A/N: And here we are at chapter heavily Arya centric, as there was a lot that needed to be said and done with her to move the story forward.

Frosted Faith

Swords and Maidens

Arya:

Life inside the walls of Winterfell and the village of Winter Town had been tense in the three weeks since the duel between the King-of-the-North and Arya. 'The Dance of Wolves' the small folk in the village called it. Rumors spread like wildfire about Arya's potential impending betrothal to either Ramsay Snow or Gendry Waters, as well as the possible legitimization of both bastard young men.

Everyone from commoner to noble had an opinion on the two suitors as well as the words the she-wolf had spoken during her duel with her King-brother. Some spoke in support of Arya; others offered alternative names of noble sons they believed better suited for Winterfell's beloved warrior-princess. Ethan Forrester, Brandon Tallhart, or even his cousin Larence Snow, were among the list of northern sons the small folk suggested.

Arya herself paid no mind to the whispers or rumors, choosing instead to spend her days hunting and patrolling in the Wolfswood, often leaving well before dawn and returning well after dark. The results of her notable absence was an influx of fresh killed game, and the tanneries, butchers and cooks in the keep and the village suddenly found themselves very busy. There was also a sharp decline in reported brigands on the roads, with many awaiting trial in the dungeons of Winterfell.

She didn't always go alone of course, that she took Nymeria went without saying. Often times Gendry, Osha and Dacey were also seen with her. The four plus wolf were as thick as thieves, as it the saying went. On the rare occurrence, soldiers or guardsmen would also join the she-wolf on her daily patrols and rides, returning with tales that she knew only made her parents and brother scowl, and noble tongues waggle.

She didn't care - let them talk. She spoke true when she said she would take no husband and bare no children. They couldn't force Gendry to marry her, and she'd cut the prick off the Bastard-of-Bolton if it came down to it.

Or slit his throat in our marriage bed before he can even harden himself before going to slay his father, she thought to herself. I could take the Dreadfort for my holdfast.

Arya thoughts continued as she watched from the very window of the Broken Tower from which Bran fell off as the Keep prepared for that night's feast. If she squinted, she could make out the banners of the noble houses that had already arrived in Winterfell for the festivities flapping in the bitter wind on the southern wall: House Dustin, Forrester, Hornwood, Karstark, Reed, Tallhart, Umber and Whitehill. Mormont and Mollen. Long and Glover. Condon, Glenmore and Marsh. Half the northern houses. The rest, including the three houses of Flints and the Boltons were expected to arrive soon, their retinues having been spotted by the patrols already.

Her mother was entertaining the noble ladies and their daughters in the glass gardens, where it was warm, and the scents of fragrant fruits and flowers filled the air as they giggled and gossiped over tea. Her father and Robb no doubt were with the men and eldest of sons, cups of warm honey mead in hand in the study, deep in discussions of politics and boastful tales of battle.

Gendry and Dacey, like Rickon and Theon she had seen in the training yard with the other young lords and sons, testing their mettle against one another in spars under the watchful eye of Winterfell's Master-at-Arms Rodrick Cassel and his son Jory, the Captain of the Guard. The she-wolf had attempted to join in, however Rodrick had sent her off, gently but firmly. Orders, he had stated, from both her parents and her brother.

Arya returned to her room to strip herself of her armor, only to be set upon by Septa Mordane and her mother's personal handmaiden, Jayne Poole. The pair had been waiting, on her mother's orders, to bath and dress her appropriately for the festivities. A fine dress of shimmering Stark gray, the color of ice and frost, had been laid on her bed as per her mother's decree.

She had barely managed to escape the eager clutches of the two women.

It had taken a good two hours for both Jayne and the Septa to give up the chase. Arya had the good sense to hide herself in the top of the Broken Tower until the festivities began, knowing that the place was stubbornly avoided by all since Bran's fall.

Her parents would be furious later when she arrived in the outfit she had planned for herself instead of the gown chosen for her, and there would be consequences for it. However, the she-wolf refused to be anything but herself.

She was no more a lady than Nymeria a hound. She was Arya Stark of Winterfell, she was of the North, not some wilting southern flower.

The festivities were set to start momentarily, and Arya was only just finishing. It had taken her longer to get dressed than she had planned, having had to retrieve the parcel containing her outfit from where it had been stashed in the smithy had taken time.

The young woman who stared back at her in the mirror was a surprise. The knee high black leather riding boots and snug wool trousers were her, and the boots hid the two knives she had tucked into them well. But the midnight blue top, low cut and skin tight showed a hint of cleavage she hadn't even been aware that she had. The long, shimmering sleeves with swirls of lighter blues and grays that looked like windswept snow were of a length more suited for her Lady Mother. The laced thigh length over coat, black dusting its way to a light gray towards the bottom, was clinched with metal waist belt.

Arya studied her reflection for a long minute, tucking dark strands of her hair behind her ears, choosing a half up and half down style with a long, thin braid at the back of her skull to keep it out of her face, leaving the rest of her hair to tumble down to below her shoulder blades in wild waves.

Straightening herself up, she lifted her chin towards the Stark woman in the mirror as she tugged on her gloves, then pulled on her formal cloak, Stark gray with a gray wolf pelt on the shoulders, and departed her chambers.

The walk to the great hall where the feast was being held took only moments, and Arya ignored the way the few milling servants stopped and stared at her as she swept by, leaving whispers in her wake.

The two guards at the double doors to the feast hall straightened themselves as she came around the corner. Both of them were young men, and she had trained with them, bled with them and ridden with them on the field of battle. Tonight they stared at her with awe in addition to the respect they normally showed. The pair saluted.

"Lady Arya," they murmured in low voices. For once Arya didn't mind the title, because this time it was spoken the way these same men would address her brother or father.

With a small smile, and gray eyes warm, she clapped both men on the shoulder. "Make sure to have Gage save you a strong bottle of mead for when you are off duty. And ask Tamra to bring you both a plate of food. And if Tam gives you grief, tell her it comes from me."

The men grinned, then bowed their heads. "Thank you Lady-Wolf." said from the guard on the left. The one on the right just smirked. "Get in there and show em who you are, She-wolf!"

Arya gave them both a wolfish grin and a wink before schooling her face and nodding at them to open the doors.

She swept in, and the great hall fell silent. The she-wolf kept her eyes trained on the raised head table, where her father and brother were both half out of their seats in shock. Her mother's face was torn between annoyance and a surprise delight.

Behind her she could hear the herald recovering from his own surprise to announce her.

"Lady Arya Stark of Winterfell, Princess of the North!"

Arya was resolute, keeping her steps even, chin lifted in defiance. She ignored the murmurs, the gobsmacked look on Gendry's face, the hunger on Ramsay's face, and the delight on Darcy's face. She ignored the faint words that spoke of how she truly did look like Lyanna come again, now more then any other time.

Words are Wind.

She came to a stop just a few feet from the raised table of lords. Eyes the color of winter met those of her father, and the Tully blue of her brother and mother. Bending at the waist, Arya gave a deep bow, right fist over her left breast.

"Your Grace, My Lord Father and Lady Mother. Forgive me, I believe I am fashionably late." A few chuckles could be heard throughout the great hall. When she rose, she could see a small proud smile threatening to break her father's usually stern expression.

At the center of the table, her brother rose, and with a sweep of his hand gestured to the open seat between their mother and his wife. "I suppose better late then never dear sister." She inclined her head as more people joined in on the gentle sounds of amusement in the great hall. Bowing again she rounded the table and took a seat, continuing to ignore the way she could feel the hungry gaze of the bastard of Bolton on her form the whole time.

Eventually the noise level in the great hall returned to normal after her entrance, and her brother and father called for the feast to begin. Soon the sounds of merrymaking and revelry filled the hall, and staff laden with their burdens of food and drink moved in and around. Arya, despite her mother's light chiding, rose several times throughout to help one person or another with their burden when a heavy platter threatened to topple, or a too full jug was made to slosh over its rim.

Beyond that she comported herself as a lady, her manners impeccable, and not even the hawk eyed gaze of Septa Mordane could find fault.

Half-way through the third course - while her good sister was distracted with her niece and nephew, and Robb and her father caught in a heated debate with Lord Umber – she felt a gentle hand lay upon her arm. Turning her head, Arya found her mother looking at her curiously.

"I've never seen this outfit before, Arya."

The she-wolf notice that a number of the other noble ladies perked up. Fashion was a popular topic, it used to revolved around the trends of King's Landing, but years of Northern independence had caused the ladies of the north to make their own fashion trends. Sansa, Arya thought, would have either been delighted, or horrified.

"It's new." Seeing that Lady Catelyn was not yet satisfied with her answer, Arya sighed. "I bought the cloth from one of the passing traders, and commissioned Mistress Alanna in Winter Town to sew it."

"Who?" This from Lady Sybelle Glover a few seats down.

"She's a little known seamstress in Winter Town. Her husband died during the War - I believe it was an arrow that he took for your Lord Husband, my Lady Glover." She paused, seeing that she had the attention of several ladies at the table. "Everything from the fine stitching to the design is her work. As I stated, I simply bought the cloth and paid for her time. She has two young mouths to feed and needle work this far north is hard to come by. I go to her for all my wardrobe needs."

That had gotten their attention. No one in Winterfell or among the nobility had been able to figure out who had been making Arya's clothes. It wasn't the seamstress employed by her family to be sure. Her mother had long since ordered the woman to only make her young daughter clothes befitting a lady.

Watching and listening to the women talk among themselves, Arya had to hide her smirk behind her goblet of mead.

Apparently, if a common-born seamstress was good enough for the princess of the north, all the noble ladies wanted to get something made or designed by such a skilled woman. She would have to warn Alanna that she might find herself with a sudden influx of business.

With the ladies properly distracted, she returned her attention back to her mother, who hadn't been sidetracked so easily.

"You didn't wear the dress I h-"

"And I never will." Arya cut her off. "It's a fine dress mother, but... its not me. It's never going to be me." Arya couldn't help the emotion that seeped into her words, practically begging her mother to understand. "I'm never going to be a lady like you or Sansa - like you wish I was."

Arya swept her eyes over the room, finally settling on Gendry down at one of the lower tables as he arm-wrestled one of the Mormont soldiers, Dacey cheering him on. She wished she could be down there, just as she wished she could have joined her friends in the training yard that afternoon.

"It's just a matter of making an effort, Arya. Your outfit tonight, while not exactly acceptable for a feast, would be perfectly lady-like for everyday wear. Far better then dressing like a man." Inwardly Arya sighed. She refused to turn to face her mother again, knowing the hope in her eyes would crush her. "Now then. Should I take this as a sign that you've given thought to your betrothal and you're amenable now?"

"No."

"Bu-"

"I spoke true. I will not be taking a husband."

Lady Stark studied her youngest daughter, seeing the same resolute look on her face she had so often seen on her husband's. Sighing, she held back her desire to slump tiredly in her seat, well aware of the eyes upon them. "Then perhaps you mean to become a Septa or... the gods forbid a silent sister?"

"I've never really worshiped your Seven. I keep to the old gods."

A few of the noble ladies nearby gasped. While her viewpoint was common in the North, a majority of the nobility at least always swore by the new and the old gods. Arya however had just publicly stated she didn't.

The young woman could see how put-out her mother was, how horrified, and disappointed once more by her youngest daughter.

"Just... stop, mother." Arya said, still refusing to look any place else but forward. I will always disappoint you. You'll never be proud of me like you were Sansa. I've accepted this. Tonight, this outfit,it's a gesture of good will. A compromise without me trying to be something I will never be.'

From the corner of her eye she could see her mother turning away from her. She knew her mother was just trying to reach out, to form a connection with her. But I'm not Sansa, I'm not a lady like she was. Fit for court and courtship.'And where did that get Sansa in the end? Betrothed to and kidnapped by a psychotic prince turned mad-king. Married to a dwarf, and now missing.

Would I even know Sansa if I saw her? Would she know me? Sansa would be better able to navigate the courtly intrigue that the North's independence had brought to Winterfell. She'd be better equipped to know how to act, how to dress, what to say.

Arya didn't know. But that was because Arya was a warrior. And according to Osha, Arya had more in common with the people beyond the wall than she did with the southern 'kneelers'.

"Theres old blood in you A'ya. Old blood carrying older magic. Don't let these kneelers kill what howls in your veins." It was a miracle that her mother had even allowed Osha to eat in the great hall during feasts, but Arya could see the wildling woman, dressed in trousers and a long tunic and jerkin, wrapped in a heavy cloak.

Half way through the feast, but before the guests could get too deep into their cups and partying, her father stood up and called for silence. Though Robb was King, her father's voice and words still held great sway and weight over all assembled. A hushed quiet quickly descended on the great hall as small folk and noble alike turned their gaze upon Eddard, waiting.

She, like the rest of those gathered, watched as Lord Stark stepped down from the raised table, until he stood on the vast floor before it.

"My brothers and sisters. My friends and honored guests. We are gathered tonight to bring levity and light in winter. In these past few years we have lost much, and we have grieved these losses together. We will remember them."

"The North Remembers!" cried every voice in the hall.

"Spring brings the promise of renewal and rebirth. Which is why I have invited the unattached sons of every house to stay here at Winterfell in hopes my youngest daughter Arya will find her match to be married after the first thaw!"

From the men in the hall, low and high born alike, there came a clamor of of ruckus cheers, clapping, stomping and the banging of tankards and utensils on tables at this announcement. Arya scowled, biting down hard on the inside of her cheek until she tasted copper. By one of the large hearths in the hall, where the Starks' direwolves had curled themselves together for warmth, Nymeria gave a menacing growl, echoing Arya's anger. Those nearby quickly fell silent, eyes on the she-wolf, whose hackles were clearly raised though she had yet to rise.

Ned waited for the hall to quiet, and then a moment longer to make sure Nymeria wasn't about to attack anyone before he continued.

"But marriage is a dream of Spring. And we still have the threats and trials of Winter to face first." With a small gesture of his hand, Gendry and Master Mikken came forth, each man with a cloth-bound bundle in their arms.

"Robb and Arya, come forth." Both the Young Wolf and the She-Wolf rose from the seats, coming down from the Lord's table to stand before their father in front of the assembled lords and ladies of the North.

"You are both summer children. You had never known war or a winter's chill until you were both near grown." Both her and her brother wore the same serious expression as their father's as he spoke, his voice carrying to the furthest corners of the great hall.

"Yet when the North was threatened, when it was grievously wronged, it was you Robb who answered the call to lead, raising banners and leading the armies of the north to victory after victory in the south."

"King of the North!" shouted someone in the back, the call echoed by all before once more there was silence.

"When our people were under attack by bandits," Ned continued, "and wildlings, and predators, it was you, Arya, who rode to the defense of the people, time and time again."

"Lady-Wolf! Warrior-princess of the North!" A different voice proclaimed, and those gathered echoed, many also howling like wolves.

At the table, Arya could see her mother frown at the chorus. But it had her standing a little taller, a little straighter, squaring her shoulders to hold the burden of the respect, love and acceptance from her people.

"Winter is dark, Winter is cold, and often long. It brings threats and dangers both great and small. You have both, in your own ways, risen to answer the call of the people. And I know you will both do what you deem necessary to continue to protect and care for the people of the north."

Steel eyes so much like her own shifted from her brother to her, the corners crinkling in a smile that didn't reach his lips. Looking between his two children, Arya watched their father study the both of them.

"So it would be wise for me to give you both a weapon worthy of you."

With a gesture, their father motioned Master Mikken and Gendry forward. Arya was hard pressed not to look at her friend and demand answers, but she remained as still as stone.

"Ice has been the sword of the Kings of the North for hundreds of years. Passed from father to son. Unlike the Kings and Lords of old I found myself with a dilemma. One sword, but two worthy children, neither of which the type to wield a greatsword."

Arya sucked in a sharp breath, eyes locked on her father. She had noticed the absence of her father's greatsword Ice, which she had thought strange, for their Lord Father was never without the Starks' Valyrian Steel blade. She had dismissed her observations though, in the wake of her anger and hurt.

"Robb. To you I gift a blade worthy of any King, North or South." Master Mikken step forward then and passed the bundle he held to Ned, who unwrapped it to reveal a hand-and-a-half sword in a scabbard that was a smaller replica of the one that had held Ice. Arya watched with baited breath as their father presented the sword to Robb hilt-first.

He drew it, and as he pulled the blade free, it sung. A bastard sword; it was a shorter, thinner replica of Ice in both design and appearance, exacting in its details down to the dark, smokey blue hue of the blade.

"This is..."

"A sword with out a name as of yet. Forged from Ice."

Everyone was stunned, down to the last man, woman and child in the Great Hall. No house, no Lord, great or small would give up a Valyrian Steel weapon. And yet by sacrificing the very blade which had been passed down through the Starks for generations, Ned had turned one blade into two. With reverence, Robb sheathed the sword carefully, then held it carefully in his hands, scabbard and all, as if it was a new born babe. "Winter's Bane." He declared after a moment of intense silence.

"A fine name for a fine sword, son." Lord Stark said before motioning for Gendry to pass him his own bundle.

"Arya. My furious wolf-pup." There was a look of such pride on Ned's face, but it was also colored with a unnamed sorrow. "It is a difficult path you have chosen to walk. And I fear I have reached the end of my ability to protect you from the dangers of that path, and expectations that come with being a woman grown in a world of men."

With care, her father unwrapped the smaller bundle, revealing another sword - this one smaller in size and length than Robb's.

The scabbard was ironwood covered by hardened black leather, with ancient northern designs dating back to the First Men etched deep into the treated hide. The fittings were steel, and polished to a high shine. The top fitting was a a large direwolf howling at the moon in the forest on one side, with the Stark sigil on the other. The bottom depicted a wolf's head on both sides, with northern patterns. The guard wasn't nearly as wide across as a traditional cross-guard, and was simple and plain in appearance excepting for an adaption of the Stark's sigil. She recognized the style as something similar to what she had see Osha sketch. The wolves head was bracketed by a single running wolf on each side. The hilt too was short, made for a woman's hand, and like the scabbard it was ironwood wrapped in dark leather for a firm grip. The pommel was elegant, depicting a heart-tree with the Stark's words written in high Valyrian above.

Arya swallowed thickly around the lump in her throat, gray eyes stormy and bright with emotions as without even drawing the blade she could see how much care and thought had gone into the creation of it. She flickered her eyes upwards to see Gendry, Mikken and her Father watching her, encouragement and anticipation in their eyes. Gendry the most of all three, which let her know who had likely forged the various components, if not the blade itself.

Taking a breath, the she-wolf finally pulled her new sword from its scabbard. Like her brother's, it sang as it came free, hers sounding cleaner and more crisp, like the smell of morning frost. The blade was the color of clouds heavy with snow, and held the tell-tale shimmer of Valyrian Steel, with brighter swirls of icy blue flowing along the length of the blade, like water frozen in time. It wasn't as wide or thick as the traditional Westeros sword, nor narrow like a thin blades of a Braavosi water dancer. From tip to pommel the sword must have been a good ten inches shorter than Robb's, and likely only half the weight.

It was a knight's sword fit for someone her size. Whoever was behind the concept of this blade clearly had drawn inspiration from the description of Dark Sister – the famous longsword that once belonged to Queen Visenya Targaryen, the first Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

It was beautiful.

Growing up, Arya always knew she'd never get to wield the Valyrian Steel blade of their House. The greatsword had been nearly as long as she was tall. So this, to have and to hold a Valyrian sword - for it to be hers - and to know it was made at the sacrifice of her father's Ice...!

Had the blade she had just been gifted been one of simple castle forged steel, Arya might have declared its name 'Husband' in jest.

But this was too great of a gift to even consider such a jape.

"Starfang."

She whispered the name, softly as if spoken any louder might shatter the blade in her hands, or worse, cause her father to take it back. With care and respect she slid Starfang back into its scabbard, holding it with a gentle reverence that matched the way her brother held his own new sword.

Before them, their father nodded solemnly before he finally cracked a smile.

"Winters Bane and Star-Fang. Fitting names for swords of House Stark."

As quickly as the whole affair had began, it was over. A hand on her elbow from her father directed her to return to the high table. The look her mother gave her father as he sat back down told Arya that her mother was less then pleased with the new sword Arya held in slightly trembling hands.

Back on the floor of the Great Hall, Robb remained standing, the King of the North exchanging his steel sword for his new one on his hip. Once secured he held his hands up to call for silence. And silence he was given.

"Gendry Waters, Ramsay Snow, and Larence Snow, come forth."

The three bastards came forth. Gendry uncomfortable, Ramsay prideful and Larence uncertain as to why the three of them were being called upon by the King.

"Before Aegon the Conqueror arrived on our shores, before the Andals sailed across the narrow sea, before the Wall was built, when our ancestors the First Men ruled these lands - blood was blood. A brother was a brother. Kin was kin."

High and lowborn alike began to murmur quietly, and Robb allowed it for a time. Arya very quickly caught on to what her brother was doing and why. Three bastard sons of noblemen were about to be legitimized, which meant all three of them were free to join in what basically would amount to a pointless pissing contest for her hand in marriage, which would never have a winner.

"I, Robb Stark, First of my name, King of the North, descendant of the First-Men, hereby legitimize Gendry Waters as Gendry Baratheon, son of the late King Robert Baratheon. I legitimize Ramsay Snow, as Ramsay Bolton, son of Lord Roose Bolton. And I legitimize Larence Snow as Larence Hornwood, son of Lord Halys Hornwood."

Arya smoothed her face into something placid in order to avoid sneering at the victorious look in Ramsay's eyes. The Bastard-of-Bolton would always be a bastard, no matter what her brother said.

"My honorable lords and ladies, let us recognize and welcome, Gendry Baratheon, Ramsay Bolton and Larence Hornwood."

The great hall erupted into thunderous applause. Arya joined in, for Gendry's sake alone. She was happy for him, but also pitied him. For being legitimized brought new headaches and hardships for the blacksmith.

Dany:

Daenerys had just returned two nights past from Evenfall Hall. Her meeting with Lord Selwyn Tarth had gone well. Lord Tarth bent knee after a week of long discussion, which he had informed her only afterwards was more for the purpose of getting to know her before declaring for her. He knew of her deeds, of the rumors and tales and legends that surrounded her name. Ships of all sorts passed his island home, full of captains and sailors speaking of her war against slavery and the way the people loved her.

The Mother of Dragons was known to him, but Daenerys Targaryen was not. Edric Storm was now the ward of Lord Tarth. It kept Edric near enough to Storm's End to keep the storm-lords passive, and freed up her Hand. Tyrion, she knew, was very pleased to no longer be responsible for the Usurper's bastard. And it isolated Edric on a island, where he'd have plenty of space and distractions compared to Dragonstone, and he was still without quick and easy escape.

Not that Edric had shown any signs of consolidating power and resources to escape and lead an uprising in the Stormlands against her. In fact the Baratheon bastard was rather content so long as she kept him informed of the health and well-being of the people of the Stormlands, something she easily agreed to do given his interests were clearly rooted in genuine care for the small-folk.

Unfortunately she had been held up in council and court since her return, catching up on the developments and troubles that had arisen in her absence. She started on her way to her chambers for a hot bath, a good meal and much deserved sleep.

"Your Grace, a moment." The urge to scream was hard to resist, but the Queen was all to aware of the many eyes and ears that were around, even here near her own rooms, where only her most trusted guards and advisers were allowed. Dany took care to keep the serene expression on her face.

"Lord Tyrion?" She inquired as she stopped, and waited for him to catch up to her, knowing that his short legs made it difficult for him to get around sometimes.

"You are... surprisingly quick... Your Grace." Tyrion gasped for breath, though Dany knew he was acting more winded then he actually was, as he appeared perfectly composed, and lacked the flushed, ruddy appearance of exertion.

"I desire nothing more than a hot bath and the embrace of my bed, my Lord. I assume given your haste, that this is important?" She didn't fully keep the irritation out of her voice, if only because she spoke true, and it may further quicken the small man in telling her whatever it is he needed to.

As well, she was still annoyed at him for not telling her of his forced marriage to Sansa Stark - even though she had gotten the full story out of him the same day she had learned of it - she had been disappointed to find he knew nothing of where the eldest Stark girl could be. He did at least provide some interesting ideas on who might be behind her disappearance. The same people behind his nephew's assassination, he suspected.

Once she was sure he had caught his breath, Dany began walking again, having little desire to discuss anything out in the middle of a hall. She was kind enough to keep her steps slow and short for the benefit of her Lord Hand.

"Three things. A letter has arrived from the Vale, bearing the seal of House Arryn."

A letter from the Lord of the Vale. Curious. "I thought House Arryn were allies to your family?"

"Officially yes. But they stayed out of the War of Kings, committing no forces or any aid to any one side. In fact, since the death of Jon Arryn, the Vale has been remarkably quiet. To have them reach out to you is... well, it could be a very good thing."

Sighing, she held her hand out for the sealed letter, which Tyrion handed over. Breaking the wax seal she unrolled it and began to read, her steps slowing further until she stopped all together.

' To Her Grace, Daenerys Targaryen Stormborn, First of her Name, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, Princess of Dragonstone, the Unburnt, Breaker of Chains, Mother of Dragons, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Queen of Meereen, and Conqueror of Slaver's Bay.

Your reputation proceeds you. Even here in the Vale we have long heard of the Silver Queen. It has been two decades since a Targaryen last set foot upon Westeros.

I write in hopes that word of your wisdom and benevolence has not been an exaggeration. Westeros has suffered enough under selfish and mad rulers.

The Lords of the Vale wish to treat. Rather you come to us, or us to you, is at your discretion.

In hope.

Robin Arryn

Lord of the Eyrie, Defender of the Vale, and Warden of the East.

Strange, Dany thought, all she had heard of the son of the late Jon Arryn stated that he was a sickly and weak lad, prone to fits and shakes. This letter, however, was clearly written by a someone of sound mind, with a steady and sure hand. The words flowed, and the script seemed feminine. More importantly, the signature of Lord Arryn was clearly done in by a different hand, more of a child's scribble then a Lord's mark.

Wordlessly she passed the letter back to Tyrion and gave him a few minutes to read it. The news, if true, was good. To get Lord Arryn and the Vale to bend knee would give her control over a great deal of Westeros' western coast. It also gave her a better launching point for her future efforts in the north. More ports to bring in trade from Essos. And defensible strongholds from which to bring her campaign for the Riverlands from. The Vale was also mid-way along The King's Road, if she recalled her mental map correctly, and she could have her forces choke point the Crossroads, thereby creating a check point in the center of the Seven Kingdoms, supported by her forces in the Vale.

Beside her, Tyrion gave a sound of distress, looking like he had seen a ghost.

"Tyrion?" She asked, reaching down to place a hand on his shoulder.

"Your Grace... I... I..." She waited for him to gather his thoughts; he was clearly having difficulties. She could not imagine what it was about the letter that would send her Hand into such a state.

"I know... I know this hand writing." His eyes continued to stare at the letter even as he whispered this knowledge, whispered it like a breathless prayer.

"This letter, I truly believe that this letter was written by the hand of my unwilling wife Sansa Stark."

The other news Tyrion had to share seemed to pale in comparison to the news that Sansa Stark might very well be hiding with her cousin at the Eyrie. She hadn't really grasped before that the Starks had blood ties to both the Lord of the Vale, and the Lord of the Trident.

And the Westerlands by Sansa's marriage to Tyrion. How did one family consolidate so much power with out the other nobility noticing? When he said that to win the Starks was to win the Iron Throne I didn't even consider to look deeper than House Stark being highly respected.

The second bit of news Tyrion had left her with was that an envoy from Dorne had arrived at Dragonstone. He had them shown them rooms, and extended every curtesy and hospitality. But he had warned her that she should plan to meet with the Dornish envoy within a couple of days at the latest. Dorne, he reminded her, was the only kingdom that remained unconquered by the Targaryens, and instead was a part of the Seven Kingdoms through free will. Dorne would be a very powerful ally, and one with no love for the Lannisters.

The third bit of news came from King's Landing. It would seem that Petyr Baelish, the Seven Kingdom's former Master-of-Coin and Robin Arryn's new step-father, had been arrested and stands trial for the assassination of the late King Joffery.

"Littlefinger's part in Joffery's assassination would also explain how Sansa vanished. I highly doubt he worked alone though. The thought is a frightful thing. The question is why get rid of Littlefinger now? He's resourceful, well connected. I doubt he's truly outlived his usefulness... so why would whoever helped him kill Joffery risk their own heads rolling when there are simpler ways to do someone in?" The imp had left shortly after speaking those words.

Plans within plans within plans. Dany sometimes worried that despite all the dangers and betrayals -she has only known two- she had faced to get here, her experiences has left her ill-prepared for the Game of Thrones in Westeros.

Alone in her chambers at last, having politely dismissed Missandei, Dany allowed herself to flop back onto her bed, shuddering at the press of cold sheets on her bath-warmed skin. Her thoughts swirled over and over in her mind, churning like the sea.

She would treat with the Vale, and if Tyrion was right, she'd write her response on the morrow. And she would meet with the Dornish envoy for lunch the day after.

She would need to start gathering allies in earnest, it would seem. She had no desire to spend the whole Winter in Dragonstone. She would be on the Iron Throne before Spring.

Arya:

She spent every day since she received Star-Fang practicing with the blade. She would rise before dawn, and dress warmly before heading down to the training yard to run through drills, learning the weight, balance and reach, as well as the limits as what it could or could not cut. Afterwards, Arya would stop by the kitchen, where the cooks ushered her into a chair and allowed her to break her fast while she and the kitchen staff shared the latest news and rumors.

With a full belly and a limbered body, when the rest of Winterfell was having their morning meal, she would be in the godswood, quietly meditating, or taking a whetstone or cleaning cloth or both to her sword as she had seen her father do with Ice countless times throughout her life.

On days when the weather was fair for winter, she would strap on her armor, and ride with the guards and soldiers on patrols, or go hunting. For the latter she would often have to give a number of her suitors the slip, as they scared the game away, and were simply annoying, with Gendry being the exception. The Bull-headed smith, for all his large size was able to move quietly enough that they could actually catch whatever game they were hunting.

On days when the weather wasn't fair, Arya did what she could to avoid the young noblemen and ser knights that had been invited to stay at Winterfell in an attempt to win her hand. She was quick to discover the best ways to drive them off.

Being found caring for her niece and nephew sent two fleeing, the sight of her with children enough to make them break out into a cold sweat. Dressing as a 'man' as she usually did, made them uncomfortable, clearly not sure how to deal with a woman who didn't act like a southern lady.

Spending time in the company of either of her brothers or father kept a vast majority of them away for a few hours. Rickon was the easiest to sneak away to spend time with. Her younger brother and her could sit in the same room, each lost in their own books or studies, in silence with their direwolves for hours at a time. Nymeria and the other direwolves also kept a few of the suitors away, growling and snapping at the young noblemen. She wondered if they could smell their lust - it wasn't something she wanted to find out.

Within the first week, Arya had soundly trounced half of the hopefully delusional. By the end of the third she had found the few she could stand. Ethan Forrester, Gendry – it went without saying-, Grunt and Wrex Slate, -twin brothers who were equal is in size and strength to any of the men of House Umber – and Little-Jon Umber, one of her brother's trusted. There was also Theon, who had made several passes at her in the week or so following the feast. She had laughed in his face and then threatened to cut off his prick should he make another attempt.

Of those she could stand, Grunt and Wrex were as loud and as boisterous as any northman. But the twins were at Winterfell because of duty, not because either of them wished to actually be wedded. Little-Jon had come to see her as a little sister. Gendry was her best friend, and any thought of that possibility had long faded. Ethan was much like Rickon, studious but with a love for music. Arya had seen how his eyes lingered on the other suitors, the way most of them eyed her. She supposed, if given the choice, she could wed him. His himself was no stranger to strong willed women, and beyond a shared duty they could potentially keep separate lives and lovers.

If, that is, it comes down it it. If she has no choice but to go through with this foolish attempt by her parents and Robb to make her a proper lady.

It wouldn't..

By week four her lady-mother had attempted to limit the time she spent with Gendry. "You must give the other young lords a chance. And I think Gendry frightens some of them." Her mother had told her. It was a good thing to know. Gendry was apparently the spitting image of his father, the way she herself was the ghost of Aunt Lyanna. Arya supposed that the shared looks with their dead relatives made people either nervous or jealous.

The only bright side was that her mother also forced Robb to keep Theon away from her.

By week five, half the running had more or less bowed out, though some who had given up hope still lingered. Those were mostly sons who were there for more reasons than a potential match to the second daughter of House Stark. Grunt and Wrex remained, though it was clear to her parents now that the twins weren't there for Arya.

The weeks crept by and one after another her suitors went home. Some she had outright ignored, more than half she had trounced in mock combat or some archery contest. Seven found her too intimidating, four too 'man-like'. Two had confessed to her late one night that they had found companionship in each other - she was not insulted, and actually thought the pair made a cute couple and had said as much to them. The remaining suitors gave up the pretense of being at Winterfell for reasons other then discussing the Dragon Queen.

By week six only Gendry, Larence Hornwood, Ethan, and Ramsay were really truly still in it. At least from the point of view of everyone else. Her mother, she knew, was at her wit's end. As was the she-wolf, though for different reasons.

For a month and a half, Ramsay had stalked her. A few times he had caught her alone, those first two weeks he had gotten in close. The final straw was when he placed his hand on her waist making her recoil in disgust, a mistake as she found herself backed into a wall as he pressed in close. While the bastard's exact words were not important, he had implied that it was a shame that she wasn't a good lady, dressed in silks and skirts as his work would be so much easier.

She had pulled her knife and struck quicker than lightening, slashing across his face and cutting a long thin line from chin to ear on the left side. He had backed off then, and she had retreated, fleeing and making sure from then on to always have someone she trusted or at least Nymeria with her at all times.

As far as she knew, the Bastard's story behind his new scar was a training accident with some of his men in the wolfwoods. Her brother and parents didn't press for details. But her friends knew the truth, as did her good-sister Talisa, who had been furious and had uttered something about herbs and poisons in High Valyrian that Arya hasn't been able to completely translate in her head. Like her friends, her good-sister made sure Arya was never without company, the Volantene being unable to believe that Lady Stark would want her youngest daughter to marry one such as Ramsay.

Unable to get her alone, Ramsay had taken to acting like a true and proper gentlemen, paying her compliments and being courtly to her in front of everyone, more so her brother and parents. Arya was sure that if she had been the daughter Catelyn Stark had wanted, - had been like Sansa – she might have dismissed the bastard's previous attempts at assaulting her as a man besieged with desire for her. She would have found it flattering, and his courtly manners charming, for after all he was a comely young man.

Of course she wasn't Sansa, and she saw through the ruse of Ramsay Snow-Bolton. Then again, Arya recalled Sansa's treatment of their half brother Jon, and knew that legitimized or no, her older sister wouldn't have given Ramsay the time of day either.

While the serious suitors had attempted to woo her, her brother and parents were in long debates and late discussions with the other lords and ladies regarding one Daenerys Targaryen.

Arya personally thought they should just send an envoy to meet with the Mother of Dragons. When she suggested it, it had of course been shot down. Robb had told her that what he decided was none of her concern - only it was. Because the north was her home, and it's people were her people. But it was Robb's way of once again reminding her of her role as a woman, and younger sister. She wasn't even really a spare heir as far as the seat of Winterfell went.

'Am I just a burden then? To be pawned off for political gain?'

She had left her father's study late last night, nearly two months after the feast, her parents had summoned her to speak privately. It had not gone well.

"There are rumors going around Arya... that you..."

Her mother has attempted to begin tactfully, though to the point. She herself had heard the rumors of course. It placed her on the cock of every man that was not her brother that she had spent time with. Gendry in the smithy, tag-team with the twins. Ethan in the broken tower, Larence in the godswood.

Arya had attempted to deny the charges, and the insinuation that she was a whore.

But her mother didn't listen, and her poor father looked gravely uncomfortable with the whole subject.

"Ramsay Bolton has agreed to a marriage, even if you are with another mans child since he seems to be the only suitor with any honor." Her mother had continued as if Arya had never spoken, ignoring the way her daughter's hackles rose. "We'll move the marriage up, to have you wedded and bedded before any child can quicken in your womb."

She was almost ashamed at how quickly she lost control over the wolf-blood that ran in her veins But the direwolf that she was howled in anger within her breast, and so Arya howled at her mother.

"I am not marrying the Bastard-of-Bolton!" She had stormed out of her father's study. A slew of curses in common, high Valyrian and the old tongue spilling from her mouth as she tore down the halls.

Her father had be remarkably silent during the whole exchange, and neither he nor her mother had sought her out. But her friends had. Gendry, Dacey and Osha had barged into her room without warning. Evidently, Ethan had seen her storming through the halls from her father's study and had fetched her closest companions.

Arya growled as she paced in front of the hearth in her room, Nymeria tense and still at the foot of her bed as her mistress prowled back and forth. She cursed and mumbled in every language she knew, common tongue simply not being able to convey just how livid she was. But under that she was mostly hurt. She understood, she did - the rules and expectations of her station. But understanding did not make those things just or right.

If she stayed in Winterfell her mother would marry her off to Ramsay, having swallowed his lies. She'd be sent to Dreadfort, less a wife, and more a slave and personal whore. Worse, beyond attempting sexual assault, he had whispered the most depraved things to her when others couldn't hear.

"As soon as we are married, I'm going to make you a nice fur cloak...using your direwolf." He had said. "Its clear you love your wolves. Perhaps when we are at Deadfort I'll find some hounds to fuck you like the she-bitch you are." He had taunted. "Or maybe a few of my more loyal men can help me remind you of a woman's place - it's on her back with her thighs spread, by the way."

She shook the memory of the Bastard's monstrous words from her mind, feeling sickened to even be in the same country as him, let alone the same keep. I can't stay here. The thought circled over and over in her head.

Arya hadn't been pacing for long when suddenly the door to her chambers slammed open. Spinning she drew Star-Fang from her hip, poised to attack the intruders, only standing down once she saw the furious and worried faces of her friends standing in the doorway.

"Whats the plan Pup?" Dacey ask as she entered. The Mormont woman was the eldest of the group, and formally a member of Robb's personal guard. She had been asked by Lord Stark to leave the front lines and come to Winterfell to tutor Arya on how to be both a lady and a warrior. The heir to Bear Island had jaw length black hair with small braids throughout. She had a northern complexion, and almond shaped dark eyes. She was also tall, a head taller then even Gendry, and lanky. A handsome woman, comfortable in either armor or a dress.

Arya motioned the three in, and shut the door. Quickly, quietly, she told them everything. It was Dacey that pulled her into a strong embrace, hugging her tight with one arm as her free hand pulled Star-Fang from her white knuckled grasp and set it on the bed.

"I need to leave Winterfell; leave the North." Calmer now, with her most trusted there with her, her words were firm and sure. Three heads nodding back as the she-wolf pulled back from Dacey's embrace to address them all. "I will not ask any of you to come with."

"As if I'm letting you out of my sight, Pup." This came from Dacey, a grin on her lips.

"You'd get into far to much trouble without me Arya". Gendry said, arms folded across his broad chest.

"Besides, you're mother is already on me about marriage. I am not sticking around for that."

They all laughed. Lady Catelyn Stark was a force to be feared.

"No free-folk has been south of the neck in a thousand years. I would like to see just how weak the kneelers are." Osha joined in.

Arya studied their faces, and found only affection, determination and loyalty shining back at her.

"Then here's the plan..."

What would her family -pack- do, when they found out? Arya wondered if this was how her Aunt had felt, the night Rhaegar Targaryen's Kingsguard spirited her away. Not for the first time, Arya questioned whether Lyanna Stark was kidnapped, or had left of her own free will to escape a unwanted betrothal, and the suffocating expectations of their gender.

This she-wolf, however, was going to make her escape in broad daylight instead of under the dark of night as her late Aunt had. Arya had spent half the night at the foot of the heart-tree, praying to the old-gods and honing Star-Fang.

Arya recalled her father once telling her that anything done before a heart-tree is sacred. It was why marriages were preformed before the tree, why oaths were sworn before it. It was why when her father had to pass judgment on a criminal, he would sharpen his blade at its base. As she had run the whetstone along the length of her sword, she had uttered prayers. For Osha and Gendry and Dacey. For her family, for Sansa, and Bran, for her people. She asked for guidance, and hoped that the gods heard her.

Just before dawn she returned to her room. Her bags were packed, Osha had came and gotten them before she had gone to the godswood. She pulled on extra layers of leather and wool before she put on her armor with diligent care. Made of reinforced black and brown leather, and trimmed with fur, it was armor of the north, custom made and fitted for her. It bore no markings of her house, but then in the North, all knew who she was, so it had been unneeded. A part of her regretted that now.

She braided her hair and strapped on her swords, both Star-Fang and Needle. Daggers and knives were open and hidden on her person. Her bow and a quiver full of arrows she slung over her shoulders. She added smaller items to the kits and pouches on her belt, and hidden pockets in her armor and on her person. Then she put on her gloves and heavy cloak. Before leaving her room she took one last, long look around.

Tugging her hood up over her head, she closed the door behind her. Nymeria came with, never leaving her mistress' side, which forced the few servants in the halls to press close to the wall to avoid the pair of she-wolves.

No one stopped or questioned Arya, as it was common for her to go out on rides or hunting at this hour. The sky was beginning to lighten, the first traces of dawn. The gods had seen fit to grant clear skies, though to the far North Arya could see clouds that promised snow gathering. Fresh snow fall would cover their tracks well.

That they were about to escape from Winterfell through the front gates amused the northern woman. By the time anyone realized that she hadn't just gone out hunting, she'd be long gone.

As Arya and Nymeria approached the stables where her trusted friends stood waiting with the horses, Arya found herself slowing. A group had assembled, Winterfell guards and Northern Soldiers, all armored and clearly prepared for a long ride. She recognized each face, knew each of their names. She was startled to realize that of every man, and a few rare women gathered - she had fought beside all of them.

At her approach the soldiers bowed their heads. It was Gendry that spoke up, having turned from where he was speaking to Larence Hornwood, the other newly legitimized bastard.

"They wish to pledge themselves to you, whatever your cause is Arya. These people, your people will not let you pass that gate with only three to your party."

"Aye, we won't. It'd be unseemly milady, for you to ride without a strong pack." Argon was a older man of common birth, a knight in deed though not name. She had fought many battles with him at her side. Behind him, the other gathered men nodded. "We'll ride south, by the gods, we'll ride with you to Doom and back." Ser Cullen spoke up next, a dirty-blonde haired man near of age to Dacey.

Beside her, Nymeria huffed her approval of these people's loyalty, and Arya felt a wave of emotion well-up inside of her. "My King-brother will be angry. My Lady-mother and Lord-father equally so. You all risk much by doing this; you may even be seen as a traitor to the north, or a deserter. I can not, will not ask this of any of you." She felt the need to warn them, to try to persuade them against this course of action they had chosen.

"Lady Sansa is still in the South. The fucking Lions ain't been brought ta justice, and who wants ta stay cooped up in the North when I 'ear Dragons have return to Westeros. You ain't have ta ask Stark, we aren't giving you a choice." The low born accent came from a heavy set man a hands width taller then her who's red beard was only thing bigger then the heavy axe he had strapped to his back.

"Thank you," she whispered, making sure to meet the eyes of the thirty odd who had gathered at or near the stables. She lept up into the saddle of her mare, a beautiful beast standing at seventeen hands. Rhalla was a mix of a Northern Shire and the Dornish Quarter Horse. Black from ear-tip to tail, with eyes like a winter's clear sky. Rhalla had been a gift for her fourteenth name-day, powerful and fast and as dear to Arya as Nymeria.

Around her, thirty six riders saddled, her three trusted counted among them. Drawing herself up straight in the saddle, she used her toe to nudge Rhalla at a walk to the gate.

"Open the Gate! The Lady-Wolf and her party is going out!" The calls were passed back and fourth between the guards on the walls. The size of her party was a bit unusual, but again, no one questioned it. Arya had gone out with twenty-odd before. And when she road to the defense of Crofter's Village, her party had numbered nearly sixty.

Dacey and Gendry rode at her sides, Osha with Argon, Larence and Ser Cullen behind them. Nymeria kept pace just a few steps ahead and on her right. The group was tense until the last mounted man passed through the gates. The party of thirty-seven kept their horses at a fast walk until they finally passed through Winter Town and a little beyond.

Feeling eyes on her back, she looked up at the walls of her home, and saw Talisa there, bundled against the morning chill, baby Aemon sleeping in her arms, with little Joanna tiredly rubbing her eyes at her side. Rickon too was there, Stark-grim for all his Tully looks. Ethan stood just behind him. The youngest son of House Forrester a true ally and even friend though they had not known each other long.

'May we meet again' her good-sister mouthed, and Arya knew then that the healer knew. She knew and instead of ratting them out, she had come to see her off, had made sure her younger brother and her new friend came as well. Her chest felt hot and tight.

It was only when they had made it through and out of Winter Town did Arya draw up on her reigns and look back towards Winterfell. At ten and seven she had never left the North. Every mountain and hill, every rock and tree, creek and glen she knew. But what laid south of the neck was a mystery. And she wasn't sure if or when she would ever see her home again.

And so she drank in the sight of it. To carry in her heart the memory of home, knowing it could be a long time before she saw its walls or towers again. Her mother would cry and rage and cry some more. Her father would be torn, weathering the grief of her mother, and wrestling his own mixed emotions. Robb would be angry, angry at her, angry at his wife and Rickon, for not telling him. Angry at Gendry, Dacey and Osha, and all those who followed.

But she was wolf-blooded and wolf-hearted. She was never going to be a lady like her mother or sister. And for all the acceptance of the small folk, the noble houses would never accept that she would not settle into the role of her sex.

Gray eyes fell from the walls of Winterfell to the people who followed her. Standing up in her stir-ups, hand on the pommel of Star-Fang she addressed them with a field commander's voice.

"We leave the North against common sense, against orders and in defiance of expectations and rules. We go south to find my sister! We go south to bring lions to justice! And we go south to meet this dragon queen!" Spears and swords and armored fists banged against shields and breasts. "We go without support of our King - there will be no supply lines, no reinforcements. We will be cold, we will be hungry, and we will endure. I did not ask you to follow me, but instead you have chosen to. For that I am humbled, and swear I will honor that commitment and loyalty." Here northmen cheered. Even her trusted got into the howling approval of the soldiers.

Arya raised her hand, and quiet fell once up upon the hard-faced northerners.

"Knowing these things. Knowing that we may be seen as deserters and traitors, as craven and cowards, knowing that we might just all die.. I will not blame a single man or woman if they wish to return to the warm halls of Winterfell."

There was silence to her words, not a single person made a move to turn their mount around. No one rode off, yet no one spoke. Nodding to the silence. Arya's eyes swept the thirty-six that followed.

"Will you follow me?"

"AYE!"

"Will you fight beside me?"

"AYE!"

"Then let us ride!"

Arya sat back in her saddle, and urged Rhalla into a full gallop, the ebony mare exploding forward, while Nymeria launched off, keeping pace with horse and woman. Behind her, her trusted, and her people followed, their training and discipline quickly falling them into formation as Winterfell vanished behind them.

(Arya's Clothes at the Feast: /syiPanX)