When that storm comes, don't run for cover.

Don't run from the coming storm,

'cause it can't keep a storm from coming.

The dark was deep and whole here. Arya stood still as stone, her ears pricked for any sound which might reveal where she was. She heard nothing. The girl squinted, leaning her head this way and that, staring into the heavy black as she struggled to adjust her vision to the darkness. Still, her surroundings remained a mystery. She could sense that she was within the confines of a chamber, not outdoors. She'd expected to find herself in the sparse forest northwest of the city walls, running and hunting with Nymeria's ravenous pack. Instead, she stood on her own two legs, still and disoriented in the eerie silence.

After a moment, her eyes were drawn to a high window set in the opposite wall. She'd not noted it at first, but the movement of clouds in the midnight sky allowed a weak beam of moonlight to pierce the gloom just then, outlining the window's shape. Her gaze settled on the space beneath it, the area now illuminated just enough that she could see a shadow of what made its home there.

A bed, somehow familiar, and in it, the shape of a sleeping man, also familiar.

It hit her, all at once.

The chamber's dimensions. The window. The bed and the way it was arranged.

She was in the temple, in a room on the masters' corridor.

Hope flared beneath her breast, and she rushed to the bed to discover whose form lay beneath the coverlet. When her thighs hit the mattress, she reached out, her hand grazing a bare shoulder and arm above the edge of the sheet, her fingers tracing the ridges of muscle starkly outlined there. The warmth of his flesh was so real, she was half-convinced this wasn't a dream; that she'd somehow really been transported to his side. She pulled in a breath, waiting for him to turn toward her. He stirred but did not fully wake as the seconds ticked by.

"You've not been easy to find," she finally whispered, her tone an ache, and an admonishment, and an apology, all at once. She noted vaguely that she was wearing an acolyte's robe, the feel of it as familiar as her own skin. Her grip curled around his arm, just above his elbow. "But I've tried. I've been trying." Her breath hitched a little.

He turned over, not yet speaking. She heard him sigh, then she gave a surprised yelp as she was suddenly tugged down into the bed with him. He wrapped his strong arms around her, and it was her turn to sigh. As he drew her close into his chest, she noted how broad it was.

Unaccountably broad.

Her eyebrows drew together, and a question tried to form in her throat, but it was interrupted by her companion's own comment.

"Your words are wrong, little wolf," a sleep-laden voice rasped, and the sound of that voice, that accent, was distinctly different from the one she'd expected. Wrong words, indeed! She stiffened, then tried to pull back from him, but the handsome man tightened his hold, and she felt his palm glide along her spine. "And so is this," he added, tugging at the back of her woolen robe.

How had she ended up here, of all places? Was she dreaming this? Or was he?

Arya was too disconcerted to know for sure.

"What's wrong with my robe?" she asked, both befuddled and amused.

"Nothing, except that you shouldn't be wearing it," the master replied crossly. "Or, anything."

The girl barked out a laugh at that. "And my words? How do they offend you?"

"You're supposed to say… You always say to me that someday, I will tell you my name."

Always? She wondered at that, and at the workings of his mind that made it the truth. Still, she had to offer him some explanation, and so left the question for later examination.

"Ah, but I know your name." The darkness hid her smirk, but it was there in her voice. She tilted her head to bring her mouth nearer his ear, then breathed, "Gaelon."

He growled. "That was unkind of you, and most devious."

"Are Faceless Men not meant to be devious?"

"You are not a Faceless Man, my girl," the handsome assassin replied, his tone haughty. Then, quick as a flash, he rolled over top of her, flattening her back against his mattress and shackling her wrists on either side of her head with his iron fingers. "What you are is a little thief." He squeezed a little with his pronouncement, the pads of his fingers resting over the pulse in each of her wrists.

Their posture reminded the girl of a different time; a time when they'd both resided behind the walls of Atius Biro's manse, wearing false faces.

Only, he'd surprised her in her bed then. Tonight, he'd surprised her in his own.

"Why am I here?" Arya asked, her mind bouncing from one detail to another, the sum of them convincing her this was Gaelon's dream and not her own.

"I ask myself that nearly every night," the handsome assassin grunted.

"And have you reached any conclusion?"

She couldn't be sure in the darkness, but his posture and the way he dipped his head convinced her his eyes were piercing her own when next he spoke.

"Penance." The word seemed wrapped in both disgust and resignation.

"Yours? Or mine?"

"Both, I should imagine."

The girl considered his words. "And what great sin have you committed that requires such atonement?"

He dropped his head lower and she felt the gentle scrape of his unshaven chin at her temple, then her ear before it trailed along her neck, followed by the caress of his nose down the same path. When he spoke, his words vibrated against the flesh where her throat met her collar bone.

"My sins are many," he purred, "and wonderfully varied."

Arya chuckled. "Oh, to be sure, but which of them is your greatest? Which do you actually regret?"

He grew quiet at the question.

"Well?" she prompted.

Lifting his head and turning his face away from her, he muttered, "My greatest sin is the one I cannot find it in me to regret." He released her wrists and rolled off her, coming to rest on his back next to her. She turned toward him, settling on her side and tucking her head into the crook of his neck. The cool palm of one hand she slid across his chest until she felt the beat of his heart. Absently, she began to tap the rhythm with her index finger against one of his ribs.

"Perhaps that's why it's your greatest," she mused. "Your inability to repent it."

Gaelon laughed, the sound of it less amused than bitter. "Perhaps."

"It should be my brother," Arya scolded. "Or, at least, your intentions regarding him."

His only answer to that was a derisive snort.

"I realize it's not, but it should be." She was chiding him, looking for some contrition, and some reassurance. When he gave her none, she pinched her lips together, then continued. "It should be your willingness to slaughter an innocent child on the word of a man driven by his own foul ambitions."

"What do you know of my master's ambitions?"

"Little and less," the girl admitted, "but whatever drives him, whatever his aim, it cannot justify any harm to Rickon."

The handsome man scoffed. "One small boy, of so little consequence to the world…"

"He's of consequence to me!" Her finger stopped tapping along with his heartbeat as she clutched at him, her nails biting into the flesh there. He did not flinch.

"…dead these many years in the minds of nearly everyone in this gods forsaken kingdom, if they'd ever even bothered to give him a thought…"

"Gaelon," she murmured hoarsely, stopping him, arresting him with his own name. The sound of it passed her lips like a plea, and a desire, and a whisper of belief in some part of him that he himself did not like to acknowledge.

"Little wolf…"

Arya squeezed her eyes shut against the warning and the misery she heard in his tone. "Don't," she begged. "Don't hurt him."

Perhaps this is why I'm here, she thought. Perhaps this is why I've been given the gift to walk in dreams. If I can save him…

But which him was she saving? Rickon, from the machinations of the Order and the violence of Gaelon's hand? Or Gaelon, from becoming nothing more than a corrupt instrument meant to satisfy the appetites of an unscrupulous man?

She couldn't be sure. Perhaps she was meant to save them both. And when she ruminated on that, it seemed right.

The silence hung thick between them for long moments.

"Please," Arya breathed, the word foreign and tight in her mouth. "If you ever had a care for me…"

"A care? If I ever had a care?" The master's mockery was apparent.

"Any regard, then," she sputtered, frustrated.

"Regard?" He sounded as though he were choking as he said it.

The girl's irritation boiled over. She bolted up, moving over him, straddling his hips. Her hands she placed on his shoulders, leaning down with her weight to hold him in place as she stared into his eyes. They were barely visible, but even in the dim of the moonlight, she imagined she could see the hard facets of his gemstone glare, glittering up at her.

"I could slit your throat as you sleep and be done with it!" the girl hissed. The handsome man laughed at that, sounding genuinely pleased for once.

They were in his dream. He could have changed it or left it. He could have shifted it in any way he liked. It was his domain, and he was lord here. He could have banished her, or imprisoned her, or sent her far away, across the city, across the world.

Instead, he slipped his hands just beneath the hem of her robe where it had ridden up above her knees and rested his palms on her thighs. His touch was both intimate and restrained. Her reaction was less so as she gasped and made to move away from him. The assassin's grip tightened, keeping her in place. Arya glowered.

"Have you forgotten how to rule your face, my girl?"

So haughty. So superior. So infuriating.

This was the master she remembered from Braavos. The one who goaded her. The one who pushed her, seemingly for the delight of watching her reactions. Hers, and those of the Lorathi assassin he called his brother.

But always in it, there was a lesson, or a truth.

Here, in the world of his dream, would that truth not be even deeper?

The idea soothed her, bleeding away her ire. She considered their exchange and his reaction.

"If not regard, then what?" she asked, placing her hands on his shoulders once more. He stiffened, but within the space of a breath, that reaction was buried.

"Then nothing." His assertion was delivered in a bored tone. It made her eyes narrow.

"Liar."

"I'm a liar and you're a thief," the assassin huffed. "I'd say we're fit accomplices."

"You're not my accomplice, Gaelon." Arya swallowed. "You're my friend."

He shook his head and turned away, staring across the chamber toward his door as though he could not abide looking at her any longer. "Quit using my name," he bit out after a time.

She leaned down, bringing her lips to his cheek, placing a soft kiss there before moving her mouth to his ear. "I think," she began in a husky whisper, "that you like to hear me say it."

The handsome man's hand shot up, grasping her neck, using it throw her off him. Her head struck the near wall just before she hit the mattress and he was over top of her in a blink, fingers wrapping around the base of her throat, pressing her down.

"I'm not your oafish brother, little wolf, and I'm not your foolish Lorathi. You'd do well to remember that." His words were heavy laden with menace, but beneath that, she could also hear the hurt. So, instead of fighting him, Arya merely reached up and placed her hand on his cheek. To her surprise, the assassin released her neck and used that hand to encircle her wrist, moving to press a kiss against the palm cradling his face. They stayed that way for a time, quiet, him resting his face in her hand and her staring up at him as he did.

Gaelon released a reluctant groan. "The coin," he said.

Her brow pinched and she repeated his words back to him. "The… coin."

"My coin."

"Your iron coin? What of it?"

"My greatest sin..."

Arya felt heat color her neck and cheeks. "Your greatest sin. The one you… can't regret."

"Just so," he confirmed. "The one I can't regret."

Was not the truth even deeper here?

Her mind swam with the thought of it. It wasn't about the coin, of course. It was about her, and about him allowing himself a friendship, a care. It was about him allowing himself…

Identity.

Just a sliver. Just a grain. It was true that he was a Faceless assassin, one of the most ruthless, and had been, nearly every second of every day for years. But that did not matter in the face of his sin. For in the House of Black and White, any amount of self, no matter how miniscule, was too great.

He'd allowed himself to be Gaelon for a moment, for a spare few seconds, and given her his coin.

He'd allowed himself to care.

He'd allowed himself to… be.

His greatest sin.

And she was the one who had tempted him to it.

Arya gasped. It was a small thing, soft and low, but he'd heard.

"Don't fret for my sake, little wolf," Gaelon smirked. "You have your own sins to repent."

The girl quirked one eyebrow up, asking, "What faults do you lay at my feet, then?"

He stared down at her with half-hooded eyes. "Your greatest sin is a coin as well."

She scoffed at that. "Taking coins that were freely given?"

"No, not that. Only a very great fool would refuse such a gift."

"Then what?" Her confusion was not feigned.

"Using that coin, my girl. Sailing to Braavos and gaining entry to the House of Black and White."

"And why is that to be my damnation?"

"Because," the handsome assassin replied, "in doing so, you set in motion plans which will raise and fell kingdoms, spilling blood across the whole of this realm; plans that will shape the future and fortune of more lives than you could ever fathom."

"Is that all?" she snorted. "I thought you were going to say because it ruined your relationship with my master."

"That too," he grunted, "but I think I've hit upon suitable amends."

"Oh?"

"Quite."

And with that, his lips crashed against hers and he kissed her with a fervor so shocking, she awoke gasping in her own chamber under Lord Manderly's roof.

"Your grace?" Hoster Blackwood said. When Arya did not respond, the Hand cleared his throat and spoke a little louder. "My queen?"

The girl blinked, then looked up from the scroll she'd been staring at but not actually reading for the last several minutes. "Oh," she said, then pressed the back of her hand to her mouth to stifle a yawn she'd thought to fake. "I'm sorry. I slept rather poorly last night." That was the truth, though her distraction had less to do with fatigue and more to do with her mulling over her dream. Or, rather, Gaelon's. "What were you saying, my lord?"

"I may have found something." Hos' finger tapped along a line of text in a book laying open before him. The two were in the library at New Castle, poring over the texts and scrolls the Hand had asked the maester for pull for him. He'd requested anything which might reference old Northern legends or wilding tales of the supernatural. The maester had been taken aback but seemed satisfied with Hoster's explanation that he merely wished to better understand the place which was to be his home for the foreseeable future.

"My lord, mightn't you be better served by studying Maester Tumpkin's definitive work on the history of the first men?" the maester had initially suggested. "Or perhaps the more recent volume by Maester Childer…"

"Do you mean 'Winter's Kings'? Yes, I've read that already. I've read all the most popular histories and the major works, I believe. I'm looking for something a bit more… esoteric."

"Esoteric?"

"Anyone may know the history of a place, or its topography, or its resources, but that is not understanding its soul. To really understand the soul of a place, you must know its folklore and superstitions."

"What is it?" the girl asked, her eyes flicking to the upside-down text Hoster was indicating. Normally, she wouldn't have played the part of a research assistant, but after waking with a start in her chamber, she'd been restless, but also keen to avoid Augen Heldere until she'd had time to reflect on their shared dream. She'd slipped through the castle before most were stirring and found herself in the library, a place she assumed the master assassin would not visit. There, she had discovered her Hand, steadfastly reading in a bid to discover the information she'd requested some weeks ago. She'd decided to join him.

"It's an account of Torrhen Stark's last deliberations with his most trusted bannermen and their maesters during the conquest."

Torrhen Stark. The King Who Knelt.

"The man who gave away the North," the girl mused.

Lord Hoster nodded. "I imagine more happened than is documented here, but this outlines what was discussed when the Northern army entered the Riverlands and found Aegon the Conqueror waiting at the banks of the Trident."

Arya sat back in her chair, recalling her history lessons under Maester Luwin's tutelage. "I thought all Torrhen Stark discussed at the Trident was the terms of his surrender."

"There's not a lot of detail," Hos admitted, "but it says here that while emissaries treated with King Aegon in his camp, Torrhen remained with his advisors to discuss all possible paths to victory. He was searching for a way to avoid kneeling."

"He did not find one," the girl stated flatly.

"At least, not in time…"

"What do you mean?"

The Hand looked down at the text again, skimming the words. "It says they were awaiting scouts to return from beyond the wall, but they'd had no word in so long, they'd given up hope in the plan."

"What plan?"

"The plan to find a warg among the wildlings and press him into service."

Arya's eyebrows shot up and then she reached out, grabbing the heavy book and dragging it across the table, turning it so she could read for herself. The spelling was eclectic, the tome having been written by a Northern scholar rather than a Citadel trained maester, nearly three hundred years past.

"…alas, no kyngsmen culd fynde the accursed man to bende a dragon mynde…" she recited, then drew in a breath and looked up at her Hand. "They tried…"

"To do exactly what you have thought to do," he finished for her.

"They failed," the girl pointed out.

"True, but had they succeeded in finding someone with that skill and then gotten him to the Trident in time…"

She nodded. "The history of the kingdom might've been very different."

Hoster's eyes gleamed. "It might have indeed, your grace."

"There's no way to know for sure it would have worked."

"No, there's no way to know for sure, but…"

"But?"

"We can at least seek to remedy the biggest flaw in their plan."

"What do you see as the biggest flaw, my lord?"

"Not having someone with the necessary gift in their service before engaging with the enemy."

Arya grinned. "Are we to send queensmen to fynde the accursed man to bende a dragon mynde?" Her pronunciation was clipped and guttural, a blend of the traditional Northern accent with the cadence of the old tongue. It made the Hand laugh.

"We may not have to look far and wide, your grace."

Hoster's tone marked his words as a jape, but still, the queen's heart stuttered at them. She bit her lip.

"What do you mean, my lord?"

"Only that I've overheard the Skagosi whispering in the corridors. I don't grasp much of their language yet, but it seems they suspect there is a skin changer among their company. Perhaps we could discover this man and take him into our ranks."

Arya was both relieved and concerned. It seemed her own skill was still unknown amongst her men, but did the Skagosi suspect her brother? And if so, did the Order?

And how would the Kindly Man react to that? Would it make Rickon an asset, or an even bigger threat?

How would that direct the handsome man's hand? Or, more importantly, his blade?

These were not thoughts that filled her with comfort.

"Tread carefully," the girl warned. "The Skagosi are suspicious and fearsome. It would be terribly inconvenient for me if you were killed by cannibals for asking the wrong questions."

"Duly noted, your grace. I've no wish to be killed. Or eaten, for that matter."

She laughed lightly, but all the while, her mind was turning. She first thought to find Gaelon so that she might attempt to reason with him once again, but then decided she needed to seek out her brother first.

By the time she'd entered the great hall flanked by Ser Podrick and Ser Ben, Arya's excitement and trepidation over what Lord Hoster had discovered was carefully tucked away. Her countenance was the perfect reflection of queenly serenity. No one would guess at the turmoil in her heart. She spied Rickon finishing his breakfast and greeted him.

"Dear brother," she said in what she hoped was a placid tone, "would you pray with me in the godswood?"

"Sinelvarrg!" the wild boy cried, wiping his mouth on his sleeve and leaping up from the bench to greet her. Shaggydog, who had been drowsing on the floor behind him, stood and gave a wolfy yawn.

"Little lord," Osha warned as she, along with the rest of the table, rose and bowed respectfully. The boy batted his fair lashes at her innocently and shrugged.

"What? It's a pet name," he replied meekly, not working very hard to suppress his Skagosi accent. Vaht? Eetz uh pat nim. The girl shook her head slightly, trying to suppress her mirth at the sound of it.

"You don't address your queen with pet names in public," the wildling woman reminded him, "especially pet names plucked from the old tongue. Unless you want your ears boxed by your nursemaid."

"I'm too old for a nursemaid," the boy groused under his breath, looking dejected.

"Don't be too hard on him, Osha," Arya said, smiling at Rickon.

"Begging your pardon, your grace, but the boy needs to learn if he's to take his place in your court," the woman said, her spine stiff. Arya admired her boldness. "That is, if you still mean to make him a place in your court." The words were both a challenge and a reminder. It seemed Osha wanted her own reassurances, for the boy's sake.

"There's no question of that," the queen said, and she could feel the eyes of the Skagosi contingent on her as she spoke. Augen's eyes were particularly keen.

The wildling seemed satisfied, but when the brother and sister made their way out of the hall with the Winter Guard and the direwolf trailing them, Osha gave Augen a small nod, her eyes full of meaning. The false warrior stood with a grunt and followed his charge, leaving his breakfast half-eaten on the table.

Rickon was still pouting as the pair made their way across the parapet and down the steps to the godswood.

"Osha thinks I'm a baby," he whined. "I'm a magnar!" The last bit, he spoke in the old tongue, pounding his fist against his chest for emphasis.

"A magnar you may be, but if you don't want your ears boxed, I'd suggest you say it in common tongue," his sister teased. At his frown, she made a suggestion. "Look, I'll help you with your common tongue if you'll help me with my old tongue."

"I don't need help with the common tongue. I know the common tongue."

"But you don't speak it like a Northman, and no matter how long you've been away, you are a Northman, Rickon."

"Skagosi are Northmen," the boy argued.

"Then let us say that you do not speak it like a man of Winterfell."

Rickon drew to a stop and crossed his arms over his chest, looking down at his boots, all petulance and stubbornness. "I don't want to be a man of Winterfell."

Arya whipped around, quick as a snake, and grabbed the boy by his shoulders, shaking him. "Don't you ever say that! The North is our home, and Winterfell is our birthright! Our father's bones rest there!"

Shaggydog growled at her but made no move to snap or bite.

"Your grace?" Ser Podrick called out uncertainly from twenty paces down the pathway behind them.

"It's fine, Ser Podrick. The wolf won't harm me." While she spoke, her eyes remained fastened to Rickon's. "Will he, brother?"

The boy growled himself then, and the direwolf bristled, but then Rickon huffed. "No, he won't harm you." Shaggy relaxed then and whined a little before scenting some small creature or another and padding off on a hunt.

"Wait for me by the stairs," the queen instructed her guards. As she looked up at them, she saw Augen approaching. "You too, Skagosi," she added with a twist of her lips.

"Skagosi take orders from Bludvarrg, not Sinelvargg," the man answered gruffly. The two queensguard knights made to draw swords as they stepped closer to the Faceless warrior, but she waved them off.

"Of course, if my little brother needs his guard with him, I won't object," the girl sniffed.

Rickon's frown deepened, and he barked a sharp command at the assassin to wait with the winter cloaks. Satisfied, brother and sister continued down the oyster shell path alone.

"I didn't mean to be so harsh," Arya said by way of apology, "but this is no japing thing. You are a son of Winterfell, just like Bran, just like Robb." She paused, swallowing thickly. "And just like Father."

"Where is Bran?" the boy spat. "Where is Robb? Sinelvarrg, where is Father?"

She bit her lip, linking arms with him, her eyes full of sympathy. She sensed his feeling of loss, and she understood it well, for it was her loss too. And she understood that while her memories of Winterfell were full of love and joy and happiness, the same could not be said for him. He'd been left there, watching his family depart, one by one. He'd seen the castle bleak and nearly empty, drained of its life. He'd seen it captured; been held as hostage there. He'd seen those who remained loyal pay for it with their lives, and he'd finally been forced to flee himself, abandoning what little comfort and safety those walls had afforded him. More than half his life had been spent in exile, hacking out an existence in harsher environments than most men grown would ever see. And he'd done it all while he was still a tender boy with only a wolf, a wildling woman, and his wiles to guide him. Arya found she could not blame her brother for his outburst.

How to be a man of Winterfell, a son of Winterfell, when all he could recall of it was pain?

"Jon is there," she said softly. "Soon, I will be there, and you with me. We will make Winterfell our home again. Is that not enough?"

"Is Jon a son of Winterfell?" the boy queried, looking up at her. His question pierced her heart. Neither Jon Snow's lack of Tully blood nor the Stark name being denied him had ever made him less precious in her mind. It had never made him less a brother.

"He always was to me," the girl whispered, looking off.

Rickon sighed. "Fine, then. Help me with my common tongue."

Arya smiled at him. "First lesson: as a rule, don't growl when you speak. And try not to bare your teeth quite so much."

"Unt Sinelvarrg turi rohkem proveak."

And Shadow Wolf must growl more.

She laughed heartily. "Unt rohkem fogak?"

"Yes, and more teeth," he agreed before correcting her pronunciation.

"Lovely," she remarked as they walked deeper into the godswood.

A half-hour or so was all it took for Arya to teach her brother not to pronounce "godswood" as "goads-fude" and "sister" as "say-starr." In the meantime, she learned that at least a minimal amount of spittle should be produced every third word or so when speaking Skagosi. Otherwise, the native speakers would simply ignore what was being said since it lacked the emphasis to demonstrate the speaker's sincerity. With the rest of their hour long walk, the queen sought to determine the degree of Rickon's abilities and if he were conscious of them.

"Rickon, do you dream of wolves?" The boy narrowed his eyes, cutting her a glance. She sought to assure him. "I only ask because I do, and not just Nymeria. I've dreamed of Ghost, too. I've dreamed I am Ghost."

"Dreamed?" He sounded wary.

Perhaps he understands after all, she mused.

"Maybe it wasn't quite a dream," Arya suggested.

"Maybe it wasn't," Rickon agreed, then turned his face upward, staring at the leaves overhead as they danced in the wind. He seemed to be listening to their rasp.

"What do they say?" the girl breathed.

He closed his eyes a moment and tilted one ear toward the sky. When he opened his eyes, he looked at her for a long moment. "Trust," he finally said.

She nodded, filled with satisfaction. "Hear me, brother. No one can know. No one. Do you understand?"

"Osha knows."

"Are you sure?"

"She does not say, but I can feel it. It's why she lets me play so much in the godswood with Lillikaskoer."

The girl was quiet for a moment. "And Augen?"

"No."

"Good. He must not find out."

"Why?"

"Because I don't know what he'd do if he did."

Her brother shrugged. "Augen does not watch me enough to see. His eyes look for dangers around me, not in me." He paused, looking at her a moment before adding, "And since you came, he watches me even less."

"What do you mean?"

"His eyes are always on you."

"Perhaps he thinks I'm the danger around you now."

The boy grunted. "I think he wants to steal you."

"Steal me?" She gave a bemused laugh.

"Skagosi steal their wives, like wildlings." He said it so matter-of-factly that it did not register with her at first. And then, she balked and snorted.

"You think Augen Heldere wants me for a wife?"

The boy shrugged. "His eyes say he wants to steal you, but he can't, because I'm his magnar."

He doesn't want that, the Cat decided, thinking his looks and gazes meant something different altogether; meant he was sizing her up, trying to understand her plans so he could outmaneuver her. And even if he did want that, no magnar could stop him.

"Maybe I should let him," Rickon continued, making Arya nearly choke.

"What?"

"Then we could all go back to Skagos together."

"Oh, Rickon," she sighed, tugging on one of his small braids, feeling the bone ornament woven into it.

"Aegon Targaryen presses the River lords for an answer," Lord Manderly said to Brynden Blackwood, looking up from a raven scroll his maester had handed him moments before. The two men had finished their midday meal and had remained at the head table, talking amiably, when the message arrived. "It seems the king has written in his own hand to all the great houses, if your father is to be believed." He handed the scroll over to the Blackwood heir, allowing him to read the news for himself. "Well, at least now we know the dragon king is literate."

"Scholarship was never their weakness," Ser Brynden observed. "More so a lack of sanity."

"True," Manderly conceded. "The Targaryen line is littered with learned madmen."

"Is this one mad, do you think?"

"Would that we were so lucky, but I've heard nothing that convinces me it's so."

"Father awaits the queen's decision on a reply."

"Do you know her well, my lord?"

Brynden grimaced. "Not as well as some."

"But you've been in her company since she landed on these shores?"

"Nearly so, yes."

"What do you think her answer will be?"

The young man laughed. "I imagine she'll want to say something along the lines of 'tell that pompous silver invader and his oversized lizards to sod off' but she'll likely seek the council's advice and craft a more… diplomatic response."

"So, she's a reasonable girl, then?"

"Oh, exceedingly so." The knight cleared his throat. "At least more than half the time."

"Then we should endeavor to offer her sound advice on the matter," Manderly replied, rubbing at his pointed beard. "And see that she takes it."

"And what is your advice in this instance?"

"That she makes for Winterfell with all haste while we gather our strength."

"And the reply?"

"There should be none. Aegon will learn the truth soon enough. As closely as we've held this news, it's surely even now traveling on the road to King's Landing. There's no reason to inform him sooner than he will naturally discover it on his own."

"I agree."

"Of course you do. You're a man of sense. The question is, will the queen agree?"

"I believe so. I can see no reason she would want to communicate with the Targaryens before she has to."

"Good. That will allow us to focus on more important matters, like the ship that arrived in my port yesterday."

"What cargo did it carry?"

Manderly's mouth shaped itself into a sly grin. "A gift for the Winter's Queen, from the Sealord of Braavos himself."

The Lord of White Harbor took his leave to deal with some household matters at the urging of his steward and that left Ser Brynden with little to do until the queen's council was to meet in a few hours. He thought to swing his sword and loosen the tension that had been building in his neck and shoulders since they'd left Moat Cailin. Settled upon this, the Blackwood knight wandered into the training yard where he found the queen and her brother locked in combat.

The Winter's Queen. The cause of the tension in his neck and shoulders.

Brynden drew up short, his eyes following their movements. It seemed the two Starks had been busy sparring with one another for some time.

Though perhaps with the way the boy barreled at and grappled with his sister, all while snarling and baring his teeth, 'sparring' was not the proper term, Brynden thought. Despite his age and size, the young magnar was fierce, his fighting style savage in a way that Westerosi knights were not.

Arya's hair had loosened from her braid and strands were plastered across her forehead while the boy's usually shining auburn locks were mussed and tangled, full of leaves and dirt. It looked as though he'd been tumbling around on the ground. And just as the knight thought it, he witnessed the little chieftain in action.

The queen thrust her slender blade toward her brother's chest, but the boy threw himself bodily to the ground with the sort of spirited zeal reserved for the young (those who would not feel it so acutely on the morrow). He rolled in the dirt toward the girl's feet, tackling her at the ankles and knocking her backwards. When her back met the ground, Rickon leapt up and it was then that Brynden could see the boy sparred with a long knife rather than a sword, a mean looking blade that was wide and serrated along one edge with nasty teeth.

The boy made to pounce over her and the knight could see how such a move would play out—the magnar would cage his sister with his body, holding his blade to her throat, or perhaps pressing it against her side, just below her ribcage, winning the duel. But though the boy was brutal and shockingly fearless in his fighting style, the queen was cunning.

And quick.

As the boy left his feet, Arya kicked upward, catching Rickon in his belly before he could land, knocking the breath from him and throwing him off. He met the packed dirt with a hard thud next to her, then it was she who caged him, one knee planted firmly in his chest while she used an elbow to pin the hand wielding the knife to the ground by the wrist.

"You'll not add my teeth to your necklace today, little brother," she laughed.

"Yours are too pretty for my necklace," he wheezed, grinning up at her. "I'd turn them into a crown."

The girl snorted, then hopped up, offering the boy her hand and helping him to his feet. They talked animatedly about their moves and countermoves, the queen pointing out where the chieftain could use more finesse and the chieftain telling the queen when she would've been better served by biting him or gouging out his eyes 'instead of whirling around with that skinny blade.' Ser Brynden watched, caught somewhere between amusement and melancholy. After a moment, he noted Ser Gendry across the courtyard, looking at the girl in much the same way as he imagined he had been. He strode over the yard and joined the dark knight.

"That boy is half feral," the heir to Raventree Hall remarked.

"So's his sister," Gendry countered. "She's just had more practice at disguising it."

Brynden gave a small laugh. "If you'd spoken that way of any other lady, I'd name it a coarse impertinence, but I'd wager our queen would accept your judgement with pride."

Gendry nodded. "Aye, that she would."

The knights grew quiet as they watched Arya allow Rickon to leap onto her back, wrapping his arm around her neck in a chokehold, so she could show him how to subvert such an attack. As the girl tucked her head and rolled onto the ground, stunning her brother into loosening his grip as his spine met the dirt, Brynden sighed. He continued watching the queen as he addressed her sworn shield.

"How do you do it, ser?"

"Pardon, m'lord?"

"How do you watch her across a room, across a courtyard, day after day, and do nothing?" Ser Brynden turned his head to glance at the blacksmith-knight then. "Does it not sting?"

Gendry's jaw tightened.

"I mean you no disrespect," Brynden assured him. "But your feelings are writ plain on your face."

"Perhaps you don't realize it, but so are yours."

"I know. So, as one thwarted suitor to another, I ask again, how have you done it, all these moons?"

"Not moons," he murmured, glancing toward the Blackwood heir. "Years." Gendry crossed his arms over his chest, his dark brows crashing down as he sorted through Brynden's words. Finally, he let out a long breath and shrugged. "I value her friendship more than I resent her lack of regard for me as a match."

Brynden nodded, then stood straight and began to walk away from the knight. After a few steps, he halted and turned, facing Gendry. "Ser, you are a man of worth. I think perhaps I have underestimated you." He bowed slightly, then turned and walked back across the courtyard and through a door leading into the great keep, Gendry staring after him all the way.

After making her way to the kitchens and snatching a crust of bread and some water to wash it down, Arya returned to her chamber where she was ambushed by Rosie and Lady Dyanna. The two insisted on bathing her despite her protestations that she was quite capable of bathing herself and what did they care if she showed up for a council meeting with a mud-stained tunic and smudges of dirt on her cheeks, anyway?

"The council meeting is sure to last until supper, and you'll have to leave straight away for the feast hall," Dyanna explained.

"So?"

"So, in your state, you'd put anyone off their stew, lord or otherwise!"

"Aye," Rosie agreed, practically shoving the girl into the tub they'd prepared. "And if the water's too nippy, it's your own fault for taking so long to get here, your grace."

"The water's fine," the girl sniffed. "I don't mind the cold. What I do mind is my maid and my lady ganging up on me and... oof!"

Whatever Arya had meant to say was cut off by Rosie dumping a great pitcher of water over her head. The girl growled and complained while Rosie just hummed and scrubbed and Dyanna rattled off all the interesting things she'd seen and heard since their arrival.

"Some consider the men of the Neck unrefined and strange," the crannogwoman was saying, "but those Skagosi, oh my!"

"I'd wager anyone would look frightening with that sort of face paint," the maid said, "but add in the bones they use as jewelry and the way they growl and spit their words, and I'm positively near fainting when I come across one of them!"

"Well, you be sure not to come across one of them on your own," the queen cautioned. "My brother tells me they like to steal wives for themselves."

Rosie shivered. "I'd die of fright!"

"Hmm. It is sort of exciting, though, isn't it?" Dyanna countered.

The maid's look was skeptical. "To be abducted by a stinking savage who barely speaks your language and married without a say in the matter?"

Dyanna shrugged. "Ladies in Westeros are usually married without a say in the matter, and sometimes to men worse than stinking savages. Besides," she added, dropping her voice lower, "they're not all so bad. That one who shadows the queen's brother is as comely as he is terrifying."

"Augen Heldere?" Rosie gulped. "I'll grant you he's comely, but just the expression he wears most of the time is enough to make me shake in my boots."

"Is that his name? Well, whatever he's called, his face and form are like no man I've ever seen."

"Stay well clear of him," the queen said, her tone serious. "That man is far more dangerous than either of you can imagine."

"Why? What do you know of him?" the crannogwoman asked eagerly. "Has your brother told you tales?"

"I know he's spilled enough blood to turn the White Knife red," Arya replied honestly, "and I know what little conscience he does have would not direct him to worry over either of you. That one cares for no one but himself."

It wasn't quite the truth, but it was all the truth they needed to know.

To the girl's dismay, her words only served to pique Lady Dyanna's interest further.

"Will he accompany us to Winterfell?"

Arya frowned. "I'm afraid I won't be able to stop him." Try as I might, she did not add.

After her bath, the queen had demanded her crimson jerkin and fawn breeches, but the two women had just laughed at that and dressed her as they'd pleased. That was how she ended up clothed in a simple gown of the softest dove grey wool, fitted perfectly to her. The low scooped neck was trimmed with snow white fox fur that rose up her neck in the back to create a warm, high collar. A crowned wolf was embroidered in the center of the bodice, rendered in silk thread a shade darker than the gown itself. The garment cinched in tightly from breast to hip then fell away in a cascade, the unadorned skirt forming a short train.

The girl tested it, bending her arms tentatively to find that the movement at her elbows was unrestricted despite the close fit of the long sleeves. She also found that her fingers could slip easily beneath each sleeve at the wrist, a must for anyone hoping to pluck out a thin blade hidden there.

"Where… how…" Arya's eyes trailed from the perfect sleeves to the beautifully stitched wolf and crown before settling on her companions.

"I made it," Rosie said shyly, her cheeks pink. "Your uncle gave me some fine wool and trimmings once he learned I had some skill with a needle. He bade me make you something suitable with it."

"Some skill with a needle?" the girl breathed. "The stitching…" She ran her hands lightly over the crowned wolf. Even Sansa couldn't boast such perfect embroidery. "It's so fine. And light." Arya did a quick spin, sending the skirts fluttering about her ankles, but the weight of it was barely detectable. Despite the small train, it did not feel as if the gown would impede her at all.

"Yes, your grace. I tried to make it so, knowing how active you are. I thought perhaps I could make you something more… you. At least, something more you than what I've seen them dress you in before." Rosie stepped closer and murmured, "I've sewn narrow pockets inside each sleeve at the wrist. In case you did not wish to lash your blades on with leather."

Of course her maid knew she wore them always. She'd helped her dress and undress more times than Arya could count. Still, the thought that Rosie had noted the detail and planned for it when making the gown touched the girl.

"More… me." The queen's lips curled into a genuine smile. "I… thank you, Rosie."

"I'm glad you like it, your grace. I had occasion to do my needlework while you were doing yours, storming the Twins, making your way through the great swamp and such."

"Now, sit still while I finish your hair," Lady Dyanna chastised. The two attendants made short work of that, giving Arya neat braids on either side of her head, starting at her temples and trailing down her back. The ends they bound together with a length of grey silk ribbon. And before she could stop them, Dyanna tossed a bottle of scent to Rosie who dabbed it along Arya's throat and bosom.

The spicy scent from Braavos. The one Ser Brynden had gifted her. The one that reminded her of Jaqen, all cloves and ginger and musk.

"There. Now you look a proper queen," Lady Dyanna pronounced.

The girl snorted. "I'm not sure I'll ever look a proper queen."

Rosie shook her head. "Pardon me for saying so, your grace, but you're wrong. You look every inch a Winter's Queen. No one seeing you could doubt it."

Ser Kyle and Gendry served as the queen's escort to the council meeting but as their Lord Commander was a member of council and therefore present, she bade them go and amuse themselves rather than standing guard at the door after her arrival. The two looked uncertainly at Jaime who simply rolled his eyes and dismissed them with a brusque nod.

"You'll crush their pride, making them feel so unnecessary," Jaime grumbled after they'd gone.

"Oh? I rather thought I'd inflate yours, making you feel as though you are all that is required to guarantee my safety," the queen retorted.

Jaime's expression was cocksure when he said, "I am all that's required, but I'm not fooled for one instant that that's truly your reasoning."

"Lord Commander, did you just call your sovereign a liar?" the girl gasped with feigned shock.

"More manipulator than liar, I'd say. Like all good sovereigns." He turned to face her fully, drinking in her appearance, his eyes traveling down her body as he quirked up one eyebrow. "Gods, but you look regal today, Stark. What are you playing at in that queen costume?"

"Mocking me, ser? Men have been hanged for less."

He leaned down and muttered so that only she could hear, "There are days I'd prefer the gallows to sitting through a council meeting."

"There are days I'd gladly join you on the scaffold if I could," she confided.

"How many minutes until the Greatjon bangs his fist on the table or bellows 'bloody fuck' at Manderly?"

Arya looked away as if calculating. "Hmm. At least five."

"I have it at less than three."

"Interesting," the girl said with a hum. "You think his self-control is waning. Whereas I think a good night's sleep in a comfortable bed will have put Lord Umber in a generous temper."

Jaime snorted. "Oh, Stark, you sweet summer child."

"The usual wager?" she smirked.

The golden knight looked confident. "Yes."

The usual wager was three days of allowing her guards to escort her as Jaime deemed fit, without voicing any complaint for the duration. Conversely, if Arya won, she could forgo her escort as she liked during the same time period, with Jaime unable to say a word against it.

As it happened, the queen lost her wager instantly and in spectacular fashion as the Greatjon burst through the door, strode to the table around which the lords and knights were gathered, and slammed his fist down, shouting, "Manderly, you great, bloody fuck! How long were you planning to keep this message from the rutting dragon king a secret?"

The Kingslayer cut his eyes toward Arya, one corner of his mouth lifting.

"Impudent," she sniffed under her breath.

"Shall I recall Ser Kyle and Ser Gendry now, your grace?" he replied with a bland expression. "Or I'll wait until the meeting is over, shall I?"

The girl closed her eyes for a moment and breathed a sigh, then swept to the table, taking her place at its head, ignoring the faint chuckling of her Lord Commander.

"Oh, calm yourself, Umber. I only received the message myself two hours ago. And it wasn't a missive from the king, merely a report of it from Tytos Blackwood."

All the men seated themselves after their queen did, bowing their heads to her in greeting.

"Perhaps you'd better explain what you mean, my lord," Arya said.

"Your grace, Lord Blackwood has sent an account of a message he received from King's Landing, signed by Aegon's own hand."

"What did this message say?"

"The Iron Throne presses the River lords to declare their loyalty, and in language that suggests if they do not, they invite ruin."

"We've heard such messages before," the girl recalled.

"It's true, your grace," Manderly admitted, "but they have never been worded so… starkly. And they've never been rendered in the king's hand."

"This new development, Aegon Targeryen writing his own demands," she began, looking around the table at her men, "what do you make of it?"

"Desperation, most like," the Greatjon sneered. "The pup yelps for attention."

"A pup with dragons," Brynden Blackwood pointed out. "Perhaps he means to reinforce his legitimacy? To remind us that he, not Daenerys, or Connington, wields the power in King's Landing?"

"Mmm," Royan Wull murmured thoughtfully. "I cannae say what such royal plots and intrigues mean to show us, yer grace, but I think the king parades his lack of patience with such wanton expression."

"You judge him a hothead, Lord Wull?" the queen asked.

"Time will reveal, but I think it shows us his soft underbelly."

"I don't know that you can name a demand for loyalty a weakness," Jaime disagreed. "Name one monarch in all of time who ever held onto his throne by overlooking treason."

"Treason, bah!" Corwin Harclay snorted.

"It's not the want of loyalty that stains his character, but the expectation of it before he's lifted a finger to show he deserves it," Lord Wull replied. "Or demonstrated he has any means of rewarding it."

"His words to Lord Blackwood indicate he means to reward loyalty by allowing the Riverlands to remain untouched by dragon flame," Manderly said grimly. "And disloyalty, he means to address swiftly with the same."

"Idle threats, surely," was Beren Tallhart's judgment. "King's Landing is almost certainly beset with anarchy. Even in the best of circumstances, it would take more than half a year to set things to rights. Aegon cannot sit atop his throne and oversee the restoration of peace to the capital while laying waste to other lands."

"So, this new king is a spoiled tyrant who says things he does not mean and has no head for diplomacy?" the girl summarized, a twinkle in her eye. "How objectionable must his aunt be that Dorne and the Reach chose him over her?"

"You see him differently, your grace?" Howland Reed asked, looking at her shrewdly.

"I see that he has proved something of himself by gathering allies and conquering the capital so quickly," she replied. "Impatient he may be, but I don't know that we can dismiss him so easily for it. Not without knowing what underlies his haste."

"Perhaps he believes he addresses Lannister loyalists?" Lord Manderly mused. "Tommen had appealed to Emmon Frey to join in the defense of King's Landing."

"Yet no troops came," Ser Brynden reminded them. "And Raventree Hall's disdain for Emmon Frey's appointment was well known across the realm. I daresay all but the Frey's particular allies made their distaste of the man's illegitimate authority known. I cannot see how the dragons could believe the Riverlands resists Aegon's rule out of any obligation to Tommen or Cersei."

The Greatjon had heard enough. "He's rash. Or, he's not. He's bloodthirsty or he's as gentle as a lamb. Maybe he's shrewd or maybe he's as dumb as a wagonload of sheep's shit!" he blustered. "The truth is, we don't fucking know, and we won't, until we speak with the man ourselves or meet him across the field of battle, so why are we wasting time pretending we can read the cunt's mind?"

Arya pressed her lips together tightly to avoid the burst of laughter that clawed its way up her throat.

"Umber!" Manderly barked. "Mind your tongue in the presence of our queen!"

"The queen you accused of wanting to kinslay, you mean?"

"I never…"

"Aye, you did, you pompous sow!"

The girl cleared her throat and stood, marshaling the attention of the room. "My lords," she said, her face a mask of practiced solemnity, "the Greatjon's point is well taken. We can only speculate at the Targaryen motives, so perhaps we should point our efforts toward deciding on a response?"

The men stopped their bickering, glaring sourly at one another, but acquiesced, bowing to her in turn.

"Your grace, I suggest no response at all," Lord Manderly said.

"And I suggest a mailed fist to the lad's nose," the Greatjon countered.

"However satisfying that might be, it's hardly practical, Lord Umber," Ser Jaime drawled.

Ser Brynden spoke up. "I see sense in Lord Manderly's idea. When we'd discussed it earlier, he…"

A muttering arose from the mountain lords at this and the Greatjon's head swiveled to the Blackwood heir. "So, you and the Merman are having secret meetings now, boy?"

"Hardly," Manderly scoffed. "Ser Brynden happened to be present when Maester Theomore brought the scroll."

"I only meant that…" Brynden tried.

The room erupted with declarations and bold threats as the men talked over one another.

"We don't owe the Iron Throne a single…"

"Let them come, they'll find we're more than…"

"A green boy from across the sea can't…"

"We should announce our sovereignty in no uncertain…"

"If it's blood he wants…"

Arya slumped in her seat, rubbing her forehead.

"Your grace."

The low, steady voice somehow cut through the rancorous din. The girl lifted her head to see Howland looking pointedly at her. She straightened.

"My lord?"

"Lord Manderly's advice bears hearing out."

"His advice to do nothing?"

"Not nothing, your grace, just not to answer," Wyman Manderly corrected. "At least not until you are safely behind the walls of Winterfell. From there, we can send ravens far and wide if you like, declaring you are our crowned queen."

"That may take a moon's turn," the girl pointed out. "Can we put him off so long?"

"As guarded as we have all been, I suspect word of you and your deeds will soon begin to trickle into the Red Keep. Ravens, we can control, but traveling tradesmen and gossiping sailors are another matter. Whispers turn to shouts in taverns when men are in their cups."

"So, the dragons learn of me and of our intentions whether we pen a raven's scroll or not."

"Rumor. Conjecture. But with no solid proof, it will only serve to send them scrambling to discern the truth of things before advancing," Manderly judged. "Hopefully, that buys us just enough time."

"It will." The words came from Thoros who had been standing silently by until then. "But only if we make the greatest haste." The red priest turned to Arya. "Your grace, we cannot tarry here long, and we must ride hard. Even now, news of you is being carried ever closer to the dragons. I have seen it."

The girl nodded, her expression carefully bland, even as Howland's piercing gaze told her that he had also seen the truth of Thoros' flame visions, but as a dream painted in shades of green. She knew she should focus on what that might mean for her kingdom and her people. She knew she should be planning for the different possible reactions the Iron Throne would have to finding another monarch shared the continent. She knew she should, but she couldn't. Because all she could think about just then was that news of her was traveling down the kingsroad and would soon reach the dragons.

And all those around them would know Arya Stark lived and had made her way north.

Jaqen would hear.

What would he do?

"Sinelvarrg!" Rickon cried out jovially as Arya entered the great hall. He leapt from his seat and ran toward his sister, nearly bowling her over with his enthusiastic hug. "Your meeting took so long, I thought I would starve."

The girl laughed, asking how he knew she was detained by a meeting.

"Ser Gendry told me," the little chieftain explained, nodding toward his table. It was then Arya noticed Gendry was seated across from her brother's place. Hoster Blackwood also sat nearby and was involved in an animated conversation with the dark knight at that moment. "He told me other things, too."

"Oh? Like what?"

"He told me you are called the Butcher of the Crossing and that you killed the man who killed mother and Robb and Greywind. He said you killed many men!"

Arya frowned. "He shouldn't have told you that."

"Why not? I'm glad you killed them. He said you rescued the Northmen from a dungeon. Twice! And you fought a witch and you found Nymeria. I didn't know you lost her, masin. How did you lose her?" Before the girl could even attempt an answer, Rickon rushed on. "He said you were a prisoner in a burnt castle when you were my age and you made friends with a wicked assassin and that you sailed across the Narrow Sea. Is that true? Did you cross the sea in a big ship?"

"My, it seems you two have had quite the conversation."

"Your meeting was very long," the boy shrugged, "and he said he didn't have anything better to do than tell me stories."

She narrowed her eyes, glaring towards Gendry, wondering if this was his revenge for sending him away from his post outside the council meeting.

Well, two can play at this game, she thought.

"You should ask Ser Gendry about his father," she suggested. "That's a really interesting tale. And then you can ask him about Elsbeth the archer. Oh, and you should definitely ask him to tell you about the time he had his bell rung after we'd escaped from Harrnehal."

The boy's eyes grew wide. "His bell? That sounds entertaining!" He dashed back to his seat and Arya smirked as she watched him plop down and instantly start peppering the large knight with questions. Gendry's shocked face wrought a genuine laugh from the girl before she continued to her seat.

"Harwin," she called out once she was settled. The Northman was seated within earshot. "How soon can we be ready to ride for Winterfell?"

The man's face crinkled with his satisfied smiled. "By week's end, your grace. Possibly sooner."

She nodded, thoughtful.

"Your company will be somewhat larger for this leg of your journey," Lord Manderly told her in conversational tones.

"Oh?" The girl looked at him, then cast her eye out over the crowd in the hall. Her gaze settled on Ser Davos. "Are you to join us, ser?" she called down to him.

"I'm afraid not, your grace," the onion knight replied. "Lord Manderly has asked me to oversee the outfitting of his ships and to take command of the fleet."

"The fleet?" Arya was confused.

"Yes, your grace. I've been building warships these many years," Manderly revealed. "A navy for the North."

"I saw no warships when I looked out over the harbor," the girl objected.

"You wouldn't have." The merman's look was smug. "I've kept them up the White Knife, away from prying eyes and foreign sailors with loose tongues."

The queen leaned back in her seat, her look keen as she repeated, "A navy for the North…"

She liked the sound of that very much.

"For the Winter Kingdom now," Hoster Blackwood corrected from her right side.

"Just so," she agreed.

"If you find a way to bring those Iron Island brigands to heel, you could have a navy on each coast," Manderly pointed out.

"You'd have more luck getting a rabid dog to play fetch than getting the ironborn to behave with any sort of allegiance for more than a fortnight," the Greatjon grumbled. "The only sort of cloak those bloody fucks know how to wear is a turncloak."

Arya felt a hot whisper in her ear as the Lord Commander of the Winter Guard leaned down from his post behind her chair and said, "I think we should tack on three more days for that."

"I didn't agree to another wager," she hissed under her breath without turning to him. His only answer was a chuckle as he drew back.

"What mean ye, Lord Manderly?" Royan Wull called out. "Who joins us for the journey to Winterfell?"

The Lord of White Harbor stood, and a hush fell over the assemblage. Arya looked up at him and waited. She assumed he would announce that he planned to send some token number of his fighting men or household guard with her, enough to make a show of his loyalty to the Winter Throne. She did not at all expect what she heard instead.

"An elite company of Braavosi fighters, fully outfitted for winter, has arrived in port."

"Braavosi…" the girl breathed. "I don't understand."

"A gift from the Sealord himself," Manderly announced. "He means to support your claim by offering them as protection for you and to bolster your army with skilled swordsmen."

"The Sealord of Braavos supports my claim?" Arya's brow furrowed. "How does he even know of my claim?"

Depending on the speed of the ship and the port of arrival, crossing the Narrow Sea was at least a month-long endeavor. Ravens did not fly between Westeros and Braavos and she'd scarcely been queen a moon's turn. Word might've reached the Sealord about what had transpired at the Twins, but there would not have been time for this sort of response.

"It appears you made an impression on the man when you lived in his city," Manderly replied dismissively.

"You never mentioned meeting the Sealord," the Hand said, looking quizzically at the queen.

"Nor have I," Arya assured him.

"Well, you apparently did him some great service," Manderly continued. "He credits you with having a hand in his present happiness."

"His present happiness?"

"The man is recently wed, and by all accounts, besotted with his wife. Perhaps you once provided her some service?" the merman suggested. "Her name is Vorena."

Vorena.

Vorena Biro?

The Cat stiffened, then her eyes shot out, seeking her brother assassins. The Bear stared back at her from across the chamber. Understanding seemed to dawn on them both at the same time. For his part, the Rat looked smugly satisfied, as though he couldn't be more pleased with this development. Arya found she could not feel the same, for as much of a prize as an elite company of water dancers might be, it could only mean one thing.

The Kindly Man still held a firm stranglehold on her destiny, even from across the Narrow Sea.

Arya felt another pair of eyes burning into her and turned her gaze to find the Faceless Skagosi watching her, his expression as bland and unperturbed as if he had no interest whatsoever in these developments. Manderly continued to prattle on.

"However he knows of your claim, or whatever his motivation for sending you such a token, his endorsement is most welcome. Whatever the Sealord sanctions, the Iron Bank is sure to buttress, and we may have need of solid support from their coffers soon enough."

The Cat ruled her face. She even managed a small smile, punctuated with a gracious nod of her head toward her host. But inside, her mind was spinning in wild circles.

The Sealord, the Iron Bank, and the House of Black and White seemed to be acting in accord with one another. The handsome man was here, in the North, exuding a constant air of threat around Rickon. A company of Bravos had been sent from the Sealord himself; payment, it seemed, for a handful of ground glass in Atius Biro's wine. Jaqen was more than seven hundred leagues away, unable to advise or interfere. The Rat, for whom she'd barely spared a thought, remained in her company and remained loyal to the Order. She had a vague recollection of another Faceless Man once boarding a ship bound for White Harbor. He'd been carrying a blade with a distinctive hilt.

None of it was chance.

The queen slipped her hand to her throat, clutching then rubbing to soothe a sudden pain. She felt a strange prickling across her neck, as if a noose she'd not been aware of suddenly tightened. Not enough to choke, but enough to know it was there.

The Kindly Man had never meant for her to earn her face. He'd always meant for her to remain Arya Stark, despite all the lessons she'd endured to supposedly rid of her that identity. She and the Bear had worked that much out already. But now, sitting here, learning of the Sealord's backing, with the Rat's eyes on her, and Gaelon's, she wondered if this was where she was always meant to be.

If this was the precise place where the Kindly Man had pushed her.

Arya shivered.

Storm Comin'—The Wailin' Jennys

A/N: The Faceless Man who bore a blade with a distinctive hilt and boarded a ship for White Harbor is referenced in ch 15 of The Assassin's Apprentice.