Searching for some grace, I'll tell you now, if I could hear your voice…
How sweet the sound.
There was a hum detectable even through the heavy doors of the great hall. Stories, japes, schemes, and boasts hung in the air, all bleeding together into one cheerful, thrumming drone. Arya could hear it; could feel it in her skin, reverberating. Her face flushed pink as she ground her teeth slowly, deliberately, her silent protest against the indifference of it all.
The maddening disregard.
The girl had gone straight to the supper upon leaving Gendry's chamber, too angry, too aggrieved after tending his wounds for any pretense. Her poor maid was like to be waiting to dress her in her chamber, holding some borrowed gown, worried about the tongue lashing she would receive for failing to obtain either the mysterious scent of Ser Brynden's or any jeweled hair comb from Lady Brienne.
A braying laugh floated through the crack between the doors then. Arya inhaled deeply, then blew the breath out, stilling herself and ruling her face. Or rather, choosing not to rule it, but to making plain how she felt with the set of her mouth; with the look in her eyes. She tucked Jaqen's soiled, oversized blouse into her breeches so it would not billow as she entered. It would not do to appear comical or child-like. Not tonight. She cuffed the ends of her sleeves so they did not hang down past her hands and tugged at the laces of her neckline, drawing them tight and knotting them. Pushing the doors open, she walked through them, entering the hall and surveying those who supped there.
As the girl walked down the center aisle with purpose, the laughter died first, closely followed by the conversation. Every eye was on her, and Ser Willem started, beginning to rise from his seat, a frown forming on his face. He shook his head slightly at his sister, but she ignored him and continued to the high table. The men there, lords all, seemed frozen for a moment, stunned at Lady Arya's sudden and unexpected arrival as much as at her appearance.
Her hair was unbound and unrestrained, save for a small twist on one side which pulled her mahogany locks away from her eyes, allowing what burned behind them to be seen, and seen well. The twist was held in place by a single pin, slightly bent but still serviceable. That, along with her venomous and disdainful expression, gave her the look of some foreign savage, or a fierce wildling spearwife, lying in wait for an enemy. It was an altogether unexpected mien for a young, marriageable heir to an ancient throne (though not at all surprising for the Cat, at least for those who really knew her). After all, the highborn ladies of Westeros did not leave their hair unarranged or unadorned when supping in noble houses (or when doing most other things in most other places, for that matter). And they typically did not arrive at a feast with undisguised murder in their eyes.
Such a simple thing, on its face: an expression; a choice of hair style. Details, as changeable as the wind. But undeniably, they set Arya instantly apart from those around her.
And then there was the matter of her overlarge blouse, arm seams hanging down well past her shoulders, ivory linen stained with Gendry's blood and a sticky, brownish substance where her sleeves had dragged as she applied her honey-salve to the dark knight's wounds.
She looked for all the world as if she'd just stumbled in from the battlefield, the blood lust still upon her.
But in truth, the battle had not yet begun.
Brynden Blackwood was the first at the high table to stand, prompting the others men in the room to do the same. The sound of the wooden legs of benches and chairs scraping over the stone floors filled the girl's ears, and Lord Smallwood cleared his throat, attempting to force the shock from his face. He was only partially successful.
He would not make a very good Faceless Man.
"Lady Arya, welcome," he greeted. His eyes did not appear so very welcoming, however. "We did not expect you to join us this evening."
"No, I'm sure you didn't." She came to rest directly before Theomar and looked up at him with unmasked displeasure.
Lord Smallwood called for a servant to bring Lady Arya a plate and chair, setting into motion a flurry of activity about the hall. Servants rushed to rearrange the table and the men standing before her moved and shifted, creating a space for her to Lord Smallwood's right. Without a word, the girl set her jaw and ascended the stairs on the side of the dais, seating herself in the newly placed chair between Lord Smallwood and Ser Brynden. Ser Jaime was seated at the high table as well, at the other end, separated from the master of Acorn Hall by a squat, older lord Arya did not recognize. The sigil sewn over the breast of his doublet, however, was known to her.
A woman, naked and pink, danced on a field of blue. A blank white banner gracefully looped around her body, providing her some modesty. The sigil of House Piper.
And if this man of Pinkmaiden, the seat of House Piper, was seated so near to their host, he could only be the lord of that castle. Their words came to her then, learned long ago in Maester Luwin's cramped solar.
Bright and beautiful, she thought, though Lord Piper himself was anything but. Grizzled red hair shot through with gray, wild and bushy like his beard, stood out haphazardly from his head. The lord's ruddy and coarse face spoke to both his time spent away from Pinkmaiden in fields of fire and blood, fighting for this king or that, as well as the drink he had used to quiet the memories of those same wars.
"My Lady Arya," Theomar said as the girl settled, "may I present Lord Clement Piper of Pinkmaiden?"
The stout Riverlord bowed his head and gruffly muttered, "My lady."
"Lord Piper," Arya returned curtly. She was in no mood to play the gracious lady tonight. The men all seated themselves again and resumed their meals a bit uneasily. Servants hastily placed portions of the dishes before the girl. The food appeared very fine, likely in honor of Lord Piper's visit, but it struck a discordant note with Arya that such a pleasant meal was being served on the same day her friend had been so unfairly abused.
On the same day her own mother had made it abundantly clear just how little she cared for her youngest daughter.
Clement Piper's visit notwithstanding, the girl saw little reason for celebration.
Conversation resumed in the hall, though certainly not with the same exuberance as before, and Ser Brynden leaned over to speak with Arya.
"Your chambermaid," he began, a twinkle in his eye, "asked me the most interesting question earlier. I was quite flummoxed."
"Oh?" was her clipped response.
"Something about some scent."
The girl's only answer was a disinterested shrug. She was in no mood for playful banter or flirtation with the son of a Riverlord.
"At first, I wondered if it were some sort of coded message," he confessed, though she could tell he was merely japing.
"It wasn't."
"I figured as much, and so I told her that I had misplaced the bottle." The knight laughed delightedly, as if this were a game that he and Arya had devised for their own amusement.
"Oh." She stared out, watching the Bear shift uneasily in his seat. The large assassin was monitoring his sister closely, but giving the impression of nonchalance, at least to those who did not know him. Arya could read his tension as plainly as if it had been painted across the wall with black tar and set alight.
"Are you quite well?" Ser Brynden inquired. His tone had changed, all playfulness drained from him. Arya was not being at all Arya, and the alteration in her mood had alerted him to some underlying problem.
It was not very Faceless of her. The Kindly Man would be disappointed in her performance tonight, undoubtedly.
The thought caused her lip to curl slightly before she answered the knight.
"No. I'm not quite well."
"Is there anything I can…"
"No."
The heir to Raventree Hall pulled back some, his eyebrows drawing together slightly as he looked at the girl's expression. He watched her as she looked down at her plate, frowning at the food, and then looked out over the crowd again, her frown deepening.
"My lady," the knight finally said, his voice so quiet that only she could hear, "I… I understand that you are… upset."
The girl turned then, her lips pursed and her brows raised expectantly. Her unflinching gaze caught Ser Brynden by surprise and he faltered. His own countenance displayed at first confusion, and then, perhaps a touch of hurt.
"But surely not with me," he continued. She made him no answer and could sense the man's growing discomfort with her behavior. He glanced at her sleeve, noting the blood there, and near her waist as well, a large reddish-brown stain that stretched from her navel to her flank on one side. He sighed. "You've been to see him, I gather." There was no doubt to which him Ser Brynden referred.
"Yes."
"Then I understand your disquiet. No lady should have to witness such…"
"Injustice?" she suggested. "Corruption?"
"I was referring to Ser Gendry's condition, my lady. I am sorry. I am sure it was a… grisly sight."
"Indeed, it was." There was no emotion in her voice beyond simple vexation.
Brynden nodded a little sadly. The Cat could tell that it bothered him that she had been exposed to what he considered barbarity. He had not been present when Ser Gendry was flogged and he had not been witness to Lady Stoneheart's decree that Arya could endure the punishment alongside her friend, if she so chose, but he had most certainly heard all about it. Everyone in Acorn Hall had, judging by the way almost no one in the Great Hall could meet her eye, not even the servants.
"You do not seem… Forgive me, Lady Arya, but you do not seem… quite recovered."
"I'm not."
The knight's eyes became mildly alarmed, the sincerity of his concern radiating at her incessantly. It made her fingers twitch.
"Do you not think it wiser to, perhaps, rest, and refresh yourself in your own chamber, then? You need not be here," he assured her. "Your absence would be forgiven." His voice was gentle, his suggestion almost timid. That was most unlike Ser Brynden's normally assured manner. He was striving mightily not to provoke the girl. It would've amused her, had her mood been lighter.
"Wiser?" she mused. Yes, it would have been wiser. What was done was done, and no amount of rage, or bile, or castigation on her part would change it. Gendry would heal no faster for her purposeful disruption of this supper. The heavy knot she felt in the pit of her belly at the memory of her own failure would dissolve no sooner for all her palpable disdain. Her mother would love her no better, would favor her no more, for all her pointed remarks and caustic expressions tonight. Certainly, it would've been wiser to stay hidden away, brooding and biding her time. In that way, all avenues would remain open to her, and she could choose the ones which most favored her desired outcomes at her leisure. These men, these lords, would have been at their ease, falsely believing her a docile creature who was no threat to them; no threat to their plans, whatever they may have been.
That would've been what Maester Luwin would have advised, had he been there to counsel her, she was sure. Patience. Thoughtful consideration. Dispassionately choosing a suitable course in time. So reasonable, Maester Luwin, and a student of diplomacy, too, whose counsel her parents had both valued greatly.
That would have been the Faceless way, to allow adversaries to feel comfortable in their own power, right up until the moment their throats were opened. Their god did not feed on fear, or anger, or revenge. Apprehension was not his nectar. Only death satisfied him, and anything short of that was mere indulgence, useless and possibly detrimental to the desired end.
That would've been the Bear's strong suggestion, as a friend, she was quite certain; to keep her safe, to keep her plans and motivations undiscovered until such time as she could carry them out with no danger to herself.
That would've been what anyone with an eye toward winning this game would've done.
But she had no interest in playing games.
Her eyes swept over the crowd once again. Only Baynard the squire met her gaze, his look inscrutable. But she did not need to read his face. She knew very well what he was thinking.
"Yes," Arya agreed softly. "It would've been wiser."
"I will escort you back, then," the heir to Raventree Hall said, misunderstanding her comment, confusing it for acquiescence. "Shall I have your maid make a bath ready for you?"
The girl looked at the knight. "A bath?" She laughed, but it sounded bitter. "Why?"
"You've… some blood, my lady, just there." Brynden pointed to her neck. "And there." He indicated the back of one hand. "I'm sure you'll feel better once… once you're clean."
Arya paused, looking strangely at him, and then burst out laughing. She laughed and laughed, throwing her head back as her laughter grew, gasping for breath. She laughed so long and so loud, that she drew the attention of everyone at her table, and then everyone near to her table, and then the whole of the hall.
"Oh!" she cried, trying to catch her breath, tears running down her cheeks. She swiped at them with the back of her hand, smearing more of Gendry's blood across her face. "Oh!" She burst out in a fresh round of laughter.
Bryden rose, placing his hands on her shoulders, trying to soothe her, thinking her in the midst of nervous hysterics. Ser Jaime rose as well, moving slowly toward her, his expression befuddled, but wary. Brienne of Tarth approached the high table from her place just below them, ready to offer whatever assistance was required. For her part, Arya continued laughing, standing and pulling free of Ser Brynden's grip, then wrapping her own arms around her belly, trying to stint herself from the pain of laughing so hard.
There were murmurs of my lady from all around and she turned her head, looking at each face, some aghast, some anxious, some confused, and she laughed even more. Before she knew it, Ser Willem was at her side, grasping her firmly, urging her from the dais and telling her in low tones that he would get her away from this place. Her laughter dried up on her tongue and when they were near the middle of the hall, Arya jerked free of the Bear's grasp.
"No! I'm not leaving. Not yet."
"My lady," the Faceless knight said, his tone a warning. Then, in passable high Valyrian, he told her she was making a scene. Her reply was in the same language.
"Of course I'm making a scene. I came here to make a scene."
"Otāpa," he cautioned in a grim whisper. Think.
She ignored him.
"Do you all think I am disturbed by the sight of a man's flesh practically flayed from his body?" Arya spat, turning and addressing the lords and knights and sworn men at the supper. "Do you think that I cannot look upon blood without losing my strength? That my knees become weak at the sight of it?" She glanced down at her stained sleeves and the dried blood on her hand then and laughed again, but this time, it was more controlled. The girl's head snapped up, and her eyes found the heir to Raventree Hall then. "Ser Brynden!" she called.
The handsome knight straightened. "My lady?"
"You think the grisly sight of Ser Gendry's wounds has robbed me of my wits, I think."
"No, my lady, but I do think it has disturbed your nerves and…"
Westeros! She nearly rolled her eyes. "No, Ser Brynden. Not at all."
"Then, why this outburst, Lady Arya?" Bryden's voice contained a plea in it, as if he were begging her to rediscover her reason; to remember herself.
She shook her head and closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them, she spoke.
"My mind is not quiet, it's true, but what disturbs me isn't blood, or gore, or violence, or any display of carnage you could produce for me to attend."
In truth, that's what had triggered her nearly mad laughter: the idea that her mood was due to some frailty; some inability to tolerate the sight of blood; a weakness of the stomach, and of the mind. The idea that she was so delicate, so young, and such a refined lady that her temperament, her emotions, her very reason had been impacted because she had seen an injured man bleed.
She, the ghost in Harrenhal. She, a nearly-Faceless assassin. She, who had watched her own father lose his head, and had killed a boy in a stable, and a man guarding a gate, and then too many others to recall.
She, who had bathed in a sea of blood.
And would again, gods willing.
"Then what?" Ser Jaime interrupted, impatient. "I'm sure we'd all like to know what it is that's disturbing you. My lady." That last, he tacked on almost reluctantly.
Arya found that she appreciated the Kingslayer's irreverence, though she gave him no indication of her approval.
"Malfeasance," she answered, "and the hypocrisy of it all."
"Malfeasance?" Jaime repeated as if he wasn't quite sure he'd heard her correctly.
"The purposeful misapplication of…"
"Yes, my lady, I know what malfeasance is," the golden knight interjected, stepping down from the dais and approaching her. "Did you study much about Westerosi law and traditions while you were in Braavos? I had thought you'd spent all your time learning the ways of assassins and foreign gods."
"There is only one god," she whispered.
"What?" Ser Jaime was nearly upon her then.
Arya shook her head. "Perhaps you'll recall who my father was, Ser Jaime. He taught me all I know of the Westerosi tradition of justice."
The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword.
"Did he also teach you that to make accusations of corruption, you must first have evidence?" Be quiet, girl. His face said it as much as his mind projected it, and yet the Cat could feel that there was no malice in him. Rather, there was a sort of fear there, for her; for what could happen to her if she took one wrong step in this moment.
Just like her father, the Kingslayer observed with dismay.
That caught her off her guard, and she looked at the golden knight then, thoughtful. His internal musing seemed to be a mixture of annoyance and admiration. But there was something else there, something else in him she believed even Ser Jaime didn't quite recognize.
Was it… guilt?
There were too many things happening, too many thoughts fighting for her attention; her own thoughts; the thoughts of those around her; and especially the confusing tangle of what was inside of Jaime's head. It built, like the dull roar of a crowd, and it was far too much at once. She was unable to make sense of all that writhed inside the Kingslayer's mind just then. Her attempts to sort it out made her feel a little sick, and so she pulled back, aware that she could ill afford to vomit there, in the middle of the great hall, and make herself appear weak despite her protestations that she was not. For they would certainly blame it all on her nerves.
How strange, though. That Ser Jaime should care at all.
"I'm not so foolish that I don't understand men have all sorts of reasons to do all sorts of things," Arya replied to Jaime, giving no hint at all that had passed through her mind just then (giving no hint that she understood much that had passed through his, as well). "But I'm also not so indifferent that I can look away when men sacrifice the helpless at the altar of their own ambitions, and call it justice." She knew Gendry would not thank her for referring to him as helpless, but that did not make it any less true; at least not in this circumstance.
Theomar Smallwood stood tall, steady, staring down at her from his place at the high table, his face hard, eyes unblinking. He did not play coy with Arya then.
"No man here did what you say, my lady. That was your mother."
"Yes, my lord, but at whose urging?" the girl replied acidly, walking back toward the table. She thought she heard the Bear behind her, saying no, but she ignored him.
"I've only known her a short while, but it is my experience that your mother is difficult to influence, and impossible to coerce."
"Yet she was swayed by your testimony, Lord Smallwood."
"Yes, my lady," the master of Acorn Hall agreed, "because she recognized it as truth."
"Whether or not she accepted it as truth, or simply used it for justification, I do not know," the girl replied, "but I know it to be false."
"Do you accuse me, then?" Theomar asked, his anger plain to read on his face. "Then you will also need to accuse your own man."
What he said made no sense to Arya. The lord discerned her confusion and explained himself.
"I had seen with my own eyes Ser Gendry's familiar ways with you, but it wasn't until my squire came to me after speaking with Ser Willem's boy that I had confirmation of my suspicions." He pointed toward Baynard. "He had overheard the whole plot and went to my squire with it."
The girl scoffed. "Plot! Bah!"
"Yes, my lady, and I knew that lowborn bastard had to be stopped, before you were too caught up in his mercenary ploy." It was clear Lord Smallwood felt his actions were entirely justified; praiseworthy, even. The girl realized her host actually considered himself her savior. And she realized something else.
The Rat had set Gendry up.
It was only through sheer force of will that Arya stopped herself from rushing back toward the Westerosi assassin then, to throw herself on him and cut out his lying tongue.
She thought to tell Lord Smallwood that he'd been manipulated, but did not wish to explain the why of it; was not even sure she fully understood the why of it herself. She thought to tell him that his eyes had deceived him, and that there was no plot to exploit her, but that was not entirely true, even though Gendry was not the author of such a plan. She thought to simply curse him, in every language she knew, but did not suppose that would make any difference at all.
Looking around, the girl could see that aside from the Bear, she had no real support in the hall, not even from those who believed in Gendry's innocence.
This is not how things are done in Westeros, her little voice reminded her. Women are not admired for directness, or any demonstration of strength, save in their childbed.
Well, Westeros can go straight to all seven bloody hells, then, she thought.
Still, she recognized further argument would be fruitless, though she was not sorry she had expressed her discontent. Let them see that she would not meekly submit to their desires for her; let them learn how difficult she could be to govern. Let them understand that they could not disregard her wishes and hope to have any peace after that.
The girl turned her back to the high table and stalked toward the unmoving cluster of men who had gathered in the center aisle, watching her exchange with Lord Smallwood. They parted for her as she approached, but she stopped when she reached Baynard and spoke to him in low tones, using Dothraki, the language of violence and hostility. His face did not change at her words, his look set as though in stone, but his brother's expression was not so aloof. The false knight started slightly at her threat.
"This is a blood debt," she promised.
And with that, she swept from the room.
Arya slipped through the keep, moving along its shadowy passageways as she headed toward Lady Stoneheart's room. She had not been lying to her chambermaid when she said she had a desire to speak with her mother after the supper.
They had much to discuss.
Her mother, the part of her that was Catelyn, at least, would not have approved of her daughter's display in the great hall. It lacked all the courtesy, all the gentle grace that Lady Stark had tried to instill in her daughters. Arya had never been interested in learning those lessons as a child, and her unwillingness to devote herself to her own improvement (those improvements so admired in a highborn daughter; so sought after in a highborn wife) had been an endless source of pique for both her mother and the septa Catelyn retained to educate her girls on both her faith and the womanly arts.
Mending. Needle work. Singing. Courtesies. Everything frivolous, tedious, and bothersome to a northern girl who only wanted to ride, and practice with her bow, and swing a sword with her brothers.
Sansa didn't think so, of course. Her sister eagerly met the challenges laid forth by the septa, memorizing her prayer book as soon as she could read it, and working endlessly on her stitches. Arya never saw the point, even as the septa and their mother praised the elder Stark girl endlessly on her skill. For all that the younger girl craved her mother's approval, she could not force herself to seek it through the means at her disposal. Not for long, at least. One fresh resolution to do better would melt away with the first stab of an errant needle into her little finger, or one unkind giggle from her sister when Arya misquoted The Seven-Pointed Star.
Any approval Lady Stark did show her youngest daughter was soon undone by Arya's disobedience with her septa's direction, or a childish prank played on Mikken, or one of the kitchen maids. Once, she had been scolded because she and Bran were playing at being knights in a melee and she had knocked him down and then scuffled with him in the yard, the two of them laughing and kicking up dust. Harmless enough if it had been Bran and Rickon, but not fitting behavior for a young lady of Winterfell.
"Why can't you be more like Sansa?"
If she had a copper for every time her mother had said that to her, Arya thought she could afford to build her own castle, away from pointless rules and unreasonable expectations and stifling requirements. Away from her splendid sister, with her impeccable manners and Tully blue eyes.
Sansa never played pranks, never rolled in the dirt, and never disappointed their mother. She was never thoughtless, never cruel. Except toward her sister. And, when she could be bothered to remember him, toward her bastard half-brother, Jon.
Arya never thought that mattered much to her mother, though.
Sansa was Catelyn's perfect daughter, with the same shining auburn hair, always tidy, always beautiful; her mother's mirror image. It had been that way for Arya's whole life. Her sister's hems almost seemed to repel mud, and her recitation of passages from The Seven-Pointed Star had brought a tear to Lady Stark's eye more than once.
If Catelyn ever cried over something Arya had done, it was likely in private, and out of frustration rather than pride.
The girl sighed, slowing her step.
Kindness seemed to be less important to her mother these days, and if Lady Stoneheart's appearance was any indication, the state of any hem was like to be of less concern as well. Arya had entreated her mother to show mercy, had entreated her to remember those lessons she'd tried so hard to impart to her daughter, long ago; lessons about a lady's reputation and a lady's obligations. It had diminished the girl to do it, but she'd done it anyway, for Gendry's sake, and for her own.
It felt like begging for the smallest morsel of love; some tiny crumb of her mother's regard. It felt like prostrating herself, to spare her friend his humiliation by making so plain her own. It felt like a degradation, but she stuffed her pride down deep and pled, so that her mother might tell her she had some worth to her; that she had some value to one of the very few people in this world whose good opinion Arya had always desired.
And her mother had not cared.
The gray lady's heart was hard. As hard as Arya's own. Harder, even.
It occurred to her then that Sansa may have been Catelyn Stark's reflection, her perfect child, but Arya was undoubtedly Lady Stoneheart's.
The thought stopped her in her tracks.
All her mother's words in the sept came rushing back to Arya, rasping whispers and exhortations and plans poured forth from pale lips into a daughter's ear. The girl had taken it all in, the feel of her mother's rough robe against her cheek as welcome as any embrace she had ever received. Her mother had called her my dark child, over and over, and the sound of it was so accepting, so sincere, the girl could not recall hearing anything lovelier from Catelyn's mouth. It was the approval Arya had sought from her mother her whole life, and to her, it seemed more earnest than even the tears Catelyn had shed when Sansa had repeated her perfect verses or shown her excellent embroidery to admiring eyes.
It had thrilled Arya, that epithet, uttered with something akin to pride. She had swelled with a sort of ominous elation; a sense of comfort where there ought to have been only foreboding. Her mother had seemed to endorse the person her child had become, and that was more than the girl had ever dreamed possible; more than she had ever dared hope for herself.
Thinking of her mother now, pronouncing her judgement against Gendry, against her own daughter, pained her. She thought perhaps she had misinterpreted her mother's feelings for her, there alone with her in the sept. She thought perhaps she had only heard in her mother's words what it was she longed to hear, and not what her mother had actually meant.
Or perhaps she was learning that Lady Stoneheart's approval was as conditional as Catelyn's had been.
Arya's shoulders sagged, and she felt unsure of herself, suddenly small and tired. Her eagerness to confront her mother vanished, and her impetuous plan no longer held any appeal for her.
In truth, she was not sure how much more disappointment she could stomach at that moment. She turned around and made her way back to her own chamber, feeling unsure about what she should do. When she reached her room, she did not find her maid awaiting her. Instead, it was her Lyseni brother who paced before the blazing fire that had been laid in the grate. He stopped when she walked through the door, turning and looking at her.
Without a word, Arya moved across the floor and fell into him, burying her face against his chest. The large assassin sighed. When she felt the Bear's arms move around her, enfolding her and pulling her tightly to him, she began to silently sob.
Days passed, but still the girl did not seek her mother out. She alternated between anger, disappointment, and sadness, unsure which emotion she should allow to govern her, and so she pushed them all aside and concentrated instead on healing Gendry, and training with her steel, and noting the movement of fighting men in and out of Acorn Hall.
Lord Piper stayed on, with the few men who had accompanied him. The bulk of his force was under the direction of his son, Ser Marq, and headed straight for Riverrun from Pinkmaiden. This, the girl overheard in the yard as she sparred with Ser Jaime. She gave no sign that she paid any mind to what Lord Piper's man said as he and one of the household guards employed by Lord Smallwood traded blows, but still, she wondered at the reason for Clement Piper's sojourn at Acorn Hall.
Likely, he had come to be briefed on the necessary changes to the Riverlords' plans.
She imagined her mere presence behind Lord Smallwood's walls was proof enough of the need for those changes to anyone inclined to be skeptical.
Robb Stark's sister. Ned Stark's daughter. A Tully by blood, as well as a Stark. It was the will of the gods, the old and the new, that she had fallen into their hands, and they must seize the moment!
She hadn't heard it so much as gleaned it, bits and pieces of belief, of hope, of intentions, floating in the air for her to snatch and assemble, like the pieces of a puzzle scattered between the great hall, and the bailey yard, and all the corridors and chambers of Acorn Hall. Sometimes, she learned things even on horseback, when she rode out into the surrounding wood, looking for the plants and barks she might use to make healing potions, and poultices, and salves, to aid the blacksmith-knight.
Always with an escort, of course. Ser Brynden, usually, and at least one of her mother's men, and no less than two household guards.
"You seem distracted," the golden knight observed as he easily blocked one of Arya's thrusts. "You're letting an old, one-handed knight beat you."
"You're not old."
"Compared to you, everyone is old," he teased. "Look at you. You're practically an infant."
The girl scowled. "And you're not beating me, Ser Jaime."
"Debatable."
Her lips curled into a familiar smile, malicious rather than amused, and she attacked with renewed vigor and focus. They both used blunted blades, rusting longswords they'd found in the yard, at Ser Jaime's insistence. He claimed with a smirk that he couldn't trust her not to skewer him with her sharp steel, but Arya suspected he did not trust himself enough to duel her with his left hand without accidentally harming her. Even swinging left handed, though, the girl had to admit that Ser Jaime was a very able swordsman.
It couldn't have been easy to become so.
She would've liked to have tested herself against his skill before he had been maimed by the bloody mummers.
The knight blocked Arya's blade with his golden hand as she leveled a vicious cut. It was not completely unexpected since he'd displayed the technique before, but the harsh vibrations of the rusted steel meeting Jaime's unyielding palm shot up Arya's arm to the elbow and she winced. He exploited the opportunity and jabbed at the girl's flank with his longsword but she saw it coming and released her grip on her own trapped weapon, dropping into a squat so that the Kingslayer's blade slashed at the air over her head. Before he could redirect his attack, Arya lunged forward, hitting his knees as her own sword fell from Jaime's golden hand and bounced off the ground. The knight fell backwards, landing on his arse with a great grunt. His sword had flown from his hand, landing near the feet of Lord Piper's man, startling him.
The Cat deftly plucked one of her small blades from its hidden sheath and pressed the flat of it firmly against the artery in Ser Jaime's neck. This edge was not blunted. She was straddling his lap as he used his elbows to prop himself up from the ground.
"Dead man," she said as the knight of Pinkmaiden gave them a sour look before returning to his own training. Jaime laughed, as much at the man's ill humor as at his own predicament.
"Which of the seven hells spat you up to torment me, Stark?"
"Whichever one punishes incestuous knights who kill the king they swore to protect."
"Not nice, my lady." Jaime shook his head, but he did not look offended to her eye.
"Haven't you heard? I'm not nice. And I'm not a lady."
"Haven't you heard? I'm reformed. No more incest for me. And that king needed to be killed."
Arya allowed her mouth to fall open, staring at the golden knight, shocked by his candor, and then she began to chuckle. Still laughing, she hopped up and extended a hand, helping the knight rise from the ground.
"I think I like you, Lannister," she confided with a small smile.
"Should I be insulted that you sound surprised?" Jaime raised one eyebrow as he regarded her.
"I wasn't sure I would."
"Well, I haven't made my mind up about you yet, Stark," he returned.
She laughed, shaking her head. "Shall we go again?"
"Hasn't my pride taken enough of a beating?"
"Oh, I doubt it. You've an awful lot of pride, I'd wager."
Jaime gave her a look of mock pain and Arya's face broke out in a wide grin. It brought him up short.
"You really are so very like her, you know," the knight said, walking toward the barrel where the blunted swords were kept. The girl trailed after him. "Your Aunt Lyanna."
"Did you know her much?"
"No, not much," he admitted, depositing his blade. He turned and took Arya's as well, returning it to its place for her. "But I did see her, at the tourney at Harrenhal, in the year of the false spring."
The girl was fascinated, having never really thought about Ser Jaime knowing her family when they were all young. So much of her family history seemed tied to that tournament, and Jaime had been there to witness it.
"It must have been a splendid time. Did you joust?" Arya asked, feeling like a she was six again, begging Old Nan for tales before bedtime.
"No. I wasn't able to compete."
"You weren't? Why not? Would your father not allow it?"
"No, I'm sure he would have happily allowed it, but I had just been raised to the Kingsguard, and my duties took me back to Kings Landing soon after the opening ceremonies."
Arya gave Ser Jaime a sympathetic look. "You must've been so disappointed." The renown of that tourney had kept the tales of it alive even into the next generation, and the purses offered the winners had yet to be matched five and twenty years later. She could well imagine how upset a young knight would be to miss such an opportunity.
"Well, I was five and ten, and a little hot-headed, and full of notions of glory and fame, so to say I was disappointed understates the matter."
"Five and ten!" Arya marveled. She supposed it was common knowledge, that Ser Jaime had won much acclaim at so young an age. She supposed perhaps she had even known it once, in some vague way, but now, being near to that same age herself, the achievement impressed her more.
"Yes, my lady, a year younger than you are. That's how I know you're little more than an infant. I was once an infant, too."
The girl gave her companion a look of disapproval as they walked slowly back across the yard, toward the keep. She had never liked to be told she was too young, even as a jape.
"You weren't an infant. You were a knight!" A touch of awe crept into her voice. "No, not just a knight, a Kingsguard."
"The youngest man ever raised to the Kingsguard," he told her, and the memory made him smile sadly.
"Your father must have been so proud," the girl murmured, thinking of her own father then.
"If by proud, you mean enraged beyond all reason, then yes. My father was very, very proud."
Arya thought about it, wondering how her own father might have reacted if Robb had declared his intention to pursue knighthood; to seek an appointment to the Kingsguard. She imagined that Ned Stark would've advised his son to think on his choice carefully, especially at the age of five and ten. But she did not think her father would've stood in Robb's way, had he chosen that path. And she was certain that having a child raised to the Kingsguard would have been a point of pride among the Starks, even if it came with the heartbreak of parting with a beloved son and brother.
"I never met your father," she said. She tried to imagine Tywin Lannister, the man who had fathered a queen, a kingslayer, and an imp.
"No? Well, he was a great man," the golden knight told her. "Not a great father, but a very great man."
They had reached the door of the keep and Ser Jaime pulled it open, allowing Arya to pass through first.
"Mine was a great father and a great man," the girl said a bit hoarsely. She didn't know why their talk of fathers had stirred her so. She could usually speak of her father without being overcome with emotion, but she found the back of her throat constricting just then and felt as though she might cry.
Don't be stupid, she commanded herself.
"Yes, honorable to a fault was our Ned Stark," Jaime agreed, but there was a touch of bitterness in his tone. They were walking down a corridor together, headed for the great hall and the midday meal. Arya's head snapped toward her companion and she eyed him suspiciously.
"And what does that mean?" she demanded, recalling that there had been animosity between her father and Jaime Lannister shortly before… her life had been forever altered.
"Nothing, Lady Arya. It means your father was an honorable man, as I said."
She wasn't convinced, but she did not pursue the argument.
In the great hall, Arya and Jaime seated themselves on a table near the back, not bothering with the high table, which was empty. A servant brought them trenchers of mutton stew with fresh bread and ale. The girl sat across from her companion and watched him eat for a bit. Finally, Jaime looked up, a questioning look on his face.
"What is it?"
"I want to hear more about the tourney," Arya said sheepishly. "I don't mean to disturb your meal, though."
"You staring at me without saying anything is disturbing my meal," the knight groused, dipping his bread into his stew and shoving it in his mouth with a touch of irritation. "I told you, I wasn't even there. I was sent away after the first day."
"But you said you saw my Aunt Lyanna."
"Well, I was there long enough for that."
Arya gave Jaime and expectant look, crossing her arms over her chest impatiently. The golden knight sighed.
"Fine, I'll tell you, but only if you eat. Gods, Stark, you look like a twig. Of course, it might help if you actually got some clothes that fit. That tunic is a disgrace…"
"You sound like my sister," the girl complained, but she began eating, dipping bits of her bread into the trencher as her companion had, chewing slowly as he spoke.
"Let's see. Ah, yes. I arrived at Harrenhal ahead of the king. I was not yet a Kingsguard, so I was not traveling with the royal party then."
"But you knew that you'd been chosen, right? You knew you were going to be raised to the Kingsguard?"
"Don't interrupt. It's rude. And yes, I knew. I'd received the news while I was at Casterly Rock, shortly followed by a raven from my father telling me exactly how he felt about the news, and to stay put until he arrived home to sort out my mess."
"What did you do?"
"I saddled my horse and rode like hell for Harrenhal."
She was not the only rebellious child at the dining table, it seemed.
"I took the River Road, because I didn't want to risk meeting my father on the Gold Road after he left King's Landing."
"That's a long journey to make alone. Weren't you worried about outlaws?"
"After fighting the Kingswood Brotherhood and earning a knighthood out of it, I was feeling confident about my chances against any outlaws," he replied.
She nodded, seeing how a young man with such skill would feel invincible. She often felt that way herself. It seemed she had much in common with Ser Jaime.
Then he added, "Like I said. Infant." He gave her a knowing glance. "But at any rate, I wasn't alone. Sumner Crakehall and Karyl Vance rode with me."
"I've met Lord Vance," Arya said. "At Raventree Hall."
"Mmm," Jaime acknowledged, "I know him well, but he wasn't Lord Vance then, just Karyl. Just as your father wasn't Lord Stark yet."
Arya leaned forward, listening raptly to the golden knight. Of course she knew her father wasn't always Lord Stark, but knowing of a thing and being able to imagine it were two different propositions. She could not picture her father as anything other than he was during her lifetime (and as he was in her dreams: stern, imposing, as regal as the likenesses of the ancient Kings of Winter atop their tombs, his eyes urging her to do her duty). Logic told her that Lord Eddard Stark had once been just Ned, a boy her age, with all the boiling excitement and anticipation any adventurous young man would have for what was to come. But still, she could not quite believe it.
"I wish I could have been there to see him," she whispered, staring down the table at nothing. Though she allowed herself the uncharacteristic indulgence of imagination, the image did not come. Jaime cocked his head to the side, studying the girl's profile as she looked off. His eyes softened.
"We met them on the road," he finally revealed, "just after they'd crossed the Trident."
Arya's eyebrows shot up in surprise and she turned to look at the knight. "My father?"
"Your father, yes. And his brothers. And Lyanna. It was as if we'd been set upon by a whole pack of wolves." He smirked. "And one lone stag."
"Stag?"
"Robert was with them." His voice changed slightly as he spoke of the king.
"I… I never knew…" She began chewing her lip gently, thinking of what she did know of the great tourney at Harrenhal; stories she'd been told as a child; passing remarks she'd heard in the Red Keep. It wasn't much, overshadowed mostly by the tale of the silver prince insulting Robert Baratheon, the Starks, and even his own wife by presenting Lyanna with a crown of winter roses. "It's strange, now that I think on it. My father rarely ever spoke of the tournament."
"No, I imagine he wouldn't. Not after what happened."
"Do you mean with Prince Rhaegar and my aunt?"
Jaime nodded.
"But… there was so much else," the girl protested. "The tilts. The melee. Feasts, prizes, the minstrels…" Arya thought the whole thing must've seemed a very grand affair to the four Northern siblings, far away from home, surrounded by their young peers, all of them straddling that line between the enchanted innocence of their youth and the certainty of their maturity; all of them moving toward life and death, love and loss; all of them on the cusp of very great things; on the edge of history, moving to write their own stories in blood and tears.
All of them carving out their destinies with steel, cunning, and luck; with friendships new and old; with defiance; with loyalty; with a crown made of flowers as delicate as life itself, worn, and then hidden, and then clutched between the bloody fingers of a dying woman.
But then, they had no way of knowing it.
"Yes, Lady Arya, but if you could trace the moment that set in motion the abduction and death of your most beloved sister, would not the whole of the memory be soured?"
Arya considered his words. The knight spoke sense.
"I can't even imagine it. He spoke so little of those he'd lost. I never met my Uncle Brandon, or my Aunt Lyanna. I have no way to imagine them beyond the carvings on their tombs."
Jaime's gaze drifted up and to his right as his eyes narrowed. He seemed to be trying to recall something.
"I think you've more than your share of your uncle's boldness," he told her, smiling a bit, "though he didn't have the advantage of honing it in the company of Braavosi assassins."
This pleased her, and she smiled.
"But if you want to see Lyanna, you have only to study your own reflection," the knight continued, looking into Arya's eyes. "Though she was a bit taller. And her manners were better."
Arya rolled her eyes. Jaime leaned forward conspiratorially.
"But only just a little," he said with a grin. "I recall her telling a bawdy jape or two on that short journey from the crossroads to Harrenhal. I suppose that was Brandon's influence on her."
"Did she scandalize you, Ser Jaime?"
"Me? Hardly. I thought her charming. Wild, but charming." He looked thoughtful for a moment. "Though I do recall that Robert disapproved. Which is really rich, when you think on it."
"Did he scold her?"
Jaime burst out laughing. "Would that he had! I would have loved to see that fight! She may not have had your skill with a sword, my lady, but I'd wager your aunt could cut a man to ribbons with her tongue in a matter of moments."
An idea of Lyanna began to take shape in Arya's head, a girl more real, fuller, than the tragic figure she had always imagined, taken away to die in a distant land. Only her bones would ever return North and to Arya, it almost seemed as if her aunt had never existed at all, until this moment.
"Brandon tried to corral her," the Kingslayer continued, "but she would easily put him in his place. Only your father seemed to have any sway with her, and he never berated her, or challenged her. He would simply say Lya with this particular tone, and then smile at her with a shake of his head."
The girl knew very well the sound of it, and the look. For all her mother's excruciatingly detailed recitations of Arya's shortcomings and transgressions, her daughter was never so contrite as she was when her father gave her that look; that small, sad smile of his, shaking his head as he said her name softly. Arya.
The gentlest reprimand, laced with disappointment. And not just that, but a hint of belief that he knew she was capable of better. It never failed to fill her with remorse. And it never failed to make her want to do better, to be better, for him.
"That was his way," she murmured, more to herself than to Jaime.
"That may have been his way with his sister, and with you, but that was not his way with everyone," the knight retorted. "Lord Stark was not known for being… a yielding man." Again, the bitterness crept into his voice. Arya squinted at him, but even she had to admit there was something to what he said. Her father was not quick to anger, and she had never seen him act unfairly, but when she thought on it, she did recall that his way of correcting her brothers had not been quite the same as with her, or as Ser Jaime had recounted Ned's handling of Lyanna.
"My father… lived by a code. He was uncompromising in his adherence," Arya explained. "He had… certain expectations. Of everyone he ever met, I think."
"Yes," the Kingslayer agreed, "and when those expectations weren't met…"
The girl laughed. "When did you have the opportunity to disappoint him?"
"Almost every time we crossed paths, I'd say."
She waited, but the knight did not expound on his words.
"He just wanted everyone to behave with honor," she offered after a moment. "He wanted everyone to be as honorable as he was." The thought made her sad, somehow; that her father had died for his honor, even as that vile boy-king had called it into question; that her father had been pulled out of Winterfell, where his honor was revered and emulated, and tossed into that den of snakes in King's Landing, where it had been his undoing.
"Yes, sweetling, he did, but life is not a poem or a song, and there are far more men who would trade their honor for gain than the other way around."
The Kingslayer's words gave her pause. They might have been a criticism of her father, of his way of looking at the world, but the girl could not deny the truth of them. And the way Jaime spoke was surprisingly sincere, and gentle, as if he were trying to teach her some important lesson, or impart his hard-won wisdom to her. It reminded her a little of the way her father had spoken to her when she was a young girl.
The lone wolf dies…
She nodded slightly.
"I miss him."
The girl spoke without realizing it. When she heard her own words in her ears, she bit her lip and looked down at her stew, not meeting her companion's eyes. Arya heard him sigh.
"Of course you do."
"I'm… I think… if he were here today, he would be… so disappointed." Arya looked up at Jaime then, her wide, grey eyes fixed on the green in his. "In me."
He shook his head at her, his gaze soft.
"I think if Lord Stark saw you today, he would be… proud." Ser Jaime watched the girl's countenance change, a sort of poignant gratitude apparent in her face. "I also think he would be frightened." As the knight added that last bit, a furrow formed between her eyes.
"Frightened? Why?"
"Because you're too like her. I imagine that would nearly scare him to death. He couldn't save Lyanna. He'd have spent his life trying to save you."
She was confused. "From what?"
"From yourself, my lady." He took another bite of his bread.
Arya wasn't sure what to make of Jaime's words. She did not have long to consider them, however, because Lady Brienne joined them just then, sitting on the bench next to the golden knight.
"Mutton?" she asked, glancing at Ser Jaime's trencher.
"Yes, and it's delightful," the knight replied sarcastically. "A real treat."
Brienne admonished him to be grateful for the hospitality.
"I'm a Lannister, wench, we don't feel gratitude. Not for anything. What we're given is simply our due."
The large woman rolled her eyes and Arya snorted.
"What were you two talking about just now?" Brienne inquired. "Was he being insulting?" She had directed the question to Arya. "You had a look on your face…"
"Honestly!" Jaime cried in mock-dismay. "Will you ever give me any credit at all?"
The girl shook her head, ignoring the man's outburst. "He wasn't being insulting. At least, I don't think he was."
"See, wench?" he said triumphantly. "I'm behaving. You don't have to play at being my nursemaid."
The knightly woman gave the Kingslayer a sideways glare, then looked back at Arya.
"If he troubles you…" she started.
"I wasn't troubling her," Jaime pouted. "If anything, she was troubling me."
"Do be quiet, Ser Jaime," Brienne said.
"I'm quite charming, you know," he continued, ignoring her. "When I choose to be."
"Gods…" The Maid of Tarth rolled her eyes with frustration, but there was a fondness in their banter.
"And if you must know, we were speaking of our parents," the knight sniffed.
Brienne looked at the girl then, her eyes full of sympathy. Arya understood that the knightly woman believed they had been discussing Lady Stoneheart.
"My lady, do not grieve yourself too much about your mother. Parents… often make mistakes, but it does not mean…"
"What do you know about it, wench?" Jaime interrupted. "You didn't have the same tragic childhood as Lady Arya and myself."
Brienne scoffed. "I would hardly say your upbringing at Casterly Rock was tragic, Jaime Lannister."
"I wouldn't expect you to understand," he told her haughtily. "You were raised on an isle of sapphires, your every desire catered to, adored by your parents."
"There are no sapphires on Tarth." There was a touch of vexation in Brienne's voice. "And I was not indulged like you say."
"Your childhood was so idyllic, the bards wrote songs about it."
"What? Bards never even came to Evenfall Hall. My father wouldn't allow it."
"Selwyn Tarth didn't care for bards?" Jaime asked the question as if it were the most interesting bit of trivia he'd heard in a moon's turn. Brienne shook her head.
"He considered them too crafty."
They went back and forth like that for some time, Ser Jaime making outrageous claims about Lady Brienne's life on Tarth, and the woman denying each of them in turn with waning patience. The girl laughed lightly, but her mind turned toward her parents then. She had not been thinking on Catelyn until the knightly woman brought her up, but now Arya considered the contrast between her mother and father.
Jaime had said Ned would've spent his life trying to save her from herself; that she would have frightened him. Yet Lady Stoneheart was not frightened in the least, not of Arya, and not for Arya. Her mother had not spent a moment trying to save her daughter from herself. Instead, she had whispered her plans; had told the girl how they could accomplish them together. Lady Stoneheart had extracted promises from the girl quite unlike anything her father would ever have asked of her.
Promises of revenge. Vows of retribution.
Arya wondered what would happen if the ghost of her father materialized before her just then. If her dreams were any indication, he would urge her on to the North; to Winterfell. Yet her mother had need of her in the Riverlands; had made her swear to finish what Lady Stoneheart had started.
Mother and daughter, twin daemons scourging the land, extracting penance for the many sins committed after the fall of the Tulleys; after the overthrow of the Starks.
My dark child.
No sooner had she remembered her mother's words than her father's came to her.
You are my grey daughter.
In life, Arya's parents had seemed to be of one accord. Death, it seemed, had put them at odds. They pulled her in two different directions.
But which path was the right one?
The night is too warm for sleeping furs, but the bulk of this army, and the twin silver monarchs who ride at its head, have come from hot, dry places where sands burn and mud bricks bake all day in the sun, radiating warmth even after the moon has risen high in the night sky. And so, they light braziers in their tents and cloak themselves in thick wool trimmed with the pelts of animals bred to resist the climate of this kingdom. And, they sleep wrapped in blankets made of the same, saying, 'It is winter here.' But they do not understand cold, or winter. Not really.
Not yet.
The Faceless leader of the Stormcrows rises, slipping from beneath the stifling weight of a fur coverlet drawn over his nakedness. He is careful not to disturb the slumbering queen next to him, her pale hair splayed out on a pillow filled with goose feathers. Silently, he pulls on his breeches, then drops a thin blouse over his head, snaking his tanned arms through the sleeves before walking from the royal tent into the quiet of the camp at night.
Few men are about, just those on watch, and those awakened by their need to relieve themselves, stumbling drowsily to a latrine dug on the outer perimeter of the encampment. The false sellsword nods brusquely to the guard patrolling the camp's northern quadrant as he passes and comes to rest against the thick trunk of a soldier pine. The smell of its green needles is sharp, but pleasant, a woodsy perfume scenting the breeze that blows just then. Something stirs in him as he breathes it in, and he thinks this is just a hint; the smallest taste of the place he wishes to go.
The pine.
The chill.
They are in the Reach now, approaching Highgarden. The air is cooler here than in Dorne. He had noticed it as soon as they left the Prince's Pass behind them; cool, but not cold. At least, not nearly so cold as it will be. Still, he cannot deny that winter has come to Westeros, and as the dragon army advances northward, he supposes there will come a time when he will be glad of Daenerys' many sleeping furs; when their warmth will be welcome. But, tonight is not that night.
And, he thinks, it is also possible that if that time comes, he will resent her even more.
That feeling, that growing animus, is not something Daario Naharis would feel, and so neither should he, but he finds himself unable to deny its truth. The assassin is far too adept at his craft to show it, but still, the impatience, and his ever-present contempt remain, unsettling him. This face is not an easy one for him to wear, for tacked onto that small piece inside of him which is always him, he carries another.
The memory of her skin beneath his fingertips.
The memory of her weight in his arms.
He is no longer able to completely immerse himself in his false face and simply be who he must be for his god's work, because part of him is now always himself; a self with memory, and history, and longing. He can deny it no more than he can deny the setting sun or the moon high overhead.
That is the consequence of his sin.
The sin of becoming.
His master had warned him, had commanded him, but he'd willfully disobeyed; had reveled in his disobedience. The sin was too sweet, the temptation too great, and he did not resist it. He was not powerless, no, and could have chosen a different path.
He simply did not wish to.
It is in this way that a self has emerged, his own self, plucked from inside of a man's chest and molded by small hands, then named. A gift, he supposes, which is also a curse.
A curse he will take no pains to break.
A curse he would never wish to undo.
The false Tyroshi had stared at Daenerys for a long time after she had fallen asleep that night, thinking how easy it would be for him to wrap his hands around her throat and choke the life from her. He does not believe such an act would be completely unwelcome, or condemned, at least among those who support the Dragon King's claim. The Khaleesi is a complication for Aegon, for the son of Rhaegar seems determined not to wed his aunt, yet he cannot openly reject her.
Because of her dragons.
It is for this same reason that the Faceless assassin cannot offer her as a sacrifice to Him of Many Faces. Without their mother, no one can be sure what the dragons might do; how much farmland and forest they might burn; how much of the kingdom might be reduced to blackened stone and ash before they can be stopped.
No one can be sure they even could be stopped.
And this is a risk the Khaleesi's reluctant consort cannot take, for there is something very precious to him in this land, and he will storm the seven heavens and the seven hells to protect it, if need be.
To protect her.
The man breathes in deeply, quietly, and stares up at the Westerosi stars. He studies their patterns, pleading with his god that their light might shine down upon his beloved's face, wherever she may be, and remind her that she is well loved.
By all the gods, I am yours…
It is a vow that lives in him, somehow, no matter the face he wears, no matter the role he plays. It, too, is pinned to that part of him which remains constantly him, and he carries it with him always. They steady him, these words he has spoken in the tongue of his homeland. He had uttered them a mere three moons past, or perhaps it was four, but they feel as ancient and as true as the very land upon which he now stands. As if he had spoken them a thousand years ago.
As if he has been speaking them for a thousand years.
"Arya Stark," he murmurs hoarsely, a soft prayer whispered under those stars, carried away on the wind to the ear of his god. "Do not keep her from me."
Arya decided to take her supper in her room again, too tired after her day's activities to either feign civility or demonstrate her continued fury in the great hall among the Riverlords and the Brotherhood. She'd only just arrived at her chamber door, occupied for hours by her exercise in the training yard with Ser Jaime (as well as listening to his tales of the great tourney), her daily ride to the wood with Ser Bryden (and a bevy of other armed men), and her preparation and application of a poultice for Gendry's wounds.
The girl had left her old friend to his rest, his back sticky with her healing concoction and swathed in clean linen she had procured. His mood had become decidedly grouchy. She supposed she shouldn't blame him, cooped up as he was in his room, which served as his gaol, with nothing to entertain him between her visits beyond his own dark thoughts. She was certain he brooded over what would soon become of him, though he resisted discussing it with her. Still, when his temper was inflamed, Gendry was less than pleasant to be around. Arya supposed he shared that in common with his father. Of course, she was never much one to suffer the fits and dander of others. Arya supposed she shared that in common with her aunt, at least according to Ser Jaime.
She smiled at the thought.
When she pushed through her door into her room, the girl found a tray had been laid out for her. Her chambermaid had also prepared a bath.
"Shall I help you, milady?"
"No," the girl said. She desired to be alone with her thoughts. "You may leave me."
The maid bobbed a curtsey and left Arya to her own devices.
The girl dropped heavily into the chair near the fire and began to pick at the food that had been left for her, chewing absently as she thought about her visit to the blacksmith-knight. He was healing well, with no sign of any festering, which gratified her, but soon, she would not be able to claim her old friend could not ride, and then he would be sent away. She mulled the problem as she ate her fill and then loosened the tie which secured her braid, shaking her hair loose.
Shucking her boots and shedding her clothes, she lowered herself into the bath with a groan. After several minutes, she began to scrub away all evidence of her exertions: sweat, and dirt, and Gendry's scent on her hands. When her skin was pink with the warmth of the water and clean, she leaned back, settling into a comfortable position and closing her eyes for a moment. Her problems laid themselves out before her then, and she considered them in turn.
Gendry. Her mother. The Riverlords. The Rat. Her vows (Ser Ilyn, Ser Meryn, Queen Cersei, traitorous black brothers, Walder Frey). The Kindly Man.
Jaqen.
She crossed her arms then, hands resting on opposite shoulders, embracing herself because there was no one else there to do it. It was not as comforting as she would've liked, and the gnawing pain in her stomach did not abate. Her index finger caught the well-healed scar on her shoulder then, small though it was, and she stroked at it softly, tracing its path. She remembered another bath, long ago, where her Lorathi master had done the same.
How did a girl come by this?
Even now, Arya blushed at the memory, and bit her lip. And then she sighed, a somber thought occurring to her; some bit of wisdom remembered from an old book, written by a long-dead maester.
It is the curse of man that he not recognize his halcyon days until they are long past, and then to look back in grief at such sublime times, because they are gone, existing only in memory, no more than wind.
Arya remembered the text in the library at Winterfell. It was initially the colorful illuminations that drew her attention. She was only just learning to read then, and had asked her father what 'halcyon days' were. He had looked at her strangely, then ruffled her hair and smiled.
"These are your halcyon days, my little wolf," he'd said.
Later, she had asked Maester Luwin about it, and he'd told her the passage was a warning to savor the happy moments, for they were never guaranteed to last.
Would that she had savored that moment with Jaqen while she could; would that she had savored all their moments, relishing the feel of his breath on her neck, appreciating the decadence of his mere presence.
Luxuriating in the feel of his fingertip tracing her small scar.
And perhaps she would have, had she remembered that dusty book in the library, its bits of sage advice surrounded by bright illustrations which drew her four-year-old eye much more than the words penned on its pages. Perhaps she would have, had she realized such things were finite; that such moments were counted, and numbered, and so jealously allotted by the ungenerous gods. Perhaps she would have, had she recalled the curse of man.
Alas, she had allowed herself to believe otherwise; to forget the maester's warning and believe in love without end; to believe in forever.
…and ever will be, come what may.
Jaqen's voice had come to her then, unbidden, startling in its clarity, and she drew in a ragged breath.
Slowly, the girl sank lower in her bath, submerging her whole self so that the water would stop her ears, and wash away the ringing sound of her master's unfulfilled promise. She held her breath until her lungs burned and her ears throbbed. When she could stand it no longer, she sprang up, her head crashing through the bath's calm surface, sending water sloshing and flying all around. A few drops hit the burning logs of her fire and she heard their faint hiss as they became steam, and then nothing.
Calm as still water. Syrio's wisdom guided her, and she washed her hair; something to occupy her, to keep her fingers from grasping at the edges of the tub until they turned white; to keep herself from biting her lip until it bled. Nails scratched at her scalp, moving methodically, driving the suds through her wet strands from root to tip. When she was done, she submerged her head once again, this time only briefly, and rinsed her hair. Arya stood then, water cascading from her body and into the tub as she stared into the flames burning in the fireplace.
Orange and yellow tongues undulated, forming shapes before her eyes, making and unmaking themselves. Silhouettes and structures were created, just as she had seen before, but quickly this time, almost frantically, as if she were a red priest like Thoros; as if R'hllor himself had a great need to impart his knowledge to her; to commune with her.
Dragons circling over the land.
An enormous white castle.
A crowned man on horseback.
Unconsciously, Arya stepped out of the tub, dripping bathwater as she moved closer to the flames. Naked, wet, and covered in goose prickles, she dropped down low, settling on her knees before the grate, her hands drawing themselves under her chin, palms placed flatly together. She looked like a septa at prayer. Her head bowed slightly, lips coming to rest against her fingertips.
Banners and banners and banners, such a great number, and many unknown to her.
A man, familiar somehow, as if she had seen him once in a dream.
The night sky, full of stars.
She gasped then, jumping back and yelping as if she'd been burned. Had she? She inspected herself quickly and could find no evidence on her skin, neither red marks nor blistering; had not heard an ember pop. Her mind grasped at sense. For a moment, for one confusing instant, she had felt… something; something so longed for, something so impossible, she was certain she had wished it into being. A trick of the mind. But just as quickly, it was gone, and she burned in its absence.
Arya found the folded linen wrap the maid had left for her sitting on a chair. She shook it out, her fingers trembling slightly, and wound it around her body, the ecstasy and the agony of that fraction of a second fading as she did. The girl swallowed, stilling herself for a moment, and then walked to the shuttered window, pushing the wooden doors aside. Leaning out into the night, she breathed deep, the chill of the air filling her lungs. It grounded her, the cold, and she relaxed, staring out into the dark, gazing over the low walls of Acorn Hall.
She could see the dark mass of trees which made up the surrounding wood beyond the walls of the castle and traced their shape with her eyes. The faint howling of wolves in the distance met her ears and she smiled. After a time, she looked up at the sky, and fixed her gaze upon the stars, naming the constellations as she had been taught by Maester Luwin.
The maester had a particular interest in the stars, as she recalled. At Winterfell, he had one of the few dedicated observatories in the kingdom, and he delighted in teaching Arya when she showed interest.
The Lord's Goblet, she thought, picking it out easily. King's Crown. Crone's Lantern. She traced the shapes with her finger, as if she could join the stars with her touch. Moonmaid. She squinted, searching low on the horizon for Sword of the Morning. It was more difficult to find here than it had been in Maester Luwin's tower. The stars had seemed to shine brighter at Winterfell, she thought.
The exercise settled her. The girl kept her face tipped up toward the sky but closed her eyes, imagining that the starlight bathed her then, warming her cheeks, her nose, her chin. With a sigh, she closed the shutters once more and padded to her bed, seeing the white shift that had been laid out for her by her maid. It did not belong to her.
Something of Lady Smallwood's? she wondered, but shrugged and slipped it over her head, allowing her damp wrap to fall to the floor. The shift was made of a material which was soft, and fine, and the garment was just a bit too long for her. It made her feel half a girl to wear it, because the skirt puddled slightly on the floor around her feet, as if she were a child playing dress-the-lady with her mother's things.
Her mother's things.
Unlike other girls, Arya had never played such games with her mother's gowns or jewels. Sansa had, of course, and little Jeyne Poole with her sometimes, but Arya had never cared about her mother's fine fur collars or embroidered kirtles. She'd only wished to pretend she was a knight, or a wildling, or an archer slaying boar with a well-placed arrow. She'd had no desire back then to use Catelyn's ebony combs to arrange her hair, or dab on Catelyn's scent, or wrap herself in Catelyn's cloak. Now, though…
Now…
What would she give to be back in Winterfell, wrapping herself in her mother's fine dark cloak, the grey fox fur collar tickling her neck and chin? What would she give to breathe in her mother's scent off her gowns? Off her mother's own neck? What would she give to have her mother place those combs in her hair; to have her mother brush out her unruly locks patiently; to hear her mother's customary chatter about grace, and courtesies, and duty as she arranged her daughter's chestnut braids?
And this time, this time, she wouldn't snarl like a rabid wolf, or frown like an ungrateful child, or beg to be excused so she could do something better; something more exciting.
No.
This time, she would sit perfectly still, and be perfectly quiet, and let her mother's touch seep into her skin and settle in her heart, where she would keep it forever.
Arya smoothed the skirt of the shift with her palms, pressing the soft white material against her thighs and sighing. Her eyes roamed the room, searching for a comb so she could untangle her wet mane by herself.
It is the curse of man that he not recognize his halcyon days until they are long past.
Shine a Light—Banners