note: the lovely nymeria-sand translated BOTH oona’s video and print interviews with fotograma this morning without even being directly asked. so this is for her.
She thinks about calling her brothers, after she shoots her husband. It only takes one bullet, straight between the eyes. She can imagine it, Robb, quick with his fists and angry and Theon behind him and she puts down the phone. The body lays heavy on the floor.
She dials in a different number.
“This didn’t happen, okay, Arya?”
Her sister smirks.
“I’ll keep your secret, sis.”
He had a wife before and didn’t tell her. It is Theon who lets it slip, actually, one day—makes a reference to her being the second Mrs. Stark and she laughs, because she thinks for a moment he means Catelyn and Theon looks pleased with himself because she really doesn’t know.
She asks him, later, in bed, her lips near his neck and he flinches when she says the name.
“She died, Jeyne.”
“Okay.” She purses her lips. “How old was she? Your age? Do people just die in their twenties?”
“She was killed, all right?” It comes out fast, harsh and she is sorry she said anything.
“She was from one of the families—it seemed like the right thing to do and we got married and then she died. That’s really it, okay, Jeyne. I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Fine,” she says, and turns over.
Her first kill is at eighteen. Her brother laughs when he kisses the blood off her lips and says he likes her this way.
Later, they send her his hand and she burns it all down.
It is strange, to disappear into a killing this way. The politician’s daughter with her smile and her pretty children is a gory photograph on the front of the newspaper for years after.
Nobody remembers her, really.
“I’d kill for anyone in this room,” she says, her voice low and her sons have ceased to be surprised.
(Once Ned could not shoot a man and she did it for him.)
You don’t want to see her at your door, they say and it’s true, you don’t. She doesn’t pass for a boy anymore, not quite, thin as she is, but does that matter? She’s a clean up girl, they say but frankly, she could be better—a really good hitman doesn’t enjoy it.