maisiewilliams:

modern au → arya stark as an underground assassin in london

She only called once. A quick, breathless call on a burner, which she later ditched behind an Indian restaurant near Southwark Bridge. It was reckless and selfish and jeopardized the two years she had spent in hiding - but it was worth it when Sansa picked up the phone after two rings, her voice weak through the receiver. “Arya? Is that you?” She knew that Sansa was alive from newspaper clippings and TV reports, but hearing her was different. Her sister’s voice was familiarity and comfort, Scottish winters and evenings in Winterfell, sitting together on the back porch and watching the sky dim. She called me Arya, the girl realized. It had been years since she heard that name, and it sounded foreign, detached. She swayed, falling against the wall of the alley, sliding down the side of the building until her knees hit cement. “Sansa,” she whispered back, surprised to find that she was crying, almost heaving in an alley off Brick Lane. The call lasted two and a half minutes before the girl hung up. When she left, pulling up her hood and blending back into the shadows, her sister’s last words - please Arya, just another minute, please - stayed with her.