Continued from (x) @winterskraken
“Life’s not often fair,” Theon agreed quietly. It didn’t escape him how ironic the situation was. He had grown up fearing Ned Stark’s sword. And now here they were, Theon alive and well, and Ned Stark the one missing his head. Theon knew what was expected of him now. As the only member of Stark’s party left alive, he had an obligation to protect Arya and see her safely home. “To be executed for crimes you didn’t commit…its unthinkable.”
Looking at her now, a terrible, unspeakable thought occurred to him. It would be easy, almost ridiculously so, to simply abandon Arya and return to the Iron Islands. To severe his ties with the Stark family once and for all and go home. He forced the thought away as quickly as he dared, returning his attention to Arya. For now, at least, he and the girl had a similar goal: get the fuck out of King’s Landing.
“All I meant is that we can’t worry about that now. Take time to mourn later. For now…try to block out the pain, if you can, seal all that hurt and anger away inside a tiny place in your heart. It’ll be easier for you that way. Hold it close if you must, but don’t let it consume you.” Theon himself still carried around his own hate, though to do so seemed foolish now. “We need to focus on getting out of here, Arya. The queen’s men will be hunting us now. Do you understand?” Theon thought likely not. Arya wasn’t nearly as prim and proper as her sister, but she was still a lord’s daughter. And the shock of seeing her father dead…It was likely she hadn’t completely processed the situation.
She wanted to lose the little contents in her stomach, feeling sickened straight to her core. The girl gripped onto the edge of her tunic, doing her best to breathe through the ache in her chest and that awful twist in her gut. With her little sword, she wanted to hack away at the men who dared to grab her sister, who slaughtered their men, who murdered her father. Arya knew in her heart of hearts that her father was innocent and that the Queen and Joffrey spoke lie upon lie. The Lannisters and Baratheons ought to all burn in hell.
Feeling a tear stray down her cheek, she wiped it away immediately. She could not cry. Not here. Not now. Not for anyone to see and she knew she couldn’t afford to be weak. No. She was a wolf of House Stark, not just some little pup. No, she was a direwolf and she needed to be strong now, she needed to survive. The girl peered up at the Greyjoy, more kin than mere member of her House, though everyone from Winterfell was her pack and pack ought to protect one another.
He was right. She needed to push all the hurt away. There wasn’t time for that.
As they made their way though the back streets, she recalled the time the guards had mistaken her for a boy. It’d only be in their favor, wouldn’t it? For her to no longer resemble the girl they sought. Arya had been mistaken for a dirty little boy enough times as is. She would be the easier to recognize of the two. They were more looking for a traitor’s daughter, then recount the members of his household who had escaped in the chaos. “Wait,” she halted as the ended an alley, slowly taking Needle out from her belt. “You gotta cut my hair. If they’re looking for a nobleman’s daughter, they’re less likely to look twice at a commoner’s boy.” Her clothes were filthy from their days in Flea’s Bottom, torn too. They needed her hair and the other physical traits to match or at least be disguised.
