You don't see that you're bigger than the sea that you're sinking in
Night gives way to the morning in Westeros, the sun chasing the darkness away as men wake to plot and plan and play their games.
A shrewd lord gazes at the wild boy he has rescued from an even wilder land, turning over a bit of news which may well change everything.
A sleepless bastard stalks the godswood of his father, a silent, white wolf at his heels, as the wind through the leaves overhead seems to whisper the name of a lost little girl.
A red priest stares into his fire, imploring his god to gift him with discernment, but all he receives is the persistent image of a dragon in the snow.
A father speaks with three of his sons, exhorting them to do their best to be of service but to never forget the supremacy of the family whose name they bear.
A king's patience wears thin with two queens: one keeps the city gates barred against him in the name of her son, and the other claims kinship but denies him her loyalty.
A dwarf counsels against haste and rage, reminding his sovereign that there is more to be won than a blackened crown or a smoking pile of rubble and bones.
A Northman sends a raven to a home he hasn't seen in many years and instructs those there to gather their strength and be ready for what is to come.
A Crannogman sits in his floating castle and awaits a fatherless child, telling his grey-robed guest that it shall not be long before they receive the queen.
A Faceless assassin turns his restless eyes north while eight hundred leagues away, one who was like a brother to him does the same, and when they each dream at night, it is of the same grey-eyed girl.
Arya awoke before the sun and dressed herself in clean breeches and the crimson doublet that had been gifted to her by Ser Jaime, silently thanking Rosie for bringing her things when she'd relocated to the castle. The girl slipped through the door of her high chamber in the Twins, leaving behind the sentries sleeping just outside, each leaning against the cold stone wall with his mouth agape. Their soft snores were louder than her own footfalls as she skipped down the staircase. She did not envy them the Kingslayer's wrath should he find out the men sent to guard her had succumbed to their fatigue.
The sky lightened from black to a somber grey as she crossed the causeway to the east bank side of the castle. The training yard was located there, and Arya had risen with the undeniable need to swing her swords. She'd had a dream, a dream of Jaqen, and it had left her disquieted. It wasn't like the lucid dreams she'd had of late, where she was together with him in the white house with the blue door set above the sea. Instead, they'd been back in Braavos, at her final trial, and she'd been commanded to kill her master. In her dream, it had actually been Jaqen on his knees, not the Rat wearing his face, and instead of being dragged away by the Bear and the handsome man, she'd been restrained in the main temple chamber, forced to watch as the Kindly Man performed the task she'd refused to do. As his longsword separated Jaqen's head from his shoulders, Arya bolted upright in her bed, breathing heavily, her brow damp. She was shaking all over and quickly decided that she needed a distraction from her own dark thoughts, and her confusion.
The dream—or rather, the nightmare—had disoriented her. She'd felt so settled in her plans when she'd gone to sleep that night, but now, she felt uncertain. Usually, she was able to control her emotions; to stuff her hurts and desires down deep enough that she was not troubled by them when the time for decisive action came. It was a strength, but one which seemed to have fled this morning. Her need to confront the Kindly Man had flared to life with her dream (nightmare), forcing its way to the forefront of her mind rather than staying in the neat order she'd dictated for the task. Her plans had been solid, and set: go north, find Jon, tick some names off her list, find Jaqen, then sail to Braavos and finish what the principal elder had started.
But now? Now, her heart pounded in her chest, driven by her want of Jaqen (to see him and feel him and know he was alive by the evidence her eyes could afford her rather than by faith and the interpretation of changeable dreams), and her wish to give the Kindly Man exactly what he was owed.
When she arrived at the training yard, she found it deserted, which was no surprise, considering the early hour. She did not wish for company or a sparring partner, so the solitude suited her very well. The first half hour she spent throwing four small blades she always carried at an archery dummy located in the far corner. She pulled a blade from each wrist, and one from each boot. Eye. Neck. Heart. Gut. Arya walked to retrieve the throwing knives, then paced back to her same spot to do it all over again. Gut. Heart. Neck. Eye. Retrieve.
When she tired of that exercise, the girl replaced the small blades in their hidden spots and drew in a great breath, unsheathing Grey Daughter and Frost, entering her fighting stance and closing her eyes for a moment, imagining herself back in Braavos, but in a happier time than she'd just dreamed. Instead of her final trial, she recalled her earlier training under Jaqen's guidance.
There is an intelligence to swordplay. The girl could almost hear Jaqen's voice as the memory of her Lorathi master's lessons came flooding back. A man with wits will always have the advantage, all other things being equal. But a man cannot fight effectively with wits alone.
Arya began to move through her exercises, starting with the first simple drills Jaqen had taught her for dual wielding. She did so with her eyes closed, using what she recalled of her surroundings to avoid tripping over obstacles or bumping into walls or training dummies. If she concentrated, she could perfectly picture herself in the training room of the temple, and it was almost as if she could feel her master's eyes on her as she thrust and blocked.
Instinct, lovely girl. A man who has good instincts coupled with wits cannot be bested.
The words had been spoken in Jaqen's familiar, accented purr, and even just the memory caused a shiver to ripple down the girl's spine and her heart to trill beneath her breast. She sighed, willing her heart to calm its erratic beating before advancing to the more demanding drills she'd been taught. She smiled a little, eyes still closed, turning and lunging over and over again. When she began to feel a burn in her muscles and sinews, she could hear her master urging her on. He had always pushed her, even when she was certain she could go no further. Yet, at his insistence, she always did.
Again!
And so, she continued without flagging, just as she had when she wore an acolyte's robe, ignoring the ache in her arms and legs. Turn, lunge, thrust, block. Turn, lunge, thrust, block.
Jaqen wasn't there, but if his apprentice did not open her eyes, she could pretend that he was. Arya wasn't sure how many times she repeated the drills. Long enough that sunlight melted away the gloom of the yard and she could sense the light through her closed lids. Still, she persisted, repeating the exercises until she lost all sense of time. She felt nearly weightless as she moved, like a feather carried on a swirling current of air.
"Do you never tire, my lady?"
Jaime Lannister's voice startled Arya from her meditation and her eyelids flew open as her arms dropped, suddenly pulled down by the weight of her steel. She saw the golden knight not twenty paces away, arms crossed over his chest as he watched her.
"Ser Jaime," she breathed, hiding her surprise. It was not like her to be so unaware of her surroundings, even with her eyes closed. "I thought I was alone. How long have you been here?"
"Long enough to contemplate my own misspent youth," he replied with a sardonic smile. "Once, I had your stamina, but no longer."
"Nonsense, ser. I imagine if called upon, you could swing your sword for as long you were required to do so."
"Perhaps in the heat of battle, when the blood lust takes over. There's a strength that comes with fighting for your own life. But for drills?" He shook his head. "Your arms, do they not burn?"
She shrugged. "That's easy to ignore, especially when something else burns deeper."
"What do you mean?" Curiosity colored his tone.
Arya moved into her stance once again, walking through the steps of yet another drill, this one taught to her by the handsome man; one meant to refine her footwork. "I am always burning," she admitted, "with the need for vengeance."
Ser Ilyn, Ser Meryn, Queen Cersei, traitorous black brothers…
The Kindly Man.
"You should not allow yourself to be governed by that," Jaime warned softly.
She laughed. Spin, duck, step, thrust, backspin, duck, step, thrust. "Why not?"
"All that hatred will eat you from the inside out, leaving you hollow. Trust me."
"As long as it eats my enemies first, I can live with that." Thrust, spin, thrust, step, thrust, block, thrust.
The Kingslayer stared after her, studying her movements and her expression, which had settled into a sort of focused anger as she imagined herself striding down the dim corridor of the main temple chamber of the House of Black and White, swords in hand. In her mind's eye, the Kindly Man was awaiting her there, standing calmly before the still pool, his false face set in an expression of sadness and disappointment as she approached. He always judged her, and found her wanting, even in her own imaginings. Step, step, thrust, spin. Step, step, thrust, spin.
"Who are you thinking of now, Stark?" His tone held a degree of fascination.
"No one you know." Spin, down-cut, counter spin, down-cut.
"That's a relief."
Arya pulled up, exasperated. Lowering her swords and turning toward the golden knight, she huffed, "Would you like to spar, or are you just here to distract me?"
"No."
"No, what?"
"No, I don't want to spar. And no, I'm not here to distract you."
"Then why are you here, Lannister?"
It was Jaime's turn to shrug. He approached her slowly, stopping a mere foot in front of her. "I suppose I'm just trying to understand you."
"Am I such a mystery?"
"Yes, my lady," he replied. "You really are."
The girl rolled her eyes then spun so that her back was to him. She turned side-face and raised her steel once again. This time as she executed her drill, her movements were more forceful and less fluid, making her agitation apparent.
"Why are you so angry?" There was amusement in the knight's tone as he put the question to her.
"When I came to the empty training yard before the dawn, it wasn't because I wanted company," Arya gritted out. Stomp-stab. Stomp-stab. Stomp-stab.
"Don't worry. I've been told I'm very poor company."
Arya whipped around so that she was facing the golden knight. "Sometimes, people just want to be alone."
"And sometimes, they shouldn't be."
"Are you here to save me from myself again, Ser Jaime?"
"If needs must."
"Don't you grow tired of it?"
"Not yet, my lady."
Her lip curled. "Draw your sword."
"I told you, I'm not here to spar."
"Well, that's too bad for you, then." And with that, she lunged toward him, swords held before her, forcing him to leap to the side to avoid being skewered. He stared at her, mouth agape in disbelief.
"You could've cut me!"
"I told you to draw your sword," Arya growled. She lifted her brow and when he hesitated, she lunged again, slapping his shoulder with the flat of her large blade.
"Ow! You little shit…" He glowered at her, then drew his sword, grasping it in his good hand and pointing it straight at her as he held out his golden hand for balance. They stalked around one another in a tight circle and Arya could read his ire in his face. Good. Now she wasn't the only one who was irritated.
"You should've slept in this morning, old man," the girl grinned maliciously.
"And miss teaching a lesson to an arrogant brat?" he countered, all ease and confidence.
They charged at one another then, and the clashing of their steel rang out in the yard. It only took a few moments for others to appear, including Brienne and Gendry. The mountain lords of the North were soon there, and they cheered Arya on. The Greatjon sauntered into the yard, and he'd obviously found some servant or squire to clean him up a bit. His beard was neatly trimmed, cut much closer to his face than was the fashion, but Arya supposed that was to rid him of the mats, and possibly lice. His hair was likewise cropped short, silver locks interspersed with black, and it gave him a distinguished appearance. His look was at odds with his behavior at that moment, however, as he could be heard loudly wagering with some of the Mallister troops who had filtered into the area.
"You forget, I've seen what she can do," the Lord of the Last Hearth reminded them. "Only a fool would bet against her!"
"But that's Jaime Lannister," a Mallister captain protested. The Kingslayer's reputation had evolved over a much longer period and was far better known than the Lady of Winterfell's.
"And that's Arya Fucking Stark," was the Greatjon's booming retort.
The girl tuned them out. If she had to guess, so did Ser Jaime. Their eyes were locked in, each staring at the other, and both seemed filled with a mixture of anger and respect. Their movements were wary, and precise.
Her next few attacks, the Kingslayer parried easily. She was only testing him, but still, she was surprised by the ease with which her blows were turned. Unlike her, he was not naturally left-handed. The Kingslayer smirked. It was infuriating.
"Did you think I hadn't been cataloging your moves every time we've sparred?" he asked.
"Did you think I'd shown you all my moves?" she snarled back.
It was an uncharacteristic display of emotion on her part, but he'd challenged her when she wasn't at her best; when she was working through the distress her unwelcome dream had produced in her. And so, she'd allowed her irritation to the surface.
She ducked a blow from him, then blocked another with her larger blade. As he pulled back into a more defensive posture, she chased him, dropping low and spinning toward him, flicking her right wrist and bringing her thin Bravos blade close to his throat. Too close for sharp steel. He jumped back, his brows pinching in surprise and annoyance.
"Do you mean to make me bleed?" he asked in a low voice, barely heard over the roar of the Northmen and the groans of the Mallister men.
"If needs must," the girl answered, parroting his earlier words in a mocking tone.
They clashed again, and the power of the Kingslayer's blow knocked the Cat off her balance, startling her. His loss of his sword hand so many years ago had done nothing to diminish his strength. She recovered quickly, though, crouching low before leaping at him with astounding speed. Steel crashed against steel again and again as the combatants tested each other. The girl brought her large sword up in a low arc so fast, the blade looked blurry to the eye, but Jaime caught it with his golden hand, the Valyrian steel biting deep into the metallic palm. The blade's edge caught there and did not pull free when Arya jerked back on it. Grinning, Jaime yanked his shining hand swiftly behind him, causing her to fly bodily into his chest. He wrapped his sword arm around her, pinning her there.
"Are you done, Stark?"
The Cat's eyes narrowed to slits as she glared up at his stupid, handsome face.
"Never."
She released the hilt of Grey Daughter, leaving it caught in Jaime's golden hand, and dropped her weight straight down, slipping easily from the Kingslayer's grasp. Before he could react, she spun out of her crouch to his side, moving beneath his sword and popping up behind him with the tip of Frost kissing the nape of his neck. There was a collective gasp from the assembled crowd, and an exasperated growl from her opponent.
"Do you yield, ser?"
Jaime shook his golden hand until he dislodged the bastard blade from it and when the sword hit the ground, he nodded carefully to avoid a stinging poke from Frost. The mountain lords and the Greatjon erupted in barking laughter and cheers then and the Mallister men groused and muttered in disbelief before exchanging the silver stags they'd wagered. Brienne and Gendry looked on in silence. At the knight's acquiescence, Arya stepped back, removing the threat of her steel and then stooped to retrieve Grey Daughter. The Kingslayer turned to watch her.
"Feel better now?" he asked with a frown.
"Marginally."
"Perhaps, just this once, talking about it might be better than threatening to stab someone."
"I doubt it."
Jaime sheathed his sword. "Come on, Stark, what has you so upset?"
"I'm not upset."
He laughed, shaking his head. "Why deny it?" When she made him no answer, he added, "Would you rather I guessed at the cause?" He glanced over at Gendry then. The blacksmith-knight had begun sparring with Brienne.
"It's nothing to do with him."
The Kingslayer regarded the girl keenly then shook his head, seeming to find something in her look which convinced him she was telling the truth. "No, not with him. But, with some man, I'd wager."
"What do you know about it?"
"I know when a woman is thinking about a man and pretending not to be."
The Cat straightened, squaring her shoulders. She'd meant to answer him with a biting remark of some sort, but the look in his eyes stopped her. She saw kindness there, and concern. His look reminded her a little of her own father, and she so she staid her sharp tongue.
"No need to trouble yourself over it," Arya finally said. "Sometimes… I'm plagued by my dreams, that's all."
"That's something I understand very well." Jaime reached for Grey Daughter, gently pulling the sword from the girl's hand and then nudging her shoulder, turning her until she showed him her back. A second later, she felt him slide the blade into the sheath she wore there.
"What dreams trouble you?" She turned back to face him, knowing very well what dreams disturbed him since she had walked in one such dream herself, but she wished to see how candid he would be with her.
"Too many to name, my lady," he murmured, "and I've no right to complain about them. They are… a soft sort of penance for the things I've done." His look was so sad as he said it, the girl felt a pang of pity, and regretted her own violent display of temper earlier. He'd truly done nothing to deserve it.
"Would you break your fast with me, ser?" It was the closest thing to an apology she had to offer, and she wondered if he might rebuff her, but instead, he gave a small smile that did not reach his eyes and nodded.
As they left the training yard together, the Northmen they passed bowed deeply, Lord Umber calling out, "My Lady of Stark!" His deferential tone left her nearly as disquieted as her earlier nightmare.
Upon their arrival in the great hall, Arya noted Hoster Blackwood seated across from Maester Brenett. Hoping it would help her avoid the Kingslayer probing her about her mood or the reason for it (she did not wish to relive her nightmare, nor did she wish to share Jaqen with anyone at that moment), she turned and walked toward the pair, meaning to join them. Jaime had no choice but to follow. He nodded at a passing kitchen girl who asked if they would like some porridge and she scurried off to fetch them their food.
"Ah, good morning, my lady," the maester greeted, both he and Hos standing and bowing their heads as Arya took a seat at the end of the table. Jaime settled himself at her left elbow, the maester on his other side. "And a good morning to you, Ser Jaime." The grey-robed man seemed much more animated than the time of day or a bowl of porridge called for. Hoster spoke then, his words offering some sort of explanation for the mood at the table.
"Maester Brenett and I were discussing his illuminations," the young man revealed, the excitement in his own voice evident. "It's such a rare talent, I've been trying to persuade him to teach me a little."
"Mixing the colors properly, that's the key," the maester replied, obviously picking up where their conversation had been interrupted by the new arrivals.
"Yes, your coloration is beautiful, but it's your likenesses which impress me most. They're quite astonishing, maester," Hos replied. "In all my study, I've not seen their equal. Not even in the works of Grandmaester Mervyn."
"You flatter me, my boy," Brenett returned, amusing Arya with his familiarity. To be so accepting of what amounted to an invading force might've been the mandate of the Citadel, but the girl would've bet there was no love lost between this maester and his former lord, whereas his regard for Hoster Blackwood was obvious.
"Not at all," Hos said with a wave of his hand. He cocked his head and leaned in a little. "As a matter of fact, I've been working on a manuscript, and I'd love to include some of your illuminations, if that appeals to you at all."
"Manuscript? What about?" the maester asked, his interest piqued. Hoster glanced over at Arya before answering.
"The… more recent history of the realm, particularly as it pertains to… the Riverlands," he said, then cleared his throat. "Perhaps you'd like to read a bit of it?"
"I'd be delighted!" Brenett looked at what was left of his cooling porridge, pushing the bowl away from him slightly to indicate he'd had his fill. "I'm free now, if you're willing…"
The two men rose, nodding to Jaime and Arya as the maid placed their bowls of porridge before them on the table, and left before the Lady of Winterfell could object. The Kingslayer shook his head, laughing a little. "I suppose our company doesn't hold the same interest as young Blackwood's scribblings or the maester's sketches."
The girl shrugged then shoved a great spoonful of her porridge into her mouth knowing that without the distraction of Lord Hoster or Maester Brenett, Jaime was sure to press her on the cause of her ill-temper earlier. A mouth full of sticky oats would give her a few moments to think of another distraction. When the knight next spoke, however, he surprised her by not addressing it at all.
"You've done away with Hosteen Frey, and Emmon, in a roundabout way. And now Walder. With so few Freys left breathing, do I need to worry about who you'll be killing next?"
Your sister, if the gods are good.
"No," she replied after she'd swallowed the porridge. She watched as the Kingslayer took a bite of his own, his eyes regarding her suspiciously.
"Is that because you have no plans to kill anyone?" She could easily read the skepticism in his tone, so his arched eyebrow seemed excessive.
It's because it's not your place to worry about what I do.
Worry is not for us.
The Kindly Man's voice in her head was the last thing she wanted just then, particularly when he was at the root of her own current worry. She frowned.
"No." She shoved another bite of porridge in her mouth, hunching her shoulders a little.
Jaime dropped his spoon into his bowl and placed both forearms on the table as he leaned back and sighed.
"You should probably just tell me what you're up to," he suggested, sounding weary.
"No." She stared down at her porridge.
And, how could she? Bran's words from her past dream (was it a dream?), her belief that Jon was at Winterfell, the exhortation of her father ('You are my grey daughter'), they all pulled her north. But her hateful little prayer in the form of a list, her grudges, and her want of Jaqen tempted her south. She felt trapped between two desperate and disparate needs. How could she tell Jaime what would come next when she herself didn't even know?
"No? Is that the only word I'm to have out of you this morning?" He didn't wait for her answer. "You may as well tell me, Arya. It's not like I have any hope of stopping you, whatever it is, and it might make you feel better to tell someone." Her eyes flicked up to his then, peering at him from beneath her furrowed brow. Jaime answered her unasked question. "Come on, it's plain to see that something is eating at you."
The girl blew out a light breath, then chewed her bottom lip, her eyes softening as she stared past her companion at nothing at all. When she finally spoke, her voice sounded far away, and was little more than a raspy whisper.
"When you have two very different paths before you, how do you choose which one to take?"
The golden knight chuckled, but it was not unkindly meant. "You're asking me? I'm not sure I've ever made a right choice in my life."
Arya caught movement across the hall in her peripheral vision and she turned to watch Brienne and Gendry walk down the center aisle. The large man spied her with Jaime and took a step in their direction, but his companion's hand on his shoulder stopped him. The knightly woman looked at them, noting their expressions and posture, then murmured something to Gendry, guiding him in the opposite direction. The blacksmith-knight turned to gaze at Arya over his shoulder but did not protest when Brienne directed him to a table on the opposite side of the chamber. When the girl turned back toward Jaime, she saw he'd been looking over at the newcomers as well.
The Cat thought on Jaime's words as she studied his face. When he turned back toward her, a sort of understanding dawned on her. The Kingslayer seemed bemused by the look on her face.
"What?" he asked
"I think… you try very hard to make the right choices. I think you struggle with that every day." Her voice was low, almost as if she were telling him an intimate secret. And, perhaps she was, though it was not hers to tell.
The girl expected a denial, or a haughty mask to descend over his features. She expected a shrug and a laugh. She expected him to say she was ridiculous. Or misguided. Or an infant who didn't know what she was talking about.
Jaime did none of those things. Instead, he leaned forward and pinned her in place with his intense, green eyes.
"If you must choose between two paths, choose the one that brings you some measure of love."
He couldn't have astonished her more if he'd told her to choose the path most likely to end in the Smoking Sea. His words sounded like gibberish to her ear. The Cat wasn't sure whether to laugh or scoff. She did neither, though, just staring at him instead.
"Love?" she finally spat. "That's your advice?"
The last time she'd chosen love, she'd been crushed beneath the weight of that choice; was being crushed by it even now.
It was part of what sent her to the training yard that very morning; part of why she'd attacked Jaime; part of what was paralyzing her now; part of what made her choices seem suddenly impossible for her to make.
"Love is weakness," she hissed, knowing it was an indictment of herself even as she said it. Love was the weakness from which she suffered most acutely. It was what was tearing her apart. Her love for her mother and father, for Jon, for Winterfell; her love for Jaqen. She had arrived at a crossroads and rather than turning her face one way or another and continuing her journey, her love had mired her steps and made her unsure.
It had made her timid; afraid to make the wrong choice; afraid to commit to the wrong plan.
Arya shook her head, angry at herself.
Jaime glanced over at Brienne once again before responding. "Maybe. But there's strength in it too."
She did scoff then. "How do you figure?"
The Kingslayer breathed deeply, then frowned, cutting his eyes back to Arya. After reading her expression, his frown deepened, and he shook his head. "I'm talking nonsense. Just ignore me."
"I usually do."
Jaime huffed a slight laugh at that, his lips twisting into a small smile. Her tone had indicated she'd said it to rile and amuse him, a distraction from his sudden, strange mood, and she was pleased to see she'd succeeded. But not for long, it would seem. The boisterous mountain clansmen entered the great hall then, Jon Umber in their midst and the golden knight's expression became serious once again before he issued a warning.
"I don't know what these paths are that have you so unsettled, my lady, but I'd advise you to make your own choice, and quickly, before someone else makes it for you."
Arya left Jaime in the great hall, the Northmen there rising as she passed and hailing her heartily. She hurried by them, pushing through the doors, meaning to search the castle for her brothers. She thought perhaps talking with them would somehow help clear her head so that she might settle on a plan. She knew the Rat wished for them to move northward as quickly as they could, and she knew the Bear wanted whatever would bring her peace (as though such a thing were even possible) while keeping her safe. She realized it was unlikely the two would agree, but she thought even the argument might dislodge the uncharacteristic doubt which had made her intentions so suddenly hazy.
Instead of the Faceless assassins, however, she found Thoros. He was in the dusty library of the Twins, located high up in the northernmost tower of the west bank. His back was to the door and he did not turn when she entered. He sat at a table, his hand resting on the cover of a book placed before him, but he wasn't reading or even looking at the book. Instead, he stared into the fire in the hearth across the room from the door Arya had just entered.
Of course he did.
The girl almost backed away and left him to his thoughts and his fire visions, but then she thought the better of it. There was no godswood at the Twins and she was not like to find much guidance in Walder Frey's poor sept. Perhaps she'd been meant to find the red priest. Arya glided toward him.
"What do you see in the flames?" she asked, dropping into the chair across from him. She looked at the cover of the book between them. Thoros' hand rested just below the etched title, grooves of the letters filled with thin lines of gold. A Brief History of the Religions of Essos.
"The same thing I've been seeing for days."
Instead of pressing him, Arya mimicked his posture, turning her head and gazing into the same fire. They sat together in silence like that for a long while and the girl saw nothing beyond the flickering yellow and orange tongues. She breathed in and out slowly, her eyelids drooping as she was lulled by the faint crackling of the logs and popping of embers. The room was warm and her position comfortable. She found some relief from her pressing concerns in the simplicity of it all, even if she found no revelations. But just before her eyes closed all the way, an image formed in the very center of the flames. Suddenly alert, she stood, moving toward the hearth as if she were being pulled by a string whose other end wound tightly around her heart. When she reached her destination, she dropped to her knees.
"Lady Arya?" Thoros' voice cracked as he spoke, as though he had not had a swallow of anything in a long while.
The girl continued to stare at the center of the fire, watching as it arranged itself into a scene that was more like a memory.
Her father, seated atop his tomb in the cold crypts of Winterfell. He beckoned to her.
Was this her answer?
As she stared and wondered, Lord Stark's image faded away and was replaced with something altogether different.
An immense dragon in the deep snows outside of Winterfell's walls. As she watched, a direwolf appeared, bristling and stalking the scaly beast. Then, all at once, the dragon opened its great mouth and swallowed the wolf whole.
Arya shook her head and stood, shivering despite the warmth given off by the fire. In an instant, the priest was by her side.
"Did you see it?" he whispered urgently, and the look in his eyes was wild. "The dragon, did you see it?"
The girl swallowed, then nodded. "What does it mean?" she asked, looking at him. He stared back at her, not answering. "Thoros, what does it mean?"
The red priest shook his head, his expression caught somewhere between perplexed and tortured. "I know not, but I think… I think perhaps… you should put some distance between yourself and King's Landing."
"King's Landing?" she asked numbly.
"At least… you should distance yourself from the army which assails it."
The Cat finally discovered her brothers at the midday meal. They sat and ate with Jon Brax.
Oh, yes, the girl thought, chagrinned. I'd forgotten about him.
The young boy popped up and bowed courteously to the Lady of Winterfell. His eyes sparked with excitement. The Cat grasped his chin and inspected him for a moment, then smiled slightly.
"My lady," Baynard and Ser Willem greeted in unison.
"Where've you been?" she muttered as she seated herself next to the Bear.
"Training your squire, my lady," the false-knight replied in good humor, "as you'd requested." The Lyseni glanced at her and marked her expression. "Did you have need of me?"
"I did, but no longer," was all she said, taking his cup and drinking a long swallow of what was in it. Water. Part of her wished it had been something stronger.
The large assassin quirked up an inquisitive brow, but she did not offer him any explanation and he did not press for one. A bowl of stew and her own cup of water was placed before her and the girl ate in silence, her look far away as she did. The Bear and the Rat allowed her to eat in peace and little Jon followed their lead. The Cat had nearly finished her meal when Lord Umber entered the great hall. Spying her, he strode over, his long legs bringing him to her side in no time.
"My Lady Arya," the Northman said, dropping to his knee and taking her hand. He pressed his forehead against the back of it.
"Lord Umber, you need not kneel every time you see me," the girl said. "It can't be doing your injured knee any favors."
"My knee is nearly recovered."
She read the lie in his grimace as he rose. "Still…"
"I find movement helps it," the Greatjon said. "It stiffens otherwise. Would you walk with me?"
"Certainly." Arya nodded to the Bear, ignoring the question in his gaze, and left the hall with the large Northman. They moved toward the causeway at a leisurely pace, silent for a bit. As they approached the water tower, the lord began to speak.
"My lady, I hope you know how much I have always respected your family."
"There can be no doubt of it, Lord Umber, and I believe my father and brother prized your loyalty, as do I."
"I am glad to hear you feel that way, and perhaps that means you'll be glad of my advice as well, though it may not sound as pretty to your ear as what your uncle or Lord Blackwood may tell you."
"Come now, Lord Umber," the girl laughed. "I may have left as a child, but I'm still a daughter of the North, and pretty words have never held much sway with me. Substance means more than… presentation."
"Your father was never one for flattery or eloquence either," the man snorted. "He valued the truth, spoken as plainly as you please. You're Ned Stark's daughter, alright."
"That I am." She hesitated, and then, with a warning in her voice, added, "But my edges are rougher than my father's, I think."
"Aye, like your Aunt Lyanna."
"I'll have to take your word for it. She was gone long before I was born." Arya eyed the Greatjon keenly as they passed through the open gates of the water tower and emerged on the other side. She could easily see that there was more to his want of her company than just some exercise for a troublesome joint. The girl might've delved in herself, using her… gift… to root around in whatever thoughts had pushed their way to the front of the man's mind, but he'd brought her here to tell her something. That much was obvious. She wished to give him the chance to do so. However, when he remained quiet, apparently turning over his ideas in his head, she prompted him. "Speak freely, my lord. What is it you have to say to me?"
The Northman paused, both his speech and his gait, then moved to the rail of the bridge, leaning on it and gazing out over the churning waters of the Green Fork. Arya noted the river seemed high. She moved to join Lord Umber, propping her elbows on the rail and trying not to think how her mother had been thrown in this very river after she'd had her throat cut by the Freys.
"My lady, I don't know what your intentions are, or if you even have plans, but I know very well that these southron lords would like to keep you here, in the Riverlands."
The girl shrugged. "They think I'll be safer. They feel there are too many unknowns in the North." She kept her expression and tone neutral, giving the Greatjon no indication if she agreed or disagreed with the assessment.
"I know they do, and I don't fault them for that concern, but I also know that that's not their only consideration." He seemed to be treading carefully. "Perhaps not even their primary one."
"I'm certainly aware of that as well," she assured him.
"A guest, they'd call you, but if you ever expressed a desire to return home, I fear you'd become little better than a prisoner."
Arya gazed into the distance, following the river with her eyes as far as she could before the ribbon of water faded into the horizon. She wasn't sure if the situation were quite as dire as Lord Umber seemed to think, but she couldn't deny that the Riverlords would most likely consider their own interests before hers. Especially since they didn't really know what her own interests were.
"If you think you must caution me to be on my guard against the ambitions of men, you needn't worry." She breathed in and out slowly for a few moments, then looked up at the Northman. "I understand very well how a man's appetites may corrupt his ideals and govern his deeds."
And she understood very well how those guided by duty, honor, and love could be crushed beneath the heel of such ambitions. It was a lesson she'd learned at a young age; a lesson driven home with blood and heartbreak on the steps of the Great Sept of Baelor while she'd stood by, watching helplessly.
The large man nodded, his gaze astute as he looked her in the eye. "Aye, I can see you are no fool. And I also see that you're a Stark, through and through, with a Stark's fierceness and a Stark's honor, rough edges or no." Here, his mouth formed a small smile, and he leaned his head toward hers slightly, his manner almost conspiratorial as he whispered, "Though, I think you are a master of mummery too, my lady, for there was no rough edge to be found when they scrubbed you clean and dressed you in that fine gown last night. Perhaps that polish is what has these Riverlords thinking you're a summer sweetling who needs to hide behind their high castle walls for your own good."
It was Arya's turn to study her companion's face. She could see how his bluster and irreverence, his northern ways, could make some see him as a brute with limited strategic capabilities, but the man was perceptive, and his mind was undeniably sly. Perhaps he found it more expedient to slash his enemies and run them through with his immense sword, and he'd declared his own disdain for pretty words, but she had no doubt that the Greatjon could plot and plan with the shrewdest lord when called upon to do so.
"A summer sweetling?" the Cat repeated, smirking. There was never a less apt term to describe her, she was quite sure. "Well, what do you say to that, Lord Umber?"
The man drew up to his full height and peered down at her. "I say you're a thing made for winter, my lady, and winter has come. And I say that the North was never right but when a Stark was in Winterfell."
Arya straightened then, too, pushing back from the bridge rail and squaring her shoulders. "So, if I choose to ride north, you'll not try to persuade me against it?"
"Persuade you against it?" he scoffed, his eyes narrowing. "My lady, when you ride north, I'll ride before you and clear your path, all the way to the gates of Winterfell, and beyond them, too, if need be."
Arya had meant to spend the time until the evening's supper in the training yard, turning over her visions and Thoros' advice and the Greatjon's declaration. Her path was clearly pointed north, yet thoughts of Jaqen (and of shortening her prayer by a few names) still drew her eye south. She'd barely drawn her Bravos blade, however, when Brynden Blackwood and Patrek Mallister rushed to her side.
"Lady Arya," the heir to Raventree Hall said somewhat breathlessly, "there have been ravens."
"Ravens? From where?"
"King's Landing," Ser Patrek replied.
The girl relaxed, shrugging. "What have ravens from King's Landing to do with me?" She held her thin sword out before her, looking down its long line toward the training dummy just beyond its tip.
"They are from both inside and outside its walls, my lady," Ser Brynden explained.
It took Arya a beat to comprehend what they were telling her.
"From the Dragons?" She pulled her sword back, squinting at the knights, her head cocked. Her mind filled with her earlier vision. A dragon in the snow, swallowing a direwolf.
"And King Tommen. Well, from Queen Cersei, obviously, but signed in his hand," Brynden said. "My father and your uncle wish to convene the lords to discuss…"
Before he could finish, the Cat interrupted. "I'm no lord."
"No," he agreed, "but you're…"
"I'm what?"
"The Lady of Winterfell," Patrek answered for him, seemingly puzzled by the girl's reluctance. "You speak for the North."
In truth, Arya was interested in what was contained in the missives, but she also worried what they would reveal would further confuse her plans. Jaqen was with the Dragon army. She was sure of it. Would their words make it impossible for her to go home and put more distance between them? But Jon was in Winterfell, her father had all but confirmed it in her dream-that-was-more-than-a-dream. Could she abandon the path which would lead her back to him, back to her home, if the Dragons summoned her in friendship?
The girl blinked. The Dragons likely didn't even know about her, and even if they did, they couldn't know she was at the Twins. As she'd originally thought, these ravens had nothing to do with her.
But that didn't mean that they wouldn't impact her.
"And when did my uncle and your father wish to convene the lords?" Arya asked Ser Brynden.
"As soon as we could find you, my lady. They await us even now."
The girl nodded, then secured Frost in the swordbelt at her left hip.
"Lead the way, my lords."
The trio arrived in the great hall minutes later, and the girl saw the place was already filled with lords, knights, and captains. Harwin was there, seated amid the other Northmen, Kyle Condon between him and the Royan Wull. Beren Tallhart, marking Arya's entrance, stood and called the room to attention.
"The Lady of Winterfell!" he cried, and all the men rose. Her skin prickled as she watched them bow before her. She moved down the center aisle amid gracious murmurings of 'my lady.'
The knights which flanked her led her to the high table. Once there, the girl slipped off both her back swordbelt and unbuckled the one at her waist, leaning the blades against the wall before taking her seat. Other blades lined the wall as well, including the oversized greatsword which belonged to the Lord of the Last Hearth. The monstrosity was nearly as long as she was tall.
She was surprised to see the lords had left her the center chair. By tradition, it was the one she was owed simply by rank (at least by those who considered her brother a legitimate king), but mostly for feasts and the like. For a council such as this, she thought she might be relegated to a bench in the back. Not that she would've stayed there, of course, but she'd assumed she'd have to fight her way into the midst of the strategizing and arguing lords. The fact that she was not only welcomed but expected to sit at their head gave her pause. She had a strange feeling about it, something akin to a satisfaction she could not trust; pride at their acceptance marred by a sense of trepidation.
Since when did she not have to scrap for consideration?
Arya seated herself in the place meant for her, her Uncle Brynden to her right and Tytos Blackwood to her left. Karyl Vance, Clement Piper, Theomar Smallwood, and Jon Umber also joined them at the high table. The men all stood respectfully until Arya settled in her chair, then they took their seats. The Blackfish wasted no time in introducing the business at hand.
"My lords, we've received two ravens within the last hour, one from the Iron Throne and the other from the army which assails it. The first is yet another plea from King Tommen for our forces to make haste to defend the capital. The situation there is dire, it seems. The letter contains all the usual threats if we do not comply." There was some scattered laughter at this revelation. "The second is signed by Jon Connington…" There was a rumble that moved through the room at the familiar name. The Lord Paramount cleared his throat. "He now styles himself Hand of Aegon Targaryen, sixth of his name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Protector of the Seven Kingdoms."
This pronouncement produced more than a rumble. There were jeers mixed with angry outbursts and surprised exclamations.
"So, exiles, foreigners, and sellswords have settled on a king for themselves instead of a queen. What's that to us?" the Greatjon thundered.
"Not just exiles and foreigners," Lord Vance corrected. "Dorne, the Reach, and even part of the Crownlands march in support as well."
"Connington writes that King's Landing is on its knees and cannot hold out much longer against their onslaught," the Blackfish continued. "He urges us to remember that the Iron Throne belongs to Rhaegar's son by rights and that we must align ourselves accordingly. He informs us that King Aegon does not plan to stop at the Red Keep indefinitely and that once his throne is secure, he will make his way here. He expects to be welcomed in this land…" He cleared his throat before looking down at the raven scroll he'd pulled taut between his two hands, then finished reading the sentence, "…over which he rules."
The great hall erupted at his words, men crying out their displeasure and shouting down any suggestion that this foreign upstart, the so-called King of the Andals and the First Men, should have any say in how the Riverlands or the North should greet either guests or foes. Some of the men were genuinely affronted. Others were merely blustering. Still others were grated but wondered how long lordly pride would hold up against a mounted, savage khalasar and unrelenting dragonfire.
Unlike the men in the chamber, Arya listened, but did not react, at least, not outwardly. She considered the words. The Targaryen force, at least part of it, planned to come to the Riverlands; to move north once King's Landing fell and order could be restored to the capital.
How long would that take? Weeks? Several turns of the moon? A full year? More?
Would Jaqen be part of that advancing force?
Her heart stuttered slightly at the thought, and she considered her uncle's plea that she stay at Riverrun under his protection. Accepting his generosity would assuredly put her closer to Jaqen. But then her mind filled with memories of dreams and visions, making her heart stutter for an altogether different reason.
A man on a far hill, engulfed in dragonflame but unburnt. He beckoned to her.
Herself, clad in heavy finery, somehow falling through Lyanna's tomb only to land on a featherbed, wrapped in the embrace of a silver king.
A dragon in the deep snow, swallowing a direwolf whole.
She tensed ever so slightly, wondering if she ought to take these as signs, warning her away from Aegon Targaryen, sixth of his name, and turn her face north. Certainly, Thoros had urged her to do so. The Greatjon, too, believed her path would carry her to Winterfell. Even the Rat desired to bring her north.
And hadn't she wanted that for herself? Until just this morning, when her nightmare had filled her with dread and made her question if she should instead ride south with all haste to find her Lorathi master?
"My lords!" the Blackfish bellowed over the chaos in the hall. The din was reduced as the Riverlanders and Northmen turned their attention back to the high table. "I would have you all of one accord. Will the Riverlands and the North remain as distinct regions under the rule of the Iron Throne, or will we jealously guard our independence from this dragon king?"
"How do we stand against dragonfire?" asked young Lord Goodbrooke.
"We don't know that they'll bring their dragons here, boy," grumbled a weathered knight of House Lolliston. "We don't know that their dragons will even survive the siege at King's Landing."
There was some agreement among the surrounding men with the knight's assertion, and some mutterings could be heard about believing these dread beasts even existed when their shadows fell across the Trident, and not before.
Hoster Blackwood stood then. "I think we should not place our hopes in these beasts falling in battle, my lords," he began. "They are exceedingly difficult to kill."
"And what do you know of dragons, Lord Hoster?" the captain of Lord Smallwood's forces asked. "There have been no dragons in the land since more than a hundred years before any of our grandsires were even born."
"I know what I've read," Hoster replied, then waited for the burst of bitter laughter from several of the fighting men to fade before he continued. "I do not claim to possess the sword skills of most of the men in this room, and I may not be a seasoned warrior, but I have read every volume that exists in Westeros pertaining to dragons."
"And what you've read makes you want to kneel to this invader before you've even laid eyes on the dragons he claims to command?" the captain challenged.
"No, what I've read tells me if you meet even one dragon in defiance, either in the open field or behind your castle walls, your chance of leaving the encounter as more than a pile of black ash is extremely low," Hos replied calmly. "Now, consider the damage three of them together can do."
"What about Dorne?" someone shouted from the back of the chamber. "Dorne once killed a dragon!"
Hoster nodded. "Dorne faced one dragon and vanquished her with equal parts strategy, skill, and luck. Who here is willing to bet their life, and the lives of their entire family, that we can reproduce such a circumstance? Is there even a single scorpion in our kingdom? Is there a single man skilled enough with such a weapon that he could be certain of hitting a circling dragon in the eye before being roasted alive?" He surveyed the faces of the men around him. "Now, how about three of them, at once?"
"So, you'd have us capitulate, son?" Lord Blackwood asked.
"No, father, but neither would I have us watch our lands burn when it is within our power to do else."
This caused another uproar in the hall. There seemed to be a mixture of people who felt Hoster's words were equivocation that did nothing to produce a solution and people who believed a new king would stay his hand (or, more precisely, stay his aunt's dragons) in order to preserve his kingdom. They argued no sane king wished to rule over a burnt and desolate land. Others countered with a reminder that Targaryens were not renowned for their sanity.
Clement Piper declared that he had timber and iron enough at Pinkmaiden to build a unit of scorpions. His son, Ser Marq, added that he would man such a weapon if called upon to do so. The mountain clansmen wondered aloud if luring the dragons to the cold North might render them less threatening after the beasts had lived the entirety of their lives in hot, dry climes. The Cat watched them all, talking and shouting over each other, and saw Hoster Blackwood in the center of the room, his head whipping back and forth as he took in all the arguments with burgeoning frustration on his face. The girl stood then, glaring out over the crowd.
Within the space of three breaths, silence fell over the chamber and all eyes rested on the Lady of Winterfell and her scowl.
"My lords, I do not doubt the bravery or skill of any fighting man in this hall," she began, her voice steady but with an edge of censure, "but I would wager there is no man here who possesses a greater wealth of knowledge about this threat than Lord Hoster. I would hear him speak."
Instantly, Lord Umber rose from his seat, bracing himself against the table with his fists and leaning over to look out over the men. His menace could not be mistaken by anyone with sight. "Aye, let the lad speak, then!" His words were more in support of his lady's wishes than any love he bore Hoster Blackwood, but Arya appreciated the gesture.
Hos bowed his head briskly. "Thank you, my lady." He looked to his father, then resumed his speech. "My lords, we should not think that our choices are so limited. We are not bound to either servitude or war. A third path is open to us if we approach this properly."
"A third path, you say?" Clement Piper echoed.
"Yes, my lord. The path of diplomacy." There was a smattering of curses and some harsh laughter at the pronouncement. The lad ignored it and continued. "While the dragon army fights and then works to establish their rule in the capital, we have the luxury of time to place ourselves in a position of strength from which to negotiate."
"And for what do we negotiate?" the Blackfish inquired. "A bloodless surrender? A separate kingdom?"
"Whatever preserves the most health and wealth of the Riverlands and the North. But our chance of obtaining the most favorable outcome increases with our own strength."
"Pretty words, my fine young lord, but how do we increase the strength of our position?" Royal Wull called out, his look skeptical.
"By establishing as much stability and unity as we can. By restarting trade, protecting the smallfolk and encouraging their industry, increasing our forces, and yes, building as many dragon killing weapons as we can."
"But didn't you just tell us that this was folly?" Lord Smallwood asked. "That no man had the skill to use such a weapon effectively?"
"I do not mean for us to use the weapons, Lord Smallwood. But Aegon and Daenerys need not know our intentions. They need only see that we would consider it, and that we understand what it would take to bring a dragon down."
Murmurs could be heard throughout the crowd as the men considered Hoster's words. Arya, who had remained standing to this point, sat down then, looking thoughtful.
"We should make our lands as profitable, stable, and strong as we can. The Riverlands and the North must be too appealing to burn to the ground."
"So, you'd have us make ourselves whores?" the Greatjon spat. He had not followed his lady's lead and remained standing. "Should we put on our prettiest gown and offer to suck this usurper's cock in hopes he shows us his fat purse rather than the back of his hand?"
"I'd have us make the thought of unleashing his full power over our lands as distasteful as possible," Lord Hoster countered.
The girl did not know what to make of this newly crowned King Aegon, but she saw the sense in Hoster Blackwood's plan, as much as the idea of engaging in such political machinations rankled her.
But then, could they not use politics and diplomacy as a ploy? Could they not invite the Targaryens here under a banner of truce and put them at their ease? She had only to get close enough to them, even just in the same room…
Arya chewed her lip, her eyes narrowing. One finger trailed absently over the hard flat of the throwing knife hidden beneath her sleeve. One slender blade is all it would take. But then she wondered at the temperament of fire-breathing dragons who had no master. Could she slip into the mind of one as easily as she had slipped into the cat in the alley by Meerios Dinast's shop? Could she influence a dragon as she sometimes did Nymeria?
Could she influence three at once?
As she turned the idea over in her head, she recalled again what she had seen in the flames with Thoros.
A dragon in the snow, swallowing a direwolf whole.
No, she decided. This was not a risk she could take. There were too many unknowns to settle on such a plan just yet. If she somehow found herself in an audience with this silver king and his aunt, she'd have to keep her blades sheathed, at least until she knew more; more about dragons, and more about her influence over them.
She wondered if Hoster Blackwood had ever come across such a scenario in all his reading. A warg, and a dragon…
But that gave way to another idea. Perhaps controlling three dragons would not be easy. Perhaps it would even be impossible. Men, though… Men were not so hard. Could she influence the king himself? Or the Targaryen khaleesi?
A small smile, cold and malicious, shaped her mouth for the barest moment before she ruled her face.
"You mean for us to tempt the dragons into negotiations," the Blackfish said, "in the hopes it will distract them from waging war in our lands?" When Hoster nodded, the Lord Paramount continued. "And with whom shall this son of Rhaegar or his new Hand negotiate? Who will they consider equal to themselves?"
The girl's eyes narrowed. Her uncle had hit upon a point she hadn't considered. Jon Connington had already outlined his king's intention to sweep through the Riverlands, expecting a hero's welcome. It had not been a question but a declaration. If Aegon considered the Riverlords (and everyone else in Westeros) his vassals, who would he even deign to meet across a negotiating table? Wouldn't he simply burn any dissidents, one by one, castle by castle, until he found one willing to speak for the region and bend the knee?
Hoster Blackwood looked first at the Lord Paramount and then at his father, wetting his dry lips with his tongue for a moment before answering the Blackfish. The young lord cleared his throat.
"As I said, Lord Tully, we must negotiate from a position of strength. And nothing makes us stronger than presenting ourselves as one. We cannot be simply renegade lands, allied but separate, the Riverlands and the North. We must be one united kingdom, under one sovereign ruler. That is something I feel certain the Dragons will respect." As Hoster spoke, his gaze settled firmly on the Lady of Winterfell.
Arya flushed from head to toe, the feeling travelling as quick as lightning over her skin, but it wasn't heat that suffused her. It was a chill.
Got It in You—Banners