The first time she saw him, she froze.

He sat on a log outside, running a stone rhythmically against a long piece of metal. Somewhere in the back of her human consciousness, she knew the weapon was called a sword. The human seemed familiar to her, as well, but every time she reached for his identity, it evaporated into hundreds of tendrils of other thoughts. She tried to place him in her mind, but it was impossible. Sniffing the air, she could smell the smoke of fire coming from inside the building behind him, the dirt, and the moist, rotting leaves beneath her paws. And as she focused her attention on the boy- or was he a man? She couldn't quite tell- she caught the salty scent of sweat and leather against his skin. There was another scent that she couldn't quite identify; it brought her human side into sharper focus, both frightening and intriguing her.

Just as she was about to take a thoughtless step forward, a woman suddenly appeared behind the man and placed a hand on his shoulder. She bent low to his ear and murmured something in a low voice, her lips brushing very close to his skin. A sudden surge of protectiveness coursed through her as she watched, as well as a more complex, more human emotion that she couldn't understand. Whatever it was, it made her hackles rise and caused her to bare her fangs with a low, rumbling growl.

Both humans stiffened at the sound, and she could suddenly smell the fear in their limbs, coursing rapidly through their veins. Her mouth automatically began to water, instinctively relating the scent to that of her prey. And, while she would have gladly torn into the woman's flesh, there was something about the male that made her pause. This one was different, she knew, but as to why, she could not fathom. He had risen at the sound of her, brandishing his weapon defensively in her direction. The moon was dark tonight, though, and the trees hid her from his sight. She stared at him with her golden eyes for a long moment before silently slinking away.

She ran until she couldn't smell his scent anymore. When the darkness around her began to lighten, she made her way back to her pack. Coming to rest in her usual spot, she let her muscles relax, the familiar sense of security enveloping her as the other wolves lay around her sleeping. It wasn't until she closed her eyes that she realized something about the boy: he reminded her of the little one, the one who dwelt inside her. The one who had called her Nymeria.

Arya awoke the next morning feeling just as tired as she had been the night before. It was always such when she had her wolf dreams. However, something about last night had been different: she couldn't remember the dream. She could remember the feeling of running, the strength of her muscles working together to take her places faster than she'd ever gone; the thrilling sensation of being able to see the air around her through its layers upon layers of overlapping scents. She had no doubt she'd experienced such things the night before as she always did, but beyond that... It was as if something were blocking her from remembering any further. She didn't like the feeling.

When she made her way down to training, the kindly man greeted her and asked, as he always did, "Who are you?"

Her answer was the same as it had always been: "No one." It had been weeks since she'd had to lie to the man about who she was, and she answered him now without even thinking.

As he scrutinized her, she tried to keep her face calm and still, giving nothing away. She was no one.

A look of mild surprise crossed the kindly man's face, and he said for the first time in weeks, "You lie."

There was a brief moment of shocked silence on her part before she said angrily, "I do not. I am no one."

"You lie again," he told her, not unkindly. "You were no one. Now, you are Arya Stark."

"Am not!" she blanched. How could this have happened? She had finally gotten rid of the stupid little girl, only to have her return again.

The kindly man merely stared at her, almost as if fascinated. Finally, she resigned herself. "I don't understand," she told him, ashamed of herself for being so weak.

"This sometimes happens," he told her, tilting his head and studying her closely. "It can be overcome, but it will take complete honesty and, even more, complete surrender. Tell me, child: is there anything you are keeping from me?"

She kept her expression passive as she thought of Needle. She hadn't gotten rid of it as the kindly man had asked her to, instead burying it nearby. She simply couldn't bear to give it up for good, and she didn't fully understand why she had to. She hadn't mentioned her wolf dreams to the kindly man either, and somehow she knew he would not approve if she did. "No," she told him.

He looked at her for a long moment before finally giving a sigh. "Then you must try harder. If you cannot, or will not, let the Stark girl die, then it is impossible for you to be Faceless. You know this."

"Yes," she replied, disappointed in herself.

As she made her way up to her room that night, she wracked her brain. She couldn't understand how or why this had happened. She had performed terribly in training all day, and she wanted to scream in frustration, because there seemed to be nothing she could do about it.

She lay on her bed, flicking through the events of the past few days, trying to determine what had gone wrong, but she found nothing. Everything was as it had always been; the problem was just... her. After all, how does one simply stop being oneself? She didn't want to be Arya, with her life and her problems. But perhaps it took something more than that, something that she had yet to grasp.

She tossed and turned for most of the night with these thoughts in her head. Finally, though, she drifted off into a fretful sleep.

The man was outside again- or, perhaps he was a boy, after all. Whatever he was, he remained just as mysterious as he had the night before, lying on his back on the cold ground. He smelled different than most males his age- there was no false bravado in him, no guile, no pride. Instead, she sensed kindness deep within him, though it was almost hidden by a thick layer of anger and loss and several other complex and unpleasant human emotions that she could not comprehend. He truly was like the little one had been- like the little one still was.

She wasn't sure why she was back here. Whatever it was about the boy, it had caused her to act rashly the night before, almost giving her away. Not that she was afraid of him- and she certainly wasn't afraid of the woman who'd stood so close to him. She just didn't relish the thought of having to hurt him.

This night was a bit different, however. The irksome woman did not make an appearance. Instead, a small child came out to join him, laying by his side. She perked her ears up and tilted her head slightly. For a moment, she thought it was her little one. But no, she quickly realized, the little one was already with her inside. Sniffing the air, she caught the girl's scent- dirt and water and smoke. He turned his face toward the girl and said something.

Willow, her human voice broke through briefly to repeat. It held no meaning to her, though. She watched as the boy and girl continued to lay there together, speaking in hushed voices. The girl seemed to mock the boy for a moment and, for the first time since she'd come upon him the night before, she saw him smile.

Gendry.

Arya awoke with a sudden gasp. She sat up in her bed and saw that the world was still dark outside. Everything that had happened the night before suddenly came rushing back to her.

Gendry. She repeated his name over and over inside her head, afraid that she would forget it if she did not. She couldn't believe she'd almost forgotten him in the first place. How was that possible? He had been her friend, a part of her pack. He had helped protect her, reminded her what it was like to have a brother. She had... well, she had come very close to... She forcefully pushed the thought away, scolding herself for acting like her sister.

Sansa.

She blinked as the name entered her head for the first time in what felt like years. She'd had a sister once; had she truly forgotten that, as well?

What have I become? she wondered, desperately.

No one, a small voice answered back.

A shudder ran down her spine and she suddenly felt a tear escape down her cheek. She swiped at it with her finger, and it came back wet. She stared at her hand as if she'd never noticed it before. She knew she wasn't supposed to cry- no, she didn't cry. And yet here she was. She hadn't truly cried in what felt like ages, but she knew that now was not the time to start. She would save her tears for after.

She felt as if she'd been blinded all over again by the Faceless Men, but never realized it until now. Because now, she could see.

She knew what she had to do.

Swift as a deer, she slipped into her clothes and gathered her things. Quiet as a shadow, she stole free from the Guild of the Faceless Men and made her way to the place only she knew of.

Dropping to her hands and knees, she started digging. The dirt got all over her clothes and under her fingernails, but she didn't care. It was buried deeper than she'd realized, but eventually, she felt the cold, hard metal against her fingers. Pulling the sword free from the ground, she felt a part of her snap back into place. She wasn't no one anymore. She was Arya of House Stark, daughter to Ned and Catelyn, sister to Robb, Jon, Sansa, Bran, and Rickon. Owner of Needle, and pack mate to Gendry.

Gendry.

There it was again. His name is what had started all of this, and she knew she couldn't stop until she could see his face. He had left her pack long ago, but he wasn't a wolf so he couldn't understand- a pack is a family, and family is for life. She wouldn't let him leave this time. He was hers- and somehow, without her realizing or consenting, she was his.