The godswood at Winterfell had always been quiet, Arya remembered.
As she trudged across the leaf-covered ground, boots tromping in snow, she passed by thickets of ash, chestnut, oak and ironwood trees towards the pale branches of the heart tree. Blood-red leaves formed a thick canopy over the heart tree itself, covered on one side by a thick sheet of white. The snow seemed to get deeper around her. She was up to her knees in it now, legs numb and feet frozen through.
Little flakes of snow and ice battered her face as she advanced, a sudden gale blowing against her, pushing her away from the pale trunk of the heart tree. Her hair whipped about her face, her cheeks flushed red in a futile attempt to fight away the worsening chill. She had only a scant dress on, she now noticed, a silken gown of the type she had always imagined she would hate to wear. The cloth was so thin as to almost leave her nude, and did next to nothing to ward away the cold. It was the sort of garment a young bride might choose to don to please her lordly husband.
Why would I ever wear such a stupid thing? Arya asked herself. Where were her furs, her leathers? Where was Needle?
Nevertheless, something about the tree spoke to her; the eerie, still face carved into the wood speaking to her in some indistinct, unmoving tongue. Arya shielded her face and eyes with her forearms as she pushed forwards, suddenly barefoot in the snow. The tree seemed to get further away the further she went, but she didn't stop. Her body was so slight, the wind so strong that she had to lean forwards into the gale, shivering with every step now, still struggling even as she felt the brief panic that came before the cold pierced all the way to her heart and ended her life.
When Arya finally touched the trunk of the tree, the gale disappeared, and she fell face first in the snow. When she arose she was completely bare, the face in the heart tree as still and lifeless and eerie as ever, and in the distance she saw a column of smoke rise. The cold was gone, the gooseflesh that had erupted on her skin flattened to perfect smoothness.
The column grew thicker in the distance, and possessed by a sudden curiosity, Arya ventured forth. She couldn't quite bring herself to venture from the protective shadow the heart tree, the branches stooping over her almost as if to ward her from danger. Yet Arya went as far as she dared, climbing up the side of a snow-covered hill even as the branches of the heart tree seemed to stretch to shield her.
When she scrabbled to the top and peered over the crest of the hill, she saw the cause of the smoke.
Winterfell was aflame.
Men charged at the walls in waves, clad in furs and bones and plate alike, clambering up the walls and being hurled back down from them. Corpses littered the ground, thick as a rich Myrish rug in some places. The stench of death suddenly filled her nostrils. Blood, bile, shit and piss. Fear and rot and hate. The broken tower had seemingly toppled over, the glass gardens had shattered into a thousand tiny pieces. Down the way it seemed as though Wintertown had been entirely flattened.
She awaited the inevitable panic to come, and yet nothing was aroused within her at such a sight. Not a single tear glazed her eyes, not a single shiver shook her limbs, not a single sob slipped past her lips. She observed the chaos coldly; impassive, uncaring.
Here my home is aflame, she thought. But it is not my home, for there must always be a Stark at Winterfell.
"Aye," a hoarse, breathy voice hissed behind her as a pair of spindly, bony, rotten hands grasped her bare shoulders, ice-cold to the touch.
Arya awoke that morning with a scream ripping through her throat. Brienne loomed overhead, hands grasped tight around her shoulders, pinning her to the bed, her brow furrowed in concern. "My lady?" she asked as Arya stopped struggling.
Arya sat unmoving for a moment, and then shook her head. "I'm fine," she immediately insisted, through gasps of air. "Just a nightmare."
Brienne lingered over her for a second more, and then slowly leaned back, easing her bulk off Arya's shivering, sweating form. "Anything you'd wish to speak about or share with me, my lady? In my experience it can help ease one's burdens."
Arya shook her head defiantly. "A good few hours in the yard will ease my burdens plenty enough, Brienne. I need to hit something."
She hauled herself out of bed, feeling sick to her stomach, and hurriedly went to don a fresh pair of breeches and her jerkin and swordbelt, Needle sliding smoothly into it's sheath at her hip. She revelled in the feel of the worn leather of her boots, grateful to not be standing barefoot in the blustering winds. Silently she awaited Brienne, waiting for her to don her armour, almost quivering with impatience.
There were some new entrants into the training yard, Arya noted when she arrived.
A more savage group than the rest, she immediately knew. Ironborn. Their jerkins looked sea-worn, the leather faded. They wore tattered skins and bones atop their mail instead of plate, crudely fashioned to scare instead of stop any true blows.
Brienne demonstrated that well enough on the first day they showed their faces, where they dared to gawp and jape and then challenge her to a bout. Needless to say she beat them black and blue, up and down the muddy length of the yard. The edge of her blade fell like a hammer, and as the men limped away Lyra noted a few limbs clutched in a way as to indicate a break or fracture.
It was an almost aspirational display, the way Brienne moved. There was none of the finesse of Syrio, as she already knew, but there was no savagery either. Here was a woman in control of herself, aiming each blow with lethal intent.
Intent echoed in the eyes of the watchers.
At first they had been hidden from her, and now they lurked out in the open, indistinct faces peering through murder-holes and windows and over parapets and balconies. All day long her hackles lay on the verge of rising. Were they the king's men? Were they Lord Tywin's? Or was there someone else taking an interest?
Does someone know Needle's whispers? Arya thought. It seemed likely. Her appearance had barely been changed. Tommen's lie was a good one, but it was not immune to scrutiny, and she knew all too well just how bloody Kings Landing politics could become. If Baelish could pit wolf against lion and start such a bloody war what could someone with real power do? Lyra wondered.
Not for the first time, Lyra longed for Winterfell. The bitter cold of her dreams was well worth the thought of seeing the old stone walls again, of seeing the broken tower and the First Keep and the godswood and the Glass Gardens. Her chest heaved, heart pounding as she whipped her sword from side-to-side, raising and lowering her guard, darting forwards for a strike and then retreating just as quickly to evade the riposte.
The squires that frequented the yard had learned to respect her in recent weeks, even if she lost more bouts than she won by a large margin. She always gave her all, and suffered bloody lips and bruises without complaint, attacking at times with what one of the boys called a 'savage intent'. She knew better than to trust any of them, but she couldn't help herself from liking them. There were a few bullies and future brigands among them, but most seemed to want to live up the oaths they were due to take, untarnished by the notions of older men.
In short, they seemed as stupid to her as Sansa had been last she'd seen her. It was almost admirable, in a way.
Yet, like always, her smaller frame and slimmer arms gave out only a few hours in, and she left with Brienne behind her just a few hours after entering the yard, filled with no less nervous energy than when she had entered.
At least the aches were soothing. The throbbing pain reminded her that what she saw was real. There were no bony hands on her shoulder, no smoke lingering in the air besides that of cooking fires.
...
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