Chapter Text
Arya wakes up with the dawn, to find weak sunlight struggling through the window and Jon sitting by the fire. She sits up, yawning and he looks up to smile at her.
"Good morning, sweet sister."
"Morning," she groans, stretching.
"If you want breakfast, you'll have to get up," he tells her. She throws back the furs and sits up, smoothing her hair as best as she can with just her hands.
"I need to stop getting blood on all my shirts," she announces. "This is my last spare."
"I'm low too. Faceless Men teach you how to sew by any chance?" She snorts derisively.
"No, astonishingly not." He laughs, and she scrutinises him closely as she pulls on her jerkin.
"You look cheerful this morning," she comments.
"I spoke to Robb last night," he tells her, and she pauses in the act of buckling on Needle.
"Oh?" she asks, trying to sound casual. She fails even to her own ears.
"Not about us," he says. "About - dying."
"Oh," she says again, this time in a completely different tone of voice. She finishes fastening her boot laces and looks at him. "Did it help?"
"Yes," Jon answers her, with an honesty that cuts down like a knife. "Because he understands. He knows exactly what it's like."
"Good," she says softly. He looks his surprise and she laughs softly, going over to plonk down in his lap. He winds his arms around her at once. "Did you expect me to be angry, or jealous, that you'd spoken to him and not to me? No. He will understand better than me, because he's lived it, hasn't he? I can't understand, not fully anyway. I can understand how it makes you feel - but not what it feels like deep down." She runs a hand over his hair, dipping into his curls to squeeze his nape gently. "If you and Robb can find that understanding together, even find any understanding together - that's great. It's what you need, you have to talk about this or it'll destroy you. And while I would always, always listen if the day comes when you feel you can tell me everything - because I know you haven't, Jon, not really - then I'll listen to you, hold you, whatever you need from me when that moment comes. But while you can't - I'm glad to know you have him."
She is still wary of Robb herself, still bristling at the peremptory way he'd swept in and tried to just resume his stand as head of the family without bothering to try and understand the different dynamics now at play; but she's still glad he's apparently tried to mend the fence with Jon. He does not try and approach her, even though they all have breakfast together in Father's old solar, which Robb has apparently taken as his own bedroom. Sansa and Theon, it transpires, have moved themselves into Robb's old bedroom and they're using the old Lord's bedchamber as some kind of joint headquarters between Sansa and Robb.
Whatever else Sansa told Robb when he'd turned up, he'd obviously taken her story about the White Walker's absolutely seriously. He's getting ready for war, and Jon is immediately pressed into a war council with the pair of them, to tell all he knows about fighting undead ice demons. She refuses to join them.
"I don't know a damned thing about war," she says bluntly when Robb tries to insist she'd be welcome. "And I sure as the hells don't know anything about negotiating with Lords to send armies. Just tell me the pertinents. I'm going to go and practise." She's closing the door when Robb turns to Jon to ask "practise what" and elects to leave before Robb can be told and start having several fits.
She swings Needle around a bit before deciding she wants something more focused, more challenging. One of the men who turned up with Robb loans her a bow and arrows when she insists he do so, but fairly speedily vanishes when, annoyed by his almost nervous hovering, she asks if he's hanging around because he wishes to be the target.
It's been far too long since she practised this. She can hit the bulls-eye, but only if she pulls back and then takes several deep breaths - too long a time to aim. Tom from the Brotherhood had always warned her about that. Enemy won't just stand there waiting. Shoot fast or don't bother at all. She keeps practising, forcing herself to allow only one deep breath before she looses the arrows.
It's been several attempts before she allows herself a growl of frustration over how poor her efforts are.
"Start pulling back before you raise the bow fully." The voice makes her jump, having believed herself alone other than the occasional passing guard. She looked behind her - and saw Theon, of all people, withdrawing back into the shadowy horse stall. She smiles tentatively at him.
"Er - like this, do you mean?" she asks, pulling the string back without an arrow in it as she raises it to her face. He nods hesitantly, edging forward again. Seeing the state of him makes her gut twist as she compares this Theon with the old Theon - confidence verging on cockiness, always running his mouth - and she struggles to keep her voice and manner neutral.
"Touch your mouth too. With your thumb." He's lost her now.
"Can you - would you show me?" Theon pales a little, shakes his head frantically - and starts retreating again. Cursing to herself, Arya puts a hand out towards him. He reminds her of a frightened kitten - no sudden movements, she suddenly thinks, remembering how she'd once chased cats around King's Landing. "I'm sorry," she says. "Did I say something wrong?" In answer, Theon removes his hands from where he's tucked them into his armpits and Arya can't stop the wince when she sees them. She hangs the bow off the arrow stand and turns to him, her hands open and in front of her to show him they're empty. Approaching him slowly so she doesn't spook him, she takes his hands in her own - and whilst he flinches a little, he doesn't stop her or pull them back. His hands are freezing under her own.
Both his little fingers are missing, the third and second on his right hand - the hand he'd pull a bow with, she realises - are too short and twisted into the bargain. The thumb on his left hand is also gone. She looks from his hands to his face. He's staring at the ground, all his old pride is nowhere to be seen. The same fierce protectiveness she feels for Sansa rears up in her, and she feels a renewed rush of hateful fury for Bolton.
"I cut off his hands first," she tells Theon, her voice as quiet as she can make it. "Bolton, I mean."
"D - did you?" Theon stammers, casting a nervous, darting glance at her before looking away again.
"Yes. He did this, I suppose?" Theon nods.
"For disobeying," he says, in a thin, broken voice. Arya gives an incoherent growl of rage, she can't help it - and Theon flinches again.
"I'm not angry with you," she hurries to say, tightening her grip on his poor, mangled fingers. "Never with you."
"Sorry," Theon mutters. "Sorry, sorry, stupid Reek -" She does the only thing she can think of to do. She yanks him into a hug against her, draws his head down to her shoulder. He goes limp, drops to his knees - and she goes with him. As soon as she's in such a position as to be slightly taller than he is, he burrows against her, shaking in her arms.
"Your name," she says, her voice not quite steady, "is Theon Greyjoy. Not Reek. Never Reek. Never feel you have to apologise for me for having reactions you can't help." A broken sob issues from the face buried in her jerkin.
"He - he hurt me every day, Arya," Theon mumbles. "Now I'm useless. He broke my hands so I'd never hold a bow or a sword again, he hurt my feet so I can't run or even walk easily. He made me useless as a man." Her heart breaks a little and she can't bear it.
"Let me see your hands again?" she asks, shakily. "Please?" He pulls back enough to show her and she takes them, running her fingers over the twisted joints of his fingers, and the relatively whole fingers of his left hand. "Could you - your left hand is better than your right," she says, trying not to shove her feet into anything too sensitive. "Perhaps you could relearn to shoot using that hand on the string? Could you grip the bow with your right hand - as you do still have the thumb there?" Theon shrugs a little helplessly.
"I - I don't know."
"Why don't we try?" she suggests gently. His eyes widen a little.
"I - I am not permitted weapons, weapons are for men not for Reek - sorry," he whispers, looking at her with frightened eyes, obviously remembering her insistence that his name is Theon.
"You're not in trouble," she says softly, although it galls her to have to reassure him that nobody is going to hurt him for making mistakes. "You don't need to apologise." She racks her brains to think of what to say about the weapons. "Theon, do you think if someone kills someone else, the killer is the stronger?"
"Yes, unless they're a coward." Father used to say that. The thought is so powerful it nearly snatches the breath out of her lungs.
"Exactly," she says, her heart pounding. "Then that makes me stronger than Bolton, doesn't it?" Theon nods hesitantly, confusion all over his frightened face. "Well, I say you are a man - and you can bloody well have weapons if you want them," she says. To her absolute astonishment, she sees Theon's lips twitch in the very beginnings of a smile.
"Alright," he whispers. "Can I try?"
His grip is a little loose, he can't quite manage to pull the string all the way back - but he can do it. She beams at him.
"You did it!"
"I - I didn't have the grip -" he starts nervously.
"No, not yet," she says, determined to encourage him. "But that's strength, Theon, not skill. If you built it up, you'd have it. You need to eat more," she says firmly. "And perhaps you could talk to the Maester? Perhaps he can do something for your hands? Or give you some exercises, perhaps?" When he looks very nervously at her, she adds what she hopes will be the clincher. "I could come with you? Do all the talking? And Sansa could come too?" He nods hesitantly.
"If you want me to?" It's a question.
"Never mind what I want. Is it what you want? You're allowed to say no, Theon. You can always say no." His eyes widen, almost as if he hadn't even considered that as an option.
"Then - then - can I think about it?" She nods immediately. Before she can speak again, he does so - and his voice is the tiniest shade stronger. "Can - can I show you what I meant about touching your mouth?" he asks.
"Of course!" she says, beaming. "Just move me around as you like." She pulls the bow back, he tentatively pushes her hand so the bend in her thumb touches the very corner of her mouth. He pushes her elbow down too, so her forearm is in a straight line, running parallel to the ground instead of up in the air at an angle.
"Now - you try," he says, taking a little step back. "Inhale as you pull back, exhale as you shoot." It's not the bullseye - but it's the very edge of it. She gapes in surprise.
When she turns back to Theon, he's gone. Still, she can't help but think she made damn good progress today, and it eases some of the hot, tight feeling in her chest as she collects up her arrows. She's still practising when a guard - one of Robb's comes rushing over to her.
"Lady Arya -"
"Not Lady!" she snaps.
"My apologies, ma'am," the guard pants. "But there's a party on the road to Winterfell - they're Wildlings, I think -" Tormund, she realises at once, and takes off running to the top of the gatehouse to the guard post. She squints against the wind and fancies she can just about make out Tormund's fiery red beard.
"Let them in, and inform my brother's and sister that we have visitors," she says shortly. "Tell Jon Tormund is here," she adds for good measure. "He'll understand."
She's in the courtyard when they come in, and she recognises Davos and Tormund. She glances round for Jon, Robb or Sansa but sees no sign of them, so takes it upon herself to be the welcoming party.
"Ser Davos," she bellows over the noise and chaos of the arrival. "Tormund!" Both of them look up at her greeting, and Tormund charges forward with a grin all over his face. He sure as hell doesn't try to bow, or call her my lady or do anything but sweep her off her feet in a big bear hug. She laughs at him.
"Little spearwife," he says solemnly, setting her back down. "You taken good care of him?" She shrugs nonchalantly.
"Well I haven't seen him in a few days but I assume he's still alive," she quips. Tormund grins.
"Good girl."
"I sent for him," she tells him and Davos, who's listening keenly too. "He should be here -"
"Davos! Tormund!" It's Jon's voice, and Arya steps aside to allow them to do some manly back slapping. She spies a flash of Sansa's hair on the walkway and goes up to her, leaving Jon and an uncertainly hovering Robb - who follows her with his eyes - to it.
"Hello," Sansa says softly, watching the babble in the courtyard with keen eyes. "So - those are Wildlings?" she asks, and Arya grabs onto the conversation starter happily.
"Not all of them," she answers. "The man in the black with the grey beard? That's Ser Davos Seaworth - he was Stannis Baratheon's man. And then everyone in the grey furs are Wildlings, yes."
"Do you know them all?" Sansa asks curiously, her eyes sweeping over the group below her.
"Not by name, but by sight," she answers. "I know Tormund best - the one with the red hair. Just as a head's up, he'll tell you you've been kissed by fire at some point. Possibly several times." Sansa smiles faintly.
"Because of my hair?"
"Yes."
"Why do you know Tormund best?" Sansa asks, looking a little more relaxed.
"I used to spar with him at Castle Black. He was the only one who could put me on my arse."
"I'd like to see that," Sansa says drily.
"Oh thanks, I love you too," Arya returns, grinning. They fall into silence for a moment, watching Jon introduce Robb. It's Sansa who breaks it.
"Father would be proud of us," she says quietly. "Of all of us. We've all changed so much but we've all survived. We're ready to defend the North and her people. He'd be proud of what we're doing here."
"I hope so," Arya answers quietly.
"I have to believe he would," Sansa adds. Arya glances at her.
"Sansa," she asks, tentatively. "Can you help me with something?"
"Anything," Sansa says at once, turning to her. Arya takes a deep breath.
"It's about Theon." She explains what happened at the archery targets. "It's his hands," she finishes. "I think he can relearn to shoot using his opposing stance, but we need to work on his grip. He didn't seem too keen on seeing the Maester but - I want to help him."
"What did you have in mind?" Sansa asks. She's long since stopped watching the men still milling about the courtyard.
"We need to feed him up, obviously - feed both of you up. And he needs to be dressed more warmly - and that's where you come in." Arya takes a very deep breath then. There was a time, not so long ago, when she would have preferred to jump off the gatehouse head-first rather than ask this. "I want to help make him a few things but the only thing I've ever sewed up properly was a gash in someone's leg. Can you teach me how to sew?"