Arya stared at her own handwriting for a while, felt the throbbing ache in her wrist, dipped the quill in the inkwell again, and then turned to write Sansa's letter.
Sansa, she wrote, I want you to know I forgive you.
Tommen told me what you did, getting father killed. I had it tough for a long while, out in the cold, on the run from the crown because of you, but you were stuck with Joffrey, so I reckon you've suffered enough. And I hear you had a hand in killing Joffrey. Good work with that. Somehow, I wound up back here in Kings Landing, as a prisoner. Tommen's king now, and I guess he had me hunted down. Made me a squire to hide me from his mad bitch of a mother, and it's been working so far.
He told me that you're in the Vale, with Littlefinger. Baelish is using you, Sansa. I don't know what else to say. Tommen tells me that Littlefinger was the reason for father's death, as well as Joffrey's. And then he said something about him killing Aunt Lysa. Apparently he pushed her out the Moon Door? I don't know whether to trust Tommen about that or not, but you definitely shouldn't trust Baelish. You know Jeyne Poole? Well, Baelish got her, and he had her raped and whipped and forced her to whore for him. I wouldn't have believed Tommen when he told me, but I spoke to Jeyne as well, and saw her scars. Be careful. He might try and do the same with you. So try not to tell Littlefinger about this letter, if you can.
Stay safe. Arya.
Arya leaned back in her seat and set the quill down on the desk and flexed her aching fingers. She turned her head and looked out the window, watching the cool autumn breeze waft gently past the hangings. The sun had fallen lower in the sky since she had arrived. Had it really taken so long for her to write just two letters?
"My lady?" Brienne asked from across the room after a long moment of still silence.
"Why is he making me write these letters?" Arya asked, even though she knew the answer.
"Leverage," Brienne simply answered. "He's using you."
Arya sighed and scratched her brow. "And they say the king is a good boy."
"Better than his brother," Brienne said. "And better than his father too, by the sounds of it."
"There is that," Arya admitted. "Jeyne Poole," she suddenly said. "Do you know her?"
Brienne frowned. "The name is unfamiliar to me, my lady."
"She was Sansa's attendant, when we first came down south. The daughter of the steward at Winterfell. Now, she's Tommen's maidservant."
"I've seen her," Brienne said nodding, eyes busy with thought. "Didn't think much of her, but..."
"She was raped," Arya abruptly said. "The girl's only a couple years older than me, and though I never really liked her, I knew her well enough. They beat her, whipped her, and raped her bloody. I spoke with her a few days back. She's like an entirely different kind of girl now. Broken. Guarded. But when I ask about Tommen, her eyes light up like they used to when she talked about the boys she liked. She only has praises to sing for her beloved King Tommen. Says he held her when she cried, treated her kindly, rescued her. She's fallen for him."
Brienne's eyes met hers, even as she shifted her weight uncomfortably in her seat at the mention of rape.
"I hate him," Arya confessed. "Tommen. For dragging me back here. But I see Jeyne, and I keep thinking to myself: 'That could have been me.' And no matter what else, Tommen showed her mercy when nobody else would."
Arya still reckoned it was more cynical than that. Keeping Jeyne close meant keeping some other unknown woman away, and making her love him reduced the chances of a betrayal. Especially when Jeyne followed him about like a lost puppy.
"What are you saying, my lady?" Brienne asked.
Arya held up the blank page for Brienne to see. "This letter to my mother," she said. "Is he trying to torture me, do you think, or is he telling the truth?"
Brienne furrowed her brow in thought. "I think he's telling the truth," she said after a long moment. "I've never known His Grace to lie to me, my lady."
"He's lying to everyone about me," Arya countered.
"To keep you safe, my lady."
Arya hummed and set the page back on the table and picked up the feather quill again. As she dipped it into the inkwell she gripped it so tight her fingers went white, and her hand trembled as she pressed the tip to the paper and began to write.
Mother...
...
( Jon POV )
Jon read the letter over and over till the letters began to blur together.
Arya...
No. He refused to believe it. Tommen was lying. He had to be lying. He had yet to offer proof, and words were only wind, after all...
Jon had wanted to burn the parchment then and there, toss it into the hearth, but instead he sat in his chair and sipped from a flagon of ale. He read Tommen's letters in silence for the umpteenth time, awaiting Sam.
"Corn!" the raven crowed in the corner. "Corn! Corn!" A clever bird, Jon had learned. An old friend to the Old Bear, not that it had stopped it's beak from gnawing Mormont's face off when he finally died. Fairweather friends, Jon thought grimly. That's all they were. Fairweather friends. The kind that would turn and run at first opportunity. His own men had proven difficult enough to deal with, but Stannis...
And now he had another king to please. Tommen's claims of sending aid rang true, ravens running back and forth between Eastwatch and the Wall keeping Jon informed of the goings-on. Ships laden with food and leather and even men in irons were arriving at Eastwatch, offloading their cargoes. The men arrived to Castle Black downcast and angry, but the training yard had never been busier, and the Watch was slowly regaining it's strength.
Day after day, the men came from the east. Kingslanders, mostly. New recruits. New prisoners.
New brothers.
It was everything Jon had asked for, but he would be a liar if he did not say it set him on edge. What demands will the Iron Throne make? he wondered. Already, men were talking in the common room. A fight had threatened to break out once, between one of Stannis's retainers and Jon's own black brothers. It had not gone further than open bluster and chest-beating, but even that seemed like treacherous territory.
But finally, after months, the hungry looks on his men's faces were starting to fade. Jon had anticipated a hard rule, but slowly increasing the rations had silenced most dissent. Only Janos Slynt remained, and his little band of men.
They would always remain - Janos thought himself to big to take orders from a bastard. So he'd get his own command, then, somewhere dark and cold and far, far away. Still, Jon could even afford to send some food to the wildlings. The winter rations that Stannis had eaten so deeply into were finally replaced, and at the current rate it even seemed as though their stores would soon begin to fill up again.
But for all his aid, Stannis had ridden to their rescue, and Tommen had not.
Sam arrived mid-musing, opening the door with a stack of books in his arms. Mormont's raven launched at him, and Samwell stumbled back, books flying from his arms and scattering about the floor. "Corn!" the bird demanded, pecking at Sam's hands. "Corn!"
Sam waved his hands about his head and shooed the bird away. He yowled as the bird pecked at him and flew away out the window. Sam gingerly removed his gloves and inspected his fingers. "I'm bleeding!" he groused.
"Wear thicker gloves next time," Jon told him as Sam bent down and gathered his books from the floor. "Sit," he commanded, lifting the letter from his desk and holding it out for Sam to grab and read.
Sam sat himself down, red-faced, opened the parchment and flicked his eyes across it. "This..." Sam seemed lost for words, "is more than we ever dared hope for."
"Tommen sparred with my brother back in Winterfell," Jon recalled. "Wore so much padding he looked like you." Sam looked up from the parchment and shot Jon a wounded look, and then resumed his reading. "Bran knocked him to the ground. Yet now that same Tommen sits the Iron Throne."
"Have you written a reply?" Sam asked.
Jon shook his head. "Mormont begged the Iron Throne for help a hundred times. No letter will make the Lannisters love us better. Not now that they know we've been helping Stannis."
"But Tommen's already offered his help," Sam pointed out. "The ships, the men, the food. That's all him."
"I'm more concerned with Tywin than Tommen," Jon said, rising suddenly from his seat, restless, and slamming the shutters closed against the howling winter winds. "Why would they help us now? They never did before."
"You think it a poisoned gift?"
"Stannis is a prickly guest at the best of times," Jon said. "Presently, he stands demanding from me the castles of the New Gift. What better way to drive a wedge? Tommen knows his uncle. He means to force my hand, I'm sure of it. His Grace is becoming uneasy. I gave Stannis food, shelter, the Nightfort. And yet he still demands more, as proof of my allegiances." Jon sighed.
"The more you give a king, the more he wants. We are walking an icy tightrope here. Pleasing one king is hard enough. Pleasing two is scarcely possible. One day a letter will come, mark my words, and in it will be orders for me to slit Stannis open. And then chaos will consume the Night's Watch."
...
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