A/N: In the words of Captain America, "Language!" Just a little bit. Just a few naughty, non "T" rated words. This is a very long chapter that probably should have been split up into two, but then we wouldn't have gotten as far (and as it stands, we didn't get that far anyway).
I need some space, so someone please make me some room in this bitch
The yard was busy when Brienne and Arya arrived. Some of the Blackwood men-at-arms were training together and the orphans were back at it, for what else was there for them to do? Gendry and Harwin sparred nearby, using their sharp edges carefully. A warhammer sat propped against the far wall and Arya wondered if Gendry had already employed it or if he intended to use it later. That was something she would like to see.
Ser Ben was harassing Lord Alyn with a broadsword and shield in one corner. The younger man looked as though he wished to be anywhere but where he was as he was knocked off his feet by his jeering brother. Ser Brynden sparred with the master-at-arms, both men serious; silent, but for the occasional grunt. They allowed the clanging of their steel to speak for them. Lord Vance and Lord Smallwood were taking turns sparring with various men among their company. Baynard and Ser Willem looked on, but the way their shirts clung to them, it was apparent they had been hard at it earlier.
Arya supposed this bit of sport was how the guests had chosen to occupy themselves between completing their preparations for the hunt and the supper yet to come. She deduced that the women of the party must be off somewhere in the keep, cloistered together. Arya imagined them seated upon tufted cushions and embroidering a bit of silk or linen, with flowers, most like, or perhaps the sigil of their house, to no purpose but the satisfaction of expectation. Perhaps one even plucked at a mandolin or a lute to entertain the others. She had not seen Lady Blackwood or Bethany since the feast, but it seemed logical they would be occupied with just such a refined pursuit.
The Cat and the Maid of Tarth moved to an area to the far side of the yard which would give them the space they required. They had each retreated to their chambers following their midday meal, so as to retrieve their own weapons. After spending an evening weighed down by forced pleasantries, finery, and dreams heavy with meaning, not to mention an encounter with a raven in her window, Arya longed for the feel of good steel in each of her hands. In this instance, training blades would not do.
The girl surveyed her opponent for a moment. She'd heard Gendry and Harwin speak of Lady Brienne during their ride from the inn to the castle, and so she knew the woman had an inordinate degree of skill with her blade. As Arya appraised the way the knightly woman raised her longsword and held it steady, she saw that she was a person of great strength and discipline as well. Combined with her enormous stature, these traits would make besting the Maid of Tarth a formidable challenge.
Not enough of a challenge to overcome a water dancer, of course. At least, not this particular water dancer, if she kept her wits about her.
The Cat stood straight for a moment, then bent her neck and stretched her spine. She began swinging her arms in wide circles, feeling the heft of her weapons pull at the muscles of her shoulders and back. When she was limbered, she entered her stance and nodded to her opponent. Brienne did not hesitate, but began to stalk around the smaller woman slowly, longsword stretched out before her, blade flat to the sky, the point ever fixed on Arya. Arya, for her part, stood still, allowing herself to be inspected, moving only her eyes to track Lady Brienne's movements insofar as she was able without turning her head. The noise of the yard drained away from her then; the orphans yelling playful insults at one another, the grunting and cries and laughter of men, the crashing of steel, all faded to quiet in the girl's ears. It was as if she had been encased in a prism of crystal, where light could penetrate, but sound could not. All looked bright and clear, sharp, but fell silent. The Cat drew in a slow, steady breath, and inside, she stilled. Calm as still water.
Very strange. What is she waiting for? Why doesn't she move?
It was as if Brienne had spoken aloud, but Arya knew better. Briefly, the girl saw the back of her own head through eyes of sapphire blue. Her heavy, chestnut braid trailed down her neck, bound with a simple leather tie. Arya left Lady Brienne after that glimpse (had not truly meant to visit the woman's head at all. It sometimes just happened when she was still). The Cat did not need to see what her opponent would do. She knew she would be able to feel it. More and more, when she danced in this way, it was as if the whole world was made of water, and the ripples and waves caressed her skin as man and beast moved through it. She could read the sensation like a parchment; could react to it as instinctively as she breathed.
The knightly woman did not charge her sparring partner immediately, but held back a moment. It was as if she sensed some trick in the girl's odd behavior but could not work out what it was. Logic prevailed and Brienne took what was offered, lunging forward to tap at Arya's back with her sword. Before the steel could make contact, however, the girl pivoted in a half-circle. As she came to face Brienne, Arya struck at her opponent's blade with both Grey Daughter and Frost in concert, knocking the longsword away in one swift move. The unexpected change in the trajectory of her steel threw Brienne off-balance and that, coupled with her momentum, caused her to stumble forward. Arya instantly responded with a well-thrown elbow to the large woman's unprotected flank, spearing her kidney. The girl's force wasn't especially great, but her timing and placement were impeccable and she sent Brienne sprawling.
Wouldn't the handsome man be proud?
It had all happened in two blinks of the eye, and it sounded like the crisp clink of steel meeting steel, a sharply drawn breath, and an involuntarily utterance of, "Oomph!" when the the hard-packed ground met a pliant chest.
A woman so large laid out prostrate in the dust was a sight that drew attention. The Faceless assassins were spectators from the time the women squared off, but others started drifting over to join them then. For her part, Brienne began to suspect that she had underestimated Arya Stark's skill.
Arya offered Brienne her hand, helping the Maid of Tarth regain her feet. The larger woman did not bother to shake the dust from her doublet, but nodded to her opponent and immediately raised her sword again. She moved as she had before, circling Arya. The girl did not repeat her previous behavior, though. No longer frozen, Arya turned to follow the knightly woman's movements, her own swords held at the ready. In short order, Brienne delivered two powerful blows in predictable fashion, first to the girl's left and then to her right. The water dancer side-stepped them easily, but she knew her opponent was only testing her, gauging her quickness. As the larger woman had said, she had no wish to hurt the daughter of her lady, and she was holding back until she could be sure Arya was up to her challenge. Arya herself held back, forgoing the opportunity to sidle in quick and close. She could have already had her blades at Brienne's throat, but her goal wasn't to rapid victory. She sought to distract the Maid of Tarth so that the woman's lack of artiface would not inadvertently give away their secrets.
Besides, she did not know when next she would have the chance for such pursuits as these. She was like to spend the next several days almost continuously on horseback, riding to meet her mother (and riding to outpace anyone who might come looking for her, intent on bringing her back to Raventree Hall). The girl planned to enjoy this exercise, her favorite, for as long as she could.
And so they circled one another, Brienne growing quicker and stronger with her strikes as Arya demonstrated her agility.
Brienne's swordplay was a study in the Westerosi technique. It was aggressive; forceful; undiluted savagery, almost elegant in the purity of its violence. There was an emphasis on advancement and pressing; the gaining and holding of ground; frontal assaults and direct attacks. There was little feinting and no subtlety, just raw, merciless power and a reluctance to retreat (which, to Arya's eye, was what made Westerosi technique so intimidating, but was also its main point of weakness). The concentration was on killing blows. The style had been developed to dispatch an armored foe quickly so that the next one could be engaged. Blunt and brutal, it was an approach shaped by the battlefield, that chaotic melee of gore and splintered bone and the dying screams of men, and it relied heavily on strength, speed, and luck.
Brienne was built for the Westerosi technique, and she was a master of it. Her lines were perfect, her pacing, flawless. Her strength and speed were such that she had never had cause to rely on luck. The power behind her heavy cuts and thrusts made her strikes all but impossible to absorb.
And so Arya did her best not to absorb them.
"You move overmuch," Brienne accused after failing to tag her opponent several times. The girl was nearly dizzying to watch as she ducked and spun and leapt.
"I move as I must to keep ahead of your sword's edge," Arya replied, displaying something that looked like a courtly bow but was actually her ducking another of Brienne's cuts.
The girl was not built for Westerosi technique. Her stature and reed-like physique were not suited for it, and though she was exceedingly strong for a woman of her size, her strength could not match that of most knights, no matter how she might wish it so. She needed to manipulate the laws of movement and the physical universe to augment her strength. Her father had recognized this long before she had, and his engagement of a the First Sword of Braavos as her dancing master had been instrumental to this end. Ned Stark's understanding of swordplay was ingenious and he knew very well how to play to the strengths and weaknesses of men (and daughters).
A water dancer's style was best matched against another water dancer's, at least if what one most craved was to witness the splendor of the spectacle. There was a beauty and a grace in the Braavosi technique, and it was displayed to its best advantage when two water dancers sparred against each other, for it was then that the malleability and fluidity of movement from which the technique took its name was most accentuated. Yes, for a marvelous show, there was nothing better than two skilled water dancers dueling one another. That truth was what the entire culture of the Bravos had been built upon. For victory, however... For the precise and sure delivery of mortality... Well, then it mattered little who crossed swords with a water dancer. A water dancer could match with anyone, because above all, a water dancer was adaptable. A water dancer could mold and shape to whatever he encountered, like the water itself.
Arya Stark was a very skilled water dancer.
A well-trained water dancer was adept at moving over, under, and around, no matter the obstacle. The opposing technique meant little and less when such was your skill.
Rather than aggression and power, Arya's swordplay was a study of reactionary movement and the exploitation of counterweight; of leverage and the titration of force. There was no advancement and retreat, but rather, ebb and flow, as with the tides. Attacks were angled and beautifully balanced and more like to come at a foe sideways than head-on. There were tipping points which were manipulated. There was knowing just when and how to strike so that a joint was turned painfully; so that a weapon was knocked loose; so that an opponent was disarmed, thrown off, undone, or made dead. She understood the timing of when to intercept the arc of a blow so that her opponent's momentum could not build or had already been spent. She was aware of how to prod a body so that its intended direction was changed to one of her choosing.
Acceleration. Deflection. Rotational mechanics.
It was science masquerading as art; death masquerading as dance. It was pressure, velocity, and the mastery of mass, including her own, all employed in a captivating ballet of steel and exertion and violence. Quite simply, Arya knew instinctively which space to occupy, and when to occupy it.
Syrio Forel had taught her the feeling of this technique. The Kindly Man had taught her the theory of it. Jaqen H'ghar and the handsome man had drilled her on its application.
Syrio lived in her head as she fought, and the Kindly Man did too, though she did not like to think of that. Jaqen whispered to her when she fell back on instinct; when her gut told her things. And her handsome master was there, when she shoved with a forearm or purposefully tangled her feet with another's, causing the disruption of an opponent's footwork. Even the waif was there, with her serpent-quick strikes (wrapping knuckles hard with the hilt of her heavy dagger to gain an errant student's attention). And always, there was Jon.
Stick them with the pointy end.
The old gods were there, for weren't they the ones who had made it possible for her mind to leave the shell of her body? Weren't they the ones who enabled her to feel what it was her foes intended, knowing the plans they formed against her, even as they took shape? The new gods were there, too, at least the Warrior. And, sometimes, even the Stranger. And, overseeing them all, there was Him of Many Faces, blessing her swords, waiting to drink in the blood which would run along the flats of her blades.
Arya had once spied a show, an entertainment, through the window of one of the higher end brothels in Braavos, just outside of the Purple Harbor; the sort of place frequented by ships' captains, wealthy merchants, and iron bankers; the sort of place one might find Attius Biro, while he lived. There was a kind of low stage in the main chamber, and upon it, a woman danced while a boy played a lute. Her movements were like smoke rising from a fire.
Ethereal; undulating; transfixing.
The woman was completely bare, with not a stitch of clothing on her, yet she was almost completely covered by large, feathered fans she held in each hand. The thing was, the fans were in constant motion, switching from her front to her back; from the top of her body to the bottom; floating over her head and down her shoulders; licking at her ankles. Yet, somehow, they always managed to veil her; to shield her naked flesh from the hungry eyes of those around her.
Or, shield most of her, at least (it was a brothel, after all).
A small glimpse was allowed, but never for long, and never the same smooth bit of flesh. Here, one hip; there, the side of her breast. Her lower back, her neck, one bronzed thigh. Other brothels had shows, certainly, and the men there cheered and called out vulgar things while women danced and play acted for their pleasure (and their coin). But here, it was different. Here, the men sat still, their eyes quite drawn, their lips slightly parted. Here, their gazes could not be coaxed away from the dancer and her fans. Her movements were precise, yet fluid. There was calculation, but more than that, there was artistry. There was an objective, to be sure (the inflaming of passions; the elevation of lusts to degrees which would not be quelled even in the face of the cost of satisfying them), but the result was something more. Something quite transcendent.
Had those fans been replaced with swords and the beautiful, bronzed dancer replaced with Arya Stark, the display of her blade skills could have been described in much the same way. She was a study in the precision and the art of motion. There, in the training yard at Raventree Hall, the men stood still, their eyes quite drawn, their lips slightly parted. Their gazes could not be coaxed away from the water dancer and her steel.
Brienne had moved both of her hands to her hilt, driving her blows more quickly toward her sparring partner. Arya's braid beat against her back as she ducked and dodged the attacks. The girl admired the knightly woman's stamina. The steel she used, not being Valyrian, was heavier than Arya's own and yet Brienne did not flag in her rapid pace.
The Cat used her weapons more as a shield, blocking and turning the thrusts she could not completely avoid. She had not yet made an attempt to tag her opponent; not since she had sent her headlong into the dust only moments into their contest. Instead, she was cataloging; observing; learning. They went on in this way for quite awhile. It had been some time since the girl had seen a true master of the Westerosi technique fight; even as long ago as the tournament to honor her father's appointment as King Robert's hand. And that had been a lifetime ago.
Many lifetimes.
Arya imagined that most of those she would match steel with in Westeros would employ this fashion of swordplay (though few were like to do it so adroitly as Lady Brienne), and so the girl made a study of her opponent. The assassin wished to take in all that she could, so that it might inform her strategy later. It wasn't until Brienne's expression seemed to betray some exasperation with her lack of engagement that Arya shifted her tactics.
The Cat tested the large woman with some of her most basic attacks then, wondering how a crashing longsword would respond to a whirling Bravo's blade. The knightly woman's speed saved her, the flat of the longsword blocking Frost crisply. Arya's change in aggression seemed to invigorate Brienne and the knightly woman crowded in forcefully, pushing the length of her blade against Arya's own, bending the girl's right arm back against her chest, their two swords trapped between them. When the girl lifted Grey Daughter to swing at Brienne's back, she found her wrist instantly grasped in her opponent's free hand. The Cat's lips curled upward maliciously, and she executed a maneuver learned from her brother Rat, pushing off her opponent's chest and springing into a backflip. The girl used the knightly woman's grip on her one slender wrist for stability. Arya caught the taller woman's chin with the heel of her boot as she flipped and Brienne's hold on her dissolved.
Arya landed amid a collection of startled shouts, cheers, and gasps. Brienne stumbled three steps backward, a combination of her response to the force of the blow on her chin and her own need to put some distance between herself and her opponent so that she could make sense of what she'd just seen.
What she'd just experienced.
"Get her, Brienne!" a voice cried out, and Arya was aware enough of the crowd then to hear it, and to know the voice belonged to Elsbeth.
The girl wasn't sure how long she and Lady Brienne had been at it. The afternoons of winter were short and shadows had started to creep out from the castle walls surrounding them. There was still tension in her muscles that cried for release, and so she obliged the urge and began to duel the Maid of Tarth in earnest.
Arya stood sideface briefly, Frost held high, at shoulder level, and Grey Daughter held low, her left arm braced against her belly. She gave Brienne a single nod and then advanced on her like a cyclone. The Varlyrian blades slashed so rapidly that their movements were almost impossible for the bystanders to track. The Maid of Tarth fought valiantly, giving ground only when not to do so would have cost her the contest, or perhaps an ear. The ringing of their steel became so loud and so rapid that it bled into one long, keening song. Brienne was as tall as a sentinel and as strong as an ironwood. She was as mighty and formidable as the great weirwood in Lord Tytos' garden.
But Arya was the river, and when the river overtopped its banks, the trees could not hold it back. They could only wait for it to recede and hope they were not uprooted by the flood.
Arya pelted her opponent like rain from the sky, a thousand thousand droplets falling too fast and too chaotic to intercept, and Brienne hunkered down in the storm. Arya crashed like waves, washing Brienne before her, backing the woman up to the edge of the crowd, and then through the spectators as they parted with shouts and cries and cheers. Arya flowed and eddied, and Brienne fought against drowning, swinging her steel savagely to stave off the girl's attacks. Arya melted away when Brienne thought to press her, only to rise again elsewhere in an instant. Then Arya crested, and Brienne sank, dropping to one knee with her back to the wooden wall of the yard. In a final attempt to ward the girl off and regain her footing, the knightly woman thrust out her longsword toward Arya's middle. The Cat danced around Brienne's steel, spinning down its length in the space of a single breath, her front coming to rest at the larger woman's side. In one swift move, the girl cradled the knightly woman's neck between between her two blades. Arya said nothing, but stilled, closing her eyes and inhaling deeply before expending a quiet sigh.
This time, the silence that greeted Arya's ear was not a product of her own focus, but of a collective astonishment. It was Brienne who shattered the quiet, speaking in a voice that signaled her respect.
"I yield, my lady."
Arya opened her eyes and withdrew her steel. The Maid of Tarth rose and looked at the girl for a moment before stretching her hand forth. Arya smiled and the women clasped their forearms together in a sign of chivalry and friendship. A great cheer rose all around them and then they were inundated by claps on the back, compliments, questions, and congratulations. It was as if they had competed in a great tournament for a purse of gold dragons. Arya supposed the reception was understandable; bored guests were happy at having been entertained for a bit. She smiled and nodded, but tried to extricate herself from the crowd, waving off pleas to teach me that tumbling bit and questions of how did you do that? The only person she didn't try to shrug off was Brienne herself.
"My lady," the woman began, "I had heard rumors at the feast, but I didn't really believe them until now. More's the pity. You are most impressive with your blades."
"That means a great deal to me, Lady Brienne, coming from you."
"Not at all. It seems I need to spend more time in the training yard."
"My lady, I'd lay good coin on you against any man here. I was trained by the First Sword of Braavos, and many others almost as skilled. The style is nearly impossible to counter, unless you practice it yourself."
"I think I am too set in my ways to master another style now, Lady Arya. I shall have to hope that the First Sword of Braavos has no other pupils roaming this kingdom, and be sure to keep you among my friends!"
"Just so, Lady Brienne," Arya laughed. Her brother assassins approached her then.
"Ridiculous ostentation," Baynard muttered in the Cat's ear as Brienne left her.
The girl flippantly retorted, "I learned the showiest parts from you."
"Pipe down, squire." The Bear's tone was amiable but then he whispered to Arya, "Do you think it wise to make so plain what you can do?"
"My most unusual talents remain hidden," the girl whispered back, "and if I don't practice my dancing, it will grow stale and slow."
"As you say, sister, but anyone who wishes to subdue you now knows they need a company of men to do it."
"Only a company?" She laughed.
"Don't let arrogance be your downfall," Ser Willem chided. "And I do not jape. When word of this reaches the rest of the River lords..."
"They suspected my skill already, I'm sure, from what I'd already demonstrated here. With you." She eyed both of her brothers in turn.
"That was a small crowd, and seeing is believing," the Rat interjected. He ticked off a list of names, an admonition for her lack of stealth. "Vance, Smallwood, Blackwood, all here, in this yard. You put our mission at risk with your selfishness."
His words stung, but before Arya could reply, the trio was interrupted.
"My lady Arya!" Brynden Blackwood called, approaching the assassins with a wide smile and bowing low to the girl. If the Cat weren't so suspicious of his motivations, she would have been quite charmed by the handsome heir to Raventree Hall. "You continue to amaze me!"
"Your amazement surprises me, ser. Did you not tell me you had heard of my match with Ser Willem and Baynard upon your arrival here yesterday?"
"Indeed, my lady, but to witness such a display for myself..."
Arya felt the smug judgment rolling off of the Rat then.
"Perhaps it is my sex which alarms you so?" she replied, cutting her eyes at Baynard for a second. "Do you think a woman ought not fight so well?"
"Not at all, Lady Arya. Though I think we both know it's not usual, I would not count myself as alarmed in the least." He looked at her with a small smile on his lips. "But Lady Brienne is one of the best swords in this kingdom. I have only rarely seen her bested, though I have watched her spar dozens of times."
"She is a most worthy opponent," the girl agreed.
"And now I simply must hear of your time across the Narrow Sea."
"Do you think my telling you about my adventures in Braavos will aid you in some way?"
"Aid me, my lady?" The knight sounded confused.
"Admit it, ser. You don't know what to make of me, and that makes you... uncomfortable." The idea amused her, and the Cat made no effort to curb the smile that pulled at the corners of her mouth.
Ser Brynden tilted his head slightly, looking as if he was considering her words carefully. "In truth, my lady, you are an enigma to me. I am most eager to hear any truth of your life you are willing to share if it may help me understand how a highborn northern girl became the marvel I see before me now."
Arya willed away the blush fighting to color her cheek.
Don't be a fool. Words are wind, and pretty words more so than others, she told herself. He needs a wife, preferably one who stands to inherit a kingdom. Ben Blackwood's off-hand remark from the night before came back to her then; something about her being the most valuable prize in the seven kingdoms. She did not wonder then at Ser Brynden's calling her a "marvel." He might be willing to say anything he thought would make it more likely that he win his prize. She could not allow herself to be taken in by Brynden Blackwood's charm. She suspected there was too much of politics at its core for her to accept it as sincere.
You find him pleasing to the eye, her little voice accused.
So? Inwardly, Arya shrugged, for hadn't she learned in Braavos that a man's appearance was not the truth of him? Ser Brynden was comely, it was undeniable, but that counted for nothing as far as she could see.
Ser Gendry approached then. The girl's eyes flicked up to his face and then she appraised his form briefly.
Is he not comely as well? She quizzed herself. Do I not find him pleasing to the eye? She was making a point in her internal argument, something like the look of a man means naught, but it was lost on that nagging little voice. Instead of an answer, all she heard was faint snickering in the back of her head. She shook it off as the dark knight came to rest before her.
Gendry greeted the gathered company. Brynden Blackwood returned the greeting cordially enough, but he eyed the dark knight carefully before taking his leave. Arya took note and wondered if Ser Ben's opinion of this upjumped blacksmith was shared by others in his family. She tucked that thought away for later consideration when her old friend spoke to her.
"M'lady, after watching you spar with Lady Brienne, I feel very lucky to have survived your attack at the inn!"
"Attack? Hardly." The girl snorted slightly.
"You could have beat me to death with that stick before I even knew what was hitting me."
"Well, that part is true."
They all laughed together at that, but Arya's laughter died with she saw the way Elsbeth was scowling at them from across the yard. The Cat looked at Baynard and Ser Willem, and it seemed a silent signal passed between them. The assassins drew themselves discreetly away and left their sister and the blacksmith alone to talk. Arya lowered her voice.
"Gendry, have you... spoken to Elsbeth?"
The dark knight laughed, his expression befuddled. "I speak with her every day, m'lady. Several times, usually."
"That's not what I mean, and you know it," she snapped. Gendry dropped his voice a notch lower and wore a serious expression to match her own then.
"And you know that I could have no cause to... speak to her."
"I say this as your true friend..."
"True friend," he muttered, sounding suddenly bitter. Arya ignored the urge to berate him over his tone but instead took a step closer to him, narrowing the distance between them so that they nearly touched. The urgency in her voice increased to a degree that should have been difficult to discount.
"Look, there is trouble brewing here. It doesn't matter how much you may wish it not to be. It is."
The blacksmith-knight shook his head. "You are worried over nothing. Elsbeth is a child, with a childish fancy."
Arya heaved an exasperated sigh. "Do you not see the way she looks at you? Do you not see the way she looks at me when I speak to you? You need to do something about this. I don't care what. Woo her, or disappoint her gently but finally. Just do something, before it comes to grief."
"You are making too much of this," Gendry insisted. "It will work itself out and not come to grief, as you say."
Why was he being so obtuse? "To violence, then."
"Elsbeth is not violent."
The girl scoffed. "She carries a short bow and a quiver full of arrows! Even now, she's holding a blade in her hand."
"A training blade." His tone was patronizing. He knew very well how that would worm its way under her skin.
"Speak to her."
The knight drew himself up to his full height, and his look was quite haughty, Arya thought.
"Is that an order, m'lady?"
The girl's frustration boiled over and she made no effort to keep her voice low anymore, but spat out a stream of angry words, sharp and guttural. Her tirade was completely unintelligible to the dark knight's ears. Having spoken her piece, however cryptically, Arya glared at the blacksmith and then stormed off. A bemused Gendry looked to Ser Willem and Baynard for help. The pair was far enough away to be ignorant of what passed between the old friends as they discussed Elsbeth but certainly close enough to understand what had transpired at the end.
"What was that?" the dark knight asked.
Ser Willem was smirking. "Well, my Dothraki isn't as good as hers..."
"Dothraki?" Gendry interrupted.
"...but first, it sounded like she called you idiotic cattle..."
"Stupid bull," Gendry mumbled, a small smile appearing.
"...and then she suggested that you should... er... go service your own... baser desires..."
Gendry took Ser Willem's meaning. Or, rather, he took Arya's. Go fuck yourself.
"And then she said something like, and you'll have to forgive me, ser. I'm only translating," the Bear said apologetically, "but she said you have the sense of someone who was born as the result of his mother copulating with a sickly goat."
Gendry burst out laughing. Baynard was confused.
"You find that funny?" the squire asked. "You aren't insulted?"
Gendry swiped at his eyes, brushing off the tears that had formed while he guffawed. "Insulted? How can I be? It's not far from the truth. At least, from what I know about King Robert, I think she's not far off."
"What's King Robert to do with this?" Ser Willem asked, arching his eyebrows.
"Never mind. It's a long tale. But it's nice to see that even after years across the sea, m'lady hasn't changed much."
"I'm not sure that's true..." Ser Willem began.
"A big man like you, I'm surprised you'll not confront her over the insult," Baynard sneered, talking over his master.
Gendry was not goaded. He inclined his head toward the squire. "I've never seen a shadowcat with my own eyes, but from the stories I've heard, the way m'lady moves isn't much different. I may be idiotic cattle, but I'm not dumb enough to get tangled up with that."
The Bear thought the dark knight might very much like to get tangled up with that, but he held his tongue. The assassins turned to leave the yard then, and the Bear heard the blacksmith muttering to himself in disbelief.
"Dothraki?"
Arya's feet carried her to the godswood without her making a conscious decision on which direction she should go. She had only meant to put distance between herself and the stubborn blacksmith before she did him serious harm. With the plans she and Brienne had made to separate from the hunting party unannounced, she did not wish for any unforeseen complications to crop up. Elsbeth could present just such a problem, if Gendry didn't set the little archer straight. Or, better yet, he could just accept Elsbeth's feelings for him and make her his wife. Surely that would appease the orphan girl.
You don't really want that, do you? her little voice wheedled. Rather than responding, Arya simply frowned and walked on.
In the dappled shade of the wood, her anger cooled and she moved toward the great weirwood at the center of the garden, though it might be more accurate to say she was drawn toward the ancient tree. The pace of her heart quickened as the white bark came into her view and the low buzzing in her bones began anew as she approached. She felt apprehension; a sort of reluctance to move closer as she recalled the unsettling experience she had had only recently here. But her curiosity overcame her anxiety.
Curiosity, yes, and something deeper. Some pull she was unable to name and was helpless to resist.
The wind picked up as she moved closer to the weirwood. The great tree, long dead, had no red leaves to rustle but it had branches aplenty to groan and ravens upon those branches to quork and call. As Arya stood before the massive, white tree, she reached her hand out to touch the immense trunk, but then hesitated. The chatter of the ravens high above her intensified (the girl heard now now now in that screeching raven-speak, but she knew it was a mere trick of her ear). She drew in a deep breath and overcame her uneasiness, allowing her fingertips to press against the bark.
Arya, she heard instantly. The voice was in her head, and outside of it, too. It was all around her, carried on the wind, softer than the beat of her heart in her own ears, and yet it smothered the noise of the ravens and drowned out the groaning of the weirwood branches. Sister.
"Bran," the girl whispered, for it was his voice she heard. And then she was in the crypts of Winterfell, Nymeria nipping playfully at her heels, for she was a fuzzy pup again, only just weaned off the milk Arya had fed her for more than a moon's turn after Jon and Robb had discovered the direwolves in the summer snow and brought them back to the castle.
Nymeria yipped, biting a hole into the heel of Arya's stocking.
"Shh, girl, they'll hear us!" Arya said sternly, and Nymeria's yipping ceased immediately. The girl reached down and stroked the wolf's head. "Good girl. Now, let's go find a proper hiding spot. They'll be after us any minute!"
Off the companions ran, through light and shadow; pools of light thrown by guttering torches mounted on the cold walls of the crypts; shadows in the shape of the Kings of Winter, stretches of gloom made when torchlight bathed one side of the statues atop sepulchers which sheltered bone and dust, all that was left of the hard men who had once ruled the North. Arya barely spared the stern carvings a glance. She had no need to, the faces of the kings being as familiar to her as her own. She could describe their features from memory, so often did she and her siblings play down here.
"This way!" the girl whispered, veering off to the section where the most recently deceased Starks now rested. She saw Lyanna ahead of her, forever frozen in perfect youth, her head crowned with stone roses. "There!"
Arya and her wolf slipped to the far side of the tomb, the shadowed side, and nearly knocked Bran over.
"Arya!" the boy chided. "This is my spot. Go find your own!"
Her brother cradled his unnamed wolf in his arms. The silvery pup growled and snapped. The attempt at ferocity made Arya giggle.
"He thinks he's frightening us," she said.
"You should be frightened," Bran declared. "When he's grown, he could swallow you up in one bite!"
"No he couldn't. Nymeria would protect me," the girl countered. She looked to her pup for support and the golden-eyed wolf yipped once, affirming her mistress's claim.
"She looks more like one of those pot scrubbers the kitchen maids use than a protector," the boy snorted.
"Well, at least she has a name!"
Bran stuck out his bottom lip and his wolf wiggled out of his arms to play with his littermate. "He can't have just any old name. I'm waiting until the right one comes to me."
"In the mean time, I'll just call him Chew Toy!" Arya laughed, watching as Nymeria playfully gnawed on the silver wolf's ear, growling and tugging.
"Don't you dare!" Bran threatened, launching from his crouched position and knocking Arya onto her back. The two siblings wrestled as their wolves played and tussled and when Robb finally discovered their hiding place, the younger siblings were well and truly mussed, their hair askance, ancient dust from the crypt floors marking their faces and clothes. They were laughing like maniacs at some shared joke, their backs propped against the side of their aunt's tomb.
"Mother'll not like seeing you two this dirty," Robb said, shaking his head and smiling at his little brother and sister. "Come with me and we'll get you cleaned up before supper. With any luck, she won't notice."
Arya started to hop up to follow her older brother, but before she could rise, Bran clamped his hand on her arm and held her in her place. The girl turned to look at him, and when she did, she saw that he had changed. Bran was no longer six, with the roundness of a babe about his face, but was older; leaner. He looked to be Jon's age when she had last seen her half-brother; four and ten, or thereabouts. When he spoke, his voice was different; as changed as his look; deeper, more resonant. His wasted legs stretched out before him, long and painfully thin.
"Remember this," he said.
His grip was cold; the coldest thing she could ever recall feeling. Ice crept out from his fingertips and covered her arm up to the shoulder, crawling around her neck and over the side of Lyanna's tomb behind her. Arya was trapped in the ice, frozen to the stone wall of the vault. She yanked desperately but could not pull free from it. Arya opened her mouth to scream for Robb to help her, but when she looked for him, instead of her auburn-haired, boyish brother, she saw a maimed corpse, bolts sticking out of the torso. A great wolf-head had been crudely sewn in place of Robb's own. She did scream then, and turned back to Bran. His face had grown as pale as the moon and his eyes glowed blue like blazing sapphires.
"Remember this," he repeated through frozen, black lips. "Remember."
"My lady!" Tytos Blackwood shouted again, shaking Arya by her shoulders a bit more vigorously this time.
Arya's eyes opened and focused on the lord's face then. His features were drawn with worry. The girl's breaths were short and shuddering, and her skin felt suddenly hot there in the godswood as the last of the lingering feeling of the icy crypts receded from her flesh. Her arms hung limply by her sides and she stood swaying before the weirwood. The ravens overhead were screeching and quorking furiously, hopping about and flying between branches in a turbulent, black swarm. Arya buried her face in her hands for a moment, gathering herself, trying to make sense of what was happening while the denizens of the weirwood high above her seemed to admonish her with one voice.
North! North! North!
This time, it did not seem like a trick of her ear.
"Lady Arya, are you quite well?" The Lord of Raventree Hall was practically holding her up, so weak were her knees just then.
A part of her wanted to laugh at the question. She was certain she had been asked that more times in the past few days than all the other days of her life combined.
"I... I was praying," she finally managed. A lie, but one she hoped would suffice.
"You were screaming, child," Lord Blackwood corrected. "As if you were being burned!"
"Not burned, no," Arya said, shaking her head. Frozen.
"Come, sit," Lord Tytos said, wrapping his arm around the girl's shoulder for support and leading her around the weirwood to the worn bench on the root he so often occupied. Arya shook her head. She did not wish to touch the tree just then.
"No, I'm fine," she insisted. "I should... I should clean up before the supper." Her voice was stronger and her head no longer swam. She looked around her. Long shadows stretched out from the trees and the sun seemed far too low in the sky. How long had she stood before the weirwood?
The lord nodded. "I'll escort you back to the keep, then." He took her arm, allowing her to lean against him, and Arya smiled at him a little wanly. She felt suddenly tired, and she wasn't sure if it was her hard sparring or her experience in the godswood which was to blame.
"You have been so kind to me, Lord Blackwood."
"I'm glad you think so, dear child."
They walked slowly along the path and gradually, Arya was able to straighten. She cleared her throat. "I want you to know, my lord... That is, I feel I should tell you... Well, I hope you know that come what may, I will never forget the kindness House Blackwood has shown me."
"My, that sounds unnecessarily dire," the man laughed. "Come what may?"
The girl nodded. "The time I've spent here at Raventree Hall has been... a welcome respite. And you have treated me more courtesy than I ever expected. Your hospitality has been most appreciated."
Lord Blackwood turned his eyes down to Arya's face and studied her a moment as they continued on the garden path. "It almost sounds as if you are saying goodbye, my lady."
Arya cursed herself for not choosing her words more cautiously. She had not meant to give Lord Blackwood any hint as to her plans. She was angry that she had allowed herself to be so shaken by her... dream? Memory? Vision?
Whatever in the seven bloody hells it was, she could not allow it to throw her off. There was too much at stake.
"Not at all, my lord, but these are uncertain times, and my life has taught me that if something is important, you should say it, because you can't be guaranteed of another chance."
"Mmm," Lord Blackwood hummed in agreement. "You have lost more than your share of kin, Lady Arya, and you have known more sadness than should be visited on any one person. I am sorry for it, my dear." Arya knew that Tytos Blackwood had experienced his own loss, and this made his attempt at comfort seem as though it manifested sincerely. But trust was not the Cat's strength.
"Thank you." The girl sighed, and for just the briefest of moments, she stretched forth and touched the mind of the lord, her heart pounding with the fear of what she would find. She felt a genuine affection there, and was suffused with a warmth she had not known for some time. Arya felt ashamed of her own doubt then.
"You have little family left in this world," Tytos continued, "but I hope you will consider House Blackwood as close as family, for that is how we think of you, my lady, if you'll pardon my saying so."
"You honor me, my lord."
"It's no more than your due, as the daughter of Eddard Stark and the sister of the King in the North," Lord Blackwood said, "but it's truly meant."
When they entered the keep, they were greeted almost instantly by the maester.
"Lady Arya," Maester Alfryd said respectfully. His chain clinked softly as he bowed. "Please pardon my intrusion, but I have had a raven, Lord Blackwood. The one you were awaiting..."
"Ah, yes." Tytos looked at Arya. "The maester and I have been anxious to receive word from Hoster. His captors allow him a few words to us every moon's turn."
"Yes, my lord, that is just the raven that has arrived," the maester confirmed.
Arya read the lie easily. Like all good lies, there was a grain of truth to it: the Freys allowed Hoster Blackwood to communicate (in some heavily censored way, no doubt) with his family on occasion, she was sure of it. Tytos Blackwood's voice and expression when he spoke of it made that clear enough. But the Cat knew that was not why the maester required his lord's attention just then. And what's more, Lord Blackwood knew it too.
There had been a raven, though. Perhaps more than one. And the news was of some import. The maester radiated an excited impatience.
"Then you must go, Lord Blackwood. I will not keep you from news of your son." Arya smiled sweetly. Let these men plot and plan. Whatever scheme they are shaping, I'll be far and away before it's realized.
"Are you sure, my lady?" the Lord of Raventree Hall asked. "I'm not certain I should leave you quite yet. Only moments ago, you had difficulty keeping your feet under you."
"Oh?" the maester interrupted with concern in his tone. "Lady Arya, are you ill?"
Oh, for the love of all that's holy... She suppressed her eye-roll admirably well.
"No, no, please don't worry on my account. I simply spent too long standing in prayer after some vigorous exercise. I should learn to kneel!" The girl laughed to show how hearty she was. "I'm quite recovered now. I can find my chamber on my own, Lord Blackwood. Please, tend to your business with the maester."
The two men watched keenly as the Lady of Winterfell strode away. She felt their eyes appraising her gait and endeavored to make it steady and hale.
Inside, she was less steady as she recalled Bran's frozen, black lips.
Remember.
The girl arrived back at her chamber to find an impatient Lyra awaiting her with a bath and another borrowed gown.
"The water will have cooled some, m'lady," the maid warned. The woman's arms were folded across her chest and her lips were pressed in a thin line. Arya was sure she detected a trace of irritation in Lyra's voice.
Am I being taken to task? the girl wondered with amusement. The maid bustled about, making the bath ready for her charge, pouring a few drops of oil into the water.
"I'm sorry you went to all this trouble, Lyra, but I don't need a bath." She'd just had one the previous evening, after all, and she hadn't been mucking out horse stalls or wrestling on the floor of the forge since then.
Seven hells, what made her think of that?
"Don't need a bath?" the woman's repeated incredulously. "Of course you need a bath, after sparring with Lady Brienne in the yard! Pah! Don't need a bath... I suppose you'll want to sit next to Lord Blackwood at the high table in those dusty boots and breeches, too?"
The girl caught sight of herself in a standing mirror and sighed. Lyra was right. She needed a bath.
"How did you know I was sparring with Lady Brienne?" Arya unbuckled her sword belts and set them on her bed (Frost, she carried in the traditional way, but Grey Daughter was too long to be worn at her hip and required a special belt across her chest, allowing her to wear the bastard blade at her back). She studiously ignored the crimson gown spread out across the middle of the mattress.
"May as well ask how I could avoid knowing," the maid laughed as she helped Arya shed her sweat stained tunic. The woman looked at the garment with an air of distaste and dropped it on the ground in a heap, meaning to send it to the laundry later. "The whole castle is talking about it, m'lady."
Of course.
Arya sank into the tub, warm enough for her needs despite the maid's warning, and detected a faint whiff of spices. The oil Lyra added to the bath... It must have been the one Ser Brynden had bought his sister from the Braavosi trader. The scent wasn't strong, though, as diluted as it was. The girl remarked on it anyway.
"Was that the perfume from last night I saw you adding to my bath?"
Lyra's good humor returned and she nodded. "Lady Bethany said Ser Brynden remarked on it especially. He thought it suited you ever so much."
Cloves and ginger. The heir to Raventree Hall had already told her he thought the scent suited her. It suited her too well, truth be told, and wouldn't Brynden Blackwood be scandalized to know why? This time, she was prepared for it, for the crushing pain in her chest when she thought of Umma's spice cake, and the man whose mouth had tasted of it. She was able to breathe it in without the sting of tears assaulting her eyes. She congratulated herself on her strength.
The maid scrubbed the dust and sweat from Arya's skin and washed the girl's hair again. After drying her, she held a shift up for the girl to slip on. Wrapped in a long swath of wet linen, Arya refused.
"You must put on the proper undergarments!" Lyra insisted.
"And I will," the girl said. "The proper ones to wear beneath breeches and a blouse."
"No, m'lady, you're to wear the dress I've laid out on your bed."
"If you think I'm going to squeeze into that corset again, Lyra..."
"But you must, m'lady! The gown will not fit properly otherwise!"
"Which is why I'm not wearing that gown!" the girl cried, winding the damp linen even tighter around her naked body and taking a step back from the maid as the woman advanced on her, holding the shift up like a shield. The Cat considered using Jaqen's trick of Asshai to render the woman senseless for hours, but curbed her impulse, thinking it a poor use of blood magic.
Maybe. Or, maybe not...
Lyra was saved by a knock at the door.
"Lady Arya, are you ready to go down?" It was Bethany Blackwood.
"Oh, thank the heavens!" the maid cried. "Please come and talk sense into our Northern guest, m'lady!"
The door opened and a resplendently dressed Lady Bethany stepped through. A gown of palest peach complimented the girl's complexion and a choker of opals made her neck look long and elegant.
"What seems to be the trouble?" the Blackwood girl asked, closing the door behind her. She was biting back her smile as she surveyed the scene before her.
"I cannot get m'lady into her clothes!" huffed the maid.
Bethany nodded, slowly circling Arya who gripped the linen wrap with a fierceness that turned her white knuckles even whiter.
"A bold choice, my lady," the younger girl remarked seriously as if appraising her friend's attire, "but perhaps one you should rethink it. The great hall is prone to drafts and I'm afraid you'd take a chill in your wet wrap." She burst out giggling at the look on Arya's face then.
"I simply want to wear breeches and a blouse," the Cat remarked. "I'm not going to suffocate in that corset one more time."
"But m'lady, you've no clean breeches left! All your clothes are with the laundresses now! They'll not be ready until the morning, for the hunt!"
"And who told anyone to wash my clothes?"
"Oh, m'lady!" Lyra was exasperated. Bethany intervened before the maid could become apoplectic.
"What if we just leave the stays loose? We could tighten them just enough to fasten them. Would that be agreeable?" the Blackwood girl asked. Arya sighed and rolled her eyes. Her new friend, sensing victory, continued. "That gown will look perfect on you. With your hair and your white skin, scarlet really is your color."
"No kohl," the Cat groused. It was her way of admitting defeat. "And the stays will be as loose as possible."
"Of course, Lady Arya," Bethany said soothingly, taking the shift from Lyra and dropping it gently over Arya's head. Only then did the assassin loosen her grip on her wrap and allow it to fall wetly to the floor.
"Grey is my color," the girl mumbled, and then jerked away as the maid dabbed at her neck with something cool. A second later, Arya smelled cloves and ginger, much more strongly than she had in the bath. She frowned at Lyra. "Are all maids so sneaky?"
In short order, and despite nearly constant grumbling from their guest, Lyra and Bethany had Arya suitably attired for the supper. The gown they had brought her was a beautiful red silk brocade, with small ravens fashioned from tiny tumbled obsidian pieces stitched to the bodice. The beaded birds caught the light and glinted darkly, the effect nearly spellbinding. The work was exquisite, and costly. Even someone with as little care for clothes as Arya could see that. She recalled the embroidered acorn dress she had once worn while in Lady Smallwood's care, and she thought the ladies of the Riverlands certainly loved to declare their loyalties in the detailing of their gowns.
And if that was true, what did it mean for a Stark to be so visibly adorned with ravens at her breast?
"Father had it made for my nameday last year," Bethany revealed. "He was crushed that I outgrew it so quickly. He accused mother of having giants in her family tree!"
Arya's mind wandered north, back to Winterfell. She remembered a simple stable boy who had served her family since long before she was born. "I once knew someone who had giants in his family tree," she said almost dreamily. "He was much, much taller than you."
"You've not met Hos, though," the Blackwood daughter said. "He's near to seven feet!"
At the mention of Hoster Blackwood, Arya's mind moved to her earlier encounter with Maester Alfryd and the lie he and Lord Blackwood had told about receiving word from the boy. She considered mentioning it to her friend, to gauge her response, but decided there was little currency in it, so held her tongue as the maid worked on her hair. In the end, Lyra and Bethany decided on a simple braid, which Lyra then wound into a low, heavy knot at the base of Arya's skull. It was held in place with a gem encrusted comb in the shape of a cat which the maid had discovered amongst the Stark girl's things.
She would not be without a blade tonight should she have need of one. The thought improved the Cat's disposition immensely.
Bethany had been true to her word and had prevented Lyra from pulling at Arya's stays too tightly. As a result, the Cat felt that she could breathe and move much more freely than the previous night. Bethany offered her the use of various jewels and ornaments, all of which Arya refused.
"A bare neck," Lyra clucked with disapproval. She was still smarting over Arya's prohibition against the use of kohl (though she had managed to get a bit of beet stain on the girl's lips before she could object).
"Well, it's fortunate that Lady Arya has a lovely neck," the Blackwood daughter said sweetly. "She hardly needs any decoration."
The pronouncement had the effect of making the Northerner feel self-conscious and then she almost wished she had covered herself with ropes and ropes of pearls. Still, there was an ease to her unadorned appearance that she was loathe to surrender. And so, with lungs relatively unrestricted and neck lacking all ornamentation, Arya made her way with her friend to the great hall where they took their places on the raised dais at the front of the chamber.
Spirits were high in the great hall, the men anticipating the hunt, boasting of the wolf pelts they would bring their women; soft grey and brown and black and white furs to be fashioned into warm wraps or made into collars for their winter cloaks. Arya did not share in their elation. Aside from her preoccupation with the preparations she and Brienne had made for their own journey (and wondering if she had forgotten anything important), she knew she would need to find a way to send Nymeria and her pack far from the castle and its surrounding wood, out of danger from the hunters. Her wolf dreams usually came to her, not the other way around. Until the previous night, she had never sought to purposefully walk in Nymeria's skin while she slept. Usually, it just happened. Arya wasn't entirely sure it was something she could command so readily. Still, she had to try.
"My lady, you seem distracted," Ser Brynden remarked, drawing the girl's eye. He was seated to her right, his customary place. "My father mentioned you took a turn earlier. I hope you are well."
A turn. It grated on Arya that because of the incident in the godswood, so many of those around her must think her a weakly, fragile thing. The girl bit back her irritation, trying to convince herself it was just one more false face to wear. Besides, she reasoned, there might be some benefit to being regarded in such a manner.
Or, would have been, had half the castle not witnessed you sparring with Lady Brienne like a flamboyant Bravo, her little voice sneered. Well done, that. Shadow among shadows? Pah!
Chagrined, she realized that her brothers may have had the right of it. She should have hidden her skill better. While it was true she needed to practice it in order to maintain it, she could have sought out a more private location to spar. She had allowed her pride to make her reckless.
Ser Brynden looked at her with a hint of worry.
"It was nothing, ser. I simply stood for too long at prayer, after having sparred too vigorously without refreshment, I'm afraid."
She almost choked on the words as she said them. She could have sparred the rest of the afternoon and into the night without flagging. Was there anything worse than declaring oneself weak? But she couldn't very well explain to him what had truly happened to her beneath the branches of the great weirwood. For one, she wasn't quite sure herself. And for another, he would think her insane.
Is it worse to be thought mad or dainty? her little voice pondered.
Brynden Blackwood chuckled his understanding. "I, too, have found myself weak in the knees after challenging Lady Brienne," he revealed, "and I was not nearly so successful in my attempt as you!"
The girl smiled at the knight. He was being extraordinarily gracious. She had expected him to mock her for her moment of perceived frailty. Certainly his brother Ben would have, as would the assassins she called brothers, she was sure. In the House of Black and White, such delicacy was bled and beaten and berated out of acolytes. She was not accustomed to spending time in the company of those who would forgive weakness so easily, or admit to it themselves.
"I'm certain you exaggerate, Ser Brynden." She took a small sip of the honeyed water she had asked for in lieu of the sweet red wine the rest of the party was drinking. She wished to keep a clear head tonight and she did not wish to be sluggish come morning.
Also, she still recalled vividly a night spent at the inn by the Moon Pool; a night in which the room spun and spun until she gave up the contents of her stomach to the street two floors below her window...
"Not at all," he insisted. "I told you earlier that our lady of Tarth was one of the finest swords in the kingdom. Did you think I was speaking out of gallantry? No, it was pride. I need for her to be exceptional, for it makes me feel less a failure when she bests me!"
As she was meant to, Arya laughed at his jape. The heir to Raventree Hall inclined his head toward her then and spoke in low tones meant only for her ears. "I hope you'll not find me too familiar when I say that I am happy you chose to wear that scent again tonight."
"Chose is not quite the word," the girl said. The knight raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Vicious sneak attack by Lyra," she confided. It was Brynden's turn to laugh.
"How is it that you move like a ghost when you fight in the training yard, but you can't evade one plump maid when she comes at you with a perfume bottle?"
"That woman is merciless!"
"She's as harmless as a newborn lamb," declared the heir to Raventree Hall.
"A heavily armored and well trained lamb," Arya muttered. This caused Brynden to chuckle. The girl scowled a little. "Don't think you're blameless in this, good ser."
"How am I at fault?" the knight asked, amused.
"She told me that you commented on how you especially liked the scent. I'm certain that planted the seed for her plan to ambush me so outrageously."
"Well, I can't say I'm sorry for it. I confess to liking the way you smell too well."
"Scandal!" Arya scolded. "And a fat lot of good your guard at the door does me when brigands dressed as maids are allowed free passage into my chamber!"
"Why didn't you just pin her to your wall with your throwing knives, my lady, if she frightened you so?" The knight's teasing smirk was beautiful to behold. It reminded her very much of another. Arya looked abashed and Ser Brynden, mistaking the cause of her look, continued. "Oh, yes. Ben told us all."
"Us?"
"My father and I, when I dragged my errant brother into our father's solar this morning to explain his actions last night. Father was greatly disturbed, I can tell you, but I'm not sure which piqued him more: Ben's transgression, or your prowess with assassins' implements."
"Which piques you more?" the Cat asked lazily, causing the knight to grin widely.
"My brother, of course. Your talents, on the other hand, fascinate me. I await your tales of Braavos most eagerly, my lady."
"And you shall have them, ser, if such is your desire. You may find them less enthralling than you imagine, though." At least, the abridged versions Arya was willing to tell.
"Oh, I doubt that very much."
They were finishing up the main courses when the musicians began to play once again. The supper was less formal than the feast had been and the music was raucous and fun right from the start, reflecting that. The hall became rowdier as men, falling deeper into their cups, shouted over the music to be heard in their boasting. War stories were traded, japes were made, and the din filled the chamber as platters of warm honey cakes were brought out and passed around. The mood of the place was infectious and Arya even deigned to eat a sweet. Ser Brynden had two.
The girl finished her cake and licked at the sticky honey left on her fingertips. The music changed then, the musicians striking up a likely tune for dancing. The heir to Raventree Hall turned his head to his guest and spoke.
"You favored me with the first dance of the night at the feast in your honor. Is it too much to hope history will repeat itself now?"
After her small slip with Tytos Blackwood earlier, the Cat was determined to keep her hosts in good humor and give them no reason to suspect she had anything in mind other than revelry and hunting. She nodded slightly at Ser Brynden, indicating her assent.
"You have only to ask, ser," she said. "I am at your service."
Ser Brynden raised his eyebrows in delighted surprise and hopped up, holding his hand out to Arya. She took it and rose, noting the satisfied smile on Lord Blackwood's face as she did. Good. As she curtsied gracefully to her host to seek his leave to dance, she felt a sudden wistfulness and realized it belonged to the Lord of Raventree Hall, not herself. She caught just a fragment of his musings then.
...make a fine good-daughter...
Arya was too busy marveling that she had not even tried to intercept the man's thoughts to bother dwelling on the meaning behind them. She had suspected all along that Lord Blackwood meant to make her part of his family. It was hardly a world-altering revelation. But the fact that she had picked it out with no effort... Now, that was something.
Brynden led his partner down the steps and just as they had the night before, the revelers scrambled to move tables and benches out of the way so that the heir to Raventree Hall could dance with the Lady of Winterfell.
As the assassin moved about the floor in the arms of Ser Brynden, she felt an assortment of eyes upon her. Ravella Smallwood's sad eyes, remembering Carellan's graceful dancing, no doubt. The Bear's amused eyes, wondering which jape would be best to make once he had his sister alone and could tease her about her de facto suitors. Harwin's calculating eyes, thinking this dance was somehow symbolic of the support the Stark cause could count on from House Blackwood. Tytos Blackwood's satisfied eyes, seeing his plans and hopes materialize right there, under his roof, in the form of his own heir courting the heir to the Winter Throne. Karyl Vance's eyes were inscrutable but keen. The Rat's eyes showed annoyance. Bethany Blackwood's eyes were delighted. Baby Bobbin's eyes were drooping with the sleep he tried to fight. And then there was a pair of Baratheon blue eyes, and the look in them was enough to cause even the stoutest of hearts to break.
And the eyes watching those Baratheon blues eyes narrowed and burned with something altogether different.
"Everyone is watching us," Arya whispered to her partner.
"Do you wonder at it, my lady?" He whirled her then so that her skirts fanned out.
"No. We're the only ones out here."
"If one hundred couples danced, one thousand, their eyes would all still follow you."
"What have I told you about flattery, Ser Brynden?"
"And what I have told you about accusing me of speaking false, Lady Arya?"
"Then do not speak false now and tell me what it is you're thinking."
Brynden grinned. "I suppose I should have expected this from you."
"Expected what?"
"That you'd not allow yourself to be wooed. Fine, then. What am I thinking? I'm thinking I have want of a wife, and my father wishes that it should be you."
Though Arya had demanded his honesty, she had not expected Ser Brynden to offer it up so freely, and so unvarnished. She was at a loss for words, but only for a moment. She reviewed his statement in her mind and latched onto the one glaring irregularity.
"Your father wishes..."
"Yes. From the moment you walked through the gate and he knew you for who you were."
"What if I'd already been married?"
"At your age? Unlikely, but if so, marriages are contracts and contracts can be voided."
"But what if the marriage had already been consummated? Or if I were merely... wanton?"
The knight's mouth quirked up a bit at that last, but he sniffed, "Irrelevant. I already have heirs."
"What if I were insane? What if a raving lunatic had shown up at your gate?"
"If you were sane enough to say that you are Arya Stark, that would suffice."
"Deformed?"
"Again, with your name, it would mean little."
"Hateful? Frigid? Skittish?"
"I have my own charms. In time, those things could be overcome."
"Well, we know what your father wants, despite all possible obstacles, it seems," the girl mused.
"Do not mistake me, my lady. My father is simply enamored of you. He is a practical man and will act in the interests of our house, but you should not think all his actions are calculated where you are concerned."
"No?"
"No. He bears you true affection," Brynden confided. "I think at first, it was merely for the sake of your father, but you've charmed him, and in a very short time. We're all quite surprised, honestly. My father is not an easy man to win."
"Well, the promise of a throne has a way of improving even the least desirable among us."
The knight laughed. "That may be my lady, but you have quite bewitched him. He is not insensible to the potential your name implies, but were you a daughter of a minor house, I don't think he would love you any less."
"Perhaps not," the girl agreed, for she had felt for herself the regard the elder Blackwood had for her, "but would he want to marry you to me?"
"That, I cannot say for a certainty, my lady. I suppose it would depend if there were an Arya Stark available to be married instead."
"So, we know that your father loves me at least as much as he loves the idea of my name, but how is it that he convinced you to go along with this marriage scheme?"
"What makes you think he did?"
Arya snickered at that and then looked the knight in the eye. "Well, did he?"
Brynden hesitated and the timbre of his voice changed. Gone were the playful tones and the teasing laughs. The sound of his voice then lulled Arya a bit.
"As it turns out, I didn't need convincing. Not after you danced with me last night."
"Was my dancing so enticing?" It was difficult to tell if she was mocking him or if she expected a serious answer.
"I believe you won me when you said you didn't give a bloody fuck if anyone ever understands you." The knight's teasing was back. Arya bit her lip before responding.
"That was most ungracious of me, ser. I shouldn't have behaved that way."
"Why ever not, my lady?"
"It doesn't become my station." She was playing a part then. He wasn't fooled.
"And when did you decide you should do only those things that become your station, Lady Arya?"
She looked up at him with innocent eyes, but then smirked, giving up the pretense. "Never."
"Just as I suspected. I think that's what attracts me to you so."
It was Arya's turn to hesitate. She had never negotiated a marriage contract before. She wasn't precisely sure how such a thing was done.
"So, are you saying... that you love me?
Ser Brynden laughed. "Good gods, no! I've only just met you!" He looked at her fondly and she could read his thoughts well enough, without using her talents. What a surprisingly girlish notion, his eyes seemed to say.
Arya wasn't sure how she should feel about his nonchalant denial of feeling for her. If it was his lord and father's wish that he should marry her, shouldn't Ser Brynden be saying anything and everything which might be like to win her? She told him as much, using the tone she might have once used to lecture Loric on the conduct expected of a Faceless Man.
"I could tell you that I loved you, but you're no silly maiden to be swayed by false declarations, are you?" It was less of a question and more of a statement. "You'd see the lie straight away, and I'd lose all hope then, wouldn't I?"
"You speak true," she acknowledged.
"So, let's just say, you are the sort of woman I could love. In fact, I see you as a woman who would be very hard not to love, in time."
"In time?"
"In a very little time." He smiled warmly down at her.
"Hmm."
"You would make any man an enviable partner."
Partner. Well, it was certainly better any of the other euphemisms she could conjure. It sounded less... like a punishment; less like a sentence.
"Partner," she whispered to herself. She liked the sound of it. She tried to imagine that word on Jaqen's lips, in the common tongue; in Braavosi; in Lorathi... It was right, in many ways, but somehow fell short. It didn't encompass the all that Jaqen was to her; that she hoped she was to him.
Her Lorathi master had once told her that she was his reason.
"A man's reason? His reason for what?" She had thought the statement incomplete; that she was missing some vital piece of information which she could use to understand his meaning.
"For everything."
Being a man's partner was a fine thing. It sounded like they might get up to mischief together; like they might guard each other's backs. It sounded like they might open a silks trading concern together. Being a man's partner might be fun, and safe, and profitable, depending on the demand for silks, she supposed. But being a man's reason... Well, that was something else entirely.
She looked up at her companion and spoke so that he could hear her. "Partner, is it? Not wife? Not trophy? Not prize?"
"No, never that, my lady. Not you."
Cunning, she thought. Yes, Ser Brynden was far too cunning for her comfort.
"You asked, and now you know," the knight continued. "I have want of a wife, and it would please my father, it would please us both, if it were you."
Arya drew in a breath, considering her words. It was a delicate thing, refusing a man without breaking his trust (or raising his suspicions). And this particular man, too clever by half, was not one who would be satisfied with platitudes.
"I should say that I'm flattered..." she began.
He laughed. "But we both know how you feel about flattery." He winked at her then and she couldn't help but to smile.
"I should say that you do me great honor, then," she tried again.
"Even I can see that lie," he replied wryly. "I have the notion that a marriage proposal is the last thing in the world you care about, my lady."
The girl thought for a moment before answering. Others had finally joined them in dancing, so she dropped her voice a bit lower when she spoke, hoping to keep her affairs private. She did not want kitchen maids and guards and lords and orphans discussing her any more than they already were.
"Then I should say that were my heart so inclined, and if a choice had to be made from the eligible Westerosi nobles, I could think of no more appealing a partner than you."
Surely, Ser Brynden could have no quarrel with that.
"But I think your heart may be inclined elsewhere, though it would please me if I were wrong."
Arya looked down at her feet. "You're not."
The knight smiled at her, his look a little sad. "I thought not. You'll break my father's heart, you know."
"At least your own heart is safe."
"I do not speak of my own pain," he said, and she was fairly certain he was teasing. "I am a knight. It isn't done."
"Cheer up, Ser Brynden. I would have made you a poor wife at any rate. I'm not nearly compliant enough or submissive enough or concerned enough with the state of my hems. Besides all that, my embroidery is appalling. I love a sword too well to make any man a proper spouse."
"Ah, but I've already had a proper spouse, my lady. Daraliss was as good a wife as the gods have ever made. She was lovely and gracious and pretty to look at. Her embroidery rivaled my mother's and the state of her hems..."
"Let me guess. Impeccable?"
"Quite," the knight agreed. "But she never intrigued me one-tenth as much during the whole of our marriage as you have in one day."
"You would come to find intrigue tiresome in a wife, I'd wager."
"I wish that was a wager you'd let me make."
"I wish it was a wager I could allow you to make." Wouldn't her life be simple then? She sighed and reached up for his face, placing her small, cool hand against Brynden's cheek. He leaned his head slightly into the touch, closing his eyes for a mere moment before snapping them open and grinning at her in his usual, carefree way.
The carefree part was mummery, meant to absolve her, another lie she could easily read. In truth, he was no more carefree than she was herself. The fact that he did it anyway endeared him to her further. The song had ended and to Arya it seemed that the musicians had prolonged it, so that her dance with Ser Brynden would not end too soon. She suspected Lord Blackwood was behind that.
Sly dog, she thought.
As her partner bowed to her, he glanced over Arya's shoulder at the head table. His eyebrows raised a bit and then he said, "Now, I think my brother wishes to speak with you."
"Your brother?"
"Ben. The way he's staring over here anxiously leads me to think that he's ready to beg your pardon for his dishonorable behavior last night."
"Is this something that must be done?" She wasn't so sure she had the patience. Or the interest.
"It is if he doesn't want father to box his ears. Again." The knight glanced again at his roguish sibling then asked, "Do I have your leave to call him over?"
The girl frowned, but then remembered her cat-comb with its hidden knife and relented. "Fine."
Ser Brynden gestured to Ben Blackwood and the younger knight bounded up to them, bowing to Arya and winking at his brother. The heir to Raventree Hall gave him a warning look and then walked away. The music swelled and Ser Ben offered his hand to the girl.
"My lady?"
Rolling her eyes, Arya took the knight's hand and he began gliding gracefully around the dance floor with her, keeping a much more respectable distance between their two bodies than he had when they danced the night before. He cleared his throat.
"Lady Arya, please allow me..."
"Yes," she interrupted impatiently. "You're sorry, you didn't mean any insult, you won't do it again. Fine. Save your breath. I forgive you."
"I had also intended to say..."
"That you're an idiot?"
"Well, no, not precisely that..."
"That you're a disgrace to your family?"
He sniffed. "Some may think so," Ser Ben replied, throwing a glance toward the high table, "but what I was going to say was..."
"You have no sense? You're a horrible excuse for a knight? You're not nearly so charming as you think you are?"
The knight huffed and then spat out his intended words before Arya could prevent him again.
"I hope you are well after your spell in the godswood earlier."
Seven bloody hells, was there anyone in the castle who hadn't heard?
"It wasn't a spell, ser," the girl insisted bitterly. "I was exhausted from my efforts in the training yard, I hadn't had enough to drink, then I stood for an hour in prayer when I ought to have sat."
"I've never known a woman less likely to swoon at prayer than you, my lady."
"Are you acquainted with many devout women, ser?" She snickered at that. The assassin highly doubted that the women whose company Ser Ben typically sought could be described in such ecclesiatical terms. The knight ignored the girl's implication and pushed on.
"Lady Arya, if you're in some sort of trouble..."
Arya frowned. She was in all sorts of trouble. She was orphaned, sought by the crown, exiled from her order, separated from her love, and now caught up in some sort of plot of the River lords to claim Robb's throne. What sort of trouble wasn't she in?
Ser Ben soon answered that question for her.
"You needn't worry, Lady Arya. I will marry you. Tomorrow, if need be. It's high time I marry, so my father tells me, and you have need of a husband."
"I have need of a husband?" The girl laughed at that. She could think of nothing she needed less. And hadn't she just had this same discussion with Ser Brynden? These Blackwoods are certainly single minded! She wondered if it was Lord Blackwood's plan to parade each of his sons before her, right down to Baby Bobbin, until she agreed to marry one of them.
The knight dropped his voice low. "Look, some men might spurn you for such a thing, but I am not one of them. I would protect you. I could save you from ruin, and after the baby was born, we could find it a good home. Or, keep it if you like. I would claim the baby as my own, if you wanted me to."
Arya's frown deepened. Ser Ben was talking nonsense.
"What baby?" she hissed. "What are you babbling about?"
"My lady, I do not judge. You are young and inexperienced. I see very easily how you could have fallen prey to..."
"Fallen prey?" she repeated incredulously. She nearly shook with her indignation. Arya Stark was not prey. It was Arya Stark who did the preying! Arya Stark was the fucking ghost in Harrenhal! The knight ignored the interruption.
"My brother's wife was prone to such turns with all of their children," he explained. "She was forever fainting. At prayer. At breakfast. In the corridors while she walked."
Lyra probably kept her corset cinched too tight, the girl thought. Her mother had birthed five children, and Arya could not recall a single story about Catelyn Stark ever fainting.
"I am not with child, Ser Edmund," the girl hissed. "And I didn't even faint! Seven hells, I was just tired!" If "tired" meant caught in a memory or a vision so real that she would even now swear her brother had actually spoken to her.
"You refused the wine at supper," the knight said, as if this was some great evidence that she was nearly ready to birth someone's illegitimate infant.
"So?"
"Maester Alfryd has talked of how women should avoid much wine and spirits until after they have quickened."
"What? Why?" The boy was making less and less sense to her.
"He says the maesters in Oldtown have reported deformities in babes whose mothers drink to excess. He advised Mother to refuse everything but honeyed water and goats milk when she carried Baby Bobbin."
"What? How would I even know that?"
"Well... you seem well-educated."
"In mid-wifery?"
"I don't know what strange skills you may be hiding. I wouldn't have guessed you were a master with throwing knives until you pinned me to your window sill last night!"
"Shh!" Arya glanced around, looking for anyone who might be eavesdropping. She didn't need anyone spreading rumors, either about her prowess with assassins' knives or the fact that Ser Ben and his reputation had made a late night visit to her chamber.
"Look, my father doesn't really care which of us you marry, though I'm sure he'd prefer Brynden. But Brynden already has his heirs..."
"Ser Ben, there's no profit in this discussion."
"...and while Hos is older, he's not here. Who knows if we'll ever recover him? And Alyn... He can barely look at a girl without forgetting how to speak," the knight scoffed, looking disdainfully toward his younger sibling. Remembering his goal, Ben returned his gaze to Arya, his eyes tracing the contours of her face before he spoke again softly. "We are near an age, you and I, and you're quite beautiful to look at..."
She rolled her eyes, a small, irritated sound escaping her lips.
"...and if I married you, I could finally show my father that I care for the honor of this family."
Arya's voice became gentle; sweet, even. She sounded deceptively understanding. "So, to redeem yourself in your father's eyes, you'd be willing to accept my disgrace and even adopt my bastard child?"
"I would, my lady. I believe I could even love you, if such a thing matters to you."
"It does, Ser Ben. But there are flaws in your plan."
"Name them, my lady, and I will address them."
"Well, to begin with, I'm not with child." The knight looked skeptically at her. She ignored his expression and continued. "Also, love does matter to me. It matters a great deal."
A great deal more than it ought, she thought. Love is weakness. But, it's not to be helped.
"I fail to see the problem," the roguish knight said, brows knitted. "I've said that I could love you. Surely, you could learn to love me in return." He got a mischievous glint in his eye and then murmured, "I'm not without my own... talents. I'm sure you'll feel differently about me after our wedding night."
As if it were that easy. And wasn't it just like him to think that whatever it was he liked to do between the sheets with a woman would be enough for him to claim her heart. The arrogance! She was certain that Ser Ben couldn't distinguish love from lust, anyway. He was like a small child, using words he couldn't possibly understand.
"As I've said, love matters a great deal..."
"And I've said that you would come to love me." Ben's patience was waning.
"But I am already in love. With another man." She said it to catch him off his guard; to shock him to silence. She had no intention of discussing Jaqen with Ser Ben or anyone, save her Lyseni brother.
"What? Who? That bastard knight?" he asked, sneering. Then, a look of horror dawned on his face. "Wait... Is it Brynden?"
She made him no answer but continued listing the problems with his scheme.
"Thirdly, no amount of bribery, coercion, threats, or flattery could tempt me to marry you."
It was more than his pride could take. He stiffened, but to his credit, he never faltered in his dance steps.
"My heart is breaking," the knight finally said. The statement was so disingenuous that it was laughable. Arya wondered if he hoped she was the sort of person who might allow pity to sway her.
I am the ghost in Harrenhal. I have no pity.
"Are you sure you have a heart?" she questioned in an off-hand manner. He glared at her. The Cat's mouth curled into a more subtle approximation of her malicious smile. "Don't worry, Ser Edmund. I'm sure your disappointment will pass just as soon as you find a warm bed and someone willing to share it with you. Unless I miss my guess, you'll be right as rain before the sun rises tomorrow."
They did not speak for the remainder of their dance, which was mercifully short. She had assured Ser Ben that his disappointment would pass, but she had no way of knowing if that were true. Her experience with suitors, even the opportunistic, self-absorbed sort, was limited. Arya found that having so many tossed at her all at once was... disconcerting.
The music stopped and the Cat was instantly rescued by the Bear. He bowed and took her hand, reeling her wildly about the floor to as soon as the next tune began.
"So, are Baynard and I to deliver the next Lady Blackwood to Winterfell, or will it be Lady Stark who remains in our charge?"
Arya frowned at him. "You're not as funny as you think, Ser Willem."
The false Dornishman ignored her sour tone. "Well, which brother is it to be? Ser Brynden or Ser Edmund?"
"I will slit your throat," she warned.
"Ser Edmund is arguably the more comely of the two." The Lyseni's expression was convincingly thoughtful. "But, Ser Brynden is handsome enough, and his other qualities far outweigh any minor differences there. Besides, I think you'd not like to be married to someone so pretty."
"I know blood magic," she growled.
"Ser Brynden has children, so the pressure to produce an heir is lessened..."
"I will make the Tears of Lys and pour them down your gullet myself!"
The large assassin grinned at his irritated sister. "Or perhaps it's another knight who has caught your fancy..."
"Don't..."
"Where is Ser Gendry?" he wondered aloud, craning his neck theatrically and scanning the crowd. "Ah! Just there!" Ser Willem waved to catch the blacksmith-knight's attention and beckoned him over.
"I am going to geld you!" the girl whispered hotly.
"And disable a loyal servant of the Many-Faced god?" he whispered back.
"There's no prohibition against eunuchs serving the order," she said darkly, but the arrival of Ser Gendry just then prevented her from further threatening her brother.
"M'lady," the dark knight said. "Ser Willem."
"Ah, Ser Gendry!" the Lyseni boomed, his faint northern Dornish accent a masterful touch. "My lady requires a dance partner and I've aggravated an old injury and must sit now. Will you do the honors?"
"With pleasure," Gendry replied, but he did not sound particularly pleased. The Bear handed his fuming sister off to the blacksmith and limped away. The Cat vowed to give him a true limp the next time they were alone. Her violent imaginings were cut short by Gendry's churlish conversation. "Were the Blackwoods too busy to take Ser Willem's place?" His expression matched his tone as he looked over her head rather than at her face.
"Ser Willem had his own reasons for inviting you to be his proxy." Reasons like enjoying the look on Ben and Brynden's faces as the woman who had just rejected them danced with a lowborn bastard. Reasons like having nothing better to do than tempt his sister's rage. Reasons that might result in her jabbing her elbow into his throat while he slept that night...
"Well, if you'd rather be partnered with someone more suitable, I'll relinquish my turn, m'lady."
"When has suitability meant anything to me?" she asked him quietly. He finally looked down at her.
"Wouldn't you rather dance with someone who has something to offer you?" His manner was cold.
"And who here has anything to offer me?"
"Are you serious? Any of the Blackwood sons, surely. Land, swords, gold, their name..."
"I have a name," she said sharply. I have many. "And as for the rest... It has been offered, and it has been refused." Comprehension seemed to dawn on the dark knight. His conduct toward her changed immediately, his coldness replaced with a sort of optimism.
"Marriage was offered?"
"Not in any official capacity, but essentially, yes."
"And you refused?"
The question exasperated her. "I just said so, didn't I?"
"But... why?"
Arya sighed. "The price was too high."
Her hope. They had asked her to give up her hope, and she could not do it.
Her reply had the effect of hardening Gendry's expression again. "I'm certain a man as practical as Lord Blackwood will negotiate your dowry, m'lady. Don't be put off by the first offer. You may yet get what you want." The girl looked away sadly, her gaze soft; unfocused.
"What I want," she murmured. Warm, bronze eyes filled her thoughts and whispered words in Lorathi came to her then. By all the gods, I am yours, and ever will be, come what may. "No, Ser Gendry, no amount of negotiating with Tytos Blackwood will get me that."
Their song had ended and the girl curtsied to the bewildered knight before leaving him standing alone in the middle of the dance floor. Without a care given to how it would appear to the assemblage, Arya fled the great hall and the keep itself, bursting through heavy wooden doors which led to the godswood. She ran down the stone steps and into the night.
All the talk of marriage, the foreign yearning for good-daughters and royal grandchildren that snaked its way into her brain, her admission that another claimed her affections, and her memories of his vow, had rekindled that desolate state she had thought she might finally be escaping. Arya had not put her love or her loss away, certainly not, but since her return to Westeros, it had seemed she'd found a way to live with it so that it did not stab at her quite so constantly; so that her heart did not feel like a frozen stone residing uncomfortably beneath her breast. She had found a small measure of comfort in action.
All that, undone in a single night.
Since the Rat had revealed his part in her final trial, the Cat had held onto the hope that Jaqen was alive, however unlikely it seemed. It was a slender rope tossed to her while she wallowed in the deepest pit; one slippery rock on the river's bottom upon which her feet found purchase, lifting her just high enough so that the rushing waters did not overtop her head. When she felt the suffocating nausea of her grief descending, she focused all her concentration on that hope, and finally, finally, it had worked. That small hope, that unreasonable belief that Jaqen was still out there, had unlocked the shackles which impeded her.
Instead of grief, she had been able to think on her purpose; she had been able to undertake the pragmatic actions required to implement her plan; she had been able to envision just how she would avenge her family. She had been able to move forward. When she fixed on her hope, her determination tamped down her sorrow and she could breathe again.
Perhaps she was merely fooling herself, though. Perhaps once these latest distractions had abated and she had settled into her life in Westeros, without the new friends and new challenges and new intrigues to occupy her, perhaps then she would have found her pain at her separation from Jaqen as great and as constant as it ever was. All this talk of marriage and of love had opened her wounds anew, but perhaps that was inevitable.
Perhaps there was no escape from grief.
She had grieved Jaqen so deeply, she did not see how her grief could go on in that way. It had already encompassed her everything. How could there be more than everything? Logic dictated that grief must have its end, and logic told her the end would be found in her hope. She had taken that hope, slim, anemic thing that it was, and she had grasped it tightly, madly, telling herself that with it, she could persevere; with it, she would do what needed doing and then find him again, her soul salved by a balm made from the blood of their enemies, both his enemies and hers.
But the way she ached now, the agony she carried where she should instead have a beating heart, it exposed her hubris. Her wretchedness revealed her stupidity. There was no boundary to restrict her lament. How could she have believed there would be? There was no measure to her suffering. Of course there wasn't! It was limitless. Grief could go on. It could go on and on and on, further than the fall from the edge of the world, deeper than the fathomless abyss of the sea, longer than all the time that had been and all the time that would be.
The enormity of it... It was incalculable.
Only a child would believe there was an escape from it. For a time, she had allowed herself to be such a child.
But now... now she saw her error. Now, she must learn how to move under the crushing weight of her despair. For move she must, lest both she and her hope wither and die in this place, bereft of love and vengeance.
Arya had fled blindly into the godswood, with only the moon to light her path. She had no destination, no intention in mind, save escaping all talk of love and want with those who did not speak her language or share her understanding. As she moved deeper into the garden, sheltered by the canopy of the trees, she realized she was moving toward that great weirwood which dominated the godswood. She did not believe herself ready to confront whatever power it was that the white bark contained again. And so, she stopped, and paced, and tried to marshal her chaotic thoughts.
I am leaving, the girl reminded herself. She latched onto the idea. It floated, unattached to anything else, a lonely island in the barren gulf of her reason.
Good, let's start there, her little voice encouraged. How will you leave?
Arya followed this thread of thought, grasping at it, grateful to have something to focus on besides her pain. I'll stay with the hunt, as long as their direction and mine are the same.
That's wise, her little voice said, uncharacteristically agreeable this evening.
I'll leave in the night when they think to head north or east.
And the wolves? It was a gentle reminder. She could not crumble. She must do what she could for the pack.
Nymeria, she thought. I wonder...
Arya stepped off the path and moved into a stand of ironwoods, their trunks smooth and sturdy. She pressed her back into one and slid down until she was sitting on the ground, all her crimson skirts puddled around her in a soft pile. She drew in a great breath.
The girl had pushed herself into cats and into men, and once, into a grossly oversized eel, but only briefly, and each time, she was within paces of the mind she desired to penetrate. She stayed only long enough to whisper; to plant a seed; to pilfer a small morsel of information. She had never pushed herself into her direwolf, only drifted away from her own mind and found herself with Nymeria as she slept. She wasn't sure she could find Nymeria here, awake in the godswood with castle walls and leagues of forest between them, but she would try.
Arya wondered if she should close her eyes, but that seemed silly to her, and so she left them open, staring into the darkness, tracing the faint shapes of the trees and shrubs around her. She thought of Nymeria, of her pack. She thought of the way it felt when she walked in the direwolf's skin; when she ran and hunted on four legs. She licked her lips and remembered the way that rabbit's blood tasted when it was warm; remembered the crunch of small bones between her teeth. Her eyes drifted closed of their own accord. In the distance, she heard howling. She turned her head, positioned her ear so that she could hear it more clearly, and then she was gone.
And then she was arrived.
The wolf always bowed to her mistress's will. Well, almost always. She allowed herself to be diminished, so that the girl could borrow her power, from time to time. But this felt different. She felt the warmth and the closeness that normally lulled her but there was a pull there, too; a will which kept her present fully. Her fur stood on end and her mistress spoke, directing her; instructing her.
"West," she said, or thought, rather, and the word meant nothing to the wolf, but there was a feel and an instinct that came along with it which Nymeria understood very well. She saw the hill, saw the near-dead thing they both loved there. She had found Mother. Or, they had found Mother together, rather. She had saved Mother from the black waters. She loved Mother for all the time when Mother was the only thing in this land that felt like the girl, even if it was just a little bit, and even if it was corrupted. And she loved Mother because the girl loved Mother, and the girl's ache was her own.
She would go to Mother. She would swallow her instinctive dread and return where her mistress commanded, though she was loathe to roam so far now that they had found each other again.
"Not long," the girl told her. "I'll see you."
She whined.
"It's not little girls throwing rocks this time," her mistress said harshly, "and these aren't men you should prey upon. These are not bad men, but they don't understand and there's no way to make them understand yet."
She knew "bad." She understood that the girl stood between the wolf pack and the mounted men. She would lead her cousins west. She would go to Mother and wait. She knew how to do that; had done it for so long already.
"Soon," the girl soothed. "Soon."
"What will be soon?"
Arya felt as though she were violently jerked from her skin, all of her insides pulled outside and exposed. She moaned and grimaced. Suddenly, she felt strangely weightless, everywhere except her eyelids. They were as heavy as boulders.
"Go to... Mother," the girl slurred.
"My mother is still in the great hall, awaiting news of you, like the rest of the ladies."
Who was talking? The voice was familiar... What was he saying? Mother was in the great hall?
Her sluggish brain took a moment to understand the words, and then Arya forced her eyes open, the strangest feeling of elation engulfing her as her mind grasped at the notion that she had experienced the most vivid and awful nightmare; that her mother had not died but was in the great hall even now, waiting for her. Robb had come to find her. It was a game of hide and seek in the crypts, and she had fallen asleep and dreamt the strangest dream... She gasped and looked up into the worried face of Brynden Blackwood. He was staring down at her, his attention drawn by her sudden movement and the sound of her startled breathing.
"What is it, my lady? Tell me," he pleaded, stopping in mid-stride. He cradled her in his arms and was carrying her up the stone steps she had run down earlier in her escape from the supper and her suitors and Gendry and...
Memory.
It crowded back in, her memory, and the sweet picture of her mother waiting for her in the great hall faded.
"What... where am... I?" She groaned and looked around, bewildered. Blinking hard a few times, she realized there had been no great nightmare, or rather, that the nightmare had not been a dream, but was her life. Her mother was not awaiting her behind Winterfell's walls, Robb was not coming for her, and somehow, she had become insensible as she sought out Nymeria and had been discovered that way, in the godswood, by Brynden Blackwood. The knight now carried her as if she were some sort of invalid.
She wanted to scream.
Instead, the girl gathered her wits and fought off the dizzy feeling she had been left with after ranging so far from her own mind without the aid of slumber.
"I... must have fallen asleep," she lied.
"You've been gone nearly three hours!" Ser Brynden scolded.
Three hours? It had felt like a few moments!
"Oh... I hope no one was worried." It sounded weak, even to her own ears.
"We assumed you had gone to bed. Bethany was worried you had taken ill and went to tend you after awhile."
"I'm sorry to have caused any trouble..." She felt a little sick to her stomach. She recalled she used to feel that way when she used the eyes of animals and men when she was awake, but she had never felt that way after being with Nymeria.
"When Bethany didn't find you in your chamber, Father had the castle searched. I scoured the main bailey and the battlements before I came to the godswood. Your own men are in the dungeons, looking for you and even now, Lord Vance readies his horse to search the roads, afraid you've been abducted!" The knight's words were spoken with a mixture of concern, irritation, and relief.
"I came to the godswood for air. I was so hot in the hall, with all the dancing..."
Ser Brynden was not convinced. "My lady, after your spell here earlier and now this, I think we should consult Maester Alfryd."
Arya considered the knight's suggestion quickly and decided she would not object. Unless he was a very great fool, the maester would surely declare her the picture of health and then the household could stop fretting about her so much. It was simpler than explaining to true cause of these "spells" and less taxing than constructing a plausible lie. She nodded meekly, signaling her agreement. The knight continued up the steps and pushed through the oaken doors leading into the keep, sending a household guard he encountered to spread the news that the lost guest had been found.
"And," Ser Brynden continued once they were alone, "I think it best if you forgo the hunt."
The girl's head snapped up. "No!"
All her plans... All her preparations...
"My lady..."
"No!"
"Lady Arya, if you were to have another spell and fall from your horse, you could break your neck. I'll not have that on my conscience. You must stay here with the other ladies."
"It wasn't a spell! I didn't faint. Either time. I told you, I fell asleep."
"And earlier, you had simply prayed too long," Brynden said, his tone bordering on sarcasm.
"Just so."
He huffed, giving her a stern look. "I couldn't wake you, not with shouting, not with shaking. I've never seen anyone sleep so deeply without the aid of a maester's potion, unless they were gravely ill or injured."
She could imagne that Ser Brynden had seen enough grave illness and injury on the battlefield to know.
"I'm fine," she insisted, then, realizing she was being carried still, she struggled in Ser Brynden's arms. "Put me down."
"I think not," the knight said with a humorless laugh.
"Oh, this is ridiculous," the assassin growled. "I've never fainted, not once in my life."
A lie. She had fainted. Once. But there were... circumstances. Heat. Hunger. Exertion. A tight corset which became impossibly knotted. But, most notably, a purring voice and a certain assassin's touch.
"So this is a sudden change?"
"Ugh," she groaned. "No."
"Ah, so it has been going on for awhile. How long?"
You have your cat comb, her little voice reminded her. Her fingers twitched.
"Quit twisting my words. And put me down."
"I'm taking you to your chamber, and I'm calling for the maester." His voice carried a certain authority. She imagined it was the voice he used when he addressed the soldiers he commanded. His knightly voice.
Arya considered whether the fight was worth her energy. She made a decision.
"Fine. You may carry me all the way up the steps to my chamber and break your back doing it, if it pleases you. You may even call the maester."
The knight's face positively shone with his triumph.
"But," she added, poking one finger into his chest, right over his heart, "if the maester doesn't find anything seriously wrong with me, I don't want to hear a word about staying here with the ladies tomorrow."
The triumph bled out of his expression and then Ser Brynden scowled.
"Say you agree," the Cat demanded. "Say it, or I'll tear up all the fine clothes your mother and sister have lent me and fashion the strips into a rope so that I may escape through my window in the night."
"You'd fall to your death," he scoffed.
"And then you'd have that on your conscience."
The knight balked. It was Arya's turn to look triumphant.
Brynden stopped walking and hitched Arya up a little higher. He stared hard at her. "My, how adept you are at blackmail, my lady." There was a glint in his eye, and it signaled vexation but also, she thought, a grudging admiration. "My father believes you were sent to us by the gods. I shall have to tell him that perhaps it was not the gods after all..."
"Are you suggesting I was sent as some agent of the seven hells?"
"The thought had crossed my mind."
"But I don't believe in the seven hells, good ser knight. Like your family, I follow the old gods." And some others besides. "Perhaps your father is right, and I'm their emissary here in Westeros. I think they'd want you to promise you'll not interfere with my going on the hunt as long as they maester agrees. Perhaps they'd even be wrathful if you defy their wishes."
"Did you really just invoke the wrath of the old gods, Lady Arya?"
"It would seem so."
He regarded her closely, disgruntled at having been beaten at his own game. Still, he seemed reluctant to agree. She pressed her advantage, winding her arms around his neck and laying her cheek against his shoulder. Her finger tips slipped into the sandy curls at his neck. She relaxed into his arms, humming lightly, a sound that suggested contentment.
"Please, Ser Brynden, say you agree," she said softly, and the heir to Raventree Hall was reduced to supple clay in her hands. He sighed. Her victory was complete.
"Of course, my lady. If the maester says you are fit..."
"And don't mention any fainting spells to anyone!"
Beast Mode—B.o.B.
