Will you love me like you loved me?

And I'll never ask for more

Daario Naharis started, suddenly awake and jerking up from his mattress. His arms wrapped around nothing. He'd been holding a lovely girl, and then she'd vanished, leaving only empty space where she should have been. A dream, he realized with a feeling akin to disappointment. He breathed in deeply as he ran his hands through his too-long hair, pulling through the tangles which had formed in the undyed locks while he slept.

Tossing too much? he wondered, blinking as he surveyed his surroundings. His blue eyes narrowed, drinking in the gloom of his chamber, seeing that it was just as empty as his arms. He stared at the spot where she'd stood, tamping down the longing the bloomed in his chest as he did. He told himself he was being stupid, that she had not truly been here, so lamenting her loss was senseless.

But how real it had felt!

The false-Tyroshi leaned back against his headboard and pulled at the images fading from his mind even now. He did not wish to forget them, or her; the way she'd been in his dream; how she'd looked; the softness of her lips; what she'd told him.

What had she said?

He narrowed his eyes further, until he allowed them to close completely.

Ah, yes. There. He had it now.

'You'll come to me. In Winterfell.'

A prophecy? A command? A plea?

He wasn't sure. Knowing his lovely girl as he did, it could have been any one of those things. Or, more likely, all of them. But for him, it was something else entirely.

A mission.

Arya Stark, he thought, the words directed toward his god. Do not keep her from me.

On the highest level of Maegor's Holdfast, the king paced the floors of his apartments, hands clasped behind his back as he stared ahead, purple eyes soft and unfocused. He contemplated a dream, one strange and unnerving, even while admonishing himself not to place too much importance on such insubstantial things.

That had been a failing of Rhaegar's, had it not?

Grinding his teeth together slowly, he recalled the things he'd heard said of his father, a father he could not remember but whose legacy he sought to honor.

Dreamer.

Scholar.

Warrior.

Not a perfect man by any means, but a man of worth and intelligence, of bravery, of stalwart convictions, and one who would've made a good ruler, had fate allowed him to ascend to the Iron Throne. This was Ser Barristan's qualified assertion, and though the old knight was his aunt's man, Aegon trusted his judgment.

Rhaegar was known to be melancholic, it was true, and was said to have trusted too much in the old prophecies he'd read, far more than his friends or advisors felt prudent. Still, despite their reservations, he'd spent months poring over dusty tomes and aged scrolls buried deep in the library of the Red Keep; had immersed himself in them and allowed himself to be guided by them to an unsuitable degree. Or so Tyrion had remarked. That Jon Connington had not disagreed with the dwarf's assertion made Aegon think it true, though.

The king wished to honor his father's legacy, yes, but he did not wish to fall prey to Rhaegar's frailties. Hadn't his entire upbringing, the whole of his exile in Essos, been geared toward assuring those very things?

Which was why his dream troubled him so much.

Or, rather, it was why his brooding over his dream troubled him.

I'm not prone to melancholia, the silver king assured himself as he paced. Nor was he, but still, the way he dwelled on his dream, this dream, made him worry he was becoming more like his father than was comfortable for him. He should not be ruminating so.

And yet, he seemed powerless to stop himself from doing just that.

It has been familiar, a dream he'd dreamed many times before, and one fed by a stark memory. Him, standing on that hill in the Stormlands, a broad wych elm at his back, and Drogon looming over him, unleashing a torrent of dragonflame so powerful, it was like a great avalanche of fire crashing down on him. The flame burned away his clothes, his hair, even his eyelashes, but his skin remained uninjured, unblemished, as perfect as it was moments before he'd spoken the command his aunt had told him to use.

Dracarys.

It wasn't his memory of the test which stuck an odd chord within him, not the dangerous beast or the nearly unbearable heat or the threat of death. It wasn't the look on Daenerys' face when the flame abated and he stood unharmed, the wych elm blackened and burning behind him. It wasn't standing naked before the whole of the army.

No, what troubled him, what had led to his brooding and pacing before the sunrise, was a part of his dream that had not actually occurred the day he proved to everyone he was Rhaegar's son and a true dragon.

It was the part with the girl.

In reality, they'd been halfway between Bitterbridge and Tumbleton when the khaleesi had suggested the test and Aegon had agreed to it (over Lord Connington's strenuous objections, of course). When he'd climbed the hill, the army had been assembled to the south of the spot, close enough to see, far enough away to avoid any risk of injury from stray flames or the radiant heat such a blast was known to produce. To the north, there was open plain, empty almost as far as the eye could see, and beyond it, the edge of the Kingswood, barely perceptible on the horizon. But in his dream, the landscape was different.

The army was still assembled to the south, and the hill upon which he stood with Drogon filled their vision, the land on the other side hidden from them by the rising slope. But from his vantage point, Aegon could see the other side easily, and what he saw was a girl, in the center of the plain. Beyond her, on the horizon, rather than the border of the great forest, it was the walls of an immense castle which served as the backdrop, soft drifts of snow abutting them.

The girl stood far enough away that her features should have been obscured, rendering her an anonymous figure. Yet, they weren't, and she wasn't. With the sort of insensible logic which occurs only in dreams, this girl's face manifested in a way that allowed Aegon to appreciate the delicate bow of her lip, the soft blush over her cheekbones, and the luminous silver of her eyes. He saw her and was filled with the overwhelming desire to speak to her. But when he opened his mouth, the only word he spoke was 'Dracarys.'

Fire poured down over him, making the air hot and painful to breath, and so he held his breath and waited. When the blast of flame from Drogon finally ended, the wych elm burned, Aegon's clothes were mere ash scattered on the scorched dirt beneath his feet, and the girl's hand was outstretched as though she'd meant to grasp him and pull him to safety. Which was laughable, because of the distance between them. She stared at him from afar.

Too far.

He'd looked at her, expecting that she would come to him now, and when she did not, he beckoned, his gesture meant to assure her that it was safe; that Drogon would not harm her (that he would not allow it). He held his breath, and waited, and watched.

And the girl turned, walking toward that distant castle and away from the hill and the dragon. Away from him.

The feeling of it was piercing. Even awake, and pacing, the memory of it was piercing; somehow painful, like an ice dagger shoved roughly into his breast, the tip of it freezing his heart before cracking it in two. The feeling stayed with him, and he could not account for it. It did not seem sensible to him, but that understanding did nothing to lessen the pain. And so, he brooded, all the while unhappy with himself for doing so.

Jon did not often dream, not anymore. When he slept, it was as though he fell into a heavy, hard blackness, empty and cold. Like death. Dreams were a rare thing for him, and they were nearly always of Ghost, when they happened at all. This was why his dream last night was so surprising; not only that he'd had it, but that it had involved not Ghost, but Arya.

He sighed, his eyes drifting closed as he thought of his dream; of her.

Sister.

She'd been so beautiful, so grown, so changed, that he might not have recognized her, but for the flashing grey of her eyes, so like his, and her long, burnished hair, the exact shade of his own.

He'd found her standing in the crypts of all places, between the tomb of their father, and of their Aunt Lyanna. She'd worn a gown, something else that seemed strange to him, and though it was a thing so fine and shining and lavish that it could only exist in a dream, somehow, it suited her.

She was… regal.

The thought of it now that he was awake caused a crease to form between his eyes. Regal and Arya were not words Jon would ever have believed belonged together. Fierce, yes. And daring. Mischievous, certainly, but also resourceful. Intelligent. Loyal. Courageous. Even at nine years old, those things had been apparent about her. He'd known she'd be a great beauty someday, too, already so pretty as a young girl, despite her sister's teasing about her horseface. The truth of it was there, under the grime, beneath the disheveled hair and careless way she dragged her hems through dirt and mud. It was there, despite the way she preferred to jump and run and fight rather than engage in any of the more ladylike pursuits her mother expected of her. It was there, in the sparking silver of her eyes and the line of her neck, in the slope of her nose and the shape of her brow. But despite all that, Jon had always seen his sister as too irreverent to ever be regal.

The memory of her easy smirk made him smile then. No, that smirk was anything but regal.

But in his dream, she'd been exactly that, and he could not reconcile it.

It's just a dream, he chastised himself. You can't know what she's really like now.

Not that her appearance mattered one whit to him. Regal, or not. Beautiful, or not. Grimy, disheveled, smirking, or not. Nothing mattered, but that Arya was alive and bound for home.

Ghost pressed into his master's side, and Jon imagined if the wolf's throat could produce sound, he'd whine. The man could read it in the beast's red eyes.

"You want to go out, boy?" Jon's own voice was still graveled with sleep, but he pulled on his boots and opened the door.

He followed the white wolf out of his chamber, out of the keep, and across the yard. Ghost trotted, a few paces ahead, and Jon trailed behind, still thinking of Arya as he did, moving absently around the guard's hall without considering where the direwolf was going in the grey of the predawn, or why. He did not note their location at all, until the wolf finally settled on his haunches, still as a statue. Jon stopped and looked, first at Ghost, and then at where the wolf had chosen to sit. They were just outside of the door which led to the crypts.

He was instantly back in his dream, staring at Arya in that heavy silver gown, frost from the floor creeping up her skirt. She'd held a warhammer in her hands, threatening to swing it against the stone front of Lyanna's tomb as he cautioned her against it. His words had made perfect sense to him in the dream, though as he thought of them, he could not comprehend why. They seemed like so much nonsense now.

'If you do this, it all changes,' he'd murmured, and he recalled that in the dream, he'd felt sad as he spoke the warning, though he did not understand the reason for the feeling. 'Everything will change.'

Jon stared at Ghost, then back at the door, seized with a sudden urge to inspect the crypts. He pushed through the door and descended the cold steps.

The Winter's Queen and the Lord of Greywater Watch woke before their companions and shared a quiet breakfast at the rough-hewn table in the cottage on the crannog. The food was simple, bread and hard cheese, but Arya ate it quickly, barely noting the taste, so anxious was she to visit the weirwood tree they'd traveled to see.

While the Bear and Ranson Cray snored softly on their cots, Lord Reed inclined his head toward the door. The girl nodded, and they both rose, leaving the cottage on silent feet. They closed the door and descended the steps to the ground below before either spoke.

"I did not suppose you wished to wait for the others to wake before leaving for the heart tree," Howland said.

"No, my lord. Ser Willem won't begrudge us the privacy. He's here only at my behest. He does not worship the old gods."

"No," the crannogman agreed. "Nor the new." The certainty in his tone caused the girl to study the lord's face more closely. What she saw in his eyes, what she felt dancing in his head, caused her to lift one corner of her mouth, the small smile one of acknowledgment and appreciation for his candor. The man could say a lot with a very few words.

"Just so."

In the daylight, Arya could finally see how close they'd slept to the weirwood. It was barely thirty yards from the stone cottage, the bone-white of its trunk glimpsed through the gaps in the surrounding trees. As they approached, she saw that the weirwood of the crannog was not as enormous as the dead tree at Lord Blackwood's castle. It wasn't even as tall as the heart tree in Winterfell's godswood, but its trunk was far broader. In fact, it almost seemed as though three fat trees had somehow grown together, their trunks fusing and creating a single weirwood, wide and squat. The face carved there reflected that width, giving it a fat, jolly appearance, its red, sap-stained mouth open and grinning.

"I've heard of laughing trees, but I've never seen one," the girl remarked.

"No?" Howland looked thoughtful. "I suppose you wouldn't have. But, seeing you here, with this one, feels very familiar."

"Why? Have you dreamed of this moment?"

He shook his head. "It's not that. It's just…" The crannogman paused, tilting his head and smiling sadly at his queen. "You are so like her, your grace. Your Aunt Lyanna."

"You knew her?" The girl's brow furrowed as she considered it. "I suppose I must've known that you did. You were with my father." She looked up at him. "When he tried to recover her in Dorne."

"I was, but I knew her long before that. When we were little more than children."

"Everyone says I look like her." Arya's face was unreadable as she made the pronouncement.

"Aye, you do, to be sure, but that's not what I meant. Lady Lyanna was bold, fearless, like you." Howland's eyes grew soft as he spoke. "She suffered no fools, nor injustice, and she was… truly a winter rose."

"Beautiful? Fragile?" She didn't bother to hide the scoff behind those words.

The man's green eyes twinkled. "Beautiful, it's true, but fragile? No. Not that one. More like… apt to prick at you and make you bleed if you handled her wrong."

Arya snorted then, both amused and pleased. She could more easily accept the comparison when it was put like that. It was best to remember that even the most beautiful roses had thorns.

The crannogman continued as they moved closer to the heart tree. "At the tourney of Harrenhal, she carried a shield, and it had a weirwood very like this one painted on it." He studied the carved face, one he'd looked upon near a thousand times before, and smiled. "That's why this feels familiar, I suppose. Another Stark daughter, and another laughing tree."

"But, why?"

"Why, your grace?"

"Why would my Aunt Lyanna be carrying a shield at Harrenhal?"

"Ah." The lord looked from the grinning face of the heart tree to Arya's own more sober countenance. "A story for another time, your grace."

Arya Stark and Howland Reed knelt, two supplicants seeking the favor of the old gods at the base of an ancient weirwood. The crannogman muttered under his breath, his speech in a tongue unfamiliar to the girl. Some of his words were reminiscent of words she knew, the guttural, harsh nature of them almost like Dothraki, but different enough that she couldn't discern a coherent meaning behind them. Still, the way he spoke, low and reverent, and the way he swayed and sighed as he muttered, made it obvious to her that he was praying.

Arya's own prayers took a different form, one she whispered into the night before she drifted off to sleep, and they were not meant for the old gods, or the new, but another; one who relished violence and blood. And so she said no words at the base of the tree, merely staring at the smooth, white bark, reaching toward it with her fingers, knowing once she touched it, she would be at the mercy of some force greater than herself. She closed her eyes and listened.

The leaves overhead stirred, the breeze which moved them parting the thick air surrounding her. She shivered in response. Sister, she heard. Come.

Hearing the words, she could hesitate no longer. The girl leaned forward, gripping at the weirwood trunk with both palms.

Instantly, the ever-present buzz in her bones strengthened, and the shiver she'd just had was nothing to the vibrations which shook her then. She felt as though her teeth might rattle out of her skull and drop to the ground. Her back stiffened, and when she opened her eyes, she was no longer kneeling before the weirwood of the crannog but standing on the wide steps of an unfamiliar white castle. Bran was at her side. She smiled at him, but when she leaned toward him as though she might want his embrace, he held up a hand, staying her.

"If you touch me, we'll be jolted back to my throne," he warned.

Arya stopped herself, leaning back and dropping her arms to her sides, biting at her bottom lip. Bran's eyes flicked to her mouth, and he chuckled.

"Are you well?" she wanted to know.

"You mustn't worry for me," he said. "I am well enough."

She nodded, then drew in a great breath. When she released it, she asked, "Where are we? I don't recognize this place."

Her brother smiled. "White Harbor. New Castle."

"Lord Manderly's home?"

"Yes."

His affirmation seemed to surprise the girl. "But… why?" She was having a hard time imagining any reason why they might need to be here. His smile broadened.

"Come with me. You'll see."

He began to climb the steps but stopped when his sister called to him. "Bran," she said, "your legs."

"Walking is the least of my talents here," her brother laughed, then continued up the steps. After watching him for a moment, marveling at the way his legs moved and worked, Arya followed. Once inside the castle doors, Bran strode quickly along the corridors, turning every so often down a new hallway, very much as though he knew his way around.

"Have you been here before?" Arya called to him. He turned to look over his shoulder at her, though his step did not slow.

"A thousand times," he replied, then shrugged. "More." He pushed through a door off the corridor, abrupt, and she followed, finding that they were descending a set of steps now. At the bottom, there was another door, and when Bran opened that one, she could see what lay beyond it was a sort of little wilderness.

The girl slowly stepped over the threshold and looked up, taking in the blue of the sky overhead. The door closed behind them and Arya noted they were standing on a stone platform. Several narrow steps led down from the side of the platform to the ground below. She gazed around them and realized they were in a great, wooded courtyard.

"Shall we visit Lord Manderly's godswood, sister?"

"What's here that you want to show me?"

"Patience."

He practically skipped down the steps, leaving her there to look down on him as he reached the bottom. With working legs, with the sure way he moved, with how he almost bounced like an excited child, Bran was very much the brother she remembered; the boy she'd grown up playing and sparring with, arguing with, playing come-and-find-me in the crypts with… It made her wonder what their lives might've been had Robert never brought his accursed family North to visit Winterfell; had Bran never fallen from that tower; had her father never accepted the king's offer to become Hand.

She shook her head, pushing the thought aside. Wondering after something that would never be was not why she was here. Arya dashed down the steps, catching up to her brother. He'd followed a path defined by broken oyster shells which led into the thick of the wood, which was not to say it was particularly thick. This godswood had fewer trees and foliage than even the anemic godswood of the Red Keep. But then, the Manderlys were followers of the Seven, as she recalled.

"Here," Bran said as she drew even with him. "Listen."

The breeze off the bay where the White Knife met the sea picked up and groaned through the branches overhead. Arya closed her eyes and listened to it, to the movement of the leaves and the small cracks as twigs broke free and fell to the ground. Try as she might, she heard no message in the gentle noises, but then, she heard something else entirely.

Growling.

Her eyes flew open and she watched as a great beast stalked through the trees, heading toward them. A direwolf! His fur was black as jet, but his eyes were so brightly green that they looked almost unnatural. The girl squinted, and then…

Recognition.

"Shaggydog," she breathed, and the great wolf growled as if in reply. She looked at Bran. "He doesn't know us?"

"He can't see us," her brother replied. "We aren't really here."

"Then why is he growling?"

"Watch."

A moment later, a man moved into their view, following the oyster shell path from the opposite direction. He was tall, exceptionally so, and heavily muscled. His dark hair was long, with small braids scattered through it, pulling it back off his face. His painted face. His clothes were strange, like something she'd expect a wildling to wear, rough skins and low-quality furs, and when she looked closer, there appeared to be bits of bone and strange feathers woven into his braids.

But it was his eyes which drew her gaze, and his eyes which held it; eyes that made her step closer to him so that she might examine them more thoroughly. They were blue, intensely so, but flecked with gray and green, the colors alternating around the pupil like the slender arms of a starburst; like shards of emerald and smokey diamond embedded there. It had the effect of making his irises appear to shimmer, giving his gaze more depth than seemed natural.

She'd only ever seen eyes like that once, and they hadn't belonged to a painted warrior.

"Do you know him?"

Bran's question caught the girl off her guard. She took another step toward the warrior, studying his face. It was not a face she knew, nor did she know any wildlings, or whatever savage race this man belonged to, but those eyes…

Those eyes, she knew.

But… why would he be here? In White Harbor?

She could not make sense of it.

"No," Arya finally said, her eyes cutting away from the tall man before her and over to her brother. She tried to read his face, but his expression remained placid.

"No? I thought you might. No matter."

The wolf growled louder, the fur on his back lifting and bristling in response to the intruder.

"Lillikaskoer," the man spoke, his tone soothing. His hands were held out before him, palms down in a sort of calming gesture. "Mer gegt."

"Is this what I'm meant to see?" the girl whispered, not really knowing why she whispered.

Bran smiled again. "Patience." Arya drew in a breath through her nose and blew it out, exasperated, but then, rustling in the trees behind Shaggydog, or, Lillikaskoer, caught her attention. After a moment, a boy pushed through the brush and stood next to the hulking wolf. At first, she assumed the boy to be the tall man's son, for he, too, had blue eyes, and was dressed in similar manner. The boy's long hair was braided as well, with the same sort of ornaments woven through it, but unlike the warrior with the familiar eyes, the child's hair was red.

Tully red.

Was this a memory? Robb, when he was younger perhaps? the girl wondered to herself, but instantly dismissed the idea. When had Robb ever dressed like a barbaric tribesman, and when had he ever visited Lord Manderly's castle? No, that did not make sense. But more than that, there was something about this child's expression, something in the way he stood, which marked him as far more ferocious than Robb had ever been. Looking at the boy and the wolf together, Arya could not decide which was more frightening.

All her musings occurred in the blink of her eye, each thought layered atop the other, ideas having little chance to fully form before her mind discounted them. It only took a second blink for the pieces of the puzzle before her to interlock and form a picture of the truth.

Shaggy. Rickon.

Her baby brother was alive. And no longer a baby.

"Rickon?" she breathed, turning to Bran. He gave her a single, solemn nod. "He's been alive, this whole time, on his own?"

"Not on his own, no."

"But, he's not with you."

"No."

"He's with this… stranger." She waved her hand vaguely toward the painted man.

"Strangers may become friends, allies, even family, over time."

"I don't understand, how did he come to be in this man's company?" Her face was set in a look of mild irritation mixed with curiosity and confusion. Her mind, however…

Her head swam. Rickon was alive! And, somehow, the Order held him in their clutches. For what purpose? Was he in danger? Had someone prayed for his death? Did the Kindly Man have plans for him? But what could an order of Braavosi assassins want with a child? He was too young to be of much use, and if they'd wanted a Stark for some purpose, well, they'd had one, hadn't they? Had her, then sent her away.

"This man is his sworn protector."

"What? How?"

"All Skagosi magnars have a sworn protector."

"Skagos?" she nearly shrieked. "How did Rickon get to Skagos?"

Bran seemed amused. "Did you think you were the only Stark to ever cross the sea, sister?"

Before she could answer him, another voice sounded, one coming from behind them, from the shell path leading to the castle.

"Little lord," they heard a woman say, "it's time to come inside and break your fast." They turned to watch her approach.

"Osha," Bran murmured to Arya. "She was with us in Winterfell and has been Rickon's caretaker and companion all these years. A wildling." He grinned at his sister and she looked at the woman with a new appreciation.

"Lillikaskoer err ikhe valmis," the red-haired boy grunted. The girl knew it was a protest by his tone, and the way he folded his arms over his chest and frowned as he spoke.

"What have I told you about speaking the common tongue, my fine little lord?" The wildling woman's voice was stern, but Arya could see she was fighting a smile as she spoke. "And when will you stop using that wolf as your excuse for everything?"

Rickon's frown deepened, and he looked at the painted warrior as if seeking his support. The tall man just shrugged. Even Shaggydog stopped his bristling and relaxed, trotting over to Osha and bumping his snout against her shoulder, causing the woman to chuckle and reach up to scratch behind his ears. Seeing he had no allies, the boy's arms dropped, and his posture slumped a little as he shuffled up the shelled path to follow his wolf and the wildling woman inside. The Skagosi warrior only hesitated a moment, shaking his head in amusement, before trailing after them.

Arya watched them disappear through the door which led into the castle, then turned to her brother.

"Rickon's alive, and with Lord Manderly in White Harbor? Now?" When Bran nodded his confirmation, she continued. "And, somehow, he's been to Skagos, and back, and is a magnar." Though her tone was incredulous, it somehow felt… right.

As much as she and Bran had played at being wildlings when they were children, as much as they'd plotted and planned to run away beyond the wall, to join with a tribe of those free, untamed men, it was Rickon who had always seemed more suited to that life. As soon as he could walk, he ran, haphazard and loud, careening through the corridors of Winterfell, knocking over people and furniture without care. As much as Arya was chastised for her inadequate mastery of courtesies and manners, Rickon had flouted the same, gleefully, seemingly on purpose. That he was a boy, and little more than a baby, did much to excuse his behavior, but it wasn't his behavior that made his current circumstances seems sensible to his sister. It was his nature. Rickon was a born savage. The truth of it had always danced in his Tully blue eyes.

Had none of this happened, had her father not been killed, or Robb, or her mother, had they all lived out their lives in Winterfell, Rickon was like to have become a great and formidable warrior, a brash knight, revered and feared throughout the land. That much was apparent in how he trained his wolf. Or, more precisely, in how he didn't.

Lady was like Sansa: well-groomed, obedient, lovely, and a bit haughty. Summer was quiet, loyal, and clever for a wolf. Nymeria was as wild as her mistress, a bit naughty and hard to control, but in the end, teachable. But Shaggy…

Shaggydog was as close to an untamed direwolf one might find north of the wall as he could be without Catelyn insisting he be put down for the safety of the castle. Dangerous, unpredictable, menacing… The men of Winterfell had all feared him, even when he was little more than a pup. Even when his master, the only one he obeyed, stood next to him. Rickon was so young when the wolves had come to them, it was debatable whether he'd trained Shaggy or Shaggy had trained him.

"He's grown," she whispered, trying to mesh the picture she had of him in her head with what she'd just seen. When she'd left Winterfell, Rickon was not yet four.

"But still a child."

"A child who needs his family." It was a decision, couched as a judgment.

"The lone wolf dies," was Bran's response.

"But the pack survives." Arya looked at him. "I'm going to White Harbor."

"Yes," he said, "and then to Winterfell."

The girl could not say if her brother's words were merely agreement with her course, or confirmation that he'd seen it occur. With Bran, it could be either.

The young chieftain plucked absently at his necklace as he walked alongside his direwolf in Lord Manderly's godswood. From a distance, one could nearly imagine the thing was made of pearls. Not the sort which wrapped the throats of the ladies of great Westerosi houses, of course. Even at a distance, it was obvious these were too imperfect for that, in shape, in color, in size, no one matching another. Some hinted at white but most were the color of aged parchment, some even browner than that, some marred by black. This necklace looked more like what a fishmonger's daughter might have strung together with the bits of detritus salvaged from a haul of oysters; bits too poor to sell for jewelry.

Upon closer inspection, though, it became obvious the necklace wasn't strung from pearls at all, but teeth and rounded bones. The bones of the wrist, to be exact, the wrists and teeth once belonging to the previous Magnar of Heligatrad.

(Assuredly not the sort of ornaments which wrapped the throats of the ladies of great Westerosi houses.)

For the young chieftain, it was a gruesome trophy. For others, it was both a reminder and a warning.

It had not been Bludvargg's first kill, but it was the one which had earned him the title of 'magnar'.

"Little lord," Osha called.

"Don't call me that," the boy groused as usual, and as usual, the wildling woman ignored his tone and told him that was what he was, and so that was what she would call him.

"What are you doing out here?" she asked, though Rickon suspected she knew.

"Praying," he lied.

"Practicing piety, eh? Speaking to the gods?" She smiled and tipped up her chin up far enough that her nose pointed skyward, and she closed her eyes as the breeze swept down through the leaves. "Do they answer, little lord?"

Yes, he did not say.

Rickon.

Winterfell.

Sister.

"We'll be at Moat Cailin by nightfall, if we meet with no unexpected delays," a crannogman called Lionall Blackmyre said, looking up the causeway as the men loaded up the horses after they'd broken their fast. Brynden Blackwood nodded, directing his brother Ben and the Northman Symeon Locke to round up the others and be sure they were ready to leave the camp behind within the next half hour.

"Does Moat Calin offer hardened shelter?" the heir to Raventree Hall asked, trying to plan for the watches he would need to organize once they'd arrived.

"Partly, my lord. There are hard walls aplenty, but the fortress is mostly a ruin. You can count the stars from the very center of the largest chamber, if the night is clear and you incline your head."

Brynden sighed grimly. "I understand. We shall make do with whatever we find. Thank you, Lord Lionall."

"Not to worry, lad," the Greatjon said good-naturedly, clapping Ser Brynden on his back. "The Northmen at least will not complain. We all know Moat Cailin and appreciate her unique charms." He laughed then, stalking off to finish securing his own gear to his horse.

Brynden tried not to dwell on what Lord Umber would consider either unique or a charm as he finished his own preparations. He had not brought with him a squire, and so all the work was left to his own hands, and just then, he was missing the amusing company of Ser Patrek and Ser Marq. Still, he had his brother Ben with him, and soon enough, Hoster would join the group again. whenever the queen finished her mysterious business in the swamp.

And wasn't Hoster a surprise, after so long in captivity? A somewhat awkward youth, Hos had definitely grown into an imposing man. Not just in stature, but his knowledge; his shrewdness. So like father, the knight thought. And the queen seemed to appreciate him as well, always whispering with him; always stealing away to seek his counsel.

A feeling needled at Brynden as he thought of it; as he pictured Hoster and Arya cloistered in some dim corner, murmuring to one another. It was a feeling that made his shoulder blades itch a bit and caused his lip to curl slightly.

It could not be envy, the knight decided. Envy did not feel like this.

Did it?

Besides, how could he envy Hoster, his own brother, and a third son? A son given up as hostage for years, with no attempt made to recover him? An heir, a knighted heir, with children bearing his name, could not envy his younger brother. It was absurd.

No, it could not be envy. He was merely unsettled. As a man sworn to a new kingdom, a new queen, it was not so strange to think he might feel restless and dissatisfied to be of so little use where there was so much yet to be done. And with so many nights spent on the open road, in this strange place, anyone would feel… fitful. When they reached Moat Cailin safely, and their queen joined them again, all would be put to rights.

And so Brynden Blackwood pushed away his uncharacteristic disquiet and called for the company to mount up. They had a long day of riding ahead of them.

Jaime's mood was sour and had been ever since they'd discovered the queen was missing from her chamber the day before. No amount of the steward's reassurances that she was safe with the bog devils that had taken her soothed his frayed nerves and it had only been Brienne's angry insistence that he was being a pig-headed jackanape who would get himself killed which stopped him from chasing after the girl through the swamp. Mostly, because she was right. Without a guide, the terrain and the creatures which dwelled therein had been known to claim far more lives than they spared. But also, he needed to teach the maid of Tarth better insults to spew when she was annoyed. He suddenly found himself with the free time to do it.

Jackanape.

If his mood weren't so foul, he'd have snorted at the memory.

Instead, he stepped through his sword drills with a grimace on his face as though he were in pain. His mood was most assuredly not helped by the queen's little squire. The boy was babbling away across the small yard with the crannogman who was showing him short spear techniques. He'd gone out on a hunt yesterday with a dozen or so of the bog devils, and since he'd returned last night, he'd been describing the excitement of the event almost nonstop.

"…and then another lizard-lion swam up, so fast and quiet even Arrnold Greengood was surprised to see him, but he called me over and let me spear it!"

"You must make a pair of boots from the skin," the crannogman replied. "Your first lizard-lion kill should always be used to make boots." He inspected the boy's feet then. "As small as yours will be, you can get a belt out of the hide as well. How does a lizard-lion swordbelt sound to you, lad?"

Jaime thought the Brax boy's eyes might pop out of his head.

"Really? Boots and a belt?"

The youngster was so chipper about it all that the Kingslayer could barely stand it. It was as though in his own foul mood, he could not bear to hear evidence of anyone else's cheer.

"Ho there, Brax," Jaime gritted out. The boy looked over at him, pausing his thrusting of his frog spear.

"Yes, Ser Jaime?"

"With Ser Willem and Queen Arya away, I should probably see to your training with the longsword." Jaime hoped he could keep the boy busy and tire him out enough that he would just stop talking.

Little Jon Brax bounced on his heels, hardly able to contain his excitement at his good fortune. "The Lord Commander of the Winterguard training me?" He rushed over to the Kingslayer and his outpouring of gratitude had Jaime regretting his offer. "Thank you, my lord! Thank you!"

"Just grab a wooden sword, boy."

The squire did as he was told. The wooden swords hadn't been used in quite some time, if their state was any indication, but Jon didn't seem to mind. He merely brushed off the thickest of the moss and cobwebs and gripped the one he'd chosen, giving it a few wild test swings.

Jaime put the youngster through his paces, employing the simplest sword drills and lessons, but relentlessly, and still, the boy continued to chatter away. It was as though the capacity of his little lungs had no limit.

"…and I'd like to be an expert with a longsword, of course, so I'll keep practicing these drills every day but I want to be sure to make time for the spear, too, and throwing knives as well as…"

That drew the golden knight up short. "Whoa, boy, did you just say throwing knives?"

Jon nodded enthusiastically. "Oh, yes. I doubt I could ever be as good as Queen Arya, but I'll keep working at it until I can hit the bullseye every time, and…"

Jaime scoffed. "No knight has need of throwing knives. A true mastery of the sword is enough, and if you add to that the spear, you'll be quite a capable combatant, more than most of your peers, certainly."

"Of course, my lord," the boy agreed enthusiastically, "but I'm not training to be a knight, so I think I'll need to…"

"What do you mean, you aren't training to be a knight? Aren't you a squire? Squires become knights if they are diligent."

"Well, sure, but apprentices become assassins, so like I was saying, throwing knives are…"

"Assassins?" Jaime's arms, which had been crossed over his chest, dropped to his sides. His mouth hung open in a look of disbelief. "What are you talking about?"

"Oh, it's just that I want to be an assassin, like Queen Arya."

"What makes you think her grace is an assassin?"

"Well… just that she told me she was." The boy looked perplexed at the knight's reaction. "And after the way she took the Twins, I'd say she's got the be the best assassin in Westeros. Don't you think so, my lord?" Jon Brax's brows drew together as he stared at Jaime's face. "My lord?"

After the way she took the Twins… And the way she'd handled Hosteen Frey. And her own mother… He'd not seen her in the great hall of Riverrun, but he'd heard the men talking, about how she'd moved, how she'd cut her way through to Emmon and subdued him, saving Hoster Blackwood in the process. And he'd had trouble reconciling it, hadn't he? Even with what he'd seen her do in the training yard, Jaime understood very well how real combat was different than training; how men froze or made mistakes or hesitated. Real combat wasn't a beautiful, fluid dance. It was ugly; horrible; messy. It changed you.

He hadn't thought too hard on it, really, when he'd heard about how the girl had pushed her way through guards and knights much bigger and much more experienced than herself; how she'd calmly cut them down, advancing methodically, saving one life as she took others. He'd assumed the men had embellished the tale. The details he'd heard had mostly come from the mouths of the Blackwoods, and Jaime was not so foolish as to ignore the fact that Lord Blackwood had his own agenda; his own reasons for wanting the girl to seem intimidating. The golden knight had assumed they'd polished the details some, to that end.

It had been harder to keep believing that was the case after he'd seen her form bathed in Frey blood the morning he'd ridden up to the gates of the Twins, ready to demand Old Walder treat with them. But she'd had a company of men at her back, all fighting men, skilled with the sword. It was easy to dismiss the work at the Twins as her idea but not her deed. Because if it was deed, shouldn't she have been changed by it? But she was the same Arya she'd been since he met her at Raventree Hall.

Was that because the Arya she'd been when he met her was an assassin? A Faceless Man, no less?

No, that didn't make sense. The Faceless Men were as much a religious order as a group of skilled assassins, and the girl had grown up in the faith of the old gods. Even now, she was on a pilgrimage to some ridiculously distant heart tree in the mire. Not only that, but he'd never heard of a woman becoming a Faceless Man, much less a young girl. A highborn, Westerosi girl. What reason would those Braavosi killers have to train her as one of their own? And she herself had said she'd merely done menial tasks about their strange temple. More likely, she'd made her claim to the boy in order to impress him, or toy with him, whichever.

But… it would explain how she'd acquired her sword skills. Her knife skills as well. And she'd had some sort of apothecary experience, too, or else she wouldn't have been able to heal that bastard knight so easily after his flogging. The Kingslayer thought on it, mulling the possibilities in his head. Why had the girl spent so long in Braavos, all those years in the House of Black and White? And why had she returned now?

Was she some sort of instrument of the Faceless Men?

Had they all been blind not to see it?

Jaime wasn't sure of anything except this: he and Arya needed to have a talk when she returned to Greywater Watch.

Mary—Big Thief