So you swallow your heart and you swallow your pride
You've got to be tough if you want to survive
Acorn Hall was a small castle, without true battlements. Instead, it merely had modest, raised wooden platforms attached to the interior of the stone curtain walls at intervals, accessible by crudely made ladders. The platforms stood alone, not connecting with one another, and were only wide enough for two men to stand shoulder to shoulder upon them. This meant that when Arya wanted to find a secluded vantage point from which she could look out toward the surrounding forest and listen for Nymeria's howls, she was forced to clamber to the roof of the keep by way of her chamber window.
It made her long for the cold, grey granite of Winterfell's inner wall, with its wide walkway set between twin crenelated crowns, patrolled by Northmen loyal to the Starks. Such was her life and her exposure to the wider world that even proper battlements felt like a very great luxury to her now. The girl closed her eyes, and she was there again, running past chuckling guards as she escaped her septa to climb the worn steps to the top of the defensive wall. She had always noted that immediately upon her arrival, she would be filled with a feeling both exhilarating and frightening, her fingers and toes practically tingling with it as her heart pounded beneath her breast.
Freedom.
Arya had escaped up there when she could, and then played at being a guard on patrol duty. She would march, sometimes with a large stick she would pretend was Ice, her father's greatsword. From that vantage point, it had seemed as though the entire world was laid out before her, the endless, sweeping vistas nearly dizzying to behold. Now, she knew better; that there was much more to the world than what lay a few leagues beyond Winterfell's gates. But still, scanning the vast land beyond the hundred-foot inner walls of the stronghold, she could see much: all of Winter Town to the south, the great wolfswood to the west, and the Kingsroad to the east.
And then there was the north.
As a young girl, she had liked to imagine that if she stared toward the north hard enough and squinted, she could just make out the outline of the Wall.
It was nonsense, of course. The Wall was too far from Winterfell to be seen from its battlements, even on the clearest day, but that didn't stop her trying. Even when Robb had told her it was futile and Sansa had laughed, calling her a foolish, stupid girl, she'd still tried.
Only Jon had indulged her. "Tell me if you see Uncle Benjen waving," he'd say, not a hint of mockery upon his earnest face.
There was no real protection from the northern winds atop Winterfell's high inner wall as there was in the yard below, and sometimes the cold would bite at the flesh of her cheeks, turning them pink. She never minded, though. The cold made her feel wild and strong and alive, like a wolf running free beneath the interlacing branches of the snow-laden pines. She would watch in fascination when her breath became tiny, frosted clouds as it left her mouth, visible proof that death had no dominion over her.
Not today.
The cold was a familiar friend to a girl of the North, and she did not lament its touch. In the summer days of her youth, no man of Winterfell would require more than his standard blouse and boiled leather for comfort. But the summer nights, oh, those were different. At night, when the sun went down and darkness descended on that high wall, many could be found bundled in furs against the icy winds which sometimes swept over the bulwark.
Not her. She would pretend her skin was wolf's fur, as gray and thick as Nymeria's. When she finally returned to her chamber, her maid or her septa or her mother would scold her for her white, bloodless fingers and toes, saying she would lose them if she did not take care. Only Old Nan refrained from chastising her. When everyone else had left, the ancient woman would tell Arya stories of the hundred-foot snows and the great, thick ice sheets which covered the land in the time of her ancestors.
"The wolves survived," Nan croaked, her hazy eyes suddenly clear and twinkling, "and with all their toes, too."
The girl smiled, remembering. She wondered about Old Nan, if she had survived the sacking of Winterfell; if even now, the woman had found a child to tuck into bed and tell her stories to as eyelids drifted downward and soft snores ensued.
Arya sighed at the memory, looking down into the dark yard below her as she climbed. It only took a second for her to begin to feel a bit dizzy, and she wasn't sure if it was a lingering effect from her brief journey to that place where her mother and father now existed, or an echo of the dream of faces, or merely the height which made her head swim. She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, and the feeling passed. She thought of Bran in Winterfell, healthy and whole, forever climbing. There was never a second of hesitation in him and his footing was always sure. The girl took a deep breath and boosted herself up and over the eaves, scooting up the pitched surface of the roof and settling there.
It was full dark, hours past the time when the castle's inhabitants had retired to their beds, but Arya had been unable to sleep. They were meant to depart this place in the morning after breaking their fast, yet she found she couldn't calm her mind well enough to get her rest.
"Calm as still water," she'd told herself over and over. It was all to no avail.
Instead of the peaceful sleep of one secure in her decisions and settled on her path, the girl found her thoughts jumping from a list of menial preparations for the journey, then to her mother's plans for her, then to considerations of the practical aspects of leading a group of bannerless outlaws, and finally to the way the men in the great hall had looked at her when she'd declared her intention to do just that.
There was some doubt, of course, and no small degree of aggravation from some of them, but beyond that, there was something in their eyes she had only seen a few times before.
Unquestioning dedication.
The promise of loyalty.
A reverence she had done little to earn.
She found it uncomfortable. It was the one time she'd wished she wasn't so adept at reading faces. Arya declared herself the leader of the Brotherhood Without Banners because it was expedient, and because her mother had wished it. She'd done it because it gave her a modicum of power, the sort easily recognized by the men she needed to sway; power to direct Ser Jaime's fate, and Gendry's, and her own.
She'd done it so that she could move on from this place and do what must be done.
She'd never expected that in doing what was needed, she would walk right into the role these lords and perhaps even the Kindly Man had meant for her all along: a recognized leader, empowered by right of blood. It was the Westerosi way. The girl grimaced when she considered what they all must think of her.
The daughter of two great families, uniting two ancient kingdoms.
The Lady of Winterfell.
Robb Stark's heir.
Arya had never intended to provide them a banner behind which to rally, but she was getting an unsettling feeling which told her she might've done just that, her intentions be damned.
Up on the roof, she leaned back until she was lying against the tarred thatch surface, knees bent and the soles of her boots placed flat, bracing her against gravity's pull. She placed her hands on her belly, twining her fingers together and staring up at the stars. As she traced the constellations with her eyes, Arya began to frown. Maneuvering in Westeros was proving to be far more difficult than she'd anticipated. It seemed as though she was locked in an everlasting dance, one whose steps were complex and tiring. The floor regularly shifted beneath her feet and the tune changed without warning.
It was not the sort of dancing she favored.
She would no sooner sidestep one obstacle than she would encounter another. She would no sooner declare herself to be her own person than she would be forced to remind everyone whose daughter she was, and whose sister. She would no sooner say that words were wind than she would whisper a list of names into the dark, a prayer made of the promise of blood, and also a plea for it.
Ser Ilyn, Ser Meryn, Queen Cersei, Traitorous black brothers, Walder Frey, the Kindly Man.
Even still, she did not wish for the look she saw in those men's eyes. Power was proving to be necessary for navigating her path efficiently, but she did not desire more than the bit she needed to leave this place and fulfill her vow.
But, once it was obtained, how did she stop such power from growing?
It seemed to be taking root, and expanding of its own accord.
"No crown would sit easy on my head," she growled into the night, saying it out loud so as to make it feel more like the truth. The girl shivered slightly, remembering her dreams of the crypts of Winterfell and the crown of ice and Valyrian steel which had tangled itself in her hair, freezing to her flesh, refusing to be dislodged.
She snorted slightly at her misgivings.
You're getting worked up over nothing, she thought to herself. No one has tried seat you on Robb's throne.
Not yet, her little voice whispered back, but you know what you saw in their eyes.
It matters little, she insisted. I will not be corralled or controlled.
Yet the harder you fight, the closer to the Winter Throne you seem to get, the little voice mused. Are you sure you don't want to be queen after all?
"Bah!" the girl scoffed aloud, appalled by the idea. There is no king in the North. That foolish dream died with Robb. And neither will there be a queen. That was never me. All I ever wanted to be was a knight. Or a wildling.
Arya closed her eyes and unlaced her fingers, slipping her hands from her belly and covering her face with them. She drew in a great breath then blew it out slowly, clutching at her face then dragging her fingers lower and lower, from her forehead, over her eyes and nose, past her cheeks and down to her chin. She'd never seen a wildling, so she only had her imagination to rely upon, but had she been able to see her reflection just then, she would've admitted that anyone could have believed her a refugee from the land beyond the wall, and demanded to know how she'd found herself so far south.
Her nose was wider, she could sense that, and her cheeks were rough and ruddy, windburned. She felt their sting. Her long face had become shorter; rounder, even plump. There was a jagged scar from her left ear to her jawbone. Her hair was matted and greasy, black tangles mixed with small braids to pull it off her face. Her eyes had turned from grey to brown, and her lips were thin, chapped, and pale pink. She was missing a tooth, lost in a brawl, doubtless, for spearwives were known to be rowdy fighters. Her hands were calloused and freckled. She stretched them out before her, studying them in the dim light of the moon. She grinned a crooked grin, thinking that she wished Bran and Rickon were there to see her then; that she'd finally become one of the wildlings they had played at being (amid Sansa's marked disapproval and away from their mother's critical gaze).
Thinking of her siblings gave her pause, and Arya scrubbed at her face with her hands, wiping away all traces of the wildling and becoming herself once again. She wondered about them, her brothers and sister, and where they were. Was Bran in the North, hidden away? She'd felt him, heard him, through the trees and in her dreams. The girl believed it must mean he was alive. Somehow, he was alive. And if he was, could Rickon be as well? Would she even know him anymore? He was little more than a babe when last she'd seen him. Was Sansa alive, high in the mountains of the Vale, or had she perished, and been buried far away from the wolfswood and summer snows of their youth?
And Jon…
Those rumors of him at the head of a great wildling army, could they be true, or were they mere fancy, bedtime tales told to naughty children to scare them into good behavior? She'd heard it, even here in the Riverlands, where winter had only just begun to creep in: The bastard of Stark, a risen daemon who walked above the snows, his foot leaving no track. They said his grey eyes were lit from behind with a black fire that could only have come from the deepest pit of all the Seven Hells.
It was ridiculous, of course. Jon was no daemon and if there were even Seven Hells, they would have no claim on her brother. She'd heard he'd been killed, stabbed by the blades of traitorous brothers of the Night's Watch. Jaqen had told her as much; he'd sought the truth out for himself and delivered it to her as gently as he could. Her master had given her no cause to doubt him. But he'd also said that another truth had been glimpsed in the fires by a red priest. Thoros. He'd said the flames revealed that Jon lived still, against all reason.
'The boy still walked,' Jaqen had told her, 'a great white wolf at his side.'
She believed her brother had been betrayed; that he'd been killed. But she also believed that he yet lived. Was her own mother not proof that such things were possible?
Jon is alive, Arya decided.
She'd feel it if he weren't.
She'd know.
And he's no daemon, spat up from one of the Seven Hells. He's my brother.
She continued staring at the stars, wondering if Jon could see them, too, wherever he was, and if Sansa could, and Bran, and Rickon. She wondered if Jaqen could see them as well. Did he look up at the sky and trace the stars with his eyes, naming their patterns in High Valyrian and Dothraki and the language of Westeros? Did he say their names in Lorathi, that lilting tongue in which he'd spoken his earliest words?
That tongue in which he'd made her his vow?
'By all the gods, I am yours,' Jaqen had whispered in Lorathi, the sound of it curling softly in her ear and seeping deep into her chest, burning itself into her heart for all time, 'and ever will be, come what may."
The vow echoed in her mind, an endless, unfulfilled promise, but in her chest, there was only an unending ache. She felt a wordless sob claw at her throat then. Arya stilled. She did not move, and she did not blink.
For if she did, the stars would blur and dissolve amid her tears, and she did not wish to lose them.
Not yet.
She needed to see them, just a bit longer, for Jaqen might be staring at them too, and they could share this moment, even unknowingly.
Did he look at the stars and think of her, as she did him?
You can't know that he's even alive, she thought to herself. Not for sure.
From the back of her head, her little voice whispered slyly to her.
Can't you?
In the distance, the wolves began to howl.
"Can't you sleep, little lord?"
Rickon turned and growled at Osha in the guttural, clipped tones of the Old Tongue.
"Don't call me that."
Lillikaskoer growled, too.
Osha was unimpressed. "Why not? It's what you are. And you need to speak in your own tongue. We're in the North now, the proper North, not on that forlorn island made of bones."
"The speech of Skagos is my own tongue," the boy insisted, nostrils flaring, but he said it in the common tongue, making Osha smile.
"You've an accent now. We'll have to work on that." She smoothed his hair away from his face and gazed at him fondly.
They'd been prowling Wyman Manderly's godswood, boy and wolf, when the wildling woman found them. She'd discovered that the boy was not in his bed when he ought to have been, and she'd known just where to look for him. He'd taken to coming here more and more lately, though she hadn't fully worked out why. It was a poor godswood, as the Manderlys themselves held to the faith of the Seven, and it could not claim even a single, small weirwood. Osha had thought perhaps being back in the North had the boy thinking on his family, and remembering. His father, man of faith that he was, spent much time in the godswood at Winterfell to hear the boy tell it, polishing his sword and praying; remembering. She wondered if the boy walked here for the same reason; to remember Ned Stark.
"Let's get you back to your bed, little lord," the woman suggested. There was an air of authority to her words.
"Lillikaskoer err ikhe valmis."
"Common tongue," Osha admonished.
"He's not ready," the boy said, jerking his thumb toward the black beast at his side. "He hasn't found any supper."
"Nor is he like to behind castle walls, not more than a rat or two, anyway. Besides, Lord Manderly sent a whole side of venison to him this evening!" the wildling laughed. "No supper, pah! When I was a girl, my whole village could've eaten that for supper, and had enough left over for a stew the next day. He's just one wolf!"
"He's not just a wolf. He's a direwolf, and one with en veliiki jehdlu!"
The woman gave the boy a stern look. "What did I say?"
He huffed. "A big appetite," Rickon acquiesced. "And he likes to catch his own supper, anyway. There was no blood in that venison, and it was cold. It doesn't taste good when it's cold."
"And how would a little lord know what his wolf's supper tasted like?"
The boy crossed his arms over his chest and glared at his wildling nurse, but he said nothing.
Nor would he, she knew. He'd been doing it more and more lately, slipping into his wolf's skin. He wouldn't talk to her about it, but she knew. Osha suspected that was another reason he came to this meager godswood; so that he and Shaggydog could run, as one, with no one to see and no one to judge. I'll not judge you, my fine little lord, Osha thought. We wildlings know that not all the untamed and mysterious things are bad.
"Let's go," she said then. Both boy and wolf growled again and it made Osha laugh. "Even chiefs and direwolves need their rest, no matter how much you may show your teeth to me." She slipped her arm around the boy's shoulders, noting how tall he was becoming. By the look of him now, he was like to be a monster once a man grown, far taller than his father had been. And won't he be a sight then, she thought, long and broad, with wild red hair braided and ornamented in the Skagosi fashion, littered with wood and bone.
Osha imagined that one day, the sight of Rickon Stark would frighten men more than even the black beast that stalked around him constantly. The thought gave her comfort, for by then, she might be old and frail and unable to protect the boy any longer. Perhaps in the future, he would be protecting her.
The woman laughed to herself, ruffling the boy's hair and kissing the top of his head as they walked back toward the castle. Rickon shrugged her off and groaned as boys of ten are prone to do when affection is forced upon them, but Shaggydog pressed his wet nose against her side and she scratched at his ears, laughing some more. The wind began to blow as they moved through the doors to take shelter behind the white walls of New Castle and Osha did not hear the whispering of the leaves over her own chuckles, but the boy-chief did, though he gave no sign.
Rickon, he heard.
Winterfell.
Sister.
"Sister?" the Bear called in a loud whisper from her window. He was scanning the ground below when the girl's face popped over the edge of the roof and stared down at the top of his head.
"What are you doing here?" the Cat demanded. The large assassin startled slightly and then turned his head up to look at her.
"What are you doing there?" he laughed.
"Come up and see."
The Lyseni was able to boost himself easily from her window ledge to the roof, owing to his height. When he set himself beside her, she settled once again into her reclined posture, slipping her hands behind her head comfortably.
"Couldn't sleep?" she asked her brother.
"Not exactly. I was sleeping, but a dream woke me."
"A dream, or a nightmare?"
He did not answer her, and she knew his struggle. He was loath to name anything a nightmare which allowed him to see Olive again, no matter how awful he felt when he finally awoke.
At such times, she knew her brother did not like to be alone with his guilt and his sorrow.
"Do you want to tell me?" she asked gently, keeping her eyes on the stars overhead.
"No," was his simple reply. The lay in companionable silence for a while, watching the night sky. Finally, he asked, "Why are you awake?"
The girl sighed. "I had trouble quieting my mind." It was true, of course, and her roiling thoughts had played a part in denying her the rest she craved. She did not like to admit that there was something more which kept her awake as well, though… The buzzing. That internal, constant tremble in her blood, in her bones; that extraordinary energy she'd somehow brought back with her from the Nightlands, ever-present, restless, and incalculable.
She did not wish to speak of it.
Even if she had, she wasn't sure she would truly have the words to fully explain it. Not even to herself.
"Hmm. I suppose today was… eventful," her brother sympathized.
"Yes."
That's all it is, she thought quickly. Just the events of the day.
Yes, that's all, her little voice mocked. She ignored it.
"Do you want to tell me?" the Bear whispered, turning to look at his sister's profile. She shook her head.
"You already know."
They were once again quiet, but Arya's mind was working all the while. She knew this was enough for him, just to be with her so that he was not alone, but she wished to make him smile. She wished for his heart to be truly light, if only for a moment.
He'd had so little of joy for the last three moons.
"I want to show you something," she said after a time.
"Hmm?" He turned his head to look at her.
She sat up and buried her face in her hands, concentrating. After a moment, she pulled her fingers slowly down over her features as she had seen Jaqen do so many times before and as she herself had so recently done on this same roof. When she was finished, she turned to look at the Bear. His eyes grew wide as he saw that he was staring back at himself.
"What? But… How?" he sputtered. The girl mimicked his expressions, changing her face to reflect his, widening her eyes and letting her mouth (his mouth) hang open. The large assassin broke out into a laugh, and it grew and grew, until he was nearly wheezing. "Stop that! Stop! Oh, please tell me I don't look that stupid!"
The girl shrugged but said nothing and started laughing herself.
"Who taught you?" he wanted to know. "Was it the Rat?"
"No, no. I… I just did it. I've seen Jaqen do it enough…" Her words trailed off as her master's name left her tongue. Sadness pinched at her heart and she blew out a breath. She would not allow her mood to darken, not when her brother needed her. She grinned then. "Do me!"
"What?"
"Do me! Wear my face. You can do it, can't you?"
The Bear only wavered for a moment. "Of course I can."
"Then do it!"
"Alright, fine, but take mine off. It's… unsettling to talk to myself."
She snorted, but did as he asked, scrubbing away the Bear and becoming Arya once again.
"Okay, go ahead," she urged, giggling. He pursed his lips and gave her a look of censure, telling her not to rush him, but he scratched at his hairline and then dragged his rough palms over his features, changing them one by one. After a moment, Arya was looking at her own face, but not as she was now. It was her face as it had been the night of the great feast at Raventree Hall. The lip stain and kohl around the eyes gave it away. Her laughter faded.
"Is that what you think I look like?" she asked, perplexed. It was more than the color that had been forced on her which gave her pause. She reached out to touch his face (her face), tracing the shape of the crimson mouth with one fingertip. Arya was sure her bottom lip was not so full, unless perhaps this was the result of having just chewed it, as she was wont to do, making it swell a bit. And her eyes were not quite so wide, nor her cheekbones so high. Her long face had always appeared equine, not elegant. Arya Horseface, she'd been called, more times than she could count. She'd certainly heard it enough to believe it was true, just as she'd always been told her manners were ill and her interests were inappropriate for a high-born lady.
"This is what everyone thinks you look like," the false-Arya answered, watching as the girl pulled back and chewed her lip.
Arya shook her head. "No, that's not me. Look at me."
"I am," the Bear replied in her voice. "I just don't think you ever have. Not really." He swiped at his face again, and became Arya as she was in that moment, face free of stains and pigments, with a long, messy braid and a worried crease between her eyes, her mouth drawn down into a frown. The Cat leaned in closer and when her brother blinked, she saw his false, silvered eyes were fringed heavily with dark lashes. She swallowed and looked away.
"You see me as better than I am, because that's who you are," she told him, her voice soft. "You love me more than I deserve. Your heart is too kind."
The Bear shook his head and wiped away Arya's face, becoming himself once again. "You do not see yourself for what you truly are," he argued. "And love is not counted out and rationed according to rank or even merit. It just is. You only question it because you are incapable of kindness to yourself."
"Kindness to myself," she scoffed under her breath. "What a notion!" Arya looked over at her brother, saying, "And anyway, that's what I have you for."
He smiled back at her, then leaned over and pressed his lips to her temple in a sweet kiss.
"Yes," he agreed after a moment. "That's what you have me for." The girl moved so that she was resting her forehead against the large assassin's neck and he wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. They listened to the echoes of the wolves howling in the distance. When they finally began to get drowsy and decided to return to their beds to get what little sleep was left to them, the Bear cautioned his sister. "Don't tell our brother that you can change your face. Not yet."
"No," she agreed. "You are the only one who knows. We should both keep it that way."
As Arya attempted to saddle her own horse and load one of her packs and her bedroll, Harwin shooed her away, insisting that he or one of the other men would do it for her instead.
"You'd have everyone believe me helpless," she groused.
Morning had come and the first rays of sunlight had pulled her from a strange dream, green and foreign, leaving her feeling unbalanced. Frogs. And wolves. And a man with a solemn face she did not recognize. After dressing herself, she'd headed straight for the stables rather than the great hall, meaning to prepare Bane for their journey instead of breaking her fast.
She'd found the stables a focus of chaotic activity, with Harwin barking orders at the orphans, Jack-be-lucky and Likely Luke checking the shoes on their horses, Smallwood men mounting and moving out of the castle gates to assemble for their march toward Riverrun, and the few Piper men following suit. For his part, the Northman seemed even grumpier than she was, and he was having none of her willfulness this morning.
"Go and have your breakfast, little lady," Harwin instructed, barely paying her heed, "and leave this work to those better suited to it."
"Better suited," the girl sputtered in disbelief.
"You heard him, m'lady," a grinning Gendry said, coming around the corner then, hefting his own pack over one shoulder while he snatched hers from her hands. "You should go and have some berry jam on toasted bread, or whatever it is you dainty ladies eat in the mornings. Leave the heavy work for the men. You'll do none of us any favors if you faint from hunger and fatigue only five leagues from here."
Faint? She'd only ever fainted once in her life, and even then, there were… circumstances.
"Ooh!" Arya seethed, balling up a fist and punching the dark knight's bicep. He merely snorted in amusement.
"Careful! You don't want to break your delicate fingers, m'lady," Gendry continued with mock-concern, reaching out to take her hand. He pretended to inspect it as a maester might inspect an injury incurred in battle. "The bones are so fragile." His expression then was steeped in a comical degree of worry and the girl glared hatefully at him. This caused him to break out into genuine laughter. Arya jerked her hand away from him, causing him to guffaw even more indecorously before he walked away from her so he could attach her pack to Bane's saddle. Harwin was cinching the saddle, checking its position and security while pretending to ignore them, but he was glowering all the while. Gendry's joviality was at odds with both Harwin's mood and her own.
She scrutinized her old friend, wrinkling her nose. "What has you so chipper this morning?"
"Well, riding out of here with friends rather than alone as a banished man with no prospects has done wonders for my outlook."
"What sort of prospects do you have now?" Arya asked. "You don't even know what you might be getting yourself into."
"Ah, but my faith in the leader of the Brotherhood is deep and abiding," the knight chuckled, placing his hand over his heart and bowing with exaggerated reverence. He lifted his head then, giving her a roguish wink before breaking out into fresh peals of laughter.
The girl groaned and stormed off, the sound of the blacksmith-knight's annoying mirth fading behind her as she did.
In the great hall, she found Lady Brienne and Ser Jaime finishing their meal.
"Good morning, Lady Arya," the knightly woman greeted, standing to bow before gaining her seat again. It was a far cry from the treatment the girl had just received in the stables.
"Stark," the golden knight said simply, nodding his head once in acknowledgement of her. "You should try the berry jam. It's very good this morning. A little tart, and not too sweet." He looked at Brienne. "Wench, pass the girl some toast." The large woman stopped chewing a moment and gave him a look.
Arya groaned at his suggestion and sat down heavily on the bench across from the two companions.
"What's troubling you?" Jaime asked as he swiped at the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. "Distressing dreams?"
The girl squinted at him, wondering if she was imagining the shrewd glint in his gaze then.
"Dismissal," Arya replied testily, "disguised as concern."
"What do you mean, my lady?" the Maid of Tarth questioned.
The girl sighed. "Only that it seems as if Harwin and some others think me incapable of the simplest tasks, like saddling my own horse." Her disgust with the idea was writ large across her face.
Jaime rolled his eyes, raising the girl's already considerable ire.
"What?" she demanded after she took stock of his expression.
"It seems to me that there are more important matters to brood over than who saddles your horse, my lady."
"I'm not upset that someone else is saddling my horse, I just don't like the implication."
Jaime cocked an eyebrow. "The implication?" he intoned. He seemed on the cusp of snorting.
"The assumption that somehow, I'm too weak to manage for myself," the girl tried to clarify. "I don't want to be thought of as…"
The knight audibly scoffed, stopping the girl from further explanation. She stared at him across the table. He took advantage of her silence to ask her a question.
"Stark, are you leading the Brotherhood, or aren't you?"
"Jaime…" Brienne warned, taking exception to the knight's tone and scolding expression.
"No, wench," the man interrupted, raising his golden hand to stop her from further objection. It was obvious that his intention when he spoke to Brienne was not to be harsh, however. Wench almost seemed to be a term of endearment. "She needs to hear this."
"Hear what?" the girl asked, glaring at Jaime. Her lack of sleep was having a significant impact on her mood just then.
"You need to hear that it's not enough to say you will do a thing. You have to actually do it."
"And what's that supposed to mean, Kingslayer?" Arya demanded.
"It means that you can only be dismissed if you allow it. If you want to lead the Brotherhood, then by the gods, lead it. And if you don't, quit whining about it."
"Whining?" the girl repeated, incredulous.
"Jaime!" Brienne coughed.
"Yes, Stark, whining. Your men won't respect you for it, and no matter how amusing I may find it, sulking in the great hall isn't a terribly effective method of leadership."
"I'm not sulking!" she fumed, realizing in that instant that sulking was exactly what she was doing. Jaime gave her a knowing look, fighting the smirk which tried to form on his lips. He was not entirely successful.
"Well, perhaps I'm mistaken," the knight said in a voice which made it very clear that he knew he was not. He raised his cup to her in a spurious salute. "My apologies, Lady Arya."
The girl stood and opened her mouth to argue with the golden knight, but stopped herself, realizing there was too much truth in his words. She knew Harwin meant no harm, he merely wished to protect her and aid her, the same as he had done for her mother. And she knew Gendry meant no disrespect, he was only treating her as an old friend, one he could tease and tweak easily, knowing her as he did.
But she was not Catelyn Stark, or Lady Stoneheart, for that matter. And she was more than some childhood friend to provoke with taunts, no matter how good-natured they were meant to be. She had taken this mantle herself, and claimed this responsibility; the responsibility of command. She could not afford to be seen as incapable and she could not allow herself to look frivolous or give an impression of being too easily wounded.
For she wasn't.
She would have the respect of her men. But not just her men. She would accept no less from the lords as well. And if deference to a girl of ten and six was beyond their capacity, well, then, she would simply have to teach them.
Arya straightened and her face rearranged itself into a look of understanding, then competence, both cool and resolved.
"Thank you, Ser Jaime," the girl said, reaching toward his plate for an uneaten strip of bacon. She plucked it up and brought it to her mouth, ignoring the knight's look of surprise and chewing thoughtfully. She began to smile as she did, and walked away, intending to make her way back to the stables.
After she'd made a stop in her chamber to retrieve a few things.
"You're thanking me?" Lannister called after her. "For what?"
"For the advice," Arya answered, looking back over her shoulder, "and for the bacon!"
The Cat met up with her brothers as she passed their chamber en route to the stables. Both men were exiting the door, bedrolls under their arms and packs slung over their shoulders. When they spied their sister, they both stopped in their tracks and the Lyseni assassin eyed her cautiously.
She was wearing her breastplate, the one Gendry had crafted for her, over her blouse and long-sleeved leather jerkin. Grey Daughter was strapped to her back, as usual, and Frost was at one hip. Needle, she had tucked into her tall boot, its hilt secured against her thigh with a strip of leather wrapped twice around and knotted. The deep grey fur of her cloak's collar was clipped at her neck and the heavy black wool of the cloak draped behind her, fluttering as she walked. Her hood hung down her back, unused. Though she had only rarely taken them from their case, her Valyrian steel throwing blades were now in her assassin's belt, worn across her chest, from right shoulder to left hip. There were no less than four hidden knives on her body, one of which was part of a jeweled, Cat-shaped ornament which held her hair back from her face.
But, even with all of the steel she could boast of carrying at that moment, her deadliest weapon was undoubtedly the scowl she wore upon her face.
It was sharp enough to cut a man to the bone.
"Are we at war?" the Bear asked gingerly as they all continued down the corridor together.
"We may be soon if anyone thinks they can treat me like a helpless figurehead," was her response.
"So, if you don't get the proper respect, you'll what?" Baynard pressed with a snort. "You'll slit all their throats?" The girl drew up short and turned to stare at the false squire.
"I might," she said, her tone menacing, "starting with yours."
"Anytime you'd like to try…" the Rat retorted, but his brother interrupted him.
"Enough of that," the false-Dornishmen reprimanded. "We've a long way to ride today. There is no time for infighting."
"Later, then," the squire said, shrugging.
"Yes," the girl murmured. "Later."
The trio continued on in silence, exiting the keep and entering the bailey yard. They crossed over it, through a sea of men and women and children bustling here and there, leading horses, loading provisions onto a wagon, or saying their tearful goodbyes. When they arrived at the stable, they found Bane ready to go. Arya's brothers set to work packing their own horses. Lord Smallwood and Lord Piper appeared then, stepping aside as groomsmen led their mounts out of the stable and awaited their masters in the yard, near the gate.
"My lady," both men greeted, nearly in unison, bowing their heads. Theomar studied the girl for a moment, examining her appearance and garb with something akin to resignation.
"I suppose it would be futile for me to try to dissuade you from this journey once again?" he asked, sounding very tired.
"Just so, my lord," the girl agreed. "I leave Acorn Hall today, either in your company or on my own."
"Given those as my only choices, of course I wish you to have the protection of my men and myself," Lord Smallwood said, "though you are outfitted as though you mean to see to your own protection."
The girl nodded in acknowledgement. "I'll not ask any man to draw his sword for me unless mine is first drawn."
The way the two Riverlords pressed their lips together, Arya could see they did not approve of her independence. Or, perhaps it was that they were still rankled by her lack of feminine delicacy. She couldn't be sure, but she was pleased to see that despite their obvious misgivings, they held their tongues and made no comment about it.
"My lady, I understand that you have your… convictions regarding your duties, and I know you have no small amount of skill with your swords, but I implore you not to invite undue danger," Theomar said.
"I promise I will not invite undue danger," the girl replied, bemused. At her look, Lord Smallwood sought to make himself understood.
"When we leave the walls of Acorn Hall behind, I would ask that you wear your hood, Lady Arya."
"My hood?" the girl puzzled. "Do you fear my ears may be in danger from the chill in the air, my lord?"
"I wish you to wear it so that you may disguise yourself, as much as you are able."
Lord Piper cleared his throat and added his agreement to the request. "Yes, my lady. This would be most wise."
Understanding dawned on her. She laughed a little, but it was not meant ungraciously. She simply did not concur with their assessment of the risk to herself.
"Apart from you and a very few of your allies, my lords, no one in the Riverlands knows me," the Cat said, "and those who might recognize Arya Stark are either dead or far away from here. Certainly, anyone who might wish me harm for the sake of my name would be hard-pressed to identify me now, if ever they could, hood or no." She shook her head as she spoke. The idea seemed preposterous to her. Nearly five years she'd been gone. She was not even sure her own siblings would recognize her after so long.
"My lady, anyone who has ever laid eyes on your aunt will know you in an instant, without a doubt," Theomar insisted. "And if they have ever had the privilege of meeting your father, they will not be long in the dark as to who you are. You have his look, his very eyes. You are undeniably a Stark, for better or for worse."
"I really don't think…" the girl began, but the master of Acorn Hall interrupted her.
"Did not Lord Blackwood know you for who you were the moment he laid eyes upon you? I was given to understand that he did. Is it not so?"
Arya clamped her mouth shut. What Lord Smallwood said was true. 'By my troth,' Tytos Blackwood had exclaimed as soon as he beheld her face, "a Stark lives!" It took the girl a moment to formulate a reply.
"I believe there are few people left living in the realm who knew my father or my aunt even half so well as Lord Blackwood did," was the weak defense she finally settled upon.
"That is not a risk worth taking," was the lord's flinty response.
It rankled the girl, to be told what to do; to have men insisting they knew how better to safeguard her than she did herself. And then there was the fact that she had always had trouble with the assertion that she bore such a strong resemblance to Lyanna, even when she was but a young girl and her father had told her so. But, with as many people as had remarked upon it since her return to Westeros, she was beginning to wonder if perhaps there was some validity to the claim. Taking in a deep breath and resisting the urge to engage in further argument with the Riverlords, Arya merely nodded once, briskly, indicating her assent.
She would wear the thrice-damned hood.
"Good, good," Lord Smallwood muttered, momentarily satisfied. "Oh, and one thing further, my lady."
The girl bit back her impatience, ruling her face and saying as neutrally as possible, "Yes, my lord?"
"I would also ask that you always ride with either myself, Ser Brynden, or Lady Brienne at your side."
"And why is that?"
"I would rest easier if I knew you were constantly in the company of one of our strongest swords."
The Cat had to stop herself from laughing then. From what she'd seen, her Lyseni brother was at least as good as Ser Brynden and Lord Smallwood with a sword (mostly owing to his ability to dual-wield, a rare skill, especially in Westeros). Lady Brienne's prowess with a blade she could not argue with, but in a fight, the girl would rely on no one so much as herself.
"My lord, I think I ought to ride with my own men," she countered reasonably. "I've only just assumed command of the Brotherhood and…"
"Yes, well your Northman can see to them, surely," Lord Piper said, clearing his throat. His tone was pleasant enough; almost indulgent. "We've already spoken with him, at any rate, and he agrees that your safety is paramount."
Arya stiffened a moment, and considered her words. She breathed in through her nose and exhaled slowly, calm as still water, strong as a bear, fierce as a wolverine. Fixing her gaze on the two Riverlords, all warmth and deference bled from her. Her courtesy remained intact, but it was a steely, cold thing as she made her mind known.
"I appreciate your concerns, my lords, and value your advice. However, you should know that I lead the Brotherhood now, and if anyone will speak for them, it will be me. No one else, no matter how loyal or how cherished a friend, will command in my stead. I will be riding with my men, and Lady Brienne, of course, who I count among my company. If you wish to ride at my side, I would welcome you, but it will be at the head of the Brotherhood and nowhere else. There is no other way."
"My lady," the master of Acorn Hall started, "I really must insist…"
"My mind is made up, Lord Smallwood," the girl said, cutting him off. "My course is set. I'm sorry if this displeases you."
She was not the least bit sorry, and her tone said as much.
The two stunned men ruled their faces admirably well, Arya thought, considering the degree of her inflexibility, something she was sure the lords had encountered little enough in their dealings with women. Of course, Theomar sniffed and worked his jaw a moment before bowing stiffly to her with a curt, "My lady," giving her insight into his true mood, no matter how he mastered his scowl.
They strode off, Smallwood and Piper, mounting their horses and trotting out of the gate as she watched, impassive. She briefly wondered if it would not be wiser for her to try to make friends of the Riverlords, but then decided that friendship was not her goal. If they wished to join in her cause, she would welcome them, but she would not be forced to join theirs. No longer would she allow them to steer or delay her. There was no profit in it.
When the girl turned to move back toward the paddock where Bane awaited her, she saw Ser Jaime leaning against the stall door, arms crossed over his chest, his golden hand hidden in the crook of his left elbow. She drew up short, wondering if he'd been there all along. When he saw that she'd spied him, he smiled a small smile and dipped his head once, touching his fingertips to his brow, a gesture of respect between a knight and the one he recognized as his commander.
It was an unmistakable sign of approval.
The Brotherhood Without Banners rode at the rear of the long column, with Smallwood men and Piper men riding and marching in a mixed company behind their lords up ahead. Lady Brienne was to Arya's left and Ser Brynden to her right. The girl thought that might satisfy the Riverlords, having one of their own welcomed among her company. She would not be bullied, but neither did she wish to spend her evening engaged in the same argument she'd had that morning.
Harwin was behind Arya, his grim look not wavering during the whole of the day's ride. It had begun as a slight frown when Arya addressed her company at the start of their journey and had progressed to a full scowl as she outlined her plan. The Brotherhood would ride with the Riverlanders to Riverrun, but from there, they would part ways and continue on to the Twins.
"What's your business at the Twins?" Ser Brynden had asked.
"Retribution," the girl replied. "My business is retribution." She looked at Harwin then, holding his gaze and repeating a phrase she'd heard him use himself. "The North remembers, ser."
Her words had made Harwin's grim look even grimmer, and Ser Brynden asked no further questions of her.
The silence suited her just fine.
It was only when the twilight was nearly upon them that Arya realized they had covered significant ground and would stop for the night only a few leagues from High Heart. As the riders dismounted and began to make camp, the forest around them came alive with the howling of wolves.
Nymeria and her pack had been awaiting them.
The girl smiled even as many of those around her shivered and looked wary. Of course, Arya never felt safer than when she was in the company of wolves. It made her want to laugh all over again that Lord Smallwood had worried her lack of a hood might endanger her. With her steel, her brothers, and Nymeria's great wolfpack to protect her, she felt there was little which could threaten her in this land, whether she remained unknown or not.
Still, she had worn the hood to appease Theomar. She'd defied his wishes enough for one day, she felt, and if covering her head could help keep the peace, she supposed it was a little enough sacrifice that she could bear it graciously.
And, she had to admit, it had kept her ears exceptionally warm.
The Brotherhood made a ring of their tents and bedrolls, building a great fire in the middle, and began to prepare a supper from their packed provisions. After the company had eaten, the men bantered and japed with each other and their leader, the mood cheerful and relaxed. Wineskins were passed around and after a time, weary men began to drift away, finding their beds for the night. The fire still roared, owing to Likely Luke throwing a large, dry log on it before he left the group to share perimeter patrol duties with one of Lord Piper's men for the first watch.
Thoros sat quietly before the fire, staring intently into the flames, unmoving. Arya looked around her, and finding that they were now alone in the small ring, she studied the Myrish man's expression.
He'd seen Jon in his flames before. Did he see him now?
The girl rose slowly, dusting off the seat of her breeches as she continued to watch Thoros out of the corner of her eye. His gaze remained fixed, unfocused, directed toward the fire. He did not seem to notice Arya at all. Leaving her spot across the circle from the priest and joining him, she squatted next to him and followed his gaze to where it rested on the hot tongues of yellow and orange. For a few moments, all that could be heard was the sound of their breathing, the popping of embers, and the distant howling of wolves punctuating the night.
After a while, she quietly asked, "What do you see?"
"Only the fire," the priest sighed, shrugging. "The lord hasn't seen fit to show me anything yet."
Arya narrowed her eyes, staring harder into the flames, leaning forward slightly. Her toes began to tingle and so she sat on the ground, crossing her legs and placing her elbows on her knees, forming a point with her joined hands upon which she could rest her chin. They sat side by side, the red priest and the exiled assassin, gazing straight ahead, not speaking. Finally, Thoros turned away from the fire and began to regard Arya instead.
"And what do you see, girl?" he asked in low tones, his voice almost hoarse.
Arya's face was blank and she swayed slightly, her lips parting slowly. A moment later, she closed her mouth and swallowed, then turned toward her companion.
"Ghosts," she said, "and salt." And then she stood, walking away and entering her tent, leaving Thoros to ponder her meaning.
It wasn't until the night had been quiet and still for some time and the fire had burned low that Arya emerged again, boots on, sword at her hip. She was surprised to find Ser Gendry standing watch outside.
"What are you doing?" the girl hissed, standing straight and placing her hands on her hips.
The dark knight answered her simply. "Taking the first watch."
"The first watch over my tent?"
"No, over you."
"Who decided I needed watching?" she demanded.
"Well, Ser Jaime was the one who organized the watches, but everyone thought…"
"Everyone?"
"Oh, come on, you can't really be angry about it."
She was about to inform the blacksmith that she damn well could be angry if she chose when he reminded her that she'd agreed to the guards, essentially.
"You told Ser Jaime that he would be included in your protection detail."
"Well, this isn't what I meant," she sputtered. "I meant if I required such a detail, I would consult him. He has experience in these matters, after all, and…"
"He decided you required it, and all the lords agreed. And not that you care, but so did I."
Arya huffed and crossed her arms over her chest, looking off toward her right. It was then she saw the Bear, sitting on a fallen log outside his tent, sharpening his sword. He did not make eye contact with her, but he was grinning as widely as she'd ever seen, his face lit by the dying fire which still glowed in the center of their tent ring. His great body shook with silent laughter. The girl considered walking over to him and kicking him in the gut, but decided not to risk disturbing the camp with a tussle. As far as she could tell, aside from the two perimeter guards, only she, her Lyseni brother, and Gendry were awake. She wished to keep it that way.
Still looking at the Bear, the girl murmured a question to the dark knight towering over her.
"Gendry, can I trust you?"
They secured their horses in a stand of cottonwoods at the bottom of the steep hill, not wishing to lame one of the beasts in the ascent. Arya smiled to see Nymeria sitting on her haunches, waiting for her when she arrived. The horses were less pleased to see the direwolf, but the girl was able to calm them in a matter of seconds, slipping into their heads the idea that they had nothing to fear.
"Clever girl," she cooed as she reached up and scratched at the thick fur of Nymeria's head. "How did you know I was coming?"
"I think she knows you even better than you know yourself," Gendry commented, and Arya cut her eyes at him, still irritated that he'd insisted on coming along.
"Gendry, can I trust you?" she'd asked in the camp.
"Of course," the knight had answered. "With your life, just as I'd trust you with mine." The sincerity in his voice then had both shamed and angered her somehow. She pushed the feeling aside, not wishing to dissect it in that moment.
"I'm leaving, but I'll be back. Just don't tell anyone that I've gone."
He hadn't asked where she was going, or why, but he'd told her that if she wanted to keep him from sounding the alarm, she'd have to take him with her.
"You've no business where I'm going," she insisted.
"Your business is your own. My business is you."
"Do you really think I need you to watch over me like a nursemaid?"
The blacksmith-knight did not allow her sneering tone to put him off. He cocked his head, answering, "Needed or not, you have me. It's my watch."
Finally, in the name of haste, she'd agreed to allow him to ride with her, but it had not made her happy.
"Come on," the girl said. "We have a good climb ahead."
They made their approach to the circle of weirwood stumps mostly in silence. They could see by the dancing shadows of trees around their feet that a great fire blazed at the top of the hill.
"She's here," Arya breathed. Gendry did not have to ask who the girl meant.
With every step they took, Arya felt stranger and stranger. So many thoughts flickered through her mind, she had trouble sorting them all. They came unbidden and left just as quickly; images, memories, words, and deeds. Her father's face, sober and still as he perched atop his tomb, and Jaqen's, behind the bars of a wheeled prison as a fire blazed all around him. Doors of ebony and weirwood. A coin in her hand, and in the Kindly Man's as well. Jon Snow gifting her Needle. Her mother kissing her cheek. Nymeria as little more than a wolf pup, yelping as a stone struck her snout.
Her very bones trembled and she felt as though she were a bell that had been struck, reverberating long after the clapper had stilled and the sound had died out.
Arya stopped between two weirwood stumps, staring at the bonfire before her. When a voice called to her from the other side of it, it seemed almost as though the fire itself had spoken.
"You've no mercy in you, for you will not leave me in peace."
The ghost of High Heart rounded the blaze, approaching the girl. Her wolf and her friend stayed behind her, silent and still.
"I was drawn here," the girl replied, and the witch nodded gravely, but turned her face this way and that, speaking as though she were addressing the weirwood stumps.
"I have served you for more years than I can recall anymore. I have been faithful. Will you not let me have my rest now?" The old woods witch turned back to face Arya, her expression declaring her displeasure. "I know not why they favor you, girl, when they have no pity for me at all."
"Please," Arya said, "I didn't come to trouble you…"
"But trouble me, you do."
"How? What have I done?"
"You bring salt with you, and blood. Always blood. You reek of it. It's perfume to your death god, but it's putrescent to me."
"I crossed the Narrow Sea nearly three months past," the girl replied. "How is it you still smell the salt?"
"Is that truly what you wish to know?" the witch rasped.
Arya shook her head, then stared hard into the woman's red eyes. "Do you know if I shall cross it again?"
She had a debt to pay on the other side of the Narrow Sea.
"Oh, yes. Yes, you will, but not for a long while yet. First, you'll cross land and swamp, mountain and plain. You'll trudge over icy lakes and barrows too numerous for counting. All that you'll do first, and much and more, crossing over into death itself and back before you ever lay eyes on the sea again."
The girl gave a short, humorless laugh. "Death and back? I've already done that."
"That was not your journey to take!" the old crone hissed. Then, her anger seemed to leave her, and she changed course. She sounded almost wistful when she next spoke. "I have seen the seas, all of them, many times, but it has been so very long, and the memory fades. Come child, and let me kiss you so that I may taste the sea's spray on you and remember."
Arya hesitated, unsure, but the woman was fast, uncommonly so, and was upon her in an instant, grasping the girl's two hands in her own. The witch lowered her face, pressing her lips to Arya's palm. She lingered but a moment and then drew back, coughing and spitting.
"Salt!" she screamed, sending foamy spittle into the night air as she did. "So much! Too much! And blood! More blood than one girl should be able to account for!"
The girl jerked her hands out of the witch's grasp and stumbled back a few steps, aghast. Gendry was there, and he caught her, steadying her, his fingers wrapping around her arms. She felt him behind her, solid, pressing himself into her back, and breathed deep, trying to ease the pounding of her heart. The old woman continued to spit and hack as if she were choking on the blood and salt she was raving about.
After a few moments, the woods witch stopped her coughing and stood as straight as her old spine could make her, pointing a crooked finger at Arya as she approached. Gendry's grip on the girl's arms tightened.
"But you're not one girl, are you, child?" It sounded like an accusation. "No, not one, but many. A thousand! More! Low born and high, man and beast, all with hands that do violence and teeth that tear apart flesh, you serve your bloodthirsty god, and you do it with gifts you were given by still others."
"Have care how you speak to her," the dark knight commanded, but the witch merely smirked.
"Quiet, boy, you understand nothing," the woman said, her papery voice dripping with derision.
"I didn't ask for this," the girl seethed. "I didn't ask for any of it!"
"But you did," the witch accused. "And you do. Every night."
The girl looked confused. The old woman grinned.
"Ser Ilyn, Ser Meryn, Queen Cersei," the crone croaked.
"Enough!" Arya barked.
"Why did you come, child? What do you want from me? Have you come so that I may tell you my dream?"
"No," the girl said bitterly. "Your dreams have only brought me sorrow and pain. They're nothing more than riddles, solved too late."
"They're warnings, for those with ears to hear. Am I at fault for your poor understanding?"
"My mother died, when she might've been saved," Arya cried. "You let that happen!"
"So that's why you've come," the crone laughed. "To condemn me. Will you also sentence me and then swing the sword?"
Hearing her father's words twisted in the ghost's mouth enraged the girl. She let out a guttural scream and Nymeria began to growl, low and dangerous, deep in her throat. The old woman laughed harder.
"Arya," Gendry warned softly, for the red of the witch's eyes seemed to blaze brighter then.
"And how will you be judged, girl?" the woman sneered. "Wasn't it at your hand that she died again? And the world is better for it."
That was too much for the girl. She tore away from Gendry and rushed at the crone, knocking her to the ground and falling after her. They grappled in the dirt, so close to the fire that Arya's cheeks burned with the heat. With a surprising strength, the witch rolled the girl so that she was flat on her back. Bony, bent fingers pinned Arya's shoulders to the ground and the crone stared deep into her eyes, fixing the girl with her red gaze.
"You've been given many gifts, aye, but I have a few of my own," the old woman whispered. "You may not wish to know my dreams, but I know yours, and they are the same."
Arya was breathing heavily, trying to push the woman off of her, and then Gendry was there, pulling at the witch's shoulders, picking her up as if she weighed nothing. Still, the girl had the feeling that he could only do it because the woman allowed him to. The old woman had felt like a boulder weighting the girl's chest before he had moved her, and Arya had struggled to breathe. She pushed up on her elbows, glaring at the witch but not rising from the ground. She felt defeated.
"Tell me mine, then," Arya finally said. Her strange dream from the night before niggled at her.
"Are you sure you want to hear?" the woman asked in her rasping voice.
Arya nodded curtly, but as the ghost spoke, she was less sure than she appeared.
"You walk a narrow path, and how the frogs croak as you pass, with ravens circling overhead and wolves pacing at your back."
"What about the man?" the girl asked.
"The man who stands before you?" The witch looked thoughtful. "He swallows the frogs whole."
"Yes," Arya said, nodding.
"He is a childless father, as you are a fatherless child. He will deliver you to the tomb."
"Is that a warning? Do you mean he's a threat to me? That he means to kill me?" The girl's frustration was apparent. "Who is he?"
The ghost smiled. "He will love you, for your father's sake. He does already, gods help him, for he sees you green and crowned."
"So, he's not a threat…" the girl surmised, frowning. As usual, the ghost of High Heart was making little sense, yet she knew the words would prove to be true, somehow.
"He'll steal from you that which you hold most dear."
The girl stared up at the night sky and then squeezed her eyes shut tight. Betrayal. She was certain that was what the ghost meant. She stood then, and turned her back on the woods witch.
"M'lady," Gendry called, "we should go."
"Not yet, ser knight," the old woman implored, "for I've not told you your dream."
"I don't wish to hear anything you have to say," the blacksmith said firmly, approaching the woman and stopping a mere foot from where she stood.
"No? Not even as your lady broods over betrayal where there's none to be had?"
Arya turned, her eyes narrowing as she stared at the witch and the dark knight. The crone continued in her scratchy voice as the girl took a step toward them, wondering how the woman had known her thoughts.
"When all the while, the one who will betray her stands before her now."
Unclear-Kodaline