fight like gods. asoiaf

TWENTY EIGHT/ TWENTY NINE/ THIRTY

XXVIII
LUCELLA
"the fall of the wolf"
⚜️

If Sansa minded what it might look like with Lucella walking beside her, she didn't show it. Lucella didn't complain. With the Stark girls around her, the Red Keep was beginning to look different, wider and brighter, as she had never seen it before. The gardens seemed filled with life, a lush escape, where before they had merely been a means to get to the kitchens quicker, a rotting pathway amongst too fragrant breeds.

Sansa seemed fascinated by such flowers. The interest made Lucella thoughtful, thinking of them in a way she never had wanted to. They were different in the North, Sansa had said, pointing out colours of flowers she had never seen before, the movement making Lucella smile. She spoke of Glass Gardens and cool chilled windows and great, relentless vines of emerald green, of sitting there with her direwolf, reading her tales of knights and princesses.

The mention of Lady made her quiet, her face turning away completely as a pang of guilt settled in Lucella's stomach. She wanted nothing more than to shout 'Lady lives! I saved her myself!', but Lucella knew better than that. Ned Stark had said nothing of an escaped direwolf. It seemed too that he thought it better everyone thought Lady was dead.

The sound of Arya's frustrated shout brought Sansa back to the present again. She was chasing a black cat, a beast that always seemed able to evade Arya's grasping claws, no matter how good the girl became and how many pampered tomcats and wily strays she managed to entrap as a trophy. It almost seemed to be taunting her.

"So you did say Arya was chasing cats!" Sansa said, the realisation blooming suddenly on her face, cheeks flushing with an origin that Lucella could not discern. They had not been talking of the feast, but Sansa seemed to have been thinking of it anyway. "What is she doing?"

"Her dance teacher says it keeps her light on her feet."

"My dance teacher never told me to chase cats," Sansa argued, lips pursed in a pout.

"Your dance teacher would have been prudishly northern."

Lucella had met Syrio Forel only briefly. The water dancer had spouted out some metaphor of animals and weapons that Lucella had not understood, and as Arya took to prouncing about with her skinny sword again, she had taken her leave swiftly.

"And what's wrong with that?"

Sansa almost looked as if she might fold her arms and turn her nose up, but she merely raised her brow and held her chin strongly at level. Lucella shrugged, suddenly feeling at a loss for words beneath the Lady's firm gaze.

"Nothing, little wolf," she said, shaking her head. "I meant nothing by that at all."

They were of similar heights, and the Lady's stare cut through Lucella like a knife. Sansa opened her mouth to say something but was interrupted by a shout.

"Lady Sansa, Lady Arya-"

Arya stopped her running and jumped down to stand beside her sister. "Don't call me-"

The glare Sansa produced made Arya stop mid-sentence. Lucella didn't need to be told to stay quiet. The look on the Northern man's face spoke at great lengths without him needing to utter a word. Her lips were sewn straight, his eyes squinting with pressure.

"What is it, Alyn?"

"It's your Lord father," he began, unsure of his words. "There's been an incident. It's best you come to him."

The Stark girls only needed to share a look to begin walking in unison after Alyn. Lucella said nothing, but watched over them like a loyal hound, and when their figures were no longer distinct in her eye sight, rushed herself away to find her brother.

XXIX
SANSA
"the tears of the wolf"
⚜️

Her father looked so pale, laying against the dark sheets of his bed, too thick and northern to ever be suitable for the south. They were soft and warm as she snuggled down beside him, resting her head against his chest. Sansa could hear his heartbeat, a soft gentle rhythm that made her thoughts drift to when she was little and she and Robb would sit on their father's lap and listen to his voice until they fell asleep.

She thought, if she stayed long enough by his side, if she stared long enough without blinking, that he might wake. That his wounds might miraculously heal and his hurt might seep away. She could see it on his face, even in sleep, that his leg pained him. Sansa reached her small fingers upwards and pressed her tip against the space between his eyebrows, smoothing away the stress line.

After a while, when his eyes had not yet opened, Sansa wept. She cried so hard that her skin felt like sandpaper after, the tears drying rough against her cheeks, eyes glistening a terrible red. The sobs came out so loud that Arya pressed her ears against their father's chest so she wouldn't hear them.

"But I don't understand. Why would Ser Jaime attack father?"

Ser Jaime, Sansa thought. He was no Ser, not worthy of the brilliant white cloak of the Kingsguard nor the glorious title of knight. The man was evil, his hair no longer beautiful and golden like Joffrey's, but limp and yellow like a dirtied cloth. The image of his perfect knightly picture had withered in her mind. The Kingslayer he was, and like his nephew the Prince, Jaime Lannister was not. Ser Jaime. I hate him. He's nothing like my Joffrey.

Sansa never received an answer.

Arya did not speak. It did not matter. When with their father, Sansa would not have listened anyway. As she lay by his side, her arms lying across him, she folded her hands together and prayed. Prayed that he would wake and smile down at them again. Her father would kiss her head and soothe back her hair and say that they were all alright.

She prayed to the Mother that she would look after him, that the Stranger would not take him away. That the warrior could give her courage and give peace not only to her father who had lived but to Jory and the others who had not. To the smith, she asked for protection and the crone for guidance. She prayed that the Father would judge him justly and that the wisdom to recognise Jaime Lannister's treachery would be present in the Keep.

XXX
ARYA
"the wrath of the wolf"
⚜️

Arya Stark burned with silent rage.

She pictured the Kingslayer standing in front of her, Needle in her hand, point piercing into his skin. She saw Nymeria ripping him apart. Arya imagined her own fingernails scratching into his skin like claws. His face, so similar to Cersei's, seemed to slip into the face of the Queen's, and then her thin blade was spearing into the chest of a golden-haired woman, cutting into the empty space where a beating heart should have been.

The King had dragged himself along to the room that her father had been confined to, looked upon him with an odd sort of expression and then commanded Alyn that he would see Lord Stark the moment he woke. Arya ignored them all, keeping her chin low as she rested against her father's motionless arms. She may as well have pictured Robert Baratheon at the end of Needle too- for what little use the fat oaf was. She hated him. Arya hated them all.

Across from her, similarly sitting with her hands on their father's arms, Sansa was murmuring incoherent words with her eyes closed. Arya wanted to bark at her, to scream that her prayers would do nothing with the Kingslayer still loose and their father still unwoken, but Arya stayed quiet as Sansa mumbled and cried. Tears would do nothing. Not now.

Arya left the room with an exit so swift that her sister didn't notice. It was Alyn who stood by the door, his face young and wrought with grief. The sight made Arya angry. It should have been Jory standing there, guiding her through the Red Keep, comforting her about her father just as he had done with Nymeria. She thought of little Beth, of the small, mousey girl who had followed after Sansa at each chance she could get. Arya wondered how long the news would take to reach Winterfell.

The voices of the Red Keep were loud and echoing, the sound of marching footsteps even louder. There was no sight of Jaime Lannister or his men. She strode through the corridors with a dedicated aim, hearing Needle call out to her. Perhaps it was good that her father was asleep still. He would not have to see her next moves, because Arya's rage was deafening.

Apologies for the wait. This is severely unedited so I'm sorry if it sounds a bit clunky!!