As quiet as a mouse, Arya pressed her ear against the solar door. For a couple of minutes, she entertained herself by practising standing on her toes and quietly moving around in the manner of a Braavosi water dancer. However, her curiosity had swiftly captured her attention.

I need to know what Father and Mother are saying. Arya waited impatiently for one of her parents to speak. Why did they summon me here if all they wanted was to force me to wait? She brightened up as she heard her mother murmur:

"I thought we planned for her to be fostered at Bear Island."

"We have Lyanna Mormont," came Father's quick response, "and I heard from Lady Mormont that there are still wildling raids on Bear Island. At least if Arya is in Queenscrown, she is protected in case of an unauthorised attack."

"You don't trust the Free Folk." Mother's words carried an accusing tone. "You talked with them, ate with them, drank with them and concluded a treaty that is to bring forward a truce for years to come, yet you still do not trust them. Would it not be simpler if Arya remains here at home? If you plan to introduce sparring for defence purposes to northern women, Arya can remain here. If you wish, you can even ask the Braavosi man to return."

Arya heard Father sigh. "You know words are wind in peace negotiations until something is done to secure them. Mance Rayder wants a Stark raised with some men from the Free Folk; the best I can do is suggest one of my children be raised at Queenscrown and learn from Val."

"And Arya will be the sacrificial lamb?"

"She already knows how to fight. She has the best chance of fleeing if the pact with the Free Folk is broken. Arthur and Rickon are still young and our Gwen had been fostered in Dorne already."

Now it was Mother's sigh Arya heard. "Do you think Arya is heading here now, or is she still training?"

"I wager she is standing outside, listening to us speak."

Arya jumped back, guilt and horror creeping up her cheeks as the door swung open and Father smiled at her knowingly. Though shadows surrounded his eyes, there was still a warm twinkle in his gaze – one Arya hadn't seen in many weeks. Father gestured for Arya to enter into his solar, which Arya obeyed. She slinked in sheepishly, unable to meet his gaze. How did he know I was listening? She could not help wonder.

"This is becoming a habit, Arya," commented Mother, shaking her head. "A girl of your rank – or any rank – should not even think of listening at doors."

"How did you know?" asked Arya.

"Val mentioned it in passing earlier," replied Father, returning to his seat next to Mother behind his table. "She said you liked following her around and asked a lot of questions about the pact we were making. Val thought you eavesdropped." He arched an eyebrow. "Is that true?"

"No!" exclaimed Arya. "I was curious! There were whispers everywhere! Even Maester Luwin was distracted during lessons!"

"Well, your curiosity will be sated tonight at dinner. Mance Rayder and I'll be announcing the final peace treaty to the other Free Folk and Northern lords." He paused. "You have always maintained an interest in sparring," he said hesitantly. "Initially I thought I would indulge you in it and wait for you to outgrow your ah, interest in it. Girls are usually not fostered as much as boys, as you well know. I'd considered sending you as a ward to Bear Island once, but due to the recent wars, discontentment and potentially rebellious Free Folk, Bear Island might not be the safest place at the moment for you. You may continue learning how to fight, but I have no desire for you to be involved in a true battle.

"Earlier this week, Mance Rayder suggested for one of your brothers to learn the ways of the Free Folk by living with him and his tribe for the winter and two or three years after that-"

"A hostage?" Alarm rang in Arya's mind. "Like Theon?"

Father winced. "Honoured guest is a better term. Aye, Rayder wants assurance that we won't slaughter his men."

"None of your brothers will go," said Mother firmly, raising her chin defiantly. She pushed her long braid behind her shoulder. "Neither will you or Gwen. Your father insisted that fostering you at Queenscrown under Jon and Val is enough to show the North that we are serious about peace."

"It is a start," said Father seriously. "What do you think, Arya?"

A slow grin spread on Arya's face. The whole winter with Jon and Val? Plenty of sparring and very little needlework? No septa to harass her about stitches and prayers to the Seven? "When will I leave?" she inquired, forcing herself to remain calm. She suppressed her excitement when she caught sight of her parents' grim looks. Of course they did not want her to leave Winterfell.

"It's uh…for the best for the North," Arya said hastily, remembering a common pact phrase from Maester Luwin's latest lessons.

Father nodded. "You will leave in three days. It will give you time to pack and say your farewells. Rayder wishes to ride with Jon and Val – and you – to the Gift before he returns to his people." He hesitated. "We will see you again," he said to Arya. "You can visit us whenever you wish, and please write us letters. If there is anything vaguely suspicious at all, tell Jon and write to me at once."

Arya nodded. I will be a ward…and Father's spy. He doesn't trust Val just yet. He needs Jon to rule the Gift and keep the peace at all costs; he needs me to keep an eye on Val in case she is planning a wilding revolt. "Will anyone else be fostered with me?" she asked hopefully. It would be nice to have a sparring partner.

"Maybe Lonnel Umber and Jorelle Mormont. They're both of fostering age and from families who oft had to deal with the Free Folk. I still have to discuss it with Lady Mormont and Lord Umber – for now, you will be fostered alone."


Packing took longer than Arya thought it would take. It wasn't her clothes and furs that were the problem – it was the assortment of weapons she had collected over the last month that now laid on her messy bed. Technically all the weapons there, apart from Needle, belonged to Winterfell's armoury. However, no one had seemed to notice them missing, and if they had, nothing was said.

As Arya stared at the weapons, her direwolf Nymeria padded across the room to her. Arya smiled at her. Ever since the wildlings arrived at Winterfell, Nymeria and her litter mates were put in the kennels in fear they would attack one of the Free Folk delegates. "Which sword do you think I should bring with us?" she said, running her fingers through Nymeria's warm fur. "I'll be bringing a few daggers, a spear and a bow and arrows." Her archery skills were quite terrible – she was determined to improve and she heard wildlings were good at archery.

Nymeria turned her head towards the door. Arya looked around and saw Jon approaching, carrying Lysara and Alysanne in his arms. He glanced at Arya's vast, polished ironwood chest that was full of furs, clothes suitable for the harshest of winters and a few precious books and items Arya was rather fond of. Grudgingly, Arya had even packed her sewing needles, thread and fabric into the chest under all her clothes.

"Is that my sword?" Jon frowned when he examined the diverse weapons on Arya's bed. He picked up the plain short sword with the round black pommel and swung it in a swift manner. He raised an eyebrow at Arya. "I remember leaving a sword like this one in my chambers before leaving to fight at Castle Black many, many moons ago. Afterwards I was with the Free Folk and when I returned, I did notice it'd disappeared. I thought Robb or Lord Stark returned it to the armoury. Did you steal it from my room when I was gone?"

Arya looked sheepish. In truth, she had taken it on the day he left with a troop of Stark soldiers to Castle Black as a weapon to threaten Robb with if he planned something stupid like marrying her off to an old Northman to patch up one of his mistakes caused by marrying Daenerys. Needle was more suited to her hand, but it was not as threatening as a short sword.

"You don't need all these weapons," Jon said gently, gesturing to Arya's group of swords, daggers and dirks. "You have Needle."

"I'll be keeping Needle in my sword belt with me," Arya explained, "in case of an ambush. I want to practise with different swords though."

"Take a dagger with you," Jon advised. "Keep it hidden. Daggers are useful in a situation when you cannot reach your sword and the enemy is close." He handed her back the short sword. "You can put this in its scabbard and pack it. When we settle in Queenscrown, I'll train you if I have time." He adjusted his hold on one of Robb's twins, who had began to fuss.

Arya abandoned her packing and held out her hands. Jon carefully placed the older twin in her arms. Baby Lysara smiled at Arya and cooed softly.

"I thought you'd like to see them before we leave," said Jon, grimacing as little Alysanne reached out and grabbed his beard tightly. "Lady Alys said you haven't visited the nursery in quite some time."

"I'm afraid I'd drop one of them."

Jon laughed. "You weren't trying to avoid your mother were you?" he said in a teasing manner that reminded Arya of the peaceful days in their childhood. "Lady Alys said Lady Stark often visited the nursery to spend time with the babes. She'd sew them clothes too. Afraid she'd make you sew as well?"

Arya rolled her eyes. "Not lately, no. Does Alys Karstark live in the nursery?"

"She likes looking after the babes with your mother. I am afraid she has grown rather attached to Robb's daughters. She will miss them greatly when her father summons her back to Karhold."

"Will you be having a baby soon?"

Jon's expression was unreadable. "You should put those weapons back where they belong. Septa Mordane will have a fit if she sees all of them here."

Arya scoffed. "Septa Mordane doesn't come in here anymore. No one does."


The journey to Queenscrown was surprisingly cheerful. Though it was cold in the early morning, the sun would valiantly show its face almost every single day – an achievement considering the week before was full of heavy rain.

Once every hour, the large man Tormund, would break into loud songs, some in the Old Tongue and others in the Common Tongue. At times, he'd be joined by Mance Rayder who would sing along just as enthusiastically. Val didn't sing with them, but she did hum the melodies of a few songs. As Arya listened, she became more intrigued and enchanted by the wildling songs, especially by the ones sung in the Old Tongue. Somehow Tormund and Mance twisted the harsh and clanging sounds of the ancient language into a captivating melody.

"The songs you sing are so different from the songs Old Nan used to sing to us," Arya said once Tormund finished singing another unfamiliar song. "It sounds like a Northern song…yet it doesn't."

The King-Beyond-the-Wall chuckled. "It's an old song, milady. A very old song that was said to be written and sung by Bael the Bard."

"We don't sing his songs at Winterfell."

Val, who was riding ahead of the party, glanced back at Arya. "If you did, I'd be quite surprised. The Bard is not someone the Starks like mentioned."

"I never read about him and Maester Luwin never mentioned him." Arya rode up to Val. "I only heard about Bael the Bard once, from my father's former ward." Domeric had mentioned Bael the Bard as a talented singer when he and Lyarra discussed songs of the North many years ago. Lyarra had asked him who Bael the Bard was, but all Domeric said, was simply that he was a famous bard who'd sung for one of the earlier Lord Brandon Starks of Winterfell. For a legendary bard, it was strange that he was rarely mentioned. Maester Luwin never uttered a word about him; Old Nan never told a story about him.

"It's not a kind tale," said Val doubtfully.

"Tell me," Arya urged. "Please."

"You might not like it."

Arya's temper almost flared. "Is it because I'm a child to you?"

"Arya," Jon said warningly. He was riding a dark brown garron on Val's left. He shot Arya a look of caution.

"There's no need to reprimand her," said Val breezily. "She is like any curious young woman of the Free Folk. If any of our young ones simper, that's considered a concern. Now, do you wish to hear the tale of Bael the Bard?"

"Yes," said Arya immediately.

Val was silent. She stared into the horizon almost dreamily as the only sound that could be heard were the sounds of the garrons' hooves crunching on the dry leaves that littered the long kingsroad. "Bael the Bard was a raider before he was a King-Beyond-the-Wall," she began. "It should not surprise you that the Stark of Winterfell – one of the Brandons – wanted Bael's head. Out of bitterness one day after failing to capture or kill Bael, the Stark called Bael a craven who preyed on the weak. When Bael heard that, he vowed to teach the lord a lesson. So he scaled the Wall, skipped down the kingsroad and walked into Winterfell one cold night in winter with harp in hand, naming himself Sygerrik of Skagos. Sygerrik means 'deceiver' in the Old Tongue.

"Singers always find a ready welcome, so Bael at at the Stark's own table, and played for the lord until half the night was gone. He played the old songs and the new songs he'd made himself. He played and sang so beautifully that after he was done, the Stark offered to let him name his own reward. 'All I ask is a flower,' the wily Bael answered, 'the fairest flower that blooms in the gardens of Winterfell.'

"As it happened, the winter roses had only come into bloom, and no flower is so rare nor precious as a winter rose. So, the most beautiful of winter roses was plucked and handed to Bael as payment. When the sun rose, the singer had gone, and so had the Stark's only child – his maiden daughter. Her bed they had found empty, but for the pale blue rose that Bael had left on the pillow where her head had lain every night.

"At Lord Stark's request, the black crows flew forth from their castles to look for Bael or the Stark maid. They searched for many long years until the lord lost heart. They did not find the singer or the Stark's daughter and it was thought the line of Starks was at its end. But one night as the Stark laid on his bed, waiting to die, he heard a child's cry. He followed the sound and found his daughter back in her bedchamber, asleep with a babe at her breast."

"Bael brought her back?" Arya couldn't resist asking in awe, captivated by the tale. "Did he take her Beyond-the-Wall?"

Val shook her head. "They had been in Winterfell all that time, hiding with the dead beneath the castle. The song says that the maid loved Bael so dearly that in the time they hid, she bore him a son…though if truth be told, all the maids love Bael in the songs he wrote. The song ends when the Stark found the babe who'd later become the Lord of Winterfell, but there is a darker end for the story. Thirty years later, when Bael was the King-Beyond-the-Wall and leading the Free Folk south, it was young Lord Stark who met him at the Frozen Ford…and killed him."

A chill slithered down Arya's spine. "He killed his father?" she whispered, her voice trapped in her throat.

"Aye. Bael would not harm his own son when they met in battle."

Arya felt her emotions settle in the bottom of her stomach like a rock sinking in the still godswood pond at Winterfell. "Did…did the young Lord Stark know it was his father when he killed him?"

Val shrugged. "Bael did not write a song about that as he was dead. Some have said that Lord Stark knew but did not care – Bael was just a wildling foe to him, a threat he had to fight. Others said he did not know. Either way, the gods hate the kinslayers, whether they killed intentionally or unintentionally. When Lord Stark returned from the battle and his mother saw Bael's head upon his spear, she then threw herself from a tower in grief. Her son did not long outlive here. One of his lords peeled the skin off him and wore him for a cloak."

"A Bolton," said Arya quietly. She shuddered. Val was right. The story of Bael the Bard was not a kind one. If that Brandon Stark's grandson was unaware that he killed his own father, he did not deserve to lose his mother to grief and die at the hands of a Bolton lord in most likely agonising circumstances. She shuddered a second time when she remembered Robb's recount of the mad bastard Ramsay Snow. How the Bolton bastard lusted for rapes, murders and flaying…

"I've frightened you," said Val flatly, breaking the lull of silence. "I should not have told you the tale."

"I'm not frightened," protested Arya. "I was only…thinking."

"The little lass would hear of it eventually!" boomed Tormund from the back of the riding party. "A good tale, Bael the Bard! It warns the crows and kneelers not to call us cravens!"

"It is also a warning not to slay your kin," remarked Jon, who had also listened to Val's tale with great interest.

"A sad story," agreed Mance Rayder, "but a beautiful song." He began to hum a strangely cheerful tune. It sounded strange to Arya that such a sorrowful story would be sung in a happy tune. Bael was a wildling though, Arya mused to herself as Mance's humming was interrupted by Tormund Giantsbane who broke into an enthusiastic retelling of how a wildling named Longspear Ryk stole his daughter Munda. He would write a cheerful tune about how he bested the Stark of Winterfell in his own castle and stole his daughter.

"…she likes him well enough though," Tormund was saying with a guffaw. "He is a fair fighter – don't fight with no spear, you know. Never has. So where do you think he got that name 'Longspear'?"

"Tormund!" said Jon sharply. "Those stories are better reserved for late nights, not for travelling." He nodded at Arya. "Some do not need to hear it."

Arya bit back a retort. Jon was her guardian now. She was his ward first and a blood relation second. He was only doing his duty in protecting her from hearing comments best not suited for her. I do not wish to be protected or smothered by a quilt of protection…but Jon does have a job to do. She quickly glanced at Jon. It was a relief that he was talking to Val instead of brooding. Jon always had a knack for brooding with his dark grey eyes staring into the distance and his lips pulled into a straight, solemn scowl. I will not be a nuisance to him, Arya vowed.

The rest of the journey was uneventful. Jon and Val talked – more like argued quietly – to each other; Tormund Giantsbane muttered loudly to himself or spoke to Mance; and Mance chose to spend his time chatting to Tormund, singing more songs to entertain himself and talking to Arya, who greatly appreciated it.

Finally when the sun was about to set, the riding party arrived at the outskirts of the abandoned Queenscrown village. The village was next to the lake shore. It was encircled by over a dozen apple and oak trees. Underneath a few apple trees were fallen apples nestling on a thin bed of snow and dried leaves. Situated next to the empty village was the remnants of what looked like an inn or tavern. Arya had recognised the inn's stone chimney and fallen timber walls as the few inns in winter town had the same stone chimneys and timber walls.

Arya looked away from the deserted inn and looked at the motionless lake. It wasn't completely frozen yet, though there was a patch of thin ice near the rocky island that stood in the middle of the lake. On the island rested a stone holdfast tower. The tower's merlons were a faded yellow – they must have been painted gold once a long time ago.

This is Queenscrown – our new home.


Basically what happened previously was the black brothers, the northerners and the Free Folk have started negotiating peace for the winter. I've been reading many Game of Thrones theories/ideas lately and I really liked the point someone made on one possible ending was Jon and Arya joining the Free Folk as they both felt like outsiders in society. Arya would love to hunt, fight and ride without restraining herself to be a proper southron lady.

On another note, I can't believe Game of Thrones aired its final episode! I loved the music and my favourite scene was when Jon, Arya and Sansa were going their separate ways. I thought it very sad though as they were separated for so long, but it was quite fitting. What do you think of the series finale? How would you have wanted it to end?