A Vow Without Honor

The Confession

Arya

She hated the Eyrie.

It wasn't like hating anywhere else. In King's Landing, she'd at least had her water dancing and Syrio. On the run, she'd always had Gendry at her side, and Hot Pie, and Jory. In Riverrun, she could easily outrun all the servants who tried to put her in dresses.

But there was no hiding in the Eyrie. It was cold and tiny and every movement she made echoed across the empty halls. When she wasn't locked up in her room, she was under guard, and stuffed into a dress so thick and layered that she could scarcely move.

And she wasn't Arya Stark anymore.

They'd gone and named her Brynna, the bastard daughter of Brynden Tully, sent to the Eyrie to keep her safe from the Freys. It was an ugly name, and reminded her more of Myra's direwolf than anything. But she played along anyway. She'd been Arry once, and Weasel. She could be Brynna too.

The moments she hated the most were when her aunt Lysa forced her to 'play' with her cousin, Robert. Sweetrobin, she called him, but she'd never seen a viler child. He demanded everything she had. Whenever she took interest in one activity, he made certain it became his, and cried and screamed until she gave it to him. The first time, she left him to it and he'd began to shake and froth at the mouth. Lysa had cuffed her for that. Niece or not, she'd have her thrown out the Moon Door if she harmed her son again.

Arya was rapidly beginning to hate this place more than Harrenhal.

The only thing keeping her from going completely mad were her late-night ventures.

Over the days they had been in the Eyrie, Arya had managed to sneak clothing into her possession, simple servant's clothes that helped her blend in around the kitchen. She'd memorized the route the guards took and when they changed shifts, taking advantage of the momentary disarray to sneak through the darkened halls.

The Eyrie was small compared to other places, but densely packed as well, halls circling around one another in ways that left her dizzy. She'd experimented several times, trying to find her way down into the lower levels, and had found herself at several dead ends or in the clutches of a night guard. But eventually, she found herself in the undercroft of the Eyrie, where a bare bones smithy was kept.

"Most of the work is done at the Gates of the Moon," Gendry had explained to her one night. They often snuck into the kitchens and kept warm by the fire. The servants didn't seem to mind, so long as they kept out of the way. "The one up here is too small to do any large pieces. I think it's here in case the castle gets surrounded. I've made a goblet or two, but mostly I've been doing heavy lifting for the steward."

"Must be nice," Arya said, pulling her knees up. "Everywhere we go, there's something nice for you. And I'm back to wearing dresses and pretending to be a lady."

"There's a lot of people out there who'd rather wear a dress and never have to work again."

"But that's not me."

The days began to blur together, a series of repetition. By day, she was Brynna Rivers, by night, Arya Stark. It scared her, the possibility of this going on for years. The Eyrie was hardly somewhere they could escape from. Even when they went to the Gates of the Moon for winter, they were in the middle of the mountains. There were only so many places to run, and nowhere to hide.

She felt trapped, and it was gnawing away at her, slowly yet surely.

"Is it true?" she asked another evening. Gendry was lying on a bench in the kitchens, pretending to be asleep, but she knew better. He always made a funny little sigh before drifting off.