And I'll use you as a warning sign
that if you talk enough sense then you'll lose your mind
"My lady, your seat is nearly as impressive as your swordplay," Karyl Vance remarked to Arya. He had been riding at her side for awhile, taking Ser Willem's place, ever since remounting following a brief break for their midday meal. For his part, the Bear had dropped back to ride at the rear of the column, but the Cat could feel the Lyseni's eyes on her throughout the journey.
Overprotective, she thought to herself, a sardonic half-smile appearing at the thought. Still, she found her brother's concern touching. It pulled at something inside of her, though she would never tell him of the feeling, lest he think her soft.
To Arya's dismay, they had been ranging to the north and east since they left the walls of Raventree Hall early that morning. Though it led them away from the wolf pack, which would guarantee Nymeria's safety, it also led them away from Acorn Hall and the Hollow Hill. She would have no opportunity to break with the party until they made camp for the night, taking her nearly a day further from her destination and complicating her journey. She was eaten up with her impatience, but she masked it well, turning her attention to her companion.
"A grave insult, Lord Vance," Arya japed. Her laugh was light and gave no hint of her restlessness. "A true Northerner considers horsemanship more important than anything else, even blade skills."
The lord of Wayfarer's Rest gave the girl a weak smile, and it seemed to her even that was a forced courtesy. There was not much humor in Karyl Vance. He had little room left for it between the measure of care he used to guard his thoughts and the concerns for his lands, his people, and his family's honor. His shoulders seemed to almost sag beneath the weight of it all. She gleaned this from the sparse conversation they shared as they rode, and the keen way he regarded all those around him while giving away little himself.
A cautious man, Arya had decided, and thoughtful.
The girl sensed there was a melancholy about the lord, and it made him seem older than his one and thirty years. Even so, she could see he was a man of quality, one her father had trusted enough to send out among the party charged with bringing Gregor Clegane to justice when that monster had ridden through the Riverlands, pillaging and burning out the smallfolk. To her, Karyl Vance seemed a worthy friend to claim.
"And do you consider yourself a true Northerner after all these years away, Lady Arya?" There was a sincere curiosity to the question.
"Well, you know what they say, my lord," the girl replied. "You can take the girl out of the North, but you can't take the North out of the girl."
"Is that what they say?" Ser Brynden laughed, trotting up on Arya's other side and insinuating himself into their conversation. "I confess, I've never heard that particular axiom before now. Perhaps it's a saying only common to Braavos."
The Cat thought it was the knight's way of prompting her. He wished for her to deliver on her promise to tell the tales of her adventures across the sea. It seemed the Blackwoods had a thirst for Arya's story-telling. Only that morning, when Lord Blackwood had seen the party off, he had made a similar request of her.
"Are you not coming, my lord?" the girl had asked Tytos as he stood in the yard, bidding farewell to the company as they mounted. "But you're the host!"
"No, my dear, there is too much here I must tend to in your absence. Brynden will serve as host in my stead."
"Your company will be missed," Arya told him as she put her foot in Bane's stirrup and hoisted herself onto the stallion's back. She was surprised to find that she meant it.
"I shall see you after the hunt, and you can regale me with tales of all the adventures I missed." He had looked fondly at her then, and held his hand up in a salute.
She gazed down at Lord Blackwood and nodded, knowing he would not have the chance to collect on that promise.
Their parting had felt unfinished to her, but then, she wasn't sure she had ever experienced anything close to closure in her life anyway. Besides, in this particular case, it was not to be helped. A maiden with an eye on escape couldn't very well bid her well-meaning captor a fond farewell with wishes for a long and happy life, could she? It would be just as well to say, I'm up to no good, so throw me in a room at the top of the tallest tower, lock the door, and be done with it.
"There are many sayings common to Braavos, Ser Brynden. It's a busy port and people from all over the world bring their language and their news and their sayings there," the girl remarked. She stared over Bane's head, at the riders in front of her. Gendry and Brienne rode not far beyond her, and before them rode Harwin, with the master of the hunt and Lord Smallwood. The squires and a few of Raventree Hall's sworn men made up the rear of the company, behind Ser Willem and Baynard.
"Indeed? Sayings from all over the world? Is that how you trained your tongue to be so... provocative?" the knight asked, smirking a little. Arya knew he was referring to the coarseness of her language during their first dance together, a transgression which inexplicably seemed to charm him, but Lord Vance had not been privy to that conversation. The Lord of Wayfarer's Rest stiffened a bit at this playful accusation of Ser Brynden's, no doubt shocked by the younger man's lack decorum.
"No, ser, I believe my provocative tongue is a result of the time I spent in the company of Sandor Clegane."
Lord Vance's expression became sympathetic. "Yes, we had heard you were abducted by that filthy animal, though the details of your captivity have not been widely known. In fact, the history of Arya Stark seems to end with that abduction, then pick up again years later, when the Brotherhood somehow came by the knowledge that you were alive and being sheltered across the Narrow Sea."
Arya did not allow herself to show surprise that Karyl Vance was acquainted with some of the details of her life. She supposed as a member of Tytos Blackwood's inner circle and therefore, a friend to the Brotherhood Without Banners, he would have heard any news of import which the outlaws had obtained. At least, any news the outlaws deemed worthy to share. The miraculous survival of their lady's youngest daughter despite the odds against such a thing was certain to have set their tongues wagging.
"The history of Arya Stark?" the girl laughed softly. "Am I my own field of study now? Heavens, how things have changed since last I was in Westeros! Maester Luwin instructed me in High Valyrian, mathematics, heraldry, and the great histories. Do maesters now drill young lordlings on the facts of my life?"
Brynden Blackwood answered for his friend. "No, my lady, but perhaps they should. I'd wager a purse of dragons they would find the subject most fascinating. The maesters would surely have their pupils' rapt attention."
"You have my rapt attention now, Lady Arya. Perhaps you'd tell us about the time you spent as the Hound's hostage," Lord Vance suggested. "How is it possible for a young girl survive such a plight?"
Such a plight. She nearly laughed. The least harrowing part of her particular plight was her time with the Hound.
Before she spoke, she considered the entirety of her experience since leaving Winterfell: her fight with Joffrey and the further disintegration of her relationship with her sister; sending Nymeria away; the murder of her friend for the sake of a prince's pride; scrounging and scratching out her existence on the streets of that filthy city she'd been brought to on the whim of a dead king; witnessing her father's execution; the road north with the Night's Watch; her enslavement at Harrenhal; her capture and attempted ransoming by the Brotherhood; the Hound; the Red Wedding; the House of Black and White...
A girl survives such a plight because she must. Because she is willing to do whatever it takes to defend herself and her own. Because if she does not survive it, there will be no one left to make them pay.
You cannot tell him this, her little voice warned. This is not what he wants to hear.
I know. I'm not stupid.
"I'm not sure there's an answer to that question, my lord," the girl finally said. "How does one survive anything? How did I survive what came before the Hound, and what came after? Luck? Force of will? Fate? The benevolence of the gods?" She stared over Bane's head a moment, considering; remembering. Softly, she continued, "You breathe in, you breathe out, you put one foot in front of the other, and then one day turns into the next, and then the next, and then the next after that, and you're still breathing. You're still putting one foot in front of the other." She shrugged.
Her words seemed to sober Ser Brynden. "Was he delicate with you, my lady?"
She laughed at that, a sharp, incredulous bark. "I don't think delicate was a word in Sandor Clegane's vocabulary. But if you're asking me if he treated me kindly, then I suppose I should say he treated me as well as a man like that is capable of treating anyone. I've known more tenderness in my life, yes, but I've certainly known less."
"He meant to sell you, I presume? Back to your family? For gold?" Lord Vance's distaste was obvious.
"Yes, that was his plan."
"Vile," Ser Brynden pronounced.
"Are not hostages ransomed with regularity back to their families here in Westeros?" Arya asked. "Or has much changed since I last was here?"
"Yes, hostages are ransomed," Karyl replied, "but knights. Soldiers. Men caught in battle and shown mercy by their enemies. Not innocent children. Not little girls. Innocents must be protected and little girls should be safely delivered to the arms of their families. Trading a highborn girl for gold is simply not done. It's reprehensible." The lord's normally measured tone had become passionate. Lord Vance was a true knight, it seemed. Perhaps it was simply his innate decency at the root of his beliefs, but she thought not. Arya was good at reading people, and she thought there was likely some experience which weighted Karyl Vance's compassion for innocents and little girls.
"It may have been reprehensible, but it was no worse than what the Brotherhood Without Banners had planned for me," the girl observed. "And anyway, Clegane proved to be terrible at ransoming me. Everyone who might have an interest in trading coin for my freedom died before he could make the demand." The girl laughed bitterly. "And then the Hound died, and there was no one left to bother with trading me."
"It must have been a terrible time for you, my lady," murmured the Lord of Wayfarer's Rest. The girl shrugged again.
"Not as terrible a time as it was for my mother and brothers," she said. She hadn't had her throat slit, or her head chopped off and replaced with that of an animal. She hadn't been murdered and had her burnt body hoisted as a grotesque banner over her ancestral home. And riding with the Hound had allowed her to cross a name off her list, and retrieve Needle, so there was that.
"Still, I think you must hate him," Lord Vance said, and his gaze was rueful. "Who could blame you?" Arya kept her face impassive as she sorted through what it was she felt about that time in her life.
She didn't hate the Hound, precisely, and neither did she love him. She blamed him and she reviled him and at times, she admired him. He was not a bad man, exactly, but neither was he good. Not in many ways, at least. He had killed her friend, a simple butcher's boy, one of Karyl Vance's innocents; a boy who was no threat to anyone. For that, she could never fully forgive Sandor Clegane. But hate? No. That emotion was one she reserved for people far worse than King Joffrey's burnt stray.
Arya Stark had only passed nine namedays by the time Mycah was run down, and had only had two more by the time she found herself unwillingly back in the Hound's company. A child that young has no way to understand the complexities of what motivates men. At that time, Arya did not appreciate how men could be driven by their own unique daemons and ruined by the tortures of their memory. At that time, she had not been tutored in the subtleties and nuances of politics and strategy (if she had been, she would have whispered Tywin Lannister's name in Jaqen's ear rather than Weese's when she had the chance; when she had been offered that great gift). At that time, her world was black and white; the world of a child; so simple.
So clear.
It wasn't until later that she had understood there was a vast gulf between the black and the white. It wasn't until later that she had recognized the unending shades of grey which existed in between. It wasn't until later she had learned that whether one considered any particular shade to be light or dark was a matter of perspective.
A matter of how much light shone upon you in that instant; a matter of the weight of the blackness you carried within yourself at that moment.
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.
Emerging from the darkness into the light, or leaving the light behind to plunge into the darkness, such considerations mattered. Such considerations colored one's vision and changed the feeling of a thing. But how could she have known that as a child who had passed so few years? A child who had grown up behind high walls, surrounded by those who valued her simply because she was, sheltered from all the harshness which scarred and marked the wide world?
Some lessons had eluded her until they were impossible to ignore; had been taught to her in the most brutal way imaginable. Through bitter experience, she now knew circumstance could mold and bend and reshape right and wrong. But she hadn't understood that when she rode with the Hound. Her lessons to that point had all been in fear and rage and loss. Her only desire was vengeance.
Vengeance, and a place to belong.
These two things she had yearned for in equal measure. These two things, a burnt and bitter outlaw had somehow provided for her, in his own way.
And so she had denied Sandor Clegane mercy when it was in her power to give it; when he begged her for it; when he had hoped for it at the end of her narrow blade.
She had refused to provide him his relief.
As the cruelest retribution (for Mycah's sake, because the Hound was a pitiless killer who deserved no clemency; not when he had slaughtered an innocent, her friend, without remorse).
But also as the most benevolent recompense (for her own sake as much as his, because the Hound's life was one she could not consent to take; not when he had given her a place to belong before she had the strength to seek it for herself).
But how to explain that to these men, who looked at her with such great pity in their eyes? At one and ten, she was naive to the complexities of what drove the decisions of men, but she'd wager that these men would be equally lost when it came to the complexities of what drove her.
And so she replied with something that, while not the full truth, was true enough, and was like to be easily accepted.
"Hating the Hound does little good now, my lord. He's dead and gone, food for crows."
"You are wise beyond your years, Lady Arya," Ser Brynden remarked. "I think many young ladies in your position would spend at least some of their day looking back, wishing they had never crossed paths with such a man."
The girl nodded, saying, "You may be right, ser. Perhaps it is simply a personal failing of mine that I spend very little time wishing to undo what has been done."
"Personal failing is too harsh a term, I think," Lord Vance commented, "but it's certainly not usual, to live with so little regret."
"I'm not without regret, my lord, but the things I do regret were not things done to me so much as things I've done."
Or things I've failed to do, she mentally added, thinking of how the Kindly Man still drew breath.
"Well said, my lady." Karyl Vance gave her a sad smile then.
The heir to Raventree Hall spoke. "Are you saying that if it were somehow within your power to undo the past, you wouldn't choose to avoid that villain altogether?"
Arya looked at Ser Brynden for a long moment before answering. "I think we learn from all those whose paths we cross," she replied finally. "Hero or villain, makes no difference."
"And what did you learn from the Hound?" the knight asked, his eyebrows raised.
"Irreverence."
Ser Brynden threw his head back and laughed. "No, my lady, I am quite certain you were born with that!"
Arya smiled, her half-quirked mouth a concession to the truth of the knight's words. "Just so, Ser Brynden. So, let us then say, the Hound taught me that I should not be ashamed of my own irreverence."
"And did you find the lesson valuable?" the knight inquired. Delight danced in his eyes as he spoke.
"Incalculably."
"And here, I thought your maester tutored you in mathematics."
The girl snorted but made no reply. Before either Lord Vance or Ser Brynden could ask her more questions, the hounds began to bay and those hunters at the head of the party galloped off, following the sound, seeking quarry.
Any wolves the dogs had scented were long gone by the time the riders caught up to the hounds. There were carcasses stripped bare along their path; deer, mostly, and one ox, as best they could tell.
"Poor beast must have escaped one of the farms," Lord Smallwood remarked. There was no meat left, just torn hides and cracked bones. The kills had happened at least two days past judging by the state of the remains.
"No wolves have been here for days," the master of the hunt remarked with disgust. "What were those hounds going on about?"
Arya smiled slyly to herself. Dogs were easy. They wanted to run; to chase; to hunt. It had only taken the smallest nudge...
"It's late now, at any rate," Ser Brynden remarked, turning his gaze skyward and noting how low the sun had sunk. "We should look to setting up camp."
Those among the party with any influence on such plans agreed and so camp was made, suppers were cooked, and mead was passed as the wearied hunters gathered around a great, central fire.
"No howling," the heir to Raventree Hall remarked after taking a long swallow of the sweet drink. He was seated on the ground, next to Arya, and offered his skin to her. She held up her hand, refusing it. Mead would be no aid to her this night. "It's dastardly quiet."
"Does quiet unsettle you?" the Cat asked.
"Only when it ought not be quiet. These woods have been filled with howling for near half a week. Now, nothing. Don't you find that strange, my lady?"
"It's not nothing. You have only to listen to know it." Arya cocked her ear toward the dark sky, a look of concentration descending over her face. "I hear... the wind whispering. And the owls... there," she said, pointing in the direction of an owl's hoot. "I hear the embers popping in the fire. I hear..." She closed her eyes. "Horses, nickering just down the hill. The crunch of leaves and twigs beneath boots as the men wander off to... well, I'll curb my provocative tongue for your sake, Ser Brynden, but I imagine you know why they wander off. Mead only stays in us for so long, after all."
The knight laughed lightly. "Never curb your tongue for my sake, Lady Arya. I don't think I'd know what to do if you weren't scandalizing me in some way or another."
"Well, what did you do before I showed up and enthralled you with my utter lack of manners and my disregard for propriety?"
"You know, it's strange, but I can't rightly recall." There was something about the way he looked at her when he said it, his expression illuminated by the firelight.
You are far too charming, ser, the girl thought.
Arya cleared her throat. "I've been meaning to ask, but where are your brothers, Ser Brynden?"
"Are they terribly missed?" he grinned.
"Terribly." Her complete lack of inflection and the flatness of her affect gave the intended lie to her words. Brynden chuckled.
"Alyn was never much for the hunt and Ben was held back by our father. He's simply mad about hunting, of course, so father thought it fitting penance for his inexcusable intrusion the other night."
"Poor Ben," the Cat said with false sympathy. "How could he be expected to know that I'd be so resistant to his charms? I imagine he's never been refused anything in his life."
"Yes, poor Ben," Ser Brynden echoed, his regret as counterfeit as Arya's own. "But you should not spare him too much concern. Believe me when I tell you that Ben is concerned enough for himself. Your sympathies would be redundant." They both laughed at that, but then Brynden added quite seriously, "You should know, though... my brother may seem a reprobate, my lady, but he's not entirely bad."
"Few are," she remarked. A very few. Ser Ilyn, Ser Meryn, Queen Cersei, traitorous black brothers, Walder Frey, the Kindly Man...
"I mean to say, Ben has his flaws, undoubtedly... a certain weakness of... moderation..." The girl snorted and Ser Bryden looked uncomfortable for a moment, but then continued. "Despite that, I hope you do not doubt his loyalty."
"His loyalty to whom?"
"To you, of course."
Arya snorted again, befuddled. "He owes me no loyalty."
"But he does, Lady Arya, as a sworn subject of the King in the North."
"He's a sworn subject of the crown, surely," she insisted. "Of Tommen Baratheon." She looked at the knight strangely before adding, "And besides that, there is no more King in the North."
Brynden sighed and furrowed his brow a bit. "Lannisters may have forced my father to bend the knee and lay down his arms, but what loyalty this family has does not belong with Casterly Rock or that tainted crown."
Arya's voice dropped lower. "Dangerous talk, ser."
He was amused. "What, here? Have the trees ears now, my lady? Will the hounds and horses betray me to Tommen?"
"Trees and hounds do not trade in treachery," the girl replied, "but you surround yourself with men, and to men, information is currency."
What three new things have you learned, child?
Brynden was untroubled by her words. "I would trust every man here with my life."
"And the women? Do you trust us with your life as well?" Her question was rhetorical, a small jab at her companion. Men the world over had been undone by women invisible to them. She thought Ser Brynden could do with a reminder that the most dangerous enemy was oftentimes the one you did not count as enemy at all. She hadn't meant for him to answer her.
Brynden's eyes flicked briefly to Brienne, seated across the fire from them, listening to some story of Harwin's; something about wolves. The knight looked back at his companion again, searching Arya's grey eyes for a moment before replying.
"I do." He leaned back on his elbows and stretched his legs out before him.
"You do?" she asked in disbelief. "You hardly know me. What makes you so certain I won't betray you?"
"Well, my father trusts you, and I trust my father. So, that means I must put my trust in you as well." His gaze softened and he looked past her, thinking some private thought. After a moment, he met her eyes again and added, "Though I do not think you would say the same, my lady."
Arya sniffed. "Trust does not come easily to me. If you'd lived my life, you'd understand why."
"I would like to understand," Brynden murmured. "Very much."
He was asking for her story. Again. She sighed, leaning back herself so that her posture mirrored the knight's own. She looked over at him then, studying the angle of his jaw and the contour of his cheek. She knew there was no such thing as an honest face; not really; not when faces could be stolen and created and changed on a whim. But if there were such a thing, she would say it looked very much like the one Ser Brynden wore just then.
"I can tell you, but that doesn't mean you'll understand," the Cat warned, turning her eyes back toward the fire. Orange shapes danced there in the flames and she looked away quickly, not wanting to see them. The knight leaned toward her and bent his head down, placing his mouth close to her ear.
"I am your rapt pupil, Maester Arya. Instruct me."
Gendry stared across the fire at Arya and Brynden, seated much too close together, sharing some quiet conversation. They were too far away and too guarded in their tones for him to hear anything they said to one another. His eyes narrowed as the heir to Raventree Hall bent his head toward the Lady of Winterfell and spoke softly in the girl's ear.
"Handsome couple, that," Theomar Smallwood remarked to Gendry, interrupting the blacksmith-knight's mounting irritation. "Do you suppose he whispers of love to her now? Perhaps we'll be attending a wedding in the near future."
"What, Ser Brynden and m'lady? Not likely," Gendry scoffed.
Lord Smallwood raised his eyebrows. "Do you know something, ser?"
Gendry sniffed. "I know she's too young to marry."
"She's six and ten, is she not? Ravella was a year younger when we wed."
"That was before. Things were different before," the dark knight explained weakly. "The war has changed things."
"If anything, the war makes it more likely for young people to marry, I would think," Lord Smallwood replied, "not less."
"Well, Ser Brynden isn't a young person, is he?"
Theomar laughed. "He's young enough. Ten years older than Lady Arya? Or perhaps a bit more."
"A bit more," Gendry muttered.
"What strange ideas you have, Ser Gendry. Many advantageous marriages were arranged between people with greater age differences than Ser Brynden and Lady Arya."
"Their age difference seems a great deal more vast when the lady is barely more than a child."
Theomar snorted. "You've seen this child spar, I presume? And at the feast, did she look like a child to you as you danced with her?"
"Ser Brynden has been married already. He has children. He's ridden to war. He's one and ten years her senior."
"And there are two and ten years between Ravella and myself. What of it?"
"That's different."
"Pray tell, how is it different, ser?"
Gendry's mouth pinched just a bit. "M'lady hasn't lived the life of a highborn lady. She hasn't had the benefit of her mother's guidance for years. She hasn't had a septa teaching her. She hasn't enjoyed the company of other ladies. She's... naive about what it means to be married and manage a great household."
"Rest easy, ser. I doubt very much that Lady Arya will be managing a great household."
"Isn't that what highborn ladies do, when they marry?"
"Yes," the lord agreed. "But not this one."
"And why not?"
"Because, Ser Gendry," Lord Smallwood said, gazing at the large knight shrewdly, "she'll be far too busy ruling a kingdom."
The History of Arya Stark, as Lord Vance had called it, was much too vast to share in an evening, and so the girl chose to tell Ser Brynden a little about her upbringing in Winterfell and her travels south with King Robert and her father. Ser Brynden had proven true to his word, his attention captured completely by her tale. He commented every now and again, voicing some observance or another.
"Needle, you say," Brynden laughed when Arya told him about Jon's gift. "And you still have it?"
"Had it. Used it. Lost it. Found it again. Was told to give it up, so I hid it. Then I took it with me when I left Braavos and keep it close always. Your brother was recently acquainted with it, I believe. You'll find evidence of Needle's sharp kiss at the very center of Ser Edmund's throat."
"It sounds as if your little sword has a history as illustrious as Dark Sister," the knight declared, and he was only partially japing. "But how did you lose it? And who would ask you to give up your sword?"
"You're getting ahead of the story, Ser Brynden," the girl chastised.
"Apologies, my lady. Please continue."
And so she did. She talked of what she felt as she rode through the gates of Winterfell and left the castle and her beloved brother Jon behind her. She described the landscape, most of which she had never seen before that journey. Brynden was particularly taken with Arya's descriptions of her passage through the Neck, saying he'd never been north of Moat Cailin himself. When she told of her altercation with Joffrey, the heir to Raventree Hall interrupted her again.
"By my troth, you have led a life, Lady Arya. Knocked a king over his head with a stick, did you?"
"He wasn't a king then," the girl spat. "Only a stupid little prince."
The knight laughed. "No point in hating him, though. Food for crows now, isn't he?" He was teasing her with her own words. "And what great lesson did you learn from crossing paths with Joffrey Baratheon?"
The image of her father kneeling on the steps of the Great Sept of Baelor came back to her. Joffrey was there, too, smiling with his wormy lips. Ser Ilyn, bring me his head! Arya blinked, but she didn't hesitate in her answer. "I learned that you ought to put a mad dog down when you have the chance." At her tone, all japing ceased.
"You don't mean that," Brynden said, but he didn't sound so certain.
"I do." She nodded. "I do mean it. I could have done it, too. Would have done it, if I'd known... I had to send Nymeria away. Lady is dead. My father is dead. My mother, my brothers... It all might have been prevented, if I'd shoved that monster's sword through his heart instead of throwing it into the Trident."
"It seems you do live with some regrets, my lady," the knight said softly. His voice had a soothing quality to it.
"And as I told you, those regrets are more related to things I've done than things done to me. I regret sparing Joffrey's life when taking it might have saved so many more." Lives that meant something to me.
"How were you to know?" Ser Brynden asked softly. "I think you can be forgiven for not being a merciless killer as a girl of nine, my lady."
Arya smiled a little sadly. "And as a girl of six and ten? What might I be forgiven for now?"
Brynden sat up from his reclined position and turned his body so that he could look at her. His gaze was intense and he tilted his head, studying her face, her eyes, as he pressed his knuckles against his lips thoughtfully. He drew in a breath and pushed it out slowly, dropping his hand before answering.
"Everything, my lady. Every damn thing."
Arya could tell Brynden wanted to ask her more, but he did not object when she claimed weariness as she rose to find her tent. The night was mild for a Riverlands winter and most of the men had spread furs near the fire, sleeping under the stars, but Harwin and Brynden had insisted on shelter for the women. The Cat didn't mind. She thought it might take longer for the hunters to discover her absence in the morning this way.
The heir to Raventree Hall rose as well and offered Arya his arm, walking her to her tent, some distance from the fire, and from the men with their snoring.
"Sleep well, my lady," he bid her, bending to kiss her hand.
"And you, Ser Brynden."
The Cat had barely settled under her furs when she heard the Bear whispering to her through the flap of her tent.
"So, it's to be Ser Brynden, is it? Do you think he'll insist on matching crowns?"
"Shut up."
"I overheard Lord Smallwood telling Ser Gendry what a handsome couple you make."
"Shut up!" Arya hissed again.
"If you'd rather stay with the hunt so you can get to know your betrothed better, we can always change our plans and... Ooomph!"
Arya had caught her brother in the chest with the heel of her boot as she kicked him through the tent flap. After a moment, Ser Willem poked his head through the flap, frowning at her. He seemed to be rubbing his chest.
"Honestly, you're more like a wild animal than a royal bride-to-be," he groused. His sister smiled sweetly at him.
"Thank you."
The Bear shook his head, his lips pressed into a thin line, and watched his sister settle herself once again beneath her sleeping furs before he addressed her again.
"We've arranged it so that Baynard has last watch over the horses," he whispered, still rubbing his chest. "He's going to be gracious and relieve Lord Vance's squire early to give us a little more time. I'll come get you then. You should sleep while you can, and have your pack ready to go."
"Left it on Bane. All I need to do is take my bedroll and swords."
"Good girl."
Arya glowered at her brother's patronizing tone and kicked her covers off, shoving at his chest once again with her foot, sending him tumbling backwards out of her tent with another ooomph!
"Honestly, that's getting old," the Bear muttered, and she could hear him stalking off. She smiled and closed her eyes. When next she opened them, hours had passed, and it was not the Lyseni assassin who had awakened her, but a distant sound.
Horses, she thought, instantly alert. Riders.
The Cat sat up, grabbing the steel which was never far from her and leaving her shelter. She stood just beyond her tent and listened. Snoring emanated from near the fire, and the wind moved the leaves of the trees overhead, but beyond that, there was the unmistakable sound of hooves pounding the ground. The night was uncommonly bright and the hunting party had traveled along a well-worn road through the forest for most of their journey. It was not impossible for riders to make haste along that path, though it was not without danger, no matter how much the shining moon lit their way. And then there was the potential of wolves.
Why would someone risk a night ride?
A horse whinnied down the hill, one of theirs. Arya shifted slightly toward the sound but then the hairs on the back of her neck prickled and she whirled around, swords at the ready. Ser Brynden halted his advance, his own steel sheathed at his hip. His hand rested upon his pommel.
"It's just me, my lady," the knight greeted quietly, "come to check on you. I heard it too."
"Any ideas?"
"Thieves and outlaws are not like to be so bold with their riding at night," Brynden replied. "It's almost certainly someone looking for us, but whether friend or foe, I cannot say. I think you should don your plate."
"It's on Bane."
"You left your horse packed?" Brynden's brow furrowed slightly.
"Less work in the morning," she replied casually. "I don't have my own squire, you know."
He might have said that she had several knights and their squires who would have done the deed for her, but he did not. His demeanor was inscrutable and so she considered searching his thoughts for a moment, to assess his degree of suspicion. Before she could, the Bear approached, far too quietly for a man of his size. Baynard was at his back and both men looked grim, holding their steel.
"Riders," the larger assassin said, then listened for a second. "Five minutes, at most."
"The others?" Arya asked.
"Ser Gendry is rousing them," Baynard replied. "We'll have the numbers. Can't be more than three or four of them, from the sound."
"Could just be a scouting party," she pointed out, "with others near enough to be drawn by the sound of battle."
"Then we'll have to dispatch them quickly and move on," Ser Willem replied.
"Quickly and quietly," the girl said thoughtfully. "Dying men don't wail once their throats are slit."
"Aye," Baynard agreed. "There's no time for dancing tonight. Quick and clean."
"The fire?" Arya continued, betraying no emotion.
"Doused," Ser Willem assured her.
Brynden watched the exchange keenly, but he made no comment about it. Instead, he suggested that Arya join them at the fire ring, so all their swords would be gathered in one place. From the tent next to the girl's own, Brienne emerged, demanding to know what was happening.
"We're not sure yet, my lady," Ser Brynden said. "Riders will be upon us in a moment, and we cannot know their threat until they are here. Could be messengers sent from Raventree Hall, but it's safer not to assume."
The group made haste to the top of the hill where the party was now awake and standing, swords drawn. Ser Willem shoved Arya to their center despite the daggers she glared at him for doing so and Ser Gendry and Ser Brynden closed in next to her.
"I'm holding Valyrian steel," she reminded them with a hiss.
"They won't get close enough for you to use it, m'lady," Gendry promised, studiously ignoring the fact that he had described precisely her frustration. She might have called him idiotic cattle again in Dothraki (and other languagues), but before she had her chance, she was interrupted by the approaching riders, calling out a name.
"Brynden! Brynden Blackwood!"
Arya's head swiveled and she looked up at the sandy-headed knight, his face illuminated by the bright moonlight which shone upon the hill where they stood.
"I think that's Ben," he said after only a moment's hesitation. "That sounds like Ben."
"What would he be doing here, riding in the small hours?" Arya asked, hiding her consternation. By now, she should have been leading Bane through the trees on silent feet, to the southwest, leaving the Blackwoods and their allies far behind. Instead, she found herself pushed to the center of a mass of men who meant to protect her over her own objections (protection which now actively thwarted her from riding to her mother).
Such careful plans, all undone by the likes of Ben Fucking Blackwood.
She frowned but refrained from growling.
"There must be news," Brynden replied, oblivious to the girl's displeasure. "Ben would only come if he were sent by father, and if father sent him out to ride through the dark, it's something important."
There was an edge of worry to the knight's voice, she thought. Her mind churned and she wondered if this meant they would be riding back to the castle come morning. It would make her escape that much more difficult, if true.
"Here, Ben!" Ser Brynden cried down the hill, toward the road. One of the men built up the fire once again to make spotting their location easier. Shortly after that, Ben Blackwood, the master-at-arms of Raventree Hall, and a sworn man of the household rode up, dismounting with an urgency.
"Brynden, Lord Smallwood, Lord Vance," Ben greeted tersely, nodding to each. He saw Arya there, crowded at their center, and spoke to her as well, all his characteristic japing gone from his tone. "My lady, please forgive me for disturbing your sleep." He bowed slightly but then turned again to his brother. "Brother, we must speak."
"Of course," Brynden agreed.
"Lord Smallwood and Lord Vance should join us," the younger knight insisted. "Father has given me a message to deliver with all haste."
Arya looked at the men, daring them to dismiss her from their council. Brynden hesitated, then suggested that Ser Willem and Ser Gendry see her back to her tent.
"We've deprived you of your rest long enough, Lady Arya," Brynden said, sounding regretful.
"If you think you can send me away like a naughty child..." she started, but Ben interrupted her.
"My lady, my father would not wish you to be alarmed. Please. This is a matter for the River lords which should not concern you."
He was commanding, leaving little room for argument. This was a side to Ben Blackwood that Arya would not have believed existed. There was no flirtation, no misplaced arrogance. She imagined that in battle, when trouble started, Ser Edmund could be as focused as his more serious brother.
How surprising.
Still, the girl would not easily consent to being dismissed, if only so that she might alter her own plans according to whatever this news was.
"My lords, whatever it is, it's my right to know. My brother was King in the North, and of the Riverlands, as you've all been quick to remind me since my arrival. The Winter Throne has no other representative here at present, so I think matters for River lords do concern me." She felt strange saying it, after all her protestations, but it seemed the most expedient way to obtain the information she sought.
It's just another part to play, her little voice soothed. A mask you wear to reconnoiter more freely. It means nothing.
Yes, another mask, she thought. Or is it a crown?
Does it matter? It's a convenient disguise as false as Baynard's face.
I will not be a pretty banner, no matter what these men may think, she reassured herself. I will not grow old seated atop a throne while the Kindly Man comfortably lives out his days in Braavos.
No, of course not.
"She's right." The statement came from Harwin, who had been silent up to that point. Arya could only imagine how her words must have thrilled him. The idea of a Ned Stark's daughter reaching for power must have been irresistible to the Northman. Murmuring surrounded her then, men quietly agreeing or disagreeing with her assertion.
"A word, if I may," Ser Brynden said to her, taking Arya gently by her elbow. He led her out of the crowd, a small distance away where they could speak without interference or distraction. He looked down at her, his jaw working as he considered his words.
"What is it, ser?" the Cat finally demanded, impatient.
"My lady, I know not what this news is, or what it may mean, but if it is my father's wish that you be spared..."
"Ser Brynden," the girl said, pulling her elbow free of his grasp, "I've no wish to be spared anything. I know you haven't known me long, but surely you do not think me delicate in any way. You mean well, I know, as does your father, but I would be more distressed at being ill-informed than anything else."
"Perhaps... What if I gave you my promise that I would tell you all that was discussed?"
"Why bother shielding me from hearing it for myself if you are only going to tell me later?"
"I wouldn't be shielding you, my lady, but rather Ser Gyles and Luthor Long." Here, the knight spoke of the master-at-arms and the household guard who rode with Ser Ben. "If father charged them with delivering a message in confidence, I would not have them subjected to his wrath when he finds they disregarded his command. Or, Ben, for that matter. He's had enough of father's ire of late."
"Not half so much as he deserves, I'm sure," the girl grumbled, then sighed her acquiescence. "Fine. I'll give you your privacy, to spare those men your father's displeasure, but I will hold you to your word, ser."
"All that I know, you shall know, my lady," the knight vowed.
Indeed I will, the girl thought, whether you tell it to me or not.
The Cat allowed the heir to Raventree Hall to escort her back to her tent. He retreated quickly once she had settled herself, but she was joined shortly by Ser Willem. The assassin stood just outside the closed tent flap, taking up the post without her leave. Arya could see the silhouette of his great bulk there, an imposing knight placing himself between his lady and the rest of the world.
"I'm surprised at you, sister," he murmured, just loud enough for her to hear. "I expected you to put up more of a fight. What pretty words did Ser Brynden say to make you scamper away so meekly?"
"I didn't scamper away," she growled. "He's going to tell me everything they discuss. He asked that I not compromise his men by forcing them to disobey their lord."
"And you agreed?" the Bear chuckled. "You may make a good wife yet. So obedient to your husband's will."
Dothraki is a language devoid of descriptors, for the most part. A thing is what it is, and those who pledge fealty to the might of the Khals do not believe that embellished language is required to convey the truth of things. When it comes to violence, however; when it comes to threat... Well, that is where the language swells and expands. That is where this Essosi tongue glories in excess. A Dothraki child might only learn one way to say that he has a thirst or that he sees a carrion crow in the sky, but the ways in which he can describe his intent to run a man through with a spear or carve out his heart with an arakh are beyond counting. There are nearly a score of distinct words for blood alone.
And that was why Arya chose Dothraki to express her displeasure at her brother's jape. Or, rather, to express the potential consequences of that displeasure.
The Bear chuckled. "Even if you did remove my head in that horrifying way, I'm not sure you could actually fit it there when it's all said and done."
And so Arya went on to describe precisely how such a feat might be accomplished. Luckily, most of the nuance was lost on the Faceless knight, whose command of Dothraki was decidedly weaker than his sister's. Still, he understood her general intention.
"Anha usovegon," he said in lilting tones. High Valyrian, the language of the educated and the refined, was his shield against all her brutal Dothraki intent. I apologize. "Rest now, sister. I'll keep watch."
"I won't be able to sleep until I know what this is about."
"Valar edrussis." All men must sleep.
The Cat rolled her eyes, but despite her insistence that it would be impossible for her to do so, she finally managed to drift off, though her slumber was fitful and the Lyseni assassin heard her murmuring beneath her furs all through the night.
"Not a banner," she slurred. "No... pretty... banner."
The company was somewhat diminished when the girl arose shortly after the dawn. She made her way to the crest of the hill where the master of the hunt and Ser Brynden's squire were cooking breakfast over the fire. Lord Vance was nowhere to be seen. Neither was Lord Smallwood. Their squires were missing as well, along with those who had arrived from Raventree Hall in the night. Arya surveyed all who sat quietly eating near the fire. Ser Gendry, Baynard, Ser Willem, Brienne, Harwin, and two sworn men of Lord Blackwood's household who had come along to guard the party.
"Ser Brynden?" Arya asked when she caught the Bear's eye. Her tone was neutral. The girl had not yet decided whether to be angry with Lord Blackwood's eldest son for not waking her as soon as his council was concluded. She stifled a yawn with the back of her hand and waited.
"Checking the horses," her brother replied after he swallowed his bite. "He traded his mount for Ser Ben's so that his brother would not be left with a worn out horse for his trip back home."
So Ben had left then. And by the looks of things, he'd taken a number of the hunting party back with him.
Arya's eyes searched out those remaining as she mentally tabulated who would stay and who would not. Gendry's expression was dour and Arya attributed it to the early hour and the generally poor quality of sleep they had all had. She turned to leave the party, intending to find the heir to Raventree Hall and demand the explanation she was due, but before she had taken more than three steps, the blacksmith-knight spoke, halting her.
"M'lady! Stay. You've not eaten yet. I'll go fetch Ser Brynden for you if you like."
"No need, Ser Gendry," she called back over her shoulder. "Don't trouble yourself. I'll find him myself."
She had one intrusive thought then that was not her own.
Fuck. That's all I need. Might as well have the ceremony right here, then.
The girl narrowed her eyes but continued her retreat, giving no indication that she had gleaned the content of Ser Gendry's internal rant. She found Ser Brynden down the hill with the horses, just as the Bear had said. The girl's step was so light that the knight did not note her presence until she was nearly upon him. He looked up at her for a moment and then smiled.
"One might almost think you a woods-spirit, Lady Arya, you move so silently among the trees."
"What makes you think I'm not?"
"I've held you in my arms. I know there's more to your form than mist."
Arya chewed her lip. "Caution, ser. Anyone overhearing you say such a thing might think you meant more than an innocent dance at your father's feast."
"Well, I did carry you to your bedchamber as well," he reminded her, biting back his grin.
"When you thought I had fainted," she said, but then added quickly, "even though I had not!"
"Don't fret, my lady. Anyone who questions your honor will have his correction at the edge of my blade."
"Oh, I'm not fretting, Ser Brynden. I know who I am, and who I am not. The opinions of others matter little to me. But I imagine that my reputation means a great deal to your father. You should have care of your tongue for his sake more than mine."
The knight laughed. "Indeed. He'd not like his good-daughter's name soiled."
Arya looked hard at Brynden before changing the subject. "I am cross with you, ser. You didn't come to me last night to tell me what was said as you promised."
"It was the telling I promised," he reminded her, "not the timing of when I would tell it."
"I expected that you would wake me."
"What, come into your tent in the night? Did you not just admonish me to have care of your reputation?"
"Ser Brynden," the girl hissed, growing impatient.
"My lady, when our discussions were complete, I found your man standing guard over you and he implored me not to wake you. I quite agreed. The hunt may be arduous today. Being well rested is imperative."
"The hunt," Arya repeated, incredulous. "You intend to continue hunting?"
"You're ready to abandon the hunt after only one day?" the knight asked, sounding equally incredulous, but his reply had a ring of mockery to it. "Perhaps you should have stayed back at the castle with the other ladies after all. You might have found embroidering handkerchiefs more to your liking."
"Do not jape with me, ser..."
"Who's japing? My sister has a fine collection of poppets you could have played with, and if you had managed to finish that handkerchief, I could have worn it as your favor if ever there's a tournament. I'm shite with a lance, my lady, but I can hold my own in a melee." Ser Brynden's expression was innocence itself until Arya took two steps closer and shoved hard at his chest. He swayed but kept his balance, then burst out laughing.
"I never played with poppets," she growled. "Not even when I was younger than Baby Bobbin. Now, you will explain to me why we are hunting when half the party is making haste to your father's house!"
"Because my father wished it," he said, smiling fondly at the girl. The knight reached out and tucked a stray lock of Arya's chestnut hair behind her ear. His fingertips trailed softly over the angle of her jaw before he spoke again. "But how do you know the men are going to Raventree Hall?"
"Where else?"
"Any one of a dozen places, really. Why not Wayfarer's Rest? Or Acorn Hall? Or Pinkmaiden?" Ser Brynden quizzed. "They could be heading to a village, say, Pennytree. Or Kirkwood."
The girl's glare and low growl showed how little she cared for the knight's stalling. Her companion smirked but capitulated and gave her the information she sought.
"You have the right of it, my lady. They are going back to the castle, but from there, they ride to Riverrun."
"Riverrun?" the girl asked, confused. "But, why?"
"They've been summoned. Lord Frey has called his banners."
"Lord Frey?" The Cat curled her lip slightly as the hated name formed on her tongue. "If Walder Frey has called the banners, why do they ride for Riverrun and not the Twins?"
"Not Walder Frey, my lady. Emmon Frey. He holds Riverrun, and ever since the crown disavowed Petyr Baelish as Lord of Harrenhal, Emmon Frey also holds the title of Lord Paramount."
Emmon Frey? Arya knew the name. She recalled vaguely that he was linked to Casterly Rock by marriage, a bit of information she chanced to overhear during Lord Tywin's tenure at Harrenhal. Emmon Frey was Tywin's good-brother. That made him nothing more than a Lannister catspaw. Of course.
The girl's mind began working quickly. Her experience with Westerosi politics might have been limited, but she knew there were only a very few reasons for a lord to call his banners. Since Emmon Frey had long been installed at Riverrun, it could not be some ostentatious ceremony which required their presence. And since the River lords had already declared for the crown (however disingenuously), it wasn't some required show of loyalty which drew them to Riverrun. That left only one other possibility.
There was to be war.
But... with whom? Was this a warning to the River lords that the Lannisters had caught wind of their plots? Or was this being orchestrated by the crown, to support their position in King's Landing as the Dornish and Dragon armies advanced? Or, was it something else? Some force meant to counter the rumored wilding battalions in the North?
"Why are you not called home?" the girl asked quietly, trying to work out Tytos Blackwood's plan. "Shouldn't you be at your father's side?"
"My place is here, as host of the hunt."
"Your guests have absconded, ser. You've no one left to host."
"There's you, my lady. My most important guest."
Arya stepped back, putting some distance between herself and the knight. She looked up at him, scrutinizing his expression, his eyes, trying to understand what he wasn't saying.
"You're to keep me away from the castle," the girl realized, her eyes narrowing as she spoke. "You're to keep me hidden."
"Yes," he admitted, shrugging slightly. His forthrightness surprised her. "My father intends to keep you safe, my lady, and far away from the Lannisters. He has entrusted me with that task."
"So, we're to hunt indefinitely?"
"We can hunt for as long as you find it diverting, but we'll make for Harroway when you tire of these woods."
Harroway. It was practically all the way back to the Inn at the Crossroads, and days further from the Hollow Hill and her mother.
What in the seven bloody hells would they do in Harroway?
No, she would not be making for Harroway, no matter what Ser Brynden and Lord Blackwood said. Her plans to slip away in the night had been hampered by unforeseen circumstances, but she would leave the party tonight (though in truth, there was not much party left, and when discounting those who were privy to her plans and would go with her, only a stray few would remain). She must be on her way before she could be drawn too much further from her intended destination.
"Hunting it is, then," the Cat replied, thinking it best to delay any movement toward Harroway, "for I have yet to grow tired of the sport. I was promised wolf pelts for my winter cloak, and I've not even heard a single howl since we set out."
"Exceedingly strange," the knight agreed. "I wonder where the beasts have gone off to?"
"Where indeed."
As Arya departed and climbed the hill once again to find her breakfast, Ser Brynden was left wondering if he had only imagined the slyness in her tone.
Their camp broken, the band made its way along the forest road, but without much urgency or purpose. The dogs had not scented any prey and simply ambled along beside the horses. Baynard used their slow ride as an opportunity to irritate Ser Gendry with thinly veiled insults and Ser Willem conversed with Ser Brynden about the differences between Dornish hunting parties and those which hunted in the Riverlands. Arya wasn't sure where the Bear had learned so much about Dornish hunting tradition, but she found herself fascinated by the discussion.
"Bows are never used," her brother was saying. "We Dornish have an affinity for spears, of course, and it's said that any self-respecting Dornish cook will refuse to prepare meat that's been felled by an arrow."
He's terribly good at being Faceless, the Cat thought, spurring Bane forward with her heels and catching up to Brienne and Harwin.
"Milady," Harwin greeted, bobbing his head.
"Lady Arya," the Maid of Tarth said, nearly simultaneously. The girl nodded her own greeting back.
"Harwin, what reason would Lord Blackwood have send us to Harroway?"
The Northman looked thoughtful. "The village was swept away by floods four or five years past," he replied. "It's been resettled since then with displaced villagers from elsewhere, rebuilt with Blackwood gold."
"So, it's safe to say the populace is loyal to Raventree Hall, then?"
"Aye, milady. I'd say the villagers in Harroway owe their survival to the Blackwoods, and are most grateful to Tytos Blackwood for it."
Arya thought back to her time in the Riverlands, when she was confined in Harrenhal, then later riding in the company of the Brotherhood and the Hound. "Harroway has traditionally been a village beholden to Harrenhal, has it not?"
"Those who owed their loyalties to Harrenhal were drowned in the floods," Harwin said, "and smallfolk there now have no love for those melted towers."
"But have they fear of them?" In her experience, fear was just as likely to motivate men as love. More likely, even.
"I'd guess the garrison Lord Blackwood left behind there to guard the people salves that fear some."
A garrison left to guard a village. It seemed a land war had been waged quietly in the Riverlands since she had last been here. Harroway was a Blackwood stronghold now. No wonder Ser Brynden felt comfortable leading the party there.
"My lady," Brienne said in hushed tones, "if we ride all the way to Harroway, we may find it far too difficult to leave, with Blackwood troops guarding the village. Not to mention how it will lengthen our journey."
"I've no intention of going to Harroway," Arya assured her quietly.
Harwin's mouth took on a grim set. "Milady, Ser Bryden is a reasonable man. If we were to tell him of your wish to be reunited with your mother, I'm certain he would agree to send for her, or to accompany you on the journey. Another experienced sword at your side would be to your advantage."
"I disagree, Harwin. Ser Brynden may be reasonable, but he's also obedient to his father's wishes, and his father wishes him to bring us to Harroway. We can't risk involving him in this plan when I know he cannot agree to it."
"He'd not harm you, milady..."
She shook her head. "No, he wouldn't. But I don't want to have to harm him."
Arya could feel the Northman's frustration, but it was not to be helped. She could clearly see how revealing her plan to her host would play out, even if Harwin could not. Ser Brynden would have no choice but to try to detain the Lady of Winterfell by force. She had no doubt she could best the heir to Raventree Hall if they were forced to cross swords, but the truth of the matter was that she did not want to fight him. The Blackwoods had shown her kindness, and though she understood that doing so aligned with their political interests, she also knew Lord Blackwood's regard for her was real. So, too, was Lady Bethany's and Ser Brynden's. She could not repay all their kindness with violence or grief.
The girl was resolved.
"We'll leave tonight and make haste for Acorn Hall. With any luck, my mother will already be there by the time we arrive."
"As you say, Lady Arya," Brienne agreed, seemingly content to have a plan in place which would move her closer to the fulfillment of a long-held vow.
Harwin grunted gruffly, but he voiced no further protest.
Hours later, as the land was covered by the dusk, Ser Willem carried his lady's sleeping furs to the tent that had been raised for her.
"I've drawn the watch in the hour of the wolf," he told her. One corner of the Cat's mouth quirked up.
"You speak like a Northman, ser."
"All to please my lady."
"I would have thought in Dorne it would be the hour of the viper."
"In Dorne, every hour is the hour of the viper."
This made her laugh. "I can't tell what you actually know and what you're making up."
"I only speak the truth, my lady!" the Faceless-knight declared, feigning insult.
"No Dornish cook will prepare meat felled by an arrow?" she said skeptically.
"I swear to the seven, and on my honor as a knight."
The Cat rolled her eyes and snorted. The Lyseni assassin grinned at her.
"Well, I hope you can stomach the venison we're having for supper. I felled it with an arrow, after all." It had been their only quarry for the day, and the serving men from Raventree Hall had been busily dressing it and cooking it since they set up camp.
"Well done, Lady Arya!" Ser Brynden had cried.
"It's not a wolf pelt for my cloak, but I suppose we'll eat well tonight," the girl had demurred.
"I should have no trouble with it at all," Ser Willem assured her. "It's not being prepared by a Dornish cook!" He tossed the furs into her tent and offered her his arm for the trek to the campfire. Her tent had been set up as far away from the fire as seemed reasonable. Arya had claimed a sensitivity to the brightness, saying she had trouble sleeping in the absence of complete dark. In truth, she had wanted to make her escape without risking discovery in the firelight.
"My lady," Ser Brynden murmured upon her arrival. The company was scattered around the fire, some sprawling, some sitting on haunches. Brynden offered Arya a skin. "Water," he said, "but I've wine too, if you'd rather. And mead."
She took the skin from him and settled herself near the fire to drink. A serving man brought her a skewer with some of the roasted venison, still sizzling from the fire. Her stomach growled at the sight of it and she nearly burned her mouth on that first bite. She didn't care. After their long day of riding, she was famished.
Brynden leaned over and swiped at the grease dripping down her chin with his thumb, laughing.
"I think you look a proper wildling," he commented, eyes dancing.
"It's been a long time since anyone has thought I was a proper anything," the girl replied. "I think I should be flattered. My younger brothers and I used to play at it. When I was a little girl, there was nothing I would have rather been than a wildling spearmaiden."
"And now that you're grown?" Ser Brynden asked. "What would you be now?"
The ghost in Harrenhal. A nearly-Faceless assassin. Ned Stark's grey daughter. A wolf. A Cat. The shadow among shadows. The sword hand of the Many-Faced god.
A man's reason.
"Nothing more than I am," she said quietly, looking out into the darkness. Something in her tone kept the knight from inquiring further. He smiled wistfully.
"I still think you'd make a splendid wildling."
"Have you seen many wildlings, ser?" Arya asked before attacking the meat again.
"Only in my imaginings, but from now on, when someone tells me stories of them, I shall picture you, just as you are now."
"Am I so frightful?" The girl was not bothered by the idea and seemed to be asking out of mere curiosity.
Brynden scoffed, "Far from it, my lady. It's just that with your braid so mussed and the wind burn on your cheeks, you look..."
"Unkempt?" Arya supplied, her mouth half-full of venison.
"Unfettered," he countered. "Savagely beautiful. And free."
Free? Not yet, she thought, but soon.
When the hour of the wolf gave way to the dawn, Arya and her companions were three hours from the hunting camp, the rising sun at their backs and Acorn Hall five days ride to the southwest (four, if they pushed their mounts, and themselves, to their limits). As the red-gold glow grew behind them, the small company was able to hasten their pace, the dawning light making their path more plain than it had been since they left Ser Brynden and his sleeping men behind.
"I suppose right about now, Ser Brynden is realizing you've left him," Gendry remarked quietly to Arya when they took a short break to water the horses in a shallow stream they happened across.
"I didn't leave him," she retorted, patting Bane's neck absently. "I just left."
The blacksmith-knight shrugged, refusing to admit the distinction. "Regardless, he'll be heartbroken."
Arya rolled her eyes. "I'm sure his heart will be just fine." She looked suspiciously at her old friend. "Why do you sound so chipper about it, anyway? What has Brynden Blackwood ever done to you?"
Gendry grunted. "I just didn't like the way he treated you, is all."
"How did he treat me?"
"As if he owned you," the knight replied. His tone suggested surprise at the question; as if the answer were so obvious, it required no explanation. "He acted like he owned you."
"Did he?" the girl asked, lifting an eyebrow and looking into narrowed blue eyes.
"He was trying to take what wasn't his," the dark knight insisted. Arya laughed at that, which seemed to aggravate her companion. "You just don't see it because you're so young, m'lady. You don't know how deceitful men can be when they want something. He would have wooed you and trapped you into a marriage before you could see him for what he really is: a power-hungry opportunist."
It was Arya's turn to be aggravated. She had always hated having her youth used to discount her competence.
"It's true that some men are governed by their ambitions," she admitted, and her voice was heated, "in the same way that others are governed by their jealousies." Gendry's face flushed but he held his tongue and she continued. "You should not assume that I fail to see men for exactly who they are." She glared at her companion. "I see Brynden Blackwood, despite my youth. And I see you, ser. Quite clearly." She turned sharply on her heel then, leading Bane away and leaving the brooding knight to ponder her words.
A day of hard riding with few stops had brought the renegade company into the wooded hills somewhere between the God's Eye and Ravetree Hall by nightfall. They kept well south of Lord Blackwood's home, to avoid being spotted by the sentries posted on its high walls. Arya had wanted to keep going, but more practical heads prevailed, Harwin citing the treacherous path they would have to pick for the next five leagues or so. He observed that laming a horse at this point in their journey would prove disastrous.
"And not everyone is the rider you are, milady," he reminded her. "There are those among us who would be as like to break a neck as make it through the night safely on horseback."
Reluctantly, the Cat agreed to make camp, but insisted on taking the first watch herself, knowing she would be unable to sleep anyway. Her insides thrummed and buzzed with her impatience and she found herself too edgy to relax. The Bear had offered to keep her company, but she insisted her brother get his rest.
"You had watch last night," she said, dismissing the assassin. In short order, the camp grew quiet around her. They had lit no fire, not wishing to draw undue attention, and Arya paced quietly around the perimeter, guided only by the little light the moon allowed her through occasional cloud breaks and her own fingertips brushing against trees and shrubs as she passed.
"M'lady," a voice called softly from her left. Arya made no reply but listened as heavy footsteps stirred the dry leaves in their path. "M'lady, are you there?"
"I'm here, Ser Gendry," she finally called back, her voice hushed to avoid disturbing the company. The girl made no move toward her old friend, but waited for him to find her in the dark. He nearly walked right into her and she placed the flat of one palm against his belly to halt his movement. "I'm here," she said again, this time in the softest whisper. The large knight drew in a great breath and stilled, feeling the girl's palm through his blouse.
"Your hand is cold," he finally remarked. "You should wear gloves."
"My hands are always cold, and gloves make little difference, it seems." She did not protest when the knight gently took her hand, removing it from his middle and lifting it to his mouth where he blew his warm breath across the cool flesh of her fingers. After a moment of this, he placed her palm against his cheek, holding it there for long seconds before speaking.
"There. It seems a bit warmer now."
"Did you seek me out to determine the temperature of my fingers, Gendry?" the girl teased, sliding her hand from beneath his and crossing her arms over her chest.
The knight cleared his throat. "No. I... wanted to apologize."
"Apologize? For what?" The Cat was genuinely befuddled.
"For offending you earlier, with all my talk about Ser Brynden and saying you were too young to understand his motives..."
"Oh, that," she interrupted, sounding dismissive. "I'd already forgotten."
She hadn't. But it didn't seem terribly important just then, while trying to execute a plan to evade Lannister loyalists who would offer her up to Queen Cersei like a nameday gift and River lords who wished to install her upon the Winter Throne for their own purposes.
Arya couldn't quite make out the skeptical look on Gendry's face, but she knew it was there anyway.
"Listen, I didn't mean to imply that you're naive..." he started.
It seemed the dark knight would not be content to leave the matter where it lay, and so the girl dropped all pretense of forgetfulness and met him head on.
"You didn't imply it," she retorted. "You stated it as if it were fact."
"No, I didn't," he protested. "What I meant was..."
The girl plowed on, not allowing him to explain. "You said I was too young to understand that Ser Brynden was trying to use me to gain power."
"Yes, but it wasn't meant as a slight against you..."
"And yet I felt very slighted."
"M'lady..." His tone was pleading.
"I've told you not to call me that."
"I really meant no insult to you! Sometimes things come out wrong," he tried again. She snorted. "Just a moment ago, you said you'd already forgotten it," Gendry huffed. "I think we both know that came out wrong!"
"No, Ser Gendry, it didn't come out wrong. That wasn't a mistake, it was a lie. One I told purposefully, to keep from having to have this very conversation!"
The blacksmith-knight threw his head back and groaned up at the night sky. "I just wanted to say I was sorry," he muttered angrily.
"Why?" Arya hissed.
"Because... I offended you when I didn't mean to."
"Now you're lying, too. That's not why."
"Then... because you're the Lady of Winterfell, and I should have more care with how I speak to you."
"Another lie, and this one worse than the last!"
Gendry blew out a frustrated breath. She could feel the heat in his glare. The girl knew he would be grateful if she dismissed him; if she let him off the hook. He would be content to leave her with his poor apology and no sensible explanation for his need to make it even when he couldn't adequately explain what it was he felt sorry about. Arya sensed that they were on dangerous ground and that it would be safer for both of them to walk away, leaving certain things unsaid.
But she found herself unable to do so.
It might have been her innate cruelty, a need to make others feel the hardness and inequity in life that she herself felt all the time. It might have been because her life of shadows and deception in the House of Black and White had left her with a curiously strong appetite for truth. It might have been that she feared the harm Gendry's secrets might do him if he bundled them too tight and held them too close inside of him.
Whatever the reason, Arya did not release him from his obligation and instead, stood silently and expectantly before the blacksmith-knight. He stared hard at her, wavering between telling her another lie or burdening her with the truth.
Finally, he seethed, "Fine! It's because I was jealous of Ser Brynden. I was jealous of him taking your arm and whispering into your ear by the firelight. I was jealous of him laughing with you at the high table over honey cakes and wine. I was jealous that he..." There was a catch in Gendry's voice, but he swallowed it down and continued, "...he could offer you marriage and not be laughed at for it, or told he was insolent or improper to think you might say yes to him. I was jealous and it made me angry when I have no right to be angry or jealous."
Arya turned away from the dark knight, her brow furrowed as she thought about what he'd just said. Jealousy. She'd felt it before; understood its sting; had said spiteful things because of it, long ago, in another lifetime, when a Pentoshi ship's captain had seemed to flirt with a round and lively tavern girl.
Thinking of Olive caused her to chew her lip. Thinking of Jaqen caused her to bite it hard enough to draw blood. She breathed out slowly, turning once again to face her friend, carefully considering her words. She'd forced him into an admission he was likely not ready to make, and she felt she owed him something in return.
"Feelings aren't about rights and entitlements," she said softly, tasting the salty tang of her blood as she spoke. "Feelings just... are."
"I don't take your meaning."
"How you feel isn't governed by what anyone else thinks is proper or justified."
"M'lady," the knight replied hoarsely, "Ser Brynden has only ever been a true knight in my presence. I have no right to harbor these resentments."
"Is it the advantages afforded by his station which goad you, or are you bothered because it's me he set his sights on, however calculated his reasons?"
"Both," he whispered, sounding defeated. The girl felt troubled by Gendry's distress, and for a moment, even she was angry at Ser Bryden, because an accident of birth had given him a title and wealth and a claim to a measure of power a Flea Bottom bastard could never even dream of sharing, no matter how much royal Baratheon blood flowed through his veins.
"You're such a stupid bull," Arya said, but there wasn't much force behind the declaration. "You don't even know me anymore." You only know a rough little girl who thought she could be your friend forever while you made swords for her brother the king. "How can you be jealous when you don't even know me?"
The dark knight laughed sadly. "How I feel isn't governed by what's proper or justified," he parroted. "I have no right to feel it, but there it is."
"Gendry," she began, her voice carrying a caution in it.
"I'm sorry to have spoken of it, only you didn't give me much choice."
The girl sighed. "You know... You know I don't feel the same."
He nodded. "I know. That doesn't change anything for me."
"I can't," she tried to explain. "I can't feel that way. Not for anyone. My heart is hard." Turned to stone behind doors of ebony and weirwood.
"I understand."
"I'm not sure you do..." I can never belong to you. Or Ser Brynden. Or anyone else but the nameless Lorathi who freed me from the prison of my birth with iron; who burdened me with the sweet weakness of love and left me to bear it alone.
"No, Arya, I do," he assured her quietly. "I'm not asking you to feel anything for me. I'm not asking you to promise me anything. I wouldn't presume to..."
There was a deep misery in his words, and an acceptance of that misery that the girl found heartbreaking. Her anger at his earlier insult melted away and she acted impulsively. She closed the distance between them in an instant.
Gendry was startled when Arya grabbed at the neck of his blouse, yanking down with her surprising strength, pulling his face toward hers. She lifted up on her toes and pressed her mouth hard against his, kissing him fiercely. After the briefest of hesitations, the dark knight wound his arms tightly around the girl's lithe frame, pulling her against him and lifting her off the ground. He groaned against her mouth and tried to part her lips with his own but she turned her face away and then slipped from his arms and back onto her own feet. For a moment, the only sound they made came from their heavy breathing, and then Arya spoke.
"There. Now Brynden can be jealous of you, for I've never kissed him."
With that, she stalked off into the night, continuing her survey of their perimeter. Gendry stared after her long after she had melted into the black and the sound her her footsteps had faded in his ears, the ache of her lips pressing down onto his existing only in his memory.
I Found—Amber Run