The Long Road Home, Interrupted - The Vale of Arryn
Arya did not like the Eyrie. It was too high, too rocky, too lost in the crowds. After a childhood in Winterfell, and so many past weeks on the road north...Arya felt lost and exposed up here in the clouds, with no trees over her head.
She did not like her aunt Lysa either, the woman was a hysterical, gaunt and stern shadow of her sister, Arya's mother. She had the Tully hair, and look, but there was no warmth in her gaze or embrace. She regarded her neices with far less affection than might have been expected or hoped, but Sansa hadn't seemed to mind. Her sister had fallen into the lap of care and luxury gratefully, so happy to be fed and clean and protected again, that she almost seemed to have forgotten their ordeal.
Arya wanted to hate her for it, wanted to grab her by the hair and drag her back down the mountain where she had been Sansa, her sister, not just Sansa of Winterfell.
Their aunt had seemed welcoming enough to Sansa, but Arya had been another matter. She'd taken one look at the filthy girlyboychild with the wicked sword and blood on her cheek claiming to be her niece, and instsntly sent Arya off to be scrubbed back into a girl.
There hadn't been much they could do with her hair, but trim it into an even shape, short as it was. The handmaids had despaired over the cut on her cheek, which was threatoning to scar, but Arya didn't care. Arya didn't want to be a girl, not the kind of girl Sansa was, she'd seen what happened to girls. In Fleabottom, and heard in whispers. She was better off a wolf, she though.
But they'd cleaned her, and stuffed her into a gown befitting her stature, ad given her back to her Aunt like some kind of doll. Her Aunt, Lysa, had taken Needle from her, tutting and saying it was unsafe and unseemly for a young lady of high birth. This...ungainly skeleton of a Lady had done with one order what Arya had bled men for trying, she'd taken her sword like it was nothing. And Arya hated her.
No better was her cousin Robin, Sweetrobin, his mother called him, a pale soft boy always seeming to be leaking some kind of bodily fluid. He was Bran's age but no bigger than Rickon, and he'd decided Arya was there to be his new playmate.
One day when he tugged at her dress once too many she'd hit him. More of a push, really, but he'd gone down on his rump and wailed forh is mother. Lysa had slapped Arya, and called her a wild thing, and sent her away without dinner. Arya didn't care that her cheek stung as she slept on it thtat night. She was wild now, she decided, she should run away, back to the woods and the road and more importantly, north. But wha home was winterfell now? She wondered. Their father dead, and Jon at the wall, and their mother and Robb south for war while Bran would never run with her again?
Maybe she would just go wild, with the wolves at the Gods Eye. Maybe she'd find Nymeria, and myabe she wouldn't hate Arya after all.
But all such thoughts ended abruptly when her door creaked open.
She did not like her aunt Lysa either, the woman was a hysterical, gaunt and stern shadow of her sister, Arya's mother. She had the Tully hair, and look, but there was no warmth in her gaze or embrace. She regarded her neices with far less affection than might have been expected or hoped, but Sansa hadn't seemed to mind. Her sister had fallen into the lap of care and luxury gratefully, so happy to be fed and clean and protected again, that she almost seemed to have forgotten their ordeal.
Arya wanted to hate her for it, wanted to grab her by the hair and drag her back down the mountain where she had been Sansa, her sister, not just Sansa of Winterfell.
Their aunt had seemed welcoming enough to Sansa, but Arya had been another matter. She'd taken one look at the filthy girlyboychild with the wicked sword and blood on her cheek claiming to be her niece, and instsntly sent Arya off to be scrubbed back into a girl.
There hadn't been much they could do with her hair, but trim it into an even shape, short as it was. The handmaids had despaired over the cut on her cheek, which was threatoning to scar, but Arya didn't care. Arya didn't want to be a girl, not the kind of girl Sansa was, she'd seen what happened to girls. In Fleabottom, and heard in whispers. She was better off a wolf, she though.
But they'd cleaned her, and stuffed her into a gown befitting her stature, ad given her back to her Aunt like some kind of doll. Her Aunt, Lysa, had taken Needle from her, tutting and saying it was unsafe and unseemly for a young lady of high birth. This...ungainly skeleton of a Lady had done with one order what Arya had bled men for trying, she'd taken her sword like it was nothing. And Arya hated her.
No better was her cousin Robin, Sweetrobin, his mother called him, a pale soft boy always seeming to be leaking some kind of bodily fluid. He was Bran's age but no bigger than Rickon, and he'd decided Arya was there to be his new playmate.
One day when he tugged at her dress once too many she'd hit him. More of a push, really, but he'd gone down on his rump and wailed forh is mother. Lysa had slapped Arya, and called her a wild thing, and sent her away without dinner. Arya didn't care that her cheek stung as she slept on it thtat night. She was wild now, she decided, she should run away, back to the woods and the road and more importantly, north. But wha home was winterfell now? She wondered. Their father dead, and Jon at the wall, and their mother and Robb south for war while Bran would never run with her again?
Maybe she would just go wild, with the wolves at the Gods Eye. Maybe she'd find Nymeria, and myabe she wouldn't hate Arya after all.
But all such thoughts ended abruptly when her door creaked open.