Winter's Thaw

It Gets Worse

Arya

All women. 

Every man was one of Ramsay's, a soldier or guard. 

The cooks, servants, washers, all women. Their men folk were displayed outside, skinless or at The Wall. This was what was left. They were seen as no threat to Ramsay. Dark circles around their eyes, an unnatural hue to their skin, hair hanging limp.

They're all dressed the same, layers of old rags, clean but well-worn. Each has matching expressions, cold stiff jaws, pinched mouths, and furrowed brows.

They'd clearly grown used to this, these women. So efficient in their movements, no wasted efforts, they get to work. And they do, sweat and elbow grease are in the air as they soak, scrub, polish, sort, and stack.

They clean in a frenzy, pulling up the stained tablecloth, sweeping up the scraps. They hover atop the floor, pouring soapy water across the deep puddle of blood, others sopping it up with thick towels. Arya grabs a brush and sinks down to her knees, the material soaking up the soap and blood.

His blood.

She sets to scrubbing. The mindless task, the ache in her muscles; it stops her from thinking. 

Scrub. Scrub. Scrub. 

Back and forth. 

A girl puts her hands atop hers, stopping her movements. She's handsome, light Northern eyes and solid features; old enough to be Arya's mother. She moves their conjoined hands in circles, scrubbing outward, dispersing the blood more evenly. When the woman's hands disappear, Arya keeps up the pattern without her prompting. They clean the spot thoroughly, all of them, no trace of the murder less than an hour before. 

As if it never happened. 

Most likely a common occurrence around here. But her trouser leg is stained red, she keeps seeing his bloodied hair. Not his eye, not the dagger; but his bloodied ash blonde hair.

What had they done with his body? She wouldn't be able to bear seeing his corpse hanging from the walls. She wouldn't be able to bear any of it.

Another woman, nearly twice her own height and solid, helps pull Arya up from the floor and guides her toward their quarters.

Their silent steps belie their ability to remain unnoticed; they've learned to survive here, as she must. For all intents and purposes, she was one of them. 

But no, she rebelled against the thought. 

She was no slave, no servant, and would not be a prisoner for long.

With keen eyes, Arya got to see what had become of the rest of her home. The damaged parts merely closed off from view, left in varying states of disrepair, the residents of the castle relegated to the central structure, which was always well-guarded and well-patrolled. A large part of her raged at the indignity, her castle left to rot, great towers locked away and useless. 

But strategically, it made sense; even she could see that. Ramsay made sure no resources were wasted, no strangers left unattended. Smart. Her intense hatred and discomfort were briefly disrupted by a kind of respect. He knew how to utilize his strengths and camouflage his weakness. He had a good mind for strategy, and no pesky conscience to get in the way.

She'd never been in the servant's quarters before, an entire corridor of cozy rooms, below ground, meant to house a few girls each. The rooms weren't as nice as the Starks' sleeping arrangements of course, but they were sufficient. There were a few large rooms down below, filled with a few cots each. The women around her, the ones with whom she'd scrubbed up her friend's blood, took the space farthest down the hallway. She stayed by these familiar women for lack of any reason not to. She wondered briefly how Merilee was faring. If she liked pretending to be her.