Winter's Thaw

Beneath the Skin

Arya

Why were so many raven carcasses scattered around the border? Were the people so hungry? It was bad luck to eat crow, everyone knew that. It meant to admit weakness. And the people of the North were superstitious if they were anything.

The approach of horses breaks into her thoughts. There's at least a dozen coming from the direction of home. Tentatively she looks up- soldiers, sellswords, lots of them. 

They wear fur-lined coats, sturdy boots, and ride well-bred horses. They're huge, rough, Northmen. There's one riding in front, at ease on the horse, a beautiful deep black, blaze of white on its nose. The man wears a leather jerkin finer than the others, and his eyes... He was of the North. She knew that much. He exuded power. 

She might have been relieved, her own people, a strong force protecting Winterfell; but it was all dread. The dreams weren't merely about her own guilt, they were warnings. She's sure of it now. 

But it's too late.

The large men quickly surround them, outnumbering them four to one, amused and smug. Lommy guides his horse in position in between Arya and the men; a physical barrier, she reaches for a blade, slowly. But the leader doesn't come for her, he goes straight towards Merilee. Arya is too shocked to speak or move.

"My Lady, welcome home to Winterfell." He shouts, an exaggerated twirl of his wrist meant to mock her. The others laugh; enjoying themselves, uninterested in courtesies. One smiles wide in between chortles and she gets a glimpse of brownish teeth.

The leader, whoever he was, has a genuinely pleased grin on his face. He's not as large as the others, but they all seem to give him a wide berth. He raises an arm, and they fall silent, all expectantly waiting for a reply from whom they believe is Arya Stark. She swallows, gathering her wits and getting her tongue unstuck. It wasn't terribly common for a Lady to wear trousers; she was already imagining the look on his face when she corrects him, only she's interrupted.

"We thank you for the hospitality. But truly, the entourage wasn't necessary." Merilee addresses them, careful to keep her posture upright and her chin jutted forward.

Oh no.

What had she done?

This leader flashes Merilee what is meant to be a charming smile. Merilee had named herself Lady.

Arya does have to admit that the ex-prostitute, wearing an actual dress, holding herself like a Queen, looks more the Lady of Winterfell than she does. Arya was dressed in trousers, never wearing skirts while traveling. And after so many nights filled with horrors, she'd had little sleep, making her look weathered. Merilee still managed to look fresh as a daisy; thanks in large part to her use of Arya's tent during their travels.

The others stare at Merilee as if she's grown a second head, but do not refute her claim. Why didn't they? Why wasn't she? Did they think her a coward? Was she?

Gods damn.

"Oh, but I insist. I wanted to welcome you home in style, My Lady." He continues to grin, holding out his palm for Merilee to place her hand in. She does, reluctantly, and he succinctly kisses her knuckles. As she pulls her hand back, he laughs; causing the others to parrot his excitement.

One word. Well, three words. The truth could be out there, she could face this man as her full self. Demand answers and respect, his expulsion from the castle, and a renunciation of his position. 

And when in the history of Westeros had that ever worked?

She burns a hole in the back of Merilee's neck, willing her to look down and meet her gaze. But she doesn't even turn her neck from the cruel-eyed thief.