Nothing is as it has been, and I miss your face like hell...

Arya left the men in the common room when it seemed their plans had been settled. She had meant to search out Nymeria, for they had a task to complete together, but the direwolf found her mistress first. Arya had no sooner descended the front steps outside of the inn when the great beast came from around the corner. Clever girl, the assassin thought, but aloud, she said, "You step light for such an imposing creature." Her voice was filled with admiration. "You may be as big as a horse, but you're as stealthy as a cat." Almost instantly, Arya realized what she had said and smiled. As stealthy as a cat. She knew Syrio Forel would have said it differently.

Quiet as a shadow.

"The shadow among shadows," she whispered. "I suppose we have that in common, don't we girl?" Nymeria moved past her, toward the stable, then stopped, turning to look back at Arya as if impatient for the girl to join her. Arya grinned. "I'm coming, I'm coming. Seven hells, you act like it was your idea."

The pair continued on to the stable. The horses seemed to sense Nymeria's presence because Arya could hear them becoming restless in their stalls, snorting and whinnying. One of them kicked against the wall.

"No growling," Arya warned the wolf before she opened the door and entered. As soon as the stable door closed behind her, she planted her feet and stood, unmoving, while she touched each of the creatures' minds in turn. She suggested to them that they were safe and that there was no cause for alarm. She could not find a way to calm them all at once, so she simply went from palfrey to palfrey, soothing each of them, one after another. She left their heads almost as quickly as she entered, staying just long enough to plant an idea. After her initial effort, the girl moved slowly down the row, reaching into the stalls and stroking the horses gently as she did, transforming their instinctive unease into acceptance as Nymeria padded softly behind her. Somehow, touching the beasts seemed to increase her influence over them.

It was something she had not tried before, this contact. When she had used a cat's eyes and ears, it was always from some distance. She had been in Jaqen's head, but there was the barrier of a door between them at the time. The Bear had been both near and far when she had used her talent on him, but never had they touched while she tried it. It was true that she had directed her palfrey on their run with the wolves, but with the blistering pace and the way she had lost herself completely in that moment, she had not been able to feel what she felt now. The sensation of the contact was entirely new to her. It was as if bees were buzzing in her bones while her fingers trailed over horseflesh and she shushed the beasts softly. Her power over them was stronger than she had ever experienced; their obeisance more complete.

When she reached her own mount, she spoke aloud.

"Bane, this is Nymeria. I think you two should be friends because we have a long road to travel together and I can't have you tossing me into ditches and running me into tree branches because you get spooked." The direwolf brushed against Arya's side, watching with her golden predator's eyes as the horse danced sideways. The girl flooded the palfrey's mind with a sense of tranquility. Bane could not resist the assassin's will and his nervous nickering and stamping ceased. Gradually, the girl pulled away as Nymeria stood still as a statue. After a moment, one corner of Arya's mouth curled upwards. "See? I knew we could all be friends."

The girl leaned against the gate separating her from her mount and patted his neck, murmuring, "Good boy." She continued stroking the horse, unhurried and without any outward demonstration of concern or awareness to betray that she had felt the slight shift of air against her cheek and neck as the door to the stable opened and closed silently behind her. Whoever had entered was very quiet and would likely have been undetected by almost anyone other than a Faceless assassin.

A nearly-Faceless assassin, she corrected herself.

Arya used her gift to explore the space around her gently, finding her target. She could see through borrowed horse's eyes that a bow was raised behind her back, bowstring drawn and held steady by a slender girl. The stranger looked to be around the same age as herself with light brown hair trailing over her shoulders in tangles. There was an arrow aimed in the Cat's direction. When Arya looked harder, she could tell the threat was actually to Nymeria. For her part, the wolf seemed unconcerned though her mistress could tell she was not unaware of the newcomer's presence, either. A cursory perusal of the girl's thoughts told the assassin all she needed to know.

"Elsbeth, is it?" Arya asked softly, not bothering to turn. She reached up and scratched Bane behind his ear. The palfrey lowered his head a bit. "And the arrow... I wouldn't. Even if you managed to let it fly, it would only make make her mad, and I assure you, you do not want to be trapped in a stable with an angry direwolf."

"How..." the newcomer started, but she hesitated as Arya looked over her shoulder and appraised the young archer. The assassin's hand dropped from the horse and instead reached out to stroke the direwolf's fur. Nymeria remained perfectly still but there was an energy Arya could feel through her skin. The wolf had the same bees in her bones as her mistress. Elsbeth lowered her bow and furrowed her brow.

"She won't hurt you, unless you try to hurt me," Arya assured her. "At least, not as long as I'm here. I imagine her behavior is a little more... instinctive when we're apart."

"I wasn't sure," the archer admitted. "I've never seen her without Ser Gendry by her side."

"Hmm. Well, this is a sight you'll have to adjust to, now that I'm here."

"Why doesn't she just eat you?"

"Oh, we're old friends, Nymeria and I." the Cat smiled. "Aren't we girl?" The wolf whined. Arya turned and looked pointedly at the newcomer. "But you didn't come here for reminiscences of a girl about her wolf." The archer moved one step closer to the Northerner and the direwolf but seemed reluctant to move any further than that.

"No. I was just outside and I heard you talking to the horses. I... just wanted to meet you."

Arya smirked. "You wanted to try to catch me unawares, you mean." She wondered if this archer had heard tales of her as a girl; of her time on the road with the apprentice blacksmith now styled Ser Gendry. Perhaps she knew Arya was reputed to have some skill with a bow. Perhaps she even knew something of her time in Braavos; her time spent within a mysterious order of assassins. Elsbeth might have wished to prove her own mettle; to show Ser Gendry and the others that she, too, had skill. And, Arya had to admit, she did. Elsbeth simply had the misfortune of choosing her targets poorly, for if she wished to demonstrate the superiority of her skills, she certainly could have found better quarry than the a warg trained by Faceless assassins and a beast whose very survival was dependent upon instinct and predatory prowess.

The archer looked dejected. "Seems I'm a miserable at sneaking."

The Cat laughed. "Don't fret. I'm not often off my guard. You're very good, honestly, but I'll give you a piece of advice someone once gave me. The scuff of leather on stone is as loud as war horns to a man with open ears."

"Huh? The floor is packed dirt," Elsbeth said, confused. "And you're not a man."

Arya rolled her eyes. "Clever girls go barefoot."

"It's too cold to go barefoot."

"Nevermind," Arya sighed. She could teach, but she could not make Elsbeth learn. "Is there anything else you need?"

The young archer shrugged, "No. I just wanted to see the great lady for myself."

"Great lady?" the Cat scoffed, shifting her head slightly left, then right, as if searching. "I see no great lady here."

"Everyone's talking about you."

"Well, if they're talking about a great lady, it's not me they mean," Arya assured Elsbeth. "Who's everyone, anyway?"

The archer rattled off her list. "Fletcher. Rider. Jeyne. Ser Gendry. Harwin. Well, no, Harwin said little lady, but I figured he meant the same person."

"I hate to disappoint you Elsbeth, but I'm no lady, great or otherwise. They must have been talking about Lady Stoneheart."

"No, my lady, they're talking about you," Ser Willem said, striding through the door. "You've created quite a stir in the inn. Seven hells!" He had caught sight of the direwolf. His voice ticked up an octave. "Is that Nymeria? I thought they were exaggerating her size! Put a saddle on her and you could ride!"

The wolf growled at the Lyseni.

"I wouldn't suggest trying it," the Cat laughed. The wolf's menacing response sent Elsbeth scrambling from the stable with a stammered excuse about being needed to train the younger children just then. The two assassins then found themselves alone.

"Is it safe?" the Bear asked quietly. He nodded at the wolf.

"What, Nymeria? Yes, you're safe enough with me here. Just don't try to put a saddle on her."

The Lyseni approached his sister cautiously. "Are you alright this morning?" The girl was confused at first but as the Bear's eyes drifted to her hip, she realized her brother was referring to her injury.

"It aches, but nothing more," she answered. "We really could have ridden today."

"A day of planning was in order and I needed the time to convince my squire that this course was best. He did not understand why we should travel south in order to go north. No, tomorrow is soon enough to depart."

"And did you? Convince him?"

The Bear nodded. "He sees the wisdom in taking advantage of the Brotherhood's hospitality. Alone, we have no access to their safe houses and the supplies of their allies. A detour to Hollow Hill will buy us safer passage in the long run."

"His agreement wasn't wholly necessary, but I suppose it makes things a bit smoother."

"Yes. A bit." The Bear smiled but he seemed distracted. His sister sighed.

"I suppose now is as good a time as any."

"What?"

"To tell me what's been troubling you."

"Oh, that."

"Yes," the girl said, cocking up one eyebrow and nodding her head once for emphasis. "That."

"Haven't you guessed, sister?" The large assassin glanced at the direwolf. His sister chuckled.

"Would it make you more comfortable if she weren't here?"

"Honestly? Yes. A great deal more comfortable."

Shaking her head, Arya said, "Come on, Nymeria, you'll have to leave. You're frightening the large assassin." She walked over to the stable door and pushed it open. The wolf stared at the Bear and sniffed once before following her mistress and exiting. As the stable door shut, the girl turned to her brother. "Well?"

"Well, you fell from your horse and injured your hip."

"I didn't fall, I was thrown..." Arya growled, walking menacingly toward the Faceless knight.

"Very well, you were thrown. After taking off wildly without a thought or consideration for me, for Baynard..."

"Baynard..." She nearly spat. She stopped in front of her brother and put her hands on her hips, radiating annoyance.

"...or for yourself. Which part of dashing off madly into the dark with a pack of wolves seemed like a prudent plan? Was it the part where you left us behind? Or the part where you could have lamed your horse or gotten your own neck broken?"

She understood what he meant; that he was denouncing her as thoughtless and foolhardy. It stung. Hadn't she just recently insisted to Gendry that her plans were all carefully considered? Hadn't she insisted she was no longer the rash little girl she had once been? And yet, here was her brother, accusing her of being the very person she emphatically claimed she was not.

"But I didn't get my neck broken..." The defense sounded weak, even to her own ears.

"Perhaps you hoped to meet up with bandits or rapers while all alone?"

"I wasn't alone." She gave him a glimpse of her malicious smile. "I had Frost and Grey Daughter with me."

"Ah, yes, the solution to your every problem," the Bear muttered tiredly. "Blood and steel. Blood and steel. Always blood and steel."

"They're my most faithful companions." She had meant it as a jape, but like most japes, there was a gain of truth in the statement. Her words seemed to energize her friend, but he was not amused. His face became hard, his lip curling.

"Of course, you would consider your steel above all else. And what of me, sister? Am I not your faithful companion?"

She had truly meant no insult to him. She had only wanted him to understand that she was not afraid, and he needn't be either. Her smile faded and she looked at her brother. Before she could find the words to placate him, he was folding his great arms over his chest and staring down at her. There was an allegation in his expression.

"I chose you, sister. Your blades had no say in the matter, but I have a will, and I chose you."

She might have countered that she was his mission; that the order had given him little discretion in the matter. But she knew at the heart of it, that would be wrong. The Bear had chosen her, well before their path was ever dictated by their elders. He had chosen her when he might have chosen Olive, or exile, or his own conscience. Even after great loss and great sorrow, he had remained resolute and steadfast. He was, perhaps, the only person in her life who had not left her in one way or another.

"I didn't mean..." She stopped, huffing a little. Arya did not like to be accused, no matter how justified. "I only meant that your worry is wasted. I would think that you, of all people, would know how well I can manage on my own."

"You are indeed very skilled with your blades, Lady Arya." The title was a prickly thing, meant to needle her. "No doubt you could have fought off an entire company of brigands with just your two swords, assuming you hadn't bashed your head against a tree branch or been mauled by wolves already!"

"They didn't mean to maul me. I don't think you understand. They wouldn't have..."

"I don't care!" the Bear roared and Arya took two steps back from him, her hand dropping reflexively to Frost's hilt. "It was stupid! You are stupid! Gods, I've spent the last week thinking about just such a thing happening and wondering how to protect you from yourself; how to save you from your own recklessness and stupidity!"

The girl was dumbstruck by her brother's vehemence. She opened her mouth as if to speak but nothing came out. His words swirled around her brain as she tried to make sense of his concerns. Cautiously, she approached him and placed a hand on his arm. Her touch seemed to bleed some of his anger out of him.

"There was no danger," she finally said, her voice small. "Brother, you know... you, better than anyone... you know what I can do. I can't explain it fully, but there was no danger. I was certain of it! Not from the wolves, not from the darkness, not from the horse..."

"The same horse that threw you?"

"Well, that was a mistake on my part. I got too caught up in..."

"Yes," he interrupted, and it seemed to her that the Bear was fully manifest then, without artifice, without intrigue, without facelessness. His worry was the worry of someone who cared deeply; personally. He whispered hotly. "It was a mistake on your part. And praise be to Him of Many-Faces that your mistake didn't cost you your life. This time."

"So, all your terseness, all your dark looks, all your distracted mumbling over the past few days have been because you're worried about the mistakes I've made?"

"No, it's not your past that worries me. What's done is done. The mistakes you've already made are nothing. It's the ones you will make that keep me from my rest."

Arya gave her brother a look of confusion. "Your worry for me stops you from sleeping?" She sounded skeptical, but perhaps also a touch guilty. "You've known me for a long time. You know who I am... how I am. Why are you so bothered now?"

The Lyseni clapped his hands together, drawing them over his mouth and nose and gazing heavenward as if praying. He blew out one long breath before answering her in a low voice. Dropping his hands to her shoulders, he said, "I tried once before to save you, and I failed. I allowed myself to be undone by your stubbornness. I told myself that the Cat would have what the Cat would have and I had done all I could to make you see reason. I told myself that I couldn't protect you if you wouldn't allow yourself to be protected. And then the principal elder told you to kill your master." The Bear paused, looking deep into his sister's silvery grey eyes. He did not bother to disguise the pain in his own expression. "And then I watched you crumble to dust. Because I didn't do more to stop it from happening."

"No..."

"Because I didn't drug you with sweet sleep and carry you out of that place over my shoulder. Because I didn't bind you and put you in a sack and load you onto a ship to take you far away."

"It wasn't your decision to make. In no way was it your fault." Her voice was sure. Her eyes were steely. She was thinking of another; of the one at whose feet she placed the blame for what had happened in the main temple chamber on her last night in Braavos.

"You may say that, my lady. You may even believe it." His bearing shifted slightly. His tone changed similarly. He was Ser Willem again, fully and unmistakably. "But you should understand, I will not risk you. I have no intention of losing you. Not to blades or plots or illness. And certainly not to your own damnable pride."

"Pride?"

"Aye, pride. You may think yourself invincible, but you are made of the same frail flesh as are we all. This land is vast and full of peril. Our road is winding and hard. You cannot mean to travel it alone. You must allow me to do my duty."

Duty.

I will do my duty, whatever is asked.

Arya laughed and the sound was without mirth. "And what is your duty, dear Ser Willem?"

The Bear bent low, placing his mouth next to his sister's ear and in the barest whisper, replied, "It wounds me that you do not know." He straightened and turned to leave but the girl called out, stopping him.

"I'm sorry!" she cried, throwing herself against his back and wrapping her arms around his middle. "Of course I know what your duty is. Of course I do!"

The Lyseni pulled free of Arya's arms and turned once more to her. His look was sad, and his gaze fell over her shoulder, onto the wall behind her.

"Do you?" he asked quietly.

He had sacrificed Olive at the altar of his sister's safety. He had given up his chance to love and be loved. He had tried to abdicate his position in the order so that he might secret her away to some place out of harm's way; some place beyond the sinister machinations and corrosive embrace of the Kindly Man. She had been the one to thwart her brother's plans, not the other way around. Of all the things in the world she might question and mistrust, her brother's loyalty to her was not among them.

"Yes, I know. I do." Her voice was full of regret, the sound of it a plea for understanding. "Being back here..." She sighed. "It makes me think on betrayal. It's... too much in my head and my heart of late, but you... you've never given me cause to doubt. Forgive me."

"Always," he said and she embraced him fiercely. He wrapped her in his arms and they stood quietly for a few moments. "I must have your promise, sister."

"Anything I'm free to give," she pledged, looking up at his face.

"I need your assurance that you will have care going forward."

"Have care?"

"You know better than most the dangers of the road; the dangers particular to this land. I will fight any battle to keep you safe. Do not make me fight you, too. I would have you see your Winterfell once again, and I would have you arrive there unharmed."

She had a flicker of a memory, and then a voice which caused her heart to clench and flutter sounded in her mind. It was her master, instructing her to be wary and careful, to be vigilant in guarding her person, and to return to him unharmed. Arya squeezed her eyes shut tightly for a moment, forcing Jaqen's voice back down deep inside of her before it could steal her breath away. She teased her brother then, a paltry attempt at distracting herself.

"So, you mean to instruct me on the perils of the road now, brother? But you can plainly see I no longer wear a black and white robe. I am no acolyte to be taught. Have you believed yourself to be my master all this time?"

"No, never your master, little Cat. Your friend. Only your friend."

A small smile tugged at her mouth and she reached her hands up, gripping his shoulders and forcing him to bow his head to her. When he had bent so low that they were eye to eye, she pressed a hard kiss to his forehead as the door to the stable swung open.

"More than my friend, surely," she whispered quickly in the Bear's ear. "My brother."

Gendry, witnessing the scene before him, cleared his throat as he walked into the stable. Ser Willem straightened, bowing his head to his lady before turning to smile broadly at the blacksmith knight.

"Ser Gendry," the Lyseni said politely before taking his leave. Gendry fairly glowered at the blonde man and stared at the stable door as it closed behind the Bear. The dark knight turned back to face his old friend.

"M'lady, are you alright?"

"Don't I look alright?" She suppressed the urge to snap at him and instead, effected a tone of disinterest. "What do you suppose could have happened to me, in the company of my sworn guard, here in this stable?"

Heat crept up the blacksmith's neck and curled around his ears. His mouth pressed into a thin line as he furrowed his brow slightly. Finally, he said, "I brought some of the younger orphans into the yard for training. I heard shouting."

"Shouting, you say?"

"It drew me here, but then all was quiet."

"Indeed?"

"At first, I thought it must have been nothing..."

"And you were right."

"...but then, I thought, when has anyone ever shouted at Arya Stark and not gotten an angry earful right back?"

"Oh, how well you know me, ser," the girl replied, her voice heavy with sarcasm.

"So I thought I should check and make sure you hadn't been strangled..."

"By my own man? A knight sworn to my protection?"

"I can think of at least half a dozen parties in Westeros who would be interested in holding you hostage or worse. Anyone might betray you for the reward they'd be like to get for their trouble, sworn man or no," the knight insisted.

"Well, if anyone understands what might lead a man down the path of betrayal, I suppose it's you," she replied. Gendry glared, hurt by her words. As was so often the case, his hurt quickly turned to anger. It was a trait he shared with his father, though he had no way of knowing it.

"But, when I entered the stable, I could see very plainly that you were only quiet because your mouth was otherwise occupied." His tone had turned nasty.

"I kissed my sworn man on the forehead," Arya admitted with a shrug. She showed no shame, for indeed, she felt none. "Even the most proper of ladies would not be faulted for that."

The knight asked bluntly, "Is Ser Willem your lover?" Before she could stop herself, the girl burst out laughing. The blacksmith growled, "I missed the jape, m'lady." Arya bristled once more at Gendry's use of the honorific and her laughter died. Her fingers twitched and she briefly considered unsheathing Grey Daughter to threaten him for his impudence. Her brother had just admonished her to have care. Jaqen had told her she must keep her head about her. Syrio often said she must be calm as still water. And the Kindly Man...

No. She would not think on the elder's advice.

She was not one and ten any longer. Westeros might be the same, but she was not. She could not go back; could not allow herself to be drawn back to a time when she was weak. Rage and hatred had their place, but she must reserve them for when they were needed; when they would most count. Gendry had earned her ire, it was true, but he did not deserve her hatred, and she could ill afford to waste her rage on his petulance.

She thought, Perhaps the truth will pacify him.

"No, he's not my lover. He's more brother to me than anything," she replied. Had he bothered to reflect for a moment, he would have realized she was being honest with him and it would have gone no further. He was in such a state, however, that reflection was nearly impossible for him and so he spewed his venom with little thought of consequences.

"Perhaps because he doesn't understand just how precarious such a title is," the knight offered, his tone sour. "He might reconsider if he learns of the fates of those who you have called brother in the past."

He said it to hurt her. When he entered the stable, he had been stunned to see her place a kiss on Ser Willem's forehead. The irrational, unreasoning part of his mind (which, admittedly, seemed to have grown almost immeasurably since he found the girl standing in the yard next to Nymeria the previous night) had screamed out to him that she could not even be bothered to say a civil word to him, after all they had been through together, yet she allowed some hired sword such intimate contact with no regard for propriety. His common sense had murmured that Arya had never been one who held much regard for propriety, and that he knew little and less about the basis of her relationship with Ser Willem, and besides that, there was nothing so terribly improper about the gesture he had seen anyway. But, his common sense stood little chance against his jealousy (jealousy? Seven bloody hells, how had that happened?) and so he continued to glare angrily at his old friend. He watched a blank mask descend over the girl's face and her eyes became inscrutable.

He had meant to wound her as he had been wounded, but he did not know what her life had been since he had last seen her. He did not understand how deep was the chasm that had formed in the center of her chest when she had been dragged away from the the Kindly Man and his raised sword. He did not realize that with the loss of her master and the life she had cobbled together after so much hardship and woe, it would take much more than some callous words born of spite to inflict any real suffering upon her.

"He knows," Arya said softly. "Ser Willem knows my story. He knows about my mother and father. He knows about my brothers."

Her calm demeanor cut through the knight's antipathy and he immediately regretted his tone and his words. Gendry swallowed and took a half step towards her. "Apologies, m'lady. I shouldn't have..."

"No," she interrupted. "You shouldn't have, but I expected no different."

This hurt him more deeply than seeing her kiss Ser Willem or her thinly veiled accusations of betrayal. He fought his urge to respond with anger. Despite how she had always called him stupid and bullheaded, he actually learned rather quickly and he knew his enmity would avail him nothing. Arya had changed, it seemed. He had not realized it with the way she had unleashed on him after her arrival, but it was nonetheless true. When they had spoken in the yard the previous night, she had shown anger at what she named his abandonment of her, but he now saw that such a display was atypical. She was no longer the girl who would scrap with little or no provocation. She was more measured; cautious; calculating. As a young girl, she had nearly thrummed with rage, always spoiling for a fight, quick to respond to insult with violence. Now, she seemed patient, somehow. Composed. She was... still. It exasperated him. She wasn't fighting fair!

Before he could consider the changes in her further, she was moving past him, leaving the stable. In a blink, she would be gone. Quickly, without thinking, the knight reached out and gently wrapped his fingers around her arm, stopping her exit. The girl looked down at his hand on her, then up into his Baratheon blue eyes, silent. Still.

"Forgive me, m'lady. I sometimes say stupid things I don't mean."

"A personal flaw that needs correcting," she suggested coolly.

"I don't disagree."

"Good. Then we are in accord." She looked pointedly at his hand encircling her arm again. Reluctantly, he released her. She moved past him and was halfway through the door when the knight spoke again.

"I wonder..."

"Yes?" She looked back at him over her shoulder.

"I've... continued to work steel. The brotherhood needs weapons and armor and what is scavenged from the countryside is not always useful in its found condition."

Arya wasn't sure yet what point her old friend meant to make, but remarked, "I thought you were a knight now, good ser. A knight of the Hollow Hill."

"They've knighted me, but there is no one else with the skill to work metal as yet. I am training two of the children, but they aren't nearly ready to work on their own."

"Ah, I see."

"I remember how fond you were of your little sword, the one you named Needle."

She was surprised that he remembered. She also realized that he had no way of knowing she had recovered it (had killed to get it back). That had happened after she had left the brotherhood.

He continued, "I wonder if you might like to see what we've been working on. Maybe you'd like to see the forge a little later?"

Ah, so there was his point. He wanted her on his turf.

The girl smirked. "If you mean to reenact our wrestling match on the forge floor, I must warn you, ser, I am quicker now than I was, and I carry better weapons."

You are also more ruthless, her little voice added.

He has no need to know that now, she told her little voice. He will discover it on his own if he ever gives me cause to show it.

"That was so long ago. Do you really remember that?"

"Ser Gendry, my problem is that I never forget."

And with that, she was gone.

After the midday meal, Harwin led Arya around the yard, introducing her to the orphans and explaining the training regimen instituted by the brotherhood. Elsbeth had the youngest of the boys and girls aiming arrows at straw targets near the tree line. Fletcher instructed a slightly older group on which berries and plants were best avoided if one did not desire to die painfully of poison. Rider, holding a crudely carved wooden sword, oversaw the oldest as they sparred mostly with sticks and branches. Arya had never before considered wooden training swords and blunted blades to be a luxury, even when she had been reduced to using a stick for her own needlework during her days in Harrenhal. Watching the orphans execute strikes and counter strikes with rough branches, she suddenly felt very naive.

Nymeria followed behind her mistress, making the youngest orphans giggle and squeal and the oldest ones nervously shift their weight from foot to foot as she passed. They are a sorry lot, Arya thought. Underfed and dirty. She supposed they were a great deal less sorry than they would have been had they not found the inn, though. Arya Stark understood very well how harsh Westeros could be to a motherless child. And, when she looked closely at the orphans, she could detect something about them which set them apart from the ragged children and smallfolk she had encountered during her own trudging journey through this land, before she departed Saltpans on Titan's Daughter four years past. These were no empty, broken children. They had a determination, she thought, and a purpose. It gave an energy to their movements and an intensity to their attention. It put life in their eyes.

That was the difference, she realized, remembering countless faces she had seen on the King's Road and in Harrenhal. The orphans' eyes were not dead. They still had their hope.

The Cat watched with interest as one undersized girl with a crooked stick was repeatedly knocked over by her larger opponents. The girl rose each time, not bothering to brush the dust from her skirts and raised her stick like a club, grasping it tightly in two fists. She appeared to be one and ten, or perhaps two and ten, and she made an effort to block each blow that rained down on her, but she did not have the strength to turn them. Once again, she found herself sprawling in the dirt. Arya approached.

"You're not strong enough to meet their blows that way," she said to the child, who looked up from the ground to see the great lady the whole inn was buzzing about. The young girl did not speak, and she stared at Arya with saucer eyes.

"We keep telling her that," a gruff boy spoke up. He approached, turning his long stick down, poking the tip into the dirt and using it to support his weight as he leaned over. He towered over Arya. "She won't listen. Girls aren't made to swing swords. She should keep to the bow, like Elsbeth."

Arya cocked her head, scrutinizing the boy. He didn't seem to bear the orphan girl any ill will. He even offered his hand to help her up from the ground. The orphan girl's face was pinched as she stood on her own, ignoring the offered help and glaring at the boy. He simply shrugged.

"What's your name?" Arya asked her. The girl eyed her suspiciously but she finally spoke, albeit grudgingly.

"Dolly."

"Well, Dolly, if you want to stop getting knocked over, you're going to have to quit holding this stick like a maid beating rugs and start trying to use your quickness to counter your opponent's strength."

"Huh?"

Before Arya could explain further, the boy laughed. "I told you, m'lady, girls aren't made to swing swords. You'd be better off spending your time convincing her to practice her archery before she really gets hurt." Harwin started to chastise the boy, telling him to watch his tone when addressing a lady, but Arya stopped him.

"He doesn't mean any harm," she said, "he just doesn't understand that made for it or not, everyone should learn to handle steel."

"A little thing like her should never see a battlefield!" the boy protested.

"The battlefield isn't the only place a man or woman may die," Arya said softly, "and failing to learn how to swing a sword won't protect Dolly against being run through by one."

"Like my ma and da,"the girl muttered, and Arya understood the girl's obstinate persistence then.

Weren't you the same? her little voice asked. Aren't you still?

"Here," she prompted Dolly, "hand me your stick." Reluctantly, the girl did as she was bade. "Who's the best swordsman here?" Arya meant to give Dolly a short demonstration of the advantages of standing sideface and how she might use quickness of movement to avoid blows rather than meeting strength with strength. She had assumed Harwin would speak up or perhaps even Rider, who must have had reasonable skill if he was entrusted with teaching. Instead, she heard a deep voice call from behind her.

"I am."

Gendry.

She turned to see the dark knight standing on the inn's main porch, the Bear at his side. Her brother Rat was there as well, leaning over the railing and grinning. As she watched, Gendry descended the stairs and approached. Rider offered the knight the wooden sword he was holding as he passed.

"M'lady," Gendry said, bowing his head slightly at her. To Dolly, he said, "Pay attention to what this lady tells you, sweetling. Aside from Harwin, she's the only one here who's ever had a lesson from a master. She even used to carry a real sword, castle-forged, just the right size for a tiny girl." His words might have been taken for mocking, but for a definite tenderness in the tone. He sounded as if he was recalling a fond memory. It caught Arya off-guard.

Dolly looked at the knight adoringly and nodded, then focused her rapt attention on Arya. The Cat cleared her throat. "Right. Well, first, you must hold your weapon properly, like so." She showed the child her grip. "One-handed, unless using a heavier sword, like a bastard blade or a greatsword. But those won't be your weapons. Their weight would impair you too much."

"But you carry bastard sword," the gruff boy interrupted. "I heard Harwin say it earlier." Harwin glared at the boy, his look a warning to mind his courtesies, but he said nothing.

"Yes," Arya agreed, "but my blade is Valyrian steel, which makes it lighter, and I've trained to wield it."

"Be quiet, Ed!" Dolly hissed. "She's talking to me, not you!"

Arya laughed at the feisty child. "Just so. Now, once you are holding your weapon properly, you'll stand sideface, like this." She turned, presenting a slender figure to her opponent. "This way, you make for a smaller target."

"She's already a small target!" Ed laughed, and quick as a flash, the young girl bent down and snatched a clod of dirt from the ground. She threw it at him, striking his toe, but he continued snickering anyway.

"Ser Gendry," Arya prompted, bobbing her head at him. The knight faced her, raising his wooden sword in the Westerosi fashion. He cut an imposing figure, and had the girl been any other, she would have questioned the wisdom in this demonstration.

"No worries, m'lady, I won't harm you," he assured her.

"Oh, I know you won't," she replied sweetly, and anyone might have thought she was expressing her trust in the blacksmith. Only the two assassins on the porch knew differently, and a small smile appeared on Ser Willem's face then. Baynard snorted. Arya spoke to Dolly but her eyes never left her opponent. "When you see your foe begin to move, do not wait for his blow, but see your way around it. A larger opponent will have the reach on you, but you can move inside that reach and strike if you are quick enough." Gendry obeyed his cue and attacked.

Even if his mind hadn't clearly trumpeted his intent, his first strike was predictable enough and Arya ducked low as she spun towards him. She popped up straight, so near to the blacksmith that her chest was almost pressed to his belly and she thrust her stick up so that its tip caught him just under his chin. "Dead man," she said, pressing the makeshift weapon with enough force to make her point. A cheer went up and Dolly began clapping wildly, gazing at Arya with something akin to worship. The assassin lowered her stick and Gendry gazed down at her in amazement. After a moment, his face broke out into a wide grin and he began laughing.

"It seems you've not wasted a moment of the last five years," he said through his laughter. "Of course!"

Arya turned and approached the little orphan girl. "Swift as a deer," she whispered in the girl's ear. "Quick as a snake. Anticipate. Move. Have no fear. Fear cuts deeper than swords." Dolly nodded slowly, concentrating hard as if she had just had the answers to life's most puzzling riddles revealed to her. Arya handed her the stick and watched a while longer as the orphans returned to their sparring. The young girl was still knocked down plenty, but Arya noted that she managed to bark a few shins and bruise a few ankles with her stick as she tumbled and danced around her opponents.

Nymeria loped off into the woods, likely having caught the scent of some prey, and the orphans soon switched pursuits, moving through the training stations with an impressive order. As Elsbeth handed Ed an arrow to notch, Gendry moved next to Arya, who had settled on a stump near the wood's edge to watch the proceedings.

"I think Dolly will tell stories of Lady Arya's defeat of the lumbering knight the way other girls talk of Jonquil and Florian," he said, laughing lightly. "Though I admit, I'm somewhat jealous. She used to trail after me like a lost pup. I think you've diminished me in her eyes." He folded his arms over his broad chest. "Dead man," he said, mimicking her earlier declaration. "Did you have to make it look so easy?"

"I apologize, ser. That was not my intention. I do hope your ego recovers," Arya replied. "But perhaps it's better this way. She should not raise you up so high, else she might not be able to bear it when you leave her behind one day." She stood, meaning to depart. The day was waning and soon, the orphans would end their training and go to their supper.

The knight sighed. He had hoped she would soften toward him. He felt predisposed to be her friend and he had to remind himself that he could not expect her to feel the same. Though it was difficult for him to remember it, the Arya he had dreamed about so often and the one who stood next to him now were not one in the same. No matter their history, no matter how familiar his dreams had made her seem, this Arya was really a stranger to him. He frowned at the thought. Their imminent journey to the Hill was beginning to feel as if it might be a long one. Before she could walk away from him, he made a suggestion.

"Why don't I show you the forge now? You can see the blades we've worked for the brotherhood."

"We?"

"Me and my two apprentices."

"Two young bulls in the making?" the girl asked, smirking.

"Well, one bull, and I suppose technically the other would be a cow, though I think we can come up with a better name for her than that."

"You're training a girl to be a smith?"

"After what you've seen here, I'm a little surprised at your shocked tone," Gendry teased. "It's Dolly, as a matter of fact."

"Dolly?" Arya cried. "But how does she hammer and fold?"

"Very slowly and with much effort, I'm afraid," the knight admitted, "but there was never a more diligent worker. Besides, there's more to being an armorer than just pounding at things with a hammer. The strength will come with practice and age, I think."

Without really meaning to, Arya found herself following the blacksmith to the forge as the last of the orphans gathered up their poor training gear to store it away and entered the inn. The forge was a small building, the one furthest from the inn, set back even from the stable. Arya supposed this was meant to stop the spread of fire, should the building catch. All the trees had been trimmed away from the structure as well. Gendry pulled the door open and held it for her. Without looking at him, the girl entered the dim forge.

"It's cold," she remarked. The feeling was somehow wrong. "When I think of a forge..."

"You think of a hot, stuffy place with lots of loud clanging?" Gendry guessed. Arya shook her head.

"I think of..." She closed her eyes and she was in the forge at Winterfell, sooty and underfoot. Happy. Mikken scolded her genially as she scrambled out of his way, kicking up dust and rushes. She stared as he drew what would soon be a fine sword from the fire, mesmerized by the glowing orange tip. Faintly, she could hear her septa calling for her as she searched the courtyard for her wayward pupil. The girl giggled as the woman's voice grew further and further away. Mikken gave her a disapproving look but she said she'd rather learn how to make swords than learn how to sew, anyhow. This made the blacksmith laugh and he said, From what I've seen of your stitches, lass, you'd be better off apprenticing here than wasting anymore of that poor septa's time. They had both laughed then.

She had been silent long enough that Gendry prompted her. "You think of..."

"Warmth."

She didn't mean heat. Or, at least not entirely. Gendry somehow knew that was true, but he was not privy to her memories, so he was unsure what it was that had turned her eyes soft and wistful. He did not pursue it, however, thinking she wasn't like to tell him anyway. Instead, he lit a candle and set it in the center of the room. Arya turned in a slow circle, taking in all the partially completed weapons, shields, and armor stacked in corners, sitting on tables and hanging on walls. When she finally faced Gendry, she said, "You've been busy."

"I work when I can."

She walked over to tall bin from which the hilts of a dozen swords protruded. She grasped one and pulled it free from the others. It was heavy and blunt. A bare wooden handle adorned the grip and the pommel was plain, befitting a weapon which would be carried by someone who had sworn allegiance to no banner.

"I've yet to sharpen those," the knight explained as Arya turned longsword this way and that, inspecting the lines of the blade. "And the grips haven't been wrapped."

"Leather?" she asked.

"When we can get it," he replied. "Lately, I've been using sharkskin. It's a bit cheaper and we can trade with the fishermen for it in Maidenpool and Saltpans."

The girl nodded, replacing the unfinished weapon and looking at row of helms lining the table in front of her. They were well-made but plain. "A far cry from your bull's head helm," she remarked, trailing her fingers lightly over the pieces as she walked slowly along the table. Gendry laughed a little.

"I find I've not the time to dedicate to such ornamentation," he said, "and that helm was the creation of a boy who thought he'd someday be making arms and armor for lords and princes to wear in tourneys."

"Still, it was wonderful work. Truly, it was a beautiful thing."

"Beauty is lost amid the din of battle, m'lady, and such exhibition does not make a man safer from the bite of arrows or swords."

"No," she agreed, "it cannot do that, but do not deny your talent."

He smiled at her, his look a little sad. "I do not deny that it exists, m'lady. I merely deny its usefulness."

The pair fell silent as Arya continued inspecting the various arms and armor scattered about the forge. Upon seeing a pile of rusted and dented vambraces, breastplates, pauldrons and gauntlets stacked against the far wall, she wondered aloud at using the discarded pieces to create training blades for the orphans.

"They should have blunted blades for practice," she concluded.

"Aye, they should," the blacksmith agreed, "but we cannot spare the steel. Soon enough, they will all need sharp blades and good helms and we've barely enough steel to meet those needs. For now, sticks will have to do."

"Perhaps some day soon, this conflict will all be at an end and then you can return to the forge and make your own steel rather than having to melt down what you can scavenge."

Gendry chuckled without humor. "So we are speaking of dreams and pretty children's stories?"

"Do your ambitions now lie outside the forge?" she asked curiously.

"My ambitions lie with keeping myself and those I've sworn to protect alive."

"Do you not see an end to this, ser?"

"M'lady, I do not think I will see this end before I see my own."

"Perhaps not," she said quietly, "but maybe there is a way to keep ourselves apart from it."

"If you dread war, then you've chosen an odd time to return to Westeros."

"War is not the thing I dread, but the timing of my return was not of my choosing," Arya spat bitterly, wandering to the far side of the forge. A wooden chest had been shoved under a work counter mounted to the wall. She bent over curiously, inspecting the large box.

"Then how is it you find yourself here now?"

Arya snorted. "Aren't you my sworn knight? By what right does a knight try to suss out his lady's secrets?" She opened the hinged lid of the trunk and lifted the cloth which covered something within. She reached in, lifting the piece of armor she found there and stared at it with fascination. It was a gleaming steel breastplate.

"By no right, m'lady," Gendry admitted, stepping closer to observe her, "but then, I never was a very good knight."

"No," she agreed, her eyes drinking in the perfection of the breastplate, "but you are an excellent blacksmith." She sounded a little breathless as she inspected the armor piece. Unlike everything she had seen thus far, the plate was not plain. It was intricately detailed and so highly polished that it shone like a newly minted silver stag. It was smaller than the other breastplates stacked on a table nearby. She thought it might actually fit her.

"I've been working on that one for awhile now," the knight said from behind her. She turned and stared up at him.

"It's..." She did not continue, but moved past him and closer to the candlelight where she inspected the piece. A design had been beaten into the chest piece from the underside so that it was shown in relief on the front; a wolf's head in profile, snarling with snout pointing toward the right, teeth bared. When Arya looked closely, she could see that the wolf was crowned with a delicate circlet made of connected snowflakes, each one different than the last. The beast's head was superimposed over crossed swords, thin water dancer's blades, the hilts identical to the one found on Needle. The assassin looked up at the dark knight, her eyes shiny as she whispered, "You are truly gifted, ser."

"I'm glad you like it," he replied softly. "It's yours."

She gasped slightly. "I..." She looked back down at the piece. "Oh."

Gendry grinned, unable to contain his pride at her response to his work.

She placed the plate on an anvil before her, near the candle, and ran her fingers over the relief, trying to make sense of the gift. It seemed obvious that the breastplate had always been intended for her. The size and shape could only have been meant for a small woman, the snarling wolf would only be worn by a Stark, and the rendering of Needle left no doubt as to who that Stark would be. But how could Gendry have known he would ever see her again? And if he wasn't sure, why spend the effort? Why waste the steel? And good steel, by the look of it. All this she wondered, but what she said was, "I thought you were now more concerned with function than beauty."

"Do you find the piece beautiful, m'lady?"

She scowled a little at his address, but she said, "Don't be daft. You know it is."

"Don't be fooled by the pretty appearance. I assure you, this plate is quite functional."

The girl swallowed, still gazing at the breastplate. "You said you had little time for such ornamentation."

"And so I do. Very little time. Perhaps that's why it took me so long to complete."

"What about beauty being lost on the battlefield?" she asked.

"M'lady, I pray to the gods that you never see a battlefield."

That night, as Arya lay in her bed, her mind whirled with anticipation of the journey to come, thoughts of her encounter with Gendry in the forge, and memories from Braavos which alternately warmed her and made her heart heavy with its burden of grief. She found sleep elusive and rose from her bed, moving silently to the small window in her room. She stared out of it and up at the night sky as her fire burned low behind her. The Cat sighed and placed her palms flat against the sill of the window, leaning on it and resting her forehead against the thick pane of glass. In the yard below, she saw a dark figure moving. By the size and gait, she knew it was Gendry. He was moving toward the stable, tending to some chore or another ahead of their journey in the morning. Seeing him drew her thoughts back to the twilight, when they had spoken in the forge.

Arya had donned the breastplate at Gendry's insistence, though in truth, she had been itching to try it. As she tightened the straps and buckles with his help, she was shocked by the excellence of the fit. It was almost as if the steel had been molded to her frame.

"How?" she demanded as he stepped back to admire both the assassin and his own handiwork. "You haven't seen me in years. How could it fit so perfectly?"

He shrugged. "I've seen you in my dreams often enough."

His answer annoyed her but she couldn't think of the words to tell him why. Instead, she shook her head and then asked him to explain a detail of the design."Why is the wolf crowned?" Her tone seemed to indicate that she was displeased with the feature, but her eyes could not stop admiring the delicacy and precision of the intricate work.

"Well, your brother was King in the North. That makes you a princess of sorts, doesn't it?"

She laughed. If there was anyone less a princess in the entire world than she, Arya was quite sure she didn't know who it could be. "Saying a thing doesn't make it so!"

"Having the backing of an army helps."

"So, my brother's former army has crowned me?"

"It's not just that..."

"Then what?"

"When I dreamed of you, you were... you were very much like..." He stumbled over the words, reluctant to continue.

"Like what?" she asked, her raised eyebrows and wide eyes declaring her exasperation.

"Like a queen." It almost pained him to say so, because he knew that she would not like him saying it. "You were so like a queen. The Queen of Winter."

"The Queen of Winter? What is that? What does that even mean?"

"I don't know. It was a dream." He looked sheepish. "You were... so fair; so white. And there was snow in your hair, like a veil, and you were wearing silver and grey and you... shone, so brilliant. You were just brilliant, like sunlight on the ice. Blinding." His brow was furrowed. He looked troubled, but somehow hopeful, too.

"But dreams aren't reality," the girl insisted. "I'm no princess, no matter who my brother was. I'm certainly no queen. It doesn't make any sense."

"I dreamed of your return and here you are. That's real enough, whether or not it makes sense."

She waved a hand in the air, dismissing the idea."Coincidence."

"That may be, but nevertheless, the breastplate fits."

She could not argue with that, nor that it was a thing of exquisite beauty. It made her feel strange, to have such a fine gift from someone she had spent so long resenting. She found her anger was ebbing from her and she began to regard the blacksmith with a more kindly attitude. When she recognized the softening of her temperament, she scowled, angry at herself, swearing that her friendship could not be bought. Still, someone who could make something so lovely could not be all bad, she thought.

"Perhaps it's true what they say," Arya muttered, more to herself than the dark knight. "The way to a woman's heart is through arms and armor."

"Who says that?" Gendry laughed. "No one says that!"

"Well, they should, because it's true." She was grumbling, a frown marring her features. The large man grinned.

"Are you saying I've found my way into your heart then, m'lady?" His teasing certainly triggered a reaction from her.

"I want to refuse it!" she burst out in a fit of honesty. She slapped at the decorated plate with her palm, covering the wolf's eyes as she cried, "I should throw this back at your feet, but it's so wonderful that I can't!"

"Why in the world would you refuse it?" He laughed, the idea ridiculous to him.

"Because I am angry with you! Because you abandoned me when I least could stand to be abandoned! I haven't forgiven you for it."

"M'lady..."

"Do not call me that!"

"Arya..." He sighed, then pled with her. "I was ten and six. I barely knew anything about anything that wasn't a hammer and tongs. Will you hate me forever for doing what I thought was best when I was barely more than an ignorant child?"

"I don't hate you," she growled, "and I think that's why I'm so..." She shook her head, unable to explain herself to him. "I want to hate you," she finally said, "and you keep making it difficult for me to get on with it."

"I can't say I'm sorry for it," he told her, giving her a crooked smile. "I know we're practically strangers now, and that you've lived some life of mysteries I don't understand, but somehow, I still feel like we are old friends who understand one another."

"No, you don't understand me," the assassin assured the knight. "The girl you think you know so well doesn't exist. Who I am now..."

He looked at her expectantly but she remained silent, unwilling to complete her thought. Instead, she thanked him for the exquisite chest plate she found herself unable to refuse and then left the forge alone, still wearing the armor.

The piece now sat atop a washstand in her room, the low firelight reflecting off of it, giving the metal a golden cast. She turned from the window and stared at the armor. Its delicate curves and finely polished surface led her to consider how long it must have taken Gendry to shape it and how difficult it must have been to raise the elaborate wolf-and-swords design and etch the finer details. She had never had her own armor, much less something so splendid. A smile began to tug at the corners of her mouth before she caught it and frowned.

I cannot be bought, she told herself.

But can you be won? her little voice wondered.

It was not a question she was prepared to answer just then. Instead, she turned again to the window, staring out into the yard. It was empty now, the blacksmith-turned-knight having disappeared from her view. Arya looked up at the stars blazing in the blackness overhead and allowed her thoughts to move as they wanted. She did not afford herself such luxury very often, as she was uncertain whether she could withstand the grief such wanton disregard for her own comfort would bring. When her thoughts meandered of their own accord, when she did not carefully dictate the path they would take, they always ended up in the same place.

They always ended up with him.

The girl wanted to live there, in that place where he still smiled at her, if only for awhile. She tried to will herself to relax and simply be in those moments called up by her mind. She wanted to close her eyes and remember Jaqen's warm, bronze gaze. She wanted to remember his teasing smile, his care, his vows whispered in his native tongue (by all the gods, I am yours). She wanted to, but she couldn't. Not for long, at least. Her survival instinct always proved too strong to overcome. Like a woman caught in the undertow, Arya was unable to resist her own need to save herself from drowning. Before she could live too long in her memories, before they could pierce her heart and paralyze her, she began the frantic scramble to stuff the hurtful thoughts deep down where they could trouble her no longer.

Just as she always had.

This time would prove no different, but that did not stop her trying. She let her memory carry her back to a night in the temple garden; a night when she wore a bloodstained gown, whisper-thin and too revealing for her taste; a night when she had stood by the courtyard fountain and Jaqen had found her under the moonlight. As she peered through the pane of glass up at the Westerosi sky, Arya counted the stars and tried to remember if they had looked the same on that night in Braavos. Long before she could decide, her gaze became soft and the stars became blurry and all she could recall then was the feel of a man's warm lips on her forehead, and then her nose, and then her mouth. She squeezed her eyes shut against the pain in her chest then, and as she always did, she sought to distract herself from it. This night, as on many others, she chose occupy herself by reciting a familiar prayer; her promised offering to Him of Many Faces.

"Ser Ilyn, Ser Meryn, Queen Cersei," she said hoarsely. "Traitorous black brothers. The Kindly Man." She said it over and over, her voice becoming harder, fiercer, the names falling faster from her lips, as if the sheer volume of her utterances could somehow appease the god of the Faceless Men and for that, he might grant her a reprieve from her sorrow.

As if in offering him the lives of those who had wronged her, she might somehow gain the one she most desired.

Arya stared deep into night sky, unblinking, and prayed, wondering if she could look long enough and believe hard enough to finally see the Many-Faced god among the stars, and if she could, would he take pity on her?

Would he reunite her with the one she had lost?

Near a thousand leagues away from the Inn at the Crossroads, in a place where the arrival of winter had turned the scorching sands into dull warmth beneath the feet of an advancing army, eyes that had once been bronze stared at those same far stars and lips which had once kissed a lovely girl's flesh whispered their own familiar prayer to Him of Many Faces, just as they had every night for two moons past.

"Arya Stark. Lead me to her."

Rivers and Roads—The Head and the Heart