was, how crazy was she to grant the scum that he was a kiss? It was like a second of heaven, a chastisement, a glimpse of everything he would never have, a punishment from the God, to make him regret all these years of cynicism and cruelty.
But there was one thing he feared more than anything. He was growing attached. She was not just a girl like he was used to having, like those whores he fucked in taverns and who were gone the next morning. She was far too precious for him, far too delicate, he would never be able to give her what she wanted. She was the little bird, fragile yet fierce and brave. He did not know what that kiss meant, but she would never love him.
How could she?
She was perfection, and he, a heap of brutality and disorder and burnt flesh. He was doing the best that he could in order to be honest with her, the only valuable thing in his rotten being.
The air was cold, hard to breathe in, but he was lost in his own thoughts.
He loved her. The statement came up in his head out of nowhere, but he did not deny it.
At first he thought it was a father-daughter like love, despite not being old enough to be her father, but then he opened his eyes. There was nothing he would not do for her, there was nothing he would not do to protect her, even if that meant fighting a thousand white walkers, even if that meant leaving her forever, he could not deny the way he was feeling when she was around. Protective, proud, and he felt like crushing the skulls of every man whose eyes lingered on her for too long. Her eyes would never linger on him, she was unreachable for him, and why in the seven hells would she love a pile of scum like him when all of those honorable lords and pretty knight cunts are fighting for her attention?
He could never tell her that. He was a coward. Truth was, he was too afraid that she would want him to leave.
I could be her Ser Jorah
The love the old Bear Knight had for his queen was far from hidden, desperately far, even. He was always there, always watching over her, surveying her every move in far too much delight, always threatening the King in the North with his little desperate eyes. She would never love him, he was far too devoted to her, he had no pride and no honor when it came to her, he was not brave enough to contradict her. Would Sandor give up his pride for the little bird, shall she grant him her attention in exchange?
What pride?
I'm no man of honor
Honesty and advice, these, I will give her, even if she hates me for it
I'm just a soldier, I can shield her with both my sword and my words
But sing her verses all day long?
Nay, even if she asked
I'm not the Knight in shining armor from the damned lying songs she deserves
Or maybe I could try, just once, if she would give me one of these little pecks in exchange again
Ah, there no time for that shit
He did not want to think about it. It was true, there was no time now for a one-sided love. In the middle of a war, when life itself for every person in Westeros was in a precarious state, there was no time to suddenly become one of those Knights from the songs with fluttery feelings. The King in the North and the dragon Queen had chosen the wrong moment to fall in love, and so did any moron who let the fluttery feeling take over. And there were loads of them, highborns and lowborns alike. The closer the army of the dead got, the more people would mate, the more little ones were born. It was an observation. Like the refrain of a song each time a war foreshadowed, only then would people understand how short life truly is, and how they must relish and embrace every feeling for death is near.
He was one of them. This trip North was yet another desperate attempt to get her out of his mind, there was no time to fall in love and spend his days daydreaming. He needed to protect her right now, and her family, and Westeros. He knew this attempt would not work however. Wherever he would go, there would always be her delicate face with that awfully unsure look that did not suit her to haunt him. Assurance and pride suited her way better, it made her look divine, even, like those blue roses. So hard to get yet so enchanting and untouchable. Crafted by the Gods, the mortals tried, they hurt her but could not break her, the essence of life and purity.
He thought about the young she-wolf too. The journey was long, and he hated chatting with the other soldiers, he had time to get lost in his own thoughts. Winterfell was far already, and in front of them was only the blizzard and the infinite expanse of snow, stretching and blurring with the horizon.
She would marry the young bastard very soon. Of all people he ever met, she was the last one he thought would marry. Even when he arrived for the first time at Winterfell, as the King's dog, the first time his gaze met the young and wild spirit, he thought her father would have a hard time settling her with someone strong enough to tame her. It was not a rumor that she looked like a boy in her youth, and she was quite the annoying child, always looking for a fight and insulting people taller tan her. But she had changed a lot since their time as traveling companions. He was not sure where she had been all these years, but he could not believe his eyes when he saw her face when they were at White Harber. She looked nothing like her sister, but she had this strong and somewhat charming and somehow dangerous look on her face. She looked like a woman now, and her fighting abilities were beyond anything he thought a woman of her size could achieve. True, she fought swiftly and with 'style', like those Knight cunts call it, she did not stand a chance against someone like him who fought brutally and messily, but considering her height, it was quite impressive.
A boy like her future husband would try to control her, make her his, but she would never obey. There was a second during which Sandor almost pitied the young King in the South.
That boy's gonna have a hard time with her for sure
It'll be a wonder if he's not gone mad or if he's still in one piece in a year
But still, he could not truly pity him. He had been the dork asking her in marriage, perfectly knowing that she would accept anything in order to give her brother an army.
What kind of dumbass would force an outrageous and vengeful killer to marry them?!
Surely that boy has lost his mind already
The hours became days, weeks. Everyone was concentrating on not freezing, moving their extremities from time to time to make sure they could still feel them. The cold was unbearable, burning and stinging. It was a good thing, in a way, that they had to travel for so long, it meant the army of the dead was still far. Every minute that passed, every step they made with no horde of walking corpses rushing towards them was a victory.
But eventually, the first whites appeared. They walked slowly, weakened and disoriented by their surroundings, but as they saw the five men made out of warm flesh and bones, they started running.
One, two, three
The head of the trail.
Eleven, twelve
Manageable
Luckily, there was no more, the others seemed to be far behind. They surely would have all perished otherwise.
The Hound gave the order to write on the scroll and send the raven back to Winterfell immediately.
The soldier tried to write properly, but his hands were shaking and his no longer gloved fingers numb and calloused. There was the sound of wings flapping, the bird first struggled against the cold wind.
The horses were nervous. They too, could feel death floating around them, they too could feel the blue gaze upon them and sense the raising panic.
“Get yourself together! We're five and there no more than a dozen. Take your dragonglass and try not to get the horses killed or you'll be walking back to Winterfell!”, he said, unsheathing his sword, that had been coated in Valyrian steel.
Fright was growing on the young lads faces.
“You cunts better not flee or I swear I'll hunt you down and make myself a fine coat out of y'all!”, he threatened.
He kicked his horse with his heeled boots, urged him to gallop forward. The colt was reluctant at first, as were the others, the sound of their growly neighs raised the tension and the feeling of panic.
“Go!”, he yelled once.
The horses rushed, and the first whites were cut down like corn.
Three of them gathered to try to kill Sandor's mount, and the beast got frightened and threw the man off it's back. His face met the hard ground covered in snow and frost. He got up as quick as he could, but not quick enough to dodge a strike in his back. He felt the blade plunge through the many layers of coat and furs he was wearing, felt it rip his flesh off. He hissed in pain, and felt the energy rush through him and decimated the two demons around him in two quick and brutal moves.
He fell to his knees, felt the warm blood stick to his skin, saw the copper on the ground blend with dirt and snow.
Not his blood, one of the young lad's. There were no walking corpses anymore, only the dead body of a boy laying on his flank a few paces from them and the sound of the howling wind, filling their nostrils with the scent of death.
“L-Lord Clegane…”, another lad said in a shaky voice.
As he turned his attention to the young man, his gaze met them. All of them.
Oh-seven hells
His heart suddenly started plundering in his chest again.
Decision. Quick. Before they see us.
He dragged the lifeless body to him, painfully managed to stand up and mounted the horse before it could run away, pulled the corpse on the mount with him; they will burn the body, one less undead to defeat.
“Hurry!”
But it was too late. They all heard the soundless screams of the running demons, rushing towards them.
“Faster you cunts! This is not the day we die!”, he shouted, his voice getting lost in the air.
We must not show them the road to Winterfell
The horses were not galloping, they were flying, floating above the thick cloak of snow that dressed the endless fields of the North. They headed towards a forest, and the sound of a running horde of living corpses got far. He eventually looked back, and saw that they had lost sight of them. He let out a long sigh of release as he pulled the reins and straightened his back, urged the horse the slow down. He counted his men.
Two, three
They were all here except for the dead one he had on his lap.
“We're not dying today…”, he told himself again, the picture of a little bird in his head, the feeling of her soft lips against his rough mouth.
But the feeling faded as the smell of smoke filled the air around them.
“A fire m'lord.”, a boy voiced out, shivering and his eyes still full of shock from what he had just seen and outlived.
What the hell is anyone doing this far North?!
He saw a little frame holding a remain of sword exit a heap of branches and moss covered in snow that certainly served as a hut. The boy looked frightened at first, probably thought some blue eyed demons had made their way to his shelter, but waved at the group and threw his weapon away when he realized the men were made up of bones and blood just like him.
The little man was quite small and chubby, his hair was dark and he looked young. He was no more than ten and three. Something in his face seemed familiar, and as Sandor approached and as the boy's features became easier to see, the man realized he knew this face from Winterfell.
“Maik!”, Sandor heard one of his men hiss.
*
King's Landing, two weeks later
The streets were quiet, the sky gray and the cold was soft, unlike the bitter wind of the North that bites your cheeks and jolts life through your whole frame, reminding you that you are alive.
Here the weather was dull, as was the light, the sound of the swarming city during the day, the colors of the boring houses. Last time she was here, she was a child of ten and one, wandering through the alleys with mud on her face chasing cats. But now the streets seemed dead, there were no cats to chase, no crowd to sneak in. She could not pass as an orphan boy from Flea Bottom anymore. She had always had the 'northern look', but now she donned the traits of a woman, so she preferred to cover her face underneath a hood, and dress up as a commoner when she flew the Red Keep for a few hours.
She needed those escapes, seclude herself from all of those handmaidens who spent their entire day planning the ceremony, cooking or decorating every single wall of the castle with dried flowers and golden ribbons. And even though she loved Jon, she sometimes needed to be away from that pity gaze he always gave her. She needed to flee, even for a short amount of time, just so that she would not forget who she was.
She had been in King's Landing for what had been maybe a moon now, she had stopped counting the days, the southern soldiers left as soon as her feet hit the ground of the city. She had enjoyed traveling on a dragon a lot, she had loved how the world seemed far from the sky, how all the problems were kept on the ground. Just like those little escapes, flying had felt like freedom, pure freedom, and even if it had only lasted a little less than a day, she had spent every second staring at the small fields, the tiny villages growing into large cities the closer they got from the capital. But when the dragon first took off, she was not able to restrain herself from glancing the other way, North. She had hoped, hells- she even had prayed to get just even a glimpse of Jaqen, a tiny speck to nourish the hope that they would meet again someday, but the Gods were not merciful that day. And it had felt like the wind had sliced her throat open.
And when Winterfell grew out of her sight, she could not help but feel her heart weep, like something had been ripped away from her. At this moment, Jon had held her tight, and she had closed her eyes to keep the tears from falling, she knew he would not let go of her, he never would, just like Sansa and Bran whom she had said farewell mere minutes before. She would always hold onto this picture of them, standing on the ramparts of their home, a sad expression on their faces.
She looked at the sky, already dark. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath of the cold air of winter in, the air that smelled of the city, that smell she hated of a fruit rotten from the inside.
Last evening
She needed to go back, or else someone would send guards to go look for her. She made her way back into the castle disguised as a servant girl. She had taken some faces with her, just in case she had thought, and this one was quite pretty, therefore it had been easy to get back in the castle the first time. A wink, a smile, and the guards were fooled, they would let anyone with doe eyes and full breasts in. And they knew her face now, so she could get in and out quite easily. She removed the mask as she climbed the walls of the Maidenvault, where her apartments were, until she would move to Maegor's Holdfast, next to the King's room, in the Queen's apartments.
Queen
Tomorrow, I would be Queen, she thought as she slipped out of her commoner's clothes, put on a robe she pulled out at random from her closet.
There was a knock on the door, delicate and unsure.
“Come in.”, she outed in a tired voice, trying to figure out how to tie the ridiculously intricate pattern of her gray dress.
“Lady Arya, we come for the fitting.”, a girl with an annoyingly high and trembling voice stated.
A horde came in.
“I don't need an army to try on pieces of fabric.”, she spat out.
“Oh- well, hum, I'm here for the fitting, b-but Nyla will sew up the embroidery, and Ireyne will take care of your nails while Jaena and Elize here will prepare your bath and everything needed for Bellin to wash and brush your hair-”
Everything she said afterward got lost as everything got befuddled in Arya's head.
Seven Hells
“Get over with it.”, she cut the girl's mumbling.
Suddenly, the swift little hands were everywhere, tying her hair up, wrapping her in all sorts of fabric, settling a huge mirror in front of her for her to see what a mess she had become.
After what felt like an eternity of pulling and dragging and pinning and spinning, she looked out the window again at the dark sky, at the ridiculously little snowflakes falling from the southern sky. She could not breathe, the corset was too tight, the heavy fabric was squeezing her flesh, the smell of roses and vapor that floated in the room due to the batch that looked burning hot was stifling her, and she felt like she was about to pass out.
“Open the window.”, she urged.
“Lady Arya, it's snowi-”
“Open the damn window!”, she yelled with what was left of air in her trapped frame.
There was a rush of cold as the refreshing breeze engulfed itself in the room, and she took in all the air that she could. She was half naked, and the bristles of coldness on her skin felt like life itself was writhing back in her.
“Now, which one do you like better, my lady?”, the annoying one who was supervising everything spoke again.
“What?”
“The patterns, there's the golden one with the roses”, she started, wiggling some fabric.
“Or the ocher one with daphnes, or this beautiful shiny yellow silk with embroidered lilys.”, she continued, emphasizing the flower names as if the Queen to be was some kind of illiterate savage who had never heard of plants.
“I don't care, there all the same, just pick one.”, she answered rolling her eyes again.
“My lady, it is important that you choose the fabric that suits you the best-”
“You know what would suit me?! Riding pants and a leather coat, but I don't have a choice! So pick one of these darn fabrics and get your fucking ass out of this place!”, she yelled at the petrified girl, and the stupid giggles that filled up the room seconds ago died suddenly. She heard the girl mumble some excuse and watched her bow her head and finally walk out mortified.
“Get out. All of you. I can bathe alone.”
A few of them left without a word, without a glance at the impetuous and furious woman.
But two of them dared to stay after briefly looking at each other.
“Hum-, m-m'lady, there's…there's one more thing, uhm…”
She pinched the bridge of her nose, but could not restrain a scoff. She was so little and powerless, yet the tiny storm that she was frightened the life out of them.
“Go on.”, she asked joking.
It cannot be any worse than a corset
They looked at each other again, and one of them pullet out a blade. Arya's first reflex was to grasp Needle's hilt, but the sword was concealed under her bed and not at her hip. She did not rush to take her weapons though, for the blade was really small and it could not do much harm.
“Your grace, tomorrow you will have the chance to have his majesty all for yourself, he will be yours and you will be his…”
That's the concept of marriage you stupid cunt, she thought as she frowned, confused.
“But in order to please him, my Queen, you must first shave… The King prefers-”
The air died in her lungs, and her face went pale for a fraction of a second as disbelief invaded her features. The calm before the storm, before her cheeks shone bright with red anger and she felt her blood boil up. It took all of her strength to not rip the girls eyes of. She closed her eyes and took a sharp, deep breath in, and the act terrified the girls even more.
Oh-
He can go fuck himself, she thought, her nerves on the verge of rupture.
“Is that what he told you when he fucked you?”, she uttered in pure spite.
Do I look like a whore whose only purpose is to please him like the rest of you?, was her real question.
It was evident that Gendry had screwed all of them already. To them he was some kind of Lord savior, a young and charming King, it was no wonder that all those saps had fallen for his blue eyes and jet black bristles of beard. But she was not one of them, to her, he only inspired pure hatred, and all these stupid handmaidens talked about all day long was how lucky she was to be wed to a such wonderful man, and at every single one of their damnable words it felt like the knife was turning in the open wound of her heart.
The fools blushed and lowered their heads.
“My lady should not assume such-”
“Out.”, she said, closing her eyes, scarcely controlling the bursting rage.
“I will leave the razor here so you can do it on your own, your g-”
“I said, out!”, she shouted, letting the fury blow up. With one strong and swift move, the shaver and the bowl the poor girl was stretching towards her flew out the window, and tears of anger threatened to fall from Arya's tired eyes.
The sudden act dazed the girls, and they ran out of the room, leaving the young assassin with her raging storm of emotions. She was almost out of breath, the corset that the dumb lassies had so tightly tied up constricted the air in her lungs, and she cursed at her trembling hands for she did not achieve to remove the damned thing after long seconds.
“You're not going to make a lot of friends in the castle, I fear.”, a low, manly voice outed.
She quickly turned her head to Jon, who was on the doorstep, slightly shaking his head in increduity and a hint of amusement and pity. All these years, and she had not fully tamed her anger. It was a good thing, he thought, for she had remained somewhat the same. This was who Arya Stark was, who she had always been, passionate, raw, and never fully in control or understanding what was going on with the emotions that she still embraced.
“Help me out of this thing.”, she voiced out happy to see him, her cheeks still red from anger, a bit ashamed that he had witnessed her tantrum.
He unlaced the corset, turned his back the time that she slipped into her usual man's clothes, a leathery coat and tight pants, that were still a bit too large for her muscly, skinny legs.
“You told me you wanted to sneak in the maester's laboratory?”, he asked.
“Yes, I need something.”, she said not meeting his eyes, for she did not really want to have the same conversation she had with her sister with him.
He caught her arm when she passed by him, looked at her raising his brows, as if warning her.
“It's not for Gendry, don't worry, I won't poison him. It's for me.”
He nodded, let go of her arm, followed her through the door.
“You're not sick? Because if you are, there's no need to sneak into the maester's chambers, you may as well tell him what you have and he'll-”
“I'm not sick, I just need some things. Now, either you stop questioning my intents, or I go without you.”, she said, looking at him expectantly.
“Alright.”, he scoffed, shaking his head again at her stubbornness.
They got out of the Maiden vault, entered the Godswood as if they were about to pray, and got out from the backdoor, right next to the Rookery, where the maester's chambers had been rebuilt since the Iron born's attack, three moons from now.
“You're sure he's not here?”, she asked as they concealed themselves on the side of the tower, safe from curious gazes.
“They are all in the small Hall, at the council meeting I skipped to come pray with you, so yes, I am sure.”
She smiled as she pulled out two metal twigs out of her sleeve, and forced the door open. This room was perhaps the only place in the whole city that was not suffocating under dried flowers and heavy golden draperies with embroidered stags.
The room was dark and it smelled of burnt concoctions and old parchment. It was partly clean, but the whole left part of the chamber was utter chaos, vials and books and torn scribbled papers, schemes and toxic herbs and even organs in glass jars, stored in huge wooden cases labeled as “Qyburn, studies” or “Qyburn, experiments”.
Arya started to look around the messy spot, cared about not to let anything fall to the ground.
“What are we looking for?”, Jon asked in a low voice, surveying out the window.
“Powdered tansy. I couldn't craft it myself, I don't have the filters to remove the toxicity. It's yellow and as fine as sand.”, she answered, her hand hovering over the different jars and vials that sported all sorts of bright colors and complicate names, and she felt proud for she knew the effects of most of these powders, and the face of the Waif flashed in her head.
She had absolutely no intention of giving Gendry children, she had never thought about having any, she would not make an exception for a bastard who thought he owned her, no matter if the bastard in question was her husband, he had no right to take that decision for her. She had even reflected, for hours, days, about ways to escape the marriage bed, but on that point, she seemed to be doomed, and a cold shiver made her tremble in aversion at the thought of his filthy hands and obscene glare.
At the name of the flower, Jon flinched as he recalled hearing that term already. Beyond the wall, when he was living with the Wildlings.
' “You got some more of that tansy tea?”, a woman had asked the old witch.
“Ha! Ye don' like babes?”
“Nay, I got no time for babes!”'
“You're pregnant…”, he stated frowning, as a shudder made his whole tremble.
He was divided in both disgust and confusion. That was a thought he had never had before, Arya being pregnant, and it felt odd, so very odd to imagine her belly full and round, and even more odd to imagine her…with a man, and the images he could not help from involuntarily making up in his head made his nose wrinkle up.
“Not yet. The wedding is tomorrow, Jon.”, she answered.
'The redhead?”, he asked, shrugging his shoulders.
At the mention of the Lorathi, Arya felt a knife pierce through her heart. She felt hot tears well up in her eyes, closed her lids to prevent them from falling. She never thought about him during the day. When even a mere shadow of a thought of something that might remind him popped up in her head, she would brush it away as quickly as possible.
At night, underneath the heavy blankets, where no one could see her nor hear her, that was the time she had reserved herself to cry for her beloved. And she did, every night since that dreadful afternoon, she allowed the weigh of sorrow in her throat to stifle her, rob her of dire air, and she would silently pray that it strangled her enough so she be carried away from this world. The sobs stole her sleep until she could not hold her reddened and swollen eyes that had wept too much open anymore, until she fell into slumber out of pure exhaustion, not reciting her list because it did not make anymore sense, she could not kill who she wanted anymore. And every morning she woke up, the dry salt still clinging to her face, a buzzing sound in her head, and she would concentrate all day long on being brave enough to hold the tears that were only allowed to flow when she had returned to her place of safety.
“No.”, she answered, cursed because she heard her own voice tremble.
“No, we didn't.”, she finished, chasing the thought of him away from her tortured mind.
Jon felt the claws let go of his guts, he was released to hear that she was not bearing anyone's child. Yet. And that 'yet' broke his heart because he knew that someday she would, and for someone she did not love, all because he had not found any other solution than sell her to that crowned and cocky bastard.
“There!”, she hissed, fully and falsely composed again, holding a jar of 'Tanacetum vulgare pulveris'
But something caught both of their attention, a flicker of silver that reflected the dim light. They leaned over the chest from which she had pulled out her precious ingredient. It was silver and blue, concealed underneath various clutter items. Arya handed her jar over to Jon, started to ruffle inside the coffer, until most of the junk was displayed on the ground. She removed the cloth that was wrapped around the silver that had caught their attention, her mouth fell open and her eyes gleamed in wonder as she lifted the heavy thing.
“A dragon egg…”, Jon mumbled in the same state of amazement.
It was truly a beautiful object, with perfect scales carved into what looked like stone, it's silver and blue hue shining like a frozen mirror. Arya could not help but run a long and delicate finger on the precious object, tracing the perfectly carved indents.
“Why would a maester hide an object of such value?”, she asked, though she was not expecting any answer.
Jon looked over the wooden chest again, pulled out a scroll that had been placed near the egg.
“The new Grand maester did certainly not dig into all of these.”, he said, waving at the heaped and messy boxes that had been stored here for they were the only things that had been saved from the flames.
“Qyburn was the one who served Cersei-”, he stopped to pay more attention to the piece of parchment he was reading. His lips moved yet no words were spoken.
He crushed the paper, and Arya was waiting for explanations.
“This egg belonged to Euron Greyjoy, he wanted to offer it to Cersei so he could participate in the purchase of the mercenaries…he scratched his idea when Cersei attacked the Tyrells and got all of their gold.”, he outed in a hushed voice.
“Who is he writing that to?”, Arya asked frowning.
“The Faceless Men of Braavos.”
A second slice through her heart.
Twice in a row.
She concentrated on what her brother had to say next to not linger on the image of Jaqen that had popped in her head, the image of him when she held Needle against his heart in the Hall of Fac-
“He wrote that he wanted Daenerys Targaryen to be named for the Death God…maybe the answer of the Faceless Men is in there-”, she caught his arm before he had a chance to plunge it again in the wooden chest.
“No need. They probably sent him his fossil back with a scroll that said that one egg is not enough. It is of great value, but she is a Queen, her life is worth at least twenty of those.”
Jon nodded, but he felt a weird stir in his chest at the idea of his little sister being part of that guild of assassins.
“It's beautiful…”, she whispered, and he agreed.
“You should give it to her, maybe she could hatch it.”, she said, stretching her arms for him to hold the heavy egg.
“I would gladly offer it to her, but…”, he answered smiling.
“The birth of her dragons…it was a miracle, the secret to hatching dragons has been lost since centuries, even she doesn't know how it happened. She told me once about that night, when she stepped into the Khal's pyre. A Khal is the leader of the Dothraki, he's like their K-”
“I know what a Khal is, Jon. I spent more time across the Narrow Sea than you did.”, she cut him teasingly.
“Right.”, he recalled chortling.
“There was the body of her husband, some witch that she had sentenced to die, and her, and by some kind of magic, the fire did not achieve to burn her, she rose from the embers the next morning, and the day came along with the melody of singing dragons for the first time in hundreds of years… and she was Daenerys Targaryen, the mother of dragons.”
Jon's eyes were sparkling, and Arya knew he was seeing the scene in his mind. He looked like a foolish boy, with that idiotic smile on his lips and those dreamy eyes. Actually, he reminded her of Sansa. But who could blame him?
And the face of her Lorathi flashed again in her mind.
“Let's go.”, she outed coldly.
