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Elmar is sure that when he opens his eyes he will find nothing, but the great beyond. He shouldn’t be surprised. A part of him always knew Arya Stark would be the death of him. He would have to open his eyes and face his dead and when they asked what he had done to enter their halls he would have to tell that he followed a crazed Northern princess into a dilapidated tower in a twice damned swamp.
Elmar opens his eyes, prepared to plead his case. Instead of seeing the faces of his ancestors, he is faced with a pale gray sky. He can see a pinpoint of light, where the sun shines overhead. The ringing in his ears is starting to be replaced with the buzzing of insects.
“Your doublet ripped.” Arya points out.
“Aye, it did. Remind me of it later, right now I’m just happy to be alive.” Elmar says breathlessly, staring at the gray sky above them. He’d really thought that would be the end. That he, Elmar Frey, would die just some twenty second son of one of the most hated Lords of Westeros, crushed by half of an ancient tower all because he was chasing after some half-wild princess.
“I’ve lost my dagger.” Arya murmurs, patting down her gown. How she is managing to simply sit up is a surprise to him. He feels as though he could lay here forever, even if it is on swamp grass.
“I’ve got it.” Elmar says holding up the ugly thing.
Arya turns to look at him, it takes a moment before recognition lights in her eyes. Then her face breaks into the widest smile he’s ever seen her give and she breaks into laughter. True laughter, too, not the demure giggles of his cousins or the polite twitter of ladies. No, Arya’s laughter is loud and wild.
He doesn’t think she has ever truly laughed in his presence. Granted, the Twins were not known for laughter within their halls. Their father’s coarse cackling was the loudest among them. He may not understand Arya Stark, but he can admit that she has a nice laugh. He wishes he did not feel so close to death, so he could appreciate how the rain made her gown practically sheer.
“The tower was coming down and you grabbed my dagger?” she asks in disbelief, the laughter still in her voice.
“You seemed fond of it,’ he huffs, annoyed that she finds humor where she should find gratitude. If this were a song she would be seated before him on a horse telling him how brave he was. They no longer had horses, but she could still talk about his valor. She could at least swoon or something.
“I am. My brother Jon sent it to me from beyond the Wall.”
Elmar knows better than to ask if that is really appropriate. Should a man of the Nights’ Watch be sending a Northern princess some wilding blade? Members of House Stark, it seems to him, do as they please. The only one of them Elmar can understand is Lady Catelyn and even then, she is one of the fiercest women Elmar knows. She isn’t even scared of Father. It appears even those who are supposed to no longer be a part of House Stark – don’t the brothers black speak vows to give up their names or families or something? – do as they please.
Instead, Elmar is about to ask her where her brother managed to get it, as it seems to Elmar, Wildings would not simply part with their blades, when they hear the cries of others. Moments later, Tyr is upon them.
“I found them!” he calls to the others, taking them in, ‘What happened to the two of you?”
Elmar is sure both look a sight. Both of them are drenched to the bone and muddy. Arya’s gown is torn in several places, her mess of a hem now a complete disaster. His doublet is ripped clean up one sleeve, several of the buttons missing. His leathers face a similar fate, muddied and torn. Those, though, may be salvageable. He would have to talk to the laundress about it.
Tyr helps Arya to her feet, how much she needs that help Elmar finds questionable, while Elmar continues to lay in the grass and wait for the others to reach them.
“Did you kill him, sweet sister,’ he hears Rickon Stark call out, ‘Mother will be wroth.”
“He lives yet,” Arya says, her face suddenly in front of his. Mud, he notices idly, sits across her nose and splatters on her cheeks. Her smile is still wide.
She holds out a hand and he takes it, more for stability than anything. Her hand is small and cold in his. His doublet is ruined, his horse has run off, but with Arya finally smiling at him and her hand in his he finds he is not as angry as he should be. He is barely angry at all.
…
Days later, Elmar comes back from the training yard exhausted. He is still sore from his excursion to Moat Cailin. The bruises are not quite healed, but it would not do for his cousins to think the soon-to-be Lord of Moat Cailin would be abed after such a minor adventure. Of course, he could easily take them all even if he came down with dragon pox! Still, he calls for the maids to prepare a bath for him, with water as warm as they can get it. With some peppermint and chamomile for his muscles, certainly not because they smelt nice or anything.
The muscles in his back are finally unwinding when his chamber door pushes open to reveal Shirei. His sister dips into a low curtsy, her eyes on the folded bundle in her hands, “Greetings, oh great Lord Elmar.”
“I am bathing, Shirei.”
Shirei ignores him, coming further into the chamber, too busy enjoying her own performance to heed him, “My mistress, her grace, the Princess Arya of Stark, sister to his royal majesty King Robert, first of his name, king of the First Men, the River Lords and the Valemen. Dau-”
“Tell me what Arya wants or get out.”
“I’m not done, brother,’ Shirei informs him with a sniff, ‘Daughter of the late Eddard Stark, last Warden of the North and Hand to the late King Robert Baratheon, and the Lady Catelyn Tully of Riverrun gifts you this doublet along with the privilege of her gratitude.”
Shirei holds up the doublet in question. It is well made of a light purple cloth, probably by one of the seamstresses belonging to House Stark. Shirei brings the doublet closer to him, much to Elmar’s discomfort, to show him the hems. All around the cuffs are strange looking deep purple flowers. He looks up at his sister.
“They are supposed to be the marsh locks,'' Shirei explains, ‘Arya did the flowers herself. As a thank you for the dagger.”
Elmar blinks in surprise. Arya Stark does not embroider. He, and he is sure half the realm, knows that much. Not that he can really blame her, she isn't very good at it. The dagger must have meant a lot to her.
“It’ll look pretty on you,’ Shirei says with a wide smile, ‘the color will bring out your eyes.”
Elmar rolls his eyes.
“Put the doublet on the bed, Shirei, and get out.”
“Fine, fine.” His sister huffs, laying the bundle on the bed with more care than usual before heading for the doors. Elmar studies the messy looking flowers for a moment.
Shirei is halfway out the door when Elmar calls out to her.
“Shirei?”
“Aye?”
“Give your mistress my thanks. It is well done.”