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She adjusted her skirts when she reached the top of the stair, admiring the intricate red embroidery against the pink silk; the material rustled and settled after being bunched up as she climbed the steep twisting staircase. It was moments like these that made her glad to have married into House Bolton; pink did suit her so. She felt sure it would look almost as fetching on her new daughter in law; it might tempt some colour back into her pale complexion. As she raised a fist to knock gently on the door she resolved to have a lovely pink gown made for the girl. There was a surprisingly long pause before she heard a soft, stuttered,
“C- come in.”
For a moment, she thought the room empty, until she glimpsed a gaunt figure standing by the bed, almost entirely hidden by the thick hangings. It was dark in the room, despite it being the middle of the day, and the only light came from the torches on the walls. The flames flickered off the red bed curtains and bathed the room in blood.
“Lady Arya?” Walda ventured, trying her best not to move to quickly, afraid of frightening the girl. Something about her put Walda in mind of a doe, with those large brown eyes, thin limbs, and a look that suggested she would bolt at sudden noises.
“Lady Bolton.” she replied, stepping out from behind the hangings and into the flickering torchlight. Walda gasped; if Arya had been thin before, now she was almost skeletal, the red light darkening the purple bruises that spread across her skin.
“My dear, what-“ she started, but as she stepped forward Arya flinched away. From this distance she could make out the shapes of fingers curling themselves around her neck, and she fought the urge to reach out to the girl (who looked so young, so fragile, though she was only a few years younger than Walda herself). Instead, she smiled in a way she hoped was warm and comforting, and stayed where she was as she said,
“I thought we might spend some time together, now that marriage has made me your mother. Though that does seem strange, does it not?”
“Did… did my Lord Ramsay send you?” was all the reply she got, but Walda was not to be deterred.
“You think I go where he sends me? No, dear. He’s out hunting anyway, and my dear husband is about some business or other that makes him unspeakably dull and so I thought I might come and visit you. I’ve barely seen you since you were wed and I thought this would be the perfect time to get to know each other better.”
Far from being put at ease, Arya seemed to stiffen,
“Then you should not be here, my lady. Excuse me, I must… I have things I should-“
“Nonsense.” Walda insisted, deciding that a different approach was in order. She bustled over to where Arya stood by the bed and settled herself on the red sheets. “Your husband need never know that I was here if you do not want it known; I have a number of sisters and I’m rather good at keeping secrets. Speaking of which, I’ve brought a little something I thought we might share.”
Arya looked at her, wary and confused as she reached into the folds of her pink dress and removed a small, cloth-wrapped bundle. She had smuggled it from the kitchens that afternoon, despite knowing that, as Lady of the Dreadfort, it was perfectly within her rights to demand it. But while she enjoyed the dresses and the odd devotion of her new husband, sometimes it all felt just a little too grown up, and smuggling strawberry pastries from the kitchens was sometimes necessary. She had intended to enjoy them with Lady Arya in the spirit of girlhood, but it looked as though they would have to be a peace offering. She would get to the bottom of this, and she knew her weapons well.
“Come, sit here with me and share the spoils.”
Of all the reactions she expected, tears was not one of them; they sprung to Arya’s eyes and spilled onto her cheeks as she covered her mouth and turned away. Walda sat stunned for a second before she reached out and hand to stroke her shoulder, Arya flinched away, heaving a deep breath.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry my lady I… I cannot. He will know. He will know and he will be displeased with me. I’m sorry my lady, you are too kind. I do not deserve your kindness.”
“You are a child, little lamb. What could you ever have done?”
Arya looked at her then, her eyes pink with tears and full of something that she could not place; fear, that was there certainly, so intensely childlike, but behind it was a knowledge too deep and too black for a child. It made her shudder.
“I have not been child for a long time, my lady. Not since King’s Landing.”
“You are a long way from King’s Landing now.” Walda reminded her; it could not have easy for the girl to stay in the city where her father was killed, traitor or no. The loss of her own father was still fresh in her mind, and every part of her yearned to reach out to Arya, to comfort her with soft words and soothing touches as she had done with her own sisters so many times. Instead, she sat as still as possible, trying her hardest not to frighten the poor girl even more.
“I thought King’s Landing was hell. I thought that, after the soldiers came for us, they must have killed me. I thought I was dead and in hell. I was wrong.”
It was the most words Walda had ever heard the girl utter without prompting, so she sat like a stone in her seat while Arya spewed out words like they were poison,
“They told me they were taking me home; they told me they were taking me to Winterfell, but this isn’t Winterfell. Winterfell feels safe. Winterfell is my Father and Sansa and lemon cakes. Where are Sansa and my Father now? They’re dead. They’re dead and I wish that I was dead with them. But I’m not; I’m breathing and hurting and I know that I’m not dead. But I’m not living either. I’m like them; like Winterfell and Th- like him. My husband took us and he burnt out our insides and left us to live like ghosts. You should not be here, my Lady. This is no place for living people; this is a place for ghosts and demons. You are not a demon, and I would not see you as a ghost.”
Walda did not know she was crying until she felt the first tear drop from her chin and onto her chest. Arya was staring straight forward, breathing hard, eyes large and horrified. She clamped her hands over her mouth and backed into the corner of the room.
Walda was speechless, whether with rage or distress she did not know. She did not know what her husband’s son had done to this girl, and there was a large part of her that did not want to; she had helped to bring Arya to this place, she had smiled as a monster covered her in the same pink cloak that Walda herself had worn less than a year before. That cloak was mean to be a symbol of protection, Walda thought, bile rising in her throat; Ramsay Snow had taken it and used it to smother his girl bride. How many bruises did it cover? How many shrieks of pain did it muffle? She was complicit in that crime, if unknowingly so, but she would not let it continue.
“My dear-“ she began, but Arya cut her off, her voice rising almost to a scream as she cried,
“No! You cannot make me say more. You cannot.”
“You need not saying anything, little lamb. Not if you don’t want to. I will never force you to anything, do you understand?”
“But you did. You made me say all those things. Bad things. My sweet Lord will be angry with me, please don't tell him. Please.” Arya insisted, pressing herself further into the wall as though she wished it would swallow her up.
“No, lamb, that was not me. You said those things because you wished to, and I promise I shall not tell him. He cannot hurt you so long as I am here. No matter what he does to you, there are parts of you he can never take.” She stood slowly and took a tentative step forwards, “He can never take your Father from you, he can never take Sansa, he can never take who you are.”
She dropped gently to her knees beside Arya, who gave a mirthless laugh,
“Oh, they took that a long time ago.”
Walda did not ask her what she meant; the poor girl needed no further torment. Instead, she reached out a tentative hand to touch Arya’s shoulder; her skin was cold, but this time she did not flinch away.
“I know that your real mother was...“ no, she could not think on that now, “that she cannot be with you. I know that you are a Stark and I am a Frey, but we both of us are Boltons now. Though I am not your kin by blood, I am your mother in name, and I will be in deed, I promise you that.”
Arya turned to look at her then, brown eyes flickering across her face as though looking for signs of deception. Then, like a puppet whose strings had been cut, she collapsed into Walda’s embrace, the wetness of her tears seeping through pink silk. As she stroked Arya’s hair, the strains of an almost forgotten tune echoed through Walda’s memory, and she began to sing,
“Gentle Mother, strength of women,
Help our daughters through this fray…”