Chapter Text
"Arya..." Bran murmured in his sleep, not for the first time. "Arya."
Catelyn felt her heart seize at the sound. Her son and daughter had been parted from each other some time ago. But she was in Bran's thoughts constantly. He, like everyone else, was worried for her.
But he was sure that she was alive. He could not explain why, he said. But he was sure.
Catelyn believed him, mostly because she had to believe him. She would not consider the alternative.
She swallowed hard and continued her work on her protection wreath. It was busy work for her. Just another attempt at prayer for her daughters. A prayer that they would not meet the same fate as Tailisa.
"Arya..." Bran whispered again in his sleep. "White and red..."
"Shh," Catelyn murmured, resting a hand over his. She felt only three fingers against her palm. He had lost two to the Boltons. She wished she could cut off Ramsay Bolton's fingers in payment. "Sleep, Bran. She'll be all right."
He stirred again, though his eyes did not open. "The woods...Summer."
Summer was out hunting. Catelyn wished he would return soon. Bran always slept better with the wolf at his side. She exhaled, wondering if she would wake Bran from his dream.
"Arya is... in the woods..." he murmured. "Summer."
And then his eyes snapped open, rolling back in his head until only the whites were visible. Catelyn leapt to her feet, grasping his shoulder. "Bran."
He did not wake. He did not look at her. Instead he repeated the same words.
"Arya is in the woods."
Arya dreamed that she was a wolf. A wolf on the hunt. She dreamed she raced through the woods, lusting for the blood of Bolton men. In the darkness, they did not see her until it was too late. She leapt at them from behind, knocking off their helmets as they fell. She crushed their necks with her jaws. Then retreated back into the darkness.
There was no moon. Just pure night for miles and miles. But her eyes could see and her nose guided her. She struck at soldier after soldier. She tore at arms and legs and throats. She tasted their blood in her mouth.
It was a blessing to feel this strong again. She was beginning to feel like a helpless child locked up in that room. This dream was a reminder. A reminder that she was a fighter. A warrior.
A wolf.
The spear of a man bit into her hind quarters as she lunged at him. She ignored the pain. She pinned him to the ground easily. As a wolf, she was not so small and fragile. She was stronger than any other creature for miles.
He cried out for help and mercy, but Arya would not give him either. She snapped her jaws around his throat and bit down hard. She let the blood seep across her tongue and she felt him die.
She wished Ramsay was in this dream. How she would have loved to tear him to bits as well.
Nearby, she heard howls from other wolves. She whipped around as another soldier came at her, but he was knocked down by an even larger wolf. Greywind. And further behind him, she saw Summer racing through the trees, blood on his maw.
Arya would have smiled if a wolf could smile. She was with her pack in this dream. It was nice not to be alone. She had been alone for too long.
The last of the soldiers fell and his horse squealed and retreated. Bolton blood painted the snow red. She threw back her head and howled at the night sky. Her brother's howled with her.
In the back of her mind, Arya knew she might never wake. But if this was her last dream...it was not such a bad dream to have.
Robb awoke on the ground, sweating through his furs. He had dreamed...he had dreamed he was a wolf. It wasn't the first time but it had felt so real. He clasped his head between his hands and breathed in deeply.
He was in the Wolfswood fighting with a pack, killing Bolton men without mercy. It had been a good dream. Exactly the kind of release he needed after everything that had happened. And he was sure he saw Arya there. She was nearly dead but she had been lying face down in the snow still breathing.
For a moment, Robb wondered if she might have escaped.
No.
He dismissed such a hopeful thought. It would be a miracle for her to make it to the woods. And miracles did not happen in this world, especially not to the Starks.
It was a cruel hope. Nothing more.
"A dream," he murmured into his hand. "Just a dream."
There were wolves howling in the night. Sansa could hear them even from the darkness of the crypt. The children could hear them too. Lyanna smiled at the sound and stretched her hand toward the ceiling.
"Wolf," she whispered reverently. It was one of the only words she knew, and she chanted it often. But at least, Sansa had taught her to speak softly. They could not risk raising their voices.
The baby was the most difficult to keep quiet. Little Ben so desperately wanted his mother. He cried for her and every time he did, Sansa rocked him and pleaded for him to be silent. Little Ned had started to help her when she was at her wits end.
"Hush, Ben," he told his brother. "Hush. We need to be quiet. Mommy will be back soon. But it's important we be quiet."
They would have died down there in the first week if not for their preparations beforehand. Sansa had moved a small supply of food into the crypt when she prepared for the siege. She had also arranged for Little Ben's wet nurse to seclude herself there when the siege began, along with the children. She was the one keeping Ben fed when Tailisa could not.
But still they would have been captured by now if not for their other helpers. Brienne and Shaggy Dog killed any stray guards that happened to enter the crypts. Maester Luwin, one of the few who had been allowed to live, continued to bring more supplies when he could, along with updates from the outside.
And Osha had been the most useful of all. She had misdirected the Boltons. She said that the children had been sent away days before the siege because Sansa had predicted the Boltons would come. They had believed her. And why not? What reason would a captive wildling woman have to lie for her captors?
But for all of those good things...there was still the loss of Tailisa.
"Where's mother?" little Ned asked Sansa often. "When will she be here?"
"Soon," Sansa murmured, because she could not bear to tell them the truth yet. Ned asked the same question to Maester Luwin when he first stole into the crypts.
"Have you seen mother? Where is she? Will she come soon?"
Maester Luwin, to his credit, was good at hiding the truth with a soft, warm expression. "Later, Ned. She'll come later."
After the children had finally settled into sleep, Maester Luwin told Sansa what they had done with Tailisa's body. She was hanging over the ramparts of Winterfell, flayed and broken. Ramsay Bolton had done it, naturally, to strike out at Robb, who had arrived the day before. Maester Luwin said he had nearly toppled from his horse in grief but managed to stay strong. The news sent an awful numbness through Sansa. The same numbness she felt when she was forced to look at her father's head. How must Robb feel when he had to look on his wife's corpse?
I should have insisted she go to the crypts earlier, Sansa thought. Then she would still be alive.
She tried to keep herself cheerful for the children. She told them that they would not have to hide forever and that soon their father would save them. Robb was fighting as they spoke. And when he was victorious they could come out and see him again.
She bore the burden of the bad news on her own. Talisa's death. Robb's reaction when he saw her. The Bolton's plan to marry Arya to Ramsay Bolton. She took it all in while her niece and nephews slept, then put on a smile for them when they woke.
They believed her smile, of course. They did not know enough of the world to understand that their father could die as well. Sansa had been the same way once. She thought her whole family was invincible.
"Lady Sansa."
Sansa jumped as Maester Luwin's voice came from the darkness.
"I'm sorry," he murmured. "Were you sleeping?"
"I rarely sleep," Sansa said. "Good news or bad?"
"Good. I think." Maester Luwin murmured. "Arya has escaped the castle. She was meant to wed Ramsay tonight. She killed her guards and ran. They haven't found her yet."
Sansa let out a breath. The good news was such a relief. Of course Arya had not gone quietly into such a match. She had always been such a fierce girl. A fighter. Perhaps she would find Robb before the Boltons caught her again.
Perhaps she would die before she reached him. It was impossible to tell.
"She'll make it," she murmured, more for herself than anyone else. "She has to make it."
"I'm sure she will," Maester Luwin said.
Sansa looked up at him. "Do you think Robb will win this war? Truly."
"He has the Lannisters on his side," Maester Luwin said. "He does have a chance. But the Boltons and their allies have a rather large army. And Robb's forces have diminished. I saw them from the battlements. The siege at the Twins must have taken many of his men."
"So that's a maybe?" Sansa asked.
"Yes. A maybe."
"I'm getting tired of maybes. I miss certainties."
"Better an uncertain future than a certain defeat," Maester Luwin murmured.
Sansa nodded once. "Thank you...Maester. For risking your life for us. We would be dead without your help."
"You don't need to thank me Sansa," Maester Luwin murmured. "I pulled you from your mother at birth. I pulled these three children from their mother as well. I would gladly die to see you live on."
"Don't die," Sansa murmured. "Too many people from the old days are dead. You cannot join them."
Maester Luwin smiled softly. "As you command, my lady."
The wolves started howling again. Lyanna set bolt upright, a smile on her face.
"Wolf," she chanted into the darkness. "Wolf."
Sansa hoped that there were many wolves outside the gates of Winterfell. And she hoped, with all of her heart, that they would tear the Boltons to pieces.
This whole situation was a bloody fucking mess. Jaime had seen his fair share of rebellions and wars in his lifetime, and not one of them had been simple. It was never a matter of one side fighting another. It was always a matter of betrayals, and back stabbing and internal conflict. And in the case of this conflict: a civil war that would leave a scar on the north no matter the outcome.
Ned Stark's death had left a crack in the north. A crack that started the first Northern rebellion. Claiming that there was peace did not prevent the creep of the fissures in every which direction. Now the whole north seemed to have shattered into tiny bits.
Robb Stark was a casualty of this conflict. Not his body but his soul. His wife was dead, and likely his children too. Jaime had seen them at Winterfell some months ago-innocent little ones who had no concept of war or death.
Even if they were still alive, their futures were bleak. If Robb moved on the castle...perhaps their bodies would join Talisa's on the ramparts.
Jaime sympathized with the man. Robb had not wanted to step into this role so young. He was handed a damaged, blood thirsty country that crowned him as a king. What large shoes he had been asked to fill. Only seventeen years old and he was meant to lead a successful rebellion against Tywin Lannister, the most feared man in the realms.
His bannermen had pinned all of their hopes on a concept-an ideal-and they were disappointed when Robb turned out to be a man like any other.
It was a dangerous thing, to realize a king was just a man. Men could be killed. Men could be overthrown. King Aerys had once been more than a man to Jaime. All of the Targaryens were. They were like gods who could not be touched. Then he drove a sword through his back and saw him bleed. And die.
There was no certainty in kings anymore. Or the power of a good name. It was only his father's sheer force of will that kept the Lannister name strong. When he died, the west might crack as well. Jaime was expected to succeed his father, like Robb was expected to succeed his. And already Jaime knew he couldn't do it. He was nothing like his father at all.
Father would have been better off naming Tyrion his heir, Jaime thought as he stared at the map in his tent. Tyrion could move mountains if he was given the chance. I'll be lucky if I can keep the mountains standing. I am going to fail him.
He was saved from thinking too long on this depressing notion when a soldier swept into his tent. One of the scouts he had sent to patrol the woods. The man was white as a sheet and breathing hard. "Ser...you need to come quickly."
"What is it?" Jaime asked.
"We found...a girl in the woods," the man replied. "And a wolf."
It was one of the strangest sights that Jaime had ever seen. For a moment he thought he might be in a dream. A dozen Bolton bodies were scattered through the trees, along with a few horses, most of them missing limbs and throats. Their blood had stained the snow a bright red. In the center of the massacre stood a wolf the size of a lion, barring its teeth in warning. And beneath the wolf, lay a girl.
Arya, Jaime thought. A breath left him. It seemed impossible but then...he knew it was her. She must have escaped the castle somehow-thrown herself from the walls-only to be attacked by a dire wolf.
No. Not attacked. Jaime shook his head. The wolf was defending her. Its growl was like that of a mother defending its pup, and every time a Lannister soldier stepped closer, it snapped its jaws and forced them back.
There were plenty of stories about the Starks direwolves. They said it was fate that they should find five abandoned pups in the woods, one for each of the Stark children. Jaime did not truly believe in fate, but he had seen Robb Stark's direwolf in action. The beast had killed as many men as Robb, perhaps more. And it seemed to obey his will more loyally than any normal dog.
But Arya...Arya had been separated from her wolf for nearly five years. It was impossible that the creature would remember her and protect her.
And yet...
Jaime shook his head and focused on Arya again. There was blood beneath her on the snow. The white dress she wore was in tatters from her flight from Winterfell. If she wasn't dead, then she was badly wounded.
"That's Arya Stark," Jaime said at last. "We need to get her back to camp at once. She's injured."
"The wolf won't let us close, ser," one man said. "Shall we shoot it?"
"No," Jaime said. He doubted Arya would forgive him for that. "Back away. Lower your weapons."
"Ser?" the men seemed confused by this order. Jaime wasn't sure of it himself, but he needed to try something.
"You heard me," Jaime said. "Weapons away."
The men obeyed and stepped away from the wolf. Amazingly, the creature seemed to relax a bit, closing its mouth over its sharp teeth. It still watched warily.
Alright. Time to do something very stupid, Jaime thought. He returned his sword to its sheath. Then he took a careful step toward the wolf.
It fixed its eyes on him, a growl sounding from the back of its throat. He held out his golden hand, hoping to calm the beast. If the creature snapped at him, at least its teeth would close on metal instead of flesh. "It's alright," he murmured. "I'm not a threat to her. But she needs help. She'll bleed out if she stays here."
The wolf stared right back at him. Seven hells, Jaime felt ridiculous. What was he doing trying to reason with a wolf?
"Nymeria is your name, isn't it? She mentioned it once," Jaime said. "You must care about her...if you're protecting her after all of this time. And I must be the biggest fool alive because I'm talking to you like you can hear me."
The wolf stared. Blinked. And then-incredibly-stepped away from Arya and retreated to the tree line.
"Fuck," Jaime muttered. "I can't believe that worked."
He hurried to Arya's side then, rolling her over onto her back. There were two deep gashes in each of her sides and an arrow halfway through her right shoulder. Her face was gaunt, like one who had been half starved, and her eyes were rolled back in her head, leaving only the whites visible. For a moment, Jaime thought she was already dead. Then she drew in a sudden breath, her irises snapping back into view. She gripped Jaime's arm, digging her fingers in so hard that he thought she might break through to his skin. Only eight fingers. He was distinctly aware of that. The panic on her face was evident.
"It's alright," Jaime said as gently as he could. "It's me. It's only me. You're safe now."
"Jaime," Arya's eyes focused on him for the briefest moment. Then she went limp again. Not dead. Just unconscious.
Jaime lifted her into his arms. "Bring me my horse! Quickly!"
His men hurried to obey and Jaime laid her carefully over the saddle. If someone did not see to her soon, she would die without question. He swung onto the saddle and urged the horse into a gallop back toward camp.
Arya's wolf followed closed behind.