A/N: There are various maps of Westeros and there is disagreement between them as to the location of some of the settings you will see throughout this story. I have pinned a very detailed map on my Pinterest page for this story and this is the one I am using as reference because it is the only complete map I've found that pinpoints locations of some very minor settings of the original works. Unfortunately, on this map, the locations of several places in the Riverlands differ somewhat with the maps on wiki. I hope this is not confusing for people. The location of Raventree Hall in particular is different on the wiki page than my reference, but due to the extreme detail of the map, I am still choosing to use it though it may be disagree with accepted canon. I realize most people won't care or be bothered by this, but I wanted to allay confusion in the case of a reader saying, "Oh, Raventree Hall, let me read the wiki on that place..." and then getting confused about how Arya could journey so far west in such a short period of time or how it logistically made sense for her to stop there first and another location later when the wiki indicates that her latter stop was actually closer to her initial departure point.
TL:DR version: Arya's route is being planned using a map that doesn't completely reflect locations according to some "semi-canon sources" but as maps of made-up places go, it's far superior, so I'm going with it!
It's our time to break the rules.
Let's begin
They had all awakened an hour before the sun peeked over the horizon. Horses had been saddled in near silence and gear packed up quickly, methodically. With camp broken, the company departed, riding hard and fast the moment their path turned from pitch to the faintest grey of early morning. Less than a day's ride from Raventree Hall now, they had made good time, mostly due to the ease of the terrain to that point, the cooperation of the weather, and the determination of a certain little lady.
"We should make camp soon," Harwin had said in the waning afternoon two days past. The party had left the inn that morning, a company made of sworn brothers, nearly-grown orphans, Faceless assassins, and wolves too numerous to count. "The little lady will be growing tired soon."
What Harwin knew of ladies and their tendency toward fatigue may have been considerable, but he should have remembered that ladies of Stark blood were a hardier stock and had a tendency to be more wolf than girl. Lyanna Stark had taught him that, long ago, and Arya Stark was made of the same stern stuff as her aunt.
The Cat had overheard Harwin's passing remark, made to Ser Gendry as he rode at the head of the company, keeping to the Northman's side. Before the dark knight could respond, the girl had burst out laughing, unable to contain her amusement. The sound of it was loud, barking, and certainly most unladylike. The men jerked their heads toward her.
"I've told you, Harwin," the girl cried, digging her heels into Bane's sides, "I'm no lady!" The horse surged forward then, blowing past the men who themselves were beginning to look a bit weary. The rest of the riders had to make haste so as not to lose her as the sun dipped low behind the trees on that first day of their journey. Harwin did eventually catch her, but only because he was himself a superb rider and because she had pulled up a bit to give her mount a rest after cresting a ridge.
"You've made your point, Lady Arya," the Northman growled as he trotted up to her side.
"Then there will be no more nonsense about making camp early to accommodate my delicate constitution?" she asked. Her voice dripped with false sweetness as she looked at Harwin pointedly.
"No, milady."
"Good. I can ride all day and all night, if need be."
"Perhaps you can, but the rest of us need a break, milady, including the horses."
She nodded her understanding. Harwin spoke sense and Arya valued his advice. "Forgive me my enthusiasm," the girl said somewhat sheepishly. "I have debts that must be paid, and I am anxious to get started."
"Debts?" the Northman asked in confusion. "You've only just arrived in Westeros. What sort of debts could you have accumulated already?"
"The kind repaid with blood," was her sinister reply.
Harwin's look was grim. "Your countenance favors your father, milady, but your words echo your mother too closely." He was, of course, thinking of the most recent incarnation of Arya's lady mother, a woman known now by the name Stoneheart.
"Vengeance is a family trait," the girl acknowledged, her malicious little smile reshaping her mouth. Her companion drew up short and frowned at her.
"Loyalty," Harwin said, bristling. "Honor. These are the Stark family traits, little lady." His voice was heavy with censure.
"Yes, but how to show my loyalty? How to demonstrate my honor?" Arya mused in a tone her sister might have once used for debating the merits of embroidery versus lace as an embellishment for a new gown. The Northman made her no answer and the assassin's face grew hard, her expression resolute. "Through vengeance, the world will come to understand the depth of my loyalty," she vowed. "Through revenge, I will honor those I have lost. When I am through, there will be no doubt about what it means to be a Stark."
"A quest for vengeance in your father's name brought your lord brother south," he reminded her, "and started a chain of events that laid the boy too soon in his grave. In seeking vengeance, he assured the destruction of all your family had built."
"I don't doubt Robb's honorable intentions, or his sincere desire to do what was right," Arya replied, "but I cannot deny that he would have been better off, or, indeed, that the whole family would have been better off, if he had kept his place in Winterfell."
"Then why march down this same path, milady? Why tangle with these same enemies? Why endanger yourself? You may well be the last of Eddard Stark's bloodline! Do you understand what a dangerous game you play? Why risk following the same failed path as your brother?"
Arya could hear hoof beats approaching. Their party was finally catching up to them. She lowered her voice and tried to explain herself to her father's man.
"This is no game to me, Harwin," the girl said, locking her eyes with the Northman's, "and the path I walk is my own. You want to know why I risk my father's legacy? Because if I do not, it dies anyway, in shame and obscurity. You want to know why I seek the same vengeance Robb sought though it led to his ruin? Because I am better at it than he ever was, and I will succeed where he failed. You want to know why I will engage these same enemies? Because someone must, and every night, I make my vows to the Many-Faced god."
"The Many-Faced god, milady? Have you abandoned the faith of your father?"
"Hardly," she replied as she spied Ser Gendry galloping over the ridge, closely followed by Ser Willem and Baynard, "but there are those who must be made to pay for what they have done to the ones I love, and the Many-Faced god has granted me the power to do what needs doing. For that, he is owed more lives than you can fathom."
"There is no war so dangerous as a holy one," Harwin warned.
"Perhaps, but I am not the one in danger. You waste your cautions on me, Harwin," Arya assured him. "I will soak the ground with the blood of my enemies until the very grass chokes on it and the leaves of the trees turn as red as the weirwood's."
Ser Willem approached her side, his eyebrows raised slightly as he studied Lady Arya's expression. It did not seem to be the time to ask her why her eyes smoldered with a seething hate or why the Northman's expression seemed to trumpet a feeling of disbelief and dismay. The Lyseni knew enough of his sister's hurts and her life in Westeros to guess at the cause of all this unspoken tension. He only hoped that whatever vengeance she was thinking on did not spur her toward further recklessness. He hoped, but he did not believe.
The Bear resolved to keep a close watch on his sister.
Since their exchange, Harwin had spoken little to Arya beyond the perfunctory exchanges required to address the practical matters of their expedition. Now, on the third day of their journey, the Northman rode in silence just ahead of her, a somber look coloring his weathered features. Arya suspected she had confounded him. She supposed that she also made him uncomfortable, though whether this was due to her unapologetic lust for vengeance or her refusal to obey convention (convention which dictated how a highborn lady should behave and what was acceptable for her to say and do), she could not say. Perhaps it was both. He had known her since she was a suckling babe and the girl understood that his brief glimpse into the dark desires which drove her was surely a cause of some shock to him.
Ned Stark's little girl, Arya thought wryly, no more than an unfeminine, bloodthirsty heretic. What a scandal. She wasn't sure which of her many offenses the Northman would consider the worst.
Does it really matter to you? her little voice wondered.
Not one whit, she decided. She would no longer consent to endure the disappointment of others. Let them look elsewhere for their pretty manners and delicate sensibilities. I will not pretend to be other than I am.
Her little voice needled her then. Do you even know what you are?
I am a dark heart, the ghost in Harrenhal, and a pitiless assassin, she insisted, furrowing her brow as she rode on. I am the shadow among shadows.
Familiar voices filled her head, each talking over the other, each insisting she was something else; something other than what she had named herself. Her father, Syrio Forel, and Jaqen whispered to her then, each branding her as something different.
You are my grey daughter, the hope of the North.
You are a sword, nothing more.
You are a man's reason. For everything.
Wildly, Arya kicked her heels against her mount, urging him forward, faster, trying to outrun the voices. She knew she was leaving her small company behind, but she didn't care. The expectations and assignations of others warred with her own inundating sadness and a gnawing, restless need to see the blood of her enemies spilling onto her boots. She wished for wings, even as Bane rode harder. She wished for satisfaction and the patience to endure the road she must take to obtain it. She wished for relief. And then she told herself she was stupid to waste her time wishing even as she wished her mind would still itself and her heart would stop squeezing so hard it stole her breath.
The girl could perfectly picture Queen Cersei, hair piled atop her head in flawless, golden braids, sipping the finest wine from a jeweled cup, a smirk shaping her perfect, Lannister lips. She could see Ser Meryn Trant, his droopy eyes lit by unearned arrogance, dropping his visor and raising his sword as he prepared to slaughter a man armed only with a stick for having the effrontery to defend his young pupil. She remembered Ser Ilyn Payne, the king's justice, face arranged in a look of cruel indifference as he gripped Ice, raising the greatsword high above his head before letting it fall and... Arya threw her head back and cried out, inarticulate, and then the howling of wolves rose from beyond the surrounding trees, creating crashing waves of sound which filled the air all around her. The yowls seemed to come first from two wolves, then ten, then scores and scores of them, the noise strange and disconcerting to hear under the midday sun.
Arya leaned down, gripping the reins tight, and forced her horse on and on and on, for now it was not just the words of her father and Syrio Forel and Jaqen H'ghar, but the pictures in her own head that she could not abide. But try as she might, she could not outpace them; could not shake free of them. No matter how much of her path she put behind her, before her she saw her father's bowed head and Ser Ilyn's raised blade. The image bled into another; her master's bowed head beneath the principal elder's raised longsword. Even though she knew this version of Jaqen's death was no more than a mummer's farce, the great terror she had felt at that moment was the same as she had felt as she watched her father being struck down by his ancestral sword. Time and distance and her own hateful vows had done nothing to assuage the agony of it. Neither had this frantic flight astride Bane.
Did you think you could escape? her little voice whispered.
Escape, she thought, clutching desperately at the idea.
And then she was a wolf. She was a hundred wolves; more. She was in the immediate, running, ranging, tracking. She had no time for grief, for despair, for memory. She was a horse, nostrils flaring, eyes wild, four legs churning, hooves pounding mercilessly at the road before her, tearing holes into the land, leaving only broken clods and dust in her wake. Trees moved by in a blur of brown and green. The ground was hard beneath her hooves, then soft beneath her paws. A rabbit's blood warmed her mouth as the scent of men and horseflesh and decaying leaves stirred on the ground filled her nose, a sweet perfume. And then she saw herself, far in the distance, riding Bane at a punishing pace, and thought, "Blast that girl, she'll get herself killed."
No, not her thoughts. They belonged to someone else. Her brother, or, rather, Ser Willem.
She stayed with him too long, and he was too familiar with the feel of her, so the next thing she heard was, "Bloody fool! What are you doing?" An admonishment, meant for her to understand; meant to push her back into her own head, because he feared she could not ride safely without focus; that she would hurt herself in her wild disregard. She felt her brother's worry; his fear.
She moved away quickly, but not before she saw the expression of another rider through the Bear's eyes. It was a look she knew well, though she had seen it most often on the face of another (she would not think of that face now; it hurt to remember the bronzed cheek, the bronze eyes, and she was fleeing from just such memories). It was a look that was a combination of both consternation and adoration, worry and wonder, and it was a look that seemed to be directed at her.
Gendry, watching her ride further and further away from him.
It was that look as much as her brother's words that sent her scrambling back into her own head. She did not wish to contemplate what was running through the dark knight's mind at that moment.
Just as Harwin had seemingly avoided her after their exchange on the first day, she had tried her best to avoid Gendry. At the insistence of those whose counsel she gave serious consideration (Harwin and the Bear), she wore her new plate (for your safety, milady. These lands are full of brigands and desperate men), which made it difficult to forgo thinking of the blacksmith-knight altogether, but she found she wasn't quite sure how she should act with him after his apologies and his oath of loyalty (you have it now, m'lady) and then his exquisite gift.
Arya had not fully forgiven him his abandonment of her and to think on it chafed still, even all these years later. She found the anger difficult to release. It had been with her too long to give up so easily and it had informed so much of what she believed about her world (that she could only rely on herself, that no one stays, that she would lose anyone to whom she could ever claim an attachment). Syrio's murder; her father's beheading; Gendry's abandonment; her mother's death; the fate of her brothers; Jaqen... Each loss had shaped her; directed her. Each loss had carved a bit out of her, and so she found her present form was largely a result of all that had been taken from her in her life. How could she be expected to simply forgive and forget when Gendry's choice to leave her had, in part, made her?
But Gendry had said something which struck a chord deep within Arya and as she considered his words, they made her think on his transgression differently than she ever had before.
I was six and ten. Will you hate me forever for doing what I thought was best when I was barely more than an ignorant child?
It called to mind something that had once been said to her by another man in whom she had allowed herself to trust; a man who had made a choice she had, at first, believed unforgivable.
Do you know what the interesting thing about the right choice is, little wolf? It's that the look of it changes depending on where you are standing when you make it.
She was six and ten now, just as Gendry had been when he made his fateful decision. She wondered if choices she had made, choices she was even now making, would look different to her in five years time, and if so, would she be judged harshly by others for what she did now? And would such judgment be fair?
She thought of a boy, a common boy of six and ten, whose only distinction in life to that point was his training as a blacksmith. She thought of that boy being suddenly told he must give up his hope of a future as a tradesman in order to join the Night's Watch, without explanation. She thought of all the horrors and abuses she had witnessed with this boy—on the road, in Harrenhal, and after their escape—and she thought about how Gendry could hardly have been any better suited to endure such things than she was herself. While it was true that he was the older of the two, all he had known of the world was a vague memory of the yellow-haired woman who had been his mother and the inside of Tobho Mott's forge. In contrast, by the time her path crossed Gendry's, Arya had already lived in wealth and poverty. She had feasted and starved. She had been subjected to privilege and cruelty. She had seen blood spilled and spilled it herself. She had experienced great joys and unfathomable sorrows, honor and injustice, expectations and indulgences.
Arya's anger at her old friend had directed much of her opinion of him over the years since they had parted. She felt ill-equipped to discern what it was that she was feeling now as she finally considered how it must have been for him at the time of their parting. The discord within her only grew when he was near and she observed the knight he had become, the man he now was, with all his differences and all his jarring similarities. She told herself that she didn't understand him anymore, and really, perhaps she had never truly understood him at all.
Why, then, did her little voice whisper to her that she understood him far better than she was willing to admit?
It was too uncomfortable to dwell on, and so she simply avoided Gendry, spending as little time as possible in conversation with her old friend and instead directing her remarks to Ser Willem or one of the orphans. Stout Will, an orphan boy of seven and ten, she found to be particularly enjoyable company. Despite his name, Will did not boast any remarkable girth. Neither was he rail-thin, as one might imagine if his nickname were meant as an irony. Instead, the boy was prodigiously average in appearance, but he was quick-witted and self-deprecating, two things Arya valued immensely in a companion.
If Gendry noticed the girl's standoffish manner, he was too polite to say so. Or maybe he was just too flummoxed. Nonetheless, he did not go out of his way to pursue her, but left her to her own thoughts most of the time. Still, every so often, Arya could feel the knight's blue eyes upon her, even as she pretended she did not.
Arya pulled back slightly on the reins, slowing Bane to a trot. She was still riding ahead of the company, but within their sight, following the road as it emerged from the forest through which they had traveled for the better part of the morning. The girl looked around as she left the wood behind, noting that the road began to climb the gentle slope of a hill just ahead. After crossing the clearing, she slowed her mount even further, to a walk, so that she might be sure of his footing as they climbed. When she finally reached the crown of the hill, she stopped and gauged her distance from her party, then surveyed the land before her.
The descent on the far side of the hill was much steeper and longer than she would have imagined, the terrain becoming rougher the further into the central Riverlands they rode. The assassin's gaze traveled across the valley to the crest of the opposite hill. That was when she saw the castle, square towers flanking its main gate and also rising at the corners of its outer wall. There were scarlet flags flying at intervals along the crenelated battlements, blown straight in the same wind which whipped at her hair. She noted some sort of black markings on the banners. Though too far away to make out the details, Arya knew the castle must be the seat of House Blackwood, and that meant the dark designs would be birds. Though she could not spy it from this distance, there would also be a tree in the middle, twisted and white.
The banners declared that they had nearly reached Raventree Hall.
A scarlet field with a twisted weirwood at its center, surrounded by a conspiracy of black ravens.
Maester Luwin had taught her that much.
"Raventree Hall boasts an ancient weirwood in its godswood, nearly as tall as the castle itself."
The memory came to her suddenly, and she could almost hear the wise man's voice in her ears then.
"I thought houses in the South had septs and worshiped the seven," Arya had interrupted. "Like mother." She was no more than six at the time.
"Most do," the maester agreed, "but the Blackwoods did not always live in the South. Once, they were Northerners, just like you. They have the blood of the first men in their veins."
"But then, why do they live in the Riverlands?" She was truly perplexed. The girl could think of nothing that would make her wish to leave the North to live elsewhere.
Sansa had glared at her then, but said nothing. Arya could be insatiable when it came to knowing about things which interested her, and often, her incessant questioning of the maester made their lessons last much longer than they ought. It was safe to say that Sansa felt about heraldry and history the way Arya felt about embroidering vines and flowers onto tiny, useless pillows. Bran never seemed to mind his sister's questions, though. He and Arya shared similar interests.
"They were driven away," Luwin replied. "By your ancestors, more than five thousand years ago."
"The Kings of Winter," Bran murmured reverently.
"Yes, the Kings of Winter," the maester said, patting Bran's head as he paced around the table where the children sat. "The Blackwoods once ruled the wolfswood, during the time of the earliest of the Stark kings. Far too close for comfort, wouldn't you say?"
Arya nodded. The wolfswood was Stark land. She couldn't imagine another family laying any sort of claim to it, even thousands of years ago.
"But even though they were driven from the North, the Blackwoods did not forsake all their Northern traditions," Maester Luwin continued, "and though most in the South adopted the new gods after the Andals invaded, the Blackwoods kept to the old ways."
"So that's why they have a giant weirwood!" Arya said. Sansa groaned, just loud enough for her sister to hear.
"Aye, but the great weirwood is dead and dry, and it no longer produces the red leaves of a healthy tree," Luwin revealed.
"Dead?" Bran had asked. "Why?"
The maester had explained how the tree was said to have been poisoned by a rival family, long before the seven kingdoms were unified.
"Why doesn't it fall over?" Arya often rode in the near part of the wolfswood with her father and brothers. They saw fallen trees all the time, even jumping them with their horses for sport; sentinels and firs blown over in a storm, ironwoods split by lightning. Woodsmen were frequently sent to cut the dead trunks and branches, the fruits of their labors then used to stock the hearths of Winterfell, feeding the fires which warmed the great castle.
"The roots run very deep, child," the maester had explained. "A weirwood has the deepest roots of all, so they do not easily fall."
"Why not cut it down, if it's dead?" the girl persisted.
"It's a grave sin to cut down a weirwood, even a dead one. A very grave sin."
"Even in the South?"
"Yes," Luwin had replied. "Even there."
Thinking of her old maester caused Arya to sigh. It was a small gesture, and subtle, but anyone listening might have thought the sound of it was a little sad. She wondered if Luwin was still alive. He would be nigh on seventy by now, but she supposed it was more like to be violence than age that brought him to his end, considering what had happened at Winterfell under Theon Greyjoy's brief tenure. The girl inside of her longed for this man who had seemed the very pinnacle of wisdom during her idyllic childhood, but her life since that time had taught her not to hope. So, even as she considered the knowledge she had gained at Maester Luwin's feet, she pushed thoughts of the man himself away so that she would not have to consider the pain of another loss.
Arya strained her eyes, squinting in the bright light of the afternoon sun. She thought she could just make out the great, bare branches of the famed weirwood reaching skyward behind the high walls of Raventree Hall in the distance. She very much desired to visit the godswood there and to see for herself the ancient, dead weirwood featured on the Blackwood banners. With any luck, she would be studying the tree's carved face before the sun set that very day.
Harwin joined her at the peak then. "Milady," he muttered, his face grim. Arya knew from his tone that he was displeased with how far ahead she had ranged.
"Oh, don't scold me, Harwin. Bane needs to stretch his legs every now and again." She pointed out the castle on the other side of the valley. "And see? I've located Raventree Hall for you."
"A feat milady should be ashamed to brag about, considering the road leads straight to it."
She laughed good-naturedly, then asked, "Will the Blackwoods welcome us, do you think?"
"Aye, milady. They've been good friends to the Brotherhood, and they were the last of the Riverland houses to bow to the crown after..."
"After the Red Wedding," she finished for him.
"Perhaps it's their ancient Northern blood, or maybe their strong sense of honor, but Tytos Blackwood was a loyal supporter of your brother's during the war and a staunch defender of your mother's house, too. He rescued your Uncle Edmure from the Lannisters and supported the Blackfish when others faded."
"But now he has allied his house with the crown."
"Allied? No. Bent the knee, more like, and not easily. Lord Blackwood did what he had to in order to ensure the survival of his house, but he only swore to lay down his arms. He did not agree to abandon support of the Brotherhood."
"A fine distinction, that," she said wryly. "I don't think the crown would be too keen to know Raventree Hall was offering aid and comfort to men who make a sport of hanging Lannister loyalists from trees like merry party decorations. It could hardly be what the king had in mind when he laid down his terms for taking the Blackwoods back into his fold."
"Condemning men to death is no sport, milady," Harwin admonished, "and for all their likely disapproval, the court now busies itself fortifying the capital and preparing for seige. They'll not be sending anyone to inspect Lord Blackwood's pantries for evidence of his treason."
"Preparing for seige?" She was suddenly very alert. "What have you heard, Harwin?"
"Dorne marches, m'lady, with all their strength and three brigades of foreign fighters."
"And a complement of dragons," she whispered.
"So it's rumored."
Arya knew it to be more than a rumor, but she did not wish to discuss that with Harwin. Doing so would mean talking about him, and she wished to keep him for herself.
The rest of their company joined them then. Ser Gendry led the orphans with Ser Willem and Baynard guarding the rear. Elsbeth asked how long it would take to reach the castle as she eyed the steep descent.
"We'll have to take the horses in hand," Harwin said, dismounting, "or else risk one breaking a leg, and maybe one of you lot breaking a neck. Still, we'll make supper."
They followed the Northman down the narrow path single file. Arya laughed when just halfway down, she saw that the wolves had gathered in the valley below and awaited the band, a living sea of bristling fur and pacing predators.
"Nymeria, you clever thing," the girl whispered, wondering which path the pack had used to outflank the company and how they had done it unseen. Clever, indeed.
As they moved along the road that would bring them directly to the gates of Raventree Hall, Harwin and Arya argued about whether to reveal her true identity to Lord Blackwood. Arya was of a mind to once again be Straeya Shett, or perhaps even one of the orphans, not wanting the bother nor the risk which was part and parcel of being the newly-returned Arya Stark. She wished only to shelter for a night, resupply, then move on toward the Hollow Hill without wasting time with feasts and courtesies and politics. She also did not wish to repay the great family's hospitality by saddling them with the potentially dangerous knowledge of her survival and her whereabouts. She had witnessed firsthand what one man would do to another if he believed there was information of import to be gained by his actions (Is there gold hidden in the village? Silver, gems? Is there food? Where is Lord Beric?) Her memories of such atrocities had plagued her dreams even after she had left Westeros far behind and had learned to perpetrate atrocities of her own.
Harwin, for his part, had argued that House Blackwood would be a formidable ally and would never have forsaken her brother the king as long as he lived. Even after Robb's death and the chaos and disarray that followed, Raventree Hall had remained loyal to the Northern cause much longer than even some of the oldest Northern houses. As Robb's heir apparent, she could expect the same loyalty from Tytos Blackwood.
"And you will have need of such friends for your cause," Harwin finished.
It was the first inkling Arya had that the Northman looked to her in the same way her father had in her strange Winterfell dreams; as some hope for the North. When they set out on their journey, the girl had allowed herself to think Harwin's only aim was to reunite a prodigal daughter with her mother. She could see now that his plan was much grander, his hopes much loftier. She resolved to disabuse him of his erroneous assumptions.
"You know my cause," she replied darkly, "and it requires no allies."
"Your survival against such odds, your arrival here at just this time... It must mean more than slitting a few throats," Harwin protested. "The gods must have a plan for you. You cannot believe you're here by chance, not after all that's happened."
No, not chance, she agreed silently. Harwin was right, there was a plan, of that much she was certain. It was just no plan of the gods.
"I only ever want what is best for the order. It is the only thing for which I strive." The elder's voice was insistent. It was as if he needed for her to believe what he was saying.
"Then you have failed," the Cat had said.
"What am I to do with you now, child?"
Arya was certain that the principal elder had known exactly what he was going to do with her. What she wasn't sure of was if he was somehow still steering her course. She rode a horse he had provided, paid her way with gold he had given her, and traveled with the companions he had chosen for her. Did he know her path would take her to Raventree Hall? Did he wish for it to? And if he knew, was it through some divine communication with Him of Many Faces or through the more wordly machinations of man?
She felt as if the world were one great cyvasse board, and she was not sure if she was a player or merely a piece. It complicated her every decision, this uncertainty about how much of her life was under her own control and how much was being controlled from the shadows.
"I've told you my intentions, Harwin. Beyond that, I haven't made any decisions, and I'd rather not confuse things by having House Blackwood enter the melee."
"Is there to be a melee, little lady?"
"There is if I have anything to say about it."
Harwin grunted in frustration, obviously vexed that she had not reconsidered her plan to avenge her family. He scratched at his beard and smoothed it, a gesture Arya assumed was meant to calm him before he said something he might regret. She considered telling him not to bother, that she appreciated plain talk, but she didn't think that after years of serving highborn lords and ladies, he was like to change his ways just because she said so. She couldn't even get him to stop calling her milady.
"There must be a Stark in Winterfell, milady, and you cannot get there alone."
"You might be surprised at what I can accomplish alone," she countered. Harwin stared hard at her for a moment, setting his mouth in a harsh line.
"The North has been a rudderless ship for too long," he finally said. "There are those who would fight for the Stark name and throw off the oppressive yoke of the Southern crown and the turncloaks they appointed to rule in your stead. In your name."
The Boltons.
"I have no interest in ruling the North, Harwin. That's not why I came back."
"Duty is often at odds with want, milady."
He was chastising her, she knew, thinking her selfish and petulant. How did she explain that this wasn't about shirking uncomfortable duty in the pursuit of personal desire, but rather that she saw her duty as something else entirely? In many ways, it would be easier to allow those who would support her to carry her home and install her on Robb's throne. She could sit behind the high walls of Winterfell and await news of battles, decorating her gates with the tarred heads of those who defied her. But where would be in the honor in that? And how could she feed the darkness within her if she did not wash her blades in the blood of those whose deaths she prayed for nightly? Could she grow old walking the ground above the crypts of the great Kings of Winter, over the bones of her own father, never seeking vengeance for him? For her mother and Robb and Jon? For Jaqen?
Harwin couldn't change his ways, even something as simple and unimportant as addressing her by a title. How did he expect her to forget who she was? How could he expect her to give up being the person she had needed to be since she was a little girl of nine watching the son of a butcher being bullied by a cruel prince?
It was clear to her that the Northman saw her value only as a figurehead; a name for men to cry out when their lines surged into battle; a pretty banner to follow. But banners were flat and useless on their own. Banners could not swing a sword, could not drain the lifesblood from a man. Banners did not plot or plan or pray. And should an arrow pierce the heart of any man who carried it, a banner would fall into the mud to be trod upon and forgotten.
No, she was no banner.
"It wasn't so long ago that you wanted to trade me for silver, Harwin," the girl laughed mirthlessly. "Now, you think I should seat myself upon the Winter Throne! Have I improved so much in my absence?"
"That was a lifetime ago, milady, and there was a king in the North then. Now, there is only a warden named Bolton and our people suffer in his grip."
"So, I'm just the best you can do right now? The only one left with the requisite name?" She was goading him, but the Northman would not be baited.
"You are Eddard Stark's daughter, and the North will rally to you. Some in the South may, too, if you give them the chance."
Harwin's insistence on framing her as the lone Stark heir (the hope of the North) and everything he believed that meant was why Arya did not wish to be Arya once she passed through the gates at Raventree Hall. She could not allow the ambitions of men to dictate her path, whether those men were acting with honorable intentions or whether they plotted in the dim chambers of a foreign temple.
Ser Ilyn, Ser Meryn, Queen Cersei...
Harwin believed the North had need of her, but Arya still had business in the South.
In the end, her desire to remain anonymous proved as meaningless as Harwin's desire to convince her to use the Stark name in order to treat with the Lord of Raventree Hall, for fate has a genius for finding its desired end, no matter the wishes of men. Tytos Blackwood stood in the great yard to greet his guests as soon as they entered his walls and after clapping the Northman on his back with a grin and a barked greeting, the bearded lord drew up short, his smile faltering as his expression turned to one of disbelief.
"Gods have mercy!" Lord Blackwood exclaimed, pushing past Harwin to stare at Arya. His voice dropped as he rasped, "By my troth, a Stark lives!"
Arya had been told too often that she had "the Stark look" to doubt the truth of it, but having spent so many years away from her family had dulled her to the fact of just how much she resembled the others in her bloodline. Lord Blackwood's instant recognition of her had demonstrated to her more than words ever could how her features both recommended and betrayed her. She cursed herself for not wearing her hood or otherwise taking pains to disguise her face as she entered the castle.
"Who are you, child?" the Riverlander asked, slowly approaching her. His close scrutiny brought inexplicable color to the girl's white flesh and she commanded herself to rule her face as she felt the heat rising in her cheeks. "You're too young to be Brandon's, and we had heard that all of Ned's children were most likely dead."
"Lord Blackwood, this is Lady Arya," Harwin said, turning to follow the nobleman. "She is Lord and Lady Stark's youngest daughter."
"You went missing during the chaos in the capital," Lord Blackwood said, recounting the tale he had heard. "Everyone presumed you'd been murdered by Lannister guards and thrown into the Blackwater."
"A reasonable conclusion," Arya mused, "but untrue, as you see, though I do not doubt it was their plan all along." History told her that murdering children was nothing to Lannisters, not if there was some advantage to be gained by it.
"I knew your father, my lady, and considered him a friend," the lord said, taking Arya's small hand between his own rough palms. "I fought with him during Robert's Rebellion. Indeed, I knew your uncles and your aunt as well, and I fought with your oldest brother at the Battle of Camps and was part of the assemblage that declared him King in the North." He bent to kiss her knuckles, then said, "You are most welcome here, Lady Arya. Most welcome."
The girl smiled distractedly at the Riverlander, trying to calculate how this turn of events would affect her plans. Slipping through Westeros undetected to complete her quest was beginning to feel less and less possible. She turned her head to the right and found Ser Willem, searching his eyes. Whatever he saw in her expression concerned him. He furrowed his brow and moved toward her but said nothing.
Lord Blackwood called out loudly for bread and salt. Servants scrambled to fulfill his request and moments later, a rough wooden platter was passed around, each guest taking his bite in turn. Arya's Lyseni brother moved to her side and she whispered to him, telling him this observance was meant to ensure the guest right while under Lord Blackwood's roof.
"Guest right?" the large assassin asked softly.
She explained that it was a Westerosi tradition with no corresponding equivalent in Essos. "It implies that the host is responsible for your safety and will not allow harm to befall you while you are under his protection." Her brother nodded, dipping a small hunk of bread in a bowl of coarse salt and then chewing it without further comment.
"Please everyone, eat of my bread and salt. It means more to us than it does others," Tytos said bitterly, no doubt thinking of the treachery of another great house to the east. "Here, we cling to the old ways and we value our honor."
"I thank you for your hospitality, my lord," Arya said after she had swallowed her bit of bread.
"Not at all, my lady. And had we had warning that you were coming, we would have prepared a greeting more in keeping with your station." Here, the Riverlander gave Harwin a hard look.
"Forgive me, Lord Blackwood," Harwin began, "but, as I am sure you can imagine, the risk in sending a raven or a rider ahead was too great, and we did not wish to endanger the lady any more than..."
"Please, don't trouble yourself," Arya interrupted, smiling sweetly at the lord of Raventree Hall. "Shelter and a bit of food is all we need, and only for the night. We've no wish to create a stir or disrupt your household."
"Nonsense!" the man boomed, taking Arya's arm and walking with her toward the entrance to the keep. "Ned Stark's daughter, alive? I can think of no better reason for a celebration, and it would be an honor to have you feast in my hall, my lady." And with that, Lord Blackwood led her through the doors, taking his leave of her and barking orders at his servants, sending someone to fetch Lady Blackwood so they could commence to planning the festivities for the following night. It was as if the castle had been awakened after a long sleep and suddenly, every living thing within was bursting with energy and purpose, all at once.
It was just the sort of pomp Arya had hoped to avoid. Even as a small child, she had never desired to be fussed over, and after her time with the Faceless Men, to be recognized so, even extolled, for being who she was... it was anathema to her. Her skin was crawling and she was possessed with the sudden desire to run. Her intention must have shown on her face, because before she could dash away, she felt a hand heavy on the nape of her neck, gripping slightly, holding her in place.
"Don't," Ser Willem growled quietly. She looked up at him, looming over her shoulder. "It's simply another face, like any other you've worn. Easier than most, in fact. Smile and be the gracious lady they need you to be. Take your rest, eat your fill. We'll not be here long."
She nodded, not having the fortitude just then to fight her brother. In short order, she was whisked away to a room by one servant, her things brought to her by another. Her horse was tended to, her men were given quarters befitting their (false) rank, and a maid was sent to her with a platter of bread, cheese, wine, and the offer of a bath, which the Cat refused. Instead, after sending the servant away, she stuffed her mouth with the food, then left her chambers (still chewing) to find the Lyseni. The small assassin slipped through the castle corridors undetected, remembering how it felt to move unseen and unheard and reveling in that sensation. When she burst into the Bear's chamber, she found him lounging in his bed, boots kicked off carelessly in a corner. Baynard was seated on the far side of the chamber, his chair leaned back on two legs, his heels resting on a rough table. She so startled the Faceless squire that he jerked in surprise, upsetting his balance. The Rat found himself laying flat on his back with a thud against the hard stone floor. The girl gave him an apologetic look before turning her gaze to Ser Willem.
The Bear chuckled amid the string of profanities being uttered by his brother and then turned curiously toward the intruder in their doorway.
"Are you lost, little Cat?" the big man asked. "Or is this castle so short on spare rooms that you must share ours?"
"Get your sword," the girl said without preamble. "We're heading for the training yard."
"Are we to have no peace, my lady?" the false Dornishman wheedled playfully. "Have we not earned our rest?"
"We've been resting for three days," the Cat scoffed. "I need to shake off the rust before I forget how to use my steel."
"There's little risk of that," the Bear said, but he rose anyway and pulled on his boots. "And if three days hard riding and sleeping for a few hours in hastily pitched tents is your idea of rest, I shudder to think of your version of hardship."
"The memories of such hardship are with me always," the girl muttered so softly that her brother had to strain to hear her words. He seemed chastened by them, though, and buckled his swordbelt quickly after that, following her as she exited the room. Reluctantly, Baynard hopped up and grabbed his blade, joining them.
The three assassins found that Ser Gendry had a similar idea as their own and had brought the orphans to the training yard. He was leading them through sparring drills with the castle's own blunted blades. Even Elsbeth was participating though steel would never be her first choice of weaponry. When the dark knight caught sight of the newcomers, he nodded to them respectfully but did not interrupt his instruction. Arya averted her eyes quickly from the blacksmith's gaze and indicated the opposite end of the yard to her companions.
"Over there," she said, moving to a suitable spot and unsheathing her blades. As she entered her stance, the Rat began to protest.
"Sharp steel? If you're as out of practice as you say, how can I trust that you won't cut me?"
"If you're so worried, you need not spar," Arya said dismissively. "Otherwise, I'd recommend a good defense and staying alert."
The Bear smirked and his brother merely scowled. Still, the squire drew his blade and Arya did not know if that made him admirable or stupid. The Lyseni was armed with two longswords, meaning to employ the dual blade technique his sister had taught him.
"Let's dance," the girl said, and the duel began.
The assassins moved slowly at first, each assessing the stance of the others, trying to gauge the intent behind every step and feint. Arya easily turned the first thrust Baynard made, the clinking of their blades sounding through the yard. The girl stood at the center of the two circling men, the knight and his squire searching for a weakness to exploit. The Cat moved quickly toward the Bear, driving him back a step or two with Grey Daughter leveled at his heart as she kept Frost pointed in the opposite direction, tracking the Rat behind her with the thin blade. She kept the squire at bay without the need to look at him. She could feel his position. Arya saw the Lyseni's eyes flick over her shoulder and an almost imperceptible squint alerted her to his plan. The Bear and the Rat lunged in unison for their sister but before either could make contact, the girl dropped to the ground and tumbled forward, popping up and spinning around just in time to see them meet at the spot she had just vacated. Quickly, she shifted to her sideface stance and pointed both blades at her brothers, snorting.
Then the battle began in earnest.
From their corner of the yard, there arose such loud ringing of steel that in the opposite corner, the orphans became distracted and lowered their blunted blades. Dumbfounded by what they were witnessing, the orphans moved toward the whirling assassins as the Cat struck at the two Faceless Men with lightning quickness. Baynard jumped backwards to avoid a deadly swipe from Grey Daughter as Arya gave a guttaral cry of effort. Even Gendry was fascinated by this point and had moved closer to watch, standing just behind Stout Will and Elsbeth.
Arya did not allow herself to become distracted when the spectators began to cheer but continued attacking her opponents like a woman possessed. To fly around the yard freely, weaving between her brothers and feeling the clashing steel vibrate her bones filled her with the sort of joy that could not be found elsewhere. Stretching muscles, heaving breath, and beading sweat were as sweet to her as cakes and silks and music were to other maidens. Sweeter, even. At the point when others might began to flag, Arya felt as if she was just hitting her stride and her strikes became more graceful, more on point. Her brothers were too practiced, too well-conditioned to be worn down so soon by their sister, but the strain of effort was beginning to show a bit on their faces as Arya danced with them on and on.
The crowd grew larger as passing servants and household guards gathered to watch the match. When Arya finally used the flat of her bastard sword to slap smartly at Baynard's hand, disarming him, a roar went up loud enough to finally draw Lord Blackwood to the scene. He and Harwin emerged from a tower room onto an overlooking balcony just in time to see the girl kick the squire's sword away and secure his surrender before giving her full attention to the remaining knight. Shouts and cheers urged the false Dornishman and his lady on, the novelty of both opponents using a dual-blade style only increasing the crowd's excitement.
The Bear, of course, was the slower of the two, but his long months of practice with his sister had improved his speed and agility a great deal, so that the gulf between their skill was no longer so wide as it once was. Additionally, he had the reach on her. The Cat, due to her unique talent, understood much of her brother's intent before it was carried out, which negated a fair amount of his advantage (though, at times, he did make attempts to misdirect her with his thoughts. He simply had not mastered using his innate strengths and this new misdirection at the same time, and so it gained him little when he tried it. She could foresee a time when that might no longer be the case, however).
In a dizzying combination of lunges, thrusts, and parries which backed the large man up against the wooden wall bordering the yard, Arya finally managed to trap the longsword in the Bear's dominant hand between her own blades and yank it from his grasp, sending it flying behind her. Loud cries and gasps sounded and the girl whipped around, watching as the Orphans dropped to the ground and Ser Gendry leapt aside, the blade sailing past and imbedding itself into the archery target behind him.
Arya gasped and looked apologetically at the dark knight who stared back at her with a mixture of bewilderment and awe. His Baratheon blue eyes pierced her own and she found herself lost in his overarching thought, as obvious to her as if he had spoken it aloud.
She is breathtaking.
Arya bit her lip unconsciously and stiffened. The minuscule distraction was all the Lyseni assassin needed. He struck at her from behind, hooking Grey Daughter near the hilt with the tip of his blade and using his leverage to twist the sword away from the Cat. As the weapon dropped to the ground, Arya spun and in one fluid movement, knocked the Bear's blade away with Frost. The Faceless knight grinned widely and shrugged, telling her she should not allow her focus to be divided.
"Don't worry, Ser Willem," the girl replied, her malicious smile appearing, "you have my full attention now." She tossed her water dancer's blade from her right hand to her left and began attacking her brother with a fury she had not yet shown. Soon, she had the big man off his balance, stumbling to the left and to the right as she pressed in close, tangling his feet with her own and finally sending him sprawling into the dirt. She dropped down on top of his supine form, knees gouging his chest, her blade pressed across his throat, the Valyrian steel threatening to slice him from ear to ear.
"Yield, Ser," Arya growled as the orphans howled in delight and the servants and guards clapped and yelled.
"You're slipping, my lady," said the Faceless knight so that only she could hear him. "I nearly had you when you were flirting with Ser Gendry." The girl's eyes lit up with fury but before she could say anything, he called out so that the crowd could hear, "I yield, my lady! You are a most worthy opponent!"
The orphans rushed in, Elsbeth clapping her back excitedly and Fletcher offering his hand to help her up. Stout Will made a laughing remark about being sure to stay on her good side and Little Nate asked if she would be willing to show him the move she had used to disarm Baynard the squire. Maids were calling out to her, things like, "Well done, m'lady!" and "Stark! Stark!" She glanced up at the balcony to see Lord Blackwood clapping with delight. Harwin appeared as solemn as ever but when she caught his eye, he bowed his head to her, hand over his heart in a gesture of admiration for her performance. She nodded back, but frowned, wondering if this demonstration of her skill was just one more disappointment to the Northman; more evidence that she would never make a proper lady for Winterfell.
Arya turned away, watching as the crowd broke up and drifted back into the keep while the orphans went back to their drills with renewed vigor. Baynard helped Ser Willem to his feet and brushed at his clothes, knocking off the dust and clinging rushes. She strode purposefully toward the pair, glaring at her Lyseni brother. When she was nearly upon him, she unleashed her ire.
"Flirting?" she hissed. "With Gendry?"
"You'll want to watch that," he advised with mock solemnity. "In the training yard is one thing, but in a real duel, it could cost you."
"I don't flirt!" she insisted. "And certainly not with him."
"No? Why were you staring into his eyes that way, then?"
"I was worried I had nearly injured him or one of the orphans with your sword!"
"You were chewing your lip," he said. His mouth stretched in a wide yawn as if nothing in the world could be of less interest to him.
"How could you know that? You were behind me!"
"I could just tell."
"I chew my lip all the time. It doesn't mean I'm... flirting."
She wasn't sure why she was allowing the Bear to rankle her so. She knew he was doing it on purpose, but she seemed powerless to rein in her rising irritation. Sniffing, she secured Frost in her swordbelt.
"There's no sin in a little flirting, my lady," Ser Willem told her. "A harmless bit of romance might take your mind off other, less pleasant things."
Seven hells, she thought, is he seriously encouraging me to take up with Ser Gendry?
She stared hard at her brother before insisting again, "I wasn't flirting." She sheathed Grey Daughter over her shoulder and turned her back on her snickering brothers, arms crossed over her chest. Across the yard, Ser Gendry barked orders at the orphans and they followed along with his direction, demonstrating blocks and cuts, one after another. The dark knight walked along the orphan's line, correcting a stance here, giving advice there. Arya felt the Bear move close behind her. She repeated her assertion more vehemently. "I wasn't flirting."
"No, sister," he said in a patronizing tone, "of course not."
Arya left the training yard shortly after that and found her way to the godswood, longing to see the great, dead weirwood Maester Luwin had described to her. The massive tree loomed at the center of the wood and was everything she had been taught, yet somehow, seeing it with her own eyes made it seem even greater than her imaginings. The twisted, white trunk was as wide around at its base as the tall towers which flanked the main gate of the castle wall. Perhaps even a little wider. Any one of the great, exposed roots had enough reach across that she could set the bed from her chamber upon it and when she looked up at the high, reaching branches, she could see that there were more ravens roosting upon them than she could count. She heard their quarking and chatter, softened by their considerable distance away from her. She did not think that even her brother Bran at his best could climb so high.
The girl made her way around the tree slowly, counting her paces. Not even a third of the way around, having already counted twice the number of paces it would take to circle Winterfell's great weirwood, the girl was startled to find Lord Blackwood seated upon a root. The spot he used as his perch had been worn smooth and flat over centuries of use for just such a purpose.
"My lady," the Riverlander called when he spied her, "what a pleasant sight you are. Have you come to speak with the gods?"
"In truth, I came because I've wanted to see this tree for ten years," she admitted, "ever since my maester taught me about it. But if the gods have something they wish to tell me, I am willing to hear them."
The quarking of the ravens grew louder then, and a slow smile spread over Lord Blackwood's face. He looked at Arya, but raised his eyebrows and pointed one finger in the air, indicating the ravens. "It seems they may have something to tell you after all."
Arya lifted her face toward the dusky sky, tracing the lines of the bare, white branches with her eyes and noting the bustle of the ravens along their perches as they settled for the night. She dropped her gaze back to her host and approached him, saying, "It really is one of the most extraordinary things I've ever seen. We have ancient weirwoods in the North, of course, but none so big as this."
"It's the climate," he explained. "Weirwoods can survive in nearly any weather, but they thrive best where it's temperate. I imagine if most of them hadn't been cut down by the Andals, there would be many trees of this size here and in the Reach."
The girl reached out a hand and stroked the smooth surface of the root. She felt something as she did; a sort of jolt. The sensation wasn't painful, exactly, but it caused her to suck in her breath sharply.
"My lady? Are you quite well?"
"There's such power here," she whispered. "It's... palpable."
"How fortunate you are that you can feel it," the lord remarked. "I envy you. I have only my faith to tell me I should believe. Tangible proof eludes me."
"It's you who are to be envied, my lord," the girl said, "that you only need your faith in order to believe."
Lord Blackwood laughed softly, then reached out for Arya's hand. "My lady, you don't know how your arrival has filled an old man with hope again."
Arya furrowed her brow. "I'm at a loss, my lord. I feel I should be flattered by your words, but I'm not entirely sure how I can fill you with anything other than annoyance at my unannounced intrusion."
"You must not think that, Lady Arya, it wounds me to hear you say it."
The girl was disarmed by the lord's kindness to her. The Riverlander rose from his seat and offered Arya his arm. After only a second's hesitation, she took it and the two nobles began to walk around the heart tree, circling the massive trunk at a leisurely pace.
"I must say, I was quite surprised by your prowess in the training yard earlier. Where did you gain such skill?"
"I've been training for years," she revealed, "and under some of the greatest masters imaginable. It seems I have some natural aptitude for it."
"My dear, I'd say that's quite an understatement."
Arya shrugged, embarrassed by her host's praise. "Well, it's nearly the only thing I can really do, so I suppose it's fortunate I'm proficient."
"I'm certain you exaggerate. I can see you are a person of many talents."
"Truly, my lord, this is no false modesty. I'm terrible at nearly everything a lady should have mastered by my age, except breathing."
Lord Blackwood chuckled. "Come now, my lady, your grace with your steel must translate to other areas where delicacy is required. You're sure to be a splendid dancer."
Arya frowned, saying, "I don't really know, as I don't recall ever having tried it, but I'm shite with a needle and thread... Oh!" She gasped at her own crudeness. "Forgive me, Lord Blackwood!" The Riverlander roared.
"And you've certainly mastered the art of colorful language!" he choked out, laughing so hard he could barely speak. After a moment, he wiped a few tears from the corners of his eyes and breathed deeply. "Oh, Lady Arya, you are your aunt all over again. I think there's a bit of your Uncle Brandon in you, as well."
She wasn't sure what to say to that since neither of them had lived long enough for her to know them. If there was any Stark she was going to be compared to, she wished it was her father, but living up to the standard set by Eddard Stark was no easy feat. She sighed.
"I've recently been told I'm too much like my mother," she said quietly. That seemed to sober the lord. He was too familiar with both Catelyn Tully and Lady Stoneheart to mistake which version of her mother the girl meant. Arya might have taken her host's silence for judgment or disapproval, but if she had studied his expression more closely, she might have found something more complex; something like the earliest glimmers of optimism or the stirrings of faith. The pair continued their stroll around the massive tree a few moments more before Lord Blackwood seemingly changed the subject.
"Shall I show you the carved face?" he offered. "It's really quite remarkable." She nodded her assent and they gazed up as they neared the tree. The face was fully two stories above their heads, and large. Arya thought she could stand upright in the mouth, if only she could reach it to pull herself inside. The look of it was fierce, the mouth forming what appeared to be a growl. The sap which must have once run to make red-rimmed eyes and bleeding tears had long ago dried and turned black and hard. It gave the face a frightening, almost deranged appearance.
"What do you think of our friend here?" the lord asked as she studied the carving.
The girl cleared her throat. "He looks as if he does not abide insult. I'd hate to give offense to this one."
"Yet many have, my lady. Many have. Do you suppose that we will finally see the vengeance of the old gods visited upon those who have dared endorse those insults?" He gave her a shrewd look and watched her closely as she stared off, considering his words.
Vengeance. He was speaking her language. Arya pulled her arm free of her host and approached the heart tree, head cocked to the side as if deep in thought. When she could move no closer, she dropped to her knees and placed her palms flat against the trunk. Leaning forward, she pressed her forehead against the white wood, the skin tingling everywhere it contacted the bark. After a moment, she thought of her prayer.
Ser Ilyn, Ser Meryn, Queen Cersei, traitorous black brothers, the Kindly Man.
Lord Blackwood stepped behind her in silence and waited. Without turning to look at him, Arya answered his question.
"Vengeance?" she whispered. "Oh, my dear Lord Blackwood, I sincerely hope so."
Renegades—X Ambassadors
Another A/N: This chapter was originally intended to bring Arya to the Hollow Hill and put her just on the cusp of meeting Lady Stoneheart. I really, really wanted to get there. But then Harwin decided to start discussing his thoughts about Arya's future, and then this feast cropped up and Lord Blackwood said he wanted to be more than a simple background character and all these other people started dropping by the castle, and then this chatty maid decided to fill Arya in on all the gossip around the Blackwood home and the next thing I knew, the chapter was monstrously long and Arya still hadn't gotten to the Hollow Hill. In order to post sooner and to keep the chapter from becoming a 25,000 word behemoth, I decided to split it into two chapters. On the downside, that means you have to wait to find out how Arya reacts to Lady Stoneheart, and for that, I apologize most sincerely. On the upside, I'm fairly far into what is now chapter 6, so it should go up a good bit quicker than this last did. Thank you for your patience!