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Arya Stark: the Orphan Master (part 1)
🕑 Added 2021-04-14 19:47:14 +0000 UTCIt was usually an easy job, if not necessarily cushy, being a guard on a slave caravan. They gathered up slaves, chained them to things and loaded them in carriages. Due to strict penalties for misbehavior, the merchandise stayed quiet and did as they were told. Bandits rarely attacked slavers as they were usually customers, so the guards walked with the caravan and looked menacing, but almost never did any actual fighting. All they had to do was be threatening and the job mostly did itself.
However, the guards for a particular slaver on a particular forest road were about to earn their pay.
The sun filtered through branches and warmed a slave caravan as it rattled its way down the dirt path. The slaves were mostly asleep in their caged wagons, the guards trudging alongside with weapons rested on their shoulders, bored and daydreaming. Even if they were going to be attacked, it wouldn’t be now, on their way to the market at Riverrun. When they returned, laden with the funds from selling their cargo, there would be more risk. Now there was none.
With that knowledge in mind, when a trio of guards saw a laden pack mule wandering on its own slightly off the path, their interests were piqued. This road was well travelled by merchants and such an animal could have gotten lost from its master, bearing stock or perhaps even coins. Any money they gathered now would be mean more they could spend on the luxuries Riverrun had to offer.
Making sure the head guard wasn’t watching, all three snuck off the road towards the donkey and began opening its pouches. They found a few coins, but strangely all the bags seemed to be filled with cotton wadding and a strange-smelling powder. Speaking quietly to one another, the guards pocketed the coins, took the burrow by its bridle and began leading it back to the caravan. At the least they could sell it once they reached the city.
Before they reached the caravan, the donkey’s pouches burst with bright flashes like lightning strikes, blinding the guards with cries of pain. The donkey bellowed in fear ran towards the front of the caravan, thick smoke trailing from its pouches. The caravan’s horses jumped and snorted, startled by the loud bangs and the smell of smoke, causing the rest of the guards to look around in alarm. Even the slaves perked up, lifting their heads to look through their carriage bars. They all blinked and squinted, some of them even coughing from the heady fumes.
Somewhat stunned by the sudden break of routine, the guards were still gaping about dumbly when something was tossed out of the trees and there was another crash of thunder and a bright flash, directly in front of the lead carriage. The horses shrieked and panicked, turning off the path and starting into the woods while the driver yanked at the reins and yelled at them to stop. Then the drama was repeated as another flash and crack sounded from one side of the caravan, then again at the other side.
Liram Wynch, the owner of the caravan, stuck his head out his carriage door and bellowed, “What the devil is going on out there?!”
No one called back, the guards themselves beginning to panic. There was an unnatural amount of smoke engulfing the convoy now, choking them and blinding them to the point that they couldn’t see the weapons in their own hands. The drivers cursed, busy trying to control their horses, the convoy starting to disintegrate as the carriages pulled in different directions, almost running down a few guards in the process.
Trained soldiers would have formed a defensive circle, staying close to one another so they wouldn’t get separated, but these guards were simply thugs with weapons.
It was what Arya Stark, the mastermind of this chaos, had counted on.
“Damnit, kaff koff!” Liram roared from his carriage, “What is this?! Hektor?! Where are my guards?! What is happening?!”
Staying low, a wet cloth tied around her mouth and nose to give her some protection from the smoke, Arya burst from a bush alongside the road and charged into the chaos she’d created, dagger in hand. In the smoke she couldn’t see any better than the guards could, but she didn’t need to see; she only had to find one person, still bellowing orders from his carriage.
“Bloody-- hack kaff—someone fucking answer me!” Liram shrieked, waving a handkerchief at the smoke, “Hektor! Did one of you – kaff koff – idiots start a fire!? Drive through it! What are you doing?!”
Arya locked onto the braying voice and hurried towards it with her eyes closed to slits, relying on her other senses. It hadn’t been long since she was Tywin Lannister’s cup bearer, but she had learned much in that time through necessity and watching the right people. She would close on Liram, cut his throat while his guards flailed, then vanish before the smoke cleared.
She hadn’t chosen her target lightly. Slavers were the slimiest of war profiteers, but Liram Wynch was a blotch on the lot of them, someone Arya had become familiar with during time surviving on the streets in King’s Landing. He made his living off rounding up orphans on the streets of the major cities then selling them as slaves or having them work on his own manor. It was an open secret that those he picked had unique duties to sate his appetites and it had earned him many nicknames. The Orphan Master, Maiden Rake, the Snatch, Urchin Bane.
Soon, Arya would call him number one, the first to be marked off her list.
The young girl almost bumped into a guard before she saw him and stopped. He was waving his hand about and coughing, no idea she was there.
At her height, there was a clear target displayed in front of her; she lowered herself and rammed her shoulder into it with all her strength and momentum.
“UURGH!” the guard croaked in anguish, dropping his weapon and clamping both hands to his groin.
He staggered back and dropped to his knees, allowing Arya to bowl him over and continue past him while he writhed and choked.
“What was that?!” Liram shouted, starting to sound shrill with panic, “Are we under attack?! For fuck’s sake, what do I pay you men for?!”
Arya sprinted towards the voice, her blade ready. She was still almost blind, but she could make out the blocky shape of the carriage. She held her sword with the blade down and tucked against her forearm, to hide the silhouette of a weapon. Hopefully if anyone saw her in the thick smoke, they wouldn’t notice she was armed.
A handful of paces from the carriage, she saw her target.
Liram looked like the weasel he was, skinny with pinched features, having a shapeless jaw and barely any chin to speak of. His skinny, turkey-waddle neck was craned out the door of his carriage, his garishly blue clothing standing out in the smoke, as well as the jewels of the many rings on his fingers. He waved a handkerchief, occasionally bringing it to his mouth to try stifle the smoke.
The slaver saw his assassin through the smoke and squinted, probably thinking it was one of his men. With her hair still chopped short from her escape from King’s Landing, she could pass as a boy if one didn’t look too closely at the softness around her lips and cheeks. She was definitely smaller than his guards, but in the smoke it would be difficult to tell.
However, the fact that he could see her at all meant that the smoke was dissipating. She had to strike quickly.
“You there—” Liram shouted at her.
Arya lunged, swinging the blade.
Before the blow landed, something caught her by the back of her jerkin and yanked her back. Her reverse-held sword slashed through the air inches from Liram’s waddle neck, the wind from the stroke drawing a startled gasp from the slaver.
Yanked off her feet, Arya fell butt-first to the grass. The jarring impact knocked some of the breath from her and left gaping beneath her mask, eyes as big as heron eggs.
For an instant, the young would-be assassin was sitting on her backside, legs splayed, locking eyes with her intended target and sharing his shocked expression. Neither of them yet understood what had just happened.
Arya didn’t realize the man who had yanked her collar was still holding on until she was yanked out of her seat, jerkin pulled up to reveal her belly button. Startled, the small noble maiden yelped as she was lifted up with the ease of someone plucking a carrot, her eyes growing even bigger. She was picked up off the ground, legs kicking in panic before she was plopped back down onto unsteady feet, the neck of her jerkin still bunched up around her chin.
“Well, well,” a deep voice chuckled, “What’s this? A little bandit?”
Arya turned her head and lifted her eyes up at the large man holding onto her collar.
She’d seen bigger men, the Clegane brothers for instance, but this one was certainly bigger than most. He was broad and muscular, a leather cuirass hugging his chest and revealing sinewy arms and shoulders, the handle of a war maul poking up from behind his left shoulder. He was lightly armored, mostly leather bands but for a thick metal gauntlet on his right hand while he allowed his left hand free with only a bracer for protection. The gauntleted hand gripped Arya’s collar like a vice.
“Hektor,” Liram marveled, rubbing his throat where he had felt the whistle of the blade, “I think that… that child just tried to kill me!”
Arya gaped up at the large man, suddenly feeling very small and foolish.
Unlike the Cleganes, Hektor had a sunny countenance, a broad smile showing through his thick beard. His eyes twinkled with amusement and he looked relaxed, even jolly, but it was hard for Arya not to be intimidated by someone that had just handled her like a kitten.
“Is that so, little mouse?” he asked her, “Did you try to nibble at our dear master’s throat?”
Arya’s heart pounded. Her smoke traps were clearing and she’d lost the element of surprise. It was possible she could free herself from this cheerful brute long enough to kill the Orphan Master, but she knew it would be unlikely she’d escape. Right now, more guards were on their way and though talented with a blade, she wouldn’t be able to fight them all and win.
No choice. She couldn’t die here, not with so many other names on her list. She had to run.
Twisting in place, she swiped her sword in an underhanded blow at Hektor’s elbow. For a big man he was remarkably quick, letting go of her collar and recoiling his arm before he was struck.
“Whoa there!” the head guard laughed, “The mouse has teeth!”
Not waiting for an invitation or to trade banter, Arya turned and ran towards the forest. She wasn’t foolish enough to think that the big man couldn’t sprint with his longer legs, but she could probably accelerate faster. With a big enough lead, she could reach the trees before he caught up, where among the low branches and foliage his size would be a hinderance.
Legs pumping in her green trousers, boots pounding the grass, Arya ran for all she was worth, hearing voices ring out from behind her but not bothering to listen. She didn’t hear anyone running after her, but she didn’t turn to look either, her focus on reaching the tree line before any of the guards could grab her. She kept her sword tucked tight against her forearm, lowered her head and poured on more speed.
In seconds she was almost to the first of the trees and to a certain level of safety. The guards would probably try to chase her, but she was confident she could lose them in the forest; it had been her plan to begin with. With the mask and in the smoke, she doubted anyone had gotten a good enough look at her to be able to recognize her. They probably hadn’t even been able to tell she was a girl. With a change of clothes, she could try again, perhaps in the—
Something struck her in the back of the head and with a flash the world turned topsy turvy. Her legs stiffened and her momentum carried her forward into a spectacular fall, chest and face thumping into the ground with a grunt. There wasn’t even an attempt to catch herself; she was struck and fell like a doll, flopping into a heap.
Flat on her stomach, eyes wide and glazed, Arya lay still, not yet fully aware she’d fallen. It had been a painful landing, knocking her breath out when she needed it the most, but the conscious part of her mind that noted these facts was somewhat detached from the rest of her, reeling as the world spun. Her shoulders heaved in fits and starts, lungs trying to fill themselves on instinct, legs still stiff and fingers curled.
Only when footsteps approached her through the grass did she begin to regain her senses.
The first thing Arya became aware of was she couldn’t breathe. She gulped, tried to draw in a breath, but only managed a rasping, painful cough, her mask only making the task more difficult. Her ears were ringing, she saw spots in her vision and her head throbbed, where it only now dawned on her she’d been struck. She groped at the spot with a clumsy hand, her extremities still numb.
The footsteps rustled closer, “That’s as far as you run, little mouse. I’ve no desire to chase you to your nest.”
Coughing again, Arya clenched her eyes shut and reopened them, trying rid herself of the spots in her vision. Slowly, breath still rasping through her mask, she crawled to all fours, inadvertently directing the seat of her trousers in her attacker’s direction. A peach shape pressed out against the green fabric, the trousers snug with a crisp shadow between two little globes.
“Little ones like you always try to scamper away,” the man said again, striding towards her in no hurry, “But you’ll do none of that, now. You’ve got a good few things to answer for.”
Recognizing the voice as Liram’s brute made everything snap back into focus. With a sudden, lurching panic she tried to scramble to her feet, but though urgency returned to her mind, her body was still lazy and dazed. She pushed herself up, almost forgetting to pick up her sword as she did, and immediately stumbled back as the world swayed and her legs were too weak to catch her. Only with herculean effort did she managed not to fall right back onto her butt.
“Going to try to run again, eh?” Hektor chuckled, “That’s one way to go about it…”
His voice sounding deadly close, Arya looked over her shoulder.
What had happened became immediately clear. There was a leather sling in his unarmored hand and a broad smile on his face as he advanced on her, looking like he was just enjoying the sun coming through the trees. Instead of chasing her, he’d simply hit her with a stone from his sling. Even now he was fitting another smooth rock into the weapon’s thong, readying it in case she tried to run again.
“Or perhaps not,” the big man said, “If you’re a clever mouse.”
Arya looked at the weapon, then back up at him, eyebrows pinching as she thought quickly. She could try to run, but she felt like she was on a ship in hard seas and was struggling to catch her breath. He had picked her off with ease from a greater distance than they were now, hitting her right in the correct spot to disable her instantly. If she turned and ran, she expected she’d make a few clumsy steps before another rock knocked her senseless.
With no other ideas at hand, Arya turned to face the large guard. Keeping her eyes on him and his sling, she gripped her sword in both hands and back cautiously away. If he decided to lob a rock at her, she would at least see it coming.
Hektor eyed her sword, his eyes twinkling.
“Mouse is showing her teeth again. Are you going to try to bite me, little mouse?”
Defensive and wary, her legs still feeling wobbly, Arya glared as fiercely as she could through the stringy bangs that veiled her eyes.
“Come closer and I’ll show your guts to the daylight!” she snarled through her mask, repeating a threat she’d heard in a tavern.
The jolly guard raised his eyebrows, “Oh ho, now! Such rough words from such a squeaky voice! I think I might like to see that!”
With that he lengthened his stride, closing the distance between them yards at a time.
Arya retreated as fast as she could, but with her shorter legs there was no way she could outpace him. In seconds he was almost upon her. There was no way she’d be able to reach the trees before he caught up with her.
With no other choice, the exiled noble girl gauged the distance, gripping the sword like she had been trained, relaxed but for her index fingers and thumbs. Blade at the ready, she waited until he was just about to reach her, then sprang forward. The sword flicking flicked a feint for his face, then cut downward at his unarmored thigh.
CLANG!
The stroke was aside with a bracer, the blow so brutal it nearly yanked the weapon from Arya’s grasp.
She cried out in surprise, barely able to hold onto the handle. She staggered, dancing to the side to keep her feet, before she managed to bring the sword back to face him.
The big man was still smiling as he watched her, but not mocking. It was genuine smile, warm, almost wistful, a man in the process of doing something he greatly enjoyed.
“I like it when they try to fight,” he continued to advance on her, “It shows spirit. And the ones that fight are the most entertaining.”
Arya stared up at him, the whites showing around her already big eyes. She prided herself on being lightning quick, but he’d knocked her cut aside without blinking, no more afraid of her sword than he was of her threats. If he closed on her, managed to grab her, she knew any fight would be short and very one sided.
There was no time for anything fancy. Backpedaling as fast as she could, she swung the blade in tight arc at his stomach, trying to keep him back.
She was temporarily successful, forcing him to pause to let the sword hiss by, but it only bought her a split second before he continued once more.
Snarling, she swiped at his face and he leaned out of the way, then again at his hand as he reached for her. He recoiled with a laugh and reached again, forcing her to swing again. And again. Again.
It didn’t take long with this little game until Arya was panting loudly, her strokes getting wild and less controlled. When swinging a sword, it’s much more tiring to miss than to strike something solid. The little assassin knew this, knew he was baiting her to swing, but she had no choice. If he grabbed her, it would be over.
Gasping, arms and shoulders clenched and heavy, she was desperately trying to come up with a new plan when her heel hit the outstretched root of an old tree. She pitched back with a squeal, tired legs unable catch her. Hands preoccupied with the sword, she landed on her back with a grunt.
Hector was on her almost immediately. He stepped forward, reaching for her with his gauntleted hand.
Arya swiped at it with her sword and he drew back with a laugh.
Panting, eyes wide with a mixture of panic and anger, Arya threw herself forward, swiping at his legs. The brute stepped back to avoid the attack and she used her forward motion to clamber back to her feet, swinging her sword wildly with one hand and using the other to push herself up. It was a clumsy, flailing effort, but she’d never been taught to fight from lying on her back.
“Such a feisty little mouse!” Hector chuckled, “How ferocious!”
Seething, the young assassin showed her teeth, little features scrunched up in a wildcat snarl. Her frustration at failing in her mission notwithstanding, the oaf in front of her was grinning merrily, enjoying himself. She expected to be underestimated, but not taunted and embarrassed. She’d happily turn and run if he’d let her, but he was toying with her, not letting her leave and not attacking her either. If she wanted to make good on her escape, she’d have to hurt him, make him leave her alone. Additionally, she wanted to shut him up.
She feinted with the blade, then swiped up at his chin with all her strength, crying out with effort. He ducked back but blinked as the blade barely missed, his grin fading for a moment.
His leaning back exposed his stomach and she thrust at his belly button. He was too close to dodge and it was a killing blow, meant to run him through.
Her thrust was stopped cold.
For an instant Arya thought she’d succeeded in impaling him, the blade having plunged through his guts and gotten stuck against his spinal column. When she realized what actually happened, her mouth dropped open.
The blade was trapped in his gauntleted fist. Rather than knocking it aside, he’d simply grabbed the weapon and squeezed, the strength in his grip alone enough to lock the blade in place within inches of his belly. Even with all the strength of her arms, shoulders, and legs in the thrust, he’d caught it as easily as if she were handing him a roll of parchment.
“To handle the ferocious ones,” Hector smiled placidly, “You just have to make them less ferocious.”
Arya froze for a split second, mouth gaping. Then she desperately jerked at the sword, trying to pull it free. She yanked and twisted, crying out with effort, but it stayed lodged. It felt like the blade was trapped in stone, not giving an inch.
“I think the best way to do that,” the massive guard said, “Starts with a little bonk on their noggins.”
Before Arya could think of letting go of the sword, Hector’s heavy fist thumped down on the top of her head. It wasn’t a hard blow by his standards, only a little more effort than when he pounded his fist on a table to get a serving wench’s attention, but to the small girl beneath it the blow was a hammer to her nail.
Arya was driven to her knees so fast that she bounced on the impact, grunting in surprise. Left kneeling, her head bobbled, eyes rolling around like loose marbles before crossing stupidly, gaze fixed somewhere near his knees.
“Makes them move around less, see?” Hector explained, “Not as much skittering about underfoot.”
The little assassin didn’t understand a word he said. Ears ringing, vision swimming and fuzzy, her scrambled mind tried to orient itself, her lips pursed in a small O as she struggled to comprehend. Not only didn’t she realize what happened, but she was suddenly a foot lower than she had been before without knowing how, her blurred vision and inability to think properly only aggravating the process.
Her hands remained on the hilt of her sword, but her grip was loose and weak, only habit keeping her arms from dropping to her sides. In her current position, it looked more like she was kneeling and offering the weapon up to him, rather than trying to stab him. She stared cross-eyed at his knees with a confused expression.
It would only have taken a shake to dislodge the girl’s hands from the sword, but Hector didn’t bother. He reached down for her with his free arm, looping the powerful limb around her back.
“Next you just make them nice and tired. Once they’re tired enough, they don’t want to fight ANY more.”
The brute picked the dazed girl up with ease, hugging her to his side, trapping her torso and arms against him with one big arm of his own. The flat of the sword pressed uselessly against his thigh, unable to cut, and Arya didn’t have the wits left to make an attempt anyway. She only idly kicked, blinking dimly, part of her knowing something strange was happening but unable to decipher what.
Hector grinned at her bewildered little face. She had big, sad gray eyes, usually alert and owlish but now too wide and glazed, her stringy brown bangs falling in front of them in a tattered veil. Her button nose was wrinkled slightly as her befuddled brain tried to collect itself, her body small but firm, heart fluttering like a hummingbird’s.
The brute chuckled again.
“And you do that… like this.”
With that his powerful arm clenched tight, squeezing the trapped little body within.
Arya instantly jolted to life, every muscle in her body going instantly rigid. Her waking mind didn’t understand what was happening, but her body reacted instantly to being crushed, fighting as best it could. Her legs shot straight, shoulders pulled back as her arms strained to push free and remained trapped, her fingers squeezing the sword hilt to tightly her knuckles popped. Her head was thrown back and her mouth gaped, screaming silently towards the sky, unable to breathe.
“Just a… squeeze,” Hector grinned, his voice having the tightness of light strain, “Careful not to break the little things. So, you squeeze just a little harder… and a little harder…”
The arm gradually increased the pressure and Arya’s legs went from locked straight to kicking wildly, feet pattering against her attacker’s thigh, her mouth opening wider and owlish eyes bulging. There was no amount of training and cleverness that could have helped her. She was already stunned and disoriented, and now her body was screaming that it couldn’t breathe, that it was being crushed. She was incapable of reasoning that she was exhausting herself with her own struggles, that she wouldn’t be able to keep fighting so intensely for long with no air. All she could do was thrash wildly, pedaling her legs as a ringing built in her ears, a dark tunnel closed in around her vision, her brain becoming even more addled and incapable of rational thought.
“There we go, little mouse,” Hector chuckled as he worked, “Kick those little legs… work out all that angry energy…”
Arya felt like her head was going to pop off. Her heart was pounding in her ears and she was barely able to see through the darkness closing on her vision. Her kicking slowed as her legs began to cramp, the sword beginning to slip from her grasp as her fingers went numb. Her eyelids began to droop, eyes to roll back in her head.
“And then just before they go to sleep… we relax for a moment.”
The crushing grip eased and Arya instantly went limp, her face thumping against Hector’s shoulder, the sword falling from her fingers to plop harmlessly into the grass. Her eyes wide with the shock of relief, mouth working open and closed like a landed fish before she managed to suck in a long, croaking gasp of air. She stiffened for a moment as she filled her lungs with delicious oxygen, body twitching, before she slumped again and devolved into coughs, only broken by sobbing gulps of air.
Hector chuckled again and pat-pat-patted her little bottom with his free hand, coaxing her to continue breathing.
“Make them go to sleep too quickly and they wake up again full of salt and vinegar,” he explained, “So we let the little mice catch their breaths… then we do it again.”
The arm crushed together once more, catching Arya in the middle of a deep breath.
“OO-OOOOF!” she gasped as the breath she just took was squeezed out of her gaping her mouth. She went rigid once more, feet beating as his leg with renewed vigor, but not with the same desperation as before. She was fighting as hard as she could, but simply didn’t have the strength to maintain it.
“Tighter… tighter…” Hector grunted.
Arya’s back popped, her ribs creaking. The spike of adrenaline had made things a bit sharper, bringing her conscious mind to the fore, but the only effect was now she was aware she was being crushed. She gritted her teeth, clenching her eyes closed and tried to bear it, but couldn’t stop hold out for long before she tried to scream, only for no sound to come out.
“Wring all the fight out… wring it right out… until there’s none left.”
Arya didn’t last nearly as long this time before her body could struggle no longer. Her eyes glazed and her muscles began to go soft, only allowing the squeeze more leverage. Her kicking dwindled to pitiful twitches, her head sinking forward as her body wilted like an empty water skin. The darkness began closing in once more.
And just before unconsciousness claimed her entirely, the crushing force relented.
She wheezed a weak breath, shuddering as oxygen returned to her lungs with a shock.
“It works on all the little mice,” Hector said gently, “They can only hold so much fight inside them and once you squeeze it out, they become nice and cuddly. If you do it right, they never want to fight again.”
Arya’s wet nose and mouth pressed against the brute’s shoulder, whispering quick, desperate breaths against his skin. Only the remnants of her adrenaline kept her eyes open; she’d never been so tired before. Every inch of her was used up, her heart and lungs aching from strain, muscles throbbing even as she hung limp. She could barely hold a thought in her head and the one that kept crossing her mind was she didn’t want to fight any more. She wanted nothing more than to melt to the ground and not move, to only breathe, wait for her heart to slow down.
The brute reached up to place a hand on her head. He guided it back to appraise her young face, staring thoughtfully.
Arya blinked back through her own lidded eyes, jaw slack, expression soft and hanging. Her vision was unfocused with exhaustion, but she saw that Hector’s grin was replaced with a pensive frown. Keeping her head up, he leaned closer to look into her eyes, searching for something. He stared for several seconds, nodding to himself, then grunted.
“Two is enough for most,” he mused, “But there is still fight in your eyes. You’re a strong willed one, eh?”
Arya’s eyelashes fluttered, barely listening, only slowly realizing what it meant.
“A lot of spirit!” Hector grinned.
He gently laid her head back against his shoulder, letting her continue her panting. He gave her a pat, then stroked her hair.
“You’ll be a special one,” he murmured, “But first we have to get all that fight out of you. Little ones have no need of it.”
Arya whimpered faintly, trying to protest.
She was cut off when his arm clenched once more.
“All that fight should be… pushed back out into the world,” Hector told her, “So someone else can have it. Someone who can use it. Not a little mouse.”
Arya managed to flex her fingers, kick her feet once, twice, without much aplomb.
“Nuh… ack…!” she rasped, her face turning pink.
“So stubborn!” Hector chuckled, “Just let it go, little one.”
Arya clenched her eyes tight, feeling like she was going to pop. She had already fought past the point of exhaustion and it wasn’t over. She had nothing else she could give.
In that moment, something inside her broke. Not physical, but in her heart. A dam she’d built burst open and all the feelings she hadn’t allowed herself to have rushed out. It hadn’t been so long ago that she’d been a girl from one of the most powerful noble houses, protected by her family, nearly a princess. A part of her still wanted that protection, to give up revenge and just be safe again. Most of all, she wanted this pain to stop. She would give anything to make it stop.
Arya managed a plaintive squeak that quickly broke, leaving the note hanging in the air. It pleaded as her expression crumpled, despairing and pitiful.
Hector immediately recognized the sound for what it was.
“Ah,” he smiled, “There it is. The bubble finally burst.”
He relaxed his grip and Arya slumped against him, finishing her pleading mewl against his shoulder. She panted, drawing in a breaths to let out more sad little sounds, pain and grief pouring out of her. After a few moments, she trailed off with a faint moan; she was too tired to continue.
Hector let her wind down, her breathing to become more regular, then he placed his hand on her head and tilted her head back once more.
Arya was still flushed, her lips and cheeks pinkened, face shining with sweat and making her stringy hair stick to her forehead. Her eyes were lidded and spent, having difficulty focusing, but even through the weariness there was a tiny wrinkle in her brow, a worried light in her eyes as they looked into his. Fear. Awe. A childish plea for mercy, unrestrained by self-righteousness or pride.
“All empty,” the man smiled, “Good. You’ll be much better behaved now.”
With a chuckle, he ruffled her messy hair, bobbling her head about with ease.
Rather than protest, Arya just closed her eyes and took deep breaths, letting her head wobble. She wanted to fall asleep, but was somehow too tired, too achey to let her mind drift. Her legs were still dangling, forcing her chest to support her. This made it a little difficult to breathe, but she didn’t complain. As long as the squeezing stopped.
With a broad grin, Hector tossed her up then caught her caught her beneath her bottom, the palm of his hand now a seat to support her. Her little rump made an easy handhold, as wide as his hand from base to fingertip, one cheek neatly filling his cupped palm, while his fingers curled around to grasp the other. It fit nicely, full enough to give him something to grip and soft enough that he could sink his fingers in.
“Now then, let’s get you back to the caravan with the other mice,” the guard captain said cheerfully, “My paymaster will no doubt want to have words with you. Foolish girl.”
Crouching down with the girl still in hand, he retrieved her sword, tossing it up and catching it with a wry grin. He turned the blade this way and that then looked down its length, squinting one eye closed to see if the metal was warped, inspecting its quality.
While Hektor twirled her sword to test the balance, Arya wheezed against his shoulder, her arms hanging slack. Grateful just to be able to breathe, she remained still as the guard cavalierly handled both her sword and her butt. She was too tired to even think, mere breathing almost taking more energy than she had to give.
“Not a bad sword,” Hektor tucked the weapon into his belt, “We’ll have to see how a thing like you got her hands on it, won’t we?”
Arya moaned faintly as he patted her bum, then strode back toward the caravan with a jaunty bounce in his step.
