Chapter Twenty-six: Home

Arya sat on the sofa, her legs curled up under her. She was reading a mag. One of Sansa's, and thus, not very interesting. Filled with gossip about people on the telly, people in the news: people who weren't important. The pics were standard paparazzi fare. Women with orangey-tans, raccoon eyes and shimmering pink lips accompanied by stubbled men wearing dark glasses. Entourages of small dogs clad in Burberry, small children with appalling names, adoring fans. No, not very interesting.

Jaqen's head was propped on the opposite arm of the sofa, his toes burrowing under the meat of her thigh. He was wearing maroon plaid pyjama bottoms and a thin white t-shirt.

Absently flipping the pages of the mag, she noticed that the plaid flannel clashed with his hair.

'You can't be comfortable like that,' she said to him, though it was her own comfort she thought of. He quickly reversed himself so that his head was in her lap. She began to stroke his hair. Soft. So soft. He sighed with pleasure.

'How did this happen?' she asked as she traced the contours of silvery white against the red. She could feel a roughness to his scalp where the hair was white.

'It's such a long story,' he said, turning onto his left side, his nose pressing against her, and presenting her with the hair that was that lovely dark red, unbroken by white. She recognised the signal: he didn't want to talk more about it, so she resumed her petting. He nuzzled closer to her, raising her shirt and kissing her hip.

'Ahhh,' she moaned. Really more of a cry.

'Should I not do that, lovely girl?' he asked, disingenuously, his breath hot against her skin.

He began to whine, low in his throat.

Arya woke quickly, completely disoriented. Where am I? she thought, before the dark settled into familiar shapes and shadows. She was in her room, at home. Winterfell.

Nymeria looked at Arya rather balefully, raising her head from where it had nested on Arya's thigh.

She scratched the dog's ears a trifle guiltily, laughing off her dream. The soft light behind her curtains told her it was near morning, so she rose and stole downstairs, Nymeria padding along behind her.

As birthday mornings go, it was a good one. Arya donned a jumper over her pyjamas, put on her boots, and headed out, past the garden gate and up the hill, rucksack slung over her shoulder. Nymeria rocketed past her, excited to finally be out with her mistress. To the east, the sun sent out streamers of red and gold, pulling itself up and bathing Arya and the moor in its soft yellow light.

They had arrived late the night before, too late to see anything. Robb had picked them up from Newcastle and they had woven their way on country roads familiar and safe even in darkness. Then, a turn to the right and slow passage under the narrow gate next to the lodge brought them home.

A home which Arya was now surveying. The moor on which she was stood spread to the north of the house. Even further beyond the moor's gentle hills lay Arya's favourite parts of the property: the forest, with the river Eythe winding through it, and the fell, rising up. To the east, acres and acres laid to miscanthus, barley, and probably some other things that Robb and her mother had planned. To the west, the kitchen garden, walled as in the mediaeval tradition, the plants of which probably were the descendants of the first plants that populated the selfsame garden a thousand years ago. Beyond that lay outbuildings and stables, a cluster of which retained their intended purposes: bakery, brewery and buttery, and dairy. Others had been refashioned into holiday lets. Further, pastures and paddocks for sheep and cattle. They still retained horses, and everyone in the family rode.

The house itself. Stone-built. Ancient. A tower remaining beside the main portion of the house, a tower half-destroyed six hundred years ago or so. More, but nothing that hadn't been reduced to rubble an aeon ago. What was left was substantial, imposing, stark like the Starks. And Arya would have given it all away- every last acre of it-to barter for her father's life. Alas, 'twas not to be, and although he was gone, this legacy of his remained. And Arya was both sorrowful and grateful. She shook her head, ruefully and trudged further up the hill. I thought the negotiation stage was over. Guess not. She withdrew Needle from her bag. Using some moss-covered boulders as a tripod, she focused Needle on some cranesbill, a shock of red against the loden of the moor. Not working. Wrong lens. She made a sound, a small grunt of displeasure as she discovered her absentmindedness, and opened her pack for the correct lens. As she withdrew it, she glimpsed the envelope half-hidden in the interior. She changed lenses, then moved to open the envelope.

A prickly feeling on her neck, or perhaps a stray sound, gave her pause. Nymeria grew watchful. She was not alone here after all. She put the envelope back in her rucksack. A speck on the top of the hillside, a puff of breath. She changed lenses again. As he drew nearer, she saw him. Gendry. Click. Running down the hill, shirtless despite the morning's chill. Click. He was gorgeous as he ran, making it seem like no effort at all. Click. She lowered the camera, waved at him and he ran towards her.

'Glorious, innit?' she asked, once he had reached her. He sat on the boulder, inhaling great lungfuls of air, his ribs expanding and contracting in an almost mesmerising rhythm. Steam rose from his body.

'Yeah. Such a beautiful morning. I had to get out and get up that hill.'

'The hills call to me, too,' she said, smiling.

'There's just something about this place. I remember it vividly from when I was younger.' He smiled at her, wiped his face with his shirt, and got up.

'Want to keep moving,' he said. His breathing had slowed to almost normal, and gooseflesh pebbled his skin. He donned the shirt in one fluid motion, and Arya felt a brief something at that.

'Shall we go back?' she asked. The sanctity of aloneness had been disrupted. The cranesbill pocked the hillside. There would be other opportunities.

He nodded his assent, and they wound their way back to the house.

By the time they reached the house, everyone was up. Arya was jostled by her youngest brothers, Bran in his wheelchair trying to run over her toes and Rickon clinging to her legs. Robb kissed her said her haircut suited her, though her mother thought it was horrific.

'What,' Catelyn began, 'have you done to your hair?' tacking on a 'happy birthday, child,' belatedly.

Much to Arya's surprise, it was Sansa that leapt to her defense. 'Mum, it looks good on her. Makes her look older. More sophisticated.'

Arya rolled her eyes at that. Sansa sneered at her, happening to see her.

And then it was time to eat. And the thrum of a large family: all the laughter and joy and chatter and occasional screeching amidst the soundscape of breakfast was almost enough for Arya to forget the empty seat at the table. Almost.

She was alone in the crowd, seemingly the only one who wasn't brimming over with happiness. Aching. Her mother alternated between fussing over Sansa and Bran. Gendry and Robb were arguing spiritedly over some trivial point of historical fact, which neither of them had any clue about. Rickon had drawn a pair of lips on the kitchen table, using someone's lipstick, probably Sansa's, and had kissed it repeatedly until his lips were rosy pink. Had she looked a bit further down the table, she would have observed that Jon was drinking his tea and watching her, in silence.

Her pack was beneath her feet, and she reached into it, fingers searching for paper. She grasped the envelope and brought it to her lap, opening it. The object was wrapped in tissue. Surreptitiously, she unfolded the tissue. Glancing down, she saw it. A thin round of glass, banded in metal. And a note.

Lovely girl...

This might not look like much, but it makes everything better. For you and your little Leica.
Enjoy your birthday. Since I can't be there, won't you please take some pictures for me?

J

Both Sansa's love and mine give us rings of precious metal. But mine's a lot more useful, she reflected wryly.

Love, what love? He's in Africa, probably getting it on with Sonja Yoren. Bitterness quirked her lips down. What did you expect?

She lifted the filter, for that's what it was, out of her lap for closer inspection. Not normal, she thought, puzzled. It was made of something different. What kind of filter is it? Naturally, Jaqen wouldn't have told her.

Playful...

She placed the filter on the table, on top of its tissue. The note went back into her pack. Jon watched her still.

In the evening of Arya's seventeenth birthday, Jaqen H'ghar, Jean-Paul Biter, and Sonja Yoren were sat on the terrace of the Terrou-Bi, planning their strategy to move into Mali whilst drinking rather a lot of mediocre red wine. Jean-Paul excused himself early, since he had not fully recovered from his night in the clink. Jaqen and Sonja finalised the group's plans for the morning and headed up to their rooms.

In the elevator, she pressed herself against him, and for the first time ever, he was not aroused by her.

Her blonde, finely arched eyebrow raised itself.

'No?'

'No,' he said, with the firmness of finality.

'Someone new?' she asked. The elevator dinged. His floor.

'Not yet,' he said, and grinned. He hugged her with both the intent and familiarity of a brother, and strode, a little shakily, out the door, waving his hand behind him, goofily, from waist-level.

Sonja Yoren was bemused. While she wasn't used to anyone saying no to her, such were her charms, she didn't hold it against him. Their relationship was longstanding, and consisted of very real affection, loyalty, and occasional need, but not love. What she was most curious about was who the new woman was, for she was sure there had to be one.

Jaqen woke just before midnight, fully clothed and lying diagonally on the bed due to a combination of fatigue, not much to eat, and rather bad alcohol. He snorted, thinking of Yoren's sudden lack of appeal. What was tall, golden, and blonde, should be small, pale, and dark-haired. A mere girl. Happy birthday, sweet girl, he thought.

Had he been more coherent, he would have gotten his mind off his rather impossible situation. However, as it stood, his body was alive with need, and sleep found him only a few hours before his hangover did.

A/N: Thank you for persisting in reading, reviewing, and reminding me. I fell ill last summer and recovery took quite some time. I'm back, and hope to be able to keep going on a regular basis with this. Your support has meant the world to me, and I hope you continue to enjoy this story. ~CK