The forest was growing darker as evening crept across the treetops, swallowing the remaining shards of daylight. Damp leaves rustled beneath the faint breeze, and the distant calls of night birds drifted through the woods like ghosts awakening. The air smelled of soil, old bark, and smoke from the soldiers' campfires not far away.
Beneath a massive, gnarled tree, Arya Stark sat bound tightly with rough rope biting into her wrists. Her hair hung in tangled clumps around her face, and bruises mottled her arms from the long day's march. Though exhausted, her eyes remained sharp—watchful, calculating—even as she forced herself to breathe slowly.
She could still hear the strange man's voice in her ear from earlier, spoken while Stao and Halson were distracted in their argument:
"All men must die."
Then another whisper—quiet, swift, and unsettlingly certain:
"After dark, create chaos if you can. Try to push that man Halson to rebel."
Another sentence, spoken with deliberate weight:
"You are a clever girl. Use your identity as 'Miss Stark' wisely."
And finally:
"Do not forget—your brother waits for you in Riverrun."
The memory made her lift her head. Arya did not know why Corleone had helped her, nor what game he was playing. But his words had lodged in her mind like sharpened hooks. If chaos could free her—if she could spark conflict within the camp—then maybe she could escape before she was dragged farther from safety.
Unfortunately, there was the matter of the man currently staring at her.
A filthy Northern soldier leaned against a nearby tree trunk, his eyes fixed on her with a gleam that made her skin crawl. He had been watching her like that since the afternoon, never bothering to hide it. His breath wheezed, his lips twitched, and his gaze slithered over her like a greasy hand.
Though young, Arya was not naïve. She had seen the world's ugliness in King's Landing—the lies, the cruelty, the hunger in men's eyes. She knew exactly what he wanted, and what he thought he could take.
Her heart thudded hard, but not from fear.
A plan—bold, reckless, and dangerous—formed in her mind.
She straightened, lifted her chin, and called out.
"Hey!"
The soldier jerked, startled that she had spoken. Arya widened her eyes, softening her expression into something innocent, fragile, and embarrassed.
"I… I need to pee," she declared, sounding every bit the helpless noble girl she pretended to be.
The man blinked. Then a slow, pleased grin crawled across his stained teeth. He opened his mouth to agree, but then hesitation flickered. He scratched his nose and muttered:
"Captain Stao said we're not to touch you, Stark."
His grin turned into a crude laugh.
"If you can't hold it—just piss in your pants! Hahaha!"
His laughter echoed through the quiet woods, vulgar and triumphant.
For a moment Arya's eyes flashed with fury. She wanted to spit at him, to curse him, to tell him she had buried Needle into bigger men than him. But she swallowed it down. She lowered her gaze, mimicking Sansa's timid composure—shoulders hunched, voice trembling.
"That… that would be improper," she murmured, looking small and ashamed. "Mother would punish me."
She hesitated, as though gathering courage.
Then, in a tiny, trembling voice:
"Maybe… you could help me take off my pants. And put them back on. Please. I really have to go…"
The soldier's breath hitched. His eyes darkened with feverish desire. Even covered in road dust and bound to a tree, Arya Stark was still a noble girl—still a fantasy he had never dared dream within reach.
House Stark's daughter.
A soldier like him would die nameless, forgotten and filthy. But this… this was a chance to feel powerful, important—dominant.
He swallowed so loudly Arya heard it.
"You asked me yourself," he rasped, kneeling eagerly in front of her.
His hand reached toward her inner thigh, fumbling for her belt.
Now.
Arya snapped her head forward with all the force her neck could muster.
BANG!
Her skull collided with his nose, and a sickening crack echoed through the clearing.
"AHHH!!!"
Blood spurted down the soldier's face, dripping down his lips in thick streams. He howled, stumbling backward, clutching his face as crimson smeared across his fingers.
Now!
Arya inhaled deeply—then unleashed a scream that shattered the night:
"No! Stop! What are you doing?!"
"Let go of me—I'm just a child!"
"Help! Please, someone help me!"
Her cries were piercing, frantic, filled with terror and humiliation. They sliced through the forest, startling birds into flight and sending nearby men scrambling.
The soldier panicked, ignoring his bleeding nose. He lunged forward and slapped his hand across her mouth.
"Shut up!" he hissed. "You little brat, scream again and I'll kill you!"
Arya did not hesitate.
She sank her teeth into the soft flesh at the base of his hand.
"AHHHH!!!"
The man ripped his hand back, staring in disbelief at the torn skin and missing chunk of flesh.
Blinded by pain and rage, he lost control. He punched Arya across the cheek, hard enough to make her vision explode in white sparks.
Her head snapped sideways, but she kept screaming, voice cracking with just the right blend of terror and pain.
"Help! Please! Don't hit me!"
"You filthy little—!" the soldier snarled, raising his fist again.
But before he could strike, a hand clamped around his wrist—iron-strong and merciless.
The soldier turned, breath catching in terror.
"Halson!"
Halson's face was a mask of barely contained fury—jaw clenched, nostrils flared, eyes bloodshot with rage. His grip tightened, and the soldier's knees trembled.
"It—it wasn't me!" the man babbled. "She started it—she—"
But Arya spoke first.
"He tried to rape me!" she cried, lifting her face so the bruised cheek and bloodied lip were visible. Tears spilled down her cheeks, and her voice broke with perfect fragility.
"He told me to pee in my pants so he could watch. When I refused, he hit me—and—and tried to force me!"
She dissolved into sobs, shoulders shaking, looking every bit the shattered little girl.
The soldier's face twisted in stunned outrage.
"You lying brat!" he shouted. "You started—"
"Shut up!" Halson roared.
Rage thundered through Halson as he punched the soldier square in the face—once, twice, three times—each blow fueled by disgust and fury.
"You disgusting filth!" he spat. "You think the daughter of House Stark would use her innocence to slander trash like you?!"
"She's a child!"
The soldier reeled, bleeding, dizzy, desperate to escape. He wanted Stao—Stao would defend him, Stao would listen—
But Arya was not finished.
Her cries softened into trembling despair.
"I was bullied by Cersei and Joffrey in King's Landing… and now Northern men are hurting me too…"
She sniffed, voice cracking.
"Oh, Mother… Sansa was right. Now that Father is dead… there's no one left to protect us…"
The words struck something deep in Halson—something primal, wounded, loyal.
His restraint snapped.
SHING!
Steel hissed as he drew his blade.
The soldier froze, eyes widening.
"Wait—Captain Halson, calm down—this girl is ly—"
THUNK.
Halson's sword drove into his chest. The soldier gasped, eyes going glassy as blood bubbled at his lips. He collapsed, limbs twitching before going still.
Halson exhaled shakily, flicking blood from his blade.
Then—
Footsteps thundered through the trees.
Stao burst into the clearing with arme
d men behind him—just in time to see the corpse on the ground and Halson standing over it with a bloody sword.
Stao's eyes widened in fury.
"What the hell have you done, Halson?!"