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Jeyne woke with a hand in her hair and a knife at her throat, pressing down even as she opened her eyes. But then the hand hesitated, and the silent shadow above her let out a little breath.
“You!”
A dead girl stood over her. So tall now, with shorn hair and hateful eyes and a blade in her hand she meant to use.
“You!” Arya Stark hissed again, twisting her hand hard in Jeyne’s hair, making her sob in pain, “You! You called me names and then you stole mine!”
“Arya,” Jeyne gasped. Tears of pain and terror pricked at her eyes, “Please, they made me!”
“What? Who did?”
Death was so close, so sharp against her throat that blood was beading around the knifepoint. Death would not be so bad, she thought, not for the first time. It could very well be better than lies, than fear, than nightmares of his sweat on her skin, of his laughter and his icy eyes.
That’s over now, she heard Theon Greyjoy say, Jeyne, Jeyne, we flew away. She could see him smiling through his shattered teeth, feel the warmth of him as he held her when she cried. Theon, her dearest friend, who had saved her. Who even when he forgot his own name never, ever forgot hers.
And who only lived because it was the will of Arya Stark.
“Who?” snarled Arya; the real one, the dead one.
“The Lannisters, the Boltons, they made me pretend. For your claim to Winterfell. I never wanted it, never, never,” Jeyne was crying in earnest now, her tears dripping into her ears, blood dripping into her nightgown, “He did the most horrible things, Arya, he hurt me so much, I never, ever wanted it!”
The knife did not move from its killing point, but Arya's voice lost its vicious edge, “What did he do?”
Jeyne remembered rawness between her legs, and dogs, and candlesticks, and the scorching heat of bathwater. She tried to tell Arya all this and more, but there were too many memories and too many tears and she choked on them. He had choked her too, until her eyes went dark. No, I have to remember the good things too, I have to remember my father and Theon and Sansa, and even Arya. Arya Horseface, who had thrown snowballs at her and squashed her toes when they had to practice dancing, Arya who was here when Jeyne had thought her little body was long left by a roadside, Arya Stark who was alive and Theon Greyjoy who was alive and Jeyne Poole who was alive, who sometimes wanted to die but hadn't yet.
“Jeyne,” the hand let go her hair; the knife vanished as if it had never been. Arya took a step away so Jeyne could sit up and breathe deep of the bracing night air coming through her window.
“Dry your tears,” nothing about Arya was gentle, but this seemed a gruff attempt at comfort. Jeyne rubbed at her eyes to show she accepted it. “I came for the one who stole my name. Seems you were only forced to wear it. Tell me who did it.”
“The Lannisters. Lord Baelish. And...and my husband.”
“And what is your husband’s name?”
Jeyne flinched. “You must have heard it.”
“Speak it, all the same.”
“R-Ramsay,” she whispered, “Ramsay Bolton.” Saying it was bitter and frightening, like blood in her mouth, but she felt a little stronger when she was through.
“Just so,” Arya bared her teeth in what must have been a grin. Jeyne thought of Ramsay’s throat between those teeth, and found a smile to give back.
Arya moved to the window, and her body flowed like water, like leaves on the wind. She put one foot up on the sill, a sharp black shape against the starry night sky, before she paused and looked over her shoulder.
“I will tell him Arya Stark sends her regards.”