The Grey Daughter

by Winterlyn Dow

Arya Stark, former assassin-in-training and current exile from a mysterious order, nurses a broken heart and some serious grudges as she makes her way across Westeros, seeking revenge on those who have hurt her. Will she find peace in a land at war, or will mysterious forces succeed in shaping her destiny, and with it, the destiny of Westeros? Part 2 of The Assassins Trilogy

7. Sing as Their Bones Go Marching In

What if I say I will never surrender?

---

As they strode through the doors of the great hall, Lord Blackwood had made it known to his honored guest that he planned to introduce her to the feast attendees, thus confirming her survival. Not only her survival, but indeed, announcing her arrival in the very heart of Westeros. The girl was immediately struck by the notion that the crown (and possibly the marching Dragons) would view her sudden appearance as a challenge. Arya had recongized this was a possibility in one way or another when Harwin had argued with her that she should not attempt to hide her true identity when they came to the castle. Though they had not settled the point between them before they rode through the gates of Raventree Hall, Lord Blackwood's instant recognition of her Stark blood had sealed her fate, for good or for ill. She realized now that the only way she could have thwarted the Riverlander's plan to make her presence known would have been to abscond in the middle of the night, making a feast in her honor wholly unnecessary. Barring that, it was not to be avoided and her lot was cast. Still, she tried to reason with her host one last time.

"My lord, I'm not sure it's wise to announce so widely that I have returned. Oughtn't we discuss the ramifications first?"

Lord Blackwood patted her hand soothingly and said, "Be at ease, Lady Arya. You are under my protection now, and I will allow no harm to come to you, but you must be seen and known if we are win others to your cause. Before we can secure your seat in the North, we must have adequate support. Tonight, we begin amassing it."

"Secure my... my seat in the North?"

Tytos Blackwood gave her a gentle smile, but behind it, she could sense all the determination and ambition and anticipation of a man very much used to getting what he desired (and very much decided on what it was he most desired at that moment). Her eyes left the lord's face and she glanced about the wide room, taking in the hundreds of flickering candles, the bright, hanging banners, and all the guests in their finery, murmuring amid the strains of music floating down from the group of minstrels seated high in the overhead gallery.

Pomp and pageantry. Foolishly, she had been most concerned at the bother of it. Now she understood that she ought to have been concerned with what it was meant to conceal, and with what it was meant to reveal to the whole of Westeros. The feast was not just about celebrating her miraculous survival or honoring the daughter of an old ally and friend. It was about staking a claim, both her claim to the North, and perhaps even Lord Blackwood's claim to her.

For why else would he help her, if not to find some gain in it for his own house?

Arya cast a side-long glance at her escort and began to wonder if she had been too free with her trust.

Just prior to entering the great hall, the Cat had felt within her a small measure of cheer, the residue of her uncharacteristic frivolity with Lady Bethany in the corridors as they made their way to the feast. As Tytos Blackwood spoke of introductions and protection and support, however, all she could feel was that cheer draining away. The corners of her mouth, which had been left tilted slightly upward as she greeted the lord, now drooped once more and she turned her mind to serious matters. Slowly, the great cyvasse board which seemed to dominate the world came into focus. She strained to see where she fit into this game, and whose hand was moving all the other pieces.

Chewing slowly at her bottom lip, Arya wondered how it was possible that things were happening so fast; how things had so quickly slipped from her control. She had a prayer and a sword and the unyielding dedication of her Faceless brother. She meant to avenge her family, discover Jon's fate, then use her iron coin to sail for Braavos to settle a score with the principal elder of the House of Black and White. It was a simple plan and its success would be easily demonstrable: when everyone on her list was dead, she would know she had achieved victory. Crowns and heirs; seats and claims; allies and enemies; these meant little and less to her. She would not be made to serve as anyone's liege. She would not be used as currency to buy loyalty for a cause she did not claim as her own. She would not be that pretty banner around which men would rally.

Westeros be damned, she thought. She meant only to seek vengeance for her family and her love. They could keep their titles and thrones; she had no need of them.

Why, then, did she feel as though she had been caught in a powerful current, and the best she could hope for now was to avoid drowning?

Lord Blackwood seemed to sense the girl's trepidation, though perhaps he had not fully discerned the source of it. He squeezed her arm reassuringly and because he had been a friend to her father, and because, despite her creeping doubts, she had a strong feeling about him, she allowed herself to be reassured. Together, they advanced further into the feast chamber.

The hall was brighter and livelier than Arya would have guessed for a feast which had been thrown together overnight. Her own party numbered ten (excluding the wolves, of course), plus the two representatives of the Brotherhood who had arrived that day. The Blackwood family numbered six (and with the addition of Ser Brynden, they would number seven. His heir had arrived late from Pennytree, Lord Blackwood revealed to Arya, but would assuredly be in attendance after making himself presentable). Arya was finally introduced to Lady Blackwood, and then each of her children in turn.

"You're the lady who knows how to fight," said Baby Bobbin when he was presented to Arya, then, turning to his mother and sister, asked, "Why don't you know how to fight?"

"Your mother knows very well how to fight, Robert," Lord Blackwood laughed, "only her weapons are not so obvious as Valyrian steel!"

Lady Blackwood only smiled demurely, but Arya could sense the strength behind her tolerant expression.

There were sworn knights present, of both high and common birth, along with the maester of Raventree Hall, the steward, the master of horse, and a septon (though whether he served the Blackwoods or some nearby village, the girl was not sure). There were also several men and and a few women who Arya did not recognize but whose elegant dress hinted at their elevated (possibly even noble) positions. One of the fashionable ladies, Arya realized with a start, she did know, however improbable it seemed that she should.

Lady Smallwood.

Lyra had not mentioned that Lord Smallwood's wife had traveled with him. The Cat found it strange that such a visit would have occurred without any sort of prior notice. A lord and lady arriving by happenstance at a great house on the very day of an unplanned feast? Arya narrowed her eyes, surveying the room, taking in all the guests and wondering at each one's purpose here. She felt as though someone had torn a map into small bits and laid those bits in a pile before her. She knew all the pieces were there, but she wasn't quite sure how they fit together, and until she figured it out, she wouldn't be able to find her way home.

When Lord Blackwood introduced Arya to Lord and Lady Smallwood, it was apparent that the Lady of Acorn Hall did not immediately recognize her former guest. After all, Lady Smallwood had not been allowed to know the girl's name during her stay. There must have been something she found familiar, however, judging by the woman's bewildered expression. Arya could almost see the thoughts as they tumbled through the lady's head. She imagined they went something like, This girl seems familiar to me, almost as if I know her, but I have never met Arya Stark, so how can that be?

The assassin said nothing to alleviate Lady Smallwood's confusion as she was unsure whether the lady would wish for the details of that visit be known by present company. Lady Smallwood had sheltered the Brotherhood at Acorn Hall while her husband was away, and there had been rumors of her old (and perhaps, not so old) ties to Tom O' Sevens. The discretion may not have been required, but Arya felt it best to speak with the lady in private first. Lord Smallwood greeted the girl with the appropriate degree of formality and deference, but his wife remained distracted, obviously trying to recall where she had seen the girl's face before.

Had she really changed so much in five years? Arya knew her hair had darkened some, and it had certainly grown, no longer the choppy, short mop of an urchin who had spent a great deal of time pretending to be a boy. Still, her face was her face, was it not? She resolved to ask Gendry or Harwin. The girl thought it strange to be recognized instantly by a man she had never met before but to be unknown by someone who had clothed her in her daughter's own dresses five years prior. Perhaps the darkened lips and lined eyes were even more of a disguise than she realized.

Arya saw the blacksmith-knight across the great hall, speaking with Tom O'Sevens. Elsbeth and Little Nate stood in that tight group, listening to whatever conversation the men of the Brotherhood were having. Tom was shaking his head at Gendry as he spoke. Arya could not break away from Lord Blackwood to seek her old friend's company just then, as the Riverlander was continuing to present her to the most important among the revelers.

"Karyl!" Lord Blackwood bellowed when he spotted a tall man in conversation with the maester of Raventree Hall.

"Tytos, you old dog," the tall man replied in a cordial tone as the Riverlander approached with Arya on his arm. "I was beginning to wonder if you meant to keep your guest from me." The stranger turned to face the girl, brushing his long brown hair from where it was hanging over his eyes. When he did, he revealed a large, wine-colored birthmark which marred most of one cheek, extending over his eye and down his neck. Arya supposed he kept his hair long to hide it as best he could, though she found his face somehow pleasing to look upon. Of course, she had always been more intrigued by interesting than beautiful.

"Never, my friend," Lord Blackwood assured the man. "My lady, may I present Karyl Vance, the Lord of Wayfarer's Rest? Lord Vance, this is the delightful Lady Arya Stark."

Delightful, indeed, she scoffed inwardly. It was clear the lord did not know her very well. The girl smirked but still managed a small bow of her head to match Lord Vance's own.

"Lady Arya, you cannot know how much it means to all of us that you are here," Lord Vance commented quite seriously.

Curious. Why should Lord Vance care about her?

"I thank you, my lord."

"Don't look so somber, Karyl," Lord Blackwood interrupted playfully. "This is a celebration! Now, if you'll excuse us, I must help this young lady make the acquaintance of the rest of my guests."

Lord Vance bowed his head once again, but said, "My lady, I do hope we will have the chance to speak again later." The girl had time to smile and nod before her host whisked her off once again. However, before she had the opportunity to meet everyone her escort had intended, the steward, in his capacity as surveyor of the feast, was calling for everyone's attention. When the eyes of the room were upon him, the steward directed those with a place at the Lord's table to be seated.

"This is our signal, my dear," Lord Blackwood said to the girl, once again taking her arm. "We must rally to our places, else the feast cannot begin and the ravenous guests may riot!"

"Are rioting guests a common woe in the Riverlands?" the girl snickered.

The lord's look was careworn as he replied, "My lady, you have no idea."

He escorted her up the steps to the dais and personally held her chair for her. When she was seated to the right of his chair, Lord and Lady Blackwood sat. They were followed by Lord Vance to Lady Blackwood's left and then the Blackwood children on either end of the table (save Baby Bobbin, who was seated at the high table just below the Lord's table, with his nurse and the master at arms to keep him occupied and guarantee his good behavior for the feast). The chair immediately to Arya's right remained conspicuously empty.

"Have I driven away someone of import, my lord?" Arya asked her host, nodding to the empty seat.

"Please forgive my son, Lady Arya. I expect him here shortly."

Lord Blackwood had no sooner spoken the words when a tall, lean man with waving, sandy hair burst through the doors and sauntered up the center aisle toward the dais. As he passed the lower tables, he smiled, nodding and exchanging greetings with a few of the knights who slapped him on the back as he passed. The display seemed to indicate the newcomer was popular among his men and the more important villagers who had attended the feast. The man jogged up the steps of the dais, stopping briefly to kiss Lady Bethany's cheek before dropping into the seat next to Arya.

Ser Brynden, then, the Cat thought, back from Pennytree.

At that precise moment, Lord Blackwood stood, welcoming his guests to the feast.

"Today is a day of immeasurable joy here at Raventree Hall and indeed, across the entirety of the Riverlands, for we gather to celebrate the daughter of a great house once thought all but extinct. Raise your glasses, kith and kin, and drink to my good friend, the honorable Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, taken too soon from this world. And drink to his son, the brave Robb Stark, King in the North and our one true sovereign. Raise your cups for Lady Catelyn Stark, beloved mistress of Winterfell and daughter of our leige lord, Hoster Tully. Raise your cups for all the Tullys of Riverrun. Let us toast the miraculous survival of the one house which rose to lead us against the tyranny and lies of the Lannister pretenders!" Tytos Blackwood lifted his pewter goblet high then, calling out over the crowd, "To Lady Arya, of House Stark!"

A great cheer went up around the room, men rising to their feet and calling back, "To Lady Arya of House Stark!"

Amid the deafening roar of voices and stamping and goblets banging against tables with enough force to cause her skull to vibrate, Arya looked out over the crowd and found the Bear's eyes staring back at her across the sea of raucous revelers. She was discomfited by the fact that the worry she felt just then seemed to be reflected in her brother's expression as he held her gaze. Her own expression betrayed nothing but her head swam as her true identity was so openly declared, melting years of Facelessness and pretense from her small frame in the same way a spring thaw melts the ice from the high branches of a sentinel.

She only hoped that she could manage to stand as strong and unwavering as the sentinel amid the mounting pressures that were sure to soon besiege her.

---

Arya Stark, currently the only confirmed survivor of her great family and heir apparent to her brother Robb's crown (which brought with it dominion over the whole of the North and the Riverlands), was frozen in her place of honor, on the dais at the head of the feast chamber, between the current and future lords of Raventree Hall. As Lord Blackwood drank to her family and her survival, his own heir, Ser Brynden, sipped happily from his goblet. Lady Blackwood, resplendent in a gold gown which suited her coloring, sat to her husband's left, her cheek rosy in the candlelight flooding the dais. She was more reserved than her husband, as befitted a lady of her stature, but Arya wondered if Ellenya Blackwood's lack of overt enthusiasm during the toast betrayed some doubts about her husband's plans for the last of the Starks.

Would Lady Blackwood even be privy to such plans?

As the feast went on, the girl made a study of those surrounding her. To Lady Blackwood's left, Karyl Vance was seated, earning his place at the head table as a nobleman from the most powerful house present, save for Lord Blackwood and Arya herself. During Lord Blackwood's welcome and toast, the Lord of Wayfarer's rest had gazed intently at Eddard Stark's daughter and she thought she read in his face a version of the same ambition and determination she had earlier sensed in Tytos Blackwood himself. Further along in the festivities, however, Lord Vance's expression had become inexplicably melancholy and was at odds with the gaiety so pervasive in the room. Still, to the Cat, it seemed more appropriate than the cheering and endless toasts she had endured since her public introduction by her host.

Bethany Blackwood, who would occasionally catch Arya's eye and use a nod of her head or a flick of her gaze to indicate which men in the room she thought might be admiring Arya's person at various times, sat between her brothers Brynden and Alyn. The infamous Ben Blackwood was seated on the far side of Lord Vance, between Lord and Lady Smallwood.

At the high table just below her own, Arya recognized the master at arms as the man who had been training the tot in the yard earlier, a child she now knew was little Lord Robert, the youngest of the Blackwood children. A man wearing the robes and chain of the Citadel dined there as well, Maester Alfryd as he was called. At the very edge of the Baby Bobbin's table sat a blonde woman of immense stature who Arya did not recognize. The tall stranger seemed to be giving Arya long looks, the meaning of which the girl was having trouble deciphering.

"Lord Blackwood," the girl began, leaning in slightly to her host, "who is that woman?" She nodded toward the ruddy faced lady who wore her fair hair cropped.

"Ah!" He smiled at her, swallowing a bit of his wine. "You've not met Lady Brienne of House Tarth. Her father is Lord of Evenfall Hall. I shall introduce you once you've eaten."

So that was Lady Brienne. The Cat recalled that Gendry had mentioned her at the inn. The large woman was engaged in talk with the master at arms who was seated across from her. Arya's contemplation of the knightly woman was cut short by the man to her right.

"We've not properly met, my lady," said the heir to Raventree Hall, drawing the assassin's gaze. "I did not wish to interrupt the toasts for fear you'd think me ill-mannered. I'm Brynden Blackwood."

"Far be it from me to judge anyone's manners, ser," the girl said, causing Ser Brynden to arch an eyebrow and lift one corner of his mouth. "I had guessed at your identity, though. I am Arya Stark. It's my honor to meet you."

Ser Brynden was a handsome man, well-featured, and Lyra had not misrepresented him. With his high cheekbones, blue eyes, and light hair, he was his mother's son. It would only take her a moment to discover that the maid had also been correct in her assessment that he was a Blackwood through and through. There was much of his father's manner in him, a confidence and a certain shrewdness and enough of grace to mark him as highborn, even if the two men shared few physical traits.

Arya proffered her hand in a delicate move which would have made Catelyn Stark proud and would probably have shocked Sansa to her proper little core, so cordial and courteous was her rough little sister just then. The girl had to stop herself from smirking at the thought. Ser Brynden took her hand and pressed a kiss to it. She could feel his smile against her flesh as he did so. She glanced out over the crowd as the heir to Raventree Hall released her hand and found Ser Gendry near the back of the hall, watching her. He seemed to be frowning though Elsbeth, who was seated next to him, was chatting away happily in his ear.

"The honor is mine, my lady," the knight said, drawing her attention away from the blacksmith and back to himself. "I can't tell you how pleased we all were to find you alive, and in such good health. This is the happiest I've seen my father in years." Ser Brynden nodded toward Lord Blackwood who was laughing with his lady as servants began delivering trenchers of an aromatic stew with chunks of hot bread perched upon the edges.

"Truthfully, ser, I find it all a bit..."

"Overwhelming?" he supplied helpfully, tearing off a piece of the bread and popping it into his mouth. Brynden's eyebrows were raised slightly as he watched the girl's face.

"More... unexpected," she replied. "To be plain about it, I didn't think I'd be known. I thought I might make most of my journey unrecognized."

"My lady, even had you lacked your family name, a maid of your beauty could not have remained unknown for very long in Westeros."

Arya's eyes narrowed infinitesimally. She instinctively mistrusted such empty praise. Leaning closer to the knight, she murmured, "My lord, you should reserve your flattery for someone more deserving." The advice had the sound of a warning about it which Ser Brynden detected. His eyes widened slightly as he protested.

"Lady Arya, you are certainly the most deserving woman in this room."

"Then you should reserve it for someone more susceptible." She knew her response was not in keeping with Ser Willem's exhortation to be gracious, and she had to admit that her elegant sister's imagined skepticism of her manners would have been justified just then, but she had no appetite for games. Perhaps for Sansa, courtesy was effective armor, but Arya had always found that armor made the best armor. She wished she were wearing her breastplate now, with Grey Daughter strapped to her back and Frost at her hip; then perhaps everyone who looked upon her would understand who she was. And who she was not.

"I meant no offense, my lady..."

"And none was given, ser. I simply wish to spare you the tedium of trying to conjure enough pretty words to say to me to make passable conversation. I'd rather hear of your business in the village than watch you perjure yourself in an attempt to charm me."

The knight laughed, the sound of it rich and deep and delighted. "You are a revelation, my lady. I had thought all young maids liked to be told how comely they are."

"Many do, I suppose, even when faced with a complete lack of evidence to support such claims. I am not one of them, however."

"I will consider myself schooled on the matter now, Lady Arya."

"I am happy to be of assistance."

The sandy-headed man leaned in close enough that only she could hear him and said in a low voice, "Still, you injure my honor when you accuse me of speaking false. Every word was truly meant, regardless of how unwelcome you may find the sentiment."

There was a sincerity to his words that caught Arya off her guard. She fought to keep the color from her cheek, but she wasn't entirely sure the endeavor was successful. Halfway across the feast chamber, Ser Willem's raised eyebrow and his small smirk as he watched her seemed to further indicate her failure. She bit her lower lip, telling herself to rule her face. There was much at stake and much danger lurked, possibly even in this very room, so that it would not be wise to allow herself to be undone by a bit of flattery from a handsome man.

A girl must always keep her head about her, lest she lose it.

As he often did during the most challenging times of her life, Jaqen came to her. Arya heeded his admonition. She would keep her wits, for she was certain she would have need of them this night.

---

Platter after platter was delivered to the table by jolly servants, the best portions being selected by Lord Blackwood and placed before Arya despite her protests. She found herself too preoccupied to sustain an appetite but she nibbled at bread and roasted boar in an effort to seem polite. When at last the trays of lemon cakes and apple tarts were placed on the table between Ser Brynden and herself, the girl gave up all pretense and leaned back in her seat, looking away from the final course and over the crowd again, trying to discern who was like to be friend and who might be foe.

"Have you no taste for sweets, Lady Arya?" Ser Brynden asked as he reached for a tart.

"Not this night, my lord," she replied distractedly. "I find your sister's corset has left me with little room to breathe, much less for eating treats."

The knight snorted his laughter, almost choking as he said, "My lady! Are you trying to shock me?"

Arya's voice was quiet as she asked, "Do you find the truth so shocking?" She turned to face him.

"I suppose I do," he answered, studying her for a moment. "I am unused to ladies saying whatever is on their minds."

"Well, I apologize then, ser. I did not intend to scandalize you." Her tone bordered on disdainful.

"No need for apologies, my lady. I find myself quite enamored with your bluntness, even if it is foreign to me."

"Perhaps it is merely the novelty which interests you, ser," the girl suggested. "You may not feel so inclined after you've spent more time with me and the novelty wears thin."

"Is that a challenge, Lady Arya?" the knight inquired, his eyes twinkling with mischief. When she did not reply, he stood, saying, "If you'll not indulge in a sweet, perhaps you would prefer a dance?" The minstrels had stuck up a likely tune for dancing just then. Ser Brynden stood tall on the dais, drawing the attention of the entire hall, cutting a gallant figure with one arm tucked neatly behind his back while he extended his other hand to her. She did not think she could refuse him without causing public awkwardness, and so she stood and slipped her small palm against his, allowing the knight to lead her down the steps of the dais. Men scrambled to move the foremost tables to the side as the couple approached, making room for dancing. Soon, the two were joined by others whirling about the floor. The eldest Blackwood son wasted no time in initiating conversation with his partner.

"How do you find the feast, Lady Arya?"

"Oh, it's lovely," she said, and it was an answer delivered without hesitation, but also without conviction.

"Come now, where is the bluntness you had no trouble showing earlier?"

"Have I said something wrong, ser?"

"Perhaps I am mistaken, my lady, but I have the notion that you would rather be anywhere but here."

"Anywhere but the dance floor?" Arya asked. "Or, anywhere but a feast announcing my return to Westeros?"

"Anywhere but my father's house."

"Then you are mistaken, Ser Brynden. I find Raventree Hall to be splendid."

"The feast is lovely. The castle is splendid. I must say, you are quite agreeable this evening."

"How do you know I'm not always this agreeable?"

Brynden Blackwood grinned. "Let's call it a hunch."

The heir to Raventree Hall towered over his dancing partner and inclined his head toward Arya's for a moment before he spoke again, moving her gracefully around the floor all the while. He seemed to inhale deeply, which struck the girl as odd.

"I know this scent you wear, my lady. Did my sister lend it to you?"

"Now who's behaving scandalously?" the Cat scolded. "How familiar you are, Ser Brynden, to comment on a lady's scent."

"Oh, do forgive me, Lady Arya," the knight said, his tone teasing, "I had always assumed that when a lady applies scent, she expects for it to be commented upon, else why wear it?"

"I didn't apply it," the girl grumbled. "It was applied to me before I could object."

"Come now, don't frown so. The perfume suits you, but the consternation does not."

"It suits me? Have you made a study of which scents best complement certain ladies?"

"Not as such, no," he admitted, "but this oil is one I bought off a vendor from Braavos. It's exotic, rare, and spicy. If that's not you to the letter, my lady, I don't know what is."

Cloves and ginger. The scent did suit her. Too well. But not for the reasons Ser Brynden had listed. Thinking on it caused an ache in her chest, however.

"I'd rather not talk about it," she said, her voice soft. Her eyes took on a faraway look, as if she could see through the thick castle walls, over the hills, and across the sea.

"You are a strange sort of girl, Lady Arya. You smell of exotic spices but expect a man holding you in his arms not to notice. You don't like to be told that you're pretty, even when you are quite clearly the most beautiful woman in the room. Your step is feather-light and graceful as we dance yet you fight like a demon with your swords." Arya looked up at him then, her eyes narrowing, and he laughed, saying, "Oh yes, I've heard. In fact, you're nearly all anyone in the castle has talked about since my return."

The girl wasn't sure if the knight was merely teasing her, but she pondered his words in silence for a few moments more as he moved her along the edge of the gathered crowd. Everyone they passed seemed to be whispering about her and she decided Ser Brynden was like to be telling the truth.

"I'm sorry you've been bothered by idle gossip..." she started.

"Not at all," he dismissed. "I only wish I'd been here to see it for myself. I think you've quite bewitched the castle, my lady."

"Oh?"

"Mmm," he nodded. "You've certainly made an impression on my father."

"And what of you, ser? What is your impression?"

The handsome knight's brow crinkled even as his mouth lifted into a smile. "I'm not quite sure yet, my lady. I am at a loss."

Arya turned her head to the side, looking away from Ser Brynden's enigmatic smile. She spied Ser Gendry dancing with Elsbeth not ten feet from her. He looked... uncomfortable. Before she could turn her gaze from the couple, the blacksmith-knight looked up and caught her staring. His blue eyes bored into hers and though she had always been reasonably good at reading faces, she could not puzzle out her friend's thoughts just then. She offered him a small smile before turning her attention back to her dancing partner. Ser Brynden was still looking down at her with that same quizzical expression.

"People often don't know what to make of me," she finally shrugged.

"In my experience, when a woman says something like that, she's begging for someone to take the time to understand her."

"In your experience," the girl repeated, scoffing. "Is your experience with contradictory, misunderstood women so vast?"

"Why, yes, my lady," Ser Brynden replied as the music ended, his confidence a palpable thing, and then he bent as if bowing to her and whispered in her ear, "and it's growing every day."

Arya's small hand snaked up Ser Brynden's neck and slipped into the sandy hair at the back of his skull, trapping his head in its bowed position so that he could not pull away. She raised herself up on her toes and turned her face so that her mouth was level with his ear before she whispered back, "I don't care what your experience with other women has been. I don't give a bloody fuck if anyone ever understands me." She released him then and curtsied deeply, sweeping her arm out wide with overdone grace before turning to leave. The heir to Raventree Hall shook with his laughter as he watched the girl in white walk away, skirts fluttering in her wake.

---

Ser Willem Ferris, the Faceless knight, reached out for Arya as she strode past him, headed for the doors.

"Are you quite well, my lady?" he asked, and the words were that of a Dornish nobleman but the concern in his eyes belonged only to the Bear. He added quietly, "I think our hosts might take it as insult if you abandon the feast just now."

"This is exactly what I was afraid of," she hissed quietly, gesturing around the room. "All this... this... nonsense. All these political... machinations."

He drew her toward a corner so that they might speak without being heard. "It's not so dire, sister," he whispered. "It will take weeks, months even, for this news to travel far and wide. By then, we will be long gone. Nothing is lost yet. Take heart."

"News travels slowly on foot or horseback, maybe, but with ravens..."

"Do you imagine Lord Blackwood will send a raven to the Lannisters to announce your return?"

"No, but.."

"There is no reason you can't enjoy a feast. No one is declaring you Queen in the North tonight, sister. I wish you would be at your ease." The Bear's voice took on a pleading tone. "We've had so little peace in our past, and the road we travel is not like to give us much more. For one night, can't we eat and dance and laugh?"

Arya sighed. "You know my aim. I don't think I'll find much help for it here. I'm afraid if I stay, I may be actively hindered."

"Do you think to hop on Bane's back right now, in your white gown and dainty slippers, and ride off into the night alone?" He was amused and made no effort to hide it.

"No, of course not," she said. "You must think me a very great fool, Ser Willem."

"Not really, my lady. I'm only trying to make you smile. You look... distressed."

Arya sagged a little. "They haven't said it explicitly, but these Riverlanders aren't so difficult to read. I am certain they mean to marry me off to one or another of them and march me North to claim the Winter Throne."

"Do you really think their plans are so settled? You've only just arrived." The Faceless knight sounded skeptical.

"I think if we don't leave soon, we'll find ourselves embroiled in a political scenario we may not find it easy to escape."

The Bear placed his two great hands on the girl's slender shoulders and made her a vow.

"No political scenario will ever hold us prisoner, sister." The Lyseni laughed as if the very thought of such a thing was ridiculous, and perhaps it was. "I'll die before I let you be forced into a marriage you don't want. I've sworn to protect you, and I mean to keep that oath. Do you believe me?"

The girl gave her brother a weak smile and nodded. She did believe him, but the unsettled feeling in her gut persisted.

"Now, let's dance before Lord Blackwood starts to get suspicious," Ser Willem suggested. He hooked his arm through Arya's and the two assassins took a turn around the floor, smiling at those who greeted them as they passed. As they finished and bowed to one another, Lord Blackwood approached, Brienne of Tarth at his side.

"Ser Willem, I must steal your lady away, for there are many anxious for her company," their host explained. The Bear bowed his head respectfully and moved off to seek his squire who sat drinking wine with the members of the Brotherhood. "Lady Arya, may I present Lady Brienne of Evenfall Hall?"

"My lady," Arya murmured, but before she could say else, the blonde giant had dropped to one knee, startling the girl.

"Lady Arya," Brienne began earnestly, her head bowed, "I have looked for you for long years, through the Riverlands, south to King's Landing, across the Westerlands and the Vale. I pledged to seek you out and discover your fate, returning you to the bosom of your family if you still lived."

"Pledged? To whom?"

"Why, your mother, Lady Arya!" Lady Brienne looked up at the girl then. "I was the sworn sword of Lady Stark."

"Lady Stoneheart, you mean," the girl said quietly.

"No, my lady. It's true that I ride now with the Brotherhood without Banners, but I swore an oath to Catelyn Stark."

"You knew... my mother?" Arya swallowed hard.

"I did, my lady. I do."

"Well, I'm afraid I no longer have a family to whose bosom you may return me, but I thank you for your service to my lady mother."

"Lady Arya, your mother awaits you. I intend to take you to her, and fulfill my oath."

It was at this point that Lord Blackwood interjected. "Now, Lady Brienne, please rise and let there be no more serious talk tonight. We'll have plenty of time to decide what's to be done on the morrow. Tonight is for dancing and eating and drinking!" His tone seemed to portray a joviality that his eyes did not. Arya guessed that Lady Brienne's desire to fulfill her oath did not exactly fit into Lord Blackwood's own plans. The girl began to feel as though she was a piece of meat being torn between two hungry dogs.

"We'll speak further of this in the morning," Arya said graciously as Brienne rose to her full height. But not too late, else you'll miss me as I ride away.

"I shall look forward to it, Lady Arya," Brienne promised, bowing before she turned away and cut through the crowd to find a seat. Karyl Vance approached then, asking the girl for a dance. She recalled that the lord had wished to speak with her again and only hesitated a moment before obliging him. She decided she had best see what the Lord of Wayfarer's Rest was about.

"So you've met the Lady Brienne, I see," Lord Vance said as he guided Arya around the floor in time with the music. He was not a particularly graceful man, but he did not trod on her toes, so for that she was grateful.

"I did," the girl replied. "Is she always so... intense?"

"Yes. She is."

"Do you know her well, my lord?"

"Well enough to appreciate her. I would see her married and happy, but in times such as these, there is much work to be done first, and she has been valuable to that cause."

Arya had overheard several derisive remarks directed at the the Lady of Evenfall as she danced with her various partners, and she knew well how little regard men could have for a lady who did not fit neatly into their rigid ideal of womanhood. She had experienced some of that herself throughout her life, especially as the highborn daughter of a great lord. She expected she would be subjected to even more judgment now that she was back in Westeros and so publicly identified as that same highborn daughter.

"You truly appreciate her, my lord?" Arya asked, unconvinced that Lord Vance could be sincere.

"Aye, I do. Lady Brienne may not be thought a beauty by many, it's true, and there are those who resent her refusal to keep to the occupations usually reserved for the fairer sex, but there are enough rare qualities in her that I cannot help but to see her true worth, even if others do not."

"Ser Gendry has told me she is adept with a sword."

"The lady is a more than capable warrior," he agreed, "but I have learned to treasure her valor and goodness. They are equal to any man's."

"A lord of Westeros who recognizes the true worth of a woman? You are a rare man indeed, Lord Vance."

"In the summers of a man's life, it may be a woman's countenance and form which draw him to her, but it is in the winters of his life that he begins to understand that the things which should command his loyalty are not to be found so superficially."

Arya knew that the Riverlander did not refer to the seasons as he spoke, but rather the times of ease and the times of hardship that all men endured.

"You speak like a Northman, my lord," she said, and though her voice was neutral, it was meant as a great compliment. This Lord Vance knew.

"The Riverlands and the North have much in common," he replied, "and I have known and respected a great many Northmen, among them, his grace, King Robb."

She bowed her head, both in appreciation of Lord Vance's words and in sorrow for the loss of her brother. The Riverlander spun her in three slow circles as was demanded by the particular dance in which they were engaged. When she was once again secure in his arms, they moved along the edge of the floor for a moment before he spoke again.

"I knew your father as well, my lady."

This surprised her. "You did?"

"I met him once, when he served as Hand of the King. I had been sent to the capital on an errand for my father. This was before the war, mind you," he explained, looking a little wistful. "Summer." Though it truly had been summer, the way he said it, she knew instinctively that he meant something else. After a moment, he seemed to remember himself and stopped their movement so that they were no longer dancing. Lord Vance grasped her arms gently, holding her in place and looking her in the eye. "Eddard Stark was an honorable man and no traitor to the crown. What they did to him was wrong, my lady."

"It was," she agreed. "I know that very well, but I appreciate you saying it."

"Often times I wonder if I had been there, would..."

She interrupted him with a soft touch, her small hand wrapping around his forearm. "Do not think on it, my lord, for there is nothing to be gained in the speculation. Allow me to solve the mystery for you. There is nothing you could have done. The crowd was thick, and it all happened so fast."

"My lady, you speak as if you were there."

"I was."

He looked at her first with shock, then with pity. Neither were things she cared to entertain just then. What had happened had happened, and there was no profit in lamenting it in the middle of a feast, surrounded by strangers. Arya Stark mourned alone, and she would have her justice. She did not need the pity of others to get it.

---

Lord Smallwood, and Lord Blackwood both entreated Arya for a dance. By the time her host was bowing to her and thanking her for obliging him, Lord Alyn, Bethany's slightly older brother, had approached and awkwardly cleared his throat. Arya took pity on him and smiled graciously, accepting his hand and taking a turn with the boy around the floor. They were of an age, but Lord Alyn clearly had more growing left to do. He was still a gangly lad with some of his father's looks, but none of the elder Blackwood's assured confidence.

I suppose that comes with age, she thought.

As she finished her dance with the sweet if unpolished Lord Alyn, Arya's feet were beginning to fairly ache. She had meant to drop onto the nearest bench and seat herself for a rest when she felt an arm slide around her middle and found herself whisked away as the next tune began to play. Startled, she looked up at the face of her partner as he whirled her round and round.

Ben Blackwood.

"Well, sweetling, you finally get me all to yourself," he said by way of greeting once she managed to focus on his face amid the whirling. The dance was intricate and unknown to her. She found herself being held close and tight by Lord Blackwood's rakish son as he guided her through the steps.

"Loosen your grip, ser, I can barely breath," Arya responded through clenched teeth. She pulled away but Ser Ben responded by dragging her closer in to himself.

He painted his close embrace as a thing of gallantry. "I'm afraid if I do that, you will lose your step, my lady. I wouldn't like for some less graceful guest to trod on your hem!"

"If you'd left me alone, I'd be in no danger of having my hem caught under anyone's feet!"

"Come now, Lady Arya, you've danced with my father and my brothers. Now it's my turn."

Arya had not overindulged in wine, but the bit she had drunk, coupled with the tight circles the young knight spun her in, had her feeling quite dizzy. She leaned her head back and looked up toward the rafters, trying to get her bearings. If only she'd managed to strap her dagger to her wrist before leaving her chamber.

"Ser Edmund!" she cried after a moment. "Stop!"

The rogue laughed, spinning her one final time. "Ben, if you please, my lady," he corrected. "No one calls me Edmund unless they are very cross with me."

When they stopped, Arya glared at him. "I am very cross with you."

"Perhaps then I should make amends?"

"How so?" Her tone was suspicious.

He grinned wickedly. "Shall I think on it, my lady, and then come to your chamber tonight to tell you what I've come up with?"

The Cat pursed her lips, fighting the urge to shower the young knight with a stream of profanities that would make the sailors in Ragman's Harbor blush to hear. She didn't suppose those within earshot would be charmed by such a display and she had no wish to shame her host. Besides, Ben Blackwood caught his father frowning at him over her shoulder, the lord's displeasure at his son's boorish behavior evident on his face. Before the elder Blackwood could drag his mischievous son away by his ear, Gendry came to the girl's rescue, having seen the tail end of their dance and determining that someone should put an end to the display. Just as the blacksmith reached the couple, Ser Ben grabbed Arya's hand hastily, kissing her knuckles rather more sensuously than was called for.

The jackanapes actually moaned a little. Arya's lip curled as she yanked her hand back.

"Until later, then, my lady," he said, winking, and then he was gone.

Without a word, Gendry held out his hand and waited for Arya to take it. Sighing gratefully, she did just that, but instead of pulling her back into the middle of the dance floor, he led her through the crowd and to a bench along the far wall of the chamber, a relatively quiet spot, and indicated that she should sit.

"You don't want to dance?" the girl asked, dropping onto the bench and leaning against the stone wall behind her.

"I do," he insisted, "but you looked as if you could use a rest."

She smiled, looking down at the tips of her slippers peeking from beneath her hem and nodded. The shoes were pretty enough, but overlarge, and the way they rubbed against her heels was sure to raise blisters. The girl was glad of the respite.

"I think Ser Edmund must have been a bit too far in his cups," the dark knight commented after a moment.

"Ben? I'm sure he's had his share, but I'd wager whether he's in his cups or sober as a septon, his behavior remains the same."

"Did he harm you any, m'lady?"

Arya snorted. "Do you imagine someone like Ben Blackwood could really harm me?"

"No, I know you're very fearsome with a blade, m'lady..."

"I've told you not to call me that..."

"...but you've not got no blade on you, as far as I can tell, and if he has... imposed on you in any way, I'll have words with the boy."

"Would these words be punctuated with fists, or perhaps weaponry of some sort?" she asked.

"Aye, they might be."

The girl looked up at her old friend, amused. "Would you duel for me, Ser Gendry?" She smiled as she said it.

"If need be."

"Would you run a man through, if he... imposed on me?"

"I would, if you wished it."

"And if you were injured? If you were the one run through? What then?"

"I don't think I would be, m'lady. I'm more than fair with a sword these days, and better with a warhammer, but if it came to that, I'd at least die knowing that I'd done my duty and defended your honor."

"My honor," she spat and looked away. Her face settled into a grimace. Hesitantly, the large knight sat on the bench beside her. After a moment, she turned to him. "Gendry," she began seriously, "you have to know... I'd never ask that of you. I'd never want that." At Arya's use of his name without title or pretext, the blacksmith's eyes softened.

"I know..."

"You may have some mistaken idea of me as... oh, a weak little girl. Or a helpless highborn."

"As bullheaded as you like to think me, I'm not so stupid as to consider you helpless, m'lady. You nearly killed me with a tree branch, remember?"

She smiled slightly at the memory. Dead man. Still, she persisted.

"I don't want you putting yourself in danger on my behalf. I don't want anyone doing that. I don't need to be defended. Do you understand?"

"Aye, m'lady, I do. The thing is..."

Arya eyed the large man expectantly.

"I'm your sworn knight," he reminded her. "If I'm not to defend you, what would you have of me?"

The girl tugged her beet-stained lower lip between her teeth and chewed thoughtfully, staring out at the crowd of revelers but not really seeing them. The truth was, she wasn't quite sure what to do with Ser Gendry. She had not truly meant for him to follow her, but a man's oath was a serious matter and he had pledged his loyalty to her when they were at the inn. Still, they had not yet met with Lady Stoneheart, and the leader of the the Brotherhood was sure to have an opinion on the matter. Once her mother had passed judgment, Arya supposed she could decide how best to employ the blacksmith-knight, assuming Lady Stoneheart released him rather than hanging him for desertion. But whatever was decided, Arya knew she couldn't allow the dark knight to put himself in harm's way for her. Not when she was the more capable of the two with a blade.

She ought to be the one defending him, not the other way around. She could put a knife through Ben Blackwood's eye from across the room, if she had call to do so.

She released her abused lip and looked up at Gendry, meaning to tell him as much, but the expression on his face arrested her. He was staring at her mouth, brows knitted, his own lips slightly parted. It bewildered her for a moment.

"Don't mind me, ser," Arya finally said, mistakenly thinking she had stumbled on what concerned him. "Chewing my lip is an old habit; one I've been unable to shed despite years of effort. I assure you, no real harm is done. I rarely draw blood." She laughed lightly and the sound of it snapped the spell the knight seemed to be under. He cleared his throat.

"Yes. Well..."

"Well?" the girl prodded.

"I've... I just realized, I've never seen you... like this." He nodded his head toward her.

"Like what, ser?" Her confusion was not feigned.

"So... well... Well, there's your hair, for one. And there's stain on your lips. Your gown, it's so... It's..." Gendry struggled unsuccessfully to find the right words. Arya cocked her head slightly, trying to discern if her friend was pleased or perturbed. His expression seemed to be a mixture of both emotions. "Well, you're just... and you smell..."

"I smell?"

"No! I mean, you smell nice. You're wearing scent! And you look..."

"Like a proper little girl?" Arya laughed. "That's exactly what you said at Acorn Hall all those years ago! You told me I smelled nice and I looked like a proper little girl, like a nice oak tree!" She laughed some more. "A troop of maids had scrubbed me pink and cut my hair so it wasn't so shaggy and then stuffed me into some acorn dress. I don't think you really believed I was a girl until then!"

"No, it's not the same. It's different now. You're different now." His voice was soft, barely above a whisper.

Was she different now? She supposed she was. She had been too changed, too affected by the things she had seen and done since she and Gendry wrestled in the forge at Acorn Hall to think otherwise. But she was no more enamored with these trappings of womanhood now than she was then. The corset pinched, the slippers were impractical, and the piles of braids pinned to her scalp weighed heavily.

"This is merely an illusion," Arya told the knight, waving her hand to indicate her hair and her gown. "It's a carefully planned costume. Come tomorrow, my face will be scrubbed clean and I'll be in breeches and blouses once again, ill mannered and unrefined as ever. I'm sorry if that disappoints you, ser."

"I can't imagine a circumstance where you'd ever disappoint me, m'lady. On the contrary..." The unfinished thought hung in the air a moment and then Ser Gendry said, "I believe you owe me a dance."

Arya stood, saying, "For you timely intervention with Ben Blackwood, I suppose it's the least I can do. You may have prevented bloodshed."

"I'll consider it more than adequate payment."

Gendry led the assassin to the dance floor but before they could begin, Baby Bobbin approached and stood expectantly in front of the girl.

"Lady Arya," the young boy began, "will you do me the cur-sity of dancing with me?" It was an obviously rehearsed speech and Lady Bethany stood a discreet few feet behind, biting back her laughter at her youngest brother's sweet sincerity.

"Courtesy, Bobbin," his sister corrected in a comical whisper. "The courtesy of dancing with you."

The boy turned, frowning at his sister and loudly whispered back, "That's what I said! The cur-sity of dancing!"

Arya looked up at the dark knight at her side and Gendry nodded, releasing her for the moment. The girl curtsied deeply to the youngster, saying in a very sincere tone, "You do me great honor, Lord Robert."

Grinning, the little lord said, "You can call me Bobbin." He grasped at Arya's hands, skipping in wild circles without regard to the actual tune being played just then. He dragged the laughing girl along with him, and she complimented him on his skillful dancing. "I didn't even practice any!" Baby Bobbin declared. Arya laughed, looking over his curly head and catching Bethany's eye. The Blackwood daughter smiled gratefully, pressing her hand over her heart. Just as Bethany was beloved and pampered by her older brothers and father, it seemed that Bobbin was his sister's pet.

As they trooped haphazardly around the floor, the other dancers did their best to dodge the exuberant boy and his jolly partner. Bobbin, oblivious to the havoc he was creating, chatted away guilelessly, telling Arya that Ser Ulfryck (the castle's master-at-arms) had said it was unnatural for a woman to be so skilled with a sword. It seemed Ser Brynden had been correct; there was a lot of talk surrounding her in the castle, and not all of it approving.

"I'll tell you a secret, Bobbin," the assassin offered, bending her head toward his conspiratorially. "I'm not really a woman."

"You're not?" the boy asked breathlessly.

"No. I'm half cat and half wolf!"

The boy eyed her, his expression carrying that sort of sincere consideration of which only children are truly capable when pondering such ridiculous assertions. Finally, he told her she didn't look much like a wolf or a cat.

"That's because I'm in disguise," the girl revealed.

"You are?" Bobbin's eyes were wide. "What are you disguised as?"

"Why, can't you tell?" she whispered. "I'm disguised as the Lady of Winterfell!"

The boy nodded slowly. "It's a good disguise. You have everyone fooled!"

"I certainly hope so. I went to a great deal of effort." She eyed the boy as if thinking on something very seriously, then asked, "You won't tell my secret?"

Bobbin shook his head vigorously, blonde curls bouncing, and said solemnly, "On my honor."

"I knew I could trust you."

It might have been a jape, but Arya thought perhaps little Lord Robert was one of the few people in the room she actually could trust. When the music ended, the tot planted a sloppy kiss on his partner's hand.

"What was that for, my lord?" Arya asked, chuckling.

"I saw my brothers do it before."

"Ah, yes. Do you want to be like your brothers when you grow up?"

"I want to be a great knight, like Brynden and Ben."

"And so you shall be, I'm sure."

The Lady of Winterfell was still smiling fondly as the young boy was led away by his doting sister. The blacksmith-knight approached, reaching for Arya's elbow and gently turning her.

"Are there any more Blackwoods to contend with, or am I to have my dance now?" the knight grumbled. The Cat flicked her eyes to his face where Gendry's lopsided smile indicated his grousing was all in jest.

"I'm all yours, Ser Gendry," the girl promised, inspiring a wistful look from her old friend. He said nothing, however, but merely took her hand, leading her through the opening steps of the next dance. Others around them watched, no one more keenly than Tytos Blackwood himself. The girl could feel the weight of all those gazes upon her and she wondered at it.

The dark knight's hand was warm on Arya's back. She could feel it even through her gown and the corset she wore. The litheness of his movements surprised her, especially considering the size of him. They had been moving for a minute or two before the knight spoke.

"Have you been enjoying yourself, m'lady?"

It struck her then that some in the chamber would consider enjoyment to be of paramount importance to her; that frivolity and fun, ever the concern of highborn ladies, would be the measures by which she would judge the feast. She supposed that even the Blackwood sons would assume that for her, the importance of the evening was reduced to nothing more than the excellence of the boar, the abundance of dancing partners, and the salaciousness of the gossip to be had.

They would never make such an assumption about Lady Brienne, the girl thought. Arya knew she did not look the part of the warrior, at least not to anyone who hadn't seen her dancing with her Faceless brothers in the training yard, but then, she wasn't really a warrior, was she?

I'm an assassin. I'm a cat. I'm no one. What they believe does not alter the truth of things. Let them make assumptions.

For weren't the erroneous perceptions of others a better cloak than even the shadows through which she silently moved?

So, while being judged a lady (an insult to top all others, to be sure), she had instead been a spy; a reconnoiterer; a scout gathering information. Since she had walked into the great hall on Lord Blackwood's arm, she had been on her guard, eyes roving, searching out threats seen and unseen. She had been puzzling out the hidden intentions behind the words of men. She had surveilled the guests, watching their gestures, interpreting their expressions, and listening to their words. She had tried to read the faces of those around her so that she might know who could be trusted and who should be avoided, all while keeping her own manner neutral; light. Her vigilance left little time for things like enjoyment.

Have you been enjoying yourself, m'lady?

"Not particularly," the Cat admitted, then smiled up at her companion. "Not until now, that is."

They moved with the music. Arya did not know the dance, but her partner was sure and confident in his steps, his hand planted firmly in the small of her back, and he made it easy for her to follow.

Gendry frowned at her. "You don't have to do that with me."

"Do what?" She was perplexed.

The knight regarded her with a look that was almost mistrustful, head cocked slightly to the side as his eyes narrowed. He seemed as if he was unsure whether to believe her tone of confusion, thinking she must know full well what he meant, though she sounded convincingly as if she did not.

"Simper," he finally answered. "I know there's nothing you hate more than playing the part of the lady. You don't have to pretend with me."

"Seven hells, Gendry," Arya chided, "I wasn't playing you false. This is the first time during this bloody feast that I haven't had to fret over the political ramifications of dancing with someone or worry that the man holding me was doing nothing more than gauging how best to manipulate me so that he might share in my claim to my brother's kingdom."

"Should I be offended that you think me so unambitious? How do you know I'm not trying to manipulate you so I can share in your claim?"

Arya rolled her eyes. "You'd have to marry me, stupid."

The tall knight looked down at the girl. "I can think of worse fates for a man."

"Can you?" She laughed. "That's probably because you haven't been much in my company. No doubt I'll be able to disabuse you of the notion in short order, Ser Gendry."

"I doubt it, m'lady."

"Well, if you can think of a worse fate, can you not also think of a better one for yourself?"

Gendry did not answer her, though he looked as if he longed to do so. Since he would not provide her the answer she sought, Arya offered one of her own.

"How about Elsbeth? I saw you dancing with her earlier..."

The knight groaned. "I've told you, I don't feel that way..."

She interrupted him. "Perhaps not yet, but do you not think that given time, you might..."

"No." There was a conviction to his growl and the set of his jaw. Arya looked out over the crowd and found the little archer. Elsbeth's eyes were trained on Gendry and she did not look happy.

"I don't know that she'll be so easily convinced."

"I've made her no promises. I've given her no reason for false hope." The knight's look was grim.

Arya sighed. "That may not be enough to avoid unpleasantness. People often find hope in the darkest places, even if it's a trick of their own imagination."

"What am I to do then? What do you advise?"

"Tread carefully, else you may find an arrow in your neck one day."

Gendry laughed humorlessly. "I thank you for your concern, m'lady. I wasn't sure it would pain you at all to find I'd been shot through."

The Cat watched as Elsbeth stalked off, Little Nate close behind her. "I'll admit, the jealousies of women are not my particular area of expertise, but anyone with eyes can see this is heading for trouble. Warning you is the least a friend could do."

"I'm honored you consider me a friend, Lady Arya. I had feared you never would again."

The girl nodded, saying, "I'm finding there are matters more urgent than nursing old grievances against a blacksmith's apprentice." She thought about all the plans which must even now be brewing in the minds of the lords attending the feast. She thought about the distance which separated her from her mother. She thought of her list. "In times such as these, it seems pointless to hold onto childish hurts."

"Still, I'm sorry to have ever been the cause of such hurts."

Arya looked up at the knight. "As you've said, you were only six and ten, and nothing more than a stupid bull."

"I... don't think I said it quite like that, m'lady," Gendry laughed.

"Near enough," she shrugged as the music ended. Tom O'Sevens approached, meaning to claim the girl for a dance, but Gendry warned him away with a look. He was not quite ready to let her go.

"Another turn, m'lady?" he asked as the next song began.

"Only if you stop calling me m'lady," she replied and he grinned, sweeping her away once again.

Arya's arms were stretched high above her head as Gendry twirled her round and round. Her skirts swirled around her ankles and she began to laugh, protesting that the knight was making her too dizzy.

"Close your eyes, then," he said, and she did, trusting that he would not let her fall. Even as the twirling ceased and he began to guide her across the floor, Arya's eyes remained closed. The gentle, rhythmic sway of their movements then reminded her of standing on the deck of Titan's Daughter.

"You're so graceful," the girl remarked.

"Should I take it as insult that you sound surprised when you say it?"

"Well, how many giant men do you know that dance well?" Arya asked, opening her eyes then.

"I was knighted," Gendry reminded his partner. "I've spent years in the company of highborn men. Lord Beric, Lem, Ser Jaime Lannister. I learned to swing a sword. I mastered all the proper courtesies. Does it seem so strange that I would learn to dance as well?"

"It does," she admitted.

"There have been other feasts," he told her. "Other castles and other women in need of a partner."

"I'll bet there have," she snorted.

"Knights are expected to be obliging in such circumstances!" he retorted. He sounded defensive.

"Oh, I'm certain that they are," the girl said, "but haven't we established that you are a poor knight?"

"You may think me so." His tone of hurt was unmistakable. Arya suppressed the urge to roll her eyes.

"Poor knight or great, it makes no difference to me," she said, perhaps more unkindly than she meant.

Gendry felt his frustration growing. He had been happy for a fleeting moment, dancing with her, and somehow, it was slipping away from him. He couldn't quite figure out how it had happened. He wanted nothing more than to undo the last minute of their conversation and take a different tack, but it seemed that the mood had been set and he was powerless to change it.

"All that time you were away, did you think of me as some oafish child? Did it never occur to you that I might grow up into something better? Did you not think I could improve myself?"

"In truth, ser, I didn't think of you much at all." And when she did, it was mostly to consider how hurt she had been at his abandonment of her.

His mouth dropped open slightly and his unhappiness was plain to read on his face. She knew he was hurt and the thought of it bothered her more than she liked to admit. Still, she pressed on.

"Would you rather I lie and say you were on my mind every day?" she asked.

"I would rather it not be a lie."

"No harm was meant, ser," the girl said quietly. She heaved a sigh, wondering if she could make him understand. "Honesty is the greatest compliment I can pay you."

"Is that because friends tell each other the truth, even when it's unpleasant?" He struggled to find the compliment in her words.

"No. It's because lying is as easy as breathing for me."

"M'lady, I fail to see..."

"Would you like pretty words to make you feel something warm and sweet? They mean less to me than the dust beneath our feet, ser. If you would have them of me, it would be easy enough, but they would be an empty gift. Lying is easy. It's the truth that's hard."

"Have you no pretty words that aren't lies?"

"I have nothing pretty left inside of me at all, Ser Gendry. What little I did have was beaten and poisoned and washed away by a sea of blood."

"I don't believe that."

She smiled sadly. "Again, such unsupported hope. Your capacity for it is amazing. I don't know if it's a blessing or a curse."

"So, you're a master of lies. Is that what they taught you across the sea? Did you learn your skill from that strange, foreign assassin?" His words were marked by a heavy bitterness.

It was the first time Gendry had mentioned Jaqen, however indirectly. The girl swallowed hard and took a moment to allow the image of a tanned neck with long, silvery scars to fade. When her mind was still, she answered.

"No. I was learning how to lie long before that. I only perfected the skill in Braavos."

"You don't sound ashamed."

"Should I be?"

"The septons all say that lying is a great sin."

Arya burst out laughing.

"The septons, Gendry?" She was laughing so hard then that they had to stop dancing. She bent over at the waist, planting her hands on her thighs. "Oh! Oh!" She grabbed at her sides, breathless and hurting, her laughter exceeding the capacity her lungs were allowed by her tight corset.

"I didn't think it was that funny," the knight grumbled.

"If I faint, it's your fault!" she cried, gasping. She stood straight, then, but stumbled a step and fell against the dark knight. He begrudgingly grabbed her arms and helped her regain her balance, all while scowling at her. "Gendry, if you want me to repent, you'll have to do better than quoting a few nameless septons to me!"

"I have a feeling that nothing I could say would make you repent."

"Just so," the girl agreed, growing suddenly serious. "Why should I be ashamed? My father told the truth, and it got him thrown into the black cells. The truth is a dangerous thing, and lying has saved me time and again. What if I had told the truth about being a girl when were were traveling with Yoren? What if I had told the Bloody Mummers I was Arya Stark?" She could think of a hundred other examples, things she had lied about in Braavos, but those were not tales she wished to share with Gendry just then.

"How am I ever to trust you?" the knight demanded.

"Why should your trust matter to me?" she countered.

Gendry sighed, raking his fingers through his hair in frustration. "I wish that was a lie too."

She smiled at him a little sadly.

They were standing in the middle of the dance floor, not dancing. It was drawing the attention of the room. Gendry did not seem to notice but Arya was intensely aware. She turned to leave him, but he grabbed her wrist, holding her in place. Even as her back was to him, he began to speak softly.

"You may not have thought of me, but I thought of you. Every day. I thought of every version of you, Arry and Weasel and Nan and m'lady. I thought of the little terror you were, stealing horses and murdering guards to get us out of Harrenhal. I thought of the little girl that Lady Smallwood used as a dress up doll. I thought of the obstinate pain in my arse trying to pretend she knew which way to go to get to Riverrun and the wide-eyed child who awoke in the night from bad dreams. I thought of a prisoner, carried off by a burned dog. Later, I thought of a lady in warm Braavos, somehow under the protection of an assassins guild. I thought of the queen in my dreams, wearing a veil of snow beneath a silver crown."

"You think you know me, ser? You think any of those phantoms get at the truth of who I am?"

"I know who you are now. I see you right in front of me."

She turned then to face him once again, pulling her small wrist from his grasp.

"And what do you see?" Her voice as low; dangerous.

"I see Arya Stark, trying to pretend she's made of hard stone and darkness, but I know it's all a lie; those lies you're so good at telling. I know that if you drop the masquerade, you would be... luminous. It would be as if you were lit from within by a thousand candles."

"You think you can somehow reach inside of me and pull the darkness out? That you can uncover some light within me?" He made her no answer and so she continued. "There's not secret light, Gendry. The darkness inside of me isn't something you can take hold of. It's nothing; emptiness. It's a void. You can't grasp the emptiness. You can't hold the void."

The Bear arrived at her side just then, taking his sister gently by the elbow.

"You must be tired, my lady," the Lyseni said gently, then turned to Arya's dance partner. "Ser Gendry, I believe Harwin was just looking for you. I'll escort Lady Arya safely to her chamber so that you may go and find him." Without waiting for Gendry's response, the Bear led his sister away, across the chamber and through the large doors into the gallery outside.

"Was it bad?" the girl asked her brother as the doors closed behind him.

"People were beginning to talk rather more than was desirable," he replied. "No permanent damage, though. I think they all just assume he's jealous of the attention you were receiving from the endless line of Blackwood brothers." They walked arm-in-arm down the corridor.

"I don't think Gendry cares one whit about the Blackwoods," she scoffed. "I don't know why anyone would think that he does."

"Because he's in love with you, my lady," the false Dornishman replied. She snorted.

"I've never heard anything so stupid. Is that what people were whispering?"

"Well, you can hardly blame them, with the display you two just put on in the middle of the dance floor. Still, I expect it will blow over with the next bit of juicy gossip. No one could expect a landless knight to be immune to the charms of the heir to the Winter Throne, after all, even if such a reach is inexcusably high."

"It seems you've learned a great deal about our Westerosi politics in a short time, brother," Arya remarked wryly.

"Yes," he agreed. "This mission is turning out to have complexities I had not anticipated..."

The Cat grinned. "Do you regret leaving the Purple Harbor with me now?"

The Bear smiled and patted his sister's arm. "Never. Now, which way to your chamber? This keep is so damn confusing."

The girl looked at the Lyseni's furrowed brow as he looked this way and that where a narrower passageway intersected the main corridor. "If it's all the same to you, I'd like to climb up to the battlements. I could use the air and I want to see if I can hear the wolves." And she needed time to consider all that had transpired that evening. Between the innumerable Blackwoods with their various aims, Karyl Vance, the Brotherhood, the Smallwoods, and her interaction with Gendry, her head was spinning. She needed time to sort it all out.

"A walk, then," the Lyseni said agreeably. "Now, which way to the battlements?" Arya laughed and grabbed her brother's hand, pulling him behind her.

"Come on, you great lout. This way."

---

The guards patrolling the battlements nodded respectfully at Lady Stark and Ser Willem Ferris as the two passed. Arya gazed upward. The night was clear and the stars bright. She found their familiar patterns in the sky.

"The names are all different here, you know," she said to the Bear.

"Hmm?"

"The stars," the girl replied. "They're known by different names here than in Essos."

"Even different parts of Essos name them differently," the Lyseni pointed out. "In Lys, for instance, that grouping there is called the Maiden's Neck, but the Dothraki call it the Fetlock."

"The Maiden's Neck? Hmm," she purred. "Very romantic. Why are you Lyseni all so romantic?"

"You're confused, my lady. Must be the fatigue of all that dancing. I'm Dornish."

She smirked. "Of course you are."

"So what do the learned men of Westeros name those stars?"

"You're Dornish. Don't you know?"

He growled at her and she laughed. The stopped walking and drew close to the crennalated wall, staring up at the constellation they were considering.

"The Westerosi are a practical bunch," said the Cat. "Not so romantic as the Lyseni, and not so obsessed with horses as the Dothraki. Can you not make it out?" She pointed one finger toward the sky, tracing a shape. "It's the Lord's Goblet."

The Bear tilted his head and squinted as he stared up at the stars. "Ah, yes. I see it now. So, in Westeros, the men who name stars are not so romantic as those in Lys, and not so horse-obsessed as the Khals, but they do seem a bit preoccupied with birth rank."

"Birth rank?"

"Yes. The Lord's Goblet, you said. Why not the Crofter's Goblet? Or the Woodsman's Goblet?"

"Well... I suppose crofters and woodsmen are less likely to have goblets. More like to have cups, wouldn't you say?"

"Humph. In Lys, everyone drinks from goblets."

"How would you know? You left when you were little more than a babe!" She chuckled.

"It's just how I remember it," the Bear said softly. "A tall man and a woman with pale hair, drinking from a goblet. It's hard to know if it's a memory, or just a dream, though."

Her brother did not often speak of his past, of his family. She had always assumed it was because it was too painful for him to recount, and because the Kindly Man and the other Faceless masters had done too good a job erasing who the Bear had been before he came to them. Now she wondered if her brother's memories were too few and too fleeting to inform even him of his life before the temple. The loss of his family had been of a tragic nature, that much Arya knew, and in his quiet moments, he sometimes felt their absence still, but she knew little else.

"We are both of us terrible Faceless Men," she remarked. "Too much of our past still haunts us."

"Speak for yourself, my lady. I can change my face anytime I like." He was teasing her, she knew, but it was true. The Bear had earned that right for himself, by sacrificing Olive to save his sister. It was a sacrifice Arya had been unable to make, and so she had but one face.

"You say that, but I've never seen you do it. For all I know, you've been lying to me this whole time and you were exiled from the temple right along with me."

"No, sister, it's true. The elder spoke the words and by the time he was done, I knew I could change my face as easily as you could slip on a pair of shoes. It's hard to explain, but I just... felt it."

"So, it's a spell." She had never really been sure about that; whether it was a spell or a learned skill taught only to those who had shown absolute loyalty and obedience.

The big man nodded, then he recounted the words to her, speaking them with the same gravity as the principal elder had the night the Bear earned his face. The language of Asshai, Arya thought. It made sense. All the best spells came from Asshai, didn't they? It was a language she had only the most tenuous grasp of, so she wasn't sure of the exact translation, but she felt sure it had something to do with blood and power and veils.

"Show me," she whispered. She had seen the Faceless masters change their faces hundreds of times. Still, as far as she knew, the Bear had never before used his power. She wondered if it was hard, the first time. Or if it would be just as simple for him as it always was for Jaqen. The Lyseni's face was grim. He was thinking, no doubt, on all he had lost in his quest to obtain the power. Still, he obeyed. Just as Jaqen used to do, the Bear placed his palm flat against his forehead and dragged it downward, slowly, erasing his true features and replacing them with false ones. Gone was the blonde mane gifted him by his Lyseni ancestry. In its place was close-cropped hair, as white as snow. His smooth brow became lined, the bright sky blue of his eyes darker, like sapphires twinkling in the torch light. The Bear's grim countenance had disappeared and his look was now kindly; the most kindly visage the girl had ever seen.

And the most sinister.

Arya recoiled, hissing as she scrabbled along the battlements.

"You are cruel, brother."

"No more cruel than you were to ask it of me."

She glared at him and he gazed calmly back at her, with all the haughty control and maddening superiority of the principal elder. Finally she averted her eyes, looking out into the darkness of the forest beyond the walls of the castle. The Cat swallowed down the hatred that had clawed its way up from her chest into her throat, thick and burning.

"Stop it," she whispered hoarsely, and when she looked back up at him, he was the Bear again.

"If you ever ask me to change my face again, it had better be for a very good reason."

"If you ever show me that face again, you had better draw steel."

They stood ten feet apart, staring at one another, both angry, both hurting. For a moment, the only sound heard was the noise they both made as they breathed, chests heaving. The Bear broke first, covering the distance between them in three great steps. Then Arya was wrapped in her brother's arms, her cheek pressed hard against his chest.

"I'm sorry," he said. "You question using the horses and gold he sent us. Imagine how I question using the power he gave me."

"No, I'm sorry. I didn't think. I just wanted to see how it was done the first time. I didn't think..."

"I know. It's okay."

"I just can't see that face. When I see that face next, I plan to be looking at it over Valyrian steel. I owe him that. For Jaqen."

"Let's not talk about that now." He released her and she turned to the wall, leaning against it and gazing up at the stars once again.

"Do you think he's alive?" There was that unsupported hope again; hope found in the darkest of places.

"I don't know, sister, but if he is, I know he's trying to get back to you."

She nodded, her eyes now trained on the dark forest in the distance. The Bear leaned over, pressing his mouth and nose to the top of his sister's shining hair in a fierce kiss. The girl bowed her head, closing her eyes and biting the inside of her cheek hard to stop herself from crying. After a moment, she could taste her own blood. In the distance, the wolves began to howl.

---

In a place far south of Raventree Hall, where the weather could still be called warm, a war council was just breaking up. A party made of knights and captains, once-exiled lords, and even a prince and a king drifted from a luxurious tent, the likes of which had never been seen in Westeros before. It was a shelter in the Dothraki style; the royal Dothraki style.

That the meeting had been there, rather in the more traditional king's tent, was a conciliation; a mark of the deference earned through the currency of dragon flesh. Aegon was ruler by right of blood, but his aunt was the mother of dragons, and with the war to come, that was no small thing.

"Daario Naharis," a woman called in a commanding voice as the men left her. The captain hesitated, turning back to his queen. "Stay. I have... something I must discuss with you."

"Something you must discuss, your grace?" His tone was nearly insolent. Nearly. The silver queen did not like to be challenged, except when she did. Daario was a master of knowing the difference, among other things.

"Yes, captain. In regards to your company and their behavior since landing on these shores."

"A matter of discipline, then, my queen?"

"Yes. A matter of discipline. Just so."

Daario wasn't sure why Daenerys bothered with the pretext. No one within earshot was fooled, he was certain. A matter of discipline. He nearly laughed out loud. Still, appearances must be kept, no matter how false or futile. Especially here in Westeros, where a person could be undone by whispers, even if that person was a Targaryen.

"Yes, my queen?"

"There is a certain man among your Stormcrows. I find his behavior... puzzling."

"How so, your grace?" The two were now alone in the tent, even the queen's servants having discreetly removed themselves.

Daenerys began to make a slow circle around the captain who stood at the center of the tent, near the table with the map of Westeros, wooden pieces marking where Targaryen scouts had placed the various armies of the great houses and the crown. The suns of Dorne and stars representing House Dayne were lined up behind the dragons, south of the Red Mountains, where they now found themselves. Daenerys' allegiance with Aegon had bought the support of Doran Martell and all his bannermen, but the armies of House Dayne were large enough and skilled enough to warrant their own markers. They were an elite force. It seemed the legend of Arthur Dayne lived on, now taking the form of his bold and handsome nephew: Edric, Lord of Starfall.

The queen moved toward the Tyroshi captain, sliding her fingers along his arm when she reached him. She started at his rough hand and trailed her fingertips up over his sleeve until she reached his bicep. Here, she curled her fingers and allowed them to rest. Daario stood as still as a post, awaiting her response.

"Well, I'm used to a certain degree of... attention from this Stormcrow. He has always shown a... keen interest in me."

"Has he, your grace? Shall I have him whipped for insolence?"

She laughed lightly. "No, I don't think so. His interest was... well, it was most welcome." Here, she leaned in closer and whispered, "It is most welcome still."

"Oh?"

The dragon queen released her captain's bicep and ran her hand over his shoulder and then up his neck, stroking the flesh there. To her, it appeared tanned and perfect; unmarked. She could not know the truth of what lay beneath.

"Yes," she murmured huskily. "I find... I find myself missing it."

"You miss the attention, your grace?"

Daenerys' mouth opened slightly and and she licked at her upper lip a bit, moistening it before speaking. "Quite."

His behavior was too different. That was plain now. He had allowed himself to believe that she either did not notice or did not care; that she had moved on from the Tyroshi's affections and no longer had need of them. He had been wrong.

He, who had never faltered in his duty; who carried a reputation for his adherence to it, despite challenges and distractions. He, who was renown for the countless faces he had worn with effortless perfection. He, who was envied for his prowess by the others who could claim his faith and his skills.

The queen's hand fell away and she took a step back, eyeing the Tyroshi warily. He stared back at her, seemingly unperturbed. His eyes dropped to her feet and raked up her legs, across her belly and her breasts before settling on her purple eyes. His expression was appropriately hungry; the slow heave of his chest convincingly lustful. Duty was duty, and the road northward led through Daenerys Targaryen and her three menacing children. He could not put her off forever.

And so he reached out, gripping her throat, his fingers pressing with enough threat to excite her but not enough to cause real harm. Then, as her eyes closed and she pushed out one ragged breath, his lips found her neck, moving slowly at first as he breathed in her foreign scent, then devouring her flesh with a ferocity that almost seemed borne of resentment. She did not notice. She was lost in his touch; in his kiss, so longed for it had been.

For the first time in his life, as he closed his eyes and fulfilled his duty, it was not his god or his mission that he thought of, but of another woman.

A fierce and lovely girl.

---

The Pretender—Foo Fighters