Below decks on the Cinnamon Wind, Arya sat at one end of a long table in her cabin, flipping through the last pieces of papers stacked in front of her.
There was nobody else in the cabin, nobody but her and Carl, who stayed with her every day until he returned to his father's cabin to sleep at night. But every now and then lords and Alexandrians would enter through the cabin's open door seeking her audience. Some had added even more papers to the pile, but this finally stopped two days ago when the Alexandrians' machines could no longer converse with a ship so far out at sea, allowing Arya some much-needed respite.
At least some of these papers brought good news. From the Crag to the Pendric Hills, those gold mines Robb conquered had started running again, sending their gold to Riverrun instead of Casterly Rock. Some of that gold would be used to raise and arm hosts against the Freys, others to buy food from across the Narrow Sea to feed the war-torn Riverlands. More food would soon come from Alexandria. Some of their crops could grow in autumn, even winter; the Alexandrians had taken in the surrounding Rivermen and begun planting those crops in newly built greenhouses. And to think she was among the afraid and starving Riverlanders last year! She would do her best to feed them, whatever it took, even if they needed her to go down to the fields and swing scythes with her skinny arms.
On the other end of the table, Carl was busy cleaning two guns he had taken apart. The parts on the left were of Alexandrian make, one of those which could loose several bullets by pulling and pushing on a bolt. He muttered something under his breath, so softly that Arya couldn't hear. Then his greasy, sooted hands took the bolt and placed it next to the matchlock's parts on the right. He had already helped Arya clean her gun half an hour ago, judging by the wrist-watch Carl gifted her from Alexandria's stores.
Cleaning their guns was but the last in a long list of tasks the ship's complement of children had to do every day - the Westerosi called them the expedition's squires, the Alexandrians called them scouts, though neither term was strictly true. Every day they assembled on deck at the crack of dawn, matchlock in hand. They would practice their gunmanship as far as it was possible on a seagoing ship, of how to quickly load a gun and present it against the enemy, of how to fire in ranks, of how to clean and store their guns. When the Alexandrian captains were satisfied, the squires were then dispatched to various parts of the ship to serve as deckhands. Sansa was exempt from these exercises, preferring to converse with the northern lords over a new charter for the whole kingdom. The Alexandrians' master of laws met with Sansa from time to time, though she called the piece of parchment a 'constitution' instead. "We Alexandrians are writing one for ourselves, following the customs of our people," Michonne had explained, "but Lord Grimes has more urgent matters to deal with."
Arya didn't have to attend either, but she went to them anyway. Robb had led his hosts into battle after battle, fighting alongside his men on the frontlines. From Riverrun to Oxcross to Ashemark, to the day he and his men perished at The Twins, he shared their bread, suffered their hardships, endured their perils. And now Arya led the North in his stead. She may not have had Robb's talent, yet her responsibilities remained the same. Every day she fired her musket alongside Little Lew Piper and Garrett Paege and her other bannermen, kept watch on the crow's nest with Mikey and Josh and her other Alexandrians allies. And soon she would meet her foes in just battle as every King in the North did before her, to destroy all enemies foreign or domestic, until the North was at peace again. She would not let Robb and Bran and Rickon down. She would not let Father and Mother down. She would not let House Stark down. She would not let her realm down.
But if the squires' mornings belonged to the Alexandrians, their afternoons belonged to the Westerosi lords, and from those the Stark sisters were not excused. Lessons on history and geography, on arithmetic and rhetoric, on all the things they needed to know so that they could run Westeros one day. Sansa was better with the speeches, Arya was better with her sums, and Carl was good at both. The Alexandrians set up schools for all their children, he had told her, and Carl was beside his father fighting a war in the same year she was on the run. Yet none could match Arya's needlework when it came to lessons in swordsmanship. She was taught by the best from Braavos after all.
Carl had finally put the guns back together, and Arya finished reading through the last pieces of paper, just before supper was served. Neither of them were hungry that day, so they asked for biscuits and cheese and nothing more.
Arya reached for the plate and munched down on one of the biscuits. "How tall do you think the Titan is?"
"Maybe as tall as the Statue of Liberty?" Carl suggested. He had shown her a 'photo' of that before, a green bronze statue which guarded the greatest city in Carl's world. A city his father had promised to take him to visit one day, along with many, many other places. They never did.
"Maybe. I guess the Titan will be even taller." She set down her plate. She had drank too much water earlier that day after her needlework and she now needed to piss. "I'll be back in a moment."
She wasn't back in a moment though. Sure, going to the ship's heads and relieving herself had taken little time. But she passed Lord Grimes' cabin on the way back, and two voices were arguing angrily inside. The hour was late and many of the Alexandrians would be asleep, so she stopped outside the cabin and listened.
"...should have gone to you when the bullying started. Or gone to any of the adults to stop this shit. Now you made him Prince of Dragonstone?" Arya recognised Dwight's voice. The Alexandrian general spoke louder and louder, until a few hushes from his fellow Alexandrians forced him to lower his voice. "He's gonna be even more out of control!"
"Out of control?! What the fuck do you mean out of control!" Michonne's voice was laced with anger. "He stopped Tommen from being beaten to a pulp, for God's sake! If there's anyone out of control it's that Rose kid!"
"He's running around doing whatever the fuck he whats, that's what I mean by out of control! Who gave him the permission to break ranks at Darry? Who gave him the permission to leave Alexandria and raid King's Landing by himself-"
"And just why did he need permission to leave? Alexandria isn't East Berlin-"
"He stole stuff from our armory for his raid! A hundred mags of ammo, Michonne! A hundred mags' worth of smokeless powder and primers and we can't make more!" Stole? Carl was anything but a thief! The Blackfish even said the Grey Wedding ended the war at least three months earlier, saving the Alexandrians thousands of their bullets and saving the Northmen and Rivermen thousands of lives.
"Guns and ammo from the Hilltop's own stores. Maggie personally ordered those given to Carl. Or are you saying she's not in charge of the Hilltop anymore?" asked Michonne.
"That's beside the point. Fine, Carl's good at warring. Or maybe he's lucky. Then what? We know a twelve year old can't actually rule regardless of who his dad is!"
A chair crashed against the wooden floor, followed by the thud of heavy boots. "I don't think you're here just to insult my son to my face," Lord Grimes growled.
Another chair, another pair of shoes. "No, and we didn't cross into Westeros just so you can plonk a crown on yourself one day, Lord Protector-"
"Choose your next words carefully," the Alexandrians' leader threatened, but Dwight paid him no heed.
"-name your son its heir. What's next? Alexandria has a king? We all have to kneel and grovel at your feet?"
"I didn't name Carl my heir-" Lord Grimes started.
"But you did. 'Prince of Dragonstone' was what the Targaryens always called their crown prince. Right, Michonne? My men overheard you talking to the Westerosi-"
"For fuck's sake, Dwight! The Westerosi just fought a war over succession and they're tired of that shit!" exclaimed Michonne. "The lords wanted an heir! They would have named one anyway with or without us!"
"They want an heir? Just have the people elect one! But it isn't as if we're much better, is it? How can we convince them when we don't even get to vote ourselves? When will Alexandria vote, Rick?" A fist pounded into a table again and again, so hard that the cabin walls shook, forcing Arya's ear away. "When do we get the vote?"
"We'll vote when the people can make the right choices, but not before." Lord Grimes spoke as Father had done so, in the few times Arya had seen him truly angry. "And I never saw this as clearly as I did at the end of our last war. Killing Negan was the expected thing, killing Negan was what everyone wanted-"
"Stop fucking preaching about how merciful you were to Negan again. Maggie wants him dead. Ezekiel wants him dead. Michonne and your own wife Andrea want him dead. Even Carl wants him dead-" Dwight warned in a dangerous whisper. Half of the Alexandrian general's face was burnt like the Hound's, and from what Arya had heard, it was 'Negan' who took an iron to Dwight's face after Dwight protested against Negan stealing his wife. For a man who seemed to be behind half of Alexandria's woes, Arya wondered why Lord Grimes insisted on keeping him alive when nearly all his people wished for the villain's execution in the first place.
"We'll have the vote. But not when we're at war, and certainly not when we still can't let go of our emotions and fury, anger and hatred. We'll learn to let those emotions go one day, we're civilized people. But not today, not tomorrow, and until that happens I'll be making the right decisions for the good of our settlements." For all the Alexandrian boasts about how much better their towns and holdfasts were run, Arya saw they weren't so different from the Westerosi after all. Lord Grimes sighed. "I can't give you the vote yet. Is there anything else you want?"
"Change. I want change that will save the people of Westeros North and South. No more kings, no more queens, none of that my lord my lady bullshit. I want you to get rid of all these houses who stomp their boots on the Westerosi's necks. Stark, Tyrell, Martell… all of them. I want them gone." Arya's blood boiled. Whatever could be said about herself, House Stark had ruled firmly but fairly. House Stark clothed and fed the smallfolk who came to Winter Town when the snows fell, House Stark brokered peace whenever quarrels broke out between the lords, House Stark shed blood for the North for eight thousand years. How dare this Alexandrian insult the memory of Robb, of Father, of all the Starks who laid in the crypts below Winterfell? But maybe they would say more things that the Blackfish or Manderly or even Sansa would want to know. Calm as still water, Arya reminded herself. The hand that reached towards the cabin door gingerly drew back to her side.
"Ahahaha-" Michonne let out a shrill laugh that shook Arya to the bone. " Even if you were right, how do you propose to do that?"
"Breaking our alliance with the Northmen will be a start, if they insist on cosplaying that girl as their queen just for being shat out of the right bitch's womb-" Mother was not a bitch, Arya nearly shouted from across the wall. Once again she held her tongue.
"-Bring Carl back to Alexandria, his wild girlfriend too as our… guest. Set them up with a nice little house, and have someone who actually wants reform to rule in King's Landing. Someone with war experience, someone-"
"By 'someone' you mean yourself," Michonne interrupted coldly.
"We already have a nice setup for King's Landing, Maggie can take over that instead while Jesus leads the Hilltop. I was thinking more about the North myself."
"The Northmen still chose Arya as their leader, just as the Crownlanders chose Carl. You want us to kill all the Northmen on this ship and take the Stark girls hostage? Or invade the North while they're busy dealing with the Ironborn and the Freys? All this so we can have you as their leader against their will?"
"All this so they can have civilization. If this civilization Rick talked about day and night for the past six months is so important that it means we shouldn't have the vote, then prove it. Give us this civilization that you keep talking about. Then let us judge whether we want it or not."
Lord Grimes sighed again. "No, Dwight. Just… no. Not yet anyway." What did Lord Grimes mean by 'not yet'? Arya couldn't help but wonder. Would the Alexandrians betray the Northmen once their grip on the South was secure? Who would help Arya and her people against the Alexandrians' fierce guns? Would Arya have to flee again, just as when the Iron Throne betrayed Father and his men? Too many questions and not enough answers for them.
"And why the fuck not?" Dwight asked.
"Because we don't have any good reason to turn against our staunch allies. They helped us a lot in King's Landing, Ezekiel sent a raven saying the same thing back in Alexandria. And because people will die and we might lose. The Northmen aren't short on manpower, and you said we can't make any more smokeless powder or primers. Our guns can't bring down Westerosi castle walls. Carl brought us the element of surprise last time. I don't think anyone in Westeros will fall for it again."
"Don't sell them any of Eugene's flintlocks at least," Dwight suggested. "And definitely not Eugene's mini balls." Did the Alexandrian general hold grudges against the Alexandrians' maester? If the North had to fight some of the Alexandrians one day, the Northmen's new matchlocks were little better than firewood. They needed as many of the best guns they could get, and the sooner the better. Maybe Eugene Porter would agree to help if Arya told him what Dwight said.
"But we can't screw over our allies! What the fuck?" accused Michonne. "We still need their help-"
"Rick, you have to-" Dwight started.
"Dwight, I said no. And same with you Michonne. The Northmen are still our allies, but we'll save all the flintlocks for ourselves. We promised them those guns in exchange for lumber, but there are delays on Eugene's end anyway, so that's what we'll tell them if they ask about those-"
Arya had heard enough, so she turned to leave. Once she had seen the Alexandrians as saviours. Brave men, women and children who fought for the good of Westeros in its hour of need. When she had nowhere to run after the Red Wedding, it was the Alexandrians who fed her, it was the Alexandrians who gave her refuge, it was the Alexandrians who avenged Robb's death and saved his fledgling kingdom. Carl, Maggie, Michonne… these were the true heroes amongst them, whose help neither Arya nor her bannermen would likely ever be able to repay.
But there was another side to the Alexandrians as well. Despite their ink-black guns and iron machines, the Alexandrians could be foolish and petty just like anyone else, a people whose love for their 'ideals' often eclipsed the love for their new friends and allies. The Blackfish had warned her that the Alexandrians were not to be trusted even though they had saved House Stark's realm, but she had yet to understand what he meant. Until tonight.
Arya carefully lifted her foot-
Creak.
It was too late to bolt. Even if she could run onto the deck in time, all it would take was one Alexandrian to see her running for no reason and tell Lord Grimes, or Dwight worse still. And there was nowhere to hide, not unless she could melt into the floor or the wall. Run or hide, they were going to know she was here anyway, so she raised her hand against the door and knocked as hard as she could.
And not a moment too soon. The door swung open to a cabin of three frowning Alexandrians. Dwight made to speak, but one look from Lord Grimes and he held his tongue. "Yes, Arya?" The Alexandrian leader asked warily. "What are you here for?"
Arya grimaced. There were few reasons for her to be here at such a late hour. The Blackfish or Lord Manderly would have had cause to speak with Lord Grimes, but they would have sent one of the other squires instead. Their queen would have been the last person they sent to bring word to the Alexandrians. That left Arya herself.
"Rick." Six pairs of eyebrows shot up in surprise. This was the first time Arya didn't call him Lord Protector, Lord Grimes, or even the Alexandrians' 'Mister Grimes'. Arya didn't mind him not calling her Queen or Your Grace, she even preferred it that way, but if Alexandria's leader called her Arya it was only fair she called him Rick. "I want to talk to you. Leader to leader as you Alexandrians say."
Lord Grimes cocked his head. The other two Alexandrians left, shutting the door behind them.
"I'm sorry to hear about the flintlocks," Arya started. The Alexandrians would have suspected she had overheard some of their conversation anyway. If Arya only mentioned the guns and nothing else, maybe they would think that was all she had heard. "I've been to the Street of Steel with Carl before, and these guns take a long time to make."
Lord Grimes' face grew as red as a ripe peach. "Arya-" he sat down again and held Arya's hands tight to his. "You must understand. We're allies, that's true. But Alexandria and the North are still different realms at the end of the day, we have our own interests to take care of. And there are things north of the Trident that Alexandria does not agree with. Many of our people don't even believe kings and queens and lords should exist in the first place."
"And what do you think, Rick? Do you believe in kings and queens and lords? Do you believe the North should have kings and queens and lords?" asked Arya. "My lord father had taught me not to lie, Lord Protector, and Carl said his father taught him the same."
Lord Grimes' eyes blinked. The Alexandrian leader thought long and hard before he finally opened his mouth, so long that Arya thought for a second that he had gone mute. "I believe you can call yourself whatever you want. My fellow leader Ezekiel calls himself king, and as long as his people put up with it, I have no problem with that. And I believe you will be a great leader one day, as will Carl. But that's because of who you two are, not because of who your fathers are. We Alexandrians believe that all Men are equals. How great your ancestors are doesn't mean you become a better or worse person for it, and we do not choose our leaders this way, that's how you get your Joffreys. We would like to see the North do the same one day, to choose its leaders on what they have done, and continue to do for your realm. So call yourself Queen or any title that you wish. But one day you and Carl will grow old-"
"Valar Morghulis," Arya whispered. One day she would join the Kings in the North beneath Winterfell with an iron sword in her hand, resting beside Father - and Robb after Olyvar brings back his bones. Would they lay Carl to rest beside her too? The Alexandrians had their own tombs at Arlington where their heroes were buried.
Lord Grimes' brows furrowed in confusion. "What's that?"
"All men must die," Arya repeated, in the Common Tongue this time. Many a time she had come close to death in the past year, but those days were over, no longer did she go to sleep wondering whether she would make it to the next sunrise. And now she and Carl had a lot of living yet to do.
Lord Grimes nodded gravely. "When that day comes, the next leader of the North should not automatically be your daughter or son. Or maybe the Northmen decide they want someone else to rule after all. If that ever happens, I'd like you to step down. You and Carl will always have a home in Alexandria. Queen or not, you'll still be my daughter-in-law, you'll still be part of my family. Can you promise me this?"
"I will, if my people don't want me as their queen anymore." Sansa would be the better queen at court anyway, and if Jon hadn't joined the Night's Watch he would have been the better warrior king. But Arya shook her head when Rick asked her again about the succession. The North had its own laws borne from thousands of years of tradition, laws that even the Queen in the North could not decide without agreement of the Northmen.
Finally Lord Grimes yielded, if only for tonight. "Enough talk about the succession. What did you come here to talk about, leader to leader?"
"I want to know what makes a good leader." It seemed like a safe question to ask, from a new young queen who had taken up her crown just over two months ago, and Lord Grimes was well respected enough for her to seek him in private beyond the confines of Arya's own court. And the more he spoke, the less he would suspect Arya lurking outside his cabin to hear everything the Alexandrians said.
"That's a good question, and I'm happy you came to me to ask about that. As I've said before, a good leader becomes a leader by what he's done, and stays that way by what he continues to do for his people. A good leader also earns and gains the people's respect by appearing to be more capable than they are. But that sometimes means you have to make choices that the people don't like. A good leader does the right thing to hold a place or a city or a realm together, not the easy thing. Sooner or later the people will appreciate you for the better way you've shown them, and-"
"And what if they don't?" Arya asked. Being crowned queen had not stopped her from exploring the Red Keep's tunnels, as she had often done before King Robert died. She had managed to hear many a conversation between the Alexandrians. Hushed whispers in closed rooms that they would never utter in front of a Westerosi, or even amongst themselves when in large numbers. The Hilltop had been slighted, some said, ever since Rick went back on his promise to kill Negan for them. And it was Carl and his 'Twenty Good Men' who freed King's Landing from Lannister rule with the Hilltop's weapons, yet Lord Grimes acted as if the city was his instead of the Kingslanders', and made a complete mess of Flea Bottom. Better Maggie as leader than Rick, some whispered. Even Carl if need be.
"If they don't… that's when a leader normally gets overthrown. But so far we've managed to avoid that fate," Lord Grimes joked.
"I'll try not to," said Arya. And you should too, she nearly added. "They said you broke your promise to Maggie."
Lord Grimes' eyes grew sharp. "Who's 'they'?"
"Everyone knows."
"That was one of those hard choices I had to make," Lord Grimes rested his hand on his forehead. "I did. For the good of civilization."
"You made promises to us Northmen too, ink on parchment. Will you break those too?" Arya wondered aloud. If Lord Grimes could go back on his word even for his own people, what worth were his promises to the Northmen? "Will you do that - for the good of civilization?"
"I hope not." The rest was left unsaid, as Lord Grimes rose and opened the cabin door. "Anyway it's getting late, Arya. Good night."
Carl was still in her cabin when Arya returned. Some of the biscuits and cheese were still there, sitting on a plate on Arya's side of the table. And on Carl's side, he was putting on the final touches to the masks they would wear during the Uncloaking of Uthero. They would arrive at Braavos tomorrow, captain Quhuru Mo had said. The last day of the Uncloaking, the day when all the festivities were at their height. And just in time for the Sealord's feast.
Braavos. What would the Titan look like, and the many canals that criss-crossed the city? Syrio had often spoken of his city fondly. Oh, how Arya wished for her dancing master to be with her, to see his home again! But Syrio Forel would never come home. He would never again dance by the Moon Pool, never again lay sight on the Sealord's Palace where he had once served. And he would never know that the little girl he once taught to dance, the little girl he once saved, had somehow lived to visit his home.
Carl turned and looked at her. Then he stood up, put down the mask in his hand and wrapped her in a hug, his sleeve brushing away the lone tear rolling down her cheek. The Alexandrians would not have allowed it, especially not with the door closed, but the Alexandrians weren't here and she didn't care.
"Ta-da!" With a cheeky grin on his face, Carl whipped out a mask and placed it in front of his face. It was a well-crafted thing, its silvers glittering under the dim oil-lamp that hung from the cabin's roof. "How does the mask look?"
"Looks good," said Arya. He did look good. And she had little doubt that he would look even better tomorrow night.
"Good. 'Cuz it's yours." Carl took off the mask and placed it in Arya's hand. Then he took out another one, a pretty little mask with wings carved onto its sides, and placed it on his head. "How about this one? It's for Sansa. I'll just leave it here before I go-"
Dim footsteps echoed down the ship's halls. Carl rushed forwards and opened the door as quietly as he could. For a moment Arya wanted to sneak away with him, to climb onto the ship's deck and watch the night sky as they had done when King's Landing was freed. But tomorrow would be a busy day, they needed all their strength to go through the dances and the feasts.
So they said their goodnights before Carl left Arya's cabin and made for his father's. And as the door slid shut behind him, Arya couldn't help but wonder: would he fight for his people or hers, if the two ever came to blows?
[A/N: Regarding Stannis' situation, the Iron Throne's physical destruction could offer a legal 'out' for his seemingly hopeless war if he wants to. There's literally no throne to fight for anymore, and for all intents and purposes the previous social contract had been broken. And of course being able to retain the ancestral Baratheon lands is a sweet deal given his circumstances. But then again whether he takes this option is up to him, and he might have a different interpretation of events.]