Hello. I've waited here for you...
Everlong.
The waning moon appeared only as a small, shimmering sliver and the scant light it cast was hidden intermittently by the drifting clouds in the night sky. Even so, Arya could see that it had risen higher. She had lain on the ground for some time, reveling in the feel of Nymeria's fur between her fingers and against her face, but she knew she could not remain there all night. Time to stand, she thought, and move toward the inn. The pain in her hip had lessened to a dull, throbbing ache but the cold ground upon which she lay was doing nothing to improve it.
"Nymeria, help me up."
The direwolf licked the girl's face with her rough tongue and then rose. Arya reached out for the beast's foreleg and used it to pull herself to sitting, wincing as she did. As gingerly as she could, she bent her uninjured leg and pulled herself slowly upright, using the wolf as leverage.
"I can't recommend getting thrown from a horse," Arya said as she hobbled slowly alongside the direwolf, her right hand gripping at the animal's left flank for support, "but when doing so, I feel it's best to avoid falling onto large stones whenever possible."
Nymeria whined.
"Still, it was a fine horse, right up until the end of our ride. I do hope your wolf pack doesn't eat him."
The direwolf snorted, and it almost seemed as if she were laughing.
"I'm serious, girl! Needle is tucked into the bedroll attached to my saddle! I want that sword back. I've had it too long and gone through too much to keep it to risk losing it now. And besides, decent palfreys aren't easy to come by, and it's a long way to go on foot." The pair continued their slow movement toward the inn. "Well, maybe not for you," Arya amended. "I suppose you must go everywhere on foot."
The girl thought of the long journey ahead and was irritated with herself all over again for allowing a setback like being thrown from her horse so early on. But then her thoughts turned further north, and when she considered what it would be like to glimpse the walls of Winterfell once again, her heart began to beat faster.
"We're going home, girl," she whispered, her fingers weaving themselves through the wolf's thick fur. "Do you remember home?"
Arya sighed. Something weighed on her, and though others might think her half-mad for talking to an animal the way one would talk to anyone else, she wasn't terribly concerned with what others might think just then. Or, ever. And besides, she knew that Nymeria understood her; if not all of her words, then the intent behind them, at least. Hadn't it always been so?
"You do know why I had to leave you, don't you girl?" Arya's voice was quiet. "And that I was right to do it? After what happened to Lady, I know I was right to do it. I couldn't let them punish you. Still, I'm sorry. It was my fault that it had to be done. I shouldn't have gotten us into trouble in the first place. That stupid Joffrey..." She grimaced at the name and the wolf growled. Arya patted her, continuing, "I know how you feel. You'll be happy to know he's dead now. Choked at his wedding, or was poisoned, I've heard. Too bad he didn't choke when he was trying to poke Mycah. Then I wouldn't have beaten him and you wouldn't have bitten him and I wouldn't have had to send you away."
Mycah. She remembered how the boy had frozen in fear at Joffrey's mocking and accusations. He was my friend and no threat to an armed prince. He was no threat to anyone. Just a common boy, likely unnoticed by everyone in the world but his father and Arya herself. All he did was agree to play with me when I asked, she recalled bitterly, and it cost him his life. Time had washed the boy's young face mostly from her mind, and it filled her with regret to realize it. Freckles, she thought desperately. He had freckles.
As Arya remembered the butcher's son, a wave of fresh guilt washed over her. She found it strange that after so long, after witnessing so much death and cruelty in her life, after dealing out her own fair share of that death in the years since the Hound rode the innocent boy down, the memory should strike so hard at the core of her. He was going to help me find Rhaegar's rubies in the Trident. She shook her head, trying to force the memory out. It made her feel sad, and she had no more room for sadness in her heart; it was overfull already. She convinced herself that it was just being back in the Riverlands, in this place where it all happened, that made the pain new again. She pinched her face, breathing in sharply and turning the pain to anger, for though she could tolerate no more sadness, it seemed her capacity for rage was infinite.
I'd kill the Hound for it, she told herself, if he weren't already dead. She cursed the Tickler for landing the blows that did what she should have done.
You have quite a long list already, her little voice remarked. Be grateful that the blades of others are working toward the end you desire. Besides, didn't you have your revenge on the Tickler?
She supposed she had at that.
"I'm sorry," Arya repeated, and it was an apology to Nymeria for all that had happened and an apology to Mycah, too, she supposed. The wolf whined again.
Even after such a long absence, it felt natural to talk to Nymeria, just as she had in Winterfell. They walked along slowly together, the wolf supporting her mistress and Arya trying to assuage her longstanding guilt at having left her behind.
"I knew you'd be alright, though," the girl said, "because you're a warrior, just like your namesake. And you wouldn't have liked Kings Landing, anyway. It smelled awful and there was no game to hunt. I don't think you'd have been happy chasing after pigeons and rats for your supper. Though now that I think about it, there were plenty of snakes within the walls of the Red Keep. They could have kept you well fed."
Ser Ilyn, Ser Meryn, Queen Cersei...
The beast moved silently, guiding her mistress toward the inn. Arya slipped into Nymeria's head, wanting to make her understand; wanting to explain; wanting to be sure the wolf did not blame her as much as she blamed herself.
But it was Arya who lacked understanding, not her wolf.
Nymeria held no grudge. A direwolf lives too much in the immediate to trade in resentments for slights long past. Such things are human constructs and have nothing to do with wild creatures. People will project things onto animals which are unique to the people themselves. Wolves may experience fear and contentment; mourning and excitement; loyalty and mistrust, but they do not nurse grievances. Nymeria was more complex than her cousins, to be sure; more capable of feeling and acting on a wider array of what men call emotions. There was an intelligence in her not displayed by the timber wolves and black wolves and snow wolves of Westeros; a cunning further informed by her unique bond with her mistress. Even still, when Arya searched the direwolf, she found memories of long yearning and a burst of what passed for joy in the large beast. Search as she might, though, she found no anger; no blame for a little girl throwing rocks and driving away one who had only ever shown her an inviolable fealty. That condemnation existed only in Arya's own head. In the animal's head, the girl found only faithfulness, devotion, and affection, spanning years.
It was all she had ever wanted from anyone, for nearly as long as she could remember. And it was all that she could never quite attain; not for any real length of time. Whenever she had found esteem and love, grasping it tightly as a child clutching at her mother's leg, it had slipped through her fingers as easily as grains of sand sliding through an hourglass. She almost felt as if she were bound to such an hourglass, and that it turned over with each new attachment she formed, marking the inevitable end. That those ends were were nearly always painted in horror and tragedy only compounded her growing sense of futility about friendship and love. She began to feel as though she had destroyed the lives of everyone she touched. Nymeria was just the first in a long line of those who could name Arya as the arbiter of their destruction. And yet, the wolf had no malice for her; no wariness or suspicion.
Nymeria's complete acceptance of her mistress felt almost damning to the girl and her guilt intensified to a degree she could no longer bear.
Arya snapped her mind back from the wolf so abruptly, they both experienced it as a nearly physical jerk. The girl clutched at her heart with her one hand while the other remained buried in the direwolf's fur. Nymeria thrust her muzzle skyward and let out a piercing howl at the sudden, almost violent retreat of her mistress. The sound of it echoed off the outer walls of the inn, amplifying the noise and filling the night all around them. Arya was startled by it and gasped, both at the sound and at the feeling of being left alone inside of her own accusing thoughts. Something about the wolf's state of mind gnawed at her. It left her feeling inexplicably like a fraud; as if she were nothing more than a mummer playing a part; the role of the wronged heroine, portraying a dignity and an ethical superiority she could not truly claim as her own. She nearly swooned with the dissonance this created in her at that moment, mentally scrabbling to maintain her fury at those who had wronged her and wondering how she could be forgiven when she had no forgiveness of her own to give.
But old roles are difficult to abandon and so she shoved her troublesome thoughts down, refusing to focus on them just then. As it turned out, she had little time for such introspection anyway, as Nymeria's howl brought company to the main entrance of the inn. The pair were only perhaps ten yards from the front steps when the door opened and a man emerged, appearing only as a large, dark shape silhouetted by the firelight pouring forth from the room he had just exited.
"Nymeria!" he called, his voice stern. "The wee ones are asleep. What do you mean by..." He stopped abruptly, taking two slow steps forward and peering out into the darkness. His eyes had not yet adjusted to the dark but he seemed to be scrutinizing the wolf and her companion. Quickly, the man dropped his hand to his sword hilt and began to pull the weapon from his belt. "Who goes there?" he demanded, his voice deep and commanding. "Name yourself!"
"A weary traveler," Arya called back without hesitation, thinking the man's voice seemed familiar, like something she had heard in a dream once, "looking for a roof and a bed." Noting the threat of his sword slowly moving from its scabbard, she dropped her own hand to Frost's hilt, wondering if she would have the speed to negate the reach of his longsword with her injured hip.
"A woman," the large man remarked in surprise, guessing her sex by her stature and the tenor of her voice, "traveling alone? Without even a horse?" He ceased drawing his steel and carefully moved down the steps and towards Arya and Nymeria.
"I was thrown," the girl replied truthfully and as the man strode toward her, she noted his size and build and thought him familiar to her somehow. Gendry? Not the Gendry she knew in Harrenhal, certainly, but the dark knight who came to her in dreams, perhaps; a Gendry who had grown older, grown larger, with nothing of a boy or a boy's uncertainty about him any longer. It made sense that he would be here—Nymeria was here, and in her dreams, the two always seemed to be together. But she couldn't be sure. It was so dark, and dreams weren't reality, no matter how real they may have felt. "And I'm not alone. My party was simply... delayed."
"Are you hurt?" the man asked, slowing his pace until he stopped a longsword's length away from her. Clever man, she thought, but it won't matter. She had already calculated her angle of attack, taking into account her injury, the fact that she would have trouble reaching Grey Daughter from beneath her cloak (strapped to her back as it was), and that she would likely need to switch Frost from her right to her left hand. The need to defend herself with steel might be remote, but such was the way her mind now worked after four years in the House of Black and White.
A girl must always keep her head about her, lest she lose it. Jaqen's voice had now joined Syrio's in her mind, constantly reminding her; guiding her. There is an intelligence to swordplay.
"Aye, but nothing too dire, I think." She kept her tone light to avoid putting the big man on his guard any more than he already was. "Still, a day's rest here would be most welcome before I continue on, if you've the room. And I'll have to find my horse."
"I'm sorry to say it, but with the number of wolves in these woods right now, you're more likely to find a stripped carcass than a live animal. Frankly, I'm shocked you made it this far yourself." He eyed the direwolf suspiciously. "I don't think you're likely to see your horse again."
"Oh, I rather think I might," Arya replied. She jerked her head toward Nymeria. "This wolf and I have an understanding..."
"An understanding?" the man interrupted with a chuckle. "An understanding with a direwolf! Does the beast not frighten you, girl?"
"Should she?"
"She'd just as easily eat a small thing like you in three bites as walk at your side."
"Oh, yes," Arya said admiringly, stroking the wolf's neck. "I know."
"You know?" he scoffed. "Well-acquainted with direwolves, are you?" His obvious skepticism amused the girl and she could sense his confusion as to why Nymeria hadn't chewed her arm off already.
"Indeed, I am. As well-acquainted as anyone, I'd say."
The large man began to speak, but then stopped. His head swiveled slowly, looking first at the wolf, then at the girl by her side, then back at the wolf once more. Nymeria seemed perfectly settled. The girl... she was certainly not intimidated by the large beast (when he had personally witnessed other women faint at merely a glimpse of the great wolf through a window). He began to move forward again, squinting to see in the darkness. The girl wore a cloak and so he could not appreciate her slender frame, and the lack of light did not allow for him to note if her eyes were grey, or if that grey had a circle of the deepest midnight blue skimming its outer edges. He had not heard her voice in nearly five years save for in his dreams, but as he strained to see the traveler at Nymeria's side, his heart knew what his eyes and ears could not tell him.
This was Arya Stark, come home.
He froze in place and spoke in a ragged whisper. "By all the gods, it's you." He put his hand to his mouth as if to stop himself from gaping. He spoke softly between his fingers then. "M'lady?"
It was the m'lady which finally convinced her. The sound of it was as familiar to her as Needle's hilt, and she had heard it often enough of late, when she closed her eyes and fell asleep. It was how Gendry addressed Nymeria more often than not, and sometimes it seemed as if he were addressing her, too.
What say you, m'lady? Are you her? Shall I kiss you now and find out?
Instantly, the man dropped to one knee, bowing his head and saying, "M'lady! Forgive me for not knowing you!"
Arya had not expected the movement and so she stepped back, grunting in pain as she did, grasping hard at Nymeria's fur and causing the wolf to growl. She wanted to put some distance between herself and the kneeling knight, but nearly stumbled when she tried.
"Why should you know me?" she asked, sounding angry as she gritted her teeth against the discomfort in her hip. She shifted her weight, favoring her injured joint, but the movement did nothing to alleviate the confusion Arya felt at knowing for a certainty she now stood facing her old friend, the apprentice blacksmith who had traveled a long road with her, through trials and adventures and heartbreak and horror. Seeing him, hearing him, and knowing it truly was him caused a bitterness to flare up within her. But it also filled her with a pressing sorrow. She instantly became the young, insecure girl being left behind by yet another person she trusted. She was once again a little gray mouse, watching the last few grains of sand bleed through the hourglass, powerless to stop them.
Inside, she raged at being made to feel small again. She was furious at being reminded of that sense of utter helplessness. It was a feeling she loathed more than anything else. Nymeria seemed to sense the girl's mood, her fur bristling.
The kneeling man looked up. "M'lady Arya?" he asked. "Do you not know me?" His voice faltered at the end and carried with it a hint of disappointment. She made him no answer and he rose, taking another step toward her. Arya narrowed her eyes and frowned while Nymeria growled menacingly. The wolf's response surprised the knight. "Nymeria?" he asked uncertainly, halting his advance.
"Better stay back," the girl advised darkly. "She'd just as easily eat a small thing like you in three bites as walk by your side." Her tone was mocking as she spat his own words back at him, but the knight was more concerned by the wolf's bared teeth than the incivility of her mistress in that moment.
Gendry swallowed. "I know."
Arya glared at him for a moment longer, then she and the wolf began to walk away, passing him on their way to the inn. The girl was stopped by the pleading in his voice.
"M'lady," he called hoarsely and his voice sounded as it if had been molded from a mixture of regret and grief. Slowly, Arya turned around, facing him, her hand never leaving Nymeria's side.
"Don't call me that," she hissed.
"What should I call you, then? I can't very well call you Arya," the large knight insisted. "It's not proper."
The girl sneered, fueled by nearly five years of pent-up spite.
"My friends call me many things," she asserted, and the names washed over her in a wave, memories draping one atop the other. They covered her and made her ache, weighing her down as if she carried a wooden yoke with heavy pails dangling from each end. Arya child. Little wolf. Cat. Sister. Salty. Lovely girl. "But you may call me nothing, because that's what I am to you." Usually so good at disguising her feelings, Arya surprised herself with the anger and the hurt her tone betrayed. She clenched her jaw, trying to suppress all this damnable emotion. She did not understand why it was so difficult to do.
Remember your lessons, her little voice admonished. Rule your face. Rule your thoughts. Rule your intentions.
The knight knew he should be silent, but he could not hold his tongue. Not after his years of worry and guilt; his years of regret; his years of imagining, and then trying not to imagine every horror being visited upon her before her small bones began slowly sinking into the mud somewhere in the wilderness. Not after his hopes had been raised by news from Braavos. Not after he had dreamed of a girl, and then a woman, and then a queen. Not after he had mourned and wished and waited and ached. Could she really believe she was nothing, that she meant nothing, to him? She had saved him. No, he could not hold his tongue.
"How can you say that?" he choked.
"Because," she cried, "when you were offered the choice, you did not choose me!" The words slipped out without her meaning to say them. Her head was swimming and bright spots clouded her vision for a second. There was buzzing in her ears and her hands fairly shook with her desire to hit something; someone.
When she heard herself speak, she couldn't believe such things were leaving her mouth. It made her feel petulant and stupid, especially when she considered all the things which had befallen her in her life; things far worse than being left by a boy of six and ten who was not bound to her by either blood or oath. The vehemence of the feeling proved more than she could stifle, however, and it did not wait for her to decide if her judgment was justified. It did not hesitate as she considered how such a declaration would reflect on her character; how it would paint her as someone she did not wish to be; someone who needed; someone weak; someone so easily hurt. It boiled over unexpectedly and she could not contain it. All their years apart, all the distance that had been between them, melted away to nothing and the wound was suddenly as fresh and raw as the day it had been incurred.
Gendry had willingly joined the long list of those who had left Arya Stark behind and she had not forgiven him for it.
They stared at one another for a moment, both of their chests heaving as if they had just finished sparring. And, perhaps they had. The silence hung like a heavy tapestry between them, both of them too stunned to speak further (the knight overwhelmed by the depth of sorrow he felt at the girl's words and the girl flummoxed by the depth of feeling she had carried inside of her for years, without even realizing it). Arya, vexed to find she was chewing her bottom lip, flinched and shook her head slightly, releasing the tender flesh from between her teeth as she did. Then, without another word, she turned and limped away, Nymeria by her side, leaving her old friend the blacksmith alone in the yard.
The front door of the inn remained slightly ajar, left that way by Gendry, and so Arya pushed through without preamble, her wolf close at her heels. The large common room was different than she remembered, there being less furniture than before. What was there more rough-hewn than she recalled. The place had likely been looted, perhaps even several times over, and some furniture had probably been used for kindling along the way. But, timber was plentiful in these parts and someone obviously had skill enough to build what was required, if not enough skill to make it beautiful. There were two boys in the far corner of the room, sitting at a table, playing cards. They were of an age with her by the looks of them, though they were scrawny, apparently underfed. There was also a woman, adorned in a tatty dress, sweeping with her back to the newcomers. A dark-haired man wearing boiled leather drowsed in his seat facing the fire, his broadsword balanced across his lap.
When Arya kicked the door shut behind her to preserve what warmth remained in the room, the sound of it caused the boys to jerk their heads up and look at her. The sweeping woman began to speak as she turned around.
"Next time you go to play with your wolf, kindly remember to close the door, ser," she snapped. When the woman saw that it was not Gendry but a stranger and Nymeria who had entered, she gave a gasp and then shrieked, "What is that beast doing in here?" She scrambled back, putting another table between herself and the direwolf.
The noise of it woke the sleeping man with a start. He sat up straight in his chair and looked at the girl and her four-legged companion, blinking hard. He rose from his chair, gripping his weapon in one hand. Arya took note and wrapped her fingers around the hilt of her Valyrian steel water dancer's blade. The man squinted for a moment at the girl and then gave a garbled shout, stumbling backwards and catching himself by gripping the mantle over the hearth. Alarmed, the card-playing boys stood, but they made no move to leave their table.
"Gods be good!" the man by the fire cried. "It cannae be!" Even across the room, his eyes looked wild and disbelieving. Arya at first thought he was gaping at the massive direwolf next to her, but after watching him for a few seconds, it seemed to her that the man was instead staring at Arya herself.
It cannae be, he had said. It was a very Northern turn of phrase and it captured Arya's attention. It reminded her of her youth, when she roamed the halls of Winterfell, hiding from her Septa and all the terrors contained in her sister Sansa's sewing basket. She tilted her head, studying the bearded fellow, wondering. Some tongues bend back to their native sounds when faced with fear or excitement, she knew. Here, so far south of the Neck, could she have crossed paths with a Northman?
"Do you know me, ser?" she asked, stepping closer to the firelight.
"Aye, I do! I did!" he exclaimed. "But I saw your bones buried beneath Winterfell when I was not more than a lad! What evil has pulled you from your crypt, my Lady Lyanna?"
Arya stopped her advancement as understanding washed over her. He was a few years older and his face told the tale of a life hard-lived, but he was not so changed that she could not recognize one of her father's men.
"Harwin, it's me. Arya."
The man sucked his breath in softly, righting himself and pushing away from the hearth. His face was frozen in a look of wonderment but when Arya smiled uncertainly at him, the spell was broken and he rushed to her, causing Nymeria to growl and move quickly between the two Northerners.
"Silly girl, he means me no harm," Arya said quietly. The wolf relaxed but did not move and so Arya had to step around her (no easy task considering the animal's great bulk). Harwin swept Eddard Stark's daughter up into his arms and held her tightly.
"We thought you dead, little lady," he said, and his voice was caught between a laugh and a sob. "How we grieved! Dondarrion was enraged, especially when he found that it was that dog who took you. And the boy was simply lost when you disappeared."
What boy? she wondered as he swung her around.
"Then, about a year ago, a strange man came to the hill; a foreigner. He said you were alive, and in Braavos," Harwin continued, "training to be an assassin!" The Northman set the girl down. "It didn't seem likely and we dared not hope, but after a time, our Lady became quite convinced." He grasped her shoulders, peering into her grey eyes. "Gods, but you could be her twin!"
"Who is her? Are you talking about your lady?"
"Nae, little lady, I mean your aunt. Of course I do!" Harwin laughed.
"I'm not so little anymore, Harwin," Arya said. "And I'm no lady."
"With all due respect, Lady Arya, you're still quite little, and you're more a lady than these eyes have seen since I walked the halls of the Red Keep trying to keep pace with your noble father."
"I don't recall any ladies in Kings Landing," Arya muttered. "Only vermin and vipers."
"True enough, m'lady," Harwin agreed, frowning in distaste. "You have the right of it."
They both grew quiet with their shared memories but then the Northman burst out excitedly.
"I never thought I'd see this day. Seven bloody hells, a Stark, alive and well and in Westeros!" Harwin said before catching himself. "Pardon my language, m'lady. I'm overexcited."
Arya waved her hand, dismissing his concerns. She had just spent two months aboard a ship with nothing but rough sailors and assassins for company and before that, she had prowled the docks of Braavos with regularity. There was little Harwin could have said which would have offended her ears.
"Your words do not bother me, Harwin. I told you, I'm no lady. I am not at all my sister. Nor am I my mother."
The man looked at her soberly before replying, "No, indeed m'lady. You are not." He stared over her head for a moment and then looked back into her grey eyes. "Still, forgive my coarse ways. I've been too long away from the splendor of our old home."
"Me too," the girl replied.
"It does my heart good to see you, little lady. Your sister... no one is sure about her. And all your noble brothers..."
"I know," she said quietly.
The woman whose cries had awoken Harwin still cowered across the room, clinging to her broom. She was too fearful of Nymeria to approach, but the two boys had finally left their place at the table and now stood behind Harwin, peering curiously at the newcomer.
"But where is that blasted smith?" the Northman wondered, suddenly remembering Gendry. "He heard your wolf howling and went to investigate. You must have passed him on your way here. Did he take your horse for you, m'lady?"
"Sadly, I had no horse for him to take," Arya remarked. "The damned thing was so startled by Nymeria that he threw me and galloped off into the woods."
A deep voice spoke up from behind Nymeria.
"Your horse is in the stable. It came running back only moments ago, a dozen wolves at its heels." Gendry had entered the room while Harwin was grasping the girl's shoulders and marveling at her resemblance to another Stark, long dead. No one had noticed the large knight until he spoke. "It seems you were right, m'lady. You will see your mount again." He stared hard at Nymeria, trying to figure how the wolf had worked it out for her mistress.
"Thank you, ser," Arya replied stiffly, turning to look at the dark knight. He had his hand on Nymeria's back, stroking her. At the girl's movement, the Gendry looked up, studying her with his piercing, blue eyes. "I am glad to have him back. He carries things which are important to me. They would have been impossible to replace." A jeweled comb with a hidden knife. A castle-forged sword made for a child. A note written in a precise and elegant hand.
"It's Nymeria you should thank. Her pack obeys only her. It must have been her doing. All I did was secure the beast in the stable."
"Still, I thank you for that."
Harwin, upset at the news that Arya had been thrown, ushered the girl forward, offering her his seat by the fire. He insisted she sit and remarked on her limp.
"I am sorry for keeping you trapped in the doorway, m'lady. You must have had a long and tiring journey. Were you much injured in your fall?"
"A deep bruise, I suspect," the girl replied. "I managed to find a stone with my hip."
"I'm surprised that you could be unseated at all, Lady Arya." Harwin recalled her skill on horseback quite well. When she was only one and ten, he had barely been able to catch her when she raced away from him.
"As was I," she grumbled. "But, I suppose even the most stalwart of palfreys would be terrified of Nymeria." She quirked up one side of her mouth. "And she certainly surprised me, else I would have been able to hold on."
Nymeria gave a short series of yips, apparently resentful of the blame being placed upon her for the incident. Arya laughed.
"Does your injury need tending?" the Northman asked.
"I think a day's rest will be all I need."
"A hot soaking tub is what you need," Harwin corrected, "or else that joint will stiffen on you overnight and you'll be left worse off than you are now. And maybe some strongwine would ease the pain."
"No, no wine," Arya said. Her distaste for the stuff had not abated, even though the night spent at the inn by the Moon Pool in Braavos seemed a lifetime ago now. "But I would be happy for a hot soak, if it can be managed."
Arya had barely finished her request before Harwin called to the two boys who had yet to speak.
"Fletcher and Rider," the Northman said by way of introduction. Arya quirked an eyebrow at the names. Harwin laughed. "They aren't the names their mothers gave them..."
"I don't even remember my ma," Fletcher mumbled.
"...but rather names they were given after they arrived. Fletcher is now our master arrow maker."
"He's our only arrow maker," Gendry said flatly.
"Still, Anguy swears Fletcher's arrows fly further and faster than any others he uses," Harwin said, giving Gendry a look.
"A useful skill to have, making a good arrow," Arya commented, bowing her head slightly at the boy. Fletcher gave a crooked smile at the compliment and blushed, shuffling his feet slightly as he cast his eyes to the ground.
"And Rider came to us about five years ago, on the back of a fine, stolen destrier. He found it wandering among the corpses on the field of battle near his village. Lannister men had put the whole place to the torch after they defeated a small Northern force in a skirmish."
"I was barely knew how to ride, but I climbed on that horse's back and it brought me here," the boy explained. He seemed bolder than his friend and did not look away when Arya turned her eyes to him. "As far as I know, I'm the only person from my village left alive."
"See to your business, boys," Gendry directed, having grown weary of the small talk. "The lady needs her bath." The boys scrambled off, presumably to heat water and fill a tub for Arya. Gendry glanced across the room. "Jeyne, why are you cowering behind that table?"
"I told you, I won't come anywhere near that hell hound!" the woman cried. "Get her out of my inn!"
"I think she'd better go, m'lady," the tall knight said apologetically to Arya. "She probably wants to hunt, anyway."
Arya was reluctant to let the wolf out of her sight after so long apart, but she nodded and Gendry called to Nymeria as he walked to the door.
"Come, m'lady," the knight said, opening the door and stepping aside to allow the great beast passage. "I'll walk with you to the woods."
The girl was perplexed by the blacksmith's relationship with Nymeria even though she had had glimpses of their friendship in her dreams. She wanted to question Gendry about it, to find out if what she had dreamed was true, but after her angry outburst in the yard, she wasn't ready to talk to him yet and besides, she didn't particularly wish to reveal the nature of her dreams to anyone. She had trusted Jaqen with her secret, but she was not sure she should trust anyone else.
Gendry had not yet returned when Fletcher approached to tell her that her bath was ready. "We set it up in the kitchen," the boy said. "The fire was still blazing in there, and it will be much warmer for you than if we took it upstairs." He did not say that it was also easier for himself and Rider, saving them from hauling water up the stairs, but Arya understood that very well. She did not begrudge the boys their economy of effort. The girl hobbled across the room, refusing help from Harwin when he offered. She had nearly entered the kitchen when she remembered.
"Oh! A change of clothes!"
"Ser Gendry brought your things, m'lady," Jeyne Heddle said. "I seen him set a bundle and a pack in the corner there when he came in earlier." The woman indicated the far corner of the room, near the main entrance. "I'll bring what you need directly."
Arya was about to refuse and just go get her things herself, but the thought of crossing the room twice more with her aching hip sent her through the kitchen door, straight for a soak with a grateful nod to Jeyne. The girl dropped her cloak over a bare table in the kitchen and then tugged off her boots. As she pulled at the laces of her blouse, the innkeeper appeared, arms draped with Arya's clothes. She was holding the jeweled comb from the Kindly Man.
"This is a fine little thing, ain't it?" Jeyne remarked, admiring the hair ornament. "I have a brush, m'lady, but I figured you'd rather use your own things to tame that hair o' yours. I know it's meant more for decoration, but I think it'll work to pick at those tangles."
Arya hadn't even considered how she must look after her wild ride and its abrupt, painful end. She had merely wished to take Harwin's advice to soak her injured hip.
"Yes, thank you."
"Well, the water will be cooling, m'lady. Best get in." Jeyne set Arya's clothes on the same table as her cloak, but then picked up the cloak and shook it out. "I'll go hang this in your room."
"Oh, I'm so glad you have room for me!"
"M'lady, you're highborn and a friend of Harwin's. If we don't have the room, we make it." The woman spoke matter-of-factly and it was impossible to gauge her feelings. She might have been perturbed at having to shuffle bodies in order to free up a bed, or she might have been delighted at the prospect of receiving gold for her trouble. Jeyne had exceptional command of her face at that moment. Arya knew that she could easily discern which way the woman felt if she chose, but it didn't seem to be worth the effort, especially if her brothers arrived soon, for their time at the inn would be short and whether Jeyne Heddle loved her or hated her would be of little consequence.
Jeyne left her and Arya shed the remainder of her clothes. She inspected her hip and saw that a deep, purple and red bruise had already formed. She knew it would be worse in the morning. Gingerly, the girl lowered herself in the tub and relaxed. She had nearly drifted off to sleep when Jeyne burst back into the room.
"Alright, m'lady, let's get that hair washed and combed!"
The scene played out like a hundred other bath scenes of her youth, with Arya protesting she didn't need help as another woman tut-tutted her while scrubbing the dirt from her skin and washing her hair. It was annoying, and it was strangely comforting too. Many things were different now, but this one thing was not, it seemed. It made Arya grin madly at the sheer absurdity of it all. She began to snicker as Jeyne worked on her newly clean hair. Dynasties could rise and fall while war and famine decimated the population, but through it all, the enthusiasm for dunking Arya Stark in a tub and scrubbing her pink would not be diminished.
"What's so funny, m'lady?" the innkeeper asked, raking the comb through Arya's wet locks.
"Jeyne, you don't have to call me m'lady. 'Arya' will do fine."
"Hmph," the woman replied. "You may not care who you are, but you'll find others around here do. Ser Gendry says you've been in Braavos, and maybe over the sea things are different, but this is still Westeros, m'lady, where a name matters. Blood matters."
"Have you ever seen your blood, Jeyne?"
The woman continued raking the comb through Arya's hair, pulling at her tangles, none too gently. "What do you mean?"
"Have you ever cut yourself while chopping vegetables or something like that?"
"Of course I have, m'lady." The woman chuckled a bit.
"I have, too. Well, not chopping vegetables, but I've been cut, and I've bled. Did you ever have to bandage your cuts?"
"Sure..." Jeyne began to sound uncertain.
"As have I. Do you suppose if we placed those bandages together, you would be able to tell which had covered my wound and which had covered yours?"
"Well..." Jeyne's combing slowed.
"Blood is blood," Arya continued. "It flows through all of us, and if we lose enough of it, we die. That's the way blood truly matters; it's only important in that we not allow too much of ours to be spilled."
The innkeeper was silent for a few moments, considering the girl's words before she spoke. "I think you'll see I'm right after you've been here longer, m'lady," the woman said with a little laugh. "If we lose enough of it, we die? Is that what they taught you in Braavos?"
What they taught you, her little voice whispered. Ha! If only she knew.
"Yes," Arya replied truthfully, knowing full well that Jeyne Heddle had no insight into who 'they' were. "It is."
Jeyne resumed her combing with a quiet, "Oh," and said nothing more. When she finished, she asked Arya if she would like her hair braided.
"No, leave it undone," the girl instructed. "I'll braid it myself after it dries a bit." Jeyne gave a respectful bob of the head and then left Arya alone in the kitchen. The girl stared up at the ceiling, her mind filling with all that had occurred in such a short period. The wolves, her injury, finding Nymeria, seeing Gendry, reuniting with Harwin... She didn't suppose any of it should change her plans, really. Nymeria would join her on her trek northward, surely, and the brotherhood would have confirmation that she lived, but she did not intend to submit herself to their will, whatever they might think. Not again. Still, she would surely have to cross their path if she intended to see her mother again.
Lady Stoneheart.
She had talked of it with the Bear during their voyage. He had a duty to the order, but his loyalty lay with his friend and he had assured her that if she did not risk herself unduly, he would help her do those things she felt she must before they arrived at Winterfell. Baynard might be less accommodating if he felt her aims interfered with his own (or, rather, if they interfered with the aims of the Faceless Men), but the reality was that he could not fight both her and his brother and he would have no choice but to support her plan. And her plan, as of now, was to leave the inn with her wolf and ride to her mother as she had tried to do nearly five years ago.
And this time, she would not be stopped.
Harwin had been right—her hip felt better after the soak. Her limp was less pronounced as she left the kitchen and crossed the common room en route to the yard. She thought she had better see to her palfrey before retiring. She might need him at first light to take her on a search for her brothers if they had not arrived by then. Her cloak was upstairs, in whichever room Jeyne had designated for her, and so she did not bother with it. She wore her doe skin breeches from Denyo and a man's favorite blouse which billowed around her frame, untucked. The wind caught it as well as her damp hair as she stepped outside and both waved and rippled as she walked down the steps and toward the stable. The cold greeted her like an old friend, enveloping her in its embrace, but like an old friend, she did not mind its touch.
Arya was pleased to find her mount had been well-tended and she patted the beast on his neck, whispering soothing words to him and promising him she would not allow him to be eaten by wolves. Though she had not troubled herself with the task to that point, she supposed she should give him a name. "Tosser, perhaps? Or Cat's Bane? It seems appropriate after you tried to kill me," the girl muttered wryly. Satisfied that the palfrey was properly settled, she left the stable, shutting the door tight behind her to block the wind. A voice from the shadows stopped her return to the inn.
"You shouldn't be out here without your cloak," Gendry said. He was leaning against the near wall of the stable.
"What is it with large men and fretting over cloaks?"
"What?"
"You're just too late to fill the position. I've already appointed a brute to worry over my cloak-wearing habits."
The knight narrowed his eyes, not understanding, but he did not think the matter worth pursuing. Not when there was more reprimanding to be done.
"And your hair is wet. Is it your intention to die here of pneumonia?" His chastising tone caused Arya to bristle.
"Please do not worry for me, ser," she answered coldly. "I know how foreign it must feel for you to care about anyone but yourself."
It was a gut punch after his years of guilt over her abduction by the Hound.
"Gods, but you're selfish!" he spat. "You don't know how I've worried!"
"Oh, dear," the girl said, the sounds of false sympathy far too sweet to be mistaken as sincere. "Did it hurt very much, good ser? Was it painful for you to choose the men who were holding me against my will, keeping me from my family? Did it trouble you greatly to toss aside our friendship for an outlaw's life?"
Her anger was evident despite the sweetness of her tone and the knight felt helpless against it. He blew out a frustrated breath, running a large hand through his dark hair.
"I chased after you, you know," he growled, "and gods, the guilt! The worry... It was like... like a living thing inside of me, clawing at me, trying to rip my insides to shreds. I couldn't sleep for it! When I tried to eat, all I could think was... I wondered if you were hungry. Was he feeding you? Was he raping you? Had he slit your throat? And if he had... well, then, it was my fault, wasn't it? For letting you run from me and straight to him."
Arya knew she bore most of the guilt for her childish flight into the Hound's clutches. She did not question her right to feel what she felt at the time, but she understood much better now the virtue in moderation and forethought. Dashing off blindly because she was upset was not a defensible course of action, and though it may have been Gendry's disloyalty which inspired her behavior, she alone was responsible for acting on her whim.
"You didn't let me do anything," she mumbled. "You couldn't have stopped me. I don't blame you for the Hound, only for trading my friendship away so easily."
"It was not easily done, m'lady," the knight protested. She glowered at him for his use of the honorific, but she let it pass without remark.
"The worst thing that was done was keeping me from my family," she told him. "The delays... If the Brotherhood had only taken me to the Twins straight away, fast as horses could carry, I would have been in time."
"In time for what, Arya?" Gendry asked softly. "In time to die with your mother and brother?"
"I could have warned them," she insisted.
"In the habit of taking advice from little girls, were they?" His voice was heavy with sarcasm. "If we had gotten you there sooner, the Freys would have killed you too. Or, at the very least, they would've stuck you in a dungeon until you were of age and then married you to old Lord Walder or one of his horrible heirs."
She thought of her life since that time; since the Hound had knocked her out with the flat of his axe as she tried to run to the Twins to save her mother and Robb. She weighed the good and the bad, the hardships and the joys. She thought of Jaqen, and then she thought of losing him. Her small, shaky sigh was undeniably the sound of heartbreak.
"It makes no sense that I'm here and they aren't."
"What do you mean?" the knight asked her. "After all we've seen, do you really believe the world should make some sort of sense?"
"Maybe it would have been better if I had died with my family."
Gendry was on her in an instant, clutching her shoulders and shaking her, hard.
"Don't you dare say that," he choked hoarsely. "Don't you dare ever say that to me! Every night was an agony for me after we heard what happened to you. Every day a bleak stretch of torment. I worried for you every single day until that strange assassin showed up and told us you still lived. I wasn't even sure if I believed him, but then I began to see you in my dreams." Gendry stopped for a moment, realizing he had said more than he meant to. He huffed, but then continued. "I blamed myself..."
"You were to blame!" she cried. "You abandoned me! I would have never abandoned you! I took you from Harrenhal when I could have left you. I took Hot Pie and I didn't have to! I killed to save you, and I would do it again! I made a choice, just like you, but I chose you, even when it wasn't easy. I chose you!"
"I know," he whispered, not trusting the strength of his voice then to say it any louder. "Gods, I know. I know. I know."
And he did know. He knew that she gave him his initiative; that she was his very courage in that time. If not for a skinny, defiant girl, he would have slaved away in the forge for whatever master claimed Harrenhal. He would have slaved away until the next lord came along and decided his slaving for the previous master proved him guilty of some treason or another and put his head on a pike. Or, if his skill was deemed too valuable to sacrifice, he would have served each successive master until he died of illness or age with no power to determine the course of his own life. Because it never would have occurred to him to do else. He would have never run on his own. It took a little highborn girl to drag him to his freedom, and him doubting all the way. He knew this. He knew he was indebted to her, for his liberty, for his knighthood, and for his very purpose in life.
"You owed me your loyalty," she said. "You had mine, even when it brought me to harm. I would have never left you behind. Never." Her voice broke and she cursed herself for it. She drew in a deep breath and steadied herself. She finished so quietly, Gendry struggled to hear her words. "I brought you out of Harrenhal with me and for that, you owed me your loyalty."
His grip on her shoulders tightened. His voice was contrite and sincere as he pledged, "You have it now, m'lady."
Arya jerked away from him, pulling free from his hands. "I have no want of it now, ser. I do not need it. I do not need you. When I did, you abandoned me, and I have learned to do very well without you."
The knight looked stricken, but he persisted anyway.
"You can do very well without me, I have no doubt," he replied stiffly, "but you have me anyway."
"How charming. You offer your allegiance readily when you owe it to another. Are you not sworn to my mother?"
"Not your mother, no," Gendry said. "To Lady Stoneheart."
"Aren't they one in the same?"
The big man shook his head and swallowed before answering. "No, I think not."
Arya gave a mirthless laugh. "Well, if you plan to accompany me, you'll have your chance to petition for release from your vow to your Lady, for I intend to seek an audience."
"M'lady..."
"I've told you not to call me that." She shivered, folding her arms over her chest.
Gendry sighed, shrugging off his cloak and draping it over Arya's shoulders. The garment swallowed her, several inches of its hem pooling on the ground. He ignored the way she glared at him as he pulled it closed around her.
"M'lady," the knight said firmly, "you ought to carefully consider this plan."
"Ser, I understand that our... history may lead you to think that you know me and that I am nothing more than a rash little girl, but I assure you, that is no longer the case. All of my plans are carefully considered."
Gendry bowed his head in deference, already playing the role of the loyal knight in the service of his lady. It irked Arya, but she held her tongue, instructing him instead on her plans for the morning.
"If my companions have not found the inn by first light, I will ride out and search for them."
"Allow me, m'lady. You should rest after your mishap. I can take Nymeria to aid in the search."
"As can I. I do not think it wise for you to meet my party alone."
"Why not?" Gendry said. "Who are these companions?"
"A knight and his squire, sworn to see me safely home."
"Home? You're going back to Winterfell?" He sounded incredulous.
"Oh, yes. I am going home, ser, after all these long years, and nothing will alter my course."
"There are rumors of chaos and war in the North," he informed her. "It's said there's a wildling army and forces loyal to Stannis and those who follow the Boltons and the crown. You'll need an army at your back to make it through all that."
Arya smirked. "How fortunate for me, then, that you've already pledged to join it."
"If that's your carefully considered plan, I suppose a visit to the Hill is the least of my worries."
"Just so," she agreed and she could not stop her malicious smile from presenting itself. "Just so."
Arya's morning had an inauspicious beginning as she attempted to rise from her bed and was surprised to find herself wrapped tightly in Gendry's cloak. She did not recall going to sleep with it and thought she must have woken in the night and pulled it around her to fend off the chill in the room. Why had she not given it back to him? She grunted with ill humor and pulled the cloak from around her, setting it on the edge of her bed. She stood and was shocked by the pain and stiffness in her bruised hip. Crying out, she fell to the floorboards, barking her bare knees as she did. The noise brought Rider to her door. The boy knocked and then called to her, concern evident in his tone.
"Are you alright, m'lady?"
"Yes, yes. Fine," the girl called back with irritation, and then groused under her breath, "It seems Ser Gendry isn't the only one with questionable loyalty. Now my own body betrays me." She glanced down and saw the bruise on her hip now extended down her thigh and was ugly and dark. Wincing, she pulled on her breeches and boots, then did her best not to stumble as she descended the stairs to the common room. Gendry was waiting for her at the bottom step with a grim look on his face.
"Do not try to convince me to wait here, ser," Arya warned by way of greeting. "I'm going out to find my men and nothing you say will stop me."
"You're not going anywhere without your cloak, my lady," a familiar voice boomed from near the hearth. Arya looked past Gendry to see the Bear standing there, warming himself. The Rat was seated at a table nearby, eating a bowl of porridge.
"Ser Willem!" the girl cried delightedly. "Oh, I am glad you're here now." Her response was genuine. She had feared one or both of her brothers were lying injured in the woods, or worse.
"They arrived just as I was preparing to ride out," Gendry said gruffly as she rushed past him to the Bear. His words brought her up short and she turned to face the blacksmith.
"You were going to leave me here and ride out alone?" She was not pleased. He may have pledged her his loyalty, but his obedience did not seem to be part of that bargain, Arya noted sourly.
"No matter," Ser Willem said jovially. "Here we all are, under the same roof. But why aren't you resting, my lady? Ser Gendry was just telling us how you fell and hurt yourself last night. And no wonder, with your wild riding through the dark!" There was an undertone of censure in his words. Her brother was rebuking her for leaving him behind and risking her own neck. She would have to explain herself later, she knew.
"I didn't fall," Arya corrected, "I was thrown. I don't go around just falling off of horses, you know."
"No, no, of course not," the Lyseni said, his tone overtly patronizing. Arya saw a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. "You're a very capable horsewoman." He said it the way one might tell a young child that her mudpie looked very delicious indeed. All that was lacking was a pat on the head.
"I am," she insisted.
"Of course, my dear, of course." The Bear smiled. "As capable as any little girl I've ever seen."
"Perhaps we can spar later, so I can remind you of this little girl's capabilities?"
Ser Willem snorted, and there was a fondness in his smile that was unmistakable. Gendry watched their interaction with a dark look. Jeyne entered just then, carrying a bowl of warm porridge which she offered to Arya. The girl thanked the innkeeper and settled herself across from Baynard to eat. The squire looked up from his food long enough for her to see his smirking smile. He then turned to face Gendry, asking him about the inn.
"Is this your place?"
"No, it belongs to Jeyne. It's been in her family for a long time."
"I suppose business is slow now, since the war? And the wolves are a likely deterrent," the Rat remarked.
"It's almost more barracks than inn, these days," the knight acknowledged. He explained how Jeyne had initially taken in children orphaned by the war and how she came to be involved with the Brotherhood Without Banners. Eventually, the brothers began rotating through the inn, training the orphans to fight.
"So this brotherhood is creating an army of fatherless children?" the squire inquired as he scraped his bowl for the last of his porridge. His tone of innocent curiosity did not fool the Cat, who heard the derision around the edges of his words.
"The Brotherhood is giving these fatherless children the means to defend themselves," Gendry corrected. "Most of them watched their families butchered before their eyes. Believe me, not one of them objects to being taught how to handle a sword or a bow."
"Well then, I commend you on your fine work, Ser Gendry," the squire said, placing his splayed hand at his breast and bowing his head in an overly magnanimous gesture. Arya kicked the Rat under the table. He pretended not to feel it. Gendry nodded slightly at Baynard, but Arya could tell he did not care for the squire. The blacksmith dropped into a chair at the end of her table and turned to her.
"Do you still plan to leave today?" he asked.
"Oh, certainly not!" Ser Willem answered for her. "Not with the way my lady is limping."
"I can ride," Arya insisted through gritted teeth.
"Yes, but how well?" the Faceless knight asked. "It's not worth the risk of another accident. No, we should stay today. You need to rest."
"He's right," Gendry said.
"Who asked you?" the girl snapped and Baynard snickered, earning a withering look from the dark knight and Arya both.
"My lady, I do wish you would be sensible. We'll more than make up the time if you are better able to ride," Ser Willem reasoned. "Besides, our horses could use the respite as well."
It was hard to argue with allowing their mounts to recover. Arya nodded stiffly, signaling her acceptance of her brother's wisdom. Harwin entered then and greeted the newcomers warily.
"Harwin, these are my men," Arya explained. "They've agreed to see me home."
"That may be, little lady, but you'll need our Lady's protection if you're to pass through the Riverlands safely."
"I plan to seek it," the girl replied. "When we leave here, we'll make for Hollow Hill." Harwin agreed that was wisest though Arya could tell that Gendry wished to object. To his credit, he said nothing, and merely discussed the logistics of the journey with the Northman and the Faceless knight.
"A small company of orphans should go, I think," the blacksmith said. "All who are ready to fight."
Harwin disagreed. "I don't like to leave Jeyne so unprotected."
"But won't you be here?"
"No. My place is with Lady Arya."
"Oh, Harwin, you don't have to..." the girl began.
"Aye, m'lady, I do. It's what your father would have wanted, and your lady mother. Where you go, I go also."
Arya nodded her acquiescence.
"No one will be left to train the wee ones," the blacksmith pointed out.
Harwin furrowed his brow. "Do you not plan to stay, boy?"
"I did not have my lady's leave to ride for the inn. I must go back and beg her mercy."
"Hmm. Yes. I doubt the lady will bear you a grudge when she sees the gift you bring her." Here, the Northman smiled fondly at Eddard Stark's daughter. "But still, what you say is right, and I think you must go."
The men continued to discuss the problem of taking the bulk of the able bodied orphans with them.
"Well, Fletcher and Rider should come, at any rate," Gendry continued. "Also, Stout Will and Little Nate. They're ready to join the brothers, anyway, and they have proper arms and armor now."
Harwin considered Gendry's plan and agreed it seemed best. "We can leave Jay, Gerrold, and Elsbeth. They can see to training the younger ones until a brother arrives to replace us. That should satisfy Jeyne's needs for the time being, and she'll have fewer mouths to feed."
"Elsbeth?" Arya asked, confused. "Are you training girls, too?"
"Of course!" Gendry said, laughing. "I would think you of all people would support the notion."
"I do! I'm just... surprised, is all."
"Are you? Well, there was some resistance at first, from some of the brothers..."
"Lem," she said.
"Lem," Gendry agreed. "But Lady Brienne had much to say on the subject..."
Harwin snorted. "Now that's a pretty way of putting it. Much to say, indeed. Ha! Lem's lucky the lady didn't string him up with that yellow rag he wears on his back!"
"Lady Brienne?" Arya asked.
"Oh, you'll meet her," the dark knight assured her. "She's at the Hill with our Lady right now."
"So, this Elsbeth..." the girl prompted.
"As fine an archer as you're like to meet," Harwin explained. "Anguy's star pupil. But don't let Fletcher hear you say it."
"Too late," Fletcher said as he hopped down from the last step and made his way toward the group. "And ask Elsbeth who makes those arrows she shoots so straight!"
Harwin laughed. "True enough, boy."
Arya leaned closer to Gendry and spoke in low tones. "If Elsbeth is the better archer, why is Fletcher being sent instead?"
"He's been here longer, and there's not much more he can learn at the inn. It's time he ride with the brothers. That's the final part of his training."
The girl understood very well about training regimens.
"Still, if this Elsbeth is the more skilled of the two with a bow, I think I'd like for her to ride with us."
Gendry considered her wish, then nodded slowly. "I'll speak to Harwin," he murmured.
"Thank you." She nearly smiled at him before she caught herself. Gendry watched as the girl's mouth began to tilt upward but was stopped as she bit her lower lip, chewing on it thoughtfully. After a moment, her brows drew together and she frowned instead. He wondered what she was thinking just then.
Arya paid no mind to the knight's scrutiny. She was distracted by her own consternation that her deep animosity toward her old friend was waning.
Just because he agreed to do one thing I asked doesn't mean all is forgiven, she huffed inwardly. And his pledge of loyalty means little and less.
How interesting, her little voice remarked, that a wolf may forgive you so easily for your abandonment of her, but you cannot do the same for this man.
Arya disagreed. She did not find it interesting.
Not at all.
Everlong—Foo Fighters