*Arya*

Arya sat next to the fireplace, Eragon looking at the fire. A long pipe stuck from his lips, and he puffed on whatever he was smoking. Arya had never seen this before, and she watched with amazement as small gleams of fire burned in a small cup at the end of the pipe, and smoke rose from the top and out of his lips as he exhaled.

"One of many tasty habits I picked up from my adventures," he said, as he glanced sideways and saw Arya raptly looking at the pipe. He held it out so she could look, but the way he held it signified that he was not about to let it out of his fingers. "This is a smoking pipe. They grow plants in Asshai that when lit can make the best fragrances. Yet, I caution you. If you ever go there and try it, it has an addicting quality. I fear that the addiction caught hold of me as well. To a degree, I need a smoke every three days or I become very irritable."

"As well as any time he's hungry, or we haven't had sex in over a week, or when someone doesn't listen to his tales of…." The older Arya began spouting off in rapid succession.

"Silence woman!" Eragon growled, turning a glare at his lady-wife. "Can't you see I am talking to the little lady?"

The older Arya crossed her arms and raised her chin. She sat in a chair that was carved to resemble a flower. The younger Arya had not seen chairs carved in that fashion, yet it looked fascinating. Everything in the home of the Sons of Morzan (as they called themselves) was utterly fascinating. Everything was carved with exquisite detail, tapestries ran along the upper edges of the wall, detailing scenes of the past, such as plains that dried up over time to the sun. Dragon scales carpeted the floor, hard and rough, but done in a pattern that made the floor look like a rainbow.

"So you have seen dragons?" Arya asked, looking down at the floor. "I remember your tales of finding that dragon called Saphira."

"How long ago was that?" Eragon asked, tapping the stem of the pipe to his chin.

"I don't know," Arya shrugged her shoulders. "I don't remember you saying anything about when you…."

"No, you silly girl," the Hedge Knight said with a shake of his head. "I mean, how long ago was it I visited you in Winterfell?"

She thought back. It had been what, seven-eight years? It was before Rickon was born, that was certain.

"I think my mother was pregnant with Rickon at the time," she replied, "So perhaps eleven years ago."

"Eleven years," Eragon shook his head. "You are what, sixteen, seventeen years? You must have a very good memory to remember that. You say you've been in Braavos for the past two years roughly, and you haven't been in Winterfell before your father lost his head?"

"That's right," Arya replied. She wondered what was so intriguing about that information.

"Let me ask you a question," Eragon asked, leaning back in his chair. "You have asked me many since last night."

"Alright," she nodded her head.

"What are you doing here?"

"What?"

"Why haven't you gone home?" the Hedge Knight asked, giving her a piercing gaze. "You haven't been home in what, seven years? What are you afraid of?"

Arya felt heat rising to her ears. "I'm not afraid," she said flatly.

"Truly?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "Are you truly not afraid?"

Arya scoffed at the very idea. "Of course not," she said haughtily, "Why should I?"

"Because," he said, leaning forward, keeping her eyes locked in the intensity of his gaze. "You are different. You are not the person you once were when you left. You have become a killer and a murderer. Now, now, don't try arguing that point with me. I have traveled all over the world, and I have seen plenty of people who both have, and haven't killed. You have killed your fair share of people. Many were murdered, because they didn't have a chance to fight back. I can also tell a murderer as well, mi'lady."

"I'm not a murderer," she shook her head angrily. "I am a Faceless Man now. I dispense justice. You want to know why I haven't gone home? Because I saw my father's head cut off his head. I saw my brother's head replaced with the head of his direwolf and the Frays mocked his corpse. I won't go home, because I can't. It's my duty as a Faceless Man to defend the family."

A snort came from behind her. She turned to see Murtagh enter the room, carrying a cup of something that was steaming. He bore a Valyrian steel sword at his hip, something Arya had noticed the night beforehand. He never let his sword out of his sight.

"If you really think the Faceless Men were about defending the honor of noble houses and dispensing justice," he shook his head, "then clearly you either are a liar or weren't paying attention."

"What's that suppose to mean?" she asked, crossing her arms defensively.

"The Faceless Men are assassins first and foremost," Murtagh waved his hand. "You pay them enough, they will kill anyone. I had a friend who was a healer. She was tending her garden when a Faceless Man came up behind her and strangled her with rope. I was too slow to save her. She was a healer, who had done nothing but helped. You know her crime? She helped the wrong lord's son who had become ill."

"There is a list of people," Arya said slowly, "A list of people I have to kill. If I don't kill them, my family will never be safe."

"You mean a list of people that have wronged you," the older Arya said. "I had such a list. My father was killed before I was born and my mother was raped and killed as well. The list was long of people who had wronged me. It's gone now."

"You killed everyone on it?" the younger one said, looking over at the woman who shared her name. She certainly didn't look like the type who had killed anyone. Arya also knew how to spot lies and tell a man's disposition. Ironically, it was far easier for her to tell the disposition of other women. Maybe it was because she was a woman as well.

"No," she shook her head, "I forgave them. Not to their face, but I realized that nothing I did would change the past."

"Why?" the young Arya threw up her hands in the air, "Why would you forgive them?"

"Valar Morghulis," she said, running a hand through her raven black hair. "I came to realize that I didn't need to kill everyone. Death comes for us all."

Young Arya jumped to her feet and paced away to the window, resting her hand on the sill. Looking out, she saw the division of light and shadow as the mountain cut the light from the sun in half. She looked out, shaking her head.

"You would have me abandon my quest for vengeance?" she asked, not turning back to them. "You would have me leave my family's killers roam free. I cannot….will not. I promised myself, by the bones of my father, mother and brother that my family would be avenged. I cannot break that promise now."

There was silence as the weight of her words hung in the air. Arya heard after a few long seconds one of the chairs creak as the one who had been sitting rose to their feet. She identified it was probably Eragon, as the feet of men were generally those of a heavier weight than women. She felt his presence stop behind her, seeming to hover.

"We tell you to do nothing, good or bad," he corrected. "Yet, we give you our advice. The reason you came here, had nothing to do with a quest for vengeance. It was about reconnecting to your past."

She scrunched up her face, the very idea preposterous. This had nothing to do with that. She had known of a man who had accomplished his revenge upon all those who had dared wrong him. It was that reason she had come.

"Would you have our counsel?" the Hedge Knight asked.

She grunted, shrugging her shoulder. Advice had never hurt anyone. It was using that advice that was good or ill. It did nothing just to listen.

"Time in this life is too short to be always pursuing vengeance against every fucker whose ever wronged us," he told her. "Me and my brother spent years in Essos, hunting down a single man. Did we savor the moment of the kill? Absolutely. Yet we realized at the end, that when we came home, instead of being hailed as heroes, no one seemed to recognize us. We were strangers to our own kind. Do not become a stranger to your family, Arya. Life is too precious for that."

Arya curled her hand into a fist. Everything he said was doing something funny to her. He must have been using sorcery or something, because she was starting to feel as if she were missing something in her life.

"Do you remember the name of a man named Brom?" Eragon asked.

"Yes," she nodded her head. "He was the storyteller that taught you magic."

"Do you remember how I said he died?"

Arya shook her head. "I assume it was protecting you," she guessed. She still did not look away from the window, instead focusing on the side of the mountains that rose not far from where they stood.

Eragon snorted, "No, the damned fool literally exploded himself with his own spell."

Arya turned to him, her eyes wide. "What?" she asked surprised. "It wasn't something noble? Not a death by a thousand strokes? It was an….accident?"

"Yes," he shook his head. "He tried showing me a simple spell. I think he might have mispronounced something. Either way, it took me three days to completely wash my body of him. I never learned magic. Oh, he tried teaching me, but teaching magic and learning magic are completely different things. His own gifts destroyed him."

Arya leaned back against the window, feeling the cold glass on the back of her head. Eragon looked down on her, and she could feel both understanding and pity from him. She didn't technically want either. She wanted the strength to carry out her mission.

Yet, for all his claims of not knowing magic, she was finding her resolve to continue south suddenly beginning to come under scrutiny. May the God of Death curse him for this!"

"If you were indeed trained by the Faceless Men than you have a mighty gift," Eragon said, putting a hand on her shoulder. "It is a gift meant to help your family and you, this is true. Don't let it be the death of you, Arya Stark."

Old Barney the Lizard stepped out of the gatehouse as Arya approached the open gate. Now that she could get a good look at him, she could see the man was grey and with most of his hair gone. He had a kindly face, with extra skin hanging from his face.

"Well lass," he said, "How did you enjoy it?"

"Enjoy what?" she asked.

"The Plump Duck of course!" Barney exclaimed. "Did Bradley give you a hard time? He's one that likes them young, begging your pardon of course. His wife is barely half his age, a scandal if there ever was one here in Palisade Village."

"A little," she admitted, "But it was all in good sport."

Barney bobbed his head up and down. "Aye, that it is," he said. "Don't be too much of a stranger now. Anyone is welcome and you are still young enough that you would make someone a very nice wife."

Arya gave an amused smile. "I'm not sure anyone would like what I could give them," she said, being absolutely truthful.

"Got teeth in your clam do you?" he jested, slapping his calves at his own joke. "Nay, but seriously, if you ever come back, we will be more than welcoming, especially if you decide to stay."

Arya nodded, feeling strangely a sense of gratitude for this ornery, crude man. "I will keep it in mind," and she found that she actually meant it. With a cluck to her horse, they started off down the path, leaving Palisade Village behind.

The two days that it took to reach the King's Road left her much time to think and ponder on the words of Eragon, Murtagh and their wives. The dark-skinned woman had said much over the supper-table, but she was very busy with the village and had stayed little when it wasn't dark outside. They had…..well….given her much to think about.

She wanted nothing more than to claim the vengeance that was rightfully that of the Wolf. With the amount of faces she had so far collected, she could have gutted all of King's Landing in a fortnight. Her arms might have been extremely tired at the end, yet it could be done. It would have served all of them right.

Arya had never really thought about home, not too much in the past year. There had been times when she had yearned to return to Westeros. Yet her she was now. Doing only what needed to be done.

She had finally learned what Jaqen H'ghar had meant that she was "No One". She was not so firmly established in one identity that she couldn't kill anyone or be anyone. She was No One, because there was no limits of what she could do or be. She could be anyone, Hells, she could not even be here. She was not attached to any single thing, more so than the rest and could easily get rid of anything that proved to be more burden than gift.

Yet…

The King Road appeared before her nearing the end of the second day. A light snowfall had blanketed the earth with a soft cover of snow. She was nearing the continuation of her journey. Reaching the Road with her horse, she came to a stop. Suddenly, she felt extremely torn.

In one direction lay King's Landing. The Queen and her brother. They were high on her list. The Mountain might be there as well. She could cross off three of the big names of her list. After that, there was the Brotherhood without Banners and the Red Witch, but with the Queen's face, she could rule over the Seven Kingdoms and no one would notice the difference.

Yet in the other direction lay Winterfell. Family that she had not seen in years. Jon, who ruled as King of the North. Little Rickon, she wanted to see her little brother so badly and see how he had grown. Bran, hopefully he wasn't doing poorly. She knew a thing about being crippled, and she wanted to see how her feelings of being blind went with his own experiences.

Her gloves gripped the reins and she closed her eyes, indecision tearing into her. What was more important to her? What did Arya Stark truly desire?

What did No One want?