A/N: It's been awhile, I know, and this chapter is shorter than the typical chapter in this story. I could've expanded it, but then it might take me another month to post it, so I decided to go with what you see here. I hope you enjoy it.

When you follow the strange trails
They will take you who knows where

"My lady, it is good to see you again." Lord Smallwood welcomed his wife in the bailey yard, helping her down from her horse, his thumbs pressing into her waist. "I trust the journey was not too arduous and that you encountered no hardship on the road?"

Ravella smiled sweetly and shook her head. "I felt quite secure with Smallwood men, Blackwood men, and the Brotherhood accompanying me. I thought this must be what it's like to ride in the midst of a great army!" Lady Smallwood laughed delicately.

Lord Smallwood had been to war, more than once; had been amidst great armies, far too often. His lady's journey did not resemble his own experience in the least, but he did not tell her so. Ravella's heart was tender, and the horrors of war were not something her husband ever wished for her to know. Her own grief, their shared grief, was quite enough.

"I'll take no chance with your person," Theomar responded. "There is much afoot in the Riverlands now, and I fear it emboldens the bandits."

"We encountered no bandits. It would have been utter madness to attack such a company," Lady Smallwood assured him, bowing her head and kissing his hand, "but your concern is ever appreciated, husband."

Lord and Lady Smallwood walked arm in arm toward the keep as a groom took Ravella's horse. There was much bustle and commotion in the yard then as the mixed company of riders poured in through the main gate and began the work of settling their horses and moving their gear. Rider, Fletcher, Elsbeth, Stout Will, and Little Nate, the orphans who were meant to join Lady Stoneheart's active force, were nearly the last to arrive, road weary and hungry. They craned their necks around as they dismounted, as much to stretch as to take in the layout of the stronghold and search for familiar faces.

The lord and lady of the hall left the riders to their tasks and Theomar whisked Ravella to his solar. Once inside, Lord Smallwood took his wife in his arms and kissed her fervently, a familiar hunger in his touch. Even after all their years together, there was no one the Lord of Acorn Hall desired more than his alluring, raven-haired lady.

"You were missed, wife."

"As were you, husband."

Theomar pressed his forehead against his lady's, his hands buried in her dark hair, ignoring the tangles and road dust.

"I fear our time together will be short. We march for Riverrun on the morrow, Lord Piper with me. I can delay it no longer."

Ravella nodded, closing her eyes briefly. "I understand. And the girl?"

Lord Smallwood sighed and released his wife from his grip. He walked to the open window and stared out of it, looking into the distance at the direction he must soon travel.

"She is willful, and she's been too much in her mother's company, I fear."

"We spoke of this," the lady chastised in soft tones. "The bond between a mother and daughter is no trifling thing. I warned you…"

"Did I not just say she is willful?" he snapped, then blew out a breath. Theomar turned and looked at his wife with regret. "Forgive me. I should not be so harsh. I don't wish to quarrel with you. We have so little time…"

"Think nothing of it," Ravella soothed. "And I suppose there is not much harm in the girl spending a few days with her mother."

"And not much chance of our interfering in any case, if they both desire each other's company. I did what I could to dissuade them, but the girl comes by her stubbornness honestly. You've never met the Lady Stoneheart."

"No. I've not had… the pleasure."

"Quite implacable," the lord said.

"Implacable?" his wife echoed. "Well, I suppose that fits with her reputation. Though the Freys might name it else. What's left of them, anyway." Ravella frowned slightly then, but only for a moment.

Though they both found the whole business distasteful, this bloody mission the Brotherhood had been about in the Riverlands for the last several years, neither could find it in themselves to entirely condemn it, either. Betrayal deserved its just due, however crudely it was meted out.

"Her single-mindedness can be frustrating. And she has no refinement."

"That's not at all Catelyn Stark's reputation," the lady mused quietly.

"She's not at all Catelyn Stark," was her husband's gruff response. "She's little more than a blunt instrument."

"Hmm." Ravella tilted her head, considering. "But I'm sure you've discovered a way to use that to your advantage."

"Quite."

The woman smiled. "My clever husband."

"Ser Bryden believes they've made some sort of pact."

"A pact?"

The man shrugged, saying, "Lady Arya mentioned to him that her mother has plans for her."

Lady Smallwood shivered. "I wonder at those plans."

"You know the lady's dark work. I can only imagine she's enlisted her daughter to help her continue it."

Ravella's lip curled in distaste. "Think of it," she murmured, "wanting such a life for your child. Your daughter." She shook her head.

"And this girl… She's no ordinary daughter, my love."

"No. I suppose not." The woman sighed. "Which makes it even more vital that we build our influence, while we can."

"Yes," the lord agreed. "Our fortunes may depend upon it."

"Not just ours."

"No, not just ours," he agreed grimly.

"Have you any notion as to how we may persuade Lady Arya to consider our judgment?"

She did not have to add 'in lieu of her mother's.'

"They had a falling out," Theomar revealed, "the girl, and her mother. It had to do with that bastard knight."

"Ser Gendry?" the woman asked, intrigue in her tone. "That's interesting."

"But even so, I think you will have your hands full keeping Lady Arya within these walls, if her mother wishes it otherwise."

Ravella laughed, saying, "You have a gift for understatement, my darling. Hands full, indeed. If Brynden Blackwood and his father couldn't entice her to stay at Raventree Hall with all their charm and grand feasts and Bethany Blackwood for a confidante, what hope do I have?"

Lord Smallwood grunted, acknowledging the problem. A knock at his door disturbed his thoughts then. He frowned, his displeasure at being interrupted evident.

"Come!" he barked. The door creaked open and his steward entered.

"My lord, there is a problem in the sept."

"What sort of problem?" Theomar growled.

The steward glanced nervously at Lady Smallwood. "I think it best if you come see for yourself, my lord."

Lord Smallwood looked at his wife and she smiled, walking to his side and placing her hand on his arm reassuringly.

"Go, my love," she whispered. "I need to shake the dust from my hair anyway."

The lord nodded and then turned to follow his steward.

"Do you feel dizzy?" The Bear had squinted, peering into his sister's eyes. "Does your head ache?"

"A bit," she'd admitted. "Not as much as when I first woke, though." Her mind cast itself back to the House of Black and White, and she remembered that even wearing a false face which had once belonged to someone else had come at a price. Some queasiness; nightmares; disorientation. She supposed all blood magic took its toll, one way or another.

"You may not be able to eat. I felt sick the first few days. And a bit weak."

Arya had nodded, recalling that she had not seen her brother during that time; that he'd been sequestered away somewhere. The night he'd completed his trial, he disappeared, and she did not see him again until…

Just before the acolytes' feast?

She squinted at the memory. The Bear had reappeared perhaps a day or so before the feast, as she recalled, and she had been so relieved to see him that she had not asked him about his time away. What he was saying now made sense, though. He had likely been hidden away so he could rest and cope with the unpleasant effects of his… transformation (so that he could pay the physical price of the blood magic, in the days after he'd paid a much higher price: the price of his heart). That she was experiencing these effects herself now was a surprise to her only because she hadn't realized earning a face was followed by such physical symptoms. Still, it explained her queasiness when she had first awakened, and the strange way her head now felt somehow both light, and heavy, all at once.

"You should try to drink, though. And rest."

How she bristled at that. Rest. Like a child, or an invalid. She nearly snarled at the idea. She was not so weak as all that. In fact, she was feeling stronger by the minute, barely dizzy at all.

"Don't be that way," he said, reading the look on her face. "I'm only trying to help."

"I know," she murmured, contrite. Even as she spoke, a tension began to build inside of her, and her skin prickled strangely.

"No one saw who visited the sept?" Lord Smallwood's voice was grim. He was staring at the motionless, bloody form of the woman who had named herself Lady Stoneheart, laid out on the dais before the Stranger.

"No, my lord. And when the maid came to check, there was no one here, save the Lady herself, already… deceased."

Deceased. The word was not quite right, but neither man could offer a suitable alternative.

"Do we know whose clothing that is?" Theomar indicated the neatly folded doublet draped over a bench.

"We are making inquiries, my lord."

The River lord nodded. "Very well. Keep me apprised."

"Yes, my lord."

"And be discreet. Post a guard and allow no one in here. I think it best if we… leave the lady to her rest here for now, until I can inform Lady Arya of what has happened." The lord of the hall looked off, thoughtful for a moment. "What of the maid?"

"I sent her to her chamber and told her not to speak to anyone."

"Good. Be sure she minds you."

The steward nodded and Theomar left the man to his duties. The lord sought his wife, who had changed her gown by then and had her maid brushing out and arranging her hair.

"Leave us," Lord Smallwood directed the servant, who bobbed a curtsey and scurried away without comment. When she'd closed the door behind her, Lady Smallwood turned to her husband and gave him a look of gentle admonishment.

"Really, my darling, you couldn't let her finish? What could be so important?"

The Riverlord looked serious. "I have a task for you, Ravella, and you must move quickly, before word gets out."

He had wanted her to rest, but she was having none of it. So, they had talked, the Cat and the Bear, and she spoke quickly, with an urgency. When he had meant to be comforting her, to guide her, she had taken charge and had soothed him instead; had made plans and given orders; had told him he was to do nothing further.

He was not to move her mother's body.

He was not to make excuses for his sister.

He was not to burn any more of her clothes (here, she'd laughed).

And, for the love of all the gods, he was not to coddle her!

After chasing his sister through the kitchens (where she ignored his advice about not eating and pilfered a chunk of buttered bread and a cup of goats' milk to quell the gnawing in her stomach), the Bear followed her to the training yard, however reluctantly. She only seemed to half-hear him as he grumbled after her, and she flitted through the hall and around the yard like a hummingbird. If she'd had wings, he thought they were like to be beating so fast as to be invisible.

He had insisted she should not (would not be able to) train, but true to form, she had ignored him and even now, was digging in the sword barrel for the appropriate rusted training blades.

"Fine," the Lyseni said, catching the swords she tossed to him, "but you're not allowed to complain if I clap your ears between my two blades."

"When have you ever…"

He cut her off, his words a hot whisper. "When have you ever trained after waking from the dream of faces?"

"I feel fine now," Arya insisted. "Better than fine, really. It's… odd. It's like there's some sort of energy trapped beneath my skin." Her eyes were bright and strange as she spoke.

The Bear had not felt powerful after he earned his face. He'd felt drained; aggrieved. The guilt had nearly overwhelmed him. And then, after the dream of faces, he'd been unable to leave his bed for a day and a night. When he'd tried, he'd nearly fainted. Yet, here stood his sister, having dispatched her own mother, and she positioned herself in her water dancer's stance as calmly as you please, a longsword clutched in one hand and a shortsword in the other.

"An energy?" He shook his head, confused. He lifted his swords automatically, as the Cat had taught him to do.

"It's hard to explain," the girl said, advancing on her brother and making a few preliminary strikes. He blocked them. "It's like I woke up with this force inside of me. Like… lightning. Or… a rushing river, churning and flowing in my veins. It makes me feel strong, and restless." The Cat ducked the large assassin's blow and then whirled past him, jabbing his hip harshly with the butt of her shortsword's handle.

"Ow," he complained, spinning to face her. "You shouldn't be able to walk, much less harass me so effectively." He regarded her, and it was as though he could almost see the force she was describing. As if her muscles worked beneath her skin of their own accord, ceaselessly flinching and quivering. She seemed to vibrate.

A trick of the eye, he told himself, merely due to her suggestion. But he could not deny what his eyes told him; that his sister looked as if the effort to hold herself back was too exhausting to contemplate. And so, she did not.

It doesn't make sense, he thought, swallowing.

She grinned wickedly, raining a series of blows upon her brother. "Sensible or not, I feel as though I must move, or burn in place." His blocks were almost clumsy, but he managed to avoid being tagged by her steel, though just barely.

"What?" His head snapped in her direction and he looked strangely at her. 'Sensible or not,' she had said.

As if answering him.

But he had not spoken.

"What?" Arya's wide grey eyes were innocent, but a malicious smile crept across her lips after a moment and revealed that she was anything but.

"I… didn't feel you."

"Your luck won't hold," she promised, and then her longsword made contact with his flank, the blunted tip jabbing into the flesh there, promising an ugly bruise later. "There. Did you feel that?"

"You know what I mean," the Bear hissed, wincing. He crossed his swords just in time to trap her longsword between his blades as she leveled her next cut. He held her in place long enough to plant to sole of his boot in her middle and push her back, yanking her one blade away. It bounced on the ground at his feet and he stepped over it, approaching her as she stumbled slightly. Swift as a deer, Arya turned sideface, moving her shortsword to her left hand as she did. "You were in my head, and I did not feel you." He'd always felt her before. Perhaps not when she'd sensed his intentions as they crossed blades, but certainly whenever she'd pilfered his whole thoughts; his words.

The girl shrugged, and the simple movement sent the Lyseni assassin's mind skittering in all different directions.

She should not have such strength. She should not be able to move in and out of my head without so much as a hinting at her presence. She certainly should not be able to do it while harrying me with her blades.

She should not be so settled after losing her mother.

The Bear did not rule his face then, his grimace appearing as he amended the thought.

After killing her mother.

The girl screamed then, a guttural cry like that of a Dothraki charging his enemy. She barreled at him, catching him by surprise. He thrust his two swords up in front of him instinctively, like a shield, but she sidestepped, and leapt, grabbing his shoulder and using her momentum to swing herself around onto his back. She dragged the dulled edge of her short sword across her brother's throat, the movement harsh and swift, raising an angry red line there. Had her blade been made of sharp steel, the large assassin would have bled out in an instant.

"It was mercy," she cried hoarsely.

The Bear dropped to his knees and fell backwards, his full weight crushing the Cat beneath him. The wind was knocked out of her and she sputtered and wheezed while her brother flipped himself over with a grace not usually seen in men of his size. He pinned her to the ground.

"I know," he murmured, his voice meant to pacify her even as he grasped her left wrist and dug into it with his thumb, forcing her to release her training sword. She bucked against him, as much as she was able, but his weight was too great for her and he had her arms pressed firmly into the dirt. She snarled her frustration. "Cat." He said it quietly, and it was both an admonishment, and a plea.

Arya squeezed her eyes shut tightly and shook her head back and forth, then banged the back of her skull against the ground two times; three. When she stilled, the Bear rose carefully, holding his hand out for her to take. She hesitated, then grasped it, standing with his help, dusting herself off with too much fervor. She swatted and swatted and swatted at her clothes, breathing sharply through her nose. Her brother reached out and took her hands, feeling the trembling of her fingers as his own curled around hers.

"Stop." His command was gentle.

"I can't."

"It's not your fault," he tried. "You can't… You shouldn't allow it to trouble you. Your mother…"

"No, it is my fault. Don't mistake it, brother. It was my work." She fixed her gaze on his and nodded. "But, I am not troubled by it."

"No?"

"No," the girl assured him, looking at her feet then. "My mother… my father… They were, oh, they were…" She sighed.

The Bear reached up with one hand and gripped his sister's chin, tipping her face toward his. "They were…" he prodded.

"They were restored," she whispered. "I clung so tightly, I begged, I wept, I tried to make her stay, but when I saw her there, at Winterfell, with my father..." She swallowed and furrowed her brow. "It was not wrong. What I did, it restored her. She was so beautiful, brother. Like when I was a girl. And she…" Arya pursed her lips for a moment and blinked, pushing back the small tears that had collected on her lower lashes. She sniffed, and said, "She was filled with…" Arya shook her head, as if she could hardly believe what she was about to say. "Peace."

"Then why this fitfulness? Why this overwhelming disquiet? You've barely stopped moving since you awoke."

"Because I can't!"

He sighed, trying to steel himself. "Why not?" The assassin's worry declared itself in the way his forehead creased as he questioned his sister. The girl bit her lip and looked away from him. Her eyes roved over the empty gallery above their heads.

"Because," she finally said, "if I do, I have this notion I might burst open and all that's inside of me will spill out."

And there it was; he could see it again, that tremoring of her skin, of the muscles and sinew beneath. It was a slight thing, barely perceptible, but he knew to look for it, and so he saw it. What's more, he felt it; as he reached out and gripped her shoulders in his large palms, he felt it, a faint, restless writhing. It was the force she had talked about; the force inside her.

Like lightning.

Like a rushing river.

It's grief, he tried to tell himself. The grief and the blood magic and this place. Westeros, and all it demands of her, and all it means. If she would only sleep…

The thoughts trailed off. He could not convince himself he comprehended it, what he sensed about her; what she sensed about herself. Yes, there was grief. And there was blood magic. And there was Westeros, with all its scheming and memories and dangers; with all its Riverlords and marching banners and invading dragons; with all its plots and plans and desperate, grasping ambitions. But deep down, he knew those weren't what was causing… this.

His sister, the one person left to him now, the one person he loved most in this world, had walked into the shadow; had pierced that strange veil and tarried there. And then she had walked out, changed.

As the Lyseni assassin watched, the girl wrapped her arms around her middle, as if in doing so, she might hold it all in; hold herself in.

The Bear shook his head, not understanding. He had experienced nothing like this, and could not advise her, but still, he assured his sister that he would never allow any harm to befall her. What else could he do? It was his job to protect her, his only purpose since that night in Braavos at the inn by the Moon Pool…

His last night.

He squeezed his eyes shut and breathed in and out slowly, just once before opening them again and staring down at the Cat.

It was his job, and he meant to do it, even if he didn't know how.

"You won't burst," he said. "I'm here. I won't let you." He knew what he was saying made no sense. He wasn't even sure what he meant by it. He just knew he couldn't let it hurt her.

Whatever it was.

This thing.

This thing he had done to her. This thing he had caused, however unwittingly.

This Facelessness.

"You can't stop it," she insisted. "You can't fight it. It's…" Arya paused, searching for the words.

"It's what, Cat?"

"It's inside of me," she whispered, and she trembled. She shook her head then, and amended, "It is me."

Ravella summoned her maid back to hastily finish her hair and then left to do her husband's bidding. As she strode through the keep, she met the Kingslayer in the wide corridor outside of the great hall. He was just pushing through the doors as she passed them and they nearly collided.

"Ser Jaime!" she greeted, a bit startled.

The golden knight bowed, murmuring, "My lady," courteously. As he straightened, he said that he'd heard she'd just arrived with her traveling party. "I believe you brought some of Lady Stoneheart's band along with you?" He was thinking on the changes these additions to their brotherhood would bring. Watch schedules, patrol groups, rotations to the Inn at the Crossroads…

"Mmm," she responded distractedly. "Ser Jaime…" Ravella hesitated a moment.

"Yes, Lady Smallwood?"

The woman wrinkled her brow thoughtfully for a moment. "Might I trouble you for your assistance?"

"I am at your service," he replied, bowing again, golden hand pressed over his heart elegantly. And that was how Jaime Lannister found himself searching Acorn Hall for the Stark girl.

"Please bring her to my chamber in all haste," the lady had pled.

The knight had discovered the girl a short time later, in the bailey yard with her man. This time she was not dressed in her thin nightdress (nor a bloody one, he observed), but rather some well-fitting garments, surprisingly feminine on her despite their lack of propriety (and their lack of skirts). As he watched, she replaced Theomar Smallwood's barely-adequate training steel in its collection barrel.

"Ser Jaime," Ser Willem greeted smoothly as the golden knight approached the pair.

"Lannister," the girl said, her eyebrows raised as she spun around to find the Kingslayer standing before her. She narrowed her eyes and regarded him in silence.

"Lady Arya, I've come to fetch you," Jaime explained. "You're wanted."

"By whom?" the Bear demanded, moving between his sister and the golden knight.

An amused smirk formed on Jaime's face. He looked the large knight up and down. "Do you think I mean your lady some harm, Ferris?" he asked, addressing the assassin by his false surname.

Before her brother could answer, Arya stepped out from behind him. "Who wants me?"

"Aside from a pile of Blackwood heirs and that bastard blacksmith, you mean?" Jaime teased. "Ravella Smallwood needs to speak with you. The matter is of some urgency, apparently."

"What is it?" the girl wanted to know.

"Well that, my lady, is something you must discover for yourself. I've not been made privy to Lady Smallwood's secrets and concerns."

Arya glanced up at her brother for a moment, then nodded, leaving him behind in the training yard as she walked away with Jaime. The golden knight proffered his arm but she just snorted and continued on.

"I suppose I should thank you for the clothes," she said as her companion opened the door for her and stood aside to allow her entrance to the keep. The knight looked at her quizzically. "Ser Willem told me you had them made." There was a question on her face, though she did not voice it.

He cleared his throat. "Yes, well, I thought I'd save us all the sight of you dressed in dingy grain sacks every day. We've had quite enough of that."

"Well, whatever your reason, Ser Jaime, it was a kindness."

Her words clearly made the knight uncomfortable. "It was nothing. I just had Lady Smallwood's seamstress cut down an old doublet of mine that I never wear."

"I suppose that explains the color. Lannister crimson."

"That's real gold stitching, by the way," he replied with feigned disinterest.

"I would expect nothing less from the cast-offs of Casterly Rock." She grinned wickedly then. "Does it also come with a sense of unearned entitlement?" She patted the doublet and then inspected her cuffs as if searching for it.

The Kingslayer looked down at the girl and regarded her. "You know, Stark, I almost didn't recognize you."

Her grin faded and the girl gulped visibly. Curious, he thought.

"And why is that?" she finally asked, her voice hoarse.

"Well, in clothes that fit, you look a lot less like a hapless orphan." He laughed.

"But I am a hapless orphan," she returned with a shrug.

The knight's look was suddenly sincere. Their pace slowed and he looked into her eyes a moment with something akin to recognition. Silvery grey, deep, and dangerous. "Perhaps," he acquiesced softly. "Perhaps you are. But you're also much more than that."

Arya looked at her companion keenly and seemed almost as if she wished to ask him something. But then, her expression changed. She visibly relaxed and said, "Mmm. I'm Ned Stark's daughter, even if there is no Ned Stark anymore. And I'm Robb Stark's sister."

He shook his head. "That's not what I meant." Her family name gave her worth, yes, and her claim to the North could not be ignored. But it was more than that. She was more than that. His dream was plaguing him. Rickard. Brandon. Robb and Catelyn and…

Silvery grey, deep, and dangerous.

"Then, what did you mean?"

To Jaime, it seemed as if the girl were bracing herself for his reply. Rather than answer her question, though, he asked one of his own.

"Why are you so nervous, Stark?"

"I'm not nervous," she protested, a bit too readily.

"Really? Because you seem a bit nervous."

They had arrived at the door to Ravella's chambers.

"Well, I'm not," she insisted.

"Alright." Jaime shrugged, unconvinced but out of time to argue.

Arya glared at him as he knocked on Lady Smallwood's door. At the faint 'Enter!' they heard from beyond, the golden knight inclined his head in a gesture of respect (though it was made more of a mocking gesture by the smirk he wore as he performed it) and took his leave of his charge. As he turned to go, the girl called after him.

"You'll have to find your redemption elsewhere, Lannister. You'll not find that in me, no matter how guilty you feel."

The knight whirled around, staring at her. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but no words came forth.

"That's not what I am," she told him, studying his astonished look.

Her own expression gave away nothing and she pushed her way inside of Lady Smallwood's chamber, closing the door behind her. The Kingslayer stared after her for a long while before slowly trudging his way back toward the training yard. He had rearranged his expression into his typical sardonic look, but inside his head, he was trying to make sense of Arya's words.

Not the what of them, but the how.

For just before she'd spoken, his strange dream from the night before had begun to play in his head. He had remembered Rickard Stark's screams and Brandon Stark's bulging eyes. He had recalled Arya pestering him about his guilt, asking her endless questions.

He had been thinking that she was most likely the rightful Lady of Winterfell, and quite possibly the Queen in the North. But he had also been thinking she was more than that. He'd reasoned that she was the lone person to whom he could make amends; she was the only path left to him to reach atonement.

She was his last chance at redemption.

For the sins of his father, and the red wedding he'd designed. For his own inaction, his lack of honor, as the two lords of Winterfell died in the throne room amid Aerys Targaryen's deranged laughter. For his mad, unreasoning love for his sister, that had led to the crippling of Bran Stark.

As he left the keep and entered the bailey yard, looking for some training dummy or man-at-arms he could batter with dull steel, one question beat against the walls of his skull, over and over, with no answer to be found.

How had she known?

"I've come," Arya said as she turned from the door she had just closed, "as you've asked."

"Please," Lady Smallwood said, extending an arm and indicating a chair across a small table from her own, "do be seated."

Arya nodded, crossing the floor of the chamber and taking the seat. As she did, the Lady of Acorn Hall rose, moving toward a serving table at the far end of the room. There, she grasped a goblet.

"Wine, my dear?" she asked, and poured without waiting for an answer. She walked over to Arya and placed the cup before her, on the table, and then took her own seat once again.

"Aren't you having any?" the girl asked.

"No, sweet child. It's too early for wine."

"Then why have your poured it for me?"

"Because I fear you may need something to… to steady you."

"To steady me?" the girl repeated with a bemused laugh. Could Ravella see? Did she know?

Arya had thought Jaime had seen; that somehow, he'd known (that she'd followed her mother into the darkness, and then through it; and that she'd come back with something she had not taken with her), but a quick perusal of his most prominent thoughts had proven that to be untrue. He'd merely been wallowing in his said-same guilt, hoping to find in her some relief from it.

Hoping to rescue her somehow, to save her, so he could cleanse his sins with the deed.

His last chance.

But now, here was Ravella, talking about steadying her. And wasn't she unsteady?

Arya's eyes flicked to her own hand as she reached for the goblet. Her fingers showed no visible tremor, despite the persistent buzzing in her bones (despite the inexplicable power which built and built beneath her skin, threatening to explode without warning). Deep inside her, she shivered, as if she were barefoot in a snowbank. But outwardly, she remained as calm as still water. She released the breath she had been holding and took a small sip of the wine.

It's abating, she thought as the new feeling settled. It's not so violent now.

She wasn't sure if that were the truth, or if she merely wished it to be, but she told herself she was getting better; that she was feeling more like herself.

More like herself, and less unsteady.

"My Lady Arya, I… I'm afraid I have some grave news for you."

The girl stiffened, sitting up straight and tall in her chair. As for Ravella, she seemed to droop under the weight of what she meant to say. Worried lines marked her brow.

"I'm so sorry to tell you, but…" Lady Smallwood reached across the table and took Arya's hand in her own. A tear formed in the woman's eye and Ravella drew in a great breath.

"Is it Lady Stoneheart?" the girl asked before her hostess could speak. "Did you call me here to tell me that she's dead?"

Lady Smallwood looked stunned. "But my dear, how did you know?"

Arya leaned back in her seat and looked at her hostess, taking in the surprise upon the woman's face before answering.

"Because I'm the one who killed her."

Way Out There—Lord Huron