Don't you find, some of the time, there is always someone on your mind
…that shouldn't be at all
"My lady, I am very glad to see you again, and in such good health." Karyl Vance sounded sincere as he bowed low and took Arya's hand, kissing the back of it. The gesture seemed almost reverent. He straightened, releasing her fingers from his gentle grasp. "I had hoped we could keep you far from here, however. I fear it may prove to be too dangerous a place for you."
"I thank you for your concern, Lord Vance, and I assure you, many of these fine lords have used their every opportunity to remind me just how treacherous the Riverlands may be for someone bearing my name."
"Not only your name, my lady, but your very countenance," the lord added somberly. His voice was laced with concern and caution. Arya breathed in and out, slowly, before attempting to quiet his worry.
"My countenance and my name notwithstanding, I trust my men and my steel to see me safely through. They are good and loyal men, my lord, as you well know, and I am hardly helpless besides."
The girl smiled graciously at Karyl Vance and the rest of the lords and knights assembled in Lord Blackwood's pavilion. None of them appeared to be appeased, however, and many wore looks of grave disapproval upon their faces. Still, no one seemed inspired to voice any opposition, at least not to her face, and she supposed that was something.
Arya had been invited to the gathering so that the nobles who had once considered themselves subjects of the King in the North might pay their respects to Robb Stark's presumptive heir (though they had not couched the invitation in this way, knowing how the girl would object to any attempt to paint her as royal). Tytos Blackwood was the preeminent lord among their number, in any way such a distinction could be measured: wealth, land, prowess in battle, or the degree of respect he commanded among his peers. As such, he had the largest and most luxurious of accommodations in the camp and so it was his pavilion which was volunteered for this purpose.
The girl had reached the encampment outside of Riverrun a mere two hours earlier and her men were even now installing themselves on the perimeter as had been decided amongst their small company while still en route to Riverrun. Upon their arrival, she'd barely had time to dismount and hand Bane's reins over to one of the orphans before she was hailed by a sworn man of Raventree Hall.
"My lady," the man had said, "my lord Blackwood awaits you in his pavilion. He begs your pardon as he knows it is his place to come to you, but he has been here three days already and is better suited to receive you than you are him."
"Yes, alright then," was all she'd said, wondering how the River lord could've known of her presence so quickly. She followed the man through the bustling camp until they came to a grand pavilion. Over it, the black, red, and white banner of the Blackwoods flew, with its gnarled weirwood surrounded by an arc of ravens. A guard pulled back the pavilion's flap for her and she entered on silent feet. Inside, she found Ser Brynden with his father.
'Ah,' she had thought to herself, realizing how it was that Lord Blackwood had learned of her arrival.
The older man was upbraiding his son and hadn't noted her entry.
"Were my instructions not exceedingly clear?" Tytos Blackwood was growling. Ser Brynden looked abashed.
"Yes, father, of course they were, but apart from trussing her up, and fighting off her men and Lady Brienne in order to do it, there was no way to get her to Lord Harroway's town when she did not wish to go," the knight protested.
"Yes, well, a fine mess we have now, my boy."
Arya had cleared her throat at that. "A mess of my making, I'm afraid," she said by way of announcing her presence. "Ser Brynden could not have stopped me, my lord, so your ire would be more fairly heaped upon my shoulders than his."
Both men turned, startled momentarily by her sudden appearance. Lord Blackwood recovered quickly, his stern expression melting into a fond smile. He was almost as delighted to see her as he was perturbed by the fact that seeing her meant his wishes regarding her safekeeping had been defied.
"My Lady Arya, how my heart sings to behold you." He strode over and bowed to her, then straightened and kissed her warmly on each cheek.
"Does it?" she laughed as he grasped her hands with his. "After what I've just overheard, I'm not sure how much singing I can expect from your heart. I'd have thought you'd be rather cross with me."
"Oh, I am," Tytos admitted, furrowing his brows comically and giving her a look of mock-sternness. "Enormously cross. I have half a mind to send you to bed without your supper." The idea made the girl chuckle. The lord eyed her keenly, and added, "But now that you're here, I cannot help but rejoice to see you fit and hale."
"I am glad to see you as well, my lord, no matter how you may scold me for my impetuous ways," Arya laughed, then sobered after a moment. "I do ask that you forgive your son, however. Ser Brynden has been of great service to me and bears no fault for my being here. The decision to ride to Riverrun was mine alone."
"Well, then, for your sake, my lady," the lord acquiesced, looking over at Brynden. The knight was standing silently by, watching the exchange. "Now, you and I have some things to discuss," Tytos told Arya. "My son, if you'll excuse us…"
Lord Blackwood's meaning had been clear enough, and Ser Brynden took his leave, departing the pavilion to give his father and Lady Arya all the privacy they required.
The master of Raventree Hall had used the opportunity to remind the girl how foolhardy she had been to spurn his protection, telling her that not half a league away were people who would happily abduct her and force her into a political marriage to whichever Frey still lived and lacked a wife.
"Even if he were too old or too young to be of any use to you."
"No Frey could be of use to me, excepting as a means to test the edge of my blade for sharpness," she countered. Lord Blackwood gave her a stern look and continued on.
"Or, worse yet, they might find some minor Lannister to bind you to," he told her. "And they would not care if you simply rotted away in a forgotten cell in the bowels of Casterly Rock for the rest of your life, so long as they could claim your rights to the North."
"I understand very well the sort of threat the Freys and the Lannisters pose to me," Arya had assured the lord.
"Do you?" He hadn't sounded convinced. "And do you also understand that those would be the least horrific outcomes of your discovery?" he'd pressed her. "There are others who would be just as happy to decorate the battlements of Riverrun with your head."
"It seems strange to be so reviled by people who have never laid eyes on me," she'd mused then. "I'd at least like the opportunity to earn their displeasure." Here, the girl had smiled wickedly, her eyes dancing with thoughts of the things she might do in order to be worthy of such ill regard. Tytos had seen the look, and had sought to warn her.
"You earn it by virtue of your blood, my lady, and by your very name. Never forget that. You are a burning spark, one your enemies will stop at nothing to extinguish, lest you set the whole kingdom ablaze."
"The whole kingdom?" Arya had marveled with obvious amusement. "My lord, surely you overstate the matter."
The master of Raventree Hall assured her that he did not.
"Your brother started such a fire, and that was before there were Dragons to sow discontent to the south and before the seven kingdoms had cause to question whether Baratheons or bastards sat atop the Iron Throne. Even still, King Robb's blaze was only smothered by the treachery of false friends."
"False friends," the girl repeated, nodding grimly. False friends and faithless bannermen had spelled doom for her brother's reign, and his life, as well as her mother's and those of countless loyal men of the North and the Riverlands.
"But we've learned from our mistakes, my lady. We do not trust so easily now."
"No," she agreed, locking eyes with Lord Blackwood. "We do not."
"The men who will surround you have been vetted and tested. They have sworn oaths and pledged treasure and blood to your protection, myself included."
She was taken aback by the vehemence of his declaration, and that such steps had been taken in her favor. It could not have happened as a consequence of her arrival in the camp. Her presence was not widely known, and only very recently confirmed for Lord Blackwood himself. Therefore, these oaths and pledges must have been already in place. It was something the girl would have to think on when she had more time to spare for such considerations.
"My lord, truly, I cannot ask it of you…"
"You do not have to ask it, Lady Arya. It is yours. By rights."
She hadn't known what to say to that, and so, had said nothing. She'd just listened.
Lord Blackwood had continued to lecture her in his fatherly way. Their private audience lasted nearly an hour, and during that time, they'd negotiated an address for her ('The Lady of Winterfell' was the least offensive to them both, as she bucked against any attempt to label her a 'princess' of the North, and he could not agree to allow her to be known simply as 'Arya'—or Stoneheart's daughter, or Salty, or Nan, or Cat, or Weasel, or any of the other alternatives she'd half-jokingly suggested). He'd also reiterated the importance of her adherence to the plan all the men of her party had already endorsed regarding her safety, namely that she confine herself to the very center of their section of the camp, and do her best to keep her Stark features cloaked. Lord Blackwood finally secured the girl's half-hearted promise to 'do nothing foolish,' and it was the best he could hope for in that moment.
Loyal friends of the Blackwoods and the Starks had been summoned then, and as they arrived, the men greeted Arya with varying degrees of warmth and respect, depending on their familiarity with her.
Aside from Lord Vance and Lord Blackwood, Ser Jaime and Ser Brynden were in attendance, as were Lord Smallwood and Lord Piper. Lord Piper's son Marq was there, having arrived with the bulk of the forces of Pinkmaiden several days before his father had ridden into the camp with Arya herself. The unfamiliar knight greeted the girl with a bow and no small amount of curiosity. No doubt his father had been telling him of the strange creature who was Ned Stark's daughter, and Ser Marq was not quite sure what to make of her. And then there was Ben Blackwood, who had traveled west among his father's retinue. Unlike Marq Piper, Ser Ben looked at Arya as if he knew exactly what to make of her. When his turn came to greet her, the younger Blackwood gave her a roguish grin and an impertinent wink.
The Lady of Winterfell had to stifle the urge to fling a dagger at his arrogant, smirking face.
"My lady, I have been given to understand you will be sheltered in the center of our forces during our time here," Lord Vance continued. "If you will allow me, I would like to direct the most trusted of my fighting men to guard your person."
"Oh," Arya said, surprised at his offer, "well, that is most kind of you, my lord, but… Ser Jaime has charge of my… protection." She tried not to grimace as she said the words, hating that it felt like an admission that she needed such protection, but she did not wish to give the impression that she disapproved of Ser Jaime in any way. He had been a good friend to her, and a surprisingly stalwart advisor. She owed him much, including this display of her respect for his judgement.
"Yes," the golden knight spoke up, stepping forward through the throng of men to address the master of Wayfarer's Rest, "I have taken charge of Lady Arya's security. And I would be glad of any men you could spare, my lord."
This confused Arya. With the resources of the Brotherhood and the houses who had already been involved in the watch schedule, the girl could not fathom why more numbers would be needed. She bit back the questions on her tongue, however, deciding to speak with Ser Jaime about it more privately. She had no wish to undermine him before the River lords, particularly because of all the men in the pavilion, it was the Kingslayer she trusted most.
He seemed to be the only one present who did not have a vested interest in her matrimonial prospects, a quality she was inclined to prize very highly.
And so, the girl merely nodded, smiling graciously at Lord Vance, thanking him for his offer. All the while, she could feel Lord Blackwood's shrewd gaze upon her. When her eyes flicked toward him, she found he wore a distinct look of…
Approval?
"Thank you, my lady."
Ser Brynden was escorting Arya from his father's pavilion after the River lords had taken turns giving her assurances of fealty ('friendship,' they'd named it, but it certainly had the feel of something greater; something more binding and more serious), walking arm in arm with her. She'd been lost in her own thoughts and his words caught her quite off her guard.
"You're welcome," she muttered distractedly, staring at the looming walls and turrets and battlements of Riverrun in the distance. She'd been thinking on the last time she was here, now five years past. She'd made a desperate dash for the castle, as she recalled, trying to get to her mother; her brother. The flat of the Hound's axe had caught the back of her head and then her world had gone black. When she awoke, a third of her remaining family was dead. And with Greywind's slaying, a third of Nymeria's was gone as well. Arya blinked as Ser Brynden's words finally registered and she stopped walking, looking up at the knight. "Wait, what are you thanking me for?"
Brynden laughed and shook his head. "For coming to my defense earlier. When my father was angry with me."
"Oh, that." She shrugged. "That was nothing."
"I beg to differ, Lady Arya. It was something to me."
"Did you expect me to let you take the blame for my choices?"
"I had no expectations whatsoever," he replied. "I did not expect you to witness the exchange, in any case."
"Mmm. I suppose your father didn't either." They walked on and she asked softly, "Does it bother you that I did?" She was sensitive to the fact that some men would not be pleased to find their dressing-down had been witnessed by a woman.
"Oh, no, of course not." The knight released her arm and clasped his hands behind his back. "Does it bother you?"
"Only in that it was unfair." Though the world had tried repeatedly to dull Arya's sense of justice, it was a stubborn thing and still persisted. "But we set that to rights." She found the idea pleased her greatly and one corner of her mouth quirked up, unbidden. As small a thing as it was, that she could speak for one of her men and ably defend him filled her with a sense of purpose and pride. Her word was valued, simply because it was she who gave it.
That was something.
Perhaps being the Lady of Winterfell would be less tedious than she had feared.
"You mustn't think too harshly of my father," Ser Brynden said. "It's only that he's worried for you."
"A great many people seem unnecessarily worried for me," the girl groused under her breath, the upturned corner of her mouth falling then.
"And we've had word that my brother is indeed here." His eyes slid over to Arya's. "Hoster. My father has requested to see him and so far, Lord Emmon has not allowed a visit. You can imagine how Father feels about it."
"I'm sorry," she murmured, casting her eyes down. She chewed at her lip a moment, then asked, "Is he being held in the castle?"
"Yes. To be dragged out and threatened should our house not show the proper respect, one can only assume."
"That sounds like something a Frey would do." The girl's face was dark as she spoke. "It also sounds like something that should earn a dagger to the eye for whichever Frey is foolish enough to do it."
Brynden's expression was grim. "I cannot deny that I would find that very satisfying, my lady. Unfortunately, any satisfaction would be short-lived, for such an act would be tantamount to a declaration of war against the Lord Paramount. Still, Hosteen Frey has my endorsement for such a just reward," he told her. "His very presence here is an insult to my family."
"Hosteen Frey?" The girl was not familiar with him or his reputation.
"One of old Walder's sons, the nastiest of the brood."
"That's saying something."
"It is, but I say it with good reason. It was he who killed my brother Lucas, at the Red Wedding."
The girl stopped again, turning to face Ser Brynden. She grasped his forearms.
"Hosteen Frey was at the Red Wedding?" she hissed. Plans immediately began to form in her mind. At her expression, the knight's own look changed. No longer did he appear bitter. Alarmed would be a more apt description of his mien as he regarded the girl.
"My lady, whatever it is you are thinking…"
"Don't," Ser Jaime finished for him. Arya's head snapped up and she stared at the golden knight. He seemed to have simply materialized as if from thin air. He stood to her right, a look of displeasure marring his handsome face. "Just, don't."
"Where did you come from, ser?" she demanded.
"The place where men never tire of saving you from your own terrible ideas," Jaime retorted.
"The place where ill-mannered knights eavesdrop on the conversations of others, you mean," she shot back. Jaime was not deterred by her annoyance.
"I know Hosteen Frey only too well, my lady, and he is not someone with whom you should tangle. In fact, he's someone with whom you should strenuously avoid ever being in the same room." The Kingslayer shot Ser Brynden a look then. "I wish such an idea had never been put into your head."
"I never meant to suggest…" the heir to Raventree Hall started, but Arya spoke over him.
"I don't know what idea you mean," she replied, all sweetness. "I was only expressing my sympathy for the tragic loss the Blackwood family endured at my uncle's wedding. Nothing more."
Jaime crossed his arms over his chest and glared down at the girl, not the least bit fooled by her sympathetic expression or the look in her wide, grey eyes, no matter how innocent she endeavored to make it. "You'll stay away from the castle, the Freys, and particularly Ser Hosteen, or I swear to the Seven, I'll put you in chains and haul you back to Acorn Hall myself," the Kingslayer warned, no trace of mirth in his words.
The girl batted her eyelashes and asked in musical tones, "The Seven? Are you on such good terms with the gods these days, Ser Jaime?"
"Do not test me, girl."
"Oh, I wouldn't dream of it," she said, stepping toward him. When she was near enough, she pushed herself up on her tip toes and placed a peck on the golden knight's cheek, whispering, "Have no fear, ser. I know exactly what I'm to do."
Arya left the men there, walking the rest of the way through the camp alone, her movements quick and graceful, like those of a cat.
"What do you suppose she'll do?" Brynden asked, his voice grave.
"Something that will turn my hair grey," Jaime replied, frowning. "If you'll forgive me, I must go see to the watch schedule."
"I thought that was already done."
"It was, but suddenly, I think I need to double the guard and patrols."
The heir to Raventree Hall chuckled. "And will it be enough?"
Jaime's eyes watched Arya as she disappeared through a crowd of soldiers, her form fading away like a ghost into the mist. "No. But I must at least appear to be making an effort."
The Cat found her Lyseni brother sparring with two of the orphans at the center of their section of the camp. She stood back and watched him awhile, smiling as she listened to him offer advice and gentle corrections, even as he turned their strikes or moved aside swiftly so that they stabbed at nothing more than air. They'd apparently been at it for some time, judging by how flushed the orphans' faces were, and soon, they thanked the false-knight for his indulgence and left to see to their other duties. Arya approached and nudged her brother playfully with her shoulder.
"You will make a fine master someday," the girl murmured affectionately as he sheathed his weapons.
"Me, with an apprentice?" He shook his head. "Do you really see me ever going back to the temple?"
"You'll be giving up much if you don't return," she said, her gaze soft as she considered it.
"I've already given up much," he reminded her gruffly, "and I don't intend to leave behind the one thing I still have." Then, as if fearing his words were not explicit enough, he shook his head, adding, "I'm not leaving you. Not for the order. Not for anything."
Arya frowned a little, remembering her conversation the day before with the Rat. The Westerosi assassin had insisted their brother would defy the wishes of the House of Black and White, and bleed for it, and it would be her fault when it happened. It was then that her head filled with the words of the Kindly Man.
Obedience is a choice. And disobedience has consequences, for all involved.
"The price for disobedience may prove too great," she said hoarsely, her gaze distant as she thought of Olive, and all those who had named her friend at the inn by the Moon Pool.
As she thought of Jaqen.
The Bear was stubborn; insistent. "Whatever the price, I'll not leave you." The two friends were silent for a moment, each thinking on the other's words, and then the Lyseni looked down at his sister's face, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Why does it seem as though you've been avoiding me since yesterday?"
"Avoiding you?" the girl scoffed. "What do you mean? It was only this morning you were in my tent, shaking me awake!"
"Yes, and as I recall, you didn't say two words to me when I did, nor in all the time since we made camp yesterday, or in all the time we rode here today. Not until just now."
The Cat shrugged. "I've been busy."
"Busy?" he snorted. "Come now. Tell me what's really going on."
The girl sighed. "There's a lot going on, actually. But as far as you and I are concerned… there's nothing to tell."
The Bear scoffed, looking askance at his sister.
"I mean it!" she insisted. "Our brother has just given me a lot to think on."
"Oh? You spoke with him?"
"Mmm." Arya punctuated the hum with a small nod, signifying affirmation. "Did he not tell you?"
The Bear rolled his eyes. "Obviously, he didn't." He reached over and raised the girl's hood which had fallen around her shoulders. She glared at him as he did, making him laugh. "Come now, my lady, let's not tweak the noses of your new allies quite so early in the game."
"This game is tiresome," she grumbled. They began to stroll about the camp, inspecting it as a highborn lady and her sworn knight might be expected to do.
"What I find tiresome is you speaking with my squire and then using that encounter as an excuse to withdraw from me for a day."
"I wasn't using it as an excuse," the Cat protested, "and I didn't withdraw from you."
"No? What would you call it, then? You didn't utter word a during supper last night, just stared into the fire like one of R'hllor's fanatical priestesses." The large assassin laughed. "I kept waiting for you to start moaning about how the night is dark and full of terrors." He ignored her glare, continuing, "Then I found you thrashing in your furs this morning, looking as if you were in pain, and when I woke you, you sobbed on my shoulder for ten minutes without uttering a word and have ignored me ever since."
"I wasn't ignoring you." She was insistent on that point. "I just…"
"Yes?" His look was expectant.
"Yesterday, when I spoke with our brother, he…" The girl's demeanor changed then, her back straightening a bit. "…yes, I agree whole heartedly, Ser Willem. We should take these concerns to the lords and…" She smiled as a contingent of Piper men marched past under the direction of Ser Marq.
"My lady," the knight called to her, bowing his head in respectful acknowledgement.
"Ser Marq," she called back, smiling sweetly at him as he continued on. He grinned in return, seemingly in high spirits.
"Careful, Lady Arya," the Bear snorted, "or you'll have another Riverland suitor to contend with before we leave this place." When the girl glowered at him, he laughed outright.
"I'm glad I can serve as a source of amusement for you," she said with ill humor.
"Valar dohaeris," he responded amiably with a shrug.
"Valar morghulis," was her dark reply. He seemed to take the warning and his laughter dried up.
They walked on and found the makeshift training yard the Vance men had set up. The pair stopped to watch as soldiers and guards and knights sparred with one another. The clanging of their steel provided some cover for the assassins' conversation. Only someone standing very near to them would be able to discern the content of their discussion.
"You were telling me about my squire," Sir Willem reminded the girl softly.
Arya gazed over the men fighting, noting their various tricks and techniques. The longsword seemed to be the preferred weapon of the knights and trained fighting men of the Riverlands. The low-born levies preferred the axe or scythe.
Though perhaps preferred was not altogether correct. They likely just used what weapons they had available to them without preference entering into it.
"Yes," she replied. "Well, as I said, he gave me a lot to think about."
"Did he?"
The Cat cocked her head and raised her brows at the large assassin, wondering if she only imagined the skepticism in his tone. "You're the one who told me to talk with him."
"Talk, yes," he agreed. "But I didn't say to avoid me for a whole day afterward."
She shrugged. "It wasn't meant as a slight. My mind was simply preoccupied."
"With what?"
She thought a moment. "Considerations."
The large man sighed with exasperation. "Are these considerations something you would care to discuss with me?"
Sure, let's discuss how simply being around me puts you at risk, and how I should command you to leave me so that you may be safe, the girl thought. Because our brother believes I'm going to get you killed, and the more I think on it, the more I believe he may be right. I've just been lectured by half the River lords about the danger I've put myself in just by being here, and you've followed right along with me, without question, as you always do.
She smiled at him. "No, brother. All is well." She started to reach up to touch his face, but thought the better of it and pulled her hand back.
"And what about this morning?"
Arya chewed her lip, inspecting the tips of her boots for a few moments. "This morning was… not something I can talk about just now. Not here."
The Bear gave her a curt nod of understanding, but his expression told her that he would expect a more thorough explanation when they had no fear of being observed. Arya wasn't sure how much she wanted to discuss with him and was thankful for the reprieve. She didn't know what to make of it all, her walk in Jaqen's dream, and wanted to keep it for herself until she had a better understanding of what had happened.
And until she'd had a chance to reflect on it all again, so that she might imagine the feel of his lips on hers once more, and his nose brushing hers, and his fingers tracing her ear and stroking her neck.
'You feel very real to a man.'
It had felt real to her as well, and it was all she could do to walk through this day and see to her duties and make her plans without trying to shirk it all so that she might sit, secluded, and reach out for Jaqen, over and over, on the slim hope that she might find him once again.
The girl swallowed and asked her brother to walk her back to her tent so that she might rest before supper. The Bear proffered his arm and did as she asked, wondering all the while at the hoarseness in her voice as she made the request.
"Ser Davos, what do you know of this Jon Snow?" Wyman Manderly was eating his third trencher of stew with a gusto his guest had only observed in the starving men to whom he'd managed to smuggle onions and salted fish during the siege of Storm's End. What remained of Davos' own meal had long since grown cold.
"Not much, milord. I did meet him, when I rode with King Stannis to Castle Black, to address the threat north of the Wall. Lord Commander Snow, he was then, young, but capable, to my mind. But I was not there long, sent shortly after to treat with you."
"And with what you know of him, would you say he's a man of honor?"
The onion knight looked thoughtful. "Aye, I would, with what little I know of him."
"Like his father," Manderly mused, almost as if to himself.
"I did not know his father."
The Lord of White Harbor continued as if his guest had not spoken. "But there are such stories now, about this Jon Snow…"
"I've heard them, milord, but I've not placed much stock in the whisperings of tavern maids or the ravings of drunken sailors."
"Still, power changes a man. And with what they say about him, is he even still just a man?" The portly lord seemed to be working through a problem in his mind. He turned his eyes to his guest. "Ser Davos, if you held the seat of the greatest power in the North, would you willingly turn it over to a young boy simply because his claim to it was stronger?"
"Whether I would or not isn't of consequence," Davos replied. "I think what you're asking is do I think Jon Snow would do such a thing."
Manderly chuckled. "Well, do you?"
"Stannis offered it to him, more than once," the old sailor revealed, "but he refused it, refused Winterfell, and his father's name. King Stannis offered to legitimize him, but Lord Commander Snow would not agree."
"Is that so?" The Lord of White Harbor looked on with great interest as his guest spoke. "Why do you suppose he did that?"
"I don't have to suppose, milord. I know why. He did it for duty. No matter how Stannis tried to bribe or bully him, he refused to give in. Couldn't abandon the watch, he said, or forsake his vows, even for… what was it you called it? The greatest seat of power in the North?"
"Hmm." Manderly's gaze narrowed and he stared out over the table, toward the blazing hearth across the chamber, considering. Then softly, he replied, "But that was before."
Davos nodded, thoughtful. "Aye, before."
"So, you see my dilemma, do you not?"
"I suppose I do, milord."
"I cannot send a helpless boy to his slaughter."
"I'd hardly call Rickon Stark helpless, Lord Manderly, but I take your meaning."
The Lord of White Harbor laughed heartily, pulling a great chunk of bread he'd been about to bite away from his mouth. "You tell it true, Ser Davos!" he declared through his barking. "That boy has more wolf in him than any Stark since his Uncle Brandon, I'd wager!"
"And more than a little Skagosi," Davos added grimly.
Manderly regarded the sailor, still chuckling, and said, "Ser, you sound as if you mean to say the Skagosi make you uneasy."
"Milord, as a man who has had the ill fortune to tarry twice now on that gods-forsaken isle, I can say with authority that absent a fully armored and armed company at his back, any man who isn't made uneasy when surrounded by the tribesmen of Skagos is a very great fool." The onion knight's eyes were hard as flint, and he added, "Though he won't be a fool for very long."
"Yes, yes, indeed." The stout lord bobbed his head in agreement, finally devouring the bread he'd been clutching. "No doubt you've seen some things."
"Aye," was Davos' terse reply.
Wyman Manderly eyed his guest keenly as he chewed. "I believe you to be a man of good judgement, Ser Davos."
"I am honored to have you say so."
"Perhaps you'll indulge me, then, as I outline the situation with which we are now left?"
"If it please you."
"So, I have under my roof a true born son of Ned Stark, who has survived seven years of war and exile against all odds, trekking across the land with only his pet and his wildling nursemaid; who has not only survived but somehow thrived, and risen to power on a harsh island where even seasoned men of courage fear to tread. He is surely the fiercest of boys, but a boy, nonetheless, and his ancestral home is now held by his bastard brother, a warrior of renown who may also be a daemon spat up from one of the Seven Hells. Apart from that, this brother also commands a great wildling army larger than any single force we've yet seen in all the kingdoms."
"I'm not a man too much given to superstition, Lord Manderly, so I might not describe Jon Snow precisely as you do, but apart from that, I can find no fault in your assessment."
The lord waved his hand dismissively. "Even if he were nothing more than an ambitious bastard grasping for more than life has bequeathed him, the question is the same." Manderly paused, affixing his gaze on Ser Davos' face. "Whatever he may be—daemon, deserter, or covetous interloper—it makes little difference."
"And what is the question, Lord Manderly?"
The large man's visage was a mask of somber consideration. "My good man, the question is, knowing all this, what am I to do?"
As the Lord of White Harbor contemplated what he should do with Rickon Stark, the boy himself roamed New Castle's godswood, meager as it was, brushing his fingers along the bark of the trees as he passed them. He walked a few paces behind his wolf. Though he had protested mightily against it, he, too, was being followed, as much as he was following Lillikaskoer. Osha had sent a man, one of the little chief's Skagosi warriors, to watch over him, saying that even among friends, they might find danger and it was best not to meet it unprepared.
"Danger!" the boy had snarled. "Lillikaskoer va manca pericol."
"Common tongue, little lord, or I'll box your ears."
Rickon had huffed, but he knew she meant it, and so he did not test her. Instead, he'd translated his words into the preferred tongue, despite the fact that his critic had understood him very well. "Shaggydog will eat any danger!"
"No doubt he'd try," Osha smiled, ruffling the fur atop Shaggy's head. The wolf had grown so large, she'd had to raise her fingers higher than her own chin to do it. "But can your wolf use a bow or throw a spear?"
"Don't be stupid, wolves don't need bows and spears. They're born with all the weapons they need! Fogak unt nagii." When the wildling had scowled and raised her hand threateningly, the boy had quickly amended, "Teeth and claws!"
"A fat lot of good teeth and claws will do you when an assassin raises his crossbow and aims for your heart from his rooftop perch."
The boy had pouted at that, but as usual, the wildling woman got her way.
It was for this reason that a false-Skagosi tribesman with bright blue eyes found himself toting a short bow, a quiver of arrows slung across his back, as he trailed after Ned Stark's youngest son. The painted man styled himself Augen Heldere, and as he stalked along, he was careful to keep the boy between himself and the direwolf.
It might only have been his imagination, but the assassin believed the wolf gazed at him with something akin to knowing. And suspicion. Augen had the distinct impression that Lillikaskoer had marked him as 'other.'
The boy was growing impatient with their stay in White Harbor, it was plain to see, despite the hospitality they found at New Castle, or the excellence of the food. So many years spent wandering had left young Rickon with a taste for freedom and little respect for customs, or courtesies, or traditions. The pomp and grandeur of being received by a great family and abiding under their roof to enjoy their favor, demonstrated through a variety entertainments and feasts, was a sort of social observance for which there was long precedence in the North, but one which the Skagosi chieftain considered nothing more than a sumptuous dawdle.
It made his neck fairly itch.
This castle did not impress him, nor the clothing he was furnished at Lord Manderly's expense, nor the attempts of the maester of New Castle to educate him. Augen could hardly blame him. Who, after having ruled his own little kingdom, wild and treacherous as it may have been, would care to sit in lessons about house sigils and mottos of the North? Who would be excited to listen to a grey-robed man drone on for hours about the hierarchy of the houses or the laws imposed by the crown versus those enforced by the Northerners themselves, unique within their own borders?
Still, with what Manderly had in mind, the lessons were of some import, at least if the tempestuous redhead were to have any hope of ruling the North someday.
Suddenly, Shaggydog scented something, perhaps a rabbit, perhaps only a rat, and he stiffened, great head cocked just so, his snout pointed and sniffing. Then, the beast took off, running through the brush and trees of the walled sanctuary. For a creature so large and imposing, the direwolf moved with a singular grace, almost without noise. The same could not be said for his master. With a whoop of violent joy, the boy took off after him, sprinting and leaping over bushes, heedless of the scratches he incurred on his hands and his face from skinny branches whipping at him as he passed. The handsome assassin raised his eyebrows and heaved a sigh before breaking into a run to keep pace with the half-feral lord he was meant to be guarding.
Magnar Bludvargg.
When the false-warrior finally caught up with boy and wolf, he found the pair of them crouched near a stand of trees. The beast was tearing a scrawny hare apart, chomping down on the skull. It made a sickening crunch while his master looked on. Rickon grinned and scratched affectionately at Shaggy's face, then patted his flank, the action haphazard and rough.
Like the boy himself.
The wolf growled, possessive over his kill, but made no move to threaten the little chief beyond that. The handsome man was not so certain he would be as lucky, and so he kept his distance.
"Verkar su negjovoh drepe." The handsome man was beginning to master the Old Tongue. He seems pleased with his kill, he'd said.
"Osha says I'm to speak in the common tongue here," the boy pouted, without looking up at his guard, then, wistfully, quietly, added, "Verwik sa etter jakten." He longs for the hunt.
"Tikai vinam?"
"No, he's not the only one," Rickon replied in the tongue of his father, rising from the ground. He looked around, frowning. The godswood here was not so big that the sense of being in a vast, overgrown courtyard was ever lost. It did not have the feel of wilderness, more of a forgotten garden allowed to go to seed. It was nothing like Skagos. Or Winterfell. "I do not like these white walls."
"Me, no," Augen replied, his words heavily accented, shaking his head. The boy grinned.
"It's me neither," he told the warrior helpfully. "You've been practicing your common tongue."
"Augen wish know what soft magnar say."
"Soft magnar? You mean Lord Manderly?"
The guard grunted, shifting his grip on his bow.
"I suppose he is soft," Rickon chuckled. "But, only his body, I think."
The false-Skagosi scoffed. "You think soft magnar mighty here?" He pounded his own chest twice with a fist, just over his beating heart.
"Nie ikke jako mitte." Not like us. The boy looked pensive and the two began to walk back toward the castle, leaving the wolf to his dinner. "Not mighty in body, no. And not a like a tribesman, unafraid of death, but… I think he's fierce, and I think he tries to hide it. But I can see it. Ve vemigg oni." In his eyes.
"Ve vemigg oni," the man echoed, narrowing his own blue eyes. The boy understood much. He could see what was hidden, it seemed.
The handsome man wondered if Rickon Stark was like his sister in that way; if he plundered the secrets of men directly from their own minds, leaving almost no trace of the theft.
"Yes. His eyes say he is fierce, though he does not wish it to be known."
"Why hide strength?" the Faceless-guard asked, though he knew very well. He wondered what the boy thought.
Rickon shrugged. "Why reveal your strength?"
"If enemy think magnar weak, he…" He seemed to struggle for the world. "…attack."
"But if a magnar isn't weak, he might welcome such an attack," the boy countered astutely, "and the enemy, deceived into thinking the magnar weak, might make an error. He might come to the battlefield undermanned and be more easily defeated."
"So, hide strength is… vemigg nacrt haborisk?"
"Yes," Rickon nodded. "His war strategy."
"Soft magnar not at war," the warrior argued.
"Oh, but I think he is," the young boy murmured. "I think he's been at war a long time. Don't you?"
The false-tribesman looked thoughtful. "That in his eyes?"
The boy's gaze became soft as he considered their host. "He seems a jolly lord, soft and welcoming. But…" His voice trailed off.
"But… Bludvargg not welcome?"
"No, it's not that." Rickon's smooth, freckled brow creased as he tried to find the words to explain his thoughts. Quietly, he said, "I am welcome here. But, have you ever wondered why?"
"Bludvarrg son of great magnar." Augen Heldere offered the explanation as if he didn't quite believe it hadn't occurred to the little chief. Of course it was for the sake of his father; for the sake of the blood that pulsed through his veins. Stark blood. What other reason?
"Yes," the boy replied, thinking of Ned then. Rickon had only impressions left of him now, all his full memories faded, lost to time and tribulations. He dreamed of his father sometimes, but he was never sure if he should trust his dreams. They seemed so strange, and when he awoke, he almost felt as if he had spent hours somewhere besides the soft bed in the rich chamber Lord Manderly afforded him. "And everyone keeps reminding me that I'm Ned Stark's son. But no one is telling me what I'm supposed to do about it."
"Hvorfor ir moro rikat ka nesto Magnar Bludvargg?" the warrior asked, his brow raised.
Why must anyone tell Magnar Bludvargg to do anything?
The boy looked up at his guard, staring into his eyes. The false-Skagosi stared back, wondering once again if this half-grown wolf shared his sister's talent and was even now learning the true nature of the assassin's mission. The Faceless-warrior hid his trepidation well, concentrating, trying to detect any evidence the boy might be leaving that he could pilfer the thoughts of men. He felt nothing untoward in his head, though, and held his stance, waiting. Finally, the little chief broke out into a wide grin, and much like the look behind Wyman Manderly's eyes, there was a detectable fierceness to it which was there for anyone who cared to look past the surface. The assassin's words had struck a chord, it seemed.
Rickon repeated what Augen had said, but this time, it sounded more like a declaration of intent rather than a question.
"Yes," the boy hissed, the sibilant sound of it somehow thrilling in the way the handsome man had found his sister's malicious smile thrilling. "Why must anyone tell me to do anything?"
She does it after the moon has risen, its strong light turning her silver hair a ghostly white. She requires him to attend her in her pavilion, and her expression is stern, the softness of her features hardened by her resolve. She does it, because she must.
Or, that is what she tells herself is the reason she brings the Stormcrow captain in and dismisses her handmaids and Unsullied guard.
But when she has him there, alone, and he stands before her, unbothered by her expression or the formality with which she has commanded his presence, she hesitates.
She hesitates, and he grins, teeth gleaming as he watches her.
"I'm told I must give you up," she says finally, and his grin widens. She swallows.
"Let me guess," he says softly, his voice almost a whisper, and the sound of it tickles her toes and moves up her legs with a quickness. He begins to stalk around her, making a wide circle, thumbs hooked in his sword belt. His fingers move over the beautiful hilts of the blades he wears at each hip. She glances down to watch the motion and he continues to stroke slowly at the golden women which form the ends of his weapons.
The way he does it is wholly indecent.
She bites her lip. His eyes, his false eyes, lock with hers, blue piercing purple, pinning her in place with his gaze. He winds about her languidly and resumes speaking.
"Selmy, that old relic," he concludes after a moment, "and let's not forget the exiled bear who only wants you in his own bed."
"Aegon as well," she tells him after clearing her throat, "though it was his imp he sent me, to impress upon me the… urgency, as if it weren't all his idea."
"Oh, the Imp, was it? And what did that clever fellow have to say?" The Tyroshi drops onto the queen's bed, as if he weren't required to stand in her presence; as if he weren't required to await her permission for such a thing. His arrogance is astounding. Somehow, it both enrages and arouses her. She thinks to reprimand him, but when she sees the way he is looking at her, her words catch in her throat. Daario is reclining on his side, head propped in one hand, braced by his elbow. His grin is more of a smirk now, but his eyes…
She swallows again.
"He says we are no longer in the east."
"Well spotted," he laughs, the sound of it derisive. She ignores him and continues.
"He says Dorne may be forgiving, but Dorne is only one of seven kingdoms."
"Truly, his intellect is boundless. I can see why your nephew keeps him around."
"This is no joking thing," Daenerys says sourly. "I am told that Westeros will not accept a queen who keeps lovers."
At this, the Tyroshi throws his head back and laughs, loud and barking. "Oh," he says finally, wiping a tear of mirth from his eye, "oh, my darling girl."
"I don't find this funny at all."
The sellsword rises then, swiftly, catlike. He is on her in a second, his arms wrapped around her, tugging at the long braids which hang down her back, forcing her chin up. He gazes down into her purple eyes. "I'd wager there's not a queen in the history of this joyless land that hasn't had her lovers. Why should you be any different?"
There is something in the set of his mouth, in his look, that alarms her vaguely. Her skin prickles with a half-recognized fear she cannot accredit to anything. It's simply instinct. And she has the notion that his words are an insult, or a condemnation, somehow. But the heat of his body pressing against hers, and the way he pulls her hair and presses his hand low on her back clouds her thoughts and she releases a small moan. He narrows his eyes at that, tilting his head.
"Aegon speaks with both sides of his mouth," the Tyroshi mutters, then presses a hard kiss against the khaleesi's lips. She moans again, the sound of it stifled, but he can feel it vibrating in his own throat, just as she feels it in hers.
"What do you mean?" she pants when he finally releases her. She watches as he drops back onto her bed, sitting up this time, forearms resting against his thighs as he leans forward, thoughtful.
"I mean, he has no intention of setting you on the throne. He cares nothing about you having lovers, but he must keep up appearances, in case he must marry you in the end to stake his own claim."
She shrugs. "We should have married already."
The captain scoffs. "If you had your way, that boy would be sitting here in my place right now." She cannot tell if it's exactly jealousy that colors his words, or if he's merely resentful. Truthfully, he is neither, but Daario's innate belief in his own superiority and his rancor for those who do not recognize it are hallmarks of his personality that he is incapable of hiding for long.
Not that he'd wish to…
It's an important part of the mask.
"No," she says, suddenly more in control. "If I had my way, I would be able to conquer Westeros without Dorne's allegiance, or the Golden Company, or Tyrion Lannister's clever schemes. If I had my way, a woman could claim her right by birth without these tiresome political machinations and there would be no need for me to marry anyone." By the end, she is seething. He sees that she is on the edge, and he pushes her.
"Ah, but it's Aegon's right by birth," he reminds her.
"I have dragons!" she screams, furious now.
"Then use them," he says evenly, looking up at her, undisturbed by the scowl on her face. "You say you want to do this without Aegon and all he brings with him. So, do it!"
Some of the fire drains from her then. "You know I can't," she mutters, her voice bitter. "Not if there's another way. I do not wish to rule over a kingdom in flames."
Daario considers her words, all while different thoughts run through the back of his mind; thoughts belonging to another, someone other than the Stormcrow captain; thoughts he once would never have indulged, but now cannot help but to consider.
They are the thoughts of a man who became.
Thoughts of whisperings overheard, and plans unfolding; thoughts regarding a man with so much power and favor, he is able to play this game of thrones from far across the sea; thoughts of his own tender dreams, warm water and blue doors and a grey-eyed girl who holds his heart so tightly in her hands that even now, he can feel her grip upon it.
(He is certain that were a blade to cut through his breastbone and open his chest at that moment, the perfect shape of her fingertips would be found, seared deep into the organ, moving with every throb of it, as if it beat only by her grace.)
The exquisite pain of it is so sweet, it nearly robs him of his breath.
It has also tempted him to change his tack. He is maneuvering Daenerys much more forcefully now.
His words are swordplay. He slides into his stance.
"So, you must acquiesce to your rival's wishes," he sneers, "and do what you do not wish to do, for the mere chance you may somehow claim part of his throne?" There is just enough contempt in his tone to rankle her, but not enough to inspire her to dismiss him.
He has begun is attack, pressing her. She meets him.
"It's not his throne," the silver queen spits, "not yet. And he's not a rival. He's an ally."
"An ally whose commands you must either obey, or else reduce your own kingdom to ash?"
He feints, forcing her to take the path he desires.
Her lip curls with distaste, but she does not contradict his assessment.
"What if there is another way?" he asks, looking at her shrewdly. His mouth quirks up into a small smile, one with a sinister air about it.
A parry. His defense is elegant, and effective.
"What other way?"
"He claims to be a dragon, doesn't he?"
This is a thrust, and the tip of his blade has found her throat.
"So?"
The Faceless-sellsword narrows his eyes, and his snarling words deliver the killing blow.
"So, make him prove it."
As the moon rose over Riverrun, the camp began to settle and fires were lit all around as men gathered to eat their suppers, pass wineskins, and share stories. Arya did her best not to appear disengaged, conversing with both her knight-protector, Ser Willem, and his squire, using her friendliest tones. She did her best not to stare too long into the flames of the bonfire the orphans had lit. She did her best not to linger too long over memories of a dream that had felt more real than almost anything else she'd experienced within the last fortnight.
She also did her best not to notice the way a small group of men lingered just beyond the light cast by the fire, their eyes shifting this way and that, their attention more on what lived and moved outside of the circle the Brotherhood had created than within it.
Smallwood men; Blackwood men; Piper men; sent by their lords to keep watch over a girl with a name they all pretended not to know.
In her peripheral vision, Arya saw a man approach and speak with one of the patrolmen. He was tall, she noted, and lean, though his lithe build was somewhat disguised by the heavy cloak he wore.
A Riverlander, then, she thought, or a man from even further south. No Northerner would swath himself in a cloak so warm against this mild chill.
After a moment, the guard allowed him to pass and the newcomer continued on toward the fire, and those who sat around it. Jaime was the first to react, rising from a crude stool he'd somehow obtained.
"Mallister?" the golden knight called in disbelief. "Is that you?"
"It is, Ser Jaime," the man replied, his voice deep and rich. It was pleasant to Arya's ear. She watched as this Mallister-come-lately walked toward Jaime. The two clasped hands around forearms in a knightly greeting. "Surprised to see me, Lannister?" The man pronounced the words with a grin upon his face.
"Surprised to see you alive," the Kingslayer retorted. "I'd been sure your insolent mouth would invite a Frey hatchet to bury itself in your skull."
His japes and posture were meant to appear casual, to put this visitor at ease, Arya thought as she observed the men. But she could read the tension in the golden knight's shoulders, and she saw his left palm drift down to the pommel of his sword.
"No doubt there are many a Frey who would've had it happen that way, but I've managed to avoid such an ignoble end thus far."
"Thus far," Jaime snorted. "Well, welcome to our little area of exile, Patrek."
"It's an exceedingly well-guarded area of exile," the newcomer remarked, his eyes roaming the perimeter for a moment, taking stock of the shadowy men who kept watch beyond the glow of the fire.
The Kingslayer's slight shrug was noncommittal. "What brings you?"
The lean man turned, searching the faces around the fire ring until his eyes settled upon Arya's. "I've come to meet the Lady of Winterfell."
The words seemed to trigger something in Jaime. He relaxed almost imperceptibly.
Jaime folded his arms over his chest. "Had you not been tardy, you could've done that in a more appropriate venue, Mallister," he chided. "Lord Blackwood hosted a gathering earlier today for just such a purpose."
"My father left me in charge of gathering the levies," the knight explained. "You would not believe how the smallfolk resist when told they must provide their fathers and sons to fight in yet another war as winter sets in."
"Absurd," was the Kingslayer's sardonic reply. "How could anyone resist the temptation to die cold and hungry, far away from home, because the new Lord Paramount requires it?"
"Especially considering the respect Emmon Frey's name commands in the Riverlands." The corners of Patrek's mouth twitched, but he did not allow a full smile to form.
"Indeed."
"It took rather longer to convince them than I had planned for, but I am here now, reluctant soldiers and all." The man turned and crossed the circle, drawing near to Arya. Gendry sat to her one side and stiffened at the man's approach. The Bear sat to her other, and he rose smoothly, placing himself between the newcomer and the girl.
"I do not know you, ser," the large assassin said.
"Nor I, you," the man agreed, "though your accent marks you as Dornish. Stony Dornish, if my ears do not deceive me." This caused Arya to raise her eyebrows and smirk a little.
"Skyreach," Ser Willem told him, giving him an impressed smile. "Your ear is finely tuned, ser."
"A gift from the gods," the knight answered with a small laugh. "Sadly, it's one with limited application."
"Willem Ferris," the false-Dornishman said, giving a slight bow of his head.
"Patrek Mallister," the visitor returned, "of Seaguard."
"What business have you with my lady, Ser Patrek?"
"I merely wish to introduce myself to her," Mallister said, peering around the tall man at Arya, who had kept her place. The girl was lounging, enjoying the warmth of the fire, and looked for all the world as if she were completely disinterested in the exchange she could not have helped but witness. In truth, her ears were sharp, her eyes sharper. The Mallister name was familiar to her, something from a long-ago lesson, perhaps, only half-remembered; another River lord, loyal to the Tullys, and to the Winter Throne, else he would not know of her. Still, she withheld judgement of him until he'd spoken to her directly.
The knight bowed deeply, pressing his gloved fist over his heart as he did.
"Patrek of House Mallister, my lady," he said, straightening. His voice was low, so that it would not carry, out in the open as they were. "I apologize that I could not greet you properly earlier. I was… detained."
"Uncooperative smallfolk," the girl commented, rising. She took a step forward to stand at Ser Willem's side. She felt Gendry at her back, moving to stand behind her protectively. "I heard."
"My father has not departed Seaguard," Patrek explained. "He is loath to leave it after having had it fall into Frey hands once before. He has sent me in his stead."
"Has he?" The girl's tone was polite but bored. This was the mask she would wear for Patrek Mallister until she had determined if she could trust him.
Lord Blackwood must trust him, else he would not be here, but I am more particular with my faith, she thought.
"Yes, my lady. And it was his desire that I find you and declare the intentions of our house."
"Oh?" The girl looked thoughtful. "So, your father, Lord of Seaguard…" Here, she glanced over to Ser Jaime, a questioning look upon her face.
"Lord Jason Mallister, my lady," the Kingslayer supplied helpfully. Arya nodded.
"So, your father, Lord Jason Mallister of Seaguard, has directed you to declare the intentions of your house to me?"
"Indeed he has, Lady Arya."
"But… how could Lord Jason Mallister of Seaguard know you would meet me?"
"Oh, he didn't, my lady. This is merely a happy accident!" The knight smiled with delight. "I saw Lord Blackwood earlier…"
"Yes," she mused, almost as if to herself, "I'd gathered that."
"…with the intent of declaring Seaguard's allegiance by proxy…"
This caused her eyes to narrow slightly. "Oh, Lord Blackwood is my proxy now?"
Her question drew the knight up short. "I… had rather thought so, my lady..." He paused, forehead wrinkling. "Only, the ravens we received from Raventree Hall had said…"
Arya waved her hand, dismissing the question, indicating that the knight should continue (indicating that she could resolve any issues of proxies later, without his input).
"Yes, and so, when I arrived and sought out Lord Blackwood, he informed me of your presence in the camp. I came here straightaway."
"And here you are," the girl replied mildly.
The men of the Brotherhood were watching the interaction with interest and merriment. All but Harwin, of course. His look was brooding. Arya could tell the Northman itched to intervene, but he restrained himself, waiting to see how his lady would proceed. She had no doubt he would give her an earful later if she did not perform to his liking. Harwin was dedicated to the Lady of Winterfell, it was true, but he was more dedicated to upholding the reputation of the Stark name.
"Yes, Lady Arya, here I am," Patrek agreed, becoming somewhat ruffled by her manner. "To offer you assurances of Seaguard's allegiance."
She eyed him keenly. "Allegiance to what?"
The knight stiffened a bit. "Well, to you, my lady. And to the throne your brother held. The throne which… which surely is yours to claim now."
"Is Seaguard so desperate for a claimant to my brother's throne that your father would direct you to swear allegiance to a girl he's only learned of through a raven sent across the country? And that he'd have you swear allegiance to such a girl sight unseen, through a proxy, while you camped in the shadow of your Lord Paramount's castle?"
Patrek Mallister's face blanched. "My lady, the Stark name alone commands such…"
Ser Jaime stepped in then, sparing the knight the discomfort of arguing with the Lady of Winterfell (to whom he'd only just sworn allegiance). The Kingslayer's tone was placating.
"Lady Arya has a very particular sense of humor, Patrek. She means no insult to you or your house." The golden knight gave the girl a pointed look then and she grinned back at him in return.
"No insult was meant, Ser Patrek," the girl agreed, extending her hand so that she might shake the knight's. "I am glad of your friendship, and that of your house."
She sounded convincing, but in truth, Arya did not know what she was to do with more Riverlanders, only she supposed that if they had sworn allegiance to whatever they believed her cause to be, they were less likely to stand in her way as she carried out her own true plans.
The knight took her hand, but rather than shake it, he kissed the back of it as she studied him.
"My lady, you have the loyalty of Seaguard, just as your brother did," Ser Patrick pledged. "And just as your mother's house did for all the years that the Tullys served as the Lords Paramount of this region."
The girl's heart fluttered a little at the mention of her mother. She thought of Catelyn, and of Lady Stoneheart, and of all she'd sworn to her before the grey woman had died.
"For the sake of my mother, and my brother, I thank you," Arya replied, striving to keep her voice from showing her strain. The grief of her loss hit her unexpectedly, as grief will, and it stymied her for a moment.
"I knew her," Patrek revealed, "first, when I was a lad, and then, later, when she came here with King Robb. Your Uncle Edmure and I were close, before…"
"Before the Red Wedding," Arya finished for him, regaining her composure. Her hatred did that for her; it steadied her. She was glad of it.
The man swallowed. "Yes."
"Were you there, ser?"
"Yes, my lady. I was."
"And how is that you survived when so many others did not?"
"I have asked myself that question a thousand times since that day," the knight replied sadly. "It was only your uncle's bedding that saved me. Had I remained in the great hall, I have no doubt I would've been cut down like the rest."
"Like my mother, and my brother."
"And a great many others," he said. "The best I can figure is that the men who turned on us outside of Edmure's wedding chamber were less bloodthirsty than those who remained at the feast. They were content to put us in chains and keep us as hostages."
"And yet, here you stand," Arya remarked, "hostage no more."
"I owe my freedom to Ser Jaime."
"Oh?" The girl's eyebrows rose. "Ser Jaime is a man of many talents, it seems."
"Actually, a very few talents, my lady," the Kingslayer interjected, "though they are ones which have proven beneficial in these turbulent times."
"Exceptionally beneficial, for Ser Patrek at least," Arya replied with a small smile.
"I hope they will prove just as useful to you, in time," Jaime said. "Though truth be told, my lady, I required Ser Patrek's release more due to my disdain for Edwyn Frey than for any affection I bear the Mallisters."
"Bah!" Patrek cried, half-amused, half-irritated.
The girl chuckled. "Your disdain for a Frey is one of your more endearing qualities, Lannister."
"I couldn't bear to look at that smug smile on his pinched face," Jaime continued, seemingly oblivious to the Riverlander's reaction or Arya's jape. The golden knight frowned. "Absolutely hideous…"
"Regardless of the motivation," the lady spoke up, "we can all rejoice that the heir to Seaguard no longer languishes in a Frey dungeon. Would that we could say the same for the loyal Northmen who have been held since my uncle's wedding."
Jaime peered at the girl sharply then, as if he heard something in her voice he misliked. But her expression was carefully blank. "We'll have to content ourselves that Ser Patrek is no longer hostage, my lady," he finally said.
"Nor will I ever be again," Mallister vowed.
"How can you be so sure, ser?" The question was Arya's.
"Because, my lady, I will kill anyone who tries to take me prisoner, or I will die trying." He eyed her for a moment. "This is also my pledge to you. I'll not allow you to fall into enemy hands."
The girl could read the commitment in his eyes. She did not tell him that she had more enemies than he could fathom, and that some of them sat on the edge of a black pool inside a dim temple across the Narrow Sea. She did not tell him that such enemies could move in secret and shadow and show a man his own lifeblood spilling onto the floor before he'd even had a notion he was in danger. No Westerosi knight, regardless of his sincerity, could stop such an enemy. But she did not tell him this. Instead, she nodded to him, her lips curling up as she replied to him.
"I believe you mean it, ser."
"Then I have said all that I need to say tonight, my lady, and I take my leave of you." Ser Patrek bowed to her once more, nodded to Jaime, and disappeared back through the circle of patrolmen who surrounded the Brotherhood's camp. The girl retired to her tent shortly after, telling herself she had much to think on, not admitting that she was impatient to seek out Jaqen once again.
Ser Willem watched her go, his jaw working as she did.
It was well after midnight when Arya gave up trying to sleep, the constant buzzing trapped in her bones enough to keep her from her rest. She was frustrated, less because she felt she needed the sleep and more because it prevented her from going to Jaqen. She tried to simply reach for him, but found there were too many obstacles in her way to do so. Instead of the Lorathi's mind, she'd discovered a cook fretting over tomorrow's breakfast, and a low-born soldier thinking on his neighbor's buxom daughter, and a sentry wondering how much trouble he would invite if he simply closed his eyes for a few minutes. The girl blew out a breath, accepting that only in sleep could she hope to discover her master once again.
Reasoning that perhaps a walk around camp might tire her enough to try again, she pulled on her boots and slid through her tent flap into the night air. There was a faint chorus of wolves howling in the distance as she stood surveying the area around her. She found the sound comforting, almost like a lullaby sung to a drowsing child by her mother.
"My lady," a gruff voice greeted her, "is there anything you need?"
Arya turned and regarded the stranger that loitered near her tent, his stance that of a guard. Ser Jaime and his watch schedule, she growled internally. She had a suspicion that the golden knight intended to keep her from finding trouble just as much as he was intent on keeping trouble from finding her.
The stranger was clad in dark clothes, his black leather jerkin bearing no badge she could see. The light cast by the moon was enough for her to tell the man was much older than she, older than even her father would've been had he lived. The guard's hair and beard were streaked through with silver, and the expression he wore was as gruff as his voice.
"I don't know you, ser," the girl replied. She moved her left hand to grasp at her right wrist, effecting a posture that was demure and uncertain, but all the while, her fingers instinctively felt for the hidden blade beneath her sleeve.
"No, you don't," he agreed. "No reason you should, really."
She tried again. "Are you one of Lord Vance's men?"
The old knight laughed, the sound of it rough and wheezing. "I suppose you could say that. I rode here with him, anyway."
Arya leaned toward him slightly. For all that he was a stranger, there was something strangely familiar about him; about the line of his jaw, and the shape of his eye. Who is he? she wondered, squinting as she tried to force the answer to present itself in her mind. The man did not seem to mind her scrutiny. He rocked on his heels a bit, looking down at the girl.
"So, you're her, eh? The new Lady of Winterfell?" He sounded almost skeptical. "Nothing of your mother in you, as far as I can see."
She supposed she could take that as an insult, but it didn't seem to be intended that way. Arya could hear a thin thread of regret stitching his words together.
"No, I've never been much like my mother," the girl conceded, "in look or manner."
"You're a Stark, though. Through and through." There was such certainty in the pronouncement that it gave Arya pause. "You have their look. And their manner, from what I'm told."
"And what is the Stark manner, in your judgement?"
"Fierce," he answered without hesitation, "like the wolf of your sigil. And just as deadly."
She bit her lip and moved a step closer to the man.
"Did you know them? My family? The Starks? Or, the Tullys?"
He nodded. "I did. Most of them, both Starks and Tullys. Some, I never met, but most of them, I knew."
Arya's brow creased and she looked again at the lines of his face, the shape of his eyes, his nose. Something niggled at her; something danced on the very edge of her understanding, but when she reached for it, it darted away, frustrating her. Taking another step, she drew very near the man. He was tall, and so she had to pull her head back to regard his face. As she did, she had a fleeting memory of standing to face Robb in just this way, when she was barely old enough to form coherent sentences, craning her neck up to challenge him, demanding to know why she could not be the monster and he the maiden when they played monsters-and-maidens.
Understanding awakened in her, a slow and tentative thing. The truth took shape like pieces of a puzzle sliding into place, one piece interlocking with another until the picture was revealed.
Robb's jaw. Robb's eyes.
"Who are you, ser?" the girl breathed, and her heart began to pound as she awaited his answer.
"I mostly avoid names now," the old knight confided. "Some names invite trouble in this land, as you are surely aware. But there was a time when I was called the Blackfish."
"The Blackfish," she whispered, and even as she thought to deny it (wasn't the Blackfish dead? Hadn't he perished in the aftermath of the siege of Riverrun?), her eyes told her he was no liar.
Robb's jaw. Robb's eyes.
The man dropped to one knee, taking her hands in his. "Yes, my lady. I'm Brynden Tully, your mother's uncle. I'm your kinsman."
Arya sucked in her breath and was overwhelmed by the sound of roaring river rapids. It took a moment to clear and she realized it was merely a trick of the ear; the effect of a rush of blood to her head. Then, briefly, everything was quiet. Uncommonly so.
And after that, all she heard was the howling of wolves.
Don't You Find—Jamie T