Tell the ones that need to know…

We are headed north

The servants could be heard to say the gods themselves must wish the queen a successful journey, so sunny and bright was the morning her guard and loyal men and advisors all gathered outside of the east bank barbican and pointed their faces north.

The Lord Paramount of the Trident, Lord Blackwood, Lord Vance, Lord Smallwood, and Lord Piper were all bound for the south and their homes, along with most of their men, those they were not sending northward with orders to protect their sovereign, but they tarried just beyond the gates with her so that they might say their goodbyes.

Lord Piper was most formal with his farewell and though his son was slightly less so, both men took a knee and kissed the back of her hand before turning to organize their men for the march to Pinkmaiden. Upon their arrival, they assured Arya, they would inspect what work was already being done on the scorpions whose production Lord Piper had instructed his castellan to oversee in a raven scroll; a raven scroll he'd sent immediately after the decision to produce weapons capable of killing dragons had been made. Ser Marq swore he'd have a platoon of men trained to use the devices expertly as soon as possible.

Lord Vance was his quiet and serious self as he bid his queen a fair and safe journey, but Arya placed her hand over his after he'd bent to kiss her knuckles, staying him for a moment.

"My lord," the girl began quietly so that only his ear would hear, "I am most pleased that you've extended an invitation to Lady Frey. I am very fond of her and she has endured more than her share of tragedy. I hope she finds a measure of happiness during her visit to Wayfarer's Rest."

She saw a ghost of a smile on Karyl's lips at her words, a rare thing indeed, and he replied, "I have the same hope, your grace. I did not like to think of her languishing behind occupied walls, especially after losing both son and husband here."

Arya's voice dropped to the barest whisper. "I think one was a much greater loss to her than the other, but she is young, and has a long life ahead of her, gods willing. Surely, there are many joys to come which will lessen her grief over time."

"I will consider it my great honor to provide such joys for her as I am able."

The queen squeezed Lord Vance's hand at his words. "I am relying on you to do just that." The man rose, elegant and graceful, and she was not sure if it were only her imagination, but Arya believed that his shoulders seemed less weighted than they'd been previously, and his countenance less sad.

Lord Blackwood approached her next, his brow grave though his eyes held an unmistakable fondness and a most fatherly affection.

"I don't know how I am to part with you, your grace," the man said, and perhaps it was irreverent of him to say it to his queen, but the girl appreciated the sentiment nonetheless.

"I am sure you'll find your family a great comfort to you once you arrive back at Raventree Hall, my lord. And no doubt they've missed you terribly," Arya replied. "I am sorry to deprive you of the company of so many of your sons, though." Ser Brynden, Ser Ben, and Lord Hoster would all ride with the company to Winterfell.

Tytos shook his head and smiled down at her. "They are men grown and should not sit idle behind the walls of my castle simply to please their mother or me. It is a source of immeasurable pride to me, and an incalculable credit to my family name, that my sons should be granted the opportunity to distinguish themselves in service to you. No father could want more for his children." The man dropped to his knee then, pressing a kiss to the fingers of her right hand.

Lord Blackwood's sincerity caused a lump to form in the girl's throat. She breathed in and held that breath a moment, allowing the feeling to settle before speaking.

"I shall never forget the kindness you've shown me, since the very beginning," the girl vowed, her voice a little rough. "The kindness, and the understanding. You have my eternal gratitude."

"Your grace, let any warm feeling you have for me be directed toward my sons."

She might have told him that his sons had earned her regard in their own right and that the affection she felt for their father belonged to him alone. But she could not deny the lord his request, for it was Tytos' respect and admiration for her own father which had guided the man's feelings for her when they'd first met. She could see that a promise from her to show that same favor to his sons for his sake would please him greatly. She owed him a debt, and if this were to be his chosen payment, she could not deny him. The girl nodded, and Lord Blackwood took his leave of her, moving to bid his sons farewell, from youngest to oldest. As Arya watched him embrace each man, her uncle approached her.

"You must wear your warm gloves, your grace," the Blackfish said, then cleared his throat and looked at the horizon a moment before turning his eyes back to hers. "You'll not swing a sword half so well if you lose fingers on your journey. Promise me."

"Oh, Uncle Brynden," Arya laughed, her voice hitching, and then, in a most indecorous move, she threw herself into his arms and held onto him, breathing in deeply as her nose pressed against the leather and cold chain covering his chest. The Blackfish did not hesitate, but wrapped his arms around her, squeezing her tightly, and it reminded her so much of her lord father and how he'd held her when she was little and in need of comfort.

So, so long ago.

"That your mother and father could have lived to see this," he said hoarsely.

"They see," she choked out, "and I'm sure they're as grateful as I am for your part in it all."

He held her a long time, and the girl was sure she would have an imprint of his mail on her cheek when they parted, but she didn't care. It felt good to be embraced, wound tightly in the loving arms of family.

Family.

The very idea of it.

So strange, after all this time. So strange, and so right.

When they gradually loosened their grip on one another, the Blackfish drew back, but moved his calloused palms to his niece's shoulders and held her firmly, his eyes boring into hers. He stared for long moments, studying her face, appraising her.

"You have courage, my girl," he pronounced, his voice graveled. "So very much, it cannot be denied. And cunning! Enough cunning to fill a kingdom. You have some of your mother in you, her strength and her grace, and you have much of your father; his honor, and his fortitude, and I can see in you a seed of his wisdom, too, growing daily."

His words overwhelmed the girl. It was almost unbearable to think on her parents, and the great loss she had endured, when she was expected to part with the Blackfish this very day.

"Oh, uncle…"

He shook his head as if to say she should not be saddened. "Listen well, your grace. The blood of the Kings of Winter flows through your veins. That is no small thing. A thousand years of history, and all the long memory of the North, and your own extraordinary acumen and abilities have led you here and culminated in that crown we placed upon your head." His fingers squeezed her shoulders and he pulled his face closer to hers as he spoke. "But what's more important than all that, you must realize, is that you are… our great hope. Do not forget it."

Arya nodded, looking at her own hands where they clutched at her uncle's chest. "I will remember it. I swear. But you must remember that we are few now. Too few."

"What do you mean, child?"

"Our family. So few of us remain. You must promise me to do nothing that will endanger your life."

The Blackfish chuckled. "To live life is to risk it," he told her. "Otherwise, it's not living." He leaned down to whisper in her ear. "Don't tell Tytos Blackwood I said that. He'll have you locked away in a tower before you can finish relaying to words."

The girl laughed along with her uncle for a moment, then they both straightened. Arya stared at the Blackfish's face, studying the shape of his jaw, his nose, his eyes, memorizing each line and scar and the way his stubble on his chin was a mix of russet and silver. She breathed in deep.

"Lord Tully, you are Warden of the Riverlands. I leave it and its people to your care. I cannot imagine more capable hands."

"Thank you, my queen," Brynden said, dropping to his knee and taking her hand. "I shall always strive to be worthy of the faith you have placed in me." His head bowed and he pressed his lips to the back of her hand. When he finally rose, he moved to join the great River lords, their sons, and their captains.

The Riverlanders all stood abreast and watched as their queen mounted her horse and trotted ahead of her company. When she was perhaps 30 yards beyond the Winter Guard and her standard bearer, she reeled around and pulled back on Bane's reins. The great beast reared up, lifting his front legs from the earth and pawing at the air with his hooves as he whinnied and snorted. The girl gripped his sides expertly with her knees and leaned forward, raising one hand to salute the men of the Riverlands. The assembled crowd, those mounted and ready to follow her as well as those she was leaving behind, threw their fists into the air and roared their approval and admiration.

Bane's hooves connected with the ground once again and then he and the queen were off in a streak, Arya riding as only one from the North could. Her company hastened to follow, and the great swell of hoofbeats caused a rumble that made the ground beneath their feet quake. The noise beat against their eardrums like the thunder heard in the most violent of tempests and a cloud of dust was raised that soon obscured the company from the sight of those watching them depart.

Wyman Manderly was far craftier and more paranoid than any fat lord tucked behind high castle walls ought to be. He burned most of his scrolls nearly as soon as he'd read them and the few he spared, he kept in a locked box in his solar. That Augen Heldare now held two such scrolls in his hand now was nothing short of a miracle. The content of those destroyed remained mostly a mystery, though the false-Skagosi's sharp hearing and Lord Manderly's tendency to discuss certain bits of news with his guest, Davos Seaworth, afforded the assassin the occasional glimpse into the messages which flew between the castles of the Riverlands and the North.

Of the things the Faceless-savage had gleaned from Wyman's supper time conversations with the onion knight, the detail he found most interesting regarded a certain little wolf and the crown she now wore.

'Queen,' he thought, shaking his head slightly. It had been his master's ultimate design, but the thing had not been anticipated to come to fruition so quickly, or quite in this manner. But, leave it to the unruly apprentice to do things in her own unique way and on her own schedule.

He would've laughed out loud at the thought if it would not have drawn unwanted attention.

"Armor," the rotund lord chortled, slapping the table as Davos listened. "Over her gown!"

The handsome man had allowed himself a smile at the image. He could envision her perfectly, her wide, silver eyes beneath the heavy circlet, a scowl marring her pretty face, a remnant of the irritation she assuredly felt at being forced into a gown in the first place.

"It seems the North has a warrior queen now, Ser Davos. What say you to that?"

"The North, milord? I thought the North was a thing of that past. The Winter Kingdom now, isn't it?"

"Yes, quite right," Manderly said. He tried the words out for himself. "The Winter Kingdom." Wyman's mouth shaped itself into an amused twist, but his eyes were as sharp and shrewd as ever. "With the Winter's Queen. Tell me, ser, does that make our young chieftain a prince?"

"He was already a prince," was his companion's dry reply. "I think now it makes him a potential threat."

"Does it?" the lord mused. "I wonder…"

"Is it really her, do you think?"

"Oh, Lord Blackwood was quite certain. According to his initial correspondence, her look could not be denied. 'Like Lyanna's ghost,' I believe he said."

"Lyanna Stark?"

"Yes. Did you know her?"

Davos shook his head. "No, I was just a smuggler when she made her reputation. I did not move in such lofty circles. I only know the tale."

Wyman laughed. "But which tale, ser? There are so many." His eyes twinkled. "Ah, but you're Stannis' man, so you'll have heard the Baratheon version. To you, the Lady Lyanna is a hapless victim; a beautiful winter rose plucked and stolen, only to wither and die beneath the harsh Dornish sun."

If that were true, the handsome man thought, then the little wolf and Lyanna Stark could not be more different, however much one's countenance might favor the other's. For he could no sooner imagine Arya as a hapless victim than he could imagine Wyman Manderly to be gaunt and gullible.

Later, when he was alone, the assassin unrolled the two scrolls he'd salvaged from the fire grate and read the parts that had not been blackened beyond recognition. The first said, 'The Winter's Queen soon rides north with a large company. The bulk of her forces stay to…' That one had been received just that morning. The second, received a few days earlier, said, 'King's Landing has fallen to the dragons. Aegon VI now sits upon the Iron Throne.' The handsome man considered all he'd learned from the scrolls and from Manderly's own mouth, then set to transcribing his intelligence into a coded message which could only be deciphered by the priests and masters of the House of Black and White. Once the castle was asleep, he slipped from behind its walls and walked the streets and lanes of White Harbor, making for the docks. There, he would find the ship's captain who would deliver his message directly into the principal elder's hands.

The queen's company rode hard, at times resembling a cavalry charge. It was arduous and only Harwin, Jaime, Kyle Condon, and the Greatjon were able to easily keep pace with Arya, intuitive horsewoman that she was. The rest found the trek quite a challenge, but still, they managed well enough.

They were making their way toward the kingsroad. The queen intended for them to reach it in less than three days, but such a lofty goal required long days of strenuous travel. Still, with the smaller company, and every man mounted, the goal was attainable. On the second day, after a time, the girl eased up a little for Bane's sake, but they pushed on, eating in their saddles so that they might cover as much ground as possible before making camp for the night. As the sun began to sink lower, faint howls could be heard ahead of them, carrying over the tops of the trees they could see in the distance.

"It seems the Lady Nymeria and her troops will be joining us, your grace," Jaime commented.

"More like we'll be joining them," the girl replied. "They've outpaced us."

"Lady Nymeria?" little Jon Brax asked. He'd finally caught up with his queen and trotted along at her side now. "Is she an ally?"

"An ally, aye," Harwin told the boy. "And one no man would dare to cross."

"Is she so fearsome?" the squire inquired.

"Fearsome? I'd say so. She's been known to eat her enemies," Harwin revealed, dropping his voice low so that it seemed he was sharing a secret with the squire.

"Eat her enemies?" the boy squeaked. "Is she a cannibal? Is she from Skagos?"

Arya laughed. "She's a direwolf, with a pack a hundred strong at her back."

"So, the rumors are true?" Jon Brax gasped, his eyes wide.

"Depends on which rumors you mean," the girl teased him.

"Some of the other children back home told tales about a pack of wolves at your command. They said they heard the stable boys and maids talking about it. But I never saw and wolves, and I looked for them over the battlements every night, so I thought they were just stories."

"No lad, the wolves are real," Harwin assured him.

Arya cut in. "But I don't lead them. Nymeria does."

"Will they follow us to Winterfell?" the boy asked, his excitement evident in his voice.

"Well, it seems we'll actually follow them," she laughed. "I think Nymeria knows the way home."

"I should very much like to see a direwolf," little Jon decided, causing Harwin to chuckle.

"Are you sure about that boy?" the Northman asked. "I'd say Nymeria could swallow a little thing like you in one bite."

The squire looked thoughtful a moment, then nodded. "I'm sure. She won't eat me, even though she could."

"Oh no?" Harwin's heavy brow lifted. "What makes you think so?"

"Because, Queen Arya won't let anything bad happen to me." The boy spoke with the sort of certainty of which only children are capable. It plucked at something deep inside of the girl. Though she lifted a corner of her mouth in an appreciative half-smile, Jon Brax's answer left her feeling a little cold.

Was that a promise she could really make? Was it one she could keep?

She'd been young and trusting once too. But then she'd been alone, and starving, and beaten, and kidnapped. She'd thought her father would never let anything bad happen to her. Yoren, too, she'd believed would protect her. But those beliefs had not prevented her from becoming an urchin and a mouse. A captive. A hostage. An orphan.

She'd believed in Jaqen and trusted him when he taught her to believe in herself. Yet, she'd still become a failed acolyte, disarmed and dragged away while screaming her throat raw.

She'd still become an exile, torn from the home and comfort, the love she'd chosen for herself.

Was Jon Brax's belief in her justified?

Belief was like the wind, a powerful thing to a feather or a leaf, but insubstantial against an Ironwood or a Sentinel.

Until a storm gathered, and a gale blew. Then, even the Ironwoods and Sentinels must bend or break before the wind.

For so long, the girl had endeavored to be the soundless breath released into the night; the perfect mirrored surface of an undisturbed lake; the invisible intention that guided man's resolve. It was what Syrio Forel had taught her. It was what the Kindly Man had demanded of her. It was what Jaqen H'ghar had dreamed for her. It was what the gods had gifted to her.

A sword. A Cat. A ghost.

The shadow amongst shadows.

Unseen. Silent. Inscrutable.

But what Jon Brax needed, what he relied upon, what he trusted she was… Well, that was something altogether different.

Arya twisted slightly in her saddle, turning her head so she could look behind her for a moment, at the company which followed her.

Lady Brienne. Gendry. The Bear and the Rat. The Blackwood brothers. Lord Umber. The mountain clansmen. Kyle Condon. Podrick Payne. Thoros. Rosie. Sworn knights. Household guards and fighting men. Trusting servants.

Loyal men and women; her people.

She turned her face back north and sat up tall in her saddle, her shoulders square and her chin jutting. She did not allow herself to bite her lip then. The time for considerations and doubts was past. Jon Brax deserved her certainty. Her people deserved her certainty. They deserved her resolve.

The words of her squire played in her head.

Queen Arya won't let anything bad happen to me.

Belief was like the wind.

Right then and there, Arya Stark recognized that she must always be the gathering storm.

The gale which breaks the stout trees.

"Your guards will miss you."

The Bear spoke without looking at his sister. He hadn't heard her, but he'd felt her, there, in the dark, as he patrolled the perimeter of their camp for his shift as sentry.

"Nonsense," the Cat replied lightly, tossing her false blonde curls. "They'll hear Rosie's snores and take comfort in my deep sleep."

He turned then, facing her, though her features were hard to discern in the moonless night. The Lyseni reached out, absently grasping a lock of her hair between his two fingers. The texture was soft, springy, and there, in the inky gloom of midnight, he could almost imagine the curls were chocolate rather than yellow.

The large man felt her again, and it was like a soft sigh in his head. "If there's something you want to know…" he murmured, his voice trailing off as the curling lock slipped through his fingers.

"I want to know that you're alright."

"If I were a better friend, I'd be asking you that."

"Me?" she laughed, the sound of it no more than a small puff of air pushing through her false nose. "How can you possibly worry for me? I'm a queen, with a crown and everything! It was my brother's, you know. I wonder if he died wearing it…"

"Sister…"

"So many gifts… I've learned that people just give you things when you're a queen. A war council to call my own, pledges of fealty, a very smartly outfitted queensguard, gowns made especially for me, their sons... So many sons." She sighed. "They've given me an entire kingdom to do with as I please."

"I know. I'm sorry."

The girl waved her hand dismissively. "I didn't come here to lament my astounding good fortune, however unwillingly I came by it." Her tone at discussing her good fortune made it sound more like she was discussing her own impending execution.

The Bear reached for his sister in the dark and found her hand. They wove their fingers together and he gave hers a squeeze.

"I'm a man grown," he said, then added, "and an anointed knight of Dorne." He was rewarded with a snort. "You don't need to fret about my mood when you should be sleeping."

"I'll fret about anything I want, anytime I want. Didn't you hear me? I'm a queen."

"Oh, that's right. Sorry. I didn't recognize you without the crown," the large assassin teased.

"It gives me a headache."

He smiled and stroked the back of her hand with his thumb. "Worry is not for us, sister."

The girl huffed. "Of all the things they taught us in the temple, I think that is the most useless. Worry is not for us. I'll bet the Kindly Man came up with that one day just so he wouldn't have to answer some acolyte's questions."

"Do you ever miss it?"

"What? The temple?" Arya sounded almost startled.

"The temple. The order. Braavos. Our life there…"

"No!" She thought a moment, staring back toward the camp. She could make out the glow of the dying fires in the distance. "Maybe sometimes," she admitted quietly. "Maybe… some things." She ran her free hand up his chest, pulling at the center laces of his jerkin and loosening them until she could slip her hand beneath the leather and rest her small palm over the steady thump of his heart. "Why? Do you?"

The Bear did not answer her immediately. Instead, he concentrated on the feel of her hand through the thin blouse he wore under his jerkin and imagined the shape of her palm and her fingers searing itself into the skin over his heart.

"Maybe sometimes," he finally sighed, trapping her hand in place with his own. "Maybe some things."

The girl leaned into him, pressing her cheek over their hands, over his heart. They stayed like that for a long while.

"I know you miss her," Arya murmured against him.

"It's not just her. I miss how simple things were for us there."

"Yes," she agreed. "Until they weren't."

"Until they weren't," her brother echoed. Then he laughed. "There was a time when my most pressing concern was finding ridiculous silks for us to wear when we pretended to be Bravos so you could train me to dual wield after you'd been sent to the inn."

The memory made his sister smile as well. "I thought you'd be hopeless."

He dropped his face to place a kiss against the top of her head. "Perhaps I am."

"There's no one here I'd rather have guarding my back."

"That's not what I meant."

"I know." She clutched at his chest with the hand over his heart, almost as if she could somehow reach in and soothe the aching muscle; as if she could get to his heart, and hold it in her hand, protecting it from all the ills of the world.

Surely, she would do a better job at it than he had, he thought.

"I'd do anything for you. I'd do anything to make you happy," she whispered, and he didn't know if she was speaking her own mind or responding to his thought. He hadn't felt her in his head, so he couldn't be sure. "I want you to be happy."

"I'm as happy as I can be," the Bear assured the girl. "We're together. You're safe."

"What about love?" She pulled her face away from his chest and stared up at him. He grimaced.

"I tried it once. It didn't work out."

"Rosie…"

"No, Arya."

"But…"

The assassin shook his head. "She's too much like her. And, she's too different."

The girl nodded and stepped back, putting more space between them. The loss of her, of the press of her against him, made him ache. When at last she pulled her fingers from his where they'd been gripping each other almost since the moment she'd arrived, he curled that hand into a tight fist.

"Someday, perhaps," his sister said.

"Perhaps," he breathed, amicable. Never again, he thought.

It hurt too much.

"I'm sorry."

Again, he wasn't sure if she was answering his thought or speaking on some idea of her own. "About what?"

Arya sighed. "About not doing this more. I haven't been around much, I know…"

"You're tailed by your guard wherever you go, and you're constantly surrounded by advisors."

"Being talked at," she groused.

"Being talked at, and beseeched, and flattered, and guided," he expanded.

"And scolded."

"I should think you'd be used to that by now." The Lyseni smirked as he said it.

"You never really get used to it," the girl griped. He laughed. "But still, despite scolding advisors and encroaching guards, I should make time. For you."

"You are. Right now."

"You're always so quick to forgive me."

"Are you scolding me now, your grace?"

"No, sweet friend. I am not scolding you now."

"Good. I'd hate to think I'd fallen out of royal favor."

The Cat growled at him and punched his arm.

"Ow! That feels very much like falling out of royal favor!" the false-knight complained.

"Well, you should let me be humble, and comforting," the girl pouted. "I came here specifically to be humble and comforting."

"Forgive me, sister," the Bear murmured. "You may humbly comfort me until your heart is content."

"You are quite impossible."

He bowed. "Thank you, your grace."

"It wasn't a compliment." There was a smile in her voice as she spoke. "Shouldn't your watch be over by now?"

As if on cue, the Rat approached them. "Ho, there, Ser Willem," the false-squire greeted. "Rosie." He sneered that last.

"Baynard," the girl sniped back.

"Rest while you can," the Westerosi assassin advised. "The dawn is only a few hours away and our ruthless queen will surely make us break our fasts in the saddle with the sunrise."

"Goodnight brother," the Bear chuckled.

"I'll show you ruthless," Arya grumbled under her breath but the Lyseni did not allow her to start a fight with the Rat, jerking her away by her arm.

"I'll escort you to your pavilion," the large man said sternly, leaving no room for argument.

Still, Arya argued. "No, I'll escort you to your tent."

"And risk Rosie's reputation?"

"No one will see. It's black as pitch out here and everyone is asleep."

"You should be asleep." There was a note of censure in his deep voice.

"There, you see? Scolding. I'll never get used to it…"

"Fine," the Bear growled, giving in. "Escort me."

She did. And she followed him into the tent, and when he stretched out on his sleeping furs, she stretched out beside him, settling into his warmth. He didn't argue, instead throwing his thick arm over her and pulling her in tightly against him. For as much as he might deny it, he did not wish to be alone with the thoughts that had been rattling around in his head before she'd appeared at his side tonight; the thoughts he'd felt her feeling before he even saw her.

Thoughts of glittering brown eyes staring forever toward the heavens, and guilt, and choices.

Thoughts of what might've been, but now, never would.

The Rat wasn't wrong. Before the dawn, Arya awoke and extricated herself from the Bear's grip. She stole from his tent and into the royal pavilion, bobbing Rosie's blonde curls at Podrick Payne and Ben Blackwood who stood guard over the sleeping maid they thought was their queen. Once inside, she changed her face, then her clothes, slipping into worn breeches, a soft blouse and her crimson doublet. She emerged moments later, carrying her saddle bags and greeting the stationed guards as their queen rather than as the queen's maid.

"Good morning, Ser Podrick. Ser Ben." She nodded at them in turn.

"It's not quite morning yet your grace," Ser Ben replied.

"No? Good. I want to be riding as the dawn breaks."

"Yes, your grace," the men chorused, following her to her mount. She threw her saddle bags on Bane and turned to see Jon Brax there, rubbing his eyes.

"I would've done that for you, your grace," he yawned.

She smiled at the boy. "That's because you're an excellent squire, Jon."

"I don't feel very excellent."

"Don't worry, you will. Now run and help Rosie finish packing my things."

"Shall I fetch your swords and armor too?"

"See?" she crowed, patting his shoulder. "Excellent."

Ser Gendry stumbled through the trees then, carrying his own pack and bedroll over his shoulder and fairly dragging his warhammer.

"Up before the dawn again, my queen?" His sleep-deprived voice rumbled hoarsely up from his chest. He set to work attaching his things to his horse's saddle.

"Good morning, Ser Gendry." The girl's tone was entirely too chipper for the pre-dawn grey. "Did you sleep well?"

"I did, your grace. I wish I were still sleeping well."

"I'm sorry. Were your dreams of ringing bells interrupted?" She suppressed a snort as she asked the question.

"Not of ringing bells, no. I dreamed we were back in Harrenhal again."

Arya frowned. "That sounds more like a nightmare."

"Some parts were," he agreed. "And some… weren't."

The girl's eyebrows rose in surprise. "We must remember Harrenhal very differently."

"I'd wager we do, your grace."

There was something in his voice as he spoke. Something that echoed the Bear's earlier sentiment about simpler times. It filled her with a strange sensation, but she shook it off and teased her old friend.

"Well, at least when we ride today, we'll not have to rely on tree moss to determine if we're heading in the right direction."

Gendry actually laughed at that and fastened his warhammer to his horse's side. "I'm sure that seemed like a sound plan to a girl of one and ten."

"Hey! I don't recall you having any better ideas."

"No, that's true. You were the one with all the ideas. You still are."

She could make out his expression in the lightening grey of the morning. His blue eyes were fastened to hers and there was a softness to his look, the corners of his mouth tipped upward slightly. The girl cleared her throat.

"Not all of them good, unfortunately. Running straight into the Hound's arms, for one."

The blacksmith-knight's face darkened at that and his tone took on an edge of bitterness. "I remember."

Arya hadn't meant to foul his mood and did not like the self-recrimination she could feel rolling off him at her words. She stepped closer to him and dropped her voice low enough that only he could hear it.

"That wasn't your fault."

"It's kind of you to say so, your grace."

"I don't say it to be kind," she insisted. "I say it because it's the truth."

"It's not the truth I know," he hissed in the faintest whisper.

"And it's of no consequence, anyway."

"How can you say that?"

The girl shrugged. "It became just another part of my path." And that her path had eventually led her to Braavos, and back to Jaqen, was something she could never regret. "And anyway, we're here now, alive and well."

"Some more well than others."

"You really are a stupid bull." Arya spouted the words with a mixture of annoyance and affection.

"That I am, your grace. But isn't it nice that some things never change?"

Despite the general grumbling about the early hour the camp was broken and the sniping about the quality of breakfast one could consume while riding, the mood of the company was buoyed significantly when they caught sight of the kingsroad mid-morning. In celebration, they actually dismounted and enjoyed a leisurely midday meal along the roadside when the sun was directly overhead.

"Never let it be said that our queen isn't benevolent," Brynden Blackwood japed as he settled in near Arya to eat. "Thank you for this respite."

The queen herself was reclined in the dying grass just off the road, one boot crossed over the other, using her pack as a pillow against which to lean her back. Her eyes were closed, and her face was tipped up toward the sun, soaking in its warmth. She grinned at the heir to Raventree Hall without opening her eyes.

"Is it the gallant Ser Brynden who thanks me, or just his saddle-sore arse?"

"Can't it be both?" he chuckled between bites of bread and hard cheese.

The girl opened her eyes and sat up, looking at the knight and marveling at how adjusted he'd become to her occasional crassness. He never even commented on it anymore. His acceptance delighted her more than she thought it should.

After all, she'd certainly learned to live without the acceptance of others.

Of course, that didn't mean it wasn't nice to have anyway.

"Enjoy my benevolence while it lasts, my lord. Soon, we'll be riding again."

The man groaned. "Have mercy, my queen!" he cried, but his eyes danced, and she knew he wasn't really complaining.

"I think in the end, you'll forgive my haste," Arya said. "The road has its charms, but they don't compare to those of Winterfell."

"I have no doubt," Brynden replied. He looked at her and his tone became more serious. "Are you very anxious?"

"Anxious? To return home?"

He nodded.

"Hmm," the girl mused. "I suppose I am. It's been nearly seven years since I've seen the walls of Winterfell. The closer I come, the more impatient I seem to get." She looked sheepish then. "I suppose you're all feeling the brunt of that impatience."

"Not to worry, your grace. I don't think anyone cares to spend more nights in the open than are strictly necessary. Though when we arrive, I may have to soak a full week to repair the damage to my saddle-sore arse." His smile was wicked as he tossed Arya's words back at her and she laughed.

"As an apology for being the cause of your… condition, I'll take you to the godswood when we arrive."

"So that I may beseech the gods for healing?"

She leaned in close, conspiratorial. "There's a pool there," she revealed. "It's fed by a hot spring. Steam rises from it in a warm mist. You may soak there for as long as you wish."

"Under the watchful gaze of the old gods?"

"Just so." She returned his wicked smile and added, "Imagine the convenience. You can beseech and soak, all at the same time."

The knight threw his head back and released a genuine laugh. It was infectious and set the girl to giggling herself. Thoros called over to the pair.

"What are you two discussing that has you so amused?"

"The gods," Arya called back.

"Saddle sores," Brynden answered at the same time.

The two looked at each other for a beat, then burst out with fresh laughter.

Though their pace was mostly ambling after their sojourn at midday, the excellence of both the weather and the road insured that the company covered a fair amount of ground. As the sun sank lower and it became obvious they would need to seek a spot to make camp soon, Arya was overtaken by the urge to ride. To really ride.

Or, more precisely, to race.

"I'll scout ahead for a site to make camp," the queen announced.

Several of the men spoke up, imploring her to leave it to them.

"Fine," she replied, looking over her likely competition. She wanted a challenge. "Ser Kyle, Ser Jaime, and Harwin may join me." The men looked at her and then at each other in confusion, but it didn't last long. The queen clucked her tongue at Bane as she leaned over his neck and the beast responded with loud whinny, followed by an ungodly burst of speed. The knights she'd named and Harwin all groaned but then snapped their reins and took off after her.

Harwin broke away from the knights, but as they pounded the road, neither he nor his mount could maintain the second-place spot. The Northman might've been the son of the master of horse at Winterfell, but he'd aged, and his steed did not have half the endurance of Arya's. Kyle Condon was an able rider and his mount was one of the better animals from Walder Frey's stables, but he could not gain on the girl enough to threaten her lead. In the end, and much to the queen's surprise, the Kingslayer nearly caught her. When she pulled up and wheeled Bane over to inspect a field bordered by a small wood, Jaime drew alongside her, huffing slightly.

"If you mean to break all our necks, your grace, then by all means…"

"I had no idea you were such a capable horseman," the girl interrupted. "I'm impressed." The knight seemed taken aback at her praise.

"I didn't beat you."

"No, but you beat two Northmen, and that's no small feat."

"Really, your grace, I must insist…"

"I'm fine, Ser Jaime."

"If your horse had thrown you, at that speed…"

The girl tsked a bit and patted the beast's neck. "Bane and I have an understanding, don't we, boy?" She murmured soft words to him and stroked him a moment longer. "He doesn't do that anymore."

"Anymore?"

"Your horse seems a fine specimen, too," Arya observed by way of distraction. The Kingslayer shrugged.

"Shitter is a perfect mount, honestly. Fast, dependable, smart. For a horse."

"Shitter?" the girl laughed. "You named your horse Shitter?"

"Well, Goldshitter, to be precise, but we don't stand on ceremony."

"Goldshitter?" she snorted.

"I was feeling nostalgic when I named him."

Arya was still laughing when Harwin and Ser Kyle caught up to them.

"Yes, your grace, I think this will do nicely," her queensguard said as he surveyed the field and wood.

"Skillful riding, your grace," Harwin panted. "I think your father would be proud. Angry, but proud."

Arya thought those words could be used to describe the attitude of half the men in her life, at least regarding her. Proud, but angry.

Maybe more than half.

Not the Greatjon, though. When the rest of the company finally joined the advance party, he immediately asked after the winner of the race. Finding it was his queen, the large man boasted and brayed, singing her praises, and by extension, the praises of all Northern riders. He confidently asserted that no one could outride a Stark of Winterfell.

All pride. His anger, he reserved for other more worthy matters.

Yes, she liked the Greatjon very much.

The next morning, as they continued along northward, there were no more breakneck antics from the queen. The scenery changed and the road narrowed a bit, no longer seeming as hospitable a place for a race. As they advanced, the land on either side of the road became less firm and began to give way to true bogs.

"We're getting closer to the Neck," Jaime observed and Harwin grunted in agreement.

"Soon, there will be parts of the road where we'll be reduced to riding single file," the Northman announced.

The girl nodded, tossing her memory back nearly seven years ago, when she'd last ridden through the swamps of the Neck. The prospect of lizard-lions seemed less exciting now than it had when she was nine. She supposed if one emerged and tried to snap at Bane's hooves, she could use her gift to steer the thing back into the murk, but the prospect did not thrill her. The last time she'd… entered… the mind of something that wasn't warm-blooded was when she'd been tossed into a Braavosi canal and nearly eaten by giant eels. It was not a memory she cherished, and she hoped she didn't have to relive it anytime soon.

Then again, how different would the mind of a lizard-lion be than a dragon's? she wondered. Perhaps it would be good practice…

Arya mused to herself, mostly nodding absently at the conversations taking place around her until she was startled from her thoughts by the company halting and dismounting.

"What are you doing?" she asked Lady Brienne who was standing the nearest to her.

"Stopping to make camp, your grace," the knightly woman answered, her expression declaring her confusion at the question.

"Why? We have at least three hours of daylight left."

"Yes, your grace," her guardswoman agreed, "but as we discussed not an hour ago, we'd have to sleep on the causeway tonight if we continue on now. There's not enough light left to make it across the thick of the swamp. We're better off making camp here and starting off at first light when we can traverse the entire causeway in the span of a day."

The Kingslayer, still mounted on Goldshitter, pulled even with the queen and turned to her, saying, "This is the plan you nodded along to genially when Harwin and I discussed it, your grace, though I suppose your general lack of venom at its proposal should have alerted us to the degree of your inattention."

The girl glared at the Lord Commander of her Winter Guard and dismounted, muttering about having more important things on her mind. When asked what they were, she simply huffed and led Bane off the road to allow him to graze.

"Tell us about Braavos, your grace," Hoster Blackwood suggested as the company finished its supper and the raucous jesting around the fire quieted down. The question caught her off her guard. She stalled as she considered what she could and could not say to them about Braavos

Or, more precisely, what she wished and did not wish to say.

"Braavos?" she laughed. "What would possibly interest you about such a faraway place?"

"Anything," Lord Hoster answered. "Everything. I've only seen two of the seven kingdoms, after all: the one I was born in, and the one where I was held hostage for years. But what interests me most about Braavos is that it's part of your story, your grace."

"Well, Braavos is… warm."

"Simply enthralling," Jaime drawled.

"And it's… free."

"Hence it's inclusion amongst the free cities," he japed.

"Yes, Ser Jaime," Arya agreed, "but that's not what I mean. I mean the people are… just… free. Opinionated. Expressive."

"I can see how you were able to fit in there for so long," the golden knight snorted. The girl rolled her eyes at him.

"The Braavosi are generally outgoing, and far more accepting of newcomers than the Westerosi," the girl continued. "The people are mostly... convivial."

"What's convivial?" Jon Brax asked sleepily. The queen was honestly surprised the lad was still awake, though she did not think that would last for long. Lady Brienne obligingly leaned over to explain the word to him.

"The exception being if you crossed paths with a Bravo after dark," she added, winking at her squire. "They may have looked convivial, but they loved nothing more than spilling the blood of anyone foolish enough to get in their way while carrying steel."

"Come now, your grace," the Kingslayer prodded. "The weather? The populace? Generalities! There must be more you can tell us. You were there nigh on five years, after all."

"It's where I met Ser Willem and his squire," she revealed.

Gendry straightened at her disclosure. "Is that so?" the dark knight said, a wrinkle forming where his brows pinched in tightly together.

"Really? Now that is fascinating," Jaime said, ignoring Gendry. He turned to the false-Dornishman. "And what was it that brought you to Braavos in the first place, Ser Willem?"

The Bear's eyes flicked to his sister's before he settled his gaze on the golden knight's suspicious expression.

"Duty," the assassin replied.

"Duty? Well, now…" the Kingslayer whistled. "And did you fulfill your duty before you sold your sword to our queen?"

"I did." The false-knight took a deep swallow from his wineskin then wiped his mouth before adding, "And I didn't sell my sword, ser. I pledged it."

Jaime nodded and there seemed to be a bit of begrudging respect in his look. "So, you're a real man of honor, then."

"He is," Arya answered, suddenly somber. "A man of great honor." The Bear's eyes locked with the Cat's and she swallowed, nodding once.

"What else can you tell us?" Hoster asked, leaning forward and bracing his elbows against his knees. He was paying rapt attention to the queen.

She gazed off, her brows knitting, then said, "The air seems to have weight there, but it's not unpleasant. And the streets are close, as close as King's Landing, in parts, but they're cleaner. And brighter, somehow. And there are nearly as many canals as streets. The canals are streets, really, but instead of foot or horse, you travel by barge. And the barges… Some are simple wooden affairs, without ornament or paint, but some of them are more luxurious than a throne room in a palace."

She closed her eyes, remembering Biro's sumptuous barge, fit for a courtesan. All reds and golds, silks and tassels, thick cushions and sheer drapery. The Cat could perfectly recall how it had felt to recline on the padded bench, and the way the salt water had smelled as the vessel cut through the harbor, bound for the mouth of one of the many canals. She recollected the breeze through her hair and the way the diaphanous gold curtain blew from the porthole to caress her cheek. She could taste Umma's peppery fish stew on her tongue then, and she perfectly recalled the feel of warm, crusty bread in her fingers as she tore off pieces to soak in the stew for a moment before popping it into her mouth.

She could envision it all with such clarity. The memories called to mind that earlier conversation she'd had with the Bear, about their life in Braavos.

Do you miss it?

No.

Maybe sometimes.

Maybe some things.

Things like the sun kissing the water of the harbor and leaving diamonds in its wake, glinting brightly enough to nearly burn the eye before skipping from the peak of one small wave to the next. Or the smell of spices in the streets. Or the garish silks the Bravos wore and the sound of their clashing blades by the Moon Pool after dark.

The market.

The canals.

The cockle carts and mummers in the streets.

The ebony and weirwood doors that meant she'd arrived home.

The onyx and alabaster benches beneath the lemon and fig trees of the temple garden.

The courtyard fountain under the moonlight.

Her Lorathi master and all he'd taught her and all they'd done, each little adventure, each stolen kiss and soft touch…

"It sounds quite beautiful," Lord Hoster said in hushed tones. "Do you ever miss it?"

Arya smiled and studied the toes of her boots in the firelight. "Maybe sometimes," she sighed softly. "Maybe… some things." She hadn't meant to sound as sad as she did when she answered him.

"Your grace, are you well?" Lady Brienne asked with concern.

"Sorry," the girl laughed, shaking her head. "I was just… remembering it all." She laughed some more, but this time it was more forced. "It's so vibrant there. So colorful. It's almost… almost too much to take in, really."

"It must be a comfort for you to be back in drab, dull Westeros, then," the Kingslayer snarked.

Arya did not rise to his bait, but instead, cast her gaze northward a moment. "In many ways, it is, Ser Jaime," she replied so quietly, it was a strain to hear. Her grey eyes were still trained on the road ahead.

She looked for Jaqen that night, in Braavos. She hadn't chosen Braavos, but still, she'd ended up there. The streets felt as familiar to her as they ever had, though the brightness of the city made it hard for her to keep her eyes open.

'Strange,' she thought. 'Isn't it night?'

The Cat ran through the streets and crossed countless bridges, bound for the ebony and weirwood doors. When she reached them, however, she hesitated, filled with a sense of dread.

'No,' she thought. 'Not this way.'

She bounded down the steps and ran along the side of the temple until she found a familiar spot along the garden wall. There, she climbed, dropping down soundlessly on the other side. She was between two monstrous hostas, green and lush and tall, beneath the shade of a lemon tree. She looked at the smooth bark of the lemon tree's trunk, then began to climb it. She couldn't explain why she did it; she just did.

Once she was settled in the high branches, she heard a man speaking.

No, two men.

'You do not understand all that is at stake, brother,' the Kindly Man was saying, his voice cold. Just to hear it caused a shiver to race down the Cat's spine.

'So a man's brother keeps saying,' came the reply, and Arya recognized Jaqen's voice immediately. It was calm; steady. But knowing him as she did now, the girl could recognize in it something akin to protest; a challenge. 'Perhaps if you explained it…'

Her master was interrupted by the Principal Elder. 'You need not trouble yourself, brother.' The girl could hear the warning in his pronouncement. 'These matters are well in hand.'

'This is about my trial,' the Cat realized, and it all felt so real, she wasn't sure if it were a dream, or a memory, or if she had somehow been transported through time and space, settled inexplicably back in this moment she had already lived.

The two men continued strolling and talking and the girl wondered how she might catch her master's attention so that they could speak. Her fingers itched to touch him. But then, she wasn't sure if they would actually be speaking since she couldn't be sure if this were his dream, or her dream, or even a dream at all.

When the two men parted, Jaqen seated himself on a bench beneath the lemon tree where she hid. She watched him until he rose and left. She tried to call after him but was unable to muster more than a hoarse whisper. Frustrated, she dropped down from the tree branch to the bench, and, once steady, jumped to the ground. She cleared her throat to no avail; her voice still would not work. And so, she chased after him, following him through the rear door of the temple, but once inside, she found she was not in the temple at all. At least, it was not the temple as she remembered it.

The place was green, all shades, dark and light. Her own hands were green. She peered around her. No, she was not in the temple at all. She was… back in her camp, curled up in her soft sleeping furs, but they were green, too. She sat up.

'Do not be alarmed, your grace,' a voice called to her. She startled, then looked all around. Rosie was sleeping across from her, softly snoring. But there, standing just inside the tent flap, was a stranger. A green stranger. 'I've only come to tell you that.'

'Tell me what? Not to be alarmed?'

The man bowed. It was difficult to make out his features, so green were they, but he was a man grown, though he was only a few inches taller than she was herself. His beard was light green, which made Arya wonder if it ought to be gray. The girl stood.

'Who are you?'

'A friend,' the small green man replied. 'And a loyal subject.'

She approached him carefully. 'Have we met?'

'We will. Soon.'

'Then how do you know me?'

The man smiled, and there was something reassuring about his look. He glanced around and held his palms out, as if to indicate their surroundings.

'You've come a long way, your grace. Your father would be proud.'

'You knew my father?'

He smiled again.

'I'll send men to greet you. They'll find you in the marsh. Do not be alarmed, your grace. They're friends.'

'You'll send men…' the girl repeated, confused.

'This is most extraordinary,' the man declared, looking around again in wonder.

'What is?'

The man bowed once again, saying, 'We'll meet again soon, your grace.'

'Where? In another dream?' she asked. 'You haven't even told me who you are!'

But she was speaking to no one, for the man had vanished, taking with him all the green. The world was deep grey now but getting lighter by the minute. It took Arya a moment to realize she was standing at the entrance to her tent, staring at the canvas walls in the pre-dawn gloom.

Staring at nothing.

"Your grace?" Rosie croaked, her eyelids fluttering open. "Did you say something?"

"I…" The girl turned and stared at her maid, trying to ascertain if she'd been dreaming or sleepwalking, or if perhaps she were simply going mad. "I hardly know."

I and Love and You—The Avett Brothers