A/N: This is a bit of a personally indulgent chapter, so I hope it's not too boring for everyone else. The first section is a small gift to my friend, JinxedSydney—a nod to her love of Gendry (she writes some lovely Gendrya, amongst other things). It's a rare look at things from his POV. Warning: it's angsty. Then, there's a fair amount of description and atmosphere. I realize that isn't everyone's cup of tea, but it's the Neck, which is as close as Westeros gets to South Louisiana, and South Louisiana, as some of you know, is my favorite place on earth. So, I couldn't help but get a bit lost in the great swamp of the Neck (incidentally, I have no idea if GRRM intended the Neck to have a "great swamp" or for it just to be a boggy, marshy, desolate landscape similar to the Dead Marshes the hobbits crossed on their way to Mount Doom, but I'm from Louisiana, and so for the purposes of this story, a great swamp was a necessity).
I want to hide the truth.
I want to shelter you.
Arya was unusually withdrawn as the royal company mounted their horses and began the journey that would lead them through the great swamp which swallowed the vast center of the Neck. Her men were used to the quiet, pensive moods which struck her at times, but even when in the throes of one, the girl would still nod absently or make distracted comments at appropriate intervals. She could usually even be drawn into a true conversation, if the subject turned to swordplay, or wolves, or, strangely, the nutritional properties of acorn paste. This morning, however, no one had heard her speak since she'd left her tent. She'd simply set about the business of breaking camp with a faintly uneasy look, the explanation for which no one seemed able to coax from her.
Gendry rode to her left, the Bear to her right, but not at the forefront of the company as was her habit. Over the early part of their ride, the queen had drifted to the middle of the company without seeming to notice, another unusual occurrence for a woman who typically insisted on leading, not following (and, a woman who seemed almost always to be hyperaware). The blacksmith-knight cast sideways glances at the girl, often catching her staring ahead, unfocused, as she chewed her lip. It worried him. He found it increasingly disconcerting and two hours after they'd departed, as the landscape on either side of them began to give way to true swamp, he could stand it no longer.
"Your grace, what troubles you?" He ignored the way Ser Willem's head snapped up, the large Dornishman staring at him with disapproval; as though his words had been meant as insult. And he ignored the way Arya seemed not to hear him. Gendry leaned nearer to her, his great height allowing him to draw his mouth close to her ear. "Your grace?"
She turned her head, her wide, grey eyes blinking as she studied her friend's face. After a moment, she smiled, but it was nothing more than a fleeting tug at the corners of her mouth, perfunctory and polite. He thought it was meant to be reassuring; assuaging.
Instead, it made him angry.
'Honesty is the greatest compliment I can pay you,' she'd told him once. 'Lying is easy. It's the truth that's hard.'
But now she lied to him with her smile. If honesty was a compliment, then her fraudulent smile must be a mockery.
The thought provoked him beyond measure.
His mouth reshaped itself into a thin, pinched line. Seeing his expression, the girl seemed to start, as if she'd just awakened from a deep sleep. She cleared her throat.
"Ser?"
It was the first word he'd had from her all day.
He ignored the sweetness of her tone. It was just another lie.
"I asked what troubles you." His eyes bored into hers, as if he could know what was in her mind simply by looking at her hard enough.
Arya shook her head and smiled her insincere smile again. "Why must something be troubling me?"
The dark knight's jaw clenched and worked while he fought to maintain an even temper. Part of him, the practical part, said he had no right to his ire. Women were entitled to their secrets, weren't they? How much more so a queen? His queen. But another part whispered to him that of course he had a right to his anger; who had more right than he? They were supposed to be friends, weren't they? And he'd known her longer than anyone else in the company. So why wouldn't she just confide in him?
Old doubts swirled in his head; things he'd been told; things he'd been called; things he'd thought about himself. Lowborn, Flea Bottom bastard. Unacknowledged Baratheon by-blow. Nameless, worthless, witless.
The girl was still looking at him, expectant. He supposed she could be expectant if she so chose. She had a name. And wits. And now, a crown.
He heaved a breath, and it calmed him.
"You've nearly drawn blood from your bottom lip and as far as I can tell, these are the first words you've spoken all day."
Arya laughed a little, and that sound, at least, seemed genuine, if not altogether born of happiness. More like wry amusement. He supposed she could be amused if she so chose. No one would question it. She was a wanted child. A talented woman. And now, a revered figure.
She'd always been a revered figure to him. Well, at least since he'd seen her in the dress in Acorn Hall, the one they'd managed to ruin on the dirty forge floor. Before that, he could admit that he'd seen her as no more than a troublesome child.
He supposed at times, he wished she were still that troublesome child.
Then, he could take her up, and shake sense into her, and she might ask him to stay with her and he could choose differently.
"I should probably learn not to do that," she murmured. She licked at the lip in question and raised her eyebrows as if she were asking him a question. He blinked away images of her in the forge, and of her running away when he'd told her he had chosen to stay with Lord Beric and the Brotherhood.
He laughed a little, the sound of it a lie for which he refused to feel guilt. She'd started it. "Then how would I ever know what's going inside that head of yours?"
"Why would you want to?" The girl sighed. "The inside of my head is a dangerous place."
So sincere; such a rarity for her, to be unguarded in this way. He wanted it to last, but it pained him that she sounded so lonely when she said it.
"I'd like to help, if you'll let me. I'm sworn to protect you." That last, he said to remind her she could rely upon him. She seemed always to behave as though she could only count on herself.
He did not wonder at it, though. Indeed, the guilt of it all ate at him endlessly; the guilt he felt at her stubborn independence; at her reluctance to ask for aid, or comfort, or even a sympathetic ear; at her insatiable need to protect all those who laid even the most tenuous claim to her regard while never expecting that they might desire to return the favor.
As much as he might wish it were otherwise, he could not deny that he was partly to blame for it all.
She smiled, and this time it reached her silver eyes, though they looked more sad than amused now. "Can you protect me from strange dreams?"
Would that he could crush her bothersome dreams with his hammer!
"Dreams, your grace?"
Their tones were low, but Ser Willem had obviously heard something that caught his attention. He looked over at the queen, his forehead wrinkling with obvious concern as he traced her profile with his eyes. The Dornishman said nothing, however. Gendry still did not understand the knight's relationship to Arya. She'd once told him that the large, blonde man was like a brother to her, but the way he looked at her now… Gendry did not like to think what was closer than a brother, but Ser Willem's expression spoke of a connection that did not feel very familial to the blacksmith-knight.
But then, what did Gendry know of family? He'd never even seen his father, had only a vague recollection of his mother, and despite the knowledge that Robert Baratheon was undiscerning about where or how often he spread his seed, Gendry had never met any of his half-siblings.
"I had such a strange dream last night," the girl was saying, and the dark knight pulled his attention away from Ser Willem and back to his queen. "It left me with… quite a queer feeling. I'm no stranger to odd dreams, but this was unlike anything I've ever experienced. When I awoke…"
She sighed, her eyes casting upward as though the sky might reveal to her some truth that would soothe whatever it was that caused the ache he heard in her voice.
"When you awoke…" Gendry prompted when her mind seemed to drift away again.
Arya looked at him a moment, then muttered, "I wasn't quite sure I'd actually been dreaming."
The blacksmith-knight nodded his understanding. "I've had dreams that felt so real, it took a moment after awakening for me to understand that it hadn't actually happened after all."
He was thinking of specific dreams; dreams of Arya, pale and perfect, veiled in snow and so like a queen. He began to wonder if he might be something of a prophet, considering how things had turned out.
Pale and perfect. A queen of winter.
And that made him wonder if he might have the power to choose his dreams, and if perhaps he should try, on the off chance there was something to the idea of his being a prophet.
He knew exactly which dream he would choose.
Gendry smiled to himself, his mood suddenly lighter, but then he shook his head slightly, pushing the errant thought away. It wouldn't do to be caught up in such childish fantasies. Even in his dreams, he understood his place in the world very well.
"What did you dream?" he asked, nonchalant. "Perhaps if you speak of it, you won't fret over it anymore."
The queen seemed to consider the suggestion, then shrugged. "At first, it was an ordinary dream, like a memory that comes back when you sleep, only a little different."
He wanted her to keep talking. He wanted to hear her voice, without respite, because the air around him almost seemed to shimmer and vibrate as she spoke. It was as if her words, her very breath, slipped beneath his collar and made his skin prickle, a feeling he both loved and hated; a feeling that reminded him he was alive.
"A memory of what, your grace?" Keep talking.
"Of Braavos."
"Braavos?" Ser Willem asked, suddenly attentive again. "What of Braavos?"
"Just an ordinary day in Braavos," she answered lightly. "I was in a walled garden. There were lemon trees."
"A garden," the Dornishman repeated. "With… lemon trees."
Gendry didn't like the man's tone, nor did he appreciate him usurping the conversation.
"That hardly seems disturbing," the dark knight commented, wresting control of the discussion from the bothersome, not-so-brotherly knight. Ser Willem gave him a sharp look, but it came and went so fast, Gendry wondered if he were imagining it.
"No, that part wasn't disturbing," the girl admitted. "I assume it was just a consequence of our talking about Braavos so much after supper last night. The memories were… at the forefront of my mind when I fell asleep, I suppose."
"Yes. That makes sense," Gendry agreed. "So, what happened that troubled you?"
The queen gazed straight ahead, considering. She looked over at her sworn shield finally, saying, "Everything was familiar. It was Braavos. And then… it wasn't. It was like I blinked and then I was back in the camp, back in my tent, but everything was… strange."
"Strange how?" Ser Willem asked. Gendry glowered at him.
Arya's grey eyes narrowed as she considered the question and then she shook her head. "It's hard to explain. It seemed like I was awake. I was in my furs, and then I got up and started moving around my tent. I could see Rosie. I could hear her breathing. But there was someone else there, too."
The hairs on the back of Gendry's neck rose and he sat up stiffly in his saddle.
"Was someone in your pavilion with you?" he asked urgently. "Someone besides Rosie?" His voice became stern. "Who was standing guard?" He glared up toward Podrick Payne who rode ten yards ahead of them. The dark knight squinted, then growled.
"No need for a court martial, ser. It only seemed real," Arya soothed. "It wasn't actually… It was assuredly a dream. I mean, everything was green."
"Green…" he echoed.
"And the man said…"
"What man?" he asked.
"The man in my dream, who was in my pavilion," she explained. "He said that he would send friends to greet me, in the Neck, and that I should not be alarmed."
Gendry mulled her words, then hit upon a likely explanation and smiled at her. "It seems to me, your grace, that you must have been worrying about our journey today, and so you dreamed some comfort for yourself."
"Yes," Ser Willem agreed. "I'm sure Ser Gendry is right, your grace." Gendry didn't think the knight sounded very convinced, but he could find no fault in his words otherwise (except for the fact that he'd spoken them at all).
The girl looked at her Dornish protector, then at her sworn shield. The rancor the blacksmith-knight felt at Ser Willem's interference was mitigated by the nod and grateful smile the girl gave him.
"Yes. Yes, you must have the right of it, ser," she said, and her eyes were so soft, so relieved at his words that Gendry quite forgot Willem Ferris altogether and instead concentrated on the warmth he felt spreading outward from his chest.
The Cat's conversation with Gendry had served as a timely reminder of the importance of mastering her face. She hadn't bothered with it all morning, allowing complacency to creep in as she considered the strange, jade dream she'd experienced. She was made to regret that complacency when, to her surprise, the blacksmith-knight demonstrated his improved skills at reading her (and his tenacity at sussing out what occupied her mind). At least enough to become a bit of a nuisance. But, she reasoned, he was really quite innocuous, her sworn shield. He so desired her approval, nearly pulsing with his need to be of use to her. In the end, she'd convinced him that he had been, if only so that she could be left alone with her thoughts.
Because if there was anything she knew for certain about her odd, tinted dream, it was that it was not conjured from somewhere deep within her own mind as a way to cope with any fears about crossing the causeway over the great swamp of the Neck (a feat she'd achieved once already, at the tender age of nine).
Nervousness.
About their journey.
It was laughable.
But her old friend had meant well. She knew that. And there was no harm in letting him think he'd solved the mystery he believed she'd been pondering all morning, she supposed. After all, who wasn't baffled by their dreams sometimes? Who hadn't been disturbed by a peculiar and uninvited wandering of their mind in the nighttime? It was an easy thing for Gendry to believe, and so, she'd let him.
The Bear, however, was not as easy to fool. The Cat could read his look as easily as a raven's scroll. It was a look which said she owed him an explanation.
She wasn't sure she had one to give. Not yet.
Arya was a practical girl, educated both by great teachers (her father, Maester Luwin, Syrio Forel, the waif, the Kindly Man, Jaqen H'ghar) and by life itself. Observant and sharp-witted, the girl had been a ready student from her earliest days. She learned from books and scrolls, from the wisdom of great men who deigned to impart what they knew to her, and from her own experiences and interactions with the wider world. Her formal education, by design and then later, by chance, had been of the highest quality. Maester Luwin, once an academic star himself at the Citadel, may have been tasked with preparing Lord Stark's sons to take their place in the world, but it was Ned's youngest daughter who challenged him most.
Always wanting to know more. Always wanting to understand precisely how. Always demanding why, why, why?
Maester Luwin had once told her she could've made a maester herself, had she been so inclined, and had the Citadel permitted women.
Neither were the case, though.
Despite that, despite her desire to understand the workings of things, the how and the why, she also knew there existed things which were not tangible, or logical, or easily explainable. She understood there were forces that dwelled in the space beyond the vast expanse of man's knowledge (that place where the natural world and what was other intersected). Call it the gods (old or new, light or dark), or magic, or immense, ancient power emanating from some source unable to be described by the tongues of men. No matter which explanation was offered for it, there existed power in the world that could not be mastered by reading books and scrolls, or from listening to wise men discuss philosophy or physics, or from living by one's wits.
She had witnessed too much, experienced too much, to doubt the truth of it.
The strange, shaded dream had felt as though it were one of these ethereal forces.
Or, at least a product of such power.
And that was it—the thing which preoccupied her. Not the man in her dream, or his words, or what her eyes had seen in it, but just that feeling; that feeling of something great and looming and powerful and enigmatic enveloping her.
Why did such things visit themselves on some and not others? Was it due to faith? Aptitude? Merit?
She doubted that very much.
Could it be punishment? Retribution? Penance?
That did not seem likely, either.
Was it something in the blood?
She might've dismissed such a notion, egalitarian as she was by nature, yet there was some evidence to support it.
Her mother, for one. Or, the thing her mother had become, at least. And then there was Bran, and all he could do, or all that she thought he could do. Jon was said to have died, and yet lived, and there must be some strange power at play to make it so. And what of herself? What of all the strange and wondrous and frightful things she'd done?
She ranged far afield while her body remained in place, in Nymeria, in birds, in rodents, in cats, in eels.
She pushed men with a mere thought, and learned their secrets, things they might never have chosen to reveal yet were helpless to hide from her.
She walked in dreams and saw visions in the fire.
None of these things had been taught to her by any of Maester Luwin's erudite lectures. Were they the gift of her blood, somehow? Inherited just the same as her Stark grey eyes and her long face so like Lyanna's?
Knowing all she knew, as a witness to things mysterious, and mythical, and miraculous in her world, she could not doubt there was more she had yet to see; yet to learn. So, when her strange dream occurred, when it felt so real yet couldn't be… who was she to doubt that there was some occult force at play?
Just as she accepted the veracity of the divine and unexplainable, she accepted these things (these gifts or abilities, these magical occurrences) must happen for a reason; some plot the gods had concocted; some aim they demanded be achieved; some empyrean scheme they set into motion.
It was a lot to sort out.
And she knew rather than being made to admit there was more in this life than a mind could ever comprehend, both the provable and the mystic, what concerned her was this: with so many other threads dangling loose (threads both mundane and magical; threads she was trying desperately to weave together so that she would not lose a hold of them, thereby losing her place in this world), Arya was left to wonder what else was in store for her, and if she possessed the capacity to manage it without causing great harm, either to others or to herself.
Or, more succinctly, would all these disparate threads defy her attempt to weave them into some sort of recognizable reality and instead twine themselves together into a noose that would hang her?
It was these thoughts which had caused her eyes to lose their focus and her hearing to dim and her very awareness to fade, but that was not something so easy to admit to a Westerosi knight who shared blood with Robert Baratheon. Gendry's father had unintentionally bequeathed to him a desire for instant, uncomplicated judgements and quick action, but nothing of patience or thoughtful consideration. Had she even attempted to explain the truth of her musings, she doubted the dark knight's worries would've been soothed, and his concern was of little use to anyone.
And hadn't she made him her sworn shield so that she might protect him?
Yes, she told herself. Misleading him was a mercy.
Sometimes lies were kinder.
The company crossed the unmarked border between the Riverlands and the Neck with little fanfare. Only Harwin noted it, having recognized some landmark or another which identified the division, and he grunted something about being back in the North again. Arya thought she should feel more satisfaction at the thought, or more nostalgia, or more joy. Just more. But Winterfell was still a long way off, and though the Neck was part of the North, it was the part that least felt like it. It was too warm, for one, though perhaps her companions would not say so, wrapping their cloaks more tightly around them as they were. The Neck also boasted a landscape completely different from the rest of the North. It just didn't look northern.
That was made plain as soon as they reached the great, man-made roadway raised above the swampy terrain which dominated the region.
The causeway through the great swamp was overhung with the long, dark branches of trees which seemed to thrive in the murk and shade. Some were draped with banners of heavy, grey moss which swayed overhead and had the effect of making it impossible to discern the location of sun in the sky. Arya discovered it was all too easy to lose track of time in the Neck, for the place seemed to be in a perpetual state of dusk. Harwin did his best to keep their pace brisk, reminding them that they would not like to navigate this treacherous path after sunset, and neither would they enjoy bunking with the lizard-lions or the sharp-toothed bog rats that were plentiful in the area. The creatures were known to be particularly adept nocturnal hunters.
"There's a break ahead, where the causeway widens and the surrounding ground is more solid," the Northman explained. "It's the safest place to make camp."
"How far, Harwin?" Ser Jaime asked.
"Near six leagues further, as I recall."
"Then we need to press on," the golden knight replied grimly.
"Aye."
The pace would not have been taxing, but for the fact that they'd encountered one of the narrow parts of the causeway. They could ride two abreast, but a stray hoof in either direction would mean sliding down a steep embankment into the sluggish waters of the marsh, possibly laming a horse; possibly worse. So, for safety, they filed one behind the other, in a single line, but that slowed them down a bit.
The advantage to this necessary arrangement, as far as Arya could tell, was that no one expected conversation. They rode over three blissful hours in this manner, the only sounds the ambient bird calls and the occasional caution from riders near the front to avoid a slick area or a small hole that might twist a horse's leg. It allowed Arya to take in the unique landscape undisturbed.
It was different, somehow, than what she recalled from her first trip through the Neck. She supposed that might be because she was locked away in the royal wheelhouse for parts of the journey, so she'd missed some of the sights. It might also be that the season had changed. If the countryside near Winterfell could appear different in the winter, with snows and bare trees, then why not the Neck, too?
It was a close place, with the reaching limbs hanging low and the narrow causeway crowded in by bogs and thick marsh grass, but there was a beauty to it as well. Arya saw it, in the dark, still waters and the mists rising languidly from their surface. There was a constant symphony of frogs and crickets harmonizing in the background, punctuated by the cries of plovers and curlews, so like the airy melody of a band musicians playing their flutes. After such a long while of swaying on Bane's back, the queen was quite lulled by it all.
Perhaps that explained why she was startled by the sudden call from Ser Kyle for the company to halt. He'd unsheathed his sword as he spoke. Arya couldn't see him, but the sound of steel sliding from a scabbard was unmistakable to her ear. The rest of the Winter Guard followed suit as Ser Jaime's commanding voice rose above the startled exclamations and the drawing of steel.
"Identify yourself!"
There was a reply too faint for the girl to interpret from her spot in the line, and so she closed her eyes and reached forth, using Ben Blackwood's eyes and ears for the briefest of moments. In this way, she was able to see a small group of men dressed in plain scale mail, the garments underneath rough homespun of dark browns and greens, which had the effect of making them seem as though they were part of the landscape itself. They stood shoulder to shoulder across the causeway, blocking the path, in two rows. There weren't many, maybe eight, but they had daggers in their belts and gripped short spears. And, they were not alone. Off to the left were several skiffs in the swamp below the road, each carrying two men similarly attired. They weren't big, these men, but their expressions were unyielding.
"Say again?" Ser Jaime demanded, prompting their leader to repeat himself.
"We mean you no harm," the stranger said, stepping forth from the line of his fellows. "We are men of Greywater Watch. Lord Reed has sent us to guide you safely through the Neck. The road ahead becomes more challenging and is impossible to follow safely once the sun sets."
Arya slid silently down from her saddle and slipped alongside the company, approaching the front of their line so that she might see these newcomers with her own eyes. Brienne and Jaime both caught sight of her at the same time, and each called out a warning to stop her, alarmed.
"Your grace!" they cried in unison.
But by then, Arya stood before her company, facing the spearmen blocking their path. Before the girl could speak, the leader of the newcomers drew up to his full height, which was not terribly tall, and said in a reverent tone, "Your grace." He bent his knee then, bowing his head and folding his short spear across his chest in a gesture of respect. The men he led followed suit, offering soft murmurings of "your grace" as they did. Even the men on the skiffs knelt, and Arya was amazed at how none of them seemed to waver or drift in the least as they did.
Such perfect stillness, she thought as her eyes drank in the sight. It was a skill she could appreciate, knowing how difficult it was to master. She turned back to the man who'd spoken.
"Who are you?" the girl asked.
"I am Ranson of House Cray, your grace. I serve Lord Reed as the captain of his guard." The man rose as he spoke. "My lord wishes that I should escort you and a small number of your company to Greywater Watch. The rest, he bids us to lead safely to Moat Cailin, where you will join them in a few days."
Ser Jaime had hopped from his horse to move alongside Arya, his good hand gripping the hilt of his sword.
"Why only a small number?" he asked suspiciously. Within seconds, the rest of the Winter Guard had fallen in around Arya, following their Lord Commander's lead.
"It's only that we must travel through the marshes, where horses may not go. Someone must take your horses and supplies over the causeway," Ranson Cray explained, and to the girl's ear, the crannogman's tone was deferential. It did not seem to satisfy the Kingslayer, though.
"Do you really believe we'd allow our queen to be led off into this godsforsaken soggy wilderness by someone we don't know?" Jaime asked, waving his golden hand around to indicate the objectionable wilderness to which he referred. His expression trumpeted his incredulity. The Lord Commander looked over at his sovereign and evidently, he did not like what he saw in her eyes. "Your grace," he growled at her, "you cannot be seriously thinking of leaving with this rabble!"
"I swear to you, ser, she will reach my lord unharmed," Ranson pledged. The crannogman bowed his head and the girl was impressed with his even temperament. Stillness. He looked at Arya and said, "Your grace, my lord bade me tell you we are friends and that you should not be afraid. House Reed is loyal to its rightful queen and has always been a true friend to House Stark."
I'll send men to greet you. They'll find you in the marsh.
Arya's recent dream was playing in her head as she listened to Jaime argue with the crannogman.
Do not be alarmed, your grace. They're friends.
"Why should we trust you are who you say you are?" the Kingslayer spat, glaring at the spearmen blocking their path. "You've detained us, and are armed, and…"
Before he could finish his accusation, the queen placed her hand on the Lord Commander's arm, a gesture meant to stay him. She tilted her face up to look at Jaime. He bit off the last of his words and stared down at her, gripping his sword tighter and awaiting her command. Instead, the girl pulled her eyes from his and stepped forward to address Ranson Cray.
"I will go with you," she said simply.
"What?" Jaime cried.
"Ser Jaime, Howland Reed was my father's bannerman," Arya said gently.
"Not to put too fine a point on it, your grace, but your father has been dead these six years," the Kingslayer reminded her. "Whose bannerman is Howland Reed now?"
Arya could see that Jaime was worried for her; worried some unscrupulous lord or even grasping bandits might like to take her captive, a prize to trade with whichever lord would benefit from having her in his control; someone who might take her in exchange for favors, or gold.
"My lord is loyal to House Stark," the crannogman leader cut in, his tone even but brooking no dissent. "And only House Stark."
"I will be safe under his roof." The girl made the declaration with a certainty the Lord Commander of her Winter Guard did not share.
"Do we know that Greywater Watch even has a roof?" the Kingslayer groused under his breath. The corner of Arya's mouth quirked up at that.
"You may accompany her grace, if you choose," Ranson said to the golden knight, an offer meant as both reassurance and appeasement.
"Bloody right I will," Jaime spat, neither reassured nor appeased, and then immediately began barking orders at the royal company, organizing the party which would accompany the queen to Howland Reed's castle and which would follow their new guides to Moat Cailin with the horses.
All the while, two pairs of eyes watched the scene unfolding before them with dawning awareness. One pair belonged to a man who was trying to make sense of a dream becoming reality as he wondered if there was more to his old friend than he'd once believed (and more to this business of prophetic dreams). The other belonged to a man who gazed at his sister (his closest friend; his everything, really), wondering how it was possible that one small girl should have so many strange and hidden gifts.
Brynden Blackwood was left in charge of the men who would continue overland to Moat Cailin. Jaime had wanted to bring the entire Winter Guard on the skiffs to the castle, but Arya had managed to talk him out of it, reminding him that she was no helpless charge and could be counted among the fighting men should steel be required.
Of course, she'd also told the golden knight she in no way expected steel to be required during a visit under a loyal subject's roof, to which he'd replied that steel might've come in handy when Robb had his last visit under a supposedly loyal subject's roof.
In the end (and after further contentious discussion between the Lord Commander of the Winter Guard and his queen), the party which would accompany Ranson Cray to Greywater Watch had been whittled down to Jaime, Brienne, Gendry, Hoster, the Bear, little Jon Brax, and Arya herself.
The Kingslayer shook his head in dismay as they boarded the skiffs. "Exactly how much help will your infant squire be in a fight?" he growled into Arya's ear.
The girl rolled her eyes. "I've told you, there won't be a fight. Anyway, I thought you'd be pleased I didn't insist on bringing my maid in Brienne's place."
"As if you would. I have no doubt you'll relish your days of being completely unkempt. You'll probably sleep in your boots." Jaime frowned, crossing his arms over his chest. "You should've sent the boy with Rosie and brought Ben Blackwood instead."
"It's my responsibility to train Jon Brax. You were a squire once. You should know this."
His only reply was a disgusted grunt.
"How will he ever learn anything if I leave him behind every time something interesting happens?" She leaned into the golden knight slightly, murmuring, "He'll be one of the very few people in Westeros who can say they've ever visited Greywater Watch."
"Fantastic," Jaime said, all false enthusiasm. "And while you concern yourself with broadening the horizons of a barely-weaned Frey heir, I'll concern myself with keeping these bog devils from slitting your throat."
The queen chuckled. "I believe the Neck has made you paranoid, ser." She did not doubt the eerie scenery possessed the power to incite that sort of emotion, even in a knight of renown such as her companion. "These men mean us no harm. And my squire is not a Frey. He's a Brax."
Jaime hmphed at that but said nothing further. Arya wished she could somehow relieve his worry, but she wasn't certain telling him about her dreams (if that's what they were) would convince him. She tried to imagine the conversation.
'My crippled brother, the one everyone thought was murdered by Theon Greyjoy, is actually alive and he talks to me through the weirwoods. Anyway, he told me I'd meet allies if I traveled overland. Oh, and then a green man came into my pavilion when I was sleeping and said he'd send men to guide us through the swamp, then it happened, so it will all be fine, don't worry.'
A secret smile curved her lips as she pictured the Kingslayer's reaction, but she quickly ruled her face. If Ser Jaime demanded to know what was so amusing, she wasn't so sure he would appreciate her explanation. She did not wish to tempt fate.
The crannogmen who guided the skiffs expertly through the swamps were mostly silent and Arya admired their focus. Their eyes roved the still surface of the water, surveying the murk, watching for threats as they navigated around floating logs and little submerged islands of waving marsh grass. Each skiff was crewed by two men, one who stood aft and powered their movements by pushing a long pole against the sludgy swamp bottom, and one crouched up front, spear gripped in one hand, his other stretched out for balance.
"What does he look for?" the queen asked the pilot of the skiff carrying her. She lifted her chin, directing it at the couching Ranson Cray who scanned the water before the skiff restlessly.
"Lizard-lions, your grace," the pilot answered gruffly. "A large one could capsize us in a blink and snatch the closest man from the water to make a quick meal of him. Their teeth are like needles, and long, and their jaws are as powerful as an iron bear trap. Not a pleasant way for a man to meet his end." The way he said it made Arya think he'd seen someone meet such an end with his own eyes, maybe more than once. "Marsh serpents, too. They can't upend a boat, but they're lightning fast, and can rear up and strike. Some are harmless, but some are venomous and deadly with a single bite."
"Your home is a place of great beauty and great danger, then," the girl observed.
"The same could be said for many places, I imagine," was his reply.
Arya thought of Old Nan's stories of the land beyond the Wall, and she thought of Braavos, and she thought of Winterfell and all that had happened there since she'd left.
"Yes, of course," she whispered. "You speak truly."
"A man of the Neck will never speak otherwise, your grace," the pilot said, his voice all matter of fact.
This seemed to rouse Ser Jaime from his prolonged sulk. "So crannogmen don't know how to lie?" His tone held notes of mockery.
"We know how, Southron. We choose not to. There's no room for artifice here."
"I suppose not, considering there's hardly room for horses to ride two abreast on the only road your region can claim," the Kingslayer retorted.
The pilot grunted his agreement, refusing to read the insult in Jaime's words.
He really can be quite a snob at times, Arya thought. A little time spent at Greywater Watch might do him some good.
Time passed with no way to mark it. The girl contented herself with studying everything her eyes could take in—the way Jon Brax's mouth dropped open with each new sight (and the way he snatched his reaching hand back when the pilot of his skiff barked at him not to touch a purple bloom stretching up from a rotten log. 'A poison kiss,' the crannogman explained, his voice kindlier once the danger had passed. 'Your hand would be swollen and weeping within a minute, lad.'); the way Gendry and the Bear each looked uncomfortably stiff and unmoving owing to their large size and the limited space available on the skiff they shared; the way Brienne's guard never seemed to drop, her posture always alert, her hand never straying from the hilt of her sword; the way Hoster Blackwood studied his surroundings (and his queen, when he thought she couldn't see him), almost with the same degree of wonder as her squire; the way the skiffs moved smoothly over the surface of the swamp with deceptive speed.
The girl glanced overhead, squinting at the canopy which sheltered them along the whole of the journey. Branches, leaves, vines, and more of those coarse tapestries of moss all wove together nearly as solidly as the thatch which made the roof of a crofter's cottage, filtering the sunlight in such a way that the shade fell heavy on her shoulders, like a cloak. It was difficult to know what time of day it was in the gloom, even more so than when they rode the causeway, but the light seemed to be fading to Arya's eye and she suspected that evenfall was approaching. A short time later, that observation seemed confirmed when the crannogmen began lighting lanterns at each end of their skiffs, throwing warm, wavering light that moved in a skitter across the black surface of the water.
The effect was entirely mesmerizing.
The nocturnal birds began to call, some of their sounds disturbingly like the cries of a startled woman or a child being subjected to violence. The girl's questioning look at what she heard was all the pilot needed to oblige her by naming each feathered specimen whose dark song echoed from high in the trees or from low on a peat isle.
"That's a night heron," the man said after a series of clipped shrieks sounded. "Probably a yellow-crowned, though black-crowned herons are not unknown here." Then, when a particularly shrill, human-sounding cry filled the night, he added, "And that's a blood-billed ibis."
A blood-billed ibis, she thought. Such a descriptive name. She could perfectly picture the creature in her mind, feathers black as pitch with a long, curved bill stained deep scarlet. It probably has red eyes, too, like the ghost of High Heart. It all made the girl long for the soft, comforting whoo-WHOOs of the snowy owls which populated the wolfswood.
After a time, Arya moved toward the other end of the craft, drawing even with Ranson Cray and trying to see what he saw. In the shadows birthed by his lantern, it almost appeared as though dark creatures of ill intent swarmed the periphery of her vision, half-submerged in the opaque waters, lurking. A cold shiver snaked down her back.
"How can you tell what's real and what's not out here?" she breathed, her voice low and full of awe.
"Sometimes, you can't," he acknowledged, his voice as quiet as hers.
She nodded and swallowed, then asked a question that had been on her mind since she'd first met the crannogman.
"It's said ravens cannot find Greywater Watch," she began and watched as her companion nodded his head in agreement without looking at her. His expression of concentration was made starker by the lantern light which bathed his face. "How did you know who I was, then? How did you know where I'd be? How could you even know I'd been made queen? It was just days ago, but you greeted me as 'your grace'."
Ranson remained still, poised to strike should any danger present itself, his gaze focused on the darkness ahead. His answer was quiet so that he might hear any tell-tale splash in the water above his own voice. "My lord knows many things, your grace. He told me where to be, and when, and who I'd find there."
"Yes," she said, fastening her eyes onto the man's profile, "but… how?"
"That's a question Lord Reed is better equipped to answer than I am." As if sensing the girl's impatience, the crannogman assured her they were not far off from the castle and the answers she sought. She wondered if he might simply be trying to dismiss her, but not half an hour later, the skiff rounded a bend and twinkling lights ahead filled her vision, like so many merry yellow stars fallen from the heavens and dancing to celebrate their new home in the swamp.
"Greywater Watch," the man poling Brienne's skiff called. His voice carried over the waters, cutting through the layered chirping of the frogs and the cries of the nightbirds.
Arya stared ahead as the barest hint of the castle's outline resolved itself before her eyes. The yellow stars were lanterns and torches and candles, mounted along the walls, lining the floating dock they approached, and perched in open windows. The structure was not a castle in the traditional sense, she could tell that much even across the distance, but it was no less majestic. Greywater Watch was singularly suited for its environment. The thing rose up tall from the black waters, and was made entirely of wood and tiered, its roof pitched steep on every level. Its stout keeps and towers were joined in places by raised bridges framed by ropes supporting spaced planks. A single slender turret reached high, breaching the canopy of trees overhead, and it seemed to sway gently, though the girl couldn't be sure that wasn't just a trick of her eye.
There were men on the dock, dressed similarly to the crannogmen crewing the skiffs. They greeted each boat as it arrived, tying off the crafts and helping the passengers step onto the dock. The thing dipped and bounced with each step upon it and the girl had to take a moment to find her balance.
"Men," Ranson Cray called when the last of the royal company had disembarked the skiffs, "this is our rightful sovereign, Queen Arya of House Stark."
The dock guards all bowed low, and when Ranson indicated that the newcomers should follow him into the castle, the dock guards moved to the edges of the floating plankway, guiding their guests safely along its path.
In less than a minute, little Jon Brax had caught up to the queen and in a comically loud whisper, said with awe, "This walkway is moving! It makes me feel like I'm floating!"
"Extraordinary, don't you think?" she whispered back with a wink.
"Yes! But everything has been, really. Did you see that lizard-lion, basking on a log? Arrnold Greengood said it could move as fast as a galloping horse in the water, but it looked fat and lazy to me."
"Who is Arrnold Greengood?"
"He's the crannogman who was guarding my skiff with his spear. He said they have to keep their spears sharpened all the time, because lizard-lions have tough skins, so they're hard to kill."
The girl smiled and ruffled her squire's hair, then suggested, "You should ask Lord Hoster's help to write down every wondrous thing you've seen or heard on this journey, so you don't forget."
The boy scrunched his face. "Writing," he groaned. "I've never been very good at it. It cramps my hand. I'd rather hunt giant bog rats!"
He'd obviously been talking to the crew of his skiff a good bit along their journey.
Arya laughed outright then. "There will be time for bog rat hunting, I'm sure, but a knight must know his letters well, and so it's important that he master them as a squire."
"And what about an assassin?" young Jon whispered, this time keeping his voice truly low. "Does an assassin need to know his letters?"
"An assassin even more so," the Cat assured him.
The boy's face shaped itself into a look of determination. "Then I'll ask Lord Hoster as soon as we're settled."
Before they entered the gate of the low wall around Greywater Watch, Jaime and Brienne pushed ahead of Arya, determined to be ready to protect her even if the girl did not think there was a threat to meet. Ser Gendry and Ser Willem walked just behind her, while Jon Brax remained at her side, his eyes growing wide at the change in the demeanor of her guard and then at the sights to be seen beyond the wooden gates of the wooden wall. Hoster trailed them all, his sharp eye noting each detail that met it.
The castle sat barely twenty yards past the walls which surrounded it and though their feet fell on solid land as soon as they entered the walls, the ground still seemed to move beneath their feet, ever so slightly. Arya had always assumed that the claim Greywater Watch moves was merely exaggeration, or perhaps a myth grown up out of something more mundane (like the floating dock, which certainly had bobbled and swayed as they traversed it). But now, she understood the truth behind the claim. It was a slight feeling, barely detectable, but it made the girl's stomach lurch a bit as she walked.
Ranson Cray barked an order at the guards standing outside of the great double doors leading into the castle and in response, the doors were pulled open and held for the approaching party. The men bowed their heads as Arya passed. They marched down a long corridor made entirely of wood—the floor, the walls, the ceiling were completely formed from lacquered planks. At the end of the corridor, they entered what passed for Greywater Watch's great hall, and therein were greeted by a crowd, scattered on either side of the chamber.
"Queen Arya of House Stark!" a man just beyond the door announced as soon as the girl stepped foot inside. The assemblage knelt and the girl continued to the end of the aisle created by those present. She finally stopped before a man with salt and pepper hair, kneeling by himself before the head table. Jaime stood to her right, Brienne to her left, both their sword arms crossed over their chests, their sword hands gripping their hilts, ready.
The man raised his head and regarded Arya. She noted immediately that his face marked him as younger than his graying beard and hair would suggest. She also noted he was exceedingly familiar to her.
But not green.
"Your grace," he greeted warmly. "Welcome to Greywater Watch."
"Lord Reed," she returned, cocking her head and smiling a bit. "Thank you for your hospitality." Howland Reed rose, and Arya could see he was a slight man. And yet, he had… a presence. And though she couldn't understand the why of it, she was immediately taken with him.
"Your grace, your lord father…" The man paused, then reached for her hand, grasping her fingers and squeezing them lightly as he swallowed down some emotion that tried to rise up in him. She'd felt it, without trying to. Without meaning to. A weighted sadness, the feeling one she knew all too well. Howland blinked and his deep green eyes held her gaze a moment. The girl's heart fluttered in her chest at the look, so piercing was it. He seemed as though… he knew. How could he know? But the moment passed, and he was finally able to speak again. "Ned Stark was the best of men. And he was my very great friend. Our hearts are heavy at his loss."
Arya bowed her head, both to acknowledge Howland's kind sentiment, but also to rule her face.
Even after all these years, the thought of her father, the realization that he was gone, could still reach out and sting her so that she would forget to breathe; could still turn her into that street urchin crouching at Baelor's feet, hand gripping castle forged steel uselessly as she watched the worst thing to ever happen to her unfold, powerless to stop it.
When she was sure her voice would not waver noticeably, she thanked the man for his gracious words, and then she squared her shoulders, becoming the queen again.
"My lord, allow me to introduce you to my party."
She named each of her companions and Howland nodded respectfully to each in turn. When she named her squire at last, the genial crannogman studied Jon Brax's tawny eyes a moment before speaking.
"So, you have the good fortune to squire for our queen, eh?"
The boy nodded enthusiastically. "I do, my lord!"
"I have no doubt you are conscious of what a great honor it is."
"That's true, my lord!"
"I think a lad who occupies such an important post should know his way around all sorts of weapons, don't you?"
"Oh… oh, yes, my lord," little Jon replied, sounding uncertain. After a second, he admitted, "Only… I've mostly used short swords and bows so far."
"Well, that won't do at all, my boy," the lord chided. "As the queen's squire, you'll find yourself in every part of the kingdom, I imagine, at one time or another. The landscape varies, necessitating an adaptation of fighting styles."
The boy's brow scrunched up and he nodded, taking Howland Reed's words to heart. "The men here use spears," he muttered thoughtfully.
"Bows, spears, tridents, daggers," the lord nodded. He looked over at Ranson Cray then. "I think we can arrange some training with the trident and the spear while he's here, can't we Ranson?"
"Yes, m'lord. Perhaps on the hunt day after tomorrow?"
Howland smiled. "The men are going out after lizard-lions and bog rats," he explained to his guests. "The skins are uncommonly suited for light armor and boots, and the meat is good to eat." He fastened his green eyes on Arya. "If the queen will grant her permission…"
"Oh! Oh! Could I, your grace?" the boy begged, forgoing all propriety in his excitement. The girl laughed.
"Yes, Jon, assuming Lord Hoster says you've done well enough with your letters," she allowed.
"Thank you, your grace!" The small squire bounced on the balls of his feet with his exhilaration. "A bog rat… and maybe I'll have new boots of lizard-lion skin!" He looked admiringly at the boots worn by their host.
The girl patted his shoulder. "Manners, Jon," she reminded him gently. "We are guests here."
The Lord of Greywater Watch smiled indulgently. "You should not fear offending us, your grace. We are humble people. Humble, but loyal." He stepped aside, sweeping his arm to indicate that the queen should take what was assuredly his usual seat at the center of the high table. "I know you must be weary and famished after your taxing journey. We've prepared a supper for you."
Arya nodded gratefully, doing as she was bid and then everyone found seats, except for Jaime and Brienne, who stood behind the Winter's Queen on guard, their eyes continually roving over the chamber throughout the supper (despite the girl urging them to sit and eat).
The meal was simple, but delicious, with tender frog legs crusted in breadcrumbs and crushed peppercorns, then fried, and a thick stew of marsh prawns served over the black rice which was so plentiful in the Neck. The servants were bringing out a sweet custard with a crust of sugar glass over top of it when Arya leaned over to ask their host a question.
"Lord Reed, I've been wondering…"
The crannogman's eyes shone like dark emeralds as he turned to face her. "How I knew where to find you? How I knew who you were?" He smiled at her befuddled look. "I believe you already know the answer to that, your grace."
She whispered her suspicion. "The dream?"
"A most remarkable thing," he admitted. "I'm no stranger to things which are… perhaps not well understood in all parts of this land. Ancient things; things preternatural…"
"Magic," the girl suggested.
He smiled. "If you like."
She chewed her bottom lip, then breathed, "But?"
Howland nodded. "But… this dream was…"
"Different."
"Different," he agreed. "A green dream, to be sure, but somehow more."
"A green dream?"
"Surely you noticed, your grace."
"Yes, but what does that mean?"
"I think… you and I have much to discuss." His bearded chin tilted down a little and he raised his eyebrows, studying the queen's face. "But perhaps this is not the best time for it. I know you have questions. I believe together, we can find the answers, but such discussions are… delicate."
"You'd rather we speak in private," the girl surmised.
"If you'll allow it."
"Of course, my lord."
"Tomorrow, then? Would you break your fast with me in the highest turret chamber? I'd like to show you something."
The girl inclined her head, accepting the invitation. Howland smiled, then looked thoughtful, his eyes sweeping the small crowd eating in the chamber with them. Arya's men, and his. The girl followed the path of his scrutiny and noted a large, grey-robed man in the corner. He wore a heavy chain, she noted; one containing so many links, it had to be double-looped around his neck.
A maester. And a rather accomplished one. Curious.
She commented on it. "I recall learning from my own maester that Greywater Watch has no maester…"
"Nor does it," the lord agreed. "Maester Samwell is a guest, on his way north. Like yourself, your grace."
"Which castle will claim his service?"
"Castle Black, though I think he means to sojourn at Winterfell for a short time."
This caught the girl off guard. "Winterfell? What business does he have there?"
"Personal business, I believe. He has a dear friend there he wishes to see."
Arya mulled that over a bit. She supposed nearly everyone behind Winterfell's walls would be a stranger to her after all this time. So many had left with her father and died for their pains. Still more had followed Robb south, never to return. Then, those left had probably mostly died in the sack of the castle or in the strife which plagued the North in the years following. She wondered if she would even see one familiar face once she arrived, apart from her brother and Ghost. She didn't suppose she was likely to have ever met this dear friend of Maester Samwell's, and so, she just nodded, and said that the maester was very welcome to travel with her company as they made their way North, if he wished.
"I'm sure he'll be most pleased to hear it, your grace."
"Having a maester with us may be of benefit to us as well, I suppose."
"It may indeed."
Demons—Imagine Dragons