Arya had been sore and aching for more days than she could keep count, but it was a satisfying sort of pain. Each morning, when she found Syrio in one of the castle's training yards, the stiffness in her limbs and belly only served to remind her that there was much to learn and vast room for improvement.

She did not even mind that he made her use a blunted sword for the first half of their training. She wanted to be a water dancer as he was, and if that meant she spent some mornings walking along low loggia ledges on her tip-toes and trying to catch flies out of the air without killing them, so be it.

Arya had been neglecting her accounting of late in favour of her lessons—and who would not? for she was feeling more alive and like herself than she had in many moons—but she had hardly left Sansa to run a whole castle alone. All counted, their household only numbered seventy or so. Sansa was competent enough.

And besides. Surely it would be good practice for Sansa. Arya was not the one who would rule over lands and a castle in the far-off future.

The soreness, however, was making her father very concerned, it seemed. As they rode side by side through the clamorous din on the Street of Steel, Father kept eying her with furrowed brows, for her stiff torso likely looked like a broken puppet atop her swaying horse, especially with Needle peeking from the folds of her skirts. (It was not every day that Amma approved of her wearing her sword with her gowns as she went about her day, so Arya had not wished to pass up on the opportunity this day.)

"Are you sure you are well, Arya?" Father finally asked when they had passed the noisiest of open forges. "You've been training with this Braavosi for nearly a moon turn now. You are still stiff each day?"

Ayra knew that her father had never experienced anything like this in his youth. Ser Roderick had trained him as he'd trained her, and after they had turned to weighted swords, she had never truly and consistently been sore like this unless she pushed extra work on herself in the training yard. She gave her father what she hoped was a patronising smirk.

"It is because I work different muscles each day," she told him with mock bumptiousness. "Syrio says that I will discover strength in places I had not known existed before, and the ache will teach me how the body moves. It is all part of my training, Father. The Braavosi are very advanced."

After a moment of shock, Father burst into booming laughter. Arya could not keep the haughty look on her face, breaking into a grin. She did not tell him that, when she saw Jon once more, she intended to have him on his back facing the point of the blade he'd help craft for her. He would not even see it coming.

"How much did your mother tell you," Father asked a few moments later, pulling his horse closer to hers so she could hear him over the haggling and heckling and metal against steel. Arya shrugged.

"Just that you wished to know what Lord Arryn and Lord Stannis were up to before. I'm to be observant and ask some innocent questions of the servants if I should get them alone."

Father's eyes narrowed in thought for a moment, and Arya felt her own narrow as well.

"Is that…is there more?" She did like a good mystery, and suddenly the feeling dawned that Amma had left out some important details when she'd detailed Arya's task that morning. Father's face revealed nothing—a sure sign that they were not telling her all.

"Oh, Father, what is it? What do I not know in this?"

Yet Father shook his head.

"It is…nothing that ought to concern you at present. Your mother was right. Ask general questions and keep your eyes open, and we will talk later in the evening."

Arya chewed her lip but knew by Father's tone that it was no use in arguing her case. As she would have even less luck that evening when faced with both parents, Arya changed tactic.

"Do you have any inkling, at least, of what Lord Arryn was after?" she asked, trying to keep her eyes guileless. "I can ask better questions if I know what it is you seek."

Again, the eyes narrowed in thought, but her father shook his head once again and refused to say anymore. Inwardly, Arya sighed. It was worth a try. This was the way of things, then. It was nothing new to her. All her life, Arya had had too many questions that her parents refused to answer.

Over the years, she had come to learn that some subjects were best not broached if she did not wish to see her parents' faces darken with pain from a war-torn past. She thought she could understand, though she privately thought it a great shame that Father would not tell her stories of his exploits in battle and Amma never wished to speak of the legendary Arthur Dayne.

They rode in silence the rest of the way to the top of the hill, and before the huge house of timber and looming terrace arches, Arya slipped off her horse and handed her reins to Jacks, her eyes drawn at once to the vivid red of the armour dressing the stone knights flanking the doors. Father came to stand beside her, following her gaze as they took in the helms shaped like the heads of beasts.

"What would your Master Syrio say of these," he asked her. Arya peered up at him.

"Probably that 'tis no wonder he can best Westerosi knights. He is a sword while they are unicorns." He barely smiled, but his eyes were dancing with laughter, and Arya bent her head to hide her own laugh as they entered the armoury. A serving girl bowed, and Arya saw her eyes widen at the sight of her before settling on Father's badge and sigil. She scurried away.

The master came hurrying out at once, gesturing them towards the couch with an eager smile.

"I am Tobho Mott, my lord, uh my lady, please, please, put yourselves at ease."

He wore a black velvet coat with hammers embroidered on the sleeves in silver thread, and around his neck was a heavy silver chain and a sapphire as large as a pigeon's egg. Arya wondered if he ended each day with an egg-sized bruise on his chest from all the thumping it did as he bowed and scraped.

"Come, wine for the King's Hand," he told the serving girl, "and…and his lady daughter. Would Arbor Gold suit, my lord, my lady, or would you prefer a Dornish red?"

Arya just barely resisted the urge to squirm. This was always the way merchants and smallfolk were around her and her family—around all those of noble blood—and Arya could never decide if it was their obsequious air or their ready-made knowledge about her family that discomfited the most.

Oh, she understood why, to be sure. Her father was a high lord with power over others' lives, and this armorer likely only wished to make them happy enough to buy his goods, but none of this knowledge helped her situation one whit. She tucked her hands under her legs to stop herself fidgeting as her father told Tobho Mott that any wine they had on hand would do. Mycah had never been this way with her, she remembered with a pang. That was why they could be friends.

"How might I be of service this day, my lord?" the armour asked, his gaze sliding to the hilt of Arya's sword before retuning to Father. "Whatever it is you seek, I promise you, you will not find it better-made in all the Seven Kingdoms. Perhaps a suit of armour for the upcoming tourney in your honour, my Lord Hand? Or, perhaps, a new blade…" Again he looked to Needle, and Arya turned to her father.

"I am not here for myself," Father began, setting his goblet down. "My blacksmith recently fashioned this rapier for my daughter, and we are in need of a honing steel." Arya stood then and drew Needle from its sheath. Tohbo Mott gasped.

"You see, it was made from material that could only be worked in Qohor," Father said, "and the Qohori smiths only provided honing steels for my sons. I have heard that if we could find another for this blade anywhere, it would be in your shop."

"All the gods be good…" Tobho's eyes, once drawn to Needle, did not leave it for even an instant. The man was seemingly mesmerised by the rippling of otherworldly green and blue, and when he spoke his voice was reverent and low.

"I have heard talk of the swords your sons wield, my lord," he whispered. "Swords crafted from a star, just as the legendary Dawn of House Dayne. You were wise to go to Qohor, to consult the masters there. Though I trained with them and do the best work in these kingdoms, I do not know all their mystic ways, and I doubt any in Westeros could have worked the core of a star into steel. May…may I, my lady?"

Arya nodded and could not help smiling. The armourer's awe melted through his fawning exterior, and she found the man beneath not disagreeable. Clearly he understood and appreciated what a miracle her sword was.

"Oh, 'tis light warm to the touch! And…" he produced a handkerchief from his doublet and ran it lightly over the blade, letting it cut the cloth in two and giving an awed sigh. "You have not once taken a sharpening stone to this, my lady?"

"No, and only tried aligning it with regular steels."

"Gods be good," he said again. "It is as Valyrian steel is, and yet the colours and the warmth…this is truly a wonder, my lady, my Lord Hand."

"And that is why we have come to you," Arya said, proud of herself for remembering to employ this subtle flattery. "I imagine the honing steels that can be used on Valyrian steel could work for my blade, and there can be no one as knowledgeable as you are in these kingdoms."

Tobho's chest puffed through his velvet surcoat.

"Quite right, my lady, quite right. You have come to the right place, indeed." He summoned the serving girl again, and in a few moments two young apprentices brought out a large tray with a variety of honing steels winking in the sunlight. Some had sturdy handles of steel and copper, some had ones of carved wood, and some were bejewelled with twinkling gemstones.

Tobho set to talking then, detailing the benefits of each steel, though Arya quickly determined that the only true differences here were aesthetic. In the end, she chose one of the simplest ones whose hammered steel handle matched the pommel Theon had made for her, and as she slipped Needle back into this hit, she smiled at the crossbow and little wolves and kraken that peered up at her. They'd approve, surely, especially as none of the four had thought to remember that one cannot hone a meteor blade with a common honing steel. Honestly. Boys.

"Arya, perhaps you'd like to look at some of Master Tobho's other wares while I ask after his craft," Father said then, interrupting Arya's thoughts. "It is your name day soon, and your mother and I have yet to find you a gift."

This was her cue, and she stood, smoothing her skirts and looking at the armourer. He rose too, bowing once more, and instructed the serving girl and apprentice to lead Arya through the displays of armour and weaponry. As she left the front room, she heard her father slip Lord Arryn's name into conversation.

For a spell, Arya followed the apprentice through the displays of intricate armour and shields and helms, listening as he described how his master had developed advanced techniques of making breastplates thin as parchment yet still strong and flexible. They were striking, too, every piece, because Master Tobho knew the secrets of joining together gold and silver and could mix vibrant colours into the metal itself. Paint and enamel had no place in this armoury.

When he seemed to have exhausted his advertisements, Arya stopped in front of a particularly flowery breastplate, making to study it very closely.

"You master truly is the best armourer in the city, then?" she asked, still looking at the armour, keeping her voice light.

"Why, yes, milady."

"As you say. My lord father told me that even the previous Hand and the brother of the king came to buy their armour here."

"Oh, yes, indeed milady," said the apprentice. "They came together, and the Hand even smiled at me! Though I ain't recalling that they ordered anything at all."

"Really? Smiled at you? Did he seem affable, then?"

"The Hand, yes, milady." It was the serving girl who spoke. "But the other, Lord Stannis—I doubt he's smiled in the last dozen years!"

"Meg!" scolded the apprentice. "Beggin' your pardon, milady," he said, glaring at Meg.

"Oh, I…I don't mean no disrespect or nothing, milady."

Arya shook her head.

"No need to apologise. To be honest, it's pretty common knowledge that Lord Stannis doesn't ever smile."

They shared a grin.

"Meg oft forgets herself, milady, but she were right," said the apprentice. "Lord Arryn looked calm and noble enough, but I never saw a man scowl so long as Lord Stannis. And when Master Tobho took them to meet Master Gendry, I swear by all the mighty seven, his eyes had daggers in 'em."

"And what did this Master Gendry do to incite his ire," Arya asked as they walked on down the narrow hall that opened onto a courtyard. "Breathe too loudly?"

Both Meg and the apprentice laughed then, and Arya smiled again.

"Mayhaps it's 'cause Master Gendry ain't yet eighteen, milady," said Meg, giving Arya a sparkling-eyed grin she recognised too well. "Mayhaps Lord Stannis thought him too young to be a master smith all his own, but he'd be wrong. That honing steel you purchased was made by Gendry. He's real talented."

"Or mayhaps the bald lord was eyin' Gendry's full head o' hair," muttered the apprentice. "When they was leavin' I heard Lord Stannis mumble something about 'all the blonde ones' or some such to Lord Arryn. I'm tellin' you, men always want what they don't have."

They walked along the rows of armour, Arya resuming her questions and trying her best to keep the precise wording of the answers in her mind, though nothing stood out to her as anything her parents might find useful. In exchange, Meg had asked if Arya truly knew how to fight with a sword, and Arya had been happy to answer her questions.

They came upon the end of the rows soon, and she allowed the apprentice to lead her into the narrow courtyard. A helm of hammered steel, complete with stout and perfectly-curved horns, hung above one of the doorways to the steaming forge. Arya felt her eyes light up. Clearly it was the work of the younger armourer.

Tobho Mott's craft was no doubt intricate, but she found she preferred the simple lines in the work of this Master Gendry. There was an elegant strength to the way the helm rounded and curved, and Arya reached out a hand, suddenly very eager to feel the smooth texture of the hammered steel on her fingers.

"Oi, you there, leave that be!"

Startled, Arya pulled her hand back and turned to see a tall, muscled man with dark hair and a soot-stained face coming towards her, his mouth set in a scowl. He wore a thin, sleeveless shirt that stuck to his corded chest. As he came closer, however, his scowl dropped away into first shock, then confusion.

"Who—" He caught her eyes. Arya forgot how to breathe.

His eyes were very, very blue. Blue as ice over the sea, yet Arya felt nothing close to cold. Her ears were burning, and there was fire creeping under every inch of her skin. Breath felt too thick for her pounding chest.

"Master Gendry, this is the daughter of the king's new Hand," hissed the apprentice. Arya barely heard him. It seemed Master Gendry did not hear him either, for he still looked at Arya with the expression of one who had been dealt a blow from nowhere, his eyes flicking over her face as hers did his. Then he remembered himself and gave her a curt bow, though his eyes did not leave her.

"Oh, I—uh…you shouldn't touch that. Uh, milady. I—that is—I mean, I only just…greased it…"

His voice settled like caramel in her stomach, warm and sweet and thick, and Arya shuddered despite the heat of the open forge and the fire creeping up her chest. She finally returned to her senses enough to look away from his endless eyes, but her gaze landed instead on his sooty arms—sheened with sweat—that bunched as he reached up to move his rich hair from his face. She swallowed, her throat very dry.

"My…my apologies…" she managed to croak, though she was certain there had been an inordinate gap of silence before she'd found her tongue.

For some long moments, no one spoke as Arya continued to drink in this…this miraculous man before her. His jaw was square and hard, with close-shorn stubble as black as coal. His brows were thick and sharp, and his lips thin but wide. Was this what the Warrior himself looked like, she thought distantly, her head light and the edges of her eyes going fuzzy. Finally, the apprentice cleared his throat, the sound like cold air snaking into a steaming room after a bath.

"Meg and I were only showing the lady the wares, Master Gendry," he explained, and Arya reluctantly pulled her eyes away. It would not do to stare, she reminded herself. It was incredibly rude, and did she not know first-hand just how gawking eyes could rankle? Though, she had not minded his eyes…

"The new Hand is in the front rooms with Master Tobho," the apprentice was saying. "They were only—"

"This way, my lord." It was Tobho Mott's voice coming from the corridor that Arya had emerged from, and all spun to see Mott leading Father into the narrow yard. They stopped abruptly at their little party before Mott came forward once more.

"Ah, well, here he is, my lord. This is Gendry. Gendry, this is the new Hand of the King.

"Milord." Gendry gave Father the same curt bow he'd given her.

"He was my apprentice," Mott continued, "but he's strong and worked hard, and just completed his third year as journeyman. He's one of my master armourers now."

There was a hint of pride in Tobho Mott's voice, Arya thought as she joined her father, still unable to stop sneaking glimpses at the man. Or was he a boy? Meg had said he was not yet eighteen. Robb, Jon and Sam were all not eighteen, and Theon was older, and yet…no, this Master Gendry was most certainly a man.

"Gendry, is it?" Father asked, studying him most intently. "How old are you, lad?"

"Seventeen, milord," Gendry replied, studying the cobblestones.

"Seventeen and already a master. That's quite impressive. I hear you made the handle of the honing steel I purchased for my daughter. It was very well done."

Gendry looked up, directly at Arya's face, and she saw a light sort of surprise pass over his features as he took in her sword. Quickly, he bent his head once more, and Arya thought she saw his face colour, but she could not be sure under the soot and tan sheen of his skin.

"Thank you, milord," he said, then continued looking at the cobblestones. Father kept his gaze on Gendry's face, and Arya dug her nails into her hand to keep from fidgeting in the uneasy silence. There was something familiar about Gendry, she was realising. Perhaps Father saw it too. Perhaps that was why he stared.

"When Lord Arryn came to speak to you, Gendry, what did you talk about."

Arya looked up at her father in surprise. So, he had learned important news indeed from this Tobho Mott. Gendry shrugged, raising his head to answer but keeping his piercing eyes decidedly downcast.

"He asked me questions is all, milord."

"What sort of questions?"

Gendry shrugged. "How was I, did I like my new position, was I treated well as an apprentice. And stuff about my mother. Who she was and what she looked like and all."

"What did you tell him?" Father asked.

"I don't know nothing else but this. I like it well enough, and Master Tobho's always good to me."

"And about your mother?"

Another beat of uneasy silence.

"She died when I was little," he said, voice quieter. "She had yellow hair, and sometimes she used to sing to me, I remember. She worked in an alehouse."

"Did Lord Stannis question you as well?"

"The bald one? No, not him. He never said no word, just glared at me, like I was some raper who done for his daughter."

Arya half-choked on her laugh and turned it last-moment into a cough. She heard the apprentice and Meg doing the same.

"Mind your filthy tongue around the lady!" the master said. "This is the King's own Hand!" He turned quickly to bow to them both.

"Beggin' you pardons, my lord, my lady. He's not practised in speaking properly to high lords and ladies, I'm afraid. Please forgive his callousness."

Gendry bowed too, though not nearly so low, and asked their pardon. Arya thought she saw his gaze dart to her face for an instant, and she lifted the corner of her mouth in hopes of letting him know he had not offended her in the slightest. Father waved away his apology, though his eyes never once left his face.

"Look at me, Gendry" Father finally said, and after a moment, Gendry lifted his face. Arya could see it discomfited him to hold her father's gaze so, and again she looked up at Father, wondering what he was seeing. The more glances she stole at Gendry's face, the more familiar he seemed, like some ghost of someone she had seen not long ago, though surely she would have remembered a man so striking as he.

Finally, Father breathed a heavy sigh.

"Very well. I am sorry to disturb your work. Arya?"

Arya jumped, realising too late that she was staring again. For a moment, his endless eyes met hers again, and her breath caught on a sharp spark in her chest. She turned back to her father with what she hoped was a nonchalant smile. As Tobho Mott led their way back to the front house, Arya had to bite down hard on her lip to stop herself turning back to look at this Master Gendry once more, for she was certain she felt his gaze on her back the whole while.

For the rest of their stay, Arya barely heard a word exchanged between her father and the armourer. Her entire mind was filled with ice blue eyes and dark, corded muscle, and the heat of the forge lingered on her skin.

As they rode down the Street of Steel, Arya drew her horse close to her father's. After a moment's hesitation, she asked the question burning on her tongue.

"Why did you stare at that Gendry so? Was it…did he seem familiar to you?"

Father gave her a steady look but did not answer right away.

"Did he seem familiar to you?" he asked in response. Arya pursed her lips.

"Yes, but I couldn't quite place him."

"Arya, if I tell you, you must promise me that you will repeat this to no one save your mother. Not even Sansa or the twins. Swear it."

"Oh." Her brows knotted, but she nodded. "I…I swear it. I won't say a word."

Father nodded, and when he spoke his voice was heavy and resigned.

"Did you not think Gendry looks rather like the king?"

O~O~O~O~O

"Thank you for your help in this, love," Ashara said as she kissed Arya's forehead at Ned's solar door. "Remember what you promised your father."

"I will, Amma. Goodnight. And goodnight, Father."

When Arya had disappeared up the tower steps, Ashara came to where Ned sat at his desk, sinking into the leather chair opposite him with a heavy sigh and tired smile.

"'Tis been a long day," Ned said, returning the smile. That morning felt a fortnight ago, and Ned did not think anything could compel him to leave this chair for a long while. Ashara laughed.

"Well, more for you than for me. All I did was sit and watch and listen all day. You are the one who's been on your feet for hours."

Ned and Arya had returned to the Red Keep to find servants and courtiers in an uproar, and the king's stewart had run to him as if his feet were on fire.

"Oh, my Lord Hand, there you are, there you are! Please, do come at once. Prince Oberyn has arrived, and His Grace and your lady wife are in the throne room."

It had been near on two decades since Ned had set eyes on Oberyn Martell, though despite the sprinkling of grey in his hair and the roughened lines on his face, he still radiated sharp life and a quick sort of danger. When he and Ashara had taken their family to Dorne seven years ago, the prince had been on one of his extended trips to Essos—a common occurrence since Gregor Clegane's disappearance.

As Ned had stood next to Robert, performing the motions of guest right and pleasantries, he had caught his wife's eyes in question. The prince's claim that he came for the upcoming tourney might have satisfied Robert, but no one else truly believed it.

When they had walked the prince back to his quarters and met his paramour and eldest daughter, the sky had already deepened and the brightest stars already sparkled in the inky blue.

"What in all hells is Oberyn doing here now," Ned had asked Ashara, feeling his head pound, for they both knew the Martells had never truly given up on their quest for full revenge. The last thing they needed, in the middle of this mess of Lannisters and murder, was another web of schemes.

Ashara had given him a helpless laugh.

"Let us hope I can weasel it out of him tomorrow, but you know the way Oberyn is. If nothing else, I would be grateful to give the girls an escort to Dorne."

Arya had been waiting in their solar, eager to hear their news of the prince, though Ned could see she was by far more interested in the doings of Obara Sand. Together, she and Ned had pieced together their afternoon for Ashara, and as they had spoken, Ned had realised with weary capitulation that their trip to the armourer had yielded little new information.

He said as much to his wife now after Arya had left, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"The only reason I can think of—for Cersei Lannister to wish Jon dead, I mean—is that she became angry that he was visiting Robert's bastards. But that seems…nonsensical, even for her. She does not appear mad."

"Surely not. As you say, that would be mad, even for that family." Littlefinger had told them of a rumour he'd heard that Robert had sired twins on a serving woman at Casterly Rock. Cersei had supposedly murdered the babes and sold the mother to a passing slaver. Despite the horror, there were ugly tales like these about most lords in the realm, and not all were to be believed. (Ned tried his best to separate rumour from fact when it came to his own bannermen and tried not to think what rumours might exist about his own dishonour, particularly surrounding Jon.)

Still, it was one thing to treat smallfolk as livestock and expect to evade consequences. It was another entirely to murder the Hand of the King for personal wrath alone. Surely Tywin Lannister did not have such reckless and unthinking children.

Ashara rested her elbow on his desk and propped her head up with her hand, looking at him with thoughtful eyes.

"Perhaps your visit today was not entirely futile," she said, worrying her lip.

"Oh?"

"I had thought that Lord Arryn and Stannis had been visiting Robert's bastards, but perhaps…perhaps it is something to do with their mothers as well."

Ned frowned as she rose to retrieve a quill and a scrap of parchment. The boy Gendry had mentioned Jon asking after his mother, even though it was clear that Gendry was Robert's child, and the mother had been long dead.

"Here are the bastard children they visited," Ashara said, writing down names of mothers and their babes as well as the places she had found them. They had all been names provided by the brothel owner Chataya, and most were whores, though a couple had been tavern girls. Ned watched as his wife wrote down every name of mother and child, including their ages, without a moment's hesitation. As if they had been seared into her mind.

At the end, she wrote down Gendry's name and wrote 'alehouse blonde' where his mother's name would be. Then she paused, thinking, before writing down the hair colors of the other whores as well.

"Did Arya not say that the apprentice overhead Stannis muttering about blondes?" she asked. "Let me see...three of these women were blonde."

She and Ned stared down at the names then, both trying to find things in common, but after some moments of silence, Ned shook his head.

"If there is a hidden meaning, I cannot find it," he said, and Ashara sighed, folding the parchment and tucking it inside her sleeve where Ned knew she hid her daggers.

"Perhaps the guards will find Ser Hugh soon," she said, slumping defeated into her chair. Her eyes narrowed then.

"The queen worries me though. I know Littlefinger's words cannot be completely trusted, but she is a proud woman with a hard heart. I have no doubt she could be driven to murder."

"Do you think the bastard children are in danger?"

Ashara raised a shoulder.

"From what Chataya told me, it was mostly the corrupt gold cloaks who had been giving her trouble, but who is to say that the queen cannot do the same when she finds out? How hard would it be to murder a whore and her babe?"

Ned sighed. "'Tis not as if I can assign a guard to each girl. That would lead the queen right to their door."

Ashara sighed too. "I have given Chataya extra coin so she might induce the two tavern girls to go work for her instead. Perhaps it will keep them safer. All that day, I wished to bring the girls back here so I could know they are unharmed, but needless to say that would not do. "

She tilted her head at him then.

"Oh, but you can. With this Gendry. That would be one child protected, at least."

Ned raised his brows.

"You want me to bring Gendry into the castle, under the queen's nose?"

"He is a master armourer now, no? And Arya said he was most impressive? Why not summon him to the forge here to make you a new set of armour? Say it will save you the trouble of going to fittings. No one will bat an eye, and the queen would never have to look at him. When all's said, 'tis Aron Santagar who commands the forges and blacksmiths. He will see that any rumours die before they are started."

It was not a bad idea. Ned did not know if it would make the boy any safer—Tobho Mott had seemed intent on keeping the boy safe himself—but it was unlike to endanger him more. It if eased Ash's mind, it would be no real hardship.

O~O~O~O~O

The next morning, Ashara made her way down to the castle docks just as the rising sun peeked above the glittering horizon. At the end of the quay, Oberyn stood upright and sturdy, clad as he always was in yellow, the golden light bouncing off his dark head.

It had been too many years since she'd seen him in the flesh, but the changes to his face had fallen away, and he looked just as he did when they had been youths at Sunspear, sneaking off before lessons in the morning to sail into the sun as it rose over the Summer Sea.

He kissed her cheeks and helped her into the sailboat, and despite the years they needed no words to divide their tasks as they worked the ropes.

When they had navigated well into Blackwater Bay, Ashara closed her eyes and leaned back against the side, letting the cool, moist air drift over her skin, the flap of the sails crips against her ears. Oberyn sang Rhoynar tunes under his breath, songs whose names she could not remember, though she could still recall each bawdy chorus, and could not help humming along.

"Oberyn, why are you in King's Landing," she finally asked, not bothering to open her eyes, for she knew he would never let anything show on his face should he wish to keep his secrets.

"As I have said," he replied lightly. "It has been a long while since I have competed in a tourney. This one in honour of your husband seemed a good time."

"Do not let him hear you call it that," she said absently, but opened her eyes to look at him.

"But really, that cannot be the reason. You come to the capital only months after the Hand mysteriously dies? After you did not have the time to visit me up North even once?"

"Ah, but you are right. I have been remiss in that. Couldn't I have come simply because I missed your exquisite face, Ash? You know, they still talk about the beauty who willingly left her home to brave the depths of winter for the sake of Dorne."

Ashara resisted the urge to roll her eyes and tutted instead, ignoring the tales of her that she neither wanted nor deserved.

"And what would the lovely Ellaria think if she heard you saying such things to me?"

"That I have the right of it, I imagine. She's already asked to invite you into our bed, and as you know, my old invitation always stands."

"Oberyn, really." Her teenage years with Elia at Sunspear had made her all but immune to Oberyn's constant teasing overtures, but still she blushed. She had to admit Ellaria was sensuously alluring, and like Lynesse Hightower, once she would have welcomed the woman into her bed. In truth, if she did not know that Ned would be horrified at the idea...

Oberyn caught the blush, it seemed, for he smiled like the viper he was and cocked an eyebrow.

"Coming around to the thought at last? Ah, I did always know Ellaria was a blessing in more ways than I could count."

She couldn't suppress the eye roll this time. The wild girl in her might like the idea of bedding Ellaria Sand, but the very idea of having Oberyn in such a way was ludicrous.

"I assured Ned just yesterday that I am like a sister to you," she said. "Don't make me a liar."

When all the king's formalities had been observed the previous day, Ned and Ashara had walked some ways with Oberyn back to his guest chambers. Ashara had been so caught in the exultant unreality of seeing her friend for the first time in near two decades that it was not until they had left Oberyn to settle in and rest that Ashara had noticed the thunderous scowl that etched itself into Ned's face.

She'd laughed, which only made his scowl worse. Ashara had forgotten that Oberyn had never felt need to hide his…well, admiration might be the best word, if not the strongest.

"Oh, Ned," she'd said as they made their way back to the Tower of the Hand, "there's no reason to look like that. I am like a sister to him."

"The way he was looking at you wasn't very brotherly. I don't know how I did not notice it all those years ago."

She arched her brow at him.

"My dear husband. Oberyn ogles anyone who is reasonably fair of face. He can't help himself. Surely you cannot begrudge a man his nature if he's doing no harm."

Oberyn shrugged now. "Of course you spoke true," he said, his voice lazy. "You are as my own sister, Ash. But you know, we Martells do have Targaryen blood, and—ow! I'm sure 'tis treason or something similar to strike your prince."

Ashara gave him a sideways look.

"Surely it's up to Doran to judge what is and isn't treason. I'd give much to see his face when you repeat to him what you just said."

Oberyn held up his hands in surrender.

"Fine, fine, you win. Anything to spare me the look from Duran. But if I am honest, your husband has his own rough charm. If he is so prone to jealousy, we would happily have both of you—"

"Oberyn!" Now there was another ludicrous thought. Ned's expression should she bring up that particular offer would be precious indeed.

Ashara couldn't keep her face stern any longer, and once the laughter bubble over there was no shutting it back in. For some moments, she and Oberyn sat against their little boat and laughed and laughed as if they were thirteen once more, playing and teasing each other in the Water Gardens with the little children, the scent of oranges winding through the warm breeze.

Elia would sneak up behind Oberyn any moment now and pull him unawares into the water, to "cool his ardor" before he frightened off her friends, and soon everyone would be drenched to the skin. Afterward, they would lie in the hot Dornish sun like a pack of lizards, lazily soaking in its warmth as the fountains sang the hour and the coloured silks flew from the loggias, dancing against the cloudless sky.

"But tell me, Ash," said Oberyn when they had finally regained their breaths. "Are you well, truly, up in the freezing cold with your wolf husband and your litter of pups?"

And suddenly she wanted to weep. How she had missed him, this brother who was not of her blood.

Not wishing for Oberyn to mistake her tears for unhappiness, however, she smiled at him instead.

"You have asked me a thousand times in your letters, and I wrote true in reply. I am so happy, I feel I might burst, and even the cold is no bother inside the walls of Winterfell."

"I knew you loved your northern husband. Before. But sometimes such love does not last," he shrugged.

"He is most stubborn, and I suppose so am I," Ashara said. "Once I knew I loved him, there was no way out of it save death. I like to think 'tis the same way for him."

Oberyn took a deep breath then, leaning back to look at the sky.

"I thought you were mad then, do you know? You were, what, not even twenty, and so eager to keep to one bed for the rest of your life. What a waste of potential."

Ashara laughed.

"And now that you have been with one woman for near on a decade? You still think I have wasted my potential?"

"Now…I think I understand better. Not completely. But better."

As they set sail once more and made their way back to the docks, Oberyn at last turned to her, his smile dropping into a determined, hard expression.

"You ask why I have come to King's Landing," he said, his voice losing all warmth. "You know I have spent years finding the monster who murdered my sister, but since he escaped, he has hidden himself well. Now, however…" He flashed her a smile, his teeth glinting like the edge of a blade, and Ashara felt her back grow cold.

"I have heard news that a bulking giant, seven feet tall, has been spotted with armoured men in Braavos. I have heard they hired ships. I have heard they set sail west. To Westeros. To the Riverlands. That is why I am here, Ashara. I have brought my men and my eldest daughter. We are going hunting, you see, for Ser Gregor Clegane."

Guys, just because this fic has an Arya/Gendry tag doesn't mean they're endgame (hehehe). I haven't yet decided how I want their relationship to end up (or if there really is one.) I know what I wrote here, but this isn't some Ned/Ash love at first sight sort of thing, I promise. Arya's just a teenage girl who met a guy she thinks is hot. We've all been there.

Also, you know what, yeah, Arya is a huge slut, but there's nothing inherently wrong with that, and I'd like to remind you all that Ash was a huge slut in her youth too. (Lucky for Ned that he never wanted to ask how many people Ashara has slept with because lol I don't think she remembers).

Obviously, in this medieval setting, some actions have consequences. Ayra's learned a rather hard lesson that you can't just hook up with anyone, but that doesn't mean I'm saying her being all promiscuous and free with her body is a bad thing, or even something that will need to change over time. That's really not the lesson she's learning in her character arc.