Well, you look like yourself but you're somebody else, only…

it ain't on the surface

The Twins were alive with constant, frenzied activity. Between the meetings of the royal council, audiences with captains and lords, and Arya's own private discussions with Hoster Blackwood regarding matters more esoteric, plans for the coronation were also taking shape and ravens flew at all hours. Northern houses sent pledges of support and offers of hospitality during the queen's planned journey to Winterfell, but none could vow to attend the ceremony as the distance would not allow even the nearest respondent to arrive by the date set. Still, the Riverlords endeavored to arrange a most lavish affair despite their queen's protestations. Jason Mallister even wrote to offer his sovereign four ships to bear her northward when she chose to go.

"Four?" the girl queried her uncle, who had read the Lord of Seaguard's raven scroll aloud at a council meeting. "But I'm only one person."

"A show of strength, your grace. Four will be less likely to be attacked on the seas than a single vessel," the Blackfish explained.

"I thought the Iron Fleet had been dispatched long ago, scattered between the Reach and Essos."

"The fleet, yes, but rogue reavers still harass the coastline," Ser Patrek explained. "My father deals with them once or twice each moon's turn."

"Well, no matter. I'm going overland."

"But, your grace, that journey will be arduous, and perilous, with the snows falling," Lord Blackwood objected.

"Surely you recall that I've seen falling snow before, my lord," the queen said with a small laugh. What she did not say was that she'd been directed away from a sea route by her brother (with whom she'd spoken in a dream that was more than a dream).

You mustgo north, and you must go by land, no matter how sensible the sea may seem.

She did not think the lords would appreciate such reasoning, though, and kept it to herself.

"We know not what we will find on the road," Lord Blackwood continued. It was then Arya recalled something else Bran had told her.

Allies await you along your journey.

The girl mulled it over. Perhaps this was something they would understand, the opportunity to see the land, and be seen in it, and to meet with friends and strengthen allegiances along the way. Before she could explain the rationale, however, the Greatjon spoke out, reflecting her very intention, though perhaps not in the way she would have chosen.

For as plainspoken, forthright, and prickly as the queen could be at times, she understood when a certain gentleness of tone or diplomacy of expression might be required. This was not a skill Lord Umber shared.

Or, at least, it was not one he ever endeavored to employ.

"You lot can cower behind these walls if it please you, and hide yourselves from the falling snows," the large Northman spat, "or you can sail away on ships wherever you may wish to go. Leave it to the men of the North to accomplish this task. My queen wants her home, and she wants to travel there overland. And so, she shall. Along the way, the people will see their queen riding, unafraid, from the Neck to the Barrowlands to Wintertown. They'll rejoice that a Stark is once again in the North and pledge themselves to this new kingdom, for her sake."

Arya mastered her face, suppressing the smirk that tried to shape her mouth. She drew in a breath and tamped down the mirth in her voice before speaking.

"Ser Patrek, please thank your father for his generous offer. We may yet have need of his ships, but not for this journey. Lord Umber's point is valid. Taking stock of the kingdom and solidifying loyalties as we go is well worth any risk the road poses."

"Your grace, there are men who will be glad to accomplish these things in your stead," Clement Piper pointed out. "There is no need to risk your royal person in this way when…"

"Lord Piper," the girl interrupted, "when, during our acquaintance, have you known me to allow others to do my work for me?"

"Your desire to take personal responsibility for these details is an admirable quality, your grace, but one which may pose unnecessary danger," the Blackfish stated with all the authority his experience and his status as a trusted advisor and family member afforded him. Arya was both irritated and softened by it; irritated to be directed in a matter where she felt she required no advisement, and softened that her uncle cared enough for her well-being to risk her ire in order to urge her toward caution (however unnecessarily). She paused a moment, chewing her bottom lip thoughtfully. Her grey eyes lifted to his Tully blue ones, and she spoke softly.

"Uncle, when Robb rode into battle with his men, how did you advise him? Was it his safety you discussed, or tactical plans?"

The Blackfish straightened at that, his eyes narrowing slightly as he regarded her. She could feel his conflict at her words. His regard for her was unquestioned, but still, he warred with the idea that she required protection simply because she was a woman. To his credit, he did not pronounce the words, recognizing the hypocrisy in them after all he had seen the girl accomplish. Brynden Tully was a highborn man of Westeros, a land steeped in the belief that women were weak, or precious, or both, but he was also a pragmatist who understood strength and strategy.

"Your point is fair," her uncle admitted, "but you must also remember that King Robb had heirs aplenty at that time. If he'd fallen in battle, he had four true-born siblings who might've inherited his crown, yourself included. As much as we depended on him, the burden on you, I regret to say, is even greater."

"And the danger to me far less," she argued. "I ride not into battle, but to my own brother…"

"Half-brother," Lord Smallwood corrected. "A half-brother who likely has his own ambitions."

"…and to a home which awaits me with open arms," Arya continued, a frown twisting her lips at Theomar's words, "away from the turmoil to the south."

The council begrudgingly admitted the truth in her words and agreed with her plan to return home overland after the coronation. The message Maester Brenett penned in the name of the council to deliver to Winterfell apprising Jon Snow of these plans was accompanied with a smaller scroll written by Arya herself.

The girl had stared out of the window as she thought on the message she wished to send, her gaze directed northward. She stopped and started her scroll several times, wasting an unconscionable amount of parchment. Finally, she threw her quill down and sighed. When she tried to say all that was in her heart, all that weighed on her and all that nearly burst out of her when she thought of her brother and her home, her fingers froze over the inkpot and she could not make the words come. Or rather, the words that did come were so inadequate, she could not make herself continue scrawling them across the parchment. The task was impossible. So instead, she simply wrote:

Jon,

I am coming.

"Your grace, might I have a word?"

Arya heard the familiar voice calling from behind her. Supper had ended and she was making her way toward the stairs she must ascend to reach her chamber. Marq Piper and Kyle Condon, both qualified knights in Ser Jaime's estimation, served as her guard for the evening and followed in her wake.

As the girl turned and looked past them, she could see Gendry standing in the shadowed area beyond the stairs where he'd been waiting for her. Both Ser Marq and Ser Kyle raised their eyebrows in a sort of affronted consternation, which Arya attributed to their disdain of the dark knight's station and his boldness at addressing her directly. She gave them each a reproving look. She did not mean to have her reign marred by such useless pomposity or unearned arrogance.

"Of course, Ser Gendry," she said, emphasizing the ser so that the knights might understand her position. She walked between them and approached her friend. "What is it?"

"I know you'll be making a decision soon about the members of your queensguard," Gendry began.

The girl laughed. "Ser Jaime harangues me about it thrice daily."

"Only… I'd like to be considered." He looked at her intently. "No, I'd like to be more than considered. I'd like you to name me."

At Ser Marq's snort, the blacksmith-knight glared over Arya's head toward her guards. The girl sighed, then turned to address them.

"Ser Marq, Ser Kyle, you may continue on to my chamber door. I'll be there shortly."

"But, your grace, Ser Jaime said…" Kyle Condon began to object.

"Yes, I know what Ser Jaime said. And I am saying that you will continue on to my chamber door," Arya interrupted, her tone brusque. "I have matters to discuss with Ser Gendry. He can escort me up the stairs when we are done if that will make you feel better."

The two knights hesitated, but at her stern expression, they finally bowed, murmuring, "Yes, your grace," as they turned and headed up the staircase.

"I'm sorry," the girl said quietly when they'd gone.

"Why? You're not the one who made me a nameless bastard with the audacity to want more than he's entitled to," Gendry retorted. There was a lifetime of bitterness evident in his tone. The girl thought on it, on his mood, and at the life which had fed it. It struck her as most unfair that Robert Baratheon's whoring should somehow mean her friend was not allowed to want things for himself or hope to improve his station by virtue of his own deeds and merits.

"Who holds dominion over one's ambitions or passions?" Arya murmured, more to herself than to her friend, and her eyes looked far away as she did. "Who may claim the right to govern what a heart desires?"

The large man swallowed at her pronouncement. "Desiring something and having it are two different things, your grace," was his hoarse reply.

"Yes," the girl agreed with a slight shake of her head, her eyes becoming more focused. "Yes, of course."

Gendry cleared his throat. "But this… an appointment to your guard… this is something I can have. Something I can do, if only you'll allow it."

She sighed, her eyebrows pinching together as she studied his face. Her voice was quiet, her tone careful. "I'm not inclined to allow it."

The gentleness of her reply did nothing to temper her friend's response. The knight's mouth clamped shut and he stared over her head for a moment before speaking again. "Is it impertinence if I ask why not?"

Arya laughed. "Impertinence? Great gods, Gendry, I hope if I ever declare something impertinent, you'll box my ears to knock some sense into me. Ha! The very idea…"

The dark knight was less amused than his queen. "I don't want to box your ears; I want to serve in your guard. I'd like to know why you won't let me."

"Oh, Gendry…" The girl rubbed at her forehead a moment then cast her glance up at her friend's face, noting the displeased curve of his lips and the heavy furrow of his brow. "Do you know what a queensguard knight must pledge? What he sacrifices in order to serve?"

"I do. I'm more than willing…"

"But no one should have to! I fought against the whole institution, but it seems I must compromise…"

"You've saved my life, more than once, and I should be able to repay…"

"Still, you're a young man and you cannot know what your future may hold, or what fortune you may find. Family, land, glory…"

"Did you forget the part where I'm a nameless bastard?"

The girl sighed. "That means nothing to me."

"Then name me to your bloody queensguard!" Gendry hissed, exasperated.

"So that I may be responsible for denying you your chance at happiness for the rest of your life?"

"So that you may allow me to fulfill my purpose!" He breathed deeply, in and out, once, twice, then spoke in a more measured tone. "Please, Arya… You'll have me, either way. You'll have my loyalty and my hammer. But this way, at least, I'll have something too."

She considered his words, thinking of Gendry fighting for her, one man amid thousands on a battlefield, swinging his hammer in her name. She thought of him run through with steel or hacked apart by axes or trampled by war horses. She thought of him, in the mud amongst the corpses, bleeding as the light faded from his eyes, and it filled her with a deep despair. She did not wish to lose a friend.

She could not lose one more of her pack. Not when she had to power to save him.

If he were part of the Winter Guard, it would allow her to keep him close and afford him some protection from such a cruel fate.

Then again, she thought, he need not be in the guard itself in order to be protected.

There was another way, she realized; something she might offer him that would keep him close, keep him safe, yet still allow him the freedom to pursue other things, in time, when his desire to do so outgrew his strange sense of obligation to her.

"You've given me much to think on, Ser Gendry," the queen said, one corner of her mouth quirking up.

"Then you'll consider it?"

"Yes, I will consider it," she promised, "and you'll have my answer within the next few days."

The knight looked as though he wished to press her further, but instead, bowed, then offered her his arm to escort her to her chamber.

Desperation.

That was the only explanation for it.

Queen Cersei's desperation had given birth to, then fueled the ill-conceived plot. As a consequence, Tommen now lay dead, an innocent victim of his mother's machinations.

They should have known, Daario would think later. There were stories about the queen and her children, locked in the keep, clutching vials of poison as a war raged beyond their walls. She was ready to kill Tommen then, though the battle was far from decided. How much more so when there was no possible escape from their fate?

They were mere moments into their meeting beneath the canopy on the tourney grounds when she'd given a signal to the three knights at her back. In unison, Ser Ilyn, Ser Meryn, and Ser Robert had reached for their swords. Their intent was to kill Aegon but Cersei herself dove across the table, small blade in hand, aiming for her own brother's throat. In his surprise, Tyrion, mid-sentence at that point as he discussed the terms of surrender, had gasped and pushed back from the table. He'd moved purely on instinct, causing his chair to lean suddenly then tip. His back slammed against the ground a split second later, knocking the wind from his lungs. The move had saved his life.

Tommen had leapt from his seat, all startled confusion, and unlike his uncle, his unexpected move had proven fatal. Tristan Rivers had thrust his blade across the table toward Ser Meryn just as Tommen rose and unwittingly served as a living shield for his own Kingsguard. Tommen clutched at his pierced chest, his face a mask of surprise and ineffable sadness, and as he fell, Ser Tristan's blade was redirected and finally found its intended target. Ser Meryn gurgled as the steel slid through his neck, lodging in his spine. The whitecloak dropped heavily to his knees, his sword clattering at his side and he died atop the boy king he was meant to protect.

In the chaos, Daario Naharis had grabbed King Aegon from behind, yanking the silver monarch back to safety and jumping onto the table so swiftly he was nearly a blur to the eye. From his new vantage point, he was able to dispatch Ser Ilyn with a quickness, then found himself staring through the slit of Robert Strong's helm and into the knight's strange, black eyes.

Ser Robert towered over the others, and in his heavy plate, he proved to be an exceedingly difficult foe to defeat. Rolly Duckfield joined Daario in pressing the knight backward, away from the pavilion and their king. Meanwhile, Edric Dayne had managed to wrest away Cersei's dagger and was restraining her even as she wailed over Tommen. Ser Tristan ran to Ser Rolly's side just as a heavy blow from Robert Strong bowled Rolly over, knocking him from his feet and onto his arse in the dust. Daario marveled at their opponent's brute strength. He had rarely seen its equal, either here or in Essos. It seemed almost unnatural.

The Targaryen king, sufficiently recovered from the shock and chaos of the moment, drew his steel and rounded the table with determination, ignoring the warning shouts of his Hand and Tyrion. Without pausing to don his helm, he dashed to join in the fight against Robert Strong. Aegon and his men battled furiously against the remaining Kingsguard knight even as the huge man rained heavy blows down on their heads. All the while, Cersei shrieked at Ser Robert to, "Kill them all! Kill every last one!"

In the end, it was not Daario Naharis, or Tristan Rivers, or Rolly Duckfield, or even King Aegon himself who could claim the victory, but Drogon. The great beast had lingered in the distance, not one hundred yards away, as the meeting began, but when all turned to chaos, he beat his wings and lifted into the air, only to drop down just behind the lumbering Kingsguard knight. Daenerys, who straddled dragon's neck, leaned down to give a command as she stroked his black scales.

In response to the khaleesi, Drogon reared back for a moment, then his mouth opened wide and an ungodly shriek burst forth from his throat, piercing the air around them. Aegon and his men, seeing the rows of razor teeth glinting in the morning sun, fell back. Still, they could not move far enough away as quickly as was required to avoid burning and Daario was certain they would all be consumed by a blast of flame at any second. Well, all but the king, who had proven he could withstand dragonfire. The Faceless assassin sent a silent plea to his god.

Arya Stark. Protect her if a man cannot.

To the false-Tyroshi's surprise, the dark dragon did not breathe his fire upon them after all, for it was not 'dracarys' Daenerys had growled to Drogon. She'd realized that to do so would have meant the death of not only Robert Strong, but those fighting him as well, and she could not bear to part with Daario. So, instead, she murmured, 'kisagon.'

Eat.

The immense beast slammed his head downward, his mouth closing over Robert Strong's head and shoulders. When the dragon's powerful jaws snapped shut, the large knight's upper half was unceremoniously separated from his lower half. Drogon shook his head violently then spat out the Kingsguard's mangled torso onto the dusty tourney ground, thus ending Cersei's doomed plot.

Later, Daario himself helped drag the corpses of the fallen to the open field where Drogon's fiery breath might consume them. When he placed Ser Ilyn and Ser Meryn atop the pile to burn, he gazed down at their slack mouths and open, unseeing eyes.

'Valar morghulis,' the assassin had murmured, thinking on how long these deaths had been prayed for, and how they'd been bought many times over with service and devotion and blood, a fee paid by one whose name was always in the forefront of his mind, no matter how well he played his role.

Lovely girl.

With a small flick of his dagger, the Stormcrow captain had removed an ear from each man. These, he'd wrapped in oilskin and pocketed, knowing there was someone who would appreciate such a gruesome token. He wondered how long it would be before he was able to present his gift to her, and he wondered if soon he might have one more ear to add to the collection.

With his ships not required, Lord Mallister was more than happy to lend the services of his armorer, blacksmith, and seamstresses to his queen. With the resources of two castles hard at work, it wasn't long before appropriate garb and armor for the Winter Guard was produced: boiled leather all in black, burnished steel breastplates the color of coal with an etched design similar to that on Arya's own breastplate—a wolf's head over two crossed swords—and fine wool cloaks the color of night, trimmed in thick, black fur.

"It doesn't feel right," Jaime groused, standing before his queen in his new uniform. Indeed, his golden hand stood out starkly against the black of his sleeve and his dark armor set off the gleaming yellow of his hair.

"But you look so handsome," Arya teased. "I think it suits you very well."

In truth, the dark ensemble was frightening to behold. Whereas the whitecloaks of the Kingsguard had been born out of the religion of the Seven, their inception intertwined with ideals of purity and faith (however much of a mockery they'd made of all that over the years), the Winter Guard were a different thing altogether. In Arya's estimation, they were an unnecessary indulgence, but if she must be made to appoint and outfit them, then they would represent something more useful than the false devotion and hypocrisy of those in power.

They would represent fear.

The very real fear her enemies should have of her, and of crossing her.

There was nothing hypocritical about that.

A man was meant to look upon a whitecloak and see in him a certain piety, and the very hands of the gods at work, righteously engaged in forming such a dedicated and exemplary creature. But when that same man looked upon a blackcloak, Arya did not mean for him to see the sacred or the divine. She meant for him to tremble in terror; to recognize the lethality that should be inherent in any man plucked from among his peers and set to guard the throne against all threat.

She meant for them to be a fright to behold; for ladies to gasp as they passed; for men to shrink away. If she must endure them, if she could not help but to field them, even if only to be used as ornaments giving an impression, then that impression must be one of seething menace.

There had been much back and forth on the number of the guard. The Kingslayer's original suggestion of seven had been dismissed outright as most saw the sense in their queen's argument that they should not mimic the kingdom from which they'd just broken. Initially, Arya stubbornly insisted on none but then said she could be contented with two, if needs must. At one point, Lord Smallwood was enamored with the idea of ten: five from the North and five from the Riverlands. Lord Vance and Lord Blackwood seemed to be seriously considering his suggestion, which had Arya aghast. Ten! The very idea… Finally, the lords of her council had managed to win from their queen a compromise which placed five warriors in black cloaks.

Ser Jaime Lannister served as the Lord Commander, an appointment about which both he and Arya were in complete agreement. When the Blackfish assented as well, that was that.

Ser Kyle Condon was named to represent the men of the North and was additionally known to be a wily fighter with impressive quickness and flexibility.

Ser Ben Blackwood accepted his father's judgment that he should serve. As a member of an important family of the Riverlands and a distinguished knight in his own right, he lent a certain credibility to the new force.

Ser Podrick Payne represented youth and a link to the Westerlands. The lords wondered if that link might give the new Targaryen king pause. After all, it was not often a monarch inspired such staunch loyalty in those outside of her own kingdom.

The last position was filled by Lady Brienne of Tarth. She not only stood out as an accomplished warrior of the Stormlands but also underlined the belief that above all, the Winter Guard would always value skill and deeds. All other considerations were secondary.

The lords most likely to offer objection to that ideal were unable to mount any real opposition in the face of their chosen queen, for what other woman alive had done more to disprove the notion that blood and battle were for knights and men alone?

Ser Gendry of the Hollow Hill was disappointed not to be named among the members of the Winter Cloaks, but Arya surprised him by bestowing upon him a wholly unique honor when she asked him to swear himself to be her shield.

'Your sworn shield, your grace?' When the large knight had pronounced the words, it was with an air of disbelief, as though he thought it might all be some great jape perpetrated at his expense.

'Yes, Ser Gendry,' the girl had confirmed, 'but only for as long as you wish to serve in this capacity. When you have cause to request it, I will relieve you of this duty.'

'Your grace, I will serve you faithfully for the rest of my life,' Gendry had sworn.

'We'll see,' the queen had murmured so softly, no one else heard the words.

Unlike that of the Winter Guard, Gendry's armor was bright steel, polished to gleaming and of his own design, sporting a crowned wolf on the breastplate. His helm, however, was as familiar to the queen as Needle: a bull's head, buffed and shining to match the rest of the plate. For Arya, it brought to mind simpler times, and it made her smile in that way only a fond memory can. Because of it, the household took to calling the blacksmith-knight the queen's "sworn bull" though those less kind could be heard referring to him as the "bastard bull" when the queen was not around to take note.

With the business of the Winter Guard squared away and most of the details of her journey northward already arranged, only the coronation ceremony remained on the council's agenda before they all would part ways to prepare their homes and lands for King Aegon's inevitable trip northward. The Twins, it was decided, would be held by a joint force of men under Patrek Mallister's command until a more permanent arrangement could be made. Strategically, the castle was too important to leave weak and too desirable to award to any one man without due consideration.

"If my mother's brother is returned safely to us, he can be installed in Riverrun and you might claim the Twins as your own, Uncle Brynden," Arya suggested as they walked together along the battlements one evening. Brienne and Podrick trailed behind at a respectful distance but remained wary.

"Perhaps, niece, but I am of a mind to send some of old Walder's grandsons to be fostered around the kingdom. If one can prove his worth, we can return the castle to Frey control in time," the Blackfish replied, causing his niece to curl her lip in distaste. Her uncle chuckled. "You've taken a Frey for your own squire, my dear!"

"He's a Brax, not a Frey," the girl objected, causing her companion to smile indulgently at her. After a moment, though, his look became serious.

"You might've wiped the Frey name from existence, your grace, but you chose not to," he reminded her.

"Murdering children in their beds is not a talent I care to develop."

"I do not question your choice, but I must remind you that it is not without its own consequences. Young though they may be, male heirs exist, and someday, they will be grown and will seek to claim their birthright."

"Maybe I should exile them all to Yi Ti," the girl grumbled.

"There have been Freys on this land for six hundred years. Not all of them were like the man you... made pay for his crimes. With the right influence, one of these boys will grow into a young man worthy of the title of Lord of the Crossing," the Blackfish said gently. "Redeeming the name of Frey and creating a strong ally will be far more beneficial to the crown than awarding the castle and lands to an old man without heirs."

"You could still have heirs if you wanted. Walder was old enough to be your father… your grandfather, even! And he just had a son not a year past!"

The knight just shook his head. "I am content with my lot in life, and too set in my ways to try to change them now." He smiled at his niece and placed a warm palm on her shoulder. "Now, what's this I hear about your wanting to wear armor at your coronation?"

"I won't do it."

"You must, your grace." There was a note of censure in Lady Brienne's voice as she spoke.

"Why must I?" Arya huffed, plucking disdainfully at the heavy brocade train of a gown. It fell from the shoulders of the garment and was a silvery grey, its edges trimmed in soft, white fur.

"Because it's how these things are done," the knightly woman replied, her impatience evident. "And… frankly… it would be inconsiderate of you to refuse!"

Jaime, standing just inside Arya's door as he waited to discuss the final details of her guard for the ceremony, smirked at Brienne's words. Though Lady Brienne defied convention in her own life, she had always proven to be surprisingly traditional in other matters. For all of Brienne's failure to be the proper highborn daughter dictated by her name and her sex, there was no one alive more schooled in customs and courtesies; no person more proper. Jaime could think of no one more willing to pledge their life away with a pile of courtly and useless vows. And so, for Brienne to chastise her liege thusly was shockingly out of character... and quite thrilling, he thought. Perhaps he was finally having some influence over her behavior.

"Inconsiderate?" The girl looked at the large woman in confusion.

"Yes, inconsiderate. This gown was created at great expense and effort for you. Lord Mallister's seamstresses, your own maid, and even Lady Frey worked for days to have it ready in time!"

"Well, I didn't ask them to…"

"No, of course not. You don't ask for gifts, your grace." Brienne sighed. "I know you don't care for finery and you'd be more comfortable in your breeches, but…"

"It's not that," Arya said, eyeing the gown ruefully.

"Then what?"

The girl paced a bit, her brow drawn downward as she chewed her bottom lip. She came to a halt when she realized she was standing very near Ser Jaime. She looked up at him and sighed. She answered Brienne then, but her eyes were locked with Jaime's as she spoke.

"This thing had to be done, for the sake of our people. I know that very well," the queen began. "I also know that sometimes we must play a role, for our own good, or the good of others."

Arry. Weasel. Nan. Salty. Cat.

Boy. Slave. Bandit. Runaway. Assassin.

"I learned that from an early age," she murmured. And that lesson was endlessly reinforced in the House of Black and White, she did not add. "But, in this instance, I do not wish to play at something, and I do not wish to be deceitful. It's not for selfishness, and it's not for lack of consideration…"

Arya's voice trailed off and her gaze softened. Though she continued looking at Jaime, he had the impression she was not seeing him.

"Your grace?" he prompted gently.

The girl blinked, then turned to face Brienne. "The people should understand who their queen is. And who she is not." Arya cast her gaze back toward the gown which was laid across her bed and insisted, "I'll not be a polished and primped figurehead who sends her men out to die for her."

"I am very sorry to tell you so, your grace, but I've been in the service of four kings, and each has sent men out to die for him," the Kingslayer said. "It is a monarch's duty to make such decisions."

"I am a warrior, and their leader, not some soft thing made to breed new kings! I intend to dress to reflect that."

"But are you not also their queen?" Lady Brienne asked pointedly. "And should you not dress to reflect that as well?"

A slow smile spread on Jaime's face until he had broken out into a full grin. His look caught Brienne's eye and at her expression, Arya turned around to see what had caused it.

"What do you find so amusing, Ser Jaime?" the girl demanded with a frown.

"Forgive me, your grace, but it has just occurred to me that there is a solution which will satisfy you both, I think, and prevent injury to Rosie and Lady Frey's delicate feelings."

An hour later, as Rosie put the finishing touches on Arya's hair, there was a knock at her chamber door. When the queen called for her visitor to enter, the door opened a crack and Jon Brax poked his head through.

"You sent for me, your grace?" he called uncertainly.

"Yes, I did," the girl replied, waving him into the chamber. The boy stumbled through the door, then bowed deeply. "Rise, Jon, and go fetch my breastplate. It's in the trunk there. And grab my sword belts as well."

"Um, for what?"

"For you to help me put on."

"Your grace?"

"Well, are you my squire or not?"

"Of course!" the boy sputtered quickly, dashing to the trunk. "But... isn't the coronation ceremony about to start?"

"Well spotted, lad," Arya laughed.

"Then why do you need your swords and plate?"

The girl laughed. "It's a poor squire who would send his queen into battle unarmed and unarmored."

Jon Brax's expression turned to one of befuddlement. "Are we going into battle, your grace?"

"Oh, most assuredly," the Cat replied as her squire began to fasten the straps of her breastplate around her. When he'd finished with both of her sword belts and Frost and Grey Daughter were in their proper places, Rosie attached the fur-trimmed train to the queen's shoulders once again.

"I doubt Queen Nymeria herself was as beautiful as you, your grace," the maid said, a tear forming on her lashes, "or as fearsome to behold."

Before Arya could reply, another knock at the door pulled her attention away.

"Your grace, it's time," the deep voice of her sworn shield called through the door.

"You may go now Rosie, Jon," the girl said. "Run and find your places."

The two left together and Gendry stepped beyond her threshold after they'd passed. Seeing the queen attired as she was, the dark knight's eyes widened a moment, and then he dropped to one knee and bowed his head.

"None of that," the girl said, somewhat flustered by his reaction. She waved her hand, indicating that he should rise. It was then she noted a slender wooden box he was clutching. "What's that, Ser Gendry?"

The knight stood. "A gift, your grace. For you."

"A gift?"

"Something… I thought you might need. And seeing you now, I feel certain I was right."

He approached and presented the box to her, holding it out across his two palms. Arya hesitated for only a moment, then took the box from him and lifted the lid. Inside, she found a shining gorget, the relief of a crown pressed into its center.

"When I made your breastplate, you weren't yet queen," he explained. "Your wolf…" Gendry pointed toward her armor. "It's not crowned. But now, with this…"

The girl swallowed. "Oh…"

"Do you like it, your grace?"

"I… It's…"

"You don't have to wear it," her friend said, sounding suddenly uncertain. "I only thought…"

"No, no, it's… a fine thing. A very fine thing. It's so… perfect." She looked up at him and smiled. "I'm… without my squire. Can you fasten it on for me?"

Gendry took the gorget from her and the girl turned, sweeping her forearm behind her neck and raising it to lift her hair. The dark knight blew out a breath, then fastened the ornamental piece around her neck. It clinked softly as it settled against her breastplate. When he'd finished, Arya spun around, her hair fanning out around her.

"Well, how do I look?" she laughed, rolling her eyes a bit at the ostentation of it all. If she was honest, she felt a bit ridiculous. Armor and a gown. Still, she understood why Jaime had suggested it. No one seeing her could deny that she was both queen and warrior; both regal and deadly.

The knight blinked, then inhaled through his nose before breathing out his reply.

"Like the Winter's Queen," he said, his voice rough. And with that pronouncement, he offered the girl his arm and escorted her to the great hall.

A septon said words, as did Royan Wull, the oldest of the Northmen present and the one who could speak with the most authority about the Kings of Winter and the will of the old gods. Together, the mountain clansman and the septon placed a crown upon Arya's head. It was Robb's crown, which Harwin had found amongst Lady Stoneheart's things at Acorn Hall and had carried with him ever since in anticipation of such a day as this. It was heavy, and overlarge for her head, but they managed to seat it straight and true. When she rose and turned to face the packed crowd, a hush fell over the hall and the assemblage knelt in a wave, heads bowed in reverence.

And then the Greatjon broke the silence, bellowing, "All hail Queen Arya! The Winter's Queen!"

The chamber dissolved into endless chants of, "Long live the queen!"

Afterwards, they feasted and drank and danced in celebration as Arya looked on, the crown causing her brow to ache. By and by, the queen noted Hoster Blackwood cloistered in a corner with Maester Brenett and she motioned the young man over.

"What do you and the maester conspire about so secretly?" the girl asked, one eyebrow quirked up in curiosity.

"My queen, I assure you, we were not conspiring," Hos replied genially. "Rather, we were discussing some of the details of his illuminations. Maester Brenett has been hard at work."

"Yes, your joint project. I should very much like to read your history and see the maester's renderings."

"Oh, it's far from completed, your grace." The man colored slightly as he spoke the words. "It's not fit for your eyes yet."

"That's a pity," Arya said. "I would dearly love the entertainment."

Hoster's eyes widened. "I think I speak for us all when I say we'd find it far better entertainment to hear more of your own story."

"Indeed, your grace," his brother Brynden agreed. "You've told us little about your time with the Hound, or how you found yourself across the Narrow Sea."

With a bit more encouragement from her uncle and several knights, the girl gave in and picked up her story where she'd left it during their journey to the Twins. All seemed fascinated by her tale, but no one paid closer attention than Hoster Blackwood. Arya was vague on the details of how she parted with the Brotherhood, only saying that when she strayed too far from their camp, she was abducted by Sandor Clegane. She told them about her last trip to the Twins, when she was but one and ten, and how her mad dash toward the slaughter was ended abruptly by the flat of the Hound's axe. He'd saved her life with his brutality. She told of living rough around the countryside, and of meeting the Tickler at the inn, and how she'd finally left the Hound behind when he was too sick to go on. She explained that she'd bought a passage across the sea with a coin of iron and how the temple of Black and White had taken her in and fed and clothed her when she'd finally arrived in Braavos.

"In exchange for what, your grace?" Karyl Vance inquired.

"For my service. It was little enough to give for the clothes on my back and the food in my belly and the roof over my head. I cleaned a bit, and helped in the kitchens, and aided the worshippers who came into the temple." She did not explain how she aided them: by offering cups of poisoned waters, or removing their corpses from the main temple chamber to the lower levels where she stripped them of their clothes and belongings then fed them to the eels of the canal. She did not explain that her service also included her deeds as an apprentice assassin or that she employed blood magic to steal around Braavos in borrowed faces. The Cat could see no reason why the men of the Winter Kingdom needed to know such details of her life.

"Did they know who you were?" Hos asked, sounding stunned. "Did they understand you were a highborn daughter of a great family, and that you had worth beyond that of a maid or an errand girl?"

"Worth to whom?" the girl laughed. "My family were scattered and mostly dead, my ancestral home sacked. There was no one who loved me left to pay any ransom, should it have been demanded. The priests might've sold me to the Iron Throne if they'd had a mind, I suppose. I'm grateful they didn't do just that. But then, the temple does not lack for money. I probably had more value to them as someone who spoke the language and could endure the cook's tempers."

Of course, that was not the whole truth. Jaqen himself had directed her to the temple. The Kindly Man, trusting his brother's judgement, welcomed her and trained her. She was quite certain there was no amount of money Queen Cersei could have offered the Faceless Men that would've exceeded the value the principal elder placed on his little Cat. Arya did not fully understand it, or what it was the Kindly Man still hoped to gain by his investment, but there was something he expected, she had no doubt. She felt the truth of it in her bones. He had taken too much trouble with her. It could not be for naught.

"So, you speak Braavosi?" The question had come from Clement Piper. "That's sure to come in handy with the Iron Bank, should the kingdom require outside investment." The men all chuckled at that.

"Braavosi. Dothraki. High Valyrian. Lorathi. A smattering of a few others… The priests of the temple place great value on the mastery of languages. We were always learning, always practicing. Worshippers would come from everywhere, after all, and if you cannot speak their language, you cannot understand their prayers."

"Surely their prayers are for the gods to understand," Patrek Mallister remarked.

"Just so, Ser Patrek," she agreed, smiling her malicious little smile. Some prayers were for the gods, yes. But in the House of Black and White, some were for the Faceless Men themselves.

"But the House of Black and White is home to elite assassins," Ser Marq said. "Were you not frightened to be surrounded by such men?"

She thought of one particular assassin, the one who had taught her much of what she understood about death, and all that she knew of love.

"No," the Cat answered quietly, her eyes growing soft. After a moment, she grinned, and added, "The cook—Umma—had taken a liking to me, and she was by far the most feared person in the temple. I can't imagine anyone brave enough to tempt her wrath by harming me!"

Of course, that was not strictly true. She'd once arrived in the kitchen with finger-shaped bruises coloring her neck.

'Did you make someone angry?' Umma had asked her. 'It looks like someone tried to choke the life out of you.'

He hadn't, of course. If Jaqen had meant to choke the life out of her, she would never have drawn another breath. He'd only meant to make a point. She supposed the cook had understood that, after all her years in the House of Black and White.

'Strangling lessons,' the girl had lied.

Just as she had with Umma then, she now told a version of the truth she thought the lords and knights would best accept.

Or, at least, she told them the version that she found most acceptable to tell. Some of her past was hers alone and not meant to be shared.

The queen feigned a yawn. "My lords, I'm for bed. It's been a taxing day and I must make the final preparations for my journey to Winterfell tomorrow if I'm to leave by week's end."

"So soon, your grace?" Lord Blackwood asked.

"The sooner the better, wouldn't you agree, Lord Blackwood?" she replied. "After all, you'll be wanting to see to your own preparations. The dragons won't tarry long in the south, I think, and we must all be ready when they come."

Murmurs of agreement rose up around the chamber and Arya stood, leaving the lords to discuss their own business.

The black cells are as dank and stale as he remembers. It's as if the air here is a thousand years old and heavy with the misery of all the souls who have perished in these depths. The musty smell of rodent droppings mixes with the tang of mildew, inspiring the thought that if one were to linger here for an hour, the foul air would certainly settle in one's chest and bring about some dread disease.

He can think of no better place for his task.

The dark melts away in the face of his torch and he walks steadily along the slick stone corridor until he reaches the cell he seeks. He holds the torch forth, bathing the locked cage in wavering light. She's there, crouched in the corner, forehead resting on her knees, but when she sees the darkness lift around her, she raises her eyes to his and stares.

He does not speak, waiting for her to recognize him. She blinks a few times, attempting to clear away the illusion clouding her mind. After a moment, she understands that it's not illusion; that he's really here.

"Jaime," she finally croaks, her voice hoarse from all the tears she's shed since she watched Tommen die. "You've come. I knew you'd come for me. We belong together, forever. I knew you'd come."

He peers at her through the rusting bars but says nothing. He merely takes in her pitiable state. Her face is tear streaked and dirty, her cheeks gaunt. Her hair has lost its luster.

"They're all gone now. First Joffrey, then Myrcella, in that gods forsaken desert. A few days ago, they killed Tommen." She sniffs. "Or, a week ago? I'm not sure."

He places the torch in a mount on the wall nearby. He only has one good hand and he needs it to unlock her cell. She watches as her twin fishes an iron ring from his pocket, keys clinking together.

"There's only us now," she continues, rising unsteadily. "We have no one else. Tyrion, that traitor, it's his fault Tommen is gone."

She says nothing of her own involvement in the fiasco on the tourney grounds. She'd only acted as she had to, and the fact that things had gone so wrong has nothing to do with her.

"Only us," she repeats. "We can buy passage. They've left me my rings." She holds up her hands to show him the three gold rings on her fingers. They are set with gems of no small value. "We can sell them and use the money to sail for Lys. Or Volantis."

He approaches her silently, his eyes locked with hers.

"I love you, Jaime," she says, and she sounds as though she means it. He wonders if she's convinced herself of the lie, or if she's really that talented of a mummer. "We can go away now. We can sail away…"

He lifts his hands to her shoulders, resting them there, one flesh and one gold, but they both seem to grip her warmly and she wonders at it for a moment. But only a moment, for the moment after that, it's not the warmth she feels but the tightness as those hands wrap around her throat and squeeze. Her emerald eyes grow wide with shock and her mouth gapes but the only sound she can make is a choking noise. She raises her own hands to grasp her brother's wrists and pull his fingers from around her neck but his strength is too much for her and she cannot understand how his golden hand is squeezing as though it were made of flesh and bone. That is the last coherent thought she is ever to have, for what follows is just inarticulate terror as her throat is crushed beneath her little brother's stone grip.

When she has stopped struggling and is laid out on the dirty straw and damp stones beneath his feet, staring sightlessly toward the heavens, he squats down and pulls out a small, sharp knife from his boot. A moment later, he tucks the token he has taken into an oilcloth wrapping with two others and murmurs softly into the ear he has left her.

"Valar morghulis."

Somebody Else—Flora Cash