The Brittle Bloodline | Part Two of The Way of Winter.

ARYADNE - I

THE WORLD SPAN IN A blur of green and grey. A heat pooled in Aryadne's head. She was aware of movement, but it was not her own. She did not take a step and yet she could hear the crunch of leaves underfoot. Opening her eyes again, she was met with the sight of dry leaves and twigs. A dull pain nagged at the back of her skull. Blinking back the dark spots dancing across her vision, she slowly realised that she was hanging upside down. Her body had been slumped over someone's shoulder, a hand secured on her hip.

Her memories were hard to sort through in her stunned condition. She recalled the wedding feast, Robb's adoring gaze. For a moment, his voice echoed through her ears. She listened for him but heard nothing, save for wind in the trees. She had left the hall. Yes, she remembered that. Hunched over by a wall in the Twins' courtyard, emptying her stomach into a patch of straw. What next? A hand on her shoulder. A blow to the back of her head. Then nothing.

Someone had attacked her. Someone was carrying her away. The thought alone was enough to sober her, and she began to kick and scream. Her captor grunted as her foot made contact with his groin. Her body slipped from his hold. Her sudden impact with the ground knocked the air out of her. Gasping, she clawed at the leaves, trying to push herself up. Footsteps approached. Her hand closed around a large stick and she turned quickly onto her back, brandishing it at the stranger. He yelped and flinched, raising a hand to shield himself. "Wait, Your Grace! Your Grace... it's me. It's all right. It's me."

Her eyes adjusted to the darkness. A thin ray of moonlight pierced through the trees, painting a silvery glow over the face of Olyvar Frey. There was no doubt about it. She knew his brown mop of hair, his watery grey eyes, his pallid complexion. "Olyvar?"

"Yes, it's me. I've got you. Just... breathe." Keeping his hands in sight, he slowly took the stick from her.

It didn't make sense. Was it he who knocked her out? And why were they in the middle of the woods? Confusion overwhelmed her. She winced and clutched at her head, asking the only question she could put into words, "What is happening?"

He hesitated, then moved closer. "Can you stand?"

"I— I think so." Taking great care with her shaken form, he helped her to her feet. She swayed a little but didn't fall. "I was in the castle. Why are we here? What— Did you do that? Did you hit me?" she stammered, rubbing the back of her head.

"I'm sorry, I had to. I couldn't stop it. I tried to warn you but they locked me in my room. By the time I got out, the hall was sealed."

"What are you talking about?"

"I—" His voice died suddenly, silenced as an arrow took root in his throat. Aryadne's eyes widened in shock. Just as the boy grabbed onto her for support, another arrow struck him through the eye, and he keeled back.

A scream tore into the silence. She realised that it was her own. Rushing to his side, she tried desperately to wake him, to rouse some sort of reaction. "No. No, no, no. Oh my Gods. Oh Gods, Olyvar?"

"Your Grace!" The shout reminded her of the present danger. Turning, she caught sight of a figure on the slope above. He lowered his bow and began to approach. Just as she prepared to beg for her life, she recognised the broad form and grey hair belonging to Ser Brynden Tully, Robb's great-uncle. Skidding down the hill, he quickly knelt before her, grasping her by the shoulders. His eyes urgently scanned her for injuries. "Are you hurt?"

She looked back to Olyvar's body, a gasp escaping her. "You killed him."

"He's a Frey."

"He's my friend! Why would you kill him?" she cried.

His callused hand clamped over her mouth. Seeing her terror, his expression softened. "We must be quiet. They'll be out here, looking for survivors."

That word chilled her right to the core. What did he mean by 'survivors?' The instant his hand moved from her, she repeated it shakily, "Survivors? What survivors?"