And we're standing on holy ground
Arya was given a chamber on the highest level of the of the floating castle's great keep, a cozy corner room with windows facing the west and the north. A young woman helped her settle in, a Cray girl called Dyanna who claimed some relationship to the captain of the guard as well as the master of Greywater Watch. Howland had murmured to his queen that Dyanna Cray had lost her lord father at the siege of Moat Cailin some years back before introducing the two. When they reached the bedchamber, the young woman offered to brush out and plait the queen's hair before bed.
"You don't have to do that," the girl replied.
"I don't mind, your grace," Dyanna said, smiling as she found a brush amongst Arya's things.
Rosie must've slipped that into my pack, Arya thought, but what she said was, "You're no servant, though. You're a lady."
"Highborn or low, aren't we all servants to our queen?" The young woman's voice was light and musical, tinged with laughter at its edges. It had the effect of making the Cat wonder if she was sincere or mocking, but something told her it was the former. She found her attendant's easy manner soothing, and so she made no objection when Dyanna pulled her messy braid apart and began untangling her chestnut mane. "I imagine you'll have your appointed ladies once you're settled in Winterfell, though for now, I'll have to do."
"My appointed ladies?"
"Yes. Don't all queens have their ladies?"
Arya shrugged, uncertain. She'd only ever known one queen, and she did not intend to model herself after Cersei Lannister. Dyanna continued, prodding the girl.
"You know, bosom companions who keep the queen's secrets and fawn over her gowns and brush her hair and take her dictation?" Her tone suggested she was japing, at least partially. It also implied she knew very well how her queen would feel about such obsequious attentions. Arya decided her Lady Cray was a very clever woman.
"I have a maid for brushing my hair," the girl replied. "She's called Rosie. And I can write my own letters." Insofar as bosom companions who keep the queen's secrets, there were perhaps two people in the whole of the world she'd consider looking to for that, and one was hundreds of leagues away, wearing a false face in a conquered city. As for the other… Could the Bear even be a queen's lady?
Perhaps she should ask her brother assassin how he'd feel about such a post.
The thought brought a secret smile to her lips.
"I think it nice that a queen should have her ladies," the young Cray woman replied. "Otherwise, it might get too lonely."
Arya contemplated that for a moment. As a child in King's Landing, she'd never had much use for ladies, nor they for her, and when she thought of the highborn women who tended Cersei, she could not name one she would trust to keep her secrets or take her dictation. She couldn't even think of one she'd trust enough to brush her hair, and she had few enough gowns over which to fawn that such an effort would be rendered pointless.
The thought of it made her chuckle to herself, though. She could just imagine some highborn lady from a minor house, thrilled to be favored with the title Mistress of the Wardrobe. That is, until she was forced to think of something nice to say about her queen's soiled blouses and worn out breeches after a sparring session.
'Oh, your grace… is that blood on your sleeve? The color… suits your complexion.'
"Besides," the crannogwoman continued, oblivious to Arya's droll musings, "your ladies wouldn't have to talk of gowns or court gossip. You could choose companions more suited to your own interests."
"My own interests?"
The woman smiled. "We may be widely considered an insular region, your grace, but whisperings of your deeds have reached even here. And your little squire was quite happy to provide more detail at supper."
The Cat turned her head, glancing up at Dyanna with a quizzical look.
The crannogwoman obliged her and explained her meaning. "The infiltration of Riverrun? Lord Hoster was only too glad to confirm that you'd saved his life in spectacular fashion, after dealing with that blackguard Hosteen Frey on your own. And then there was a gripping tale of a certain swordswoman avenging the Northern losses at the Twins." The Cray girl's lips twisted into a mischievous smirk. "The Butcher of the Crossing? That's quite a moniker."
"I've been called worse."
"You misunderstand me, your grace. You'll find only admiration here. The people of the Neck respect strength almost as much as we value justice. You've demonstrated both with your deeds. I only meant to say that your reputation makes me think you'd require a different sort of lady to tend you. The ladies of Bear Island are fearsome warriors, or so everyone says. I should think you'd find such company agreeable." Dyanna pulled the brush gently through Arya's hair, from crown to ends. When it snagged, she worked the knot through with her fingers. The feel of it lulled the queen. "Lord Reed's own daughter is an excellent huntress and as brave as anyone in the Neck." The woman chuckled a little, then added, "And I'd wager she owns as many pairs of breeches as you."
"Meera Reed?" Something tickled at her memory as Arya thought of Howland's daughter. Something from a dream that was more than a dream… "She's a credit to her house," the girl mumbled softly as she squinted.
"Oh, does your grace know my Lady Meera?" The Cray woman's face lit up.
Arya bit her lip, gazing through one of the windows at the fathomless darkness of night in the Neck. She heard the distant cries of what she now recognized as a blood-billed Ibis. "Only by reputation."
Dyanna smiled, but to the girl, there seemed to be some sadness behind it. "She's been gone a long while now."
"Were you close with her?"
"Aye, we're nearly of an age, and were practically raised together. My mother was cousin to Lord Reed. Lady Meera and I have been friends for longer than either of us can remember."
Was. The choice of words was not lost on the queen. Dyanna had said her mother was a cousin to Lord Reed. The girl bit her lower lip and glanced up at her companion's face again, realizing Dyanna Cray was an orphan, just like Arya herself. She was a small woman, like all the crannogwomen, and pale, with dark hair, much darker than Arya's own. But the queen appreciated a brightness behind her attendant's eyes, as though she were lit from within by a dozen warm lanterns. But how? She'd lost her mother, and her father. And now, her closest friend.
"It must be hard," the queen remarked, "to do without your friend."
"I trust that she's well, your grace. After all, she is Meera Reed. She could not be otherwise." The young woman smiled, and Arya faced forward once again as Dyanna set her brush down and began to plait her hair into four smaller braids for sleeping. "That must be enough for me."
As the crannogwoman worked and hummed a wordless tune, the queen wondered at her companion, at the persistence of her hope, and at her quiet strength. It wasn't the same sort of strength it took to swing a sword with violence and skill, to be sure, but it was remarkable in its own way. To absorb such loss, to feel it, to carry that heavy load but to be so utterly unbowed by it all… Arya wondered how such a thing was possible.
Did Dyanna's heart clench at the thought of her mother? Did it feel as though a lump of ice formed beneath her breast when she remembered her father? Did her throat burn and ache as she wondered about her absent friend?
"Lady Dyanna, I think you might be the sort of lady I wouldn't mind having at court."
"Me, your grace?" She paused in her task, holding the girl's thick locks loosely for a moment. "I… I hardly know what to say."
Arya shrugged. "You mustn't feel obligated. I understand how difficult it can be to leave your home behind. I just thought…"
"No, no! Obligated? I'm… so honored. But I'm hardly worthy of such a post!"
"Why not?"
"Well…" The woman blew out a great puff of air. "I don't fight with sword or spear. I'm a poor huntress. I've not the mind for political gamesmanship…"
"Oh, I think your mind is as sharp as anyone's, Lady Cray."
"Then, perhaps I should say that I've not the patience for it. Politics, I mean."
"That makes two of us."
"Your grace, I've done nothing of note. Not like you…"
The queen thought of Ned and Catelyn, of her ever-present sorrow at their loss, and she thought of Dyanna Cray's musical speech and the bright light behind her eyes. She turned in her seat and regarded the crannogwoman shrewdly.
"There may things we can learn from one another," Arya finally said. "But I leave it with you. I'd not press you into service by any means. Think on it and…"
"Think on it? There's nothing to think about." The woman dropped to her knees and took her queen's hand, squeezing it. "I'd love nothing better than to go north with you! I… I can hardly believe it!"
Dyanna's bewildered excitement was infectious and it made Arya smile.
"We must petition Lord Reed," the girl cautioned.
"He'd never refuse his queen," the Cray woman insisted, "and knowing him, he's already aware. He has a gift for… anticipation." She grinned as she said it.
"Still, it's courtesy. I'll ask him tomorrow when we break our fast."
"Yes, your grace." Dyanna rose, bobbing a quick curtsey, then finished with the queen's hair. When the crannogwoman finally departed the chamber, Arya moved to one of the north-facing windows and looked out over the dark swamp. The clouds were low, so the sky appeared starless and beyond the flickering of scattered lanterns below, there was not much to be seen in the heavy darkness. But there was much to be heard.
And some things to be felt.
The girl closed her eyes and breathed in the air of the swamp. It was thick, and loamy, and she could detect hints of the sweet rot of fallen, half-submerged trees. She opened her eyes once again, staring hard into the blackness.
The chirps and croaking of the night frogs filled her ears and though she couldn't see the teeming life in the waters and trees and on the marshy islands that surrounded and nearly swallowed Greywater Watch, she could sense it nonetheless. It was out there, in the dark, breathing, moving, hunting. The very night seemed to writhe with it, black on black, and the way the feeling seeped into her skin caused her arms and neck to prickle. Some of it felt menacing and some of it lacked threat. Some of it seemed a part of the very landscape, rising from the still waters and the miry crannogs, and some of it seemed more ethereal, as though spirits reached out from the Nightlands and trailed their gossamer fingers through the eventide air, stirring invisible currents that cut through her as easily as the freshly-sharpened edge of Needle could cleave silk. Some of it was solid, and some of it was barely more than a notion.
The Neck was a mysterious place, and to Arya, it seemed full of magic and mud, the alluring and the actual, where enchantment and the elements vied for supremacy. There was what could be seen, and held, and known, and then there was what could be merely imagined. It all blended with utter transcendence, creating a world both beautiful and frightening. That much was certain. And as much as the girl was seduced by it, she was also wary.
Since her arrival here, the deep vibrations in her bones had intensified in such a way that she could not be otherwise.
Finally, she pushed back from the window and moved to her bed, thinking she could not hope to comprehend all the complexities and secrets of a land so ancient and peculiar in one night. Better to rest, then, and see what the morning light would reveal.
Well, the morning light, and the lord of this strange castle.
That night, Arya's dreams started as a tumult, disjointed and discomfiting, though that was nothing new to the girl. Still, her familiarity with the odd, roiling feel of it all did little to pacify her. In fact, it rather made things worse. It struck her that she was dreaming, and she so knew what she was seeing and feeling was not real, and yet she found little utility in the fact. She was powerless to affect what was happening, which was a great frustration after her more recent dreams. Anyone watching her sleep would've recognized her agitation in her restless tossing and the clenching of her fingers and the soft, moaning protestations that escaped her lips as she slipped and stumbled through dreamscapes familiar and fantastical.
She was whisked from the stables of the Red Keep to the dank passages of its lowest levels, then she ran through the streets of the capital, starving, before ending up at Baelor's feet. Her father was on the stone steps of the sept and the girl told herself to wake up, wake UP, stupid! But she couldn't wake up. All she could do was turn away as Ser Ilyn brought Ice down in a cruel stroke that had changed her life forever.
After that, she was in Harrenhal, but only briefly, and only for the worst parts of her memories of the dark castle. Abused by Weese, threatened by the Bloody Mummers, she whimpered in her sleep, incoherent pleas for it to all to stop mumbled into her pillow.
In a stroke of good fortune, or perhaps as a sign the gods were taking mercy upon her, she eventually found Nymeria, hunting with her pack. A wolf dream, the most familiar and comforting sort. She ran with the beasts, relishing the burn in her legs as she did. She knew the Neck was at her back, the wolves having passed Moat Cailin under the cover of darkness earlier that evening. The men and horses were nearly a day behind them, and sleeping now, but the wolves could not tarry in the swamp, for the hunting was not as good for them there. The teeth of the lizard-lions were as sharp as the wolves' own, and their hides tougher.
Knowing that Nymeria was continuing safely on her journey to Winterfell gladdened the girl's heart and looking at the world through wolf eyes soothed the ache she'd felt at her earlier nightmares.
Arya left Nymeria after the direwolf brought down a stag and began feasting. She next found herself in the cold crypts of Winterfell, facing her Aunt Lyanna's tomb. The front was cracked in several places with shards of stone knocked loose and scattered at her feet. The girl's forehead wrinkled as she inspected the damage, having the vague sense that she was somehow responsible for it, but while she watched, small tongues of fire appeared in the cracks and divots, flaring to life and filling the thin fractures and pock marks. The flames died down quickly, as if they'd been frozen in place, leaving small, smooth seams of red mortar in the cracks, like iced blood, glinting and hard. The girl stepped closer, reaching her fingers toward the newly made crystalline red lines. Tentatively, she touched one of the strange scarlet seams.
The touch burned her fingertips and she jerked back with a yelp, staring down at her hand. There was nothing to see, no marks or blisters. She stared back up, first at the oddly repaired tomb, then at the still stature of the beautiful woman atop it. Lyanna stared back at her with unseeing eyes of chiseled stone.
'You caused a lot of trouble, didn't you?' the girl smirked, shaking her hand at her side. The sting of the fiery mortar had subsided, though.
'She was young,' Ned said from behind her. 'Younger than you are now, and even more impetuous, if you can imagine such a thing.' His voice was soft, and kind, and sad. Arya whirled around, wanting to protest; to tell him that she was not impetuous. Not really.
Not anymore.
But those words wouldn't come. Not after dreaming of him on the steps of the sept in King's Landing. She couldn't be defiant, or defensive now. Not when she was a daughter who was simply relieved to see her father again.
'Father,' she murmured, and her words nearly stopped in her throat.
'Still, her age did little to temper the consequences of her choices. Her family bled for her unrestrained passions, and then the whole land, and eventually, so did she.'
'I'm coming, father,' Arya insisted. 'I'll not fail you. I'm coming. To help Jon.'
'To help the North,' he corrected, his eyes, so like hers, gazing down at her from his high seat atop his tomb, 'my grey daughter.'
'Yes,' she agreed, bowing her head.
When she lifted it again, she was no longer in the crypts. She blinked, confused, then, much to her surprise, she realized she'd found Jaqen. Her heart pounded with such force, it threatened to shatter the cage of her ribs.
Finally, she thought, staring at him through the dark veil she wore.
It took her a moment to place it, this view, partially obscured by heavy black lace. Her widow's disguise. They were back in Braavos, she and her Lorathi master, at the inn by the Moon Pool, though in the dream, he wore his own face rather than that of a wealthy ship's captain.
That made her wonder for a moment if she walked in his dream, or he in hers.
The connection Arya felt to her master at that moment was different than before; stronger, somehow; lacking the dreamlike quality of their other encounters. The way his bronze eyes burned as he stared into hers, the feel of his warm skin beneath her fingertips, the sound of his accented voice rumbling up from his chest was as real to her as it was when she'd first lived this moment across the Narrow Sea.
'An impetuous apprentice still needs time to learn how to rule her face, it seems,' he said, the fingers of his one hand curling around her wrist as the fingers of his other plucked a small dagger from her hand. She'd pulled it from its hidden place beneath her skirt in a fit of pique as he'd teased her. She recalled the moment with perfect clarity.
Just as she recalled all the moments she and Jaqen had spent together with perfect clarity.
The girl swallowed, knowing her line; remembering what she'd said back in Braavos, back at the inn, but she did not wish to say it now. Instead, she wanted to tell him other things.
'Jaqen,' she breathed, dropping her gaze from his and staring instead at the fingers he'd wrapped around her wrist. She reached her hand out, covering his, holding it in place, her fingers curling over his, white skin caressing tan, concentrating on the feel of his grip on her as she closed her eyes for a moment. Without opening them, she continued, 'You know this is a dream, don't you?'
The Lorathi chuckled and she could feel him pluck the veil from her head, dropping it at her feet. 'Is it?' He placed two fingers beneath her chin, tilting her head until she opened her eyes and met his gaze. 'What game is a lovely girl playing now?'
'This is no game, Jaqen, and if you'd only concentrate, I think you'd realize it.' She chewed softly at her lip for a moment until her master was compelled to use the fingers lifting her chin to tug her lip from between her teeth.
'A man would not have you abuse such tender flesh so,' he admonished quietly.
Arya's breath hitched, caught between wanting to make him realize the truth and wanting to savor his words and his touch, even though they weren't real.
(They felt real.)
'Please, Jaqen,' she finally implored. 'Please…'
Concern colored the assassin's handsome features. 'Why does a girl beg?'
'I don't know how long I can stay.'
'Your Kindly Man will expect you back on the morrow…'
'That's not what I mean,' she interrupted, frustrated. 'We're not in Braavos now.'
The Lorathi assassin sounded amused when he asked, 'No?'
'No! You're with the Targaryens, marching with their army. Think, Jaqen.'
His eyes narrowing, Jaqen looked around at the familiar chamber with its window overlooking the Braavosi street below. Slowly, it dissolved around them and then they were in another chamber, this one unknown to Arya.
'We've had word Aegon conquered the capital,' the girl told her master.
'We?'
She ignored his question and continued. 'So, you must be in King's Landing now.' The girl moved her head from side to side, briefly scanning their surroundings. 'Is this your bed chamber?'
His look of confusion morphed into one of understanding and the assassin nodded. 'Yes. A man's bed chamber. How is a girl here?'
She turned, in a tight circle, taking her time to examine the furnishings and tapestries on the wall. 'This doesn't look like a barracks room. It's far too nice.'
'Maegor's Holdfast,' he explained. 'A girl has not answered the question.'
'Maegor's?' Her tone was a mixture of confusion and suspicion. When she'd lived in the Tower of the Hand, Maegor's was home to the royal apartments and chambers for honored guests. She'd thought Jaqen was wearing the face of a simple soldier or sellsword, but no simple soldier would be allowed to lodge here. 'Why are you in Maegor's Holdfast? Are you wearing the face of a prince or a lord? Are you close with Aegon?' The thought terrified her. A simple soldier could blend in; slip away if need be. But someone in the king's inner circle would be under constant scrutiny, and, until the city was settled, in constant danger. She looked up at the assassin, not bothering to disguise her worry.
He waved a hand, dismissing her question while he demanded his own answer. 'How is a girl in a man's bedchamber in King's Landing?'
'I told you, this is a dream.'
He blinked, and the slight tension in his shoulders relaxed, a change so subtle, no one would've noticed.
No one but Arya.
He stepped closer to her, dipping his chin and gazing at her with a look that caused her lips to part as she pulled in a quiet breath.
'A lovely dream,' Jaqen whispered, 'to be with a girl, here.'
'I'm…' Arya paused, an idea occurring to her, then slowly continued. 'I'm in the Neck, and… maybe that's why this all seems so real?'
Of course, the dissolving and changing scenery was decidedly dreamlike, but the rest… Jaqen. It made sense to her that somehow, the Neck had claim to a sort of arcane power, and that power was fueling her dream. How else to explain finding him so easily after trying for so long and failing? How else to explain the strength of their connection? The very physical feel of it? And she'd sensed it, hadn't she? That power; something uncanny, ghostly, even, in the very air surrounding Greywater Watch? Felt it as she'd stared over the obscured landscape after Dyanna Cray had left her…
'The Neck?' Jaqen's brows drew together, and then they weren't in his bed chamber in King's Landing any longer. Instead, they were standing on the raised causeway which snaked through the Great Swamp. The girl looked all around. Their surroundings were hazy, and nearly colorless, like a vague memory, faded and barely intact, but it was definitely the Neck.
'You've been here,' she recalled in a whisper.
'Travelled through,' he replied, seemingly distracted, 'on the way to Wall.' Jaqen looked at her. 'Why is a girl in the Neck?'
'I'm on my way to Winterfell. You must remember this, Jaqen, please.'
'But… overland? Why does a girl not sail north?'
Arya sighed. 'That's hardly important now…'
'It's dangerous,' he admonished, cutting her off. 'The sea would be faster, and safer.'
So protective of her, even in dreams. She wrinkled her nose but more out of habit than out of any real ire. She found the idea of a man thinking she needed protection pricked at her less when that man was Jaqen.
'I needed to be here, in the Neck.'
'What is in these marshes for a girl?'
She was about to tell him they were wasting time discussing things which did not matter, but a sudden chill gripped her, and she swallowed her words.
(A chill, the feel of it so real she could sense the goose prickles raising on her arms.)
Looking down at her herself, she realized she was no longer garbed in the widow's black gown. Instead, she wore a thin, oversized blouse; something fit for the Braavosi climate; a man's favorite shirt. Her legs and feet were bare and the laces at her throat were untied and loose, causing the neck to widen and fall over one arm. Looking back at her master, she saw his eye fixed on the thin scar she bore on her exposed shoulder and raised an eyebrow at him, smirking.
'This is how you dream of me?'
He cocked his head. 'Sometimes, a man dreams of a girl in her widow's disguise, trying to stab him with her small knife.'
'I wouldn't have hurt you,' she protested, but her voice was full of a combination of mirth and innuendo when she added, 'not in any way you wouldn't have liked.' She glided around him then, all sultry grace and quiet provocation, trailing her palm over his arm, his shoulder, his neck. The texture of his shirt sleeve and skin registered against her fingertips with a clarity that caused her breath to catch. Jaqen turned his head to follow her path, his eyes appraising her decidedly feline movements.
'And sometimes, a man dreams of his lovely girl in her bath.' His smirk matched hers then, but it soon dropped into a look which was less teasing and more heated. 'You have been missed, Arya.'
That last bit, he'd spoken in Lorathi. She understood him well enough, not only because she'd once made a particular point to learn his native language, but because his words exactly mirrored her own feelings.
Jaqen, too, had been missed, but she did not have the words to say how much, in any language.
She looked up at him through her thick fringe of lashes and licked at her bottom lip which suddenly felt dry and tingly.
And then, in an instant, they were embracing, she up on her toes and flinging her arms around his neck, pulling at him. Instead of bending to her, though, he lifted her up. Her legs wrapped around his waist and she pressed her forehead against his, grey eyes struggling to focus on bronze at that scant distance.
'I don't know how long I have,' she whispered.
His voice was hoarse. 'Then we should not waste time.'
Jaqen's head tilted to one side and his lips found hers. The feel of it was so solid, so authentic to the girl that she groaned into his mouth. Her desire to tell him things, to impress upon him things she wished him to know and remember, warred with her desire to simply feel him close to her like this. It only took split second and her decision was made. She surrendered to her want of him and softened in his arms, relaxing into him, giving in completely to his kiss.
(So, so real.)
When she felt as though she were starved of air, Arya tore her mouth from Jaqen's with a gasp, dropping her head back and pulling in a deep, shuddering breath. The Lorathi did not hesitate, however, inclining his head and pressing his lips to the center of her throat. He reverently kissed his way down to the notch of her neck, his teeth scraping lightly against at the place where her two collarbones nearly met.
'Jaqen,' she murmured, shivering. 'Jaqen.'
The Lorathi assassin inhaled, drawing in the air slowly over her skin so that it tickled her neck, and also somehow tickled deep in her gut, then he moved his lips to her ear. 'That name,' he breathed, 'on your tongue. It is a man's favorite sound.'
'I don't want to leave you…'
'Then, do not.'
'…but I don't have a choice.'
She could feel it; could feel the start of the pull and knew what it meant. Soon, she'd find herself in a different dream; one without Jaqen.
'I need to know that you are well,' she told him, her hands slipping to each side of his face, gripping him and forcing him to look at her. 'I need to know that you will take the greatest care.'
He laughed then, a small laugh, his look both fond and chiding as was his way with her so often.
'Unlike his beautiful, reckless apprentice, a man always takes the greatest care.'
'You'll come to me,' Arya said, her voice taking on an edge of desperation as the pull strengthened. 'In Winterfell. You'll come!'
'Has a girl already forgotten the vow a man made to her?'
She hadn't.
'By all the gods, I am yours,' she whispered to him in lilting Lorathi, repeating the vow he'd made to her in the House of Black and White before her final trial.
'And ever will be, come what may,' he finished, slipping his hands into her hair. 'A man will come.' Even as he said it, she left him, however unwillingly.
The loss of his touch left her feeling bereft. Arya found herself standing before Bran's weirwood throne, north of the Wall and deep underground, still wearing Jaqen's blouse. She glared up at her brother.
'You couldn't give me a few more minutes?'
Bran ignored her petulant tone. 'You didn't tell him, sister.'
With the insupportable certainty only found in dreams, Arya knew he was speaking of Howland Reed and the message he'd charged her with delivering to the crannogman. She was chastened but defended herself.
'When would you have had me deliver such a message? In his feast hall, with so many eyes upon us? Do you think he'd thank me for it?'
'He must be told.'
'I suspect he already knows.'
She was thinking of things she'd learned, and things she'd heard in her short time in the Neck. Something Ranson Cray had said to her, and something his niece Dyanna had said. Even things she'd discussed with Lord Reed himself, over their supper. And Howland had been in her dream after all… Or, she in his… And he'd been aware. She had no doubt the man possessed some sort of gift. Maybe not exactly like hers, but just as mystical. Howland Reed had known she was queen without the benefit of receiving ravens, and known where to find her, both in dreams and in waking. Surely, he'd already know about his children.
'He does," Bran admitted, "but still, he deserves to be told.'
'I understand.'
He looked at her, his Tully blue eyes nearly sparking in the dim light of the cavern. 'There is something else I must tell you.'
Arya looked at her brother expectantly. When he said nothing, she prompted him. 'Well?'
'Do not be afraid.'
'Afraid?' she echoed. 'I'm not afraid. What are you talking about?'
He closed his eyes and his hands clutched tightly at the armrests of his throne until his fingers turned whiter than they already were, almost as white as the weirwood itself. 'He'll caution you against the journey, but there's so much more I can show you if you take it.'
'Who will caution me? What journey?' The girl was becoming frustrated with her brother. 'And if there's more you need to tell me, just do it now!'
Bran shook his head, his look a little sad. 'There's no time now. The sun has nearly risen.'
'How can you even tell down here?' she groused.
'Remember sister, you must tell him about his son and daughter.'
She blew out a breath. 'Fine. I'll tell him. Tomorrow.'
'Tomorrow is today, sister.'
'What?'
She blinked herself awake in her chamber in Greywater Watch. It took her several seconds to realize she was no longer standing before Bran's eerie throne. The dark curtain of night still hung heavy in her room but when she looked toward her windows, she could see their shapes filled in with the grey that meant the sun would soon rise. Arya sighed and sat up, throwing back her covers. It was time to make ready to break her fast with Howland Reed.
Rising so soon before the sun had convinced the queen she'd arrive in the tallest tower room of the castle ahead of her host but instead, she found the lord waiting for her as she entered the appointed chamber. He bowed at the waist.
"Good morning, your grace."
She inclined her head in return. "Lord Reed." Her hair, wavy from the braids she'd slept in, fell over her shoulders as she did. She'd worn it loose today, too eager for her meeting to waste time dressing her hair or waiting for Dyanna Cray to do it. "I was certain I'd beat you here."
The crannogman surveyed the girl with an inscrutable look before saying, "I had a notion you would be early, and I did not wish to keep my queen waiting."
Arya nodded, one side of her mouth quirking up. "I appreciate your consideration."
"Please," the man said, indicating an empty chair at the small table arranged near a window on the far wall. "Breakfast will be served soon."
He'd barely had time to take his own seat after the queen was settled when the chamber door opened, and two covered platters were marched in along with pitchers of weak ale and sweetmilk. The platters each bore a heap of poached duck eggs, a thick slice of ham, and warm, soft bread drizzled with honey. The servants quickly withdrew, leaving their queen and their lord alone. Lady Brienne and Ser Gendry, in their capacity as Winterguard and sworn shield, stood just outside the door, even though Arya had told them they were free to leave because Howland Reed posed no threat to her.
(She was also armed to the teeth with hidden blades, as was her habit. It wasn't that she feared her host, but an enemy might burst through a door at any given moment and it paid to be prepared.)
"Did you sleep well, your grace?" her host asked between bites of his runny eggs. The Cat wondered if she only imagined the gleam in his juniper eyes.
The girl considered the question before speaking. Had she slept well? Her dreams were so real, it almost felt as though she'd never slept at all. Yet, she wasn't tired in the least. She swallowed her bite of sticky bread and answered.
"Well enough, my lord."
"It is good that you are not troubled by dreams."
No. That gleam was anything but imaginary.
Her eyes narrowed. "Are your guests often troubled by dreams?"
"We've few enough guests here that I cannot make a sound judgment on that, I'm afraid."
"Maester Samwell is a guest."
"Indeed, he is," the lord acknowledged. "The first we've had in a long time, though he's not spoken to me of his dreams."
"And you?"
"Me, your grace?"
"Are you troubled by dreams?"
Howland smiled. "I would not say troubled. Not often, anyhow."
The man was unaccountably wily this morning.
"What would you say, then?"
"I would say that I believe you have something to tell me."
She sat back in her seat, resting her forearms on either side of her platter. "Is that something you learned in one of your untroubled dreams, my lord?" she pressed, her expression smooth and unconcerned.
"It's something I learned from your brother."
That was more direct than she was expecting just then. The crannogman did not have to say which brother he meant.
The girl sat up straighter in her chair, then leaned forward slightly, her eyes peering deeply into Lord Reed's. She studied him a moment, trying to fathom what was behind the mossy depths of his gaze. After a moment, she breathed in and delivered the message she'd been directed to give him.
"Bran wishes you to know that Meera is well, and a credit to your house."
The lord nodded once, his eyes crinkling a bit. The girl thought he even might smile at the news of his daughter, but instead, he sighed. "And what does your brother wish me to know of my son?"
Arya paused, forcing herself not to bite at her bottom lip. "Your son…"
"Jojen," the man said softly, and the girl could feel the threads of mourning weaving his tone together. It confirmed for her what she'd already suspected.
He knew.
"Jojen… died a hero."
Howland stilled, his jaw clamping down. He swallowed and lowered his eyes. After a moment, he spoke, his whispered words a testament both to the sorrow and the pride he felt for his son. "He died fulfilling his duty."
Arya wondered then if the crannogman regretted his allegiance to Winterfell. Bran had told her she'd find allies on her journey, but she doubted news such as she'd just delivered would win her the loyalty of a grieving father. There was no accusation in his tone or his gaze, however; no blame; no bitterness.
Frankly, it astonished her.
"I knew it, of course," Howland was saying. "I'd seen him, green and still, and I'd known, but… to hear it pains me more than I thought it would."
"I'm sorry." She reached out, tentatively placing her hand over his. "To lose a son…"
"He is not lost to me," the lord said with conviction, meeting the girl's eyes. He slipped his other hand over hers, warming her cool flesh with his roughened palm.
He sounded so certain.
Arya licked her lips, thinking of her own father, in the shadowed Winterfell and in her dreams of the crypt.
Had Howland somehow managed to visit the Nightlands, too? Did he meet with Jojen in some shadowed swamp? Did they speak in dreams?
"The old gods are not as cruel as that," he continued. "They will not part a father from a son he loves so well."
"It must be a comfort, to hope it is so," the girl remarked noncommittally.
"I do not hope it is so, your grace. I have faith it is so."
"Aren't hope and faith the same?"
Howland shook his head. "Some may confuse the two, but no. They are not."
Arya tilted her head to one side, regarding the crannogman shrewdly. "So, you are a man of great faith."
"The greatest faith." He laughed a little, squeezing her hand and gazing out of the window. "It would be a betrayal for me to be otherwise."
"Like a septon," she murmured.
He smiled, shaking his head and looking back at her. "No. Not at all like a septon." The lord released her hand and Arya used it to pick up her cup and take a deep swallow of sweetmilk. When she set it back down, she mulled over the things she wished to discuss with the lord; things she wanted to ask.
There was so much.
After some consideration, she settled on one question.
"My lord, last night at the supper, you said there was something you wished to show me."
"Aye, I did," he agreed genially. He took one last bite of his eggs, then wiped his mouth with a napkin and stood. Howland moved to the queen's side and offered her his hand. "Your grace…"
The girl took the proffered hand and rose, allowing the crannogman to lead her to the window closest to them; the one he'd been staring out of only moments before. The window was wide, flat along the bottom with a long, smooth sill and arched along the top. The two stood side by side there, the sill hitting Arya at her belly and Howland at his hips. Three upright wooden slats joined the sill with the arch, preventing the open window from being too great a hazard.
"I think what I'll show you, and what I'll tell you, will answer the questions you haven't asked me yet," the lord said, looking at her. The girl drew her eyebrows together, wondering how he could know what questions she hadn't asked, but when he indicated that she should gaze out of the window, she did so without comment.
The tall tower breached the thick canopy of the trees in the swamp, making it so that from their vantage point, they were looking down on oak and ash, cypress and sentinel. Nightwoods dotted the landscape as well, all the trees pressing in together so that their various leaves and needles and moss-draped branches created a patchwork blanket of greens and browns and rich greys. The living quilt was only interrupted by the sluggish ribbons and pools of black swamp waters, cutting through the trees and weaving into the panorama like a meandering, embroidered pattern stitched without plan or thought or design.
"There," Howland said, pointing to some distant sight he'd spotted. "Do you see?"
The queen cast her gaze in the direction he'd indicated and squinted. Then she saw it, remote but undeniable. Amid greens and browns and twisting blacks, amid the morning haze and the glare of the rising sun burning it away, there stood a spot of bright red.
Arya slipped a hand around one of the wooden slats barring the window and leaned forward, pressing her cheek against that hand, as if moving those few inches would allow her to appreciate the discovery more, revealing even greater detail.
"A weirwood," she said. "In the swamp."
"On a great crannog," the lord confirmed, "built when there were still marsh kings ruling in this land."
"Is that your godswood?" the girl asked curiously, staring at the barely discernable weirwood tree. "It's so far away. You'd have to trek three days through all the mire to get there."
Howland laughed. "Barely more than a day, if you know the way," he assured her, then murmured, "and if you don't, three years would not be enough to reach it." His tone made her think that only a crannogman could find the weirwood safely and that all others would perish in the murk if they tried unguided. He looked thoughtful, and added, "It's certainly not so simple to reach as walking through a gate just outside your kennels or armory."
The girl cocked an eyebrow, impressed with the lord's knowledge of Winterfell's construction.
"But the godswood is not so far as all that, only the heart tree," he revealed.
"What do you mean?"
"Look all around, your grace. Just below us, there, and to the east and west. Look to the weirwood in the north, and what's between it and us. Look at what's beyond it, and at every tree and plant and bit of water your eye can see."
"I imagine from here, you can see most of the Neck," Arya marveled, craning her neck as her eyes swept the whole of the land.
"Aye, and all of it, every last stick and leaf, is my godswood."
She was about to ask Lord Reed what he meant, but she stopped herself, because she thought she understood. Instead of questioning him, the queen gazed out over all the landscape again, drinking it in. All this land was divinely formed, and so, to Howland Reed, all of it was godswood. They were surrounded by the work of the old gods.
And the power of the old gods, too.
She'd felt it last night, hadn't she? Sensed it and soaked it in?
Even now, her insides buzzed with it.
"It was the Kings of Winter who started the tradition of walling off bits of forest, caging their weirwoods so that they might pray to the gods from behind the safety of their defenses," the crannogman explained. "It was a tradition the marsh kings never adopted."
Arya, still gazing at the landscape all around, whispered, "I can see why. It would take more wall than you could assemble in a hundred lifetimes."
"I do not mean it as a slight," Howland said. "The Kings of Winter behaved as they felt necessary, but the Neck offers its own unique defenses. A man born and raised here would have little use for high walls."
"And, in turn, your godswood is…
"Everywhere." One corner of the man's mouth lifted as he spoke, but his voice was filled with reverence. "Boundless."
"So, you are always near your godswood."
"And always near to my gods."
She supposed that did answer the questions she hadn't asked, but she felt compelled to ask them anyway.
"Do you speak to the old gods? Did they direct you to me? And into my dream?"
"More or less."
"What do you mean, more or less?"
The crannogman pulled back from the window, turning his whole body to face the queen. After a brief hesitation, she did the same. His eyes tightened a little as he held her gaze, assessing her. Arya had the sense Howland Reed was trying to decide how much he should trust her with his secrets. Finally, his decision made, he answered her question with one of his own.
"What do you know of greensight, your grace?"
They spoke for hours, alternately sitting to gauge one another's reactions across the table and pacing around the tower room when they grew too restless. When the breeze outside picked up, Arya could feel the tall structure sway a little, but she had grown used to the movement of Greywater Watch and adjusted her balance accordingly, continuing their discussion without faltering.
"You've been blessed with gifts far beyond anything the gods have given me," Howland told her with certainty. They'd been discussing their gifts, particularly how she'd walked into his green dream (for he had determined that was what had happened, based on their previous experiences with such abilities). "I've never heard of a dreamwalker before you, but I've seen enough to know man's limited understanding of the power of the gods does not equate to limitations of the gods themselves."
"I've always thought of it as a sort of warging."
He mulled that over. "Perhaps, but it's a wholly unique manifestation."
"And the other sorts of warging I've done? Running with Nymeria? Entering the mind of a cat?"
"Much more common, though rare enough in the seven kingdoms, with the logic of the maesters and the rigidity of the septons having bled the natural belief from the people. Beyond the wall, though, where the men and the lands are wilder, such things flourish still."
"Did you see that in a green dream?" the queen teased.
Her companion shook his head. "Your brother told me."
This drew Arya up short. "How is it you speak to Bran?"
"I imagine much in the same way you do."
"Through dreams?"
"And through the weirwood. I trek there twice every moon's turn."
The girl returned to the window then, staring at the distant red leaves glowing in the afternoon sun. The master of Greywater Watch stayed seated at the table as she did. The servants had already brought in, and then later cleared away, the midday meal and still, Howland stayed with her and talked as much as she desired. He was wise and calm; reflective and scrupulous. She understood why her father valued Lord Reed's friendship so much.
"When do you return?" she wanted to know, then turned from the window to catch his eye, clarifying, "To the weirwood tree."
"Your grace, you've not told me of your dreams last night, and I do not wish to pry, but I must know, were they… somehow different? More… intense than usual?"
"Why do you ask?"
"If you wish to go to the weirwood with me, it is my duty to lead you safely there, but you must understand something. At least, you should know something I believe to be true."
"What is it you wish me to understand, my lord?"
"These gifts we have… In this place, they are…" He slanted his eyes down, looking at the center of the table as he considered his words.
"They are what?"
"Your grace, this place, the Great Swamp, the whole of the Neck, it exists… almost apart from the rest of the land, though more so the southron kingdoms than the North. Here, it's as though a thousand years of memory have passed and yet, not."
Arya shook her head, shrugging to indicate she was lost as to his meaning. Howland lifted his eyes, taking in her face as she stared back at him.
"Time goes on," he said, "and men move to separate themselves further from the gods. They destroy the weirwood trees and place priests between themselves and their creators. They write books and say their pages must be learned and their rules obeyed in order to gain the favor of the heavens. They build temples, septs, and make men travel to them just to pray. But not here."
"Because here… is godswood," she breathed, then turned to stare back out of the window. "Godswood, everywhere the eye may look."
Howland nodded. "Yes. And every place the foot may step is…"
"Holy ground," the girl finished.
The crannogman rose, joining his queen by the window, staring out over the trees with her, looking north.
"Holy ground," he agreed after a time. "The Neck is so closely bound to the old gods, that everything, every power they afford you, is almost assuredly stronger here."
Her brow lifted quizzically. "Is that not a good thing?"
"Perhaps. But, perhaps not, if you aren't prepared for it."
Arya considered her dreams from the night before. She'd thought of them as feeling real. Howland had suggested they might be intense. Still, there was nothing alarming about them. There was nothing even unpleasant, save her being unceremoniously yanked from Jaqen's arms before she was ready to leave him.
Did her master remember what she'd told him? She hoped he remembered.
But dreams were one thing. The weirwood of the crannog might be something else entirely. She'd already experienced the intense power which coursed through the bone white trees, at Raventree Hall and on High Heart, and those weirwoods weren't even alive. She'd even been shocked by the great force she'd felt in the weirwood roots which formed Bran's throne in her dreams of him (dreams that were certainly more than dreams). Perhaps Howland was right, and she should reconsider this journey. It might be ill-advised in this place where the reach of the old gods seemed… amplified.
Bran's words came to her then.
'Do not be afraid. He'll caution you against the journey, but there's so much more I can show you if you take it.'
She knew what she had to do.
Arya placed her hand on Howland's shoulder. "My lord, when do you next journey to the heart tree?"
The man sighed, then pushed his concern aside. "Your grace, I am at your service. We can leave on the morrow if you wish."
The company was kept necessarily small. Wary of what might happen when she visited the heart tree of the Neck, Arya could not ask anyone who did not know of her gifts to come along, which only left the Bear, and Howland was similarly concerned with protecting the queen's secrets. Ranson Cray, the Lord of Greywater Watch assured her, was a stout believer and a man with his own deep understanding of the power of the old gods. He was also a loyal man who had proven himself capable of keeping confidences, according to Lord Reed. And so, they had their four, the largest party a small skiff could safely carry through the dark marsh.
To avoid the inevitable arguments with the Kingslayer and Gendry, the queen said nothing of her plans and arranged with Lord Reed to temporarily move to a sleeping chamber on the lowest level of the castle. She justified the move by pleading an aversion to the motion of the main keep, which was felt more acutely in the highest rooms. This allowed her to slip through her new, low window and jump easily to the yard below before sunrise the next morning. The Bear was waiting to catch her as she dropped.
"Good morning, your grace," the Lyseni man greeted as he set her down on her two feet.
"Ser Willem," she returned, nodding graciously.
"Promise me I'll not lose a finger or a foot to a hungry lizard-lion on this errand."
"I'd never allow it," the Cat replied, "if only because I cannot stomach the thought of you complaining over it for the rest of our lives."
The Bear grinned. "It's nice to know you care."
She bumped into him good naturedly with her shoulder. "Come on, Lord Reed and Ranson Cray are probably already waiting for us at the docks."
The two assassins moved swiftly through the small yard of the castle, and through the gate where a guard bowed respectfully as the queen passed. The traversed the floating dock and found two of Howland's men loading supplies onto their skiff as Ranson spoke with his second in command about details of the castle's protection in his absence and Lord Reed gave instructions to a man who seemed to be his steward.
"When we are well away, you may inform the queen's party that she has undertaken a religious pilgrimage and that she shall return in one or two days' time," Howland was saying as the Cat and the Bear approached. Hearing the lord's directive, the girl's lips curled themselves into her familiar malicious smile.
"And when Ser Jaime inevitably blusters and rages and threatens, you may tell him that the queen said that is exactly why she didn't tell him before she left," Arya said, adding her own instructions for the steward. She thought for a moment, her smile relaxing a bit and somewhat remorsefully tacked on, "But then, please ask Lady Brienne as nicely as possible to see to him."
She could not have the Lord Commander of her Winterguard raving himself into an apoplexy.
With their orders delivered, the party boarded the skiff and pushed off the dock. The Lord of Greywater Watch and his captain of the guard took turns poling the small craft through narrow waterways and around submerged obstacles. After they'd been underway for an hour and the sun began to rise, Arya could appreciate the degree of skill the two crannogmen had for this task. The route they were taking was far more hazardous than the one between the causeway and the castle, it seemed. There was an abundance of fallen trees, floating logs, and small, marshy islands littering the narrow, inky stream upon which they floated. Aside from that, the lizard-lions apparently found this environment well suited to their needs, for they were far more plentiful here than in the other parts of the Great Swamp through which the queen had already travelled.
Still, with Howland Reed and Ranson Cray piloting the skiff, they made good time on their journey. It helped that the Bear offered his strength to push a second pole through the less treacherous parts of their route, increasing their speed when the crannogmen deemed it safe to do so. For her part, Arya held a sharp frog spear at the ready, scanning the waters through which they passed, poised to jab if the skiff needed defending from any hungry creatures or venomous reptiles.
In this manner, the small company reached their destination a mere three hours past the sunset. The men jumped onto the low isle just as the skiff's bow jutted over its mucky bank, pulling the craft further onto the land, effectively beaching it. Ranson grabbed the lantern which hung off of a hook attached to the prow while Ser Willem grabbed the queen around her waist and lifted her from the skiff, setting her down past the mud at the water's edge and onto the more hospitable spongey ground.
"Thank you, ser," Arya said, smiling wearily. The men pulled packs of supplies and gear from the craft, hoisting them over their shoulders, and Howland indicated the direction they would need to walk. They marched single file behind Ranson Cray and his lantern, carefully picking their way through the trees and thick brush. After a few moments, a defined path became more apparent and they moved more quickly along it.
The girl was flooded with relief when they came upon a small stone building and Lord Reed told them they would bunk there for the night and visit the weirwood at first light. Arya was no stranger to hardship, but after their arduous journey, she wasn't sure how any one of them would be able to stay awake well enough to ably fend off bog rats and other nocturnal predators through the night while the others slept. With hardened shelter, it wouldn't be a problem.
They had to climb three high steps to enter the cottage, but that meant the floor was raised, and stone rather than mud, which pleased the girl to no end. The inside was sparsely furnished, with nothing more than a row of four cot frames lining the far wall and a rough-hewn table with four chairs off to one side. Ranson set his lantern on the table as Howland pulled bread and boiled eggs from his pack, offering the food around. Arya was tired, especially so, and refused the late supper, instead choosing to unfurl a thick sleeping fur atop one of the cot frames and dropping down on it. The men barely had time to wish her a good night before she was asleep.
"You'll freeze your cock off if you stay out here much longer." The wildling's voice was gruff as always, but there was a jape in his tone, if you knew how to listen for it. And, there was care as well, though neither he nor the one he addressed would ever acknowledge that.
Jon turned away from the weirwood and faced the red-haired giant of a man. "Tormund," he greeted, and his voice was grave. Always grave. He tried lifting the corners of his mouth into something that might approximate a smile, but he only succeeded in making himself looked pained.
Which wasn't far from the truth.
"I know you don't have much use for it these days, but you should think about the hardships that go along with spending your whole life cock-less," the wildling warrior continued.
"It's not that cold."
"No, but you're a soft, southron bastard, not a true Northman, so your cock is more delicate."
No matter how much Jon objected, the wildlings only considered the lands north of the Wall to be the true North. The rest of Westeros was the south to them.
The two men glared at each other a moment, then Tormund let out a great, guffawing laugh and Jon even managed a small snort and a genuine smile, short lived as it was.
"Are ya praying, lad?"
Jon shook his head. "Just thinking."
"Well, you can think inside, by the fire."
"I like it here. It's quiet."
But that wasn't really true. Perhaps to other ears, it seemed so, but for him, ever since he'd returned to Winterfell, ever since he'd returned from… well, ever since he'd returned… the godswood had ceased to be a quiet place. At least, not here, near the weirwood tree. It whispered to him, constantly. Sometimes, it told him things he wanted to hear. Sometimes, it told him things he needed to hear. But, most often, it told him things he didn't understand.
Like tonight.
He'd come here hoping to hear the crimson leaves overhead stir and whisper something about his sister. Arya. The Winter's Queen. He'd come hoping to hear she was well, and near. But instead, he'd only heard nonsense. The leaves swayed in the breeze and as much as he strained to hear 'sister' and 'safe,' what he'd heard instead sounded like 'fire' and 'blood.'
"Come on, then, Lord Snow," Tormund said with a grin, throwing a heavy arm around the younger man's black-cloaked shoulders. "There's an ale waiting for you back in your fancy castle. And, if you want, I'm sure one of those plump kitchen gals will warm your lap, too."
Jon sighed, then nodded, and the two friends left the godswood together. All the while, the wind rustled the leaves overhead, and the sound they made was like a chant composed of the same two words, spoken over and over.
Fire.
Blood.
A/N: The beginning of Arya's dream of Jaqen references a scene from the end of Chapter 16 in The Assassin's Apprentice.
Holy Ground—Banners