So we carry every sadness with us

Every hour our hearts were broken

Tendrils of steam rose from the surface of the water and curled lazily into the cold air surrounding Arya's bare shoulders before disappearing above the wet hair piled atop her head. She was submerged from her chest down, but the size of the wooden tub in which she soaked did not allow for her to sink any further. Hair washed, skin now clean and pink, the girl leaned her back against the smooth, oaken planks surrounding her. Once settled, she became still as a stone (calm as still water), letting the heat of the bath warm her through as she stared at the fire crackling across from her.

Earlier, a grim-looking boy had lit the fire which now blazed in little hearth that occupied the far wall of what passed for the best guest room in all of Saltpans (a settlement which boasted exactly one inn). A second, even grimmer boy had filled a tub with hot water for her bath at the same time as his compatriot poked at the kindling and logs, but the flame had barely caught in the grate before Arya chased the pair from her room and barred her door. She had been impatient to shed her salty clothes and did not wait for the drafty chamber to warm before lowering herself into the first real bath she had been offered in two months. While crossing the narrow sea, she had often stood on the deck of Titan's Daughter for hours on end, constantly buffeted by the sea winds. At the time, the salt coating her skin, crusting her eyelashes and stiffening her hair had felt right, somehow appropriate for a seafarer, but here, on land once more, it made her feel somehow tight and heavy and she wished to be rid of it altogether.

The two assassins who made up the rest of her traveling party had departed to conduct their business immediately after depositing her at the mean little inn. The Bear, now styled Ser Willem for the purposes of his mission, informed her that he would secure horses while the Rat (or rather, Baynard, squire to Ser Willem) was to oversee the movement of their supplies from the hold of Captain Terys' ship to the inn. When Arya protested being left alone in her room to do nothing, the Bear shushed her.

"You have been here before, my lady. You may be recognized."

My lady. He was already playing his role. She wasn't sure if it was the title or the her brother's impeccable facelessness which rankled her more.

"It was so many years ago, and I was here only briefly before Captain Terys took me aboard..." Arya attempted to protest. The Bear cut his sister off.

"Just stay in. Rest," he suggested, and then, upon hearing her dissatisfied grumbling, added, "or have a bath. Gods know you could use one."

The Lyseni barely made it to the safety of the corridor before a dagger hit the doorjamb with a thunk. The girl heard the large assassin chuckling as he retreated, seemingly not bothered by either the stream of profanities she rather vehemently directed toward him or her accusations of hypocrisy as she declared he needed a bath worse than she (punctuated by her insistence that he smelled of a particularly foul area of a camel's nether regions).

Now that Arya was in the bath, however, her irritation melted away and she found her tense muscles relaxing as she gazed at the flames in the hearth. Stillness has descended upon her and her mind seemed to clear itself of all her concerns and worries and dark thoughts. After a few moments, all that remained was the warmth of the water on her skin and the dancing orange tongues of fire which she regarded through half-closed eyes. It was then that Syrio's voice came to her. She wasn't sure if it was a memory or a dream. Had she fallen asleep?

All men are made of water. Do you know this? Arya allowed her eyes to close briefly, and she could see him as if he were actually there, his dark eyes piercing her beneath his raised eyebrows. In his swarthy hand he held a wooden sword and he pointed it at her, the tip brushing her chest, just over her heart. If you pierce them, the water leaks out and they die.

An ember popped, jumping from the grate and landing in a small puddle. Arya opened her eyes at the sound. One of the inn's servant boys had not been especially careful when filling her tub. The grimmer one, she thought. The brief hiss made by the glowing cinder as it hit the water sounded like a viper. That, too, made her think of Syrio's words. Quick as a snake. Her gaze moved back to the hearth and she watched the undulating flames as she allowed her dancing master's voice to fill her head.

The heart lies and the head plays tricks with us, but the eyes see true. Look with your eyes.

The girl sighed.

Look with your eyes.

She looked.

The flames licked up higher, hopping to and fro, wavering in the draft coming through a crack in the wall near the floor. The movements of the fire created shapes and figures, then disassembled them, then reworked them into different shapes and figures, over and over again. Images moved before her, some familiar, and some both foreign and nonsensical.

She saw a large direwolf with golden eyes burning bright, moving ever east. She saw a dark knight riding high upon a horse at the wolf's side. She saw the familiar face of a man she had never met, a silver prince-turned-king who had braved a dragon's flame yet lived. He beckoned to her from a hill of ash. For a tiny moment, she saw her father, and he beckoned too, not from a burnt hill, but rather from the top of his own frozen tomb. She saw a torn and tattered cloak as yellow as the sun laid at the feet of a hooded woman with dark wounds and an even darker heart. She saw a man with wrists shackled by a silver chain, a grizzled beard masking his face. As she watched, a tiny hand raised a tiny sword, striking at that chain and breaking it. She saw the man become a giant. He rose, roaring, and turned away, lumbering down a corridor which ran red with blood like a rushing river. She saw Syrio Forel, his face lit so brightly on one side that it looked as if his flesh had been carved from polished weirwood. The other side was cast in the darkest shadow, as black as ebony.

A tapping from the corridor caused her to start, her eyes jerking from the fire to the door. She frowned, not at the interruption but at herself for not hearing the footsteps which brought her visitor so close to her, undetected. A Faceless assassin should never be surprised; it was a reason for shame.

Of course, she wasn't really a Faceless assassin, was she?

Her frown deepened.

"Yes?" Arya called.

"My lady," said the Bear, clearing his throat. "May I come in?" He spoke in the common tongue, his accent quite convincing. But then, he wasn't really the Bear anymore, she supposed. Here, in Westeros, he was Ser Willem Ferris, her sworn sword, a knight from the northernmost reaches of Dorne. She could almost believe it. His Lyseni appearance, which he had not bothered to alter, fit nicely with his claim to be a Stony Dornishman; a man from the Red Mountains, trained and knighted in the shadow of Skyreach.

"One moment, ser," she called back, reaching down for the linens left piled next to the tub.

Reluctantly, Arya rose from her bath. She swathed herself in the linen and moved to the bed where her satchel sat, a small bag she had brought with her from the galleas. Unceremoniously, she dumped the out contents of the leather pack: an assortment of clean clothes, two small knives, a deep blue scarf patterned with cats embroidered in silver thread, and a carefully folded letter signed with a precise and elegant J. The sight of the paper stopped her for a moment, but then she snatched it up and stashed it back in the sack from which it had fallen.

"My lady?" Ser Willem said hesitantly. "Are you alright?"

Arya rolled her eyes. She had meant to dress herself quickly and spare her brother his inevitable embarrassment, but if he could not be patient, he would have only himself to blame. She swiftly crossed the chamber, removed the bar from the door and invited the assassin in.

"Beg pardon!" he stammered, gaping at her dripping hair and damp, clinging wrap. The reaction seemed to be that of Ser Willem, yet Arya was sure there was a bit of the Bear in it, too.

"You're the one who said to take a bath," she shrugged, leaving him hovering in the corridor just beyond her door. She found her blouse and dropped it over her head with her back turned to the Lyseni. "Are you coming in? Or would you rather let all my precious heat escape?"

"My lady?" He sounded confused.

"Pick which side of the door you wish to be on and then close the bloody thing!" she snapped. "This room is drafty enough as it is!" She heard him shuffle in, shutting the door as she allowed the wet linen to fall and pulled on her small clothes. The Bear gave a small, hoarse cough. She smirked a little as she imagined him turning around and staring into the corner. "I won't be but a moment, ser." With that, she slipped into her breeches and turned to look at him. Just as she'd imagined, his back was to her. She snorted. The sound of it caused him to spin around and glare at her.

"Is there something amusing about my sparing your dignity?" Ser Willem demanded.

"Just that it seems to cause rather a lot of exertion," Arya retorted, "unless there is some other reason why your face looks like a summer beet. And if you're so concerned for my dignity, you ought not visit my bedchamber at all. Gods only know what the good people of Saltpans might think of me if the word got out that my sworn sword had attended my bath."

"Your reputation is safe enough," he assured her gruffly. "The good people of Saltpans have no idea who you are, and they'll be at our backs soon enough."

"Does that mean you found horses?"

"Aye. We'll rest here one night and leave out at first light tomorrow."

She marveled at the Lyseni's effortlessly assertive manner. It was almost as if he were truly a trained Westerosi knight, used to command.

"You are well-suited for this work, brother," she whispered, not realizing he had heard until she saw the Bear's sour expression.

"First light," he repeated acidly. He gave her a hard look, but then his eyes softened a bit and he said, "You should sit by the fire and dry your hair before you become ill." Arya cocked her head and stared at her brother, baffled by his mood. The assassin did nothing to clarify it for her and bid her good evening before taking his leave.

Arya took her supper in her room and as she finished her fare, Baynard paid her a visit. Unlike his brother, the Westerosi boy had changed his face. The assassin's rat-like features may not have been comely, but they were certainly memorable, a quality which was less-than-desirable for their task. Now, rather than beady, too-close eyes and a narrow, pointed nose, he had adopted a perfectly plain look of brown hair, brown eyes, and smooth, boyish cheeks. He was supposed to be a squire, after all.

"Everything's been packed up, ready to be loaded on the horses tomorrow," he told her, "but I was supposed to make sure this was delivered into your hand." The Rat—Baynard, she reminded herself—thrust a small package toward her. It was some sort of object in a black velvet pouch.

"What is it?"

The boy shrugged but he seemed ill at ease. The Cat reached for what he offered her and felt the heft of the object in her palm before pulling at the strings of the pouch to loosen them.

"Who told you to give it to me, then?"

"The principal elder."

The girl froze and looked at the disguised assassin. Baynard merely shrugged again, then turned to leave. He stopped when he heard her speak.

"Why?" she asked.

"Why does he do anything?" the squire replied. Arya knew he meant it rhetorically, but she could think of a hundred unpleasant reasons why the Kindly Man did what he did. Still, she said nothing but watched her brother retreat, closing the door behind him. When he was gone, the girl cautiously reached into the velvet bag and retrieved her gift.

Arya was up before the sun the next morning. She stuffed her satchel with the few things she had brought with her to her room, save for her swords and the gift from the principal elder. She picked up the cat-shaped hair comb and inspected it once more. The girl considered throwing the thing into the fire, but instead, she reached up and twisted her hair into a loose chignon, pinning her locks in place with her new comb. When she first opened the velvet pouch the night before, she had found a small scrap of paper together with the gift . It was a note from the Kindly Man and it simply said, "So you will remember."

And that was why she decided not to burn the gift. Because she wanted to remember. Because she refused to forget. And because the cat's curling, jeweled tail was actually the handle of a slender finger-knife hidden in the comb. She set her jaw, hatred flaring up from deep within her, making her feel as if a hot coal had been placed in her chest where her heart should be. Over the past two moons, the girl had thought of a thousand ways to end the Kindly Man. Now, she had thought of a thousand and one.

Perhaps the dainty hair ornament set with obsidian and pearl could do more than crown her head; this black and white cat in the dim corridors of the temple might prove useful for more than just catching mice. The elder had given her a gift and she hoped to give him one in return; the gift most valued by the god he claimed to serve. She stared off for a moment, the set of her face hard, her look nearly a sneer. The sheer effrontery of sending her a gift, any gift, after what he had done...

He must be properly thanked, she thought.

Arya pulled the strap of her pack over her shoulder and left her room.

The inn was still dark and quiet when Arya left for the stables. She meant to inspect the horses her brother had procured and give the innkeeper time to wake before looking for some bread to break her fast. She was surprised to see that the Bear had beaten her there. She found him fastening a bedroll to a pack already attached to a saddled palfrey. Her steps were light, but he heard her nonetheless and looked up as she approached.

"You shouldn't be out here without a cloak," he said by way of greeting her. He himself was wearing a heavy brown cloak with a thick sable collar. It looked like something Robb or her father would wear while out riding on particularly cold days and it was a great deal finer than anything she would suspect a person could find in Saltpans.

"And a good morning to you, ser," she returned. He inspected her, eyeing her up and down, and then shook his head slightly.

"I know you think of yourself as somehow impervious to the cold, but I mean to deliver a live girl to Winterfell, not a frozen corpse."

Her brother seemed quite serious, but the truth was, she barely registered the chill in the air. Though she wore her typical breeches and thin blouse, she had thrown a plain, woolen gown over them to disguise her boyish dress. Much like the Rat's true face, the Cat felt a girl garbed in boy's clothes was like to be more memorable than was desirable or prudent.

"This isn't cold. You won't understand cold until we are north of Moat Cailin."

"You shouldn't be out here without a cloak," he repeated.

"I didn't pack one," she said. "It's not like fur-lined cloaks are the common fashion in Braavos."

"If you would have just waited a bit, I would have brought you one."

Arya blew out a frustrated breath. "How was I to know that? It's not as if you told me. You've barely spoken three sentences to me since we landed." It was clear to her that something was bothering her brother; that he was unsettled or angry about something. She was unused to him being so terse with her. She reached out to him, not with her hand but with her mind. She tried to determine where his thoughts were and what it was that had him behaving as if they were cross with one another. All she got was an overwhelming sense of worry before he glared at her and she pulled back. She had not moved through his thoughts as smoothly as she ought, apparently. After allowing her to practice her gift on him almost daily during their journey from Braavos, the Bear was adept at knowing when his sister was in his head. He had felt her intrusion and did not welcome it.

"Please just go back to the inn. I'll be there directly. With your cloak."

A part of her bristled at being directed so, especially by her brother, but it was a very small part; just the bit that remained of the girl she had once been (the girl she was when she last came to Saltpans). The woman she had become was wiser and less prone to lashing out without consideration. Had she not learned the benefits of subtlety and restraint within the walls of the temple? There were times for blood and steel, and there were times for a more delicate touch. She would discover the cause of her brother's mood soon enough. It did not have to be now.

When she returned to the inn, the innkeeper and his wife were in the common room chatting with the Faceless squire who was eating hard bread and cold venison left over from the previous night's supper.

"Baynard," Arya greeted.

"My lady," the Rat said, rising respectfully from his seat and bobbing his head at her like a proper squire.

"I'll fetch you some bread and meat," the innkeeper's wife said when she saw the girl. "I understand you'll be leaving soon."

"Yes, we cannot tarry if we wish to reach the Eyrie before the storms make the High Road impassable."

The party would, in fact, be traveling in the general direction of the Eyrie, at least initially, but upon arrival at the crossroads, their path would turn due west, taking them in the opposite direction. She would not step one foot upon the High Road. In the girl's estimation, no one who might be asking after them had need to know that information however, and so they had settled on their story before leaving the Titan's Daughter. It was unlikely that anyone would be seeking her out, she knew (it was unlikely that anyone in Westeros who might wish her harm even believed her to be alive), but they had no wish to make themselves easier to track, just in case.

One could never be certain that a stray Lannister or Bolton or Frey wouldn't overhear a story about a grey-eyed girl traveling northward and want to investigate the claim, just to be certain.

"What's your business with the Eyrie, if you don't mind me asking," the inkeeper inquired, and his tone was friendly enough, but Arya detected an edge to his voice that she did not trust. Perhaps he merely wished to make conversation, but in these uncertain times, the man likely wished to collect information he could later trade if ever he had need of it.

"Marriage," Arya lied. "My father has promised me to one of the Templetons, but I must first present myself to the Eyrie for the blessing of our liege lord."

"I don't know much about these highborn marriage contracts, or House Templeton for that matter, but why did they need to import a bride all the way from Braavos? Are there no girls in the Vale worth choosing?"

The innkeeper was certainly a curious man.

"I can't attest to the quality of the brides in the Vale, but what makes you think I came from Braavos?" the girl asked, laughing. "Imagine! Me, all the way across the sea! When I've never been more than three leagues out of Gulltown until now! Don't you know who I am?"

The innkeeper looked confused. "No, m'lady," he stammered uncertainly.

"I'm Lady Straeya, Lord Shett's daughter."

"One of his daughters," Baynard amended.

"Well, the best one," Arya laughed. "Oh, Baynard, don't give me that look, just because you're in love with my sister! I am the best one! And before you challenge me to a duel for her honor, you'd better remember that father will never allow you to marry Alina, even if you are knighted. Besides, she's bow legged. That fact alone makes me better. Why do you think he's sending me to the Templetons and not her?" She managed a few convincing giggles and teasing glances at the Faceless squire. Lady Straeya was a jolly girl with few cares and a dash of impropriety.

"But you came in on that ship with the purple sails!" the innkeeper interrupted. "That ship docks here twice a year, and I know for a fact it's Braavosi!"

"Aye, it is," Arya agreed. "Which explains why the crew speaks in that indecipherable babble! But I didn't sail with them all the way from Essos." She lied with ease and chuckled as if the idea of her crossing the Narrow Sea the most ridiculous idea she could imagine.

"Then how did you come to arrive with them? Answer me that." The man sounded very satisfied with himself, as if he had trapped her and couldn't wait for her to admit defeat.

"Captain Terys stopped off in Gulltown before continuing on here. My father bought me passage to Saltpans to get me closer to the High Road for my trip. The mountain passes between Gulltown and the Eyrie are too treacherous now that winter has come."

The man's smug look melted and he muttered that she wasn't likely to find the High Road any more hospitable than the frozen mountain passes. "Bloodthirsty mountain clansmen will make short work of your knight and this little squire," the innkeeper said ominously. "They might do worse than that to you."

Unlikely, the girl thought, her fingertips stretching to find one of her hidden knives. Her slight movement might have been read as nerves, had it been noticed at all. No matter, she thought. Let the whole world think her weak and foolish. Those she had cause to show otherwise would find themselves surprised, and then they would find themselves dead.

"Your concern is touching, truly," Arya said, and anyone listening might actually believe she meant it sincerely, "but the Templetons are sending a contingent to accompany us once we reach the road. That is why we must make haste to leave. They are likely waiting for us even now."

The fantasy rolled so naturally off her tongue that the innkeeper could have no reason to doubt her words. He said something about hurrying his wife along with the food and left the two assassins alone at last.

"My, but you're an accomplished liar," Baynard said in a low voice before taking another swallow of his ale. The comment seemed to reflect both insult and admiration. "I nearly believed you myself. You make a convincing bride, eager to be ensconced in Ninestars. Do you think you'll be able to keep track of all that, Lady Straeya Shett?" His tone was both teasing and skeptical.

"If need be," Arya replied in an equally low voice, "but I can't see why I'd have to. Do you plan on frequenting Saltpans? Because I don't."

"Dunno. I might be leaving for Braavos from this very port someday. Perhaps even before six moons have turned. Or did you think I planned to stay in Westeros forever?"

"Well, it is your home."

"No, my lady, it's your home. I'm no one. I have no home."

The implication was clear. At the reminder of her failure to complete her final trial and join the ranks of the assassins of the House of Black and White, Arya's mood darkened and she leaned back in her seat, away from the Faceless squire. She crossed her arms over her chest and regarded her companion. The Rat's false-mouth drew up in a smirk that was most unlike anything with which a proper squire might favor a highborn lady. He was perhaps less overtly caustic with her than he had been before they departed Braavos, but neither was he her friend. It was as if he wasn't quite sure what to make of her, and until such time as he had puzzled her out, it was simply easier to fall into old patterns. The tenor of the animosity had softened, but it had not resolved itself. It was simply too familiar and comfortable for him to completely abandon.

Arya's expression remained implacable and the Rat couldn't resist goading her further.

"What? Aren't you happy to be going home?"

Arya considered the question. "Happy? No, I wouldn't put it that way. Keen, perhaps."

"Keen?"

"Yes. Keen. I'm keen to be going home. I have a duty."

"A duty?"

"Yes," she replied softly. "There are things that need doing. Things that I must do."

"Oh?"

"Mmm," Arya nodded. "And I think this journey will provide me the opportunity to... attend to those things."

The squire's grin was genuine then. "As long as you tending to your duty doesn't interfere with me tending to mine, I think it will be a pleasure to watch you work, my lady."

The innkeeper's wife and Ser Willem arrived at the same time, she from the kitchen and he from outdoors, and their entry into the common area of the inn interrupted the hushed conversation between Lady Straeya and Baynard. The Bear hung his sister's heavy cloak on a hook near the fireplace to knock the chill off the thick wool and sat down to eat with his party. The innkeeper's wife rushed back into the kitchen to prepare a platter for him as soon as she sat Arya's food before her.

"Let's not dawdle," Ser Willem directed gruffly. "We have much ground to cover."

Arya nodded at the Lyseni, raised a pewter mug filled with warm cider and said, "To duty." Her toast caused Baynard to laugh, much to the Bear's confusion. The squire added his own salute.

"And to home."

Lady Straeya was bubbly, chatty, and visibly excited about the journey (and finally meeting her intended) as the trio set out from Saltpans and followed the Trident, presumably to find the High Road. However, half a league outside of the village, Arya was less bubbly than determined, and more than a little curious.

"These horses are quite fine," she remarked as she trotted to Ser Willem's side. He grunted in agreement. "Far better than any stock I would think you could find in such a small village. How did you come by them?"

"Gold dragons can buy the best of anything," the false knight remarked. "Even in such a small village."

Arya smiled at her brother's obfuscation.

"Yes, but how did such fine mounts come to be in Saltpans?"

"The gods may sometimes smile even upon the most humble of their servants."

The girl rolled her eyes and repeated something she had once been told when she still wore the black and white robe of a Faceless acolyte. "A lie of omission is still a lie."

The Bear was quiet for so long that the girl believed he did not mean to answer her. However, just as she had resolved to press him further, he spoke.

"I don't understand you, sister."

"It's a simple question," the girl said lightly. "I only wish to know..."

"It's not the question I don't understand," the large man clarified. "It's your reason for asking it. I feel as though you somehow hope to catch me in a lie or force some sort of admission out of me."

The Bear was suddenly very astute, Arya thought.

"What?" she scoffed, seemingly affronted. "I only asked..."

"I'm quite certain that you know how the horses came to be in Saltpans and I feel as though you understand exactly how they came to be in our possession. What I can't understand, though, is why you seem to be accusing me of something."

"Truly, Ser Willem, I never..."

He cut her off. "Oh, but you did. So, I must ask, from where does this sudden mistrust come?"

His voice had all the imperious aloofness of a noble Westerosi knight asking a rhetorical question but Arya could detect an undertone unique to her brother in the words; a Bearish quality which seemed to ask, Don't you know me, sister?

They rode silently along side by side awhile as Arya considered her answer. Her brother did not seem to begrudge her time to think and said nothing. Finally, the girl spoke.

"It's not mistrust. I want you to understand that."

"Then what?"

She blew out a long breath, made visible by the cold of the air around them. "I know there's a plan. There must be a plan. The principal elder didn't send me to Westeros simply because he wished to see me safely home to my family seat."

"Of course."

"And so everything that is done for us, every help, every small aid is meant to further that plan."

"Undoubtedly."

The girl vibrated with her frustration at her brother's responses.

"Don't you see what a problem this is?" she gritted out. "The order is marking a precise trail and we are following along like well-trained mules! The Kindly Man has something planned for me, and we don't know what it is, but still, we take his offerings like grateful beggars, never asking what the cost will be!"

"Would you rather be on foot, then?"

Arya frowned. "Of course not."

"It seemed silly not to accept the horses," the false Dornishman said, "after all the trouble that was taken to send them to us. Besides, aren't they are lovely?"

"Bah!" the Cat spat.

"Anyway, who says we have to do what is expected of us?" her brother continued, as if he had not registered her sound of discontent. "The order can offer us supplies and purses of gold and the finest horses to be found within 100 leagues, but they cannot control what we do with these gifts. As long as their aim does not interfere with our own, why not take what is freely offered?"

The Bear rode on, looking straight ahead. After a moment, a small smile curled his lips. There was defiance in it. And malice. The sight heartened Arya.

"Yes," she whispered in agreement. "We are not bound by their rules. Not anymore."

The palfreys had been sent to Saltpans from White Harbor and were well-conditioned and suited to their task. Because of this, the trio made good time as they followed the Trident northwest toward the crossroads. Still, their crossing was more than 20 leagues from Saltpans and so their journey was now entering the third day. They had seen almost no one as they traveled. The area had been hit hard by the war, and so they had to make due with what shelter they could find or create for themselves, as there were no folk about who might offer them better.

The first night, they had not needed to pitch tents as they happened upon a partially burnt-out barn which served as ready shelter. It was here Arya discovered that though the exact cause of the Bear's moodiness was still a mystery, he was not truly angry with her. She did not believe he could have comforted her the way he did if he bore her ill will.

Perhaps it was due to the fact that she was retracing steps she had taken as a little girl, or perhaps it was the thought of being in the Riverlands again, the land of her mother's youth, but that first night on the road, she was visited by such nightmares that she cried out in her sleep. She was a mouse again, trapped in Harrenhal, only she was alone, with Jaqen nowhere to be found. She longed for her mother, her brothers, her home, and her yearning was a hard and heavy thing that stuck in her throat and pressed her heart, crushing her under its weight. She gasped for her breath, but her effort was fruitless and her vision went black.

Then she was a wolf, pulling her mother's white, decaying corpse from the river, and nuzzling Catelyn's flaccid flesh, willing her to live. Her mother remained cold and quiet, unmoving. She whined and and dropped her great head, the loss so entire that it changed something inside of her forever.

Next, she dreamed she danced with her father, the both of them laughing as they twirled gaily around and around. They were underneath the trees in the Wolfswood and even in her dream, she thought it strange, because her father had never before danced with her. He held her lightly as they whirled in dizzying circles. She threw her head back, staring at the tree branches lacing together in a canopy overhead and gasping in delight, and when she next looked up, Lord Eddard's face had been replaced by a skull and she saw that she danced only with his bones.

She watched Lommy die at the point of a spear held by Raff the Sweetling, but then Raff's heart dried and shriveled and fell out of his chest onto the ground. She picked it up and it made her happy but it did not bring Lommy back.

She was struck again and again by Weese while a spotted dark barked and growled menacingly behind him. She scrubbed and scrubbed at the stone steps of a forgotten stair in a forgotten tower but no matter how hard she worked, Weese still struck her, calling her a stupid, lazy thing.

She knew she was dreaming but knowing it did nothing to assuage her grief and fear. She tossed and struggled but could not wake up. Then, she felt a large hand against her belly, pressing tightly. The warmth spread and the tension in her drained as the Bear pulled his sister against him. Her nightmares faded and she quieted, finally falling into a peaceful sleep.

When she woke, her brother still did not say much to her and waved off her thanks for what he had done, but she knew that whatever troubled him, he did not hold it against her.

The second night, Arya found herself teaching her brothers the ins and outs of setting up camp (something their training had lacked in Braavos). The girl was surprised by the completeness and quality of their gear. Baynard told her that like the horses, it had been sent from White Harbor and had been waiting for them upon their arrival in Saltpans. At the mention of White Harbor, Arya wondered if the Manderlys had any hand in furnishing their provisions, but there was something niggling in the back of her mind, and it had nothing to do with Wyman Manderly or his sons.

As the third day dawned and they packed their sleeping furs and tent into neat bundles, the girl tried to guess at how far they had already ridden and wondered if they might make it as far as the Inn at the Crossroads before they were forced to stop again.

It would be nice to sleep beneath a real roof again, the girl admitted to herself.

At the thought of the inn, Arya's mind wandered. She recalled that she had seen the inn twice before. The first time, she had been a young girl who had feared someone might punish her impudence toward a prince by taking Nymeria's life. As it turned out, it was a different wolf and a butcher's son who had lost their lives, and Nymeria had escaped into the forest, lost to Arya. The second time, it was she who had taken the life, stabbing the Tickler over and over again until the Hound had pulled her from the man's lifeless corpse. She had killed before, certainly; once to defend herself and once to win her freedom. The first time, with the stable boy in the Red Keep, it had almost happened before she even understood what she was doing. The second time, she was escaping her unjust imprisonment in Harrenhal and she had desperately wanted to find her family. At the inn, though, it was different. She had been angry; unreasoning. There, she had killed a man because she could not suffer him to live. There, it had been simply about revenge.

It was the first time in her life she had understood that there was true power in rage.

Arya wondered if that was the point where her path had been set toward Braavos and the tutelage of the Kindly Man. She had not fully understood the precise nature of what it meant to be a Faceless Man then, but she had seen enough of what Jaqen could do at Harrenhal to know the primary business of the order was death. Perhaps she had not thought herself capable of doing what Jaqen did until after she had killed the Tickler. Was that the moment she knew she would use the iron coin?

I can't even recall anymore, she thought. Perhaps it was as soon as he placed it in my hand. Or perhaps it was after I knew my mother was dead.

She sighed. The Rat was riding near enough to her to hear the sound and turned briefly to search her face, but he did not address her and so she did not speak. Instead, she looked toward the treeline to her right, noting that the trees were bare and stark. Unlike the North, the forests here were more hardwood than evergreen. Her eyes drifted back to their path and there, between the trees and the riverbank, she was filled with a feeling of familiarity. It was no wonder; she had certainly traveled this route before. Most recently, she had been on the brink of her twelfth nameday, riding a stolen horse, her pockets full of the Hound's gold and Jaqen's gift as she headed toward Saltpans.

The memory made her sad. She had no way of knowing it back then, of course, but it would be some time before she met with Jaqen again. Others had greeted her upon her arrival at the House of Black and White. But if she could return to a particular time in her past, that might just be the one she chose, because Jaqen was still in her future at that moment. Now, he was only in her past. She had no way of knowing whether he was dead or alive. She had no way of knowing what had become of him.

She had a sudden picture of warm, bronze eyes in her head. They were nearly instantly supplanted by an image of the principal elder raising a blade high over a bowed neck. That the neck ended up belonging to the Rat disguised with Jaqen's face rather than to her master himself did not dull the sensation that lit upon her with the memory. Her pain felt fresh to her and so she pushed the thought aside and tried not to dwell on the fact that every step she now took moved her further and further away from Braavos and the last place she had felt loved and safe and nearly whole again.

Don't be stupid, her little voice chastised. You are here now and all the wishing in the world won't change the past. You know what needs doing.

Yes, she agreed. I do.

She told herself she would have to learn to look only toward the future; that the way back was forward. If she wished to find if Jaqen still lived, she must first move forward. If she wished to find Jon, she had to move forward. If there was any hope of her finally punishing those who had taken away the people she held most dear (Queen Cersei, Ser Meryn, Ilyn Payne...), then she had no choice but to move forward. And if she wished to repay the Kindly Man for all he had done to her, for all he had visited upon her...

Well, she had affairs in Westeros that must be concluded before she could sail back across the Narrow Sea. But, she was young, and gods willing, her life would be long. There was plenty of time. She would have her revenge.

Arya looked up, noting the position of the sun in the sky. She and her brothers had traveled quite a distance already, but the day was waning. How much further to the Inn at the Crossroads? She spurred her mount on, hoping that the inn still stood and that she might be staring up at its ceiling from a soft bed that same night.

The finest sort of weaponry is inarguably that which is made from Valyrian steel (exemplified by the swords which Arya Stark carried at her hip and on her back as she rode towards her destiny). Despite the state of the finished product, arms such as these had not begun as rare and costly polished blades defined by their deceptive lightness, superior hardness, and incomparable flexibility. Valyrian blades invariably boasted a unique beauty in their smokey, serpentine folding lines and wickedly sharp edges which set them apart from all others. Anyone witness to their inception, though, could attest to the utterly ordinary appearance of all that which went into the making of them. For Valyrian steel did not begin as a coveted thing of artistry and terror and worth. It began, rather, as bits of iron mixed in among the sand and soil over which pale-haired men, now long gone, once walked. And it began as common charcoal formed from fallen trees.

In skilled hands, even such unremarkable materials could be worked and forged and used to create something more extraordinary than the imaginations of most men were able to conjure. Exceptional effort and exceptional stresses visited upon the most mundane of things may shape what at first appears mean and commonplace into something altogether different; something quite glorious. When exposed to the blazing heat of the crucible and the tireless beating of the hammer, a thing as pedestrian as tiny metal flecks found in the dust beneath a man's feet and the carbon released by the simple burning of a dried, charred log could be transformed into something much greater. When handled properly, it would become steel.

The creation of steel was a remarkable enough achievement, but the creation of Valyrian steel was a thing of legend. Aside from the expert craftsmanship employed in the working of the metal (the careful smelting and repeated folding; the rhythmic beating and endless cooling; the precise sharpening and expert polishing), there was also the sorcery (aided by the application of dragonflame) which defined the process. More than just superb skill and expertise mark the Valyrian blade as singular. There are spells woven into the very skin of the thing, sealed forever by the intense heat which can only be found in the bellies of beasts once extinct (but now risen again). Fine swords had been made and were being made and would be made again, without doubt, but only Valyrian steel was imbued with that element which was all but impossible to duplicate. It was the remarkable marriage of metallurgy and alchemy.

It was an accord between science and magic.

There was a sort of metallurgy and an alchemy which went into creating Arya Stark, too, and the process was similar to that used to forge Valyrian steel. It was both science and magic.

Formed from the most prosaic and mortal of bits imaginable, grown in a womb like a thousand thousand others, birthed in the same way as all those who came before and all who had come since, she had once had the same outward appearance as any other girl; commonplace; ordinary. She had simply been a pink babe with a tuft of soft, brown hair, squalling for her milk. Had she been lined up with two score of other babes, she would not have stood apart, except perhaps to her own loving mother (for don't all mothers love their own babes best?) Potential is a hard thing for most people to read in the eyes of an infant. Fate makes her plans and does not consult those who would take note of a child's ways and whims and pass judgment on her. The future is a nebulous wish to most, and prophecy a puzzle.

Who could be blamed for failing to see what only the gods knew? Who could have predicted the path which would forge the person who now rode silently along the bank of the Trident River in the company of assassins? Most girls of Westeros, both the common and the highborn, had lives which could have been recited from rote, almost as soon as the maester or midwife slapped their bottoms and encouraged their first lusty cry. There was nary a stray step taken in all the years a Westerosi woman was afforded, for the risk to them was too great. The life of a woman in Westeros was not a forgiving thing, and there was little room for error. As a lady of noble blood, Arya's course would have been practically predestined, the end result almost certainly a life of dull comfort; a life dedicated to producing more pink, squalling, commonplace babes whose lives were already known and whose deeds were already prescribed.

But for this one girl, that was not to be.

Because of science. Because of magic.

Because her path had led her straight into the crucible, through the fires of tribulation. She had been heated and folded and cooled, over and over again, sharpened and polished; molded into her present form by fate.

By circumstance.

By choice.

By hatred.

By the hands of men and the hands of gods and by her own small hand, too.

The jaws of Westerosi politics and Faceless ambition and pure chance had hammered her and reshaped her into something else entirely. Something altogether different than what she started as; something apart from what she was intended to be.

Something quite glorious.

Something extraordinary.

The creation of a warrior, of an assassin, of a hardened, fearless thing was remarkable enough, but the creation of Arya Stark, much like the creation of the steel she carried, was the stuff of legends. She was made by love and loss and rage and tragedy; by trust that had been broken and by the desire for self-determination; by loyalty; by a refusal to be what she was told she must be; by a thirst almost unquenchable, her need for revenge. She was made by a bastard brother and a tolerant father. She was made by an uncompromising teacher and a calculating elder. She was made by pain and disappointment and the greatest joy. By dreams. By nightmares. By visions. By winter. She was made by a gift she barely understood and all that her eyes had seen, both great and terrible. She was made by the love of a man who had no name, and many, and then just one.

But beyond all that, there was the magic in her blood. There were the old gods, and the new. There was the red god from whom she had once stolen but then repaid ten-fold, and there was the one god who wore the faces of all others and stood half in light, half in shadow. And then, there was Death, in all his dreadful wonder. They all had a hand in forging Eddard Stark's grey daughter.

They were woven into her very skin.

Conversation was sparse as the dusk settled, with only words of necessity spoken. A question posed about stopping to make camp. An answer which was simply an expressed desire to ride just a little further. A shrug, a grunt of acknowledgment, then, a short time later, a quiet comment about the howling; about how it seemed much nearer than before.

Arya thought the Rat (Baynard, she told herself) might be nervous about it. His voice was steady but there was just a hint of pressure behind it. He is Westerosi, she reminded herself. He may remember tales of wolves from when he was a young boy, or perhaps he knew someone who met with tragedy in the woods. The fact was, he had a point. As wolf howls began to fill the quiet of the evening, two ideas dominated the Cat's mind. First, that it was somewhat early to expect wolves to be baying. It was not yet full dark, though the moment was imminently upon them. Second, Baynard was right, the sounds were close; very close.

The trio continued ambling along their path but Arya considered whether they ought stop. Perhaps she was being foolish to insist that they continue on. Perhaps if they built a large fire, and two of them kept watch at a time, then they would be safe and...

Her planning was interrupted by a sound which pierced her clean through her heart. A long, low howl unlike the others split the night and without even realizing it, the girl pulled up sharply on her reins, causing her horse to briefly rear, a screaming neigh escaping around his bit. Ser Willem shouted for her, but even with the shock of it, he did not forget himself or his role.

"My lady!"

Not Cat. Not sister.

Arya ignored him, and as her mount settled and stopped, the girl stood upright in her stirrups, cocking her head to listen. She was rewarded a spare few seconds later. Another howl sounded in the distance, faint but undeniable. It was different from the chorus of others erupting into the night all around them. Something in the sound called to her; pleaded with her. It was a sound, a feeling she could not discount. Without a word, the girl dropped back into her saddle, leaned down and placed her hand lightly against her horses neck. Arya closed her eyes and then she was running. She was running as if the ground was collapsing behind her, threatening to swallow her whole and send her straight into the Seven Hells. She ran as she had never run before, on four galloping legs, racing with eyes wide and nostrils flared. The shouts of the men behind her meant little and less, and soon faded away, lost in the wind which whistled past her ears. Even as white and grey and black predators began to stream from the wood and run alongside her, she did not falter.

The wolves snarled and nipped at her legs but she ignored them and ran on and on. As the darkness descended and became complete, the wolves moved to surround her on three sides. If she veered too near the bank of the Trident, they growled and snapped and forced her back. If she approached a fallen log or boulder half-sunk in the hard ground, the wolves changed her path so that she did not stumble and break one of her delicate limbs. The girl's hair, which had begun the day in a simple braid, had blown free. As she leaned over, clinging tightly to the horse's reins, the long, dark strands of her hair whipped her face and the palfrey's neck, all at once. It was a strange sensation to feel as both horse and girl; a tickle against the flesh of her muscled neck, a more annoying feeling on her cheek and poking into her grey eyes.

She ignored the minor discomfort, concentrating instead on running toward the deep howl which stood apart from the others and split the night at intervals. She knew whose throat must be producing the sound, yet she dared not hope... Not after so many years.

Not after what she had done to convince Nymeria to leave her.

Finally, the wolves began to drop off, slowing up and drifting back into the woods in twos and threes. Arya pulled back a bit too, slackening her pace to a trot and looking around her. She she released the horse to its own will as she shook off the more equine sensibilities which lingered after her long ride (her long run). She used her girl's eyes to search her surroundings but it was a nearly useless endeavor in the darkness. As low branches and thick brush grazed her arms and swept at her legs, the girl realized that she had run away from the river (when had that happened?) and the trees were becoming thicker around her. She slowed further, carefully guiding her mount around the trees. Not a quarter hour later, almost without warning, she emerged into a clearing and saw lights flickering perhaps fifty yards ahead of her. After all the darkness through which she had ridden and run, it took her a few seconds to make sense of them.

Candles in some windows. Perhaps firelight shining through others. Could that be the inn?

She decided it must be, just based on the size of the building, its outlines barely perceptible in the dim light of a half-hidden moon. She stopped and listened. The night was quiet. The howling had ceased and she could no longer hear wolf paws padding around her. Arya suddenly realized she had left her companions behind. She wondered if they had attempted to keep up, or if they had been hindered by the wolf pack. She chewed her bottom lip thoughtfully, considering whether she ought to approach the inn and gauge the friendliness of those inside or turn around and try to find her brothers. Guilt at having abandoned them descended and the girl decided she must go back for them. She was familiar with these parts and they were not. Even now, the Bear or the Rat might be injured, thrown from a horse, or perhaps slowly making their way toward her, leading a lamed animal on foot if the beast had stepped wrong in the dark. She tugged her reins, turning her horse and had walked back perhaps ten yards towards the woods when a noise stopped her.

It was the howl again, low and long; mournful. It seemed to fill the darkness, expanding and contracting around her, and it was so close to her that she felt it in her bones.

Her mount reared, terrified by the noise and beating at the night with raised hooves. The creature's movement caught Arya off-guard. The palfrey had been so calm during the journey with the wolf pack, it had not occurred to his rider that without her influence in his head, the poor beast would be wild with fear in the presence of a predator. Too late, the girl grasped at the pommel of her saddle with one hand and clenched the reins with the other, but it was useless. Arya was thrown from her mount, landing on the cold ground and striking her hip against a stone. She was nearly blinded by the pain but found she had no breath to cry out. She rolled to her back and stared up at the stars, stunned, while her horse whinnied and danced. The palfrey finally dashed back into the cover of the trees, abandoning Arya in the clearing.

"Stupid beast!" the girl cried hoarsely when she finally caught her breath, but she knew perhaps she was the one who had been stupid. It was foolish to lose focus, her little voice berated. Now look where you are. You'll be lucky if no bones are broken. Gritting her teeth, she tested her limbs, starting with small wiggles of her fingers and toes, then bending her wrists and elbows. When she tried to sit up and flex her knees, the pain that shot through her right hip was nearly unbearable and so she gave a cry of frustration and fell back onto the ground, throwing her forearm across her eyes. She was angry at her own carelessness, irritated at the situation, and annoyed that after enduring long, hard days of travel, something so unfortunate would happen when she was only steps away from her destination.

Because her eyes were still covered as she lamented her ill luck, she didn't realize that a great beast had crept upon her until she felt its hot breath against her face. Slowly, Arya shifted her arm and opened her eyes, but before she could interpret what she was seeing, a large, moist snout pressed against her neck. The girl thought for one wild moment that her throat was a second away from being torn out, but then Nymeria whined, settling herself at Arya's side and laying her great head gently upon the girl's breast.

When Arya understood, really understood what was happening, she reached her arms up and encircled the direwolf's neck. Outwardly, they were still, both girl and wolf, but inside each of them, there was a nearly audible click, as if two pieces of a puzzle had finally turned in just the right way to interlock. Arya lifted her head from the ground, pressing her face into Nymeria's thick, grey fur. The feel of the wolf's soft coat against the girl's skin was so familiar and so missed and so welcome that for the first time in her life, Arya sobbed and sobbed and sobbed, not with sadness, but with joy.

Half Acre—Hem

A/N: "A lie of omission is still a lie," is a line from The Assassin's Apprentice, chapter 11. It was something the Kindly Man said to Arya when she tried to evade his question. The hair comb with a hidden knife was an idea a reader long ago offered up as a way to allow Arya to hide yet another knife on her person. I liked the idea so much, I filed it away for later use and now here it is! Considering her history in Braavos and her relationship with the principal elder, a black and white cat-shaped comb seemed most appropriate.