A/N: a smattering of profanity and a lot of flashbacks (making for a bit of back-and-forth in the time line). There is one section with a date that is a distant flashback but the rest of it all takes place during the time between when Arya left Jaime in the last chapter and the following morning.

I have seen what the darkness does.

(Say goodbye to who I was…)

For pity's sake…

It was more emotion than she had heard from her mother during the entirety of their time together under Acorn Hall's roof. Words about duty, about cruelty, about indifference rattled in the girl's head, some spoken in her mother's quiet rasp, some spoken by her own little voice, but Arya withstood them all, staunch; unconvinced.

Or rather, convinced of her own righteousness.

Selfishness, that hateful little voice of hers whispered.

Kinslaying, the girl hissed back, staring hard at her mother.

Mercy killing, her little voice countered, and would you not put a lamed horse out of its misery?

No lamed horse birthed me from her own body, was the girl's stubborn reply.

And so it went, on and on and on, Arya arguing with Lady Stoneheart, and with herself, until her mother had pressed her pale fingers together, lifting her pleading hands up towards her daughter, and saying, 'For pity's sake…'

An appeal.

An entreaty.

A prayer.

And it wasn't the words so much as the tone. Which was strange, because her mother's tone was something the girl had been unable to appreciate since their reunion, the Frey blade having effectively severed anything that could even produce such a tone. But, there it was.

Real or imagined, there it was.

For pity's sake…

All the sadness. All the longing. All the helpless, agonizing hope. It all coalesced into the form of that one impassioned phrase, breathed up from a heart that should never have beat again, and it filled the space between them.

292 A.C.

Winterfell

"Thank you, father!" There was real joy Robb's face as he discarded the twine and wrappings that had surrounded the gift.

"And your lady mother, too," Ned prodded, reminding the exuberant boy of his courtesies.

"Yes! Yes, of course! Thank you, mother!" Robb rattled off his gratitude without making eye contact with either parent, so fixed was his gaze on the polished weirwood scabbard carved with the Stark sigil and the date of his nameday. Reverently, he withdrew the dagger from its casing, admiring his first ever sharp-edged weapon. His siblings all crowded around him, wide-eyed and murmuring, declaring it a fit present for the heir to Winterfell.

All except Bran. He was little more than a babe, toddling about, and tended to screech and laugh more than murmur. Rather than remark on his brother's gift, the young boy demanded a sweetie over and over, but it sounded more like see-tee to those around him. Sansa smiled and pinched off a bit of her cake, feeding it to her baby brother as if he were her pet.

"That's no toy, son," their father warned as Catelyn squeezed his arm. Lord Stark nodded reassuringly to his wife, "and it's no pretty thing for display."

The eldest Stark child looked up at his father then, his brow creasing slightly. "Of course not! It's a weapon. A real weapon!"

"And what are weapons for?"

"For killing," the boy answered without hesitation. His half-grin was out of step with the words he had spoken.

"Aye, for killing, if need be," Lord Stark said somberly. "For defending, and for killing."

"I will be ever so careful, father," Robb promised.

"I pray to the gods you never have to use it to kill," his father said, "but you should always remember the purpose of a weapon, even if it is never called upon to serve that purpose."

"I will!" the boy vowed.

"I will!" his baby sister chimed, squirming on the bench next to her brother. Arya yanked at Robb's sleeve, catching him unawares and pulling his arm down so that the shining dagger was near to her face. Her silver eyes grew wide as she drank in its details. "I want one," she breathed.

Catelyn was quiet no longer. "Arya!" she admonished, startling Robb into pulling his arm away. The girl stuck her lip out, her chubby cheeks forming into a well-practiced pout. Jon laughed good-naturedly at that, but bit back his amusement after one glare from his stepmother.

"You're such an idiot," Sansa hissed at Arya around Robb's back, her blue eyes regarding her sister with disdain. "Everyone knows ladies don't have daggers."

Sansa had become quite an expert of late regarding what ladies did and did not have.

Arya thought if ladies didn't have daggers, then she would be sure to never fall into the trap of being a lady. It sounded dreadfully boring. And stupid.

"I want one!" the younger girl insisted, glaring defiantly at her sister.

"Enough, Arya," Lady Stark called down from the high table. With a slight nod of Catelyn's head to Septa Mordane, the nearly four-year-old Arya Stark found herself lifted up and carried off to the nursery for a nap. The last thing she saw before she was removed from the Great Hall was the look of disapproval on her mother's face, and the look of sadness on her father's.

The girl had climbed onto the dais and stood, staring at the Stranger, then turning slowly to regard each of the Seven in turn, her eyes searching their embroidered likenesses which hung about the sept. Did their eyes judge her? Did they urge her on? Would they reward her mercy, or damn her sin?

They'll do neither, her little voice sneered. They're just old tapestries. And what do you care for the judgement of the Seven, anyway?

Her mother followed her, ascending the platform by way of the stone steps to its side. Lady Stoneheart approached Arya and stood before her. She didn't speak, but she didn't have to. The girl knew very well what her mother wanted.

Mercy. And Sin.

Arya leaned into her mother, pressing her cheek against the woman's breast and closing her eyes. After a moment, Catelyn wrapped her arms around her daughter, embracing her, letting her sob softly. They stood that way for a long while, neither speaking; neither moving.

When her shaking had stopped and her tears had slowed, the girl listened to the beating of her mother's heart. It was slow, steady, and shamed the pounding of her own. A feeling settled over the girl then, a sort of calm, heavy and cool, a blanket made of snow.

Made of mercy.

Made of sin.

She was wrapped in it, as she was wrapped in her mother's arms, and she thought that this must be how a drowning man feels the moment before he finally succumbs to the sea.

Her own heartbeat slowed to a normal pace, and her breathing became regular and quiet. The sorrow and intransigence drained from her and were replaced with a different sense altogether.

Inevitability.

Acceptance.

She finally understood that though there was sin in this mercy, there was more mercy in this sin.

"I love you," the girl murmured, the fingers of her hand wrapping around the grip of Robb's blade.

The Starks had a habit of dying bloody.

Violence done to them, whether the violence of nature or that perpetrated by men, had ended their lives beyond counting, going back as far as there were Starks. A thousand years of grisly deaths. More, even. Heads rolled. Flesh burned. The noose. The sword. Innumerable quarrels. Crude clubs. Stones bashed skulls. Blades slit throats. Babes crashed into the world and took too much of their mothers' lifeblood with them.

Jaime dreamt of the throne room that night, a dream he'd had many, many times before, especially in the early days, when his white cloak was still bright and new, and he puffed with pride when he thought of his vows. The dream had since faded, recurring much less often. In fact, it had been years since he had dreamt it; had not been back to that throne room since before he had come into Lady Stoneheart's service.

And even as he walked there again, his hair long, silky gold and his face smooth and unlined, he wondered what had brought him back after all this time. He glanced around, noting the dragon skulls on the walls, and the black dragon banners suspended from the arches, a long row of them, each weighted with heavy, crimson fringe.

This is not right, he thought, and though he hadn't meant what his king was doing was the thing which wasn't right, that was true as well.

Rickard Stark screamed as he burned. It was a sound like nothing the young lion had ever heard before, and it branded itself so deeply into his brain that even now, more than a score of years later, when he dreamed of it, it felt as if he were back there again, truly in that place, even as he wondered why he should be.

In his dream, which he knew was a dream, he told himself to cut Brandon Stark free and then plunge his blade into Aerys' heart to end the lunacy. His mailed hand rested on the hilt of his longsword but he moved not a muscle, except perhaps the one in his jaw which clenched almost painfully. It was not fear which rooted his feet in place, for he understood that he could not be harmed in his sleep by his actions; that even if the Kingsguard of his dreams cut him down, he would wake up in his bed, alive and untouched. He did not fear Ser Gerald Hightower or any of the others there, because he knew they were ghosts (was conscious of his own unconsciousness) but still, he did not move to help; could not move to help.

He saved no one, not even himself.

"Too little honor turns your memories to shit."

A familiar voice had parroted his own words back to him, but it was not a voice that belonged in the throne room of the Red Keep. Jaime turned and saw Arya Stark standing at the foot of the steps to the iron throne. She was dressed as he had seen her last, wearing her wispy white nightdress, only now, its bodice was stained with blood, thick, ragged stripes of it, forming an X across her breast. He might have wondered at that, but it was the way with dreams that such strange things seemed less strange than they otherwise might've in the harsh light of reality. The girl watched as her kin were murdered at the king's pleasure, even as Aerys cackled madly from high atop his barbed seat.

"This memory was already shit," the knight retorted. "Why are you here?"

The girl shrugged. "I've got nowhere else to be at the moment."

He had nothing to say to that, and so he remained silent. They both looked out over the crowd, watching the assembled courtiers watching the Stark lords die in the middle of the throne room. After long moments of absorbing the horrid tableau, Jaime's eyes became unfocused, staring at the backs of the heads of the lords and ladies which lined the edges of the grand chamber. Arya's eyes were on Jaime.

"Is this when you decided to kill him?"

Jaime knew she meant Aerys. There was a genuine curiosity in her question, as if she sought to understand his motivations; as if in understanding them, she would better understand the knight himself. That thought made him uncomfortable.

The young lion turned to her and shook his head.

"No. It didn't even occur to me."

"Then you had no mercy." It might've been a condemnation from anyone else, but from Arya, it sounded more like a realization.

"What you call 'mercy' would've been named 'sin' by the realm, my lady."

"Ah. I understand that very well," she said, a pained look on her face, but only briefly. She shook it off. "It's too bad, though. This whole story might've had a different ending."

"I'd still be the Kingslayer."

She smiled at him, a small smile, and fleeting.

Rickard Stark's inhuman screams had been reduced to weak, rasping things by that point and his son had collapsed heavily against the stone floor, his eyes bulging and his face purple. There were horrified murmurs rising and falling in the crowd, but Aerys appeared not to hear them over his own braying laughter.

"He seems quite mad," the girl observed, nodding her head subtly toward the king.

"Well, he was called the Mad King," Jaime reminded her wryly.

The girl snorted. The young white cloak cocked an eyebrow at that.

"If you don't mind my saying so, you seem awfully… unaffected," he said. "That's your grandfather there. And your uncle."

Arya shrugged. "I never knew them. It's like watching a mummer's farce."

"A mummer's farce about your family being slaughtered."

"I suppose another person's dreams about strangers being killed doesn't have much impact on me after watching my own father beheaded, and hearing of the Red Wedding, and learning that my little brothers were murdered and then burnt by a turncloak."

"You make a fair point."

The girl's lips quirked up at that, and her look seemed to say, Of course I do. Stupid.

"This is your memory," Arya said softly. "It affects you far more than it does me."

"Does it?"

"Of course it does. Otherwise, you wouldn't be dreaming about it and I wouldn't be here."

Jaime narrowed his eyes. "No one likes a know-it-all, Stark."

The girl ignored him, and looked him up and down. "You were quite handsome back in your day, you know."

"I know. And what do you mean, back in my day? It's still my day."

Arya rolled her eyes.

"Your champion has won, your grace!" called a wiry man in long green robes from the center of the chamber. His expression was almost gleeful.

"Who's that?" the girl asked, peering over the crowd at the man.

The white cloak's lip curled. "Rossart."

"Rossart?"

"Grand Master of the Alchemists' Guild." Jaime's tone made it clear how little regard he held for the man. "He's a pyromancer. Or I should say, he was a pyromancer. The Mad King's favorite pyromancer."

The girl raised her eyebrows in mild interest. "So, that's Rossart." She squinted slightly in concentration. "He becomes hand later. Just before the sacking of Kings Landing."

The knight ignored her history lesson. He didn't need reminding of the course of Lord Rossart's career. He'd been there to witness it in person.

"You and I might have a favorite food. Or, a favorite sibling, or a favorite horse. A favorite sword, maybe. But the Mad King, he had a favorite pyromancer," the knight remarked bitterly.

"Not anymore." Arya's tone was soft and had the quality of a mother soothing her young child after he'd woken from a nightmare. But his nightmare was still going on, wasn't it? He could smell Rickard's cooked flesh, the memory of that burned just as deeply in him as the Stark lord's screams.

"Not anymore," Jaime agreed, trying to find some comfort in the fact.

"I know you killed him," the girl said, looking out toward Lord Rossart as the alchemist inspected the corpse of Brandon Stark. "The pyromancer. It's always mentioned when the events of Robert's rebellion are discussed."

"Is it?" The knight's handsome face feigned disinterest.

"Ser Jaime Lannister, the last Kingsguard knight remaining in the capitol, slew the hand of the king, Lord Rossart, and then turned his sword on King Aerys himself, earning the epitaph 'Kingslayer'."

"Yes, alright, I've read The History of Robert's Rebellion too, Stark, even if I don't go around quoting it."

The girl snorted, muttering, "Read the parts about yourself, you mean…"

"What is your point?" Jaime barked.

"That you don't seem the type to read the histories. Or, anything really."

The knight pinched the bridge of his nose with his two fingers as if staving off a headache. "I meant your point in quoting passages from ridiculous books to me."

"They say you killed him, but they never say why."

"Then I guess you don't know everything after all."

She gave him a sharp look. The white cloak sighed.

"I killed him for the same reason I ran Aerys through."

"Because your father's forces were making their way to the Red Keep?"

Jaime frowned. "No. Because he was going to turn the city to ash."

"Was he that good of a pyromancer?" She snickered. "Was he carrying a torch in each hand when you stabbed him?"

The knight did not appreciate Arya's japing.

"There were jars of wildfire set beneath the city, in the tunnels. Thousands of them. Thousands of thousands. They'd been at it for years, making the stuff; storing it; waiting for the day they could use it. No one knew."

"You knew," she observed soberly.

"Yes, I knew. A Kingsguard knight, sworn to obey the king, and keep his secrets. Aerys had little fear of my interference. He trusted my vows. Or maybe it was because I was alone then, only a small threat on my own, or so he thought. All the White Swords were fighting elsewhere against Robert, protecting Rhaegar. But no one who could stop him knew. When Lord Chelsted found out, he tried to speak sense to the king, and he burned for it."

"But, why even do it? Wildfire isn't easy to make, and the king had no way of knowing the war would go against him. You said he'd been at it for years. He had no way of knowing there would even be a war."

"It was Aerys' grand plan, should he ever be threatened. He'd burn the city to the ground, and rise up from its ashes as a dragon reborn."

"A dragon reborn," the girl mused. "Hmm. That's not in the histories. And doesn't seem likely, anyway. He really was mad."

"Have you ever seen wildfire, my lady?" the knight snapped. "Have you any idea what a gallon can do? Imagine thousands of gallons. Millions, maybe."

"From what I remember of Kings Landing, it would've been no great loss. The smell alone…"

"The half-million people who live within the walls might have a different opinion."

Understanding dawned on the girl's face and her mouth slowly opened. Jaime couldn't tell if she meant to laugh at him or curse him. She did neither.

"You killed two men to save all the rest." There was a bit of disbelief in her tone.

"I saved myself," he growled, looking away.

Arya shook her head slowly, drawing her eyebrows together. Her expression was altogether serious.

"Oh, no. No you don't, Lannister."

He turned to face her again. "What are you babbling about now, Stark?"

"You're a hero," she replied, "however much you may wish to deny it. A bloody fucking hero!"

Suddenly, the throne room was empty and quiet, all the crowd and the king and the corpses of the Stark lords dissolving into nothingness. They were alone in the massive chamber.

"Why would I wish to deny it?" Jaime's laugh was unconvincing.

"Because you're too comfortable in your skin. Your sister-fucking, king-slaying, shit-for-honor, conceited skin. No one has any expectations of you, except those of the worst sort, and that's just how you like it."

The knight scoffed.

The girl continued, paying his feigned skepticism no mind. "What I can't puzzle out is the guilt. You saved the city, and the hundreds of thousands of people in it, and rid the kingdom of a ruler who would rather watch it burn than govern it fairly, yet you wallow in shame like a raper in the black cells."

"Rapers in the black cells don't tend to wallow, at least not in shame. They really have no shame…"

"You know what I mean!" she interrupted. "Don't try to jape your way out of this. Why all the guilt, Ser Jaime?"

He looked at the girl strangely. "This is my dream. Why are you interrogating me? No, let me guess. You have nothing better to do at the moment?"

She studied his face keenly. "Just so."

Jaime lifted his hand to point at her, meaning to make some accusation or another, but his words died on his lips when he noticed that the hand he lifted was fixed and golden. He wasn't a young Kingsguard knight anymore, but himself, as he was when he had fallen asleep. He looked around, and saw they no longer stood in the throne room, but were in his chamber at Acorn Hall. A fire crackled in his grate and the candle in his window sill had burned low but still cast its meager light about the room.

The girl stood at the foot of his bed then, wearing her bloodstained garment, and she stared down at him as he reclined on his mattress. Suddenly self-conscious, he sat up.

"I don't think it's considered decent for a lady to be alone, behind closed doors in the small hours with a man not her husband," the Kingslayer remarked blithely. Is this a dream? Am I still dreaming? It felt altogether real.

"So, you're the authority on decency now?" she laughed.

Jaime rose then, crossing his arms over his chest and walking to his window. He peered out over the training yard. After a moment, he turned and watched as Arya moved toward him. Her steps were silent. To him, she appeared as graceful as a swan, gliding over the black waters.

"Since we're asking questions, here's one: what happened to you?" He pointed to the bodice of her nightdress. "Why are you all bloody?"

"It was my work," she answered cryptically, coming to rest just before him. Her eyes caught the glow of the candle and to Jaime, they looked like the Sunset Sea at dawn. It was an image he'd viewed countless times, walking the battlements of Casterly Rock and staring into the distance. He would watch as the waves rose and fell on the sea, silvery grey, deep, and dangerous.

He didn't have a chance to ask her what she meant by that, by her work, distracted as he was by her eyes, and because she was hounding him about his so-called guilt again.

"Come, Ser Jaime, you must tell me. What have you to feel guilty about? I've tried to make sense of it, but I can't."

"You do prattle on, my lady."

"There's some humility in you," she persisted, "though you bury it deep, and there's loyalty, and love." He looked sharply at her then, his lips pressing together in a thin line, but she ignored him and continued, pacing the chamber as she spoke. "But more than all that, there's this… this self-condemnation." She waved her hand as she spoke, as if discounting the legitimacy of such a notion. "It colors everything. Every little thing in your head."

"How do you know a thing about what's in my head?" He was peeved, it was plain to see.

Arya smiled then, but the smile did not reach her eyes. Silvery grey, deep, and dangerous. "Answer me."

"I don't even understand what you're asking, Stark. It's like you're just talking and talking and it makes no bloody sense!"

"Fine, then. I'll just recite passages of The History of Robert's Rebellion to you. I know how much you like that."

Jaime growled, wondering why he bothered to resist her. It was just a dream. A strange and unlikely dream.

Wasn't it?

"Alright then, you really want to know? I feel guilty about your father. What my nephew did…"

"What your son did, you mean."

He glared at her. "My son, little monster that he was, killed him. Unjustly. And, more importantly, unnecessarily. And then there was your mother and your boy-king brother, all done in by a plan devised by my father."

"The sins of the father," she mused, seemingly more to herself.

"I did nothing to help Brandon, or Rickard Stark, when I might've. You've just seen that for yourself."

She nodded.

"And your younger brother," he continued. "The one named for your uncle."

She was instantly attentive. "What about Bran?"

Before Jamie could answer her, the chamber grew very bright, and Arya faded away.

The golden knight blinked and squinted, the rising sun streaming through his window and landing across his face. It had awakened him. He groaned, stretching and wondering at his strange dream.

"Arya Stark," he laughed, sitting up. Queer to dream about her. And all those questions! He thought it must have stemmed from her inquisitiveness when he had told her of the tourney at Harrenhal. He shook his head and stood. As he walked to his trunk and pulled out fresh clothes for the day, his dream seemed to fade away, as dreams tended to do. He dug deeper in his trunk, then cast his eyes about the room, befuddled.

"Where the devil is my doublet?"

The dagger slid between Lady Stoneheart's ribs as easily as it would cut through butter, the sharp point of it piercing her heart. The woman's head fell back as she made to gasp, but the edges of the wound in her neck pulled apart with the action and the air rushed in through there instead, making a strange sort of whistling sound. Her hand fluttered up to close the space but then dropped back to her side as she tilted her head down to look at her daughter.

Catelyn fell to her knees, and Arya went with her, slipping behind her to support her mother's weight. After a moment, the girl fell back against the kneeler, her mother in her arms. Lady Stoneheart's breathing was shallow, and erratic.

"Your… father…" the woman gurgled weakly.

Arya looked down at her mother's face. "Go to him, mother. He's waiting for you."

"No, he's here… Arya. He… says… to tell you…"

What little life was in her mother's eyes was fading; fading too fast for Catelyn to finish. The girl cried out against it, and then leapt after the dying light in those closing eyes, grasping at it, bracing herself for the impact of a heavy cold and emptiness that never came. Arya chased that spark, her mother's light, squeezing her eyes tight, focusing as she never had before. The flickering light pulled just beyond her reach and then seemed to disappear behind a heavy curtain.

"No!" the girl cried, throwing herself after it.

And then blinked hard at the bright daylight which greeted her on the other side after she plunged through the dark veil. After a moment, her eyes adjusted and she was able to stop her squinting. There were trees all around her. The air was crisp and cool on her skin and she shivered in her nightdress. A movement ahead caught her eye and she slipped cautiously through the trees on silent feet.

The girl emerged into a small clearing, and at it's center, a spring bubbled, forming a dark pool. On its far side grew an old and gnarled weirwood, its sad eyes crying tears of red sap.

"Winterfell," Arya whispered.

Across the pool, near the heart tree, her father stood, embracing her mother.

Daario awoke with a start. His eyes jumped wildly around, scanning for danger, before he sat up in his bedroll. He was in his own tent for once, having retired there after leaving the khaleesi earlier. He did not think his absence would be offensive. The queen had an important day ahead, the Targaryens and their closest advisors invited to Highgarden in the morning to treat with the Tyrells. The ultimate purpose was to form an alliance (or, failing that, to burn Highgarden's white walls to the ground). As close as Daario was to Daenerys, the other members of the council were suspicious enough of his loyalties to exclude him from the pending negotiations.

Tyrion had tried to be diplomatic, saying they needed a trustworthy leader in the camp while nearly everyone else of import was away. The false-sellsword had merely smiled, tossing off a remark about filling his time by making the acquaintance of several of the prettier camp followers, to which Tyrion had declared his envy. Both men eyed each other shrewdly, each saying what their reputations would suggest they should, and each not at all certain of the other's sincerity.

The false-Tyroshi did not trouble himself about it overmuch. He knew it was his status as a sellsword which drew the dislike of Aegon's advisors and some of those close to Daenerys. Beyond the commonly held prejudice against such men, though, they had no quarrel with him. His secrets remained his own and his mission had not been compromised.

He wondered at his sudden awakening. It seemed to him that he had been dreaming. A disturbing dream, he thought, judging by how out of sorts he felt. He pulled at its edges but could not call it back. All he was left with was a sense of disquiet, and no reason for it.

The assassin sighed, scratching at his rough beard. The dye had faded from it, and he did not bother to stain it again. When Daenerys had asked after it, he gave her some excuse about sacrifices in the line of duty and the hardships of war.

"That's surprising," the silver queen had laughed. "The Daario Naharis I know would spare no trouble for his appearance and would travel with a trunk of dyes to maintain it! I'm not sure what to think of your newfound practicality."

She'd been japing, of course, but the assassin had to admit she was right. When he'd found the real Daario in Mereen, his hair and beard had been freshly colored despite only having just regained his freedom, and he was travelling with just such a trunk as the khaleesi described.

Still, the woman did not seem particularly bothered by the change and accepted his explanation without question. For his part, the false-sellsword was glad to be done with the conceit. He'd always found the Tyroshi custom vain and pointless, not to mention excessively time consuming.

There were a few hours until sunrise and he had no duties until then, so he laid back down, hoping to sleep a bit more before he had to dress. Staring up into the darkness, he softly uttered his familiar petition to Him of Many Faces.

"Arya Stark. Do not keep her from me."

But as he said it, he was filled with a sense of foreboding for which he could not account. He found sleep eluded him then, and he stared into the darkness until it turned to the grey of pre-dawn.

"Mother! Father!" Arya had called, running toward them, her long skirts billowing like a ship's sail.

Ned released his wife from his arms and stepped toward his child.

"Little wolf," he said, chuckling as she slammed into him. "You've grown."

"Oh, I've missed you. You've no idea." The girl was trembling, overcome with her joy, swallowing down her disbelief. Her arms were wrapped almost painfully tight around her father's middle. "But how is it you're here?"

"The question is, how is it that you are here," her father corrected, laying his cheek against the top of Arya's head.

"I…" The girl thought hard. "I followed mother."

"Ned," Catelyn said softly and her husband turned his head toward her, even as he held fast onto his daughter. "You must send her back."

"But I just got here!" Arya protested. "Please, mother! It's been so long. Father?"

"You mother is right."

"She's not. I belong here. This is my home."

"No, sweet girl. This is only a shadow of your home. You must leave. I don't know how long you have, but if you stay too long in this place…"

As Lord Stark spoke, the wind began to move through the trees. Clouds drifted, hiding the sun from them, and the godswood grew darker. The red leaves of the weirwood rustled and waved and they seemed to whisper then.

Go, she heard. Go.

"I can stay," Arya said, her voice becoming more desperate. "I can. I can stay!"

"No, my brave little wolf. You cannot do your duty here."

"Duty?" She was confused. What was her father talking about?

"The North has need of you. The realm has need of you."

"The realm?" Her tone was incredulous. "What do I care for the realm?"

"You must return to Winterfell," her father insisted.

"But I'm here! Father, I'm finally here. Don't send me from your side."

Ned pulled away from his child, placing his hands on her shoulders and holding her at arm's length so that he could look her in the eye as he spoke to her.

"Our enemies have scattered our banners and weakened them. Alliances are fractured at the time they must be strong. The North has need of a Stark."

"There must be a Stark in Winterfell," her mother agreed.

"You are my grey daughter," her father said, "and the hope of the North." He glanced up at the sky, noting the angry way the clouds moved overhead. "You must go now and leave us to our rest. Your rest is not for many years to come, child."

"Thank you," Catelyn said, smiling sadly at Arya. "I know it wasn't easy for you to give me my relief." Lady Stark walked to her husband's side and bent to kiss her daughter's cheek. Her lips were soft, warm against the girl's flesh. "Remember," she whispered in the girl's ear. "Remember your vow."

Go. Go. Go.

The wind grew stronger then, and they could hear thunder in the distance. Ned pressed a kiss against the top of his daughter's head and bade her to make haste. A creeping sense of apprehension caused Arya's heart to thud in her chest.

"You must go now, back the way you came," he urged. She nodded, gulping down a few breaths and staring at her father's face, and her mother's, now restored to its former beauty. The girl drank in every detail she could, biting her lip to stop herself from crying. Then she turned and ran, back through the trees and toward the darkness through which she had stumbled as she chased after her mother's spark.

"Arya!" her father called, just as she reached the line between the godswood and the darkness. "When the dragons come, you must show them Lyanna!"

She had no time to ask him what he meant by that before she was pulled into the black, her head spinning like a whirlpool. She clenched her eyes tightly, trying to stop the motion before she became sick, and when she opened them again, she was sitting on the dais of the sept in Acorn Hall, holding her mother's stiffening corpse in her arms.

The Bear carried Arya to her own chamber and set her gently on her bed. He covered her, though he knew if she were awake, she would protest, saying something like she was from the North and Northerners don't get cold. He laughed softly to himself.

The large assassin moved to the chair near the bed and wondered what he should do next. He wished his sister was conscious so he could ask her, but he had tried several times to rouse her, all unsuccessfully, as he carried her from the sept to her chamber. Should he remove Lady Stoneheart's body from the sept or leave it? Should he dispose of the dagger his sister still clutched or not? Should he enlist the Rat's help or leave him to sleep?

"Really sister, you do pick the most inconvenient times to lose your senses," the Lyseni grumbled at Arya's motionless form.

The Bear leaned forward, watching his sister sleep. She was as still as death, her limbs almost stiff, her face frozen. All except her eyes. Her eyes were moving, back and forth, back and forth, nearly tremoring behind her closed lids. The motion was unnatural, and far more rapid than anything he'd ever witnessed before.

Except once.

"Oh, no." He stared hard at her, shaking his head, but he could not refute the truth of what he was seeing. It all made sense to him then. Her mother, slain by Arya's own hand. The heavy, unnatural sleep. The girl's eyes bouncing back and forth, as if she dreamed, but something more than a simple dream. The Dream of Faces. He groaned as if in pain and leaned back, slumping in his seat, cradling his head in his hands.

But how? The priests were half a world away. The principal elder had not intended for her to succeed, and so he had performed no blessing.

Unless… it wasn't required that it be performed by him. Unless it could be performed by any Faceless Man, even unwittingly.

And what sacrifice would mean more than one's own mother, well-loved and willingly offered?

The Bear squeezed his eyes tight and dropped his hands into his lap, his fists clenched as he drew in a great breath.

"What have I done?"

She was young, perhaps eight or nine, and in Winterfell again, underfoot and into mischief. Then she was older, not much older, but older; the age she was when she danced with Syrio Forel, the First Sword of Braavos; the age she was when she was happy without fully understanding the ephemeral nature of happiness.

She was her mother, her father, her sister. She was Jon but she was always Jon, wasn't she? The two of them so alike, so utterly Stark. It was not so much of a challenge to be Jon.

She was Rickon, at three, and Bran, at seven, her last memories of them. She tried to be Robb, but could not think of him without seeing a wolf's head upon his shoulders and so she gave up and instead, she was Theon, handsome and smug and far too bold. She was the waif, and Mattine again, then the Kindly Man, her eyes piercing blue and unfathomable.

She was Syrio, and before she was no longer Syrio, she said, "Boy! Boy!" and it made her laugh Syrio's laugh, but it also made her a little sad. She was Jory. She was Jeyne Poole and Old Nan and Septa Mordane, quickly, in succession. She was little Loric, and Will from the inn at the Moon Pool, and then she was Staaviros, then Olive, plump and pretty, with curls that bounced.

She was the silver prince she saw in her dreams sometimes.

She was Ravella Smallwood and Baby Bobbin and Anguy the archer and Jeyne Heddle, frightened of a fearsome direwolf in her inn. She was the ghost of High Heart, but she could not manage the red eyes; not really. She was Cersei Lannister and she felt revulsion then, but also a strange sort of excitement as she considered the possibilities of that.

She was the Knight of Flowers, the Imp, the Mountain, and then the Kingslayer, but that seemed wrong somehow and so she pushed him away, feeling remorseful. She was Sansa's maid when they had lived in the Tower of the Hand and she was a servant boy who had threatened her in the stables of the Red Keep. She was Varys, then Littlefinger, then Grand Maester Pycelle. She was Lommy and she was Vargo Hoat, gaunt and mean, a long beard falling from his sharp chin. Her sharp chin.

She was the leech lord, and Amory Lorch, and the Tickler.

She was the Hound.

She was Lidia Biro, the Sealord of Braavos, Meerios Dinast, and Orbelo, the Bravo who had died of his arrogance, the blade of her wicked throwing dagger buried in his spine.

She was the groom of the Sailor's Wife, a Crow who flew too far from home and died an oathbreaker.

She was Ternesio Terys, and then poor Yorko, and sweet Denyo. She was a dazzling courtesan she had once seen reclining on velvet cushions and wearing a dark veil set with crystals, floating along the Long Canal in an elegant barge. She was a fishmonger who worked a stall near Ragman's harbor. She was a hundred more, a thousand, one after another, faces she knew as well as her own, and faces she had only glimpsed once; faces with and without names; faces she loved, and admired, and missed; faces she hated; faces she conjured from her own imagination. So many faces.

So, so many.

More than she could count.

She was everyone, until she was no one; until she could find no way to deny the truth of that.

Arya gasped and coughed, then sat up abruptly, choking. Her head felt heavy, like a stone, and her stomach lurched. A strange odor filled her nostrils and she couldn't quite place it. There was thick smoke pouring from her fireplace and it stung her eyes.

"What in the seven bloody hells!" she barked hoarsely before she started hacking again. She heard movement and looked up to see the Bear at her window, throwing open the shutters and waving his arms to clear the smoke.

"Sorry," he said gruffly, then looked over at her. His eyes grew momentarily wide and then he turned away, clearing his throat. "Sister, your… sheet has… fallen."

The air cleared marginally and the girl looked down, seeing that she was sitting in her bed, not a stitch of clothes upon her body, with the covers wrapped around her waist. Grabbing at the edge of the coverlet and sheet, she pulled them over her nakedness, and asked her brother how it was she found herself completely bare in her bed.

"I removed your nightdress," he explained, still waving the smoke through her window, "and burned it. That's why all the smoke. I didn't dress you, obviously. I thought you'd rather do it yourself, once you woke up. Was I wrong?"

"Burned it? Why would you…"

The large assassin turned around and leaned against the window sill. "It seemed like a good idea at the time."

Arya snorted. "Okay." She looked at her brother, but then grimaced. She felt unwell, as if she'd had too much Dornish red the night before.

"Sister, I wasn't sure what happened. I found you in the sept, your mother dead, by your hand, apparently. And you weren't making much sense, talking about your father, with some man's doublet laying across the back of a bench. I figured until you could explain it to me, it seemed best to…"

"To what? Dispose of the evidence?"

"Just so."

The girl thought to tease her brother, to laugh at him and tell him he was a great fool, but instead, she found herself oddly touched. She sniffed, willing away the tear which attempted to form in her eye and dropping her gaze to her lap.

"What?" he asked, worry creasing his brow as he rushed to her side. Gingerly, he sat on the edge of her bed and took her one hand in his, leaving the other to clutch the bedclothes to her breast.

"You," she said. She rose up onto her knees so she could reach his cheek with her lips and placed a small kiss there. "You're the best friend I've ever had."

He nodded and slipped his hand behind her head, threading his calloused fingers into her hair, underneath her braid. Pressing his forehead against hers, he asked her what happened.

"So much," she replied. "So many things."

"Please," the Bear said. "I need to know."

"I'm not sure I can really explain it."

"Try."

And so she did.

She told him what her mother had asked her to do, and how she had refused, and run away, as if that would do her any good. She told him how Ser Jaime had found her, telling her essentially the thing her master had always said to her: that she should trust her gut. She told him that she had gone back to her mother then, to make her see reason, though why she thought she could convince Lady Stoneheart of anything, after all that had happened, she wasn't sure.

"I guess I'm just an idiot," the girl told her brother dejectedly. He stroked her cheek sympathetically with the back of his hand.

She told him how she had found her mother, still sitting on the floor, hunched over and unmoving; depleted. She told him how she had fallen to her knees before her mother, and pled with her to try, to try to endure it, this life, for her sake; to try to love her. She told him how she had begged for it to be enough.

Had begged her mother to think her daughter was enough; enough of a reason to endure.

"Mother," the girl had cried, "you're all I have."

"No," the lady said, clutching at her robes, pulling them away from her body. "This is… illusion."

"It's not illusion! It's my family! You're my family. My only family."

"Bran," she rasped. "Rickon. Sansa."

"What about them?"

"They were… not… with your father."

"She was trying to say that they're still alive," the girl explained to the large assassin. "She was trying to tell me that I don't need her, because my brothers and my sister are still out there."

"She might be right."

"She might be. Or she might not remember that they were there with her, before she was brought back. Or, they might have died since." Her voice caught then. "It's been years, after all."

"It'd been years since anyone in Westeros had seen you, too. They had all assumed you dead, yet here you are."

"But I was under the protection of the order. Who could've harmed me in the temple?"

"You mean besides the most dangerous assassins in the world, who lived under the same roof as you?"

She ignored that. "I doubt Bran and Rickon and Sansa have had such able benefactors, even if they were still alive years ago."

"It's not wrong to hope."

Arya laughed sharply. "When has it ever been right for me to hope, brother? When has my hope been rewarded? When has yours?"

The Lyseni assassin dropped his eyes. "Do you not hope for… for your master? Do you not hope he is alive?"

Arya inhaled deeply at that, and blew the breath out slowly, considering her answer.

"Hope cannot bring a thing into being," she finally said. "It either is, or it isn't."

She had been disappointed so many times, her pain all the greater for the hope she had clutched at too hard.

The girl rose, sliding off her bed and leaving her sheet and coverlet behind. Her brother looked at her, then quickly looked away, allowing his sister her modesty. She stumbled slightly, shaking her head. Regaining her legs, her brother none the wiser due to all his misplaced embarrassment, she rummaged through some newly cleaned clothes the maid her left for her. Arya slipped the items on: fresh smallclothes, the doeskin breeches given her by Denyo Terys, and a small, cream blouse she didn't recognize but that fit her as if it had been made for her. There was a new doublet as well, and unlike those she had worn previously, this one was not a man's garment, but rather was cut for her form, rather perfectly as it turned out. It was close-fitting, with burnished bronze clasps running down the middle. The material was heavy, and fine; crimson, with gold stitching.

Odd, she thought. How did this end up here? Was it Carellan Smallwood's?

She decided it must not be. Lord and Lady Smallwood wouldn't have allowed their precious Carellan to dress like a boy (even though the garment was decidedly feminine, it was still a doublet). Arya herself had been scrubbed pink and forced into not one but two fine gowns when she had visited Acorn Hall with the Brotherhood as a young girl. Lady Smallwood had even attempted to make the highborn girl's hair presentable, as she recalled (no small task after the chopping she'd received at the hands of Yoren and then the haphazard way the locks had grown after that). No, it couldn't have been Carellan's.

She fastened the doublet, her fingers moving slowly and her gaze growing soft at the memories. After a moment, she turned to her brother, doublet done up, high collar of the blouse peeking out. The Bear cleared his throat.

"You look very fine, Cat."

The girl bowed gracefully, asking, "Did you do this?"

"No. Wasn't me."

"I suppose I have someone to thank for the new clothes, but I'm not sure who."

The large assassin smiled slightly. "I believe I can solve that mystery. But come, you haven't yet explained all that occurred in the sept. I'll tell you what you wish to know if you answer my questions."

The Cat cocked and eyebrow and folded her arms over her chest. "Are you negotiating with me, Ser Willem?"

The big man shrugged. "I thought about beating it out of you…"

She snorted. "As if you could."

"So, just tell me and save us all the unpleasantness."

The girl rubbed her forehead for a moment, eyes closed, and then looked at the smoldering remains of her borrowed nightdress in the fire grate. She sighed.

"We argued," Arya finally said. "For a long while. But finally, my mother said something, and it made me…" She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth and bowed her head thoughtfully.

"Cat?" the Lyseni murmured.

"I suppose she convinced me, is all."

"When I found you, there was a doublet, a man's doublet, folded over a bench..."

"Oh, that's Ser Jaime's."

The assassin looked at his sister with surprise. "Ser Jaime was with you?"

"What? Oh, no. No, he'd just given me his doublet earlier because it was cold. I forgot to return it."

The Bear nodded his understanding. "So, it was just you and your mother in the sept." He sounded relieved.

"Yes."

"But you said something about your father being there."

"Did I?" She furrowed her brow, the memory hazy. "Oh, yes. You asked if anyone else had been with me. I remember that I wondered how you knew."

"I was just inquiring after the owner of the doublet."

She nodded and walked back to the bed, sitting next to him and leaning her head against his arm. Her hair was still braided, and relatively neat despite having slept on the plaits.

"I was able to go with my mother," Arya finally told him.

"What do you mean? Go where?"

"I don't know, really. It looked like the godswood at Winterfell, but it wasn't. Not really."

This is only a shadow…

"It was a dream, Cat."

"No. It was no dream," she whispered. "I wasn't sleeping. I was… warging."

A warg. And now, a face-changer.

An assassin.

A highborn lady.

An orphan.

The heir to a great kingdom.

They all described his sister.

The Cat had related to her brother what had happened to her; what she'd done. She'd told how she'd crossed the border into the shadow realm and entered that place where there was life after life. She told how she came back again, practically thrust against her will through the veil that separated worlds. She told how she had done it all under the watchful gaze of the Stranger.

How she had seen her father there; how she had spoken to him.

How she had finally earned her mother's approval.

"She was herself," the girl had said. "She was herself, not Lady Stoneheart, and still, she… loved me."

It had broken his heart.

How she had wanted to stay; to be with her family. How she had begged to stay, but was driven off by her father's insistence, and a sinister wind, and a coming storm.

"It felt as though… as though I were being chased. It felt as though if I did not run, something terrible would happen."

"You were in the nightlands." He had to say it out loud, because it didn't seem true when he merely thought it. He had to try it on his tongue, to see how it would sound. He had to test his belief of it. He needed to make it real. He needed to understand.

His sister's gift was strange, and rare, and growing more powerful all the time, but it had never frightened him before. It was simply part of her; part of who she was. But when the Bear tried to imagine his sister in the afterlife, blown there by the dying breath of another, he felt…

Unnerved.

She had been in the nightlands, and she had returned. Like her mother.

What did that make her? A revenant? An undead thing? An abomination?

No, he thought, feeling ashamed of the absurd notion. She hadn't died. She was just the Cat, like always.

He rose and walked to the fireplace, settling his hands on the mantle and staring down at his feet. He had to think. He had to consider. Because she wasn't really just the Cat, like always. She had changed. Changed as she slept, just as he had. Just as every Faceless Man in history had.

Only she was never meant to be a Faceless Man. The principal elder had never meant for her to become a Faceless Man.

And the Lyseni assassin couldn't help but wonder what would happen if the Order were to find out.

"Sister, I must know. Did you…" He hesitated and sighed, turning to face her. She sat on the edge of her bed, looking up at him, awaiting his question. "Did you dream about… faces? Like you were wearing several different faces? A dozen, maybe?"

"A hundred at least. No, many hundreds, I'm sure. How did you know?"

"Hundreds?" He swallowed hard. He'd never heard of so many. He hadn't thought it possible.

"Yes, hundreds. But how did you know?"

"I think… That is, I'm quite sure that you… earned your face in the sept."

Meet Me in the Woods—Lord Huron