Arra II - We Don't Get To Choose

“You think I chose to have you?”

The words wouldn’t leave her ears. They clung to her, followed her out of the tent like a curse.

Arra pulled her cloak tighter and shoved through the mud, boots splashing with every step. The night air bit at her cheeks but it felt warm all the same, or maybe that was just her body burning from the inside. Rage, fear, sorrow. She couldn’t tell them apart anymore.

First he betrothed her to Bolton. A man she barely knew, barely liked, but she had told herself she could live with it. She had forced herself. Tried. Gods, she really tried. Tried to believe it was the right thing, that it was her duty. And then, just when she almost convinced herself, he snatched it away. Didn’t even ask her. Just like before. Just like always.

She never wanted it. She never wanted Bolton. She never wanted Highpoint. She never wanted to be heir. Gods, she never even asked to be born. She never had a choice. And now her father spoke as if none of it was his fault. As if he hadn’t put her in chains from the moment she first cried.

“You think I wanted to marry your mother?” His voice was still there, buzzing in her head, the same as when he slammed his fist down. No. No, you didn’t deserve her. You never did. You never deserved her love. The love you wasted. The love you spat on.

Arra cut through the camp, past the noise and song of men drunk on wine and victory, past the crackling fires where sellswords shouted about battles they hadn’t fought. She wanted none of it. She wanted to be anywhere else.

At last she found an empty fire. A small pot bubbled over it, stew thick with beef. The smell made her stomach clench. She grabbed a wooden bowl from the dirt. It was filthy, caked with old grease, someone else’s spit still drying on the spoon. She didn’t care. Not tonight. She dipped it deep into the pot, ladled half a bowl, wiped the dripping excess with a cloth from her pocket. Sat down on a log and stared at the flames.

The first spoonful burned her tongue raw. She hissed through her teeth and nearly dropped it. Her eyes watered. The heat didn’t fade, it spread, sat on her chest like coal. The words came rushing back again.

I knew it. I knew he couldn’t just let me have peace. Not even once. “We are Whitehills, we do what we need to.” Go fuck yourself. You think yourself better than your father? You’re the same as him. The same blood, the same bastard’s heart. He never gave you a choice and now you do the same to me. You hypocrite. You fucking hypocrite.

Her hand trembled, stew sloshing. She clenched her jaw until it ached. Her teeth ground like stone. She wanted to scream, to throw the bowl into the fire, to rip through the camp and let them all hear her fury. Instead she shoved another bite into her mouth, let the burn sear her tongue until it hurt too much to think.

And then she noticed.

The camp was quiet. Too quiet. Fires had died down, voices gone, the laughter and singing snuffed out like a candle in the wind. Lords in their tents, guards snoring against poles. All of them swallowed by silence.

But her fire still burned. It crackled loud, wild, alive, brighter than before. The flames danced tall, orange and white, bending toward her as if the night itself leaned in to listen.

(Open!)