My girl, my girl, don't lie to me

"Good day to you, maester," Gendry said as he slid onto a bench in the dim chamber that served as the great hall for Greywater Watch. He was early for the midday meal, but aside from brooding in the guest quarters, or brooding in the small training yard, or brooding on the floating dock as he watched the deceptively lazy movement of lizard-lions just beneath the surface of the swamp waters, there wasn't much else for him to do without his queen to guard.

Sworn shield, indeed.

The blacksmith-knight felt fairly shamed at his own uselessness in Arya's absence. He found that without her around, he spent too much of his time wondering at his place in the world and discovered this was not a particularly pleasant way to while away the hours. And so, he decided to sit and await his meal, making conversation with whoever happened to be present.

Maester Samwell happened to be present.

"Good day, Ser Gendry," the plump maester returned, looking over at the newcomer with a smile. They'd spoken briefly at meals and in passing since the arrival of the queen's party, but they'd never interacted beyond the most superficial exchange of pleasantries. "Hungry?"

The blacksmith-knight merely grunted noncommittally. "You?"

"I'm always hungry. It's my curse," the grey-robed man laughed, a jovial twinkle in his eyes. He patted his rotund belly for emphasis. The men grew quiet for a moment, but then the maester asked a question that had the knight frowning. "Do you expect the queen back today?"

"I never expected the queen to be gone," Gendry muttered under his breath.

"Pardon?" The maester's smile remained though his eyebrows were raised in query.

The knight cleared his throat then gave a less surly answer. "I said the steward told us the party would most likely return on the morrow."

"Ah, yes. Yes, that makes sense. The journey is quite long." Maester Samwell nodded, his look thoughtful, adding quietly, "Treacherous, too, I hear, all manner of snapping jaws and sunken dangers along the way."

His musings only served to deepen Gendry's frown. Though the maester hadn't meant them as judgement, his words felt judgmental, nonetheless. Pointedly so. 'You allowed your queen to put herself in danger again' was what the knight heard, and the guilt caused him to press his mouth into a tight line. After a moment, he sought distraction from the unwelcome feeling and his self-recrimination. Placing his hands on the table before him, he asked his companion a question.

"Have you some business with her grace?"

The maester nodded. "I'd hoped to speak with her two days past, but her time was much claimed by Lord Reed and then in the bustle of the supper, I did not have the opportunity." He sighed. "I thought we'd have time for an audience yesterday, but by the time I'd arisen, she'd already left on her adventure!"

Her adventure, the dark knight thought with distaste. He was only partially successful in smoothing over the sour look that shaped his face at the maester's words. His resultant expression would've been more appropriate for someone who'd just sampled a large gulp of warm, curdled milk.

"Yes, she was gone well before the sun was up," Gendry managed to say with only a hint of a growl.

Maester Samwell chuckled, apparently at his own folly. "Try as I might, I can never seem to wake up before the sunrise. I've been that way since I was a tiny babe! My mother used to say my nursemaid loved me for it, but it's certainly less convenient now. I've not even managed an introduction to the queen!" The maester shook his head in self-censure, smiling all the while.

Gendry thought the fellow unaccountably cheerful for one awaiting his vittles so near to midday in drifting castle hidden in a bloody swamp, especially when that fellow had been thwarted in all attempts to secure an introduction with the queen. In fact, for every moment of irritation and regret the knight experienced, he was certain Maester Samwell himself enjoyed nothing but a jolly sort of obliviousness.

If only he could achieve a similar state of such blithe disregard.

That he could not only increased his ire; ire he chose to unleash on whoever happened to be present.

Maester Samwell happened to be present.

The dark knight's eyes narrowed a bit and he leaned forward, forearms braced on the table, looking at the grey-robed man across from him. "And what business would a maester with his chain links still warm from the forge have with my queen?" The suspicion in his tone seemed to startle the maester in question. Samwell laughed nervously and tugged on his heavy chain before answering.

"Nothing sinister, I assure you, ser. I only wished to speak to her of her brother."

"Her brother?" The knight could not fathom how this young maester could know any of the Stark boys, especially considering they were all thought to be dead now. But then, he'd heard Maester Samwell was bound for Castle Black. Perhaps he had some question about the former Lord Commander of the Night's Watch? "Do you mean Jon Snow?"

The maester's face split with a genuine grin. "Indeed, yes! Jon Snow. My very good friend. My best friend."

Confusion was written into Gendry's features. "But how could you know Jon Snow? He left the Night's Watch some years ago, and you haven't even made it to Castle Black yet."

The stout man chuckled, but the sound of it was more dark than amused. "I don't know if left is how I'd describe Jon's departure from the Watch…" He looked at the knight. "I knew him before all that, though. We were recruits together, not more than boys, freezing high up on the Wall, learning to fight."

The dark knight scrutinized the maester skeptically. "Is that so?"

"It is!" Maester Samwell assured him, then his smile fell, and his brow wrinkled. "Well, I was learning to fight. Jon… he already knew how. Formidable with a longsword, he was, even at four and ten, and he only got better with time. So, instead of learning to fight, he was learning to lead. And… he was my first friend." That last bit was spoken with an air of melancholy.

"Your first friend in the Watch?"

Samwell shook his head. "My first friend ever." His smile then was unambiguously sad. "When he became Lord Commander, he sent me to the Citadel to train. Maester Aemon, well, he was the maester for the Night's Watch for a very long time, but he was an old man by then. Almost ancient. He'd been blind for years. An amazing maester still, but…"

"But… valar morghulis."

All traces of melancholy melted away as the maester's eyebrows shot up in delighted surprise. "You speak High Valyrian?"

"Only just that little bit. I picked it up from… a friend. My first friend." The dark knight pushed away his thoughts of Arya then, of her fair, white cheek, and stared at his companion. If he could not be at her side to protect her, he could at least vet the grey-robed man before he allowed the maester into the queen's presence.

Samwell nodded. "It's fitting, though, even if it's not a very Westerosi idea. Valar morghulis." The maester hummed quietly and nodded, as though affirming the philosophy was a sound one. "All men must die, and Jon knew that. He also knew I'd always wished to study at the Citadel, since I was old enough to wish for anything. So, you see, sending me to train so I might one day replace Maester Aemon was a practical necessity, but also a great gift. A personal gift. From my friend to me."

Gendry considered what his companion said. It made sense—train a member of the Night's Watch, a known entity well-suited for both life on the Wall as well as life as a maester. Surely that was preferable to waiting for the Citadel to decide who to send as a replacement whenever the old maester died.

"So, you were friends with the queen's brother." The world felt unaccountably small to Gendry just then, and yet he'd traveled over enough of it to know that wasn't true.

The grey-robed man nodded. "I wasn't there when…" He sighed and looked over the knight's shoulder as though seeing the whole ugly scene play out before his eyes in a distant corner of the hall. "Jon… well, he taught me to be brave, even when I didn't want to be. That lesson saved my life." His brow furrowed deeply, and Gendry could see there was a tale to back up the maester's assertion. He wondered what it was but did not ask for fear the man might become reticent. "I don't know that I could have stopped them, but I would've tried."

He didn't have to explain further. Gendry was familiar with the rumors, had even discussed them a bit with Arya during their travels. He'd seen the way her fingernails bit into her palms whenever the incident was mentioned and once or twice, he'd overheard her strange, muttered whispers before she closed her eyes at night. Traitorous black brothers. If he had to guess, he'd say the girl had plans for those who had betrayed Jon Snow.

"But in the end, it hadn't mattered," the dark knight murmured.

The grey-robed man looked thoughtful at Gendry's pronouncement and he absently stroked at a rose-gold link in his massive chain. "No, I suppose not."

"Tell me, Maester Samwell, how is it you, a friend of the queen's brother, found yourself at Greywater Watch just as the queen happened to pay a visit?"

The maester did not miss the skeptical tone in which the question was spoken. "The timing of it all is most unlikely, I agree ser, and yet, here I am. Do we name it fortuity? Or perhaps providence? Whether by chance or by some work of the gods, I am glad to find myself here." He shrugged, then gave the knight another face-splitting grin. "And please, you must call me Sam."

Arya looked all around her in amazement. The sun had risen high in the sky, beaming down through the crimson leaves of the weirwood. Its dappled light danced and winked on the mossy ground, on her sleeve, and on the backs of her hands which now rested against her thighs. She drew in a deep breath and turned her head, watching Howland Reed, whose posture mimicked her own. He, too, rested on his knees, legs folded beneath him with his palms pressing flat against his thighs as he faced the laughing tree. Unlike Arya, however, the crannogman's eyes remained closed. He was still as a stone, as though he were in deep meditation.

Or perhaps he was asleep?

"What astonishes you, your grace?" the lord asked, the sound of his voice layering itself over the sounds of the swamp—chirping frogs, calling birds, and the swish of long marsh grass as the breeze moved languidly through it. His tone blended so naturally with the ambient noise that it took a moment for the girl to understand that his words had meaning and she was being asked to answer a question. Howland's eyes remained closed, she noted.

"What makes you think I'm astonished, Lord Reed?" He certainly hadn't read it in her expression, partly because her face was carefully blank, and partly because he hadn't yet bothered to look at her.

The man merely smiled, finally turning his eyes to her, locking his gaze with her own. "Aren't you?"

The queen made to rise, but her legs were a bit shaky, bloodless after kneeling for so long. She stumbled to one side and Howland leapt to his feet, moving with surprising quickness to steady her.

"Thank you, my lord," Arya said once the lightness in her head abated and her feet were firmly planted on the ground.

"You must have care, your grace. You were kneeling for hours."

"It didn't seem to bother you."

"Ah. But this is my usual practice, and I've been at it for years."

She hummed, nodding slowly as she considered his words. "Still, aside from leaden legs, I feel…" The queen's voice trailed off. It seemed as though she were speaking more to herself than to her companion, but he eyed her shrewdly, interpreting her meaning.

"You are surprised at your own fortitude," the crannogman suggested.

He was not referring to the fading weakness in her legs, but something else entirely. The certainty in the lord's voice pulled the girl up short, but she did not deny the truth of his words. And she could not deny the truth of what he'd first said to her—she was astonished after all. "Before, when I've… touched weirwoods…" She chewed her lip thoughtfully.

"Ah, yes," he replied, understanding gleaming in his juniper eyes. "The power can be… overwhelming, for some."

"But today…"

"Yes."

"I think perhaps you are the one astonished at my fortitude." It was a gentle sort of accusation.

"Not in the least."

"But at Greywater Watch, you seemed reluctant to agree to this journey. You told me the power here is stronger. I believe you thought it too strong for me to bear."

"I did worry, your grace, but then I had a dream."

"A dream?"

"Yes, the night before we left. A green dream."

"A green dream… And it assured you?"

"I could see that you would do well here. That you would find direction, and that you would come to no harm."

Arya shook her head, her eyebrows drawing together as she thought of all the times she'd prayed at the great weirwood of Raventree Hall and the force she'd felt reverberating within its core; remembering how it had made her feel. She thought of the ghost of High Heart's still-potent circle of bone-white stumps and of Bran's throne fashioned of ancient weirwood roots. She recalled how strong the power had felt in each of those places and how it had affected her, even in mere dreams. So here, in this most holy place, this revered godswood that stretched in all directions further than the eye could see, she'd prepared herself for her reaction to be…

Violent.

Staggering.

Paralyzing.

She'd expected she might need the day to recover, especially after Howland's words to her in the tall tower of his castle. She'd thought she might be rendered unconscious or somehow drained by this experience. Instead, as the blood flow returned to her legs and her toes ceased to tingle in protest of her maintaining her position for so long, she simply felt like herself.

At least the self she'd been of late.

The self she'd become after following her mother into shadow.

Her tone was incredulous as she asked, "How is it possible?"

The crannogman's look was very serious, almost reverent, and he reached out his hand, curling his fingers inward into his palm as he did, all but his thumb. This, he rested on her forehead, dragging it down toward her nose as though he were anointing her.

"The gifts we've been given are rare, your grace, but it's rarer still to be gods-touched."

She blew out a great breath. "This is all because I followed my mother's shade?"

"This is all because you were chosen. Elsewise, you could not have followed your mother's shade."

"But when I returned," Arya murmured, "it was different." She looked up at him, her forehead wrinkling. "I was different."

"I have no doubt." Howland smiled gently at her.

"Being…" She paused, having trouble even voicing what both the crannogman and the ghost of High Heart had labeled her. "…gods-touched… means I can do the things I do, use my… gifts, and the price I pay for that seems less than before. More tolerable."

"The price has not lessened. You've just already paid it in advance. And you continue to pay it, with your service."

"But when I used to… warg… it would sicken me, just a bit. Now, it doesn't seem to. And in the past, when I've touched a weirwood, even in my dreams, it affected me, sometimes painfully. But today, it didn't."

"That's not a price, your grace, that's just inexperience. The more you use your gifts, the more you practice, the easier it becomes. Just like swordplay."

The girl shook her head. "Swordplay is second nature to me. It's almost my native tongue."

"And so too shall these gifts be, once you employ them enough."

"Are you really so sure as all that?"

"You are moving along a path untrodden, your grace, so I while cannot know it for a certainty, I would say I strongly believe it to be so. You are wholly unique and extremely blessed. And your strength…" He cocked his head and regarded her a moment, staring deep into her eyes as though he were trying to unravel the mysteries they contained. "It grows."

The girl swallowed, thinking of Jaqen pushing her in the temple, forcing her to work longer, harder, with her swords. When she'd complained the work was too difficult, or that her blades were too heavy, he'd told her that strength would come with practice. Her master had been right, so it was likely Howland was right, too, about a different sort of strength. The more she used her gifts…

But hadn't she used them all along, at least a little, even though she hadn't understood that was what was happening?

Knowing what she did now, knowing that she could sense the will and intention of a man, sometimes involuntarily, oftentimes unconsciously, she could not deny that her gift also played a role in her fighting prowess. It had started with the cat in the temple, the one whose eyes she'd borrowed. But that had been an obvious sort of trick, and one she did not often repeat (except for that time in the alley, with Jaqen. The silvery scars the Lorathi bore on his neck were testament to the incident). Her use of her unique talents while fighting was more subtle and less deliberate than with the cat. A thought. A decision. A reaction. All as apparent to her as if her opponent had described them aloud just before executing a maneuver. Now, it all seemed intertwined to her, her swordplay and her other gifts, in ways she'd not previously considered.

Had this made her stronger than she realized?

"Lord Reed, why do you suppose… why me? Why was I chosen?"

He smiled at her. "I do not know, child. I only know that you were."

"Hungry?" the Bear asked, offering a chunk of bread to his sister when she entered the stone cottage. She shook her head, but he placed the bread in her hand anyway. She took a bite, chewing slowly as her eyes softened, becoming unfocused. Her brother regarded her expression, tilting his head to the side before rising from his seat at the table to guide her to hers. "Your grace," he whispered, watching her take another bite. When she did not acknowledge him, he took the seat catty-corner to her and leaned nearer. "Sister…"

Grey eyes flicked to blue and she started.

"Sorry," Arya whispered.

"Are you alright?"

The girl's gaze swept the room, and, finding no one else there, she looked back to her brother and nodded.

"Ranson and Lord Reed are back at the weirwood," the false Dornishman explained. She thought that made sense. Howland had told her Ranson Cray was a man of great faith. Of course he would wish to pray at the weirwood of the crannog while here. Examining her further, the Bear added, "Perhaps you should lie down."

She shook her head, brushing off his concern. "I'm fine. Better than fine. Just thinking."

Her brother reached out for her hand, engulfing her slender fingers in his warm palm. For a time, they sat in companionable silence while he stroked her knuckles with his thumb.

Slowly.

Warmly.

Delicately.

After a time, he urged her to expand on her assertion.

"Tell me, my girl."

She looked up, pinning him with her eyes, and blew out a breath before speaking. "Rickon is with Lord Manderly."

Her words drew the Bear up short.

"Your youngest brother?" His features were colored with mild surprise that gave way to a smile. "He's alive, then." The realization pleased him because he knew it pleased her.

"I have to go to him."

"Yes, of course you do! Of course!"

"It might mean splitting the company."

The large man frowned. "I think not."

"Traveling to White Harbor will prolong the journey. I do not wish to ask it of them."

"A queen does not ask."

It was Arya's turn to frown. "There have been enough hardships. I don't want them to resent me over what they will think a mere whim."

"But it's not a whim."

"No, it's not, but how to explain it?"

"A queen does not owe explanations."

The girl pushed out a frustrated sigh. "You know that's not me."

He laughed, not unkindly, but it didn't stop her glaring at him. "Cat, it is you. Like it or not, it is."

"I can send the bulk of the company ahead to Winterfell. They will appreciate the shorter journey, and we can move that much faster. To White Harbor, and then from there to home. With Rickon."

"They will not appreciate the shorter journey. They will, instead, worry about your safety, and Manderly's loyalties, and the fate of their new kingdom should something befall you. No warm Northern hearth could comfort your men if they had to trade you for it."

"You underestimate the pleasure of a warm hearth after an arduous journey," she japed.

"And you underestimate the loyalty and love these people bear you," he countered, no hint of japing in his own tone.

"And I feel the same, about them. Which is why I cannot ask…"

"Sister," the assassin interrupted, "being a queen isn't just about protecting your people. You must know this. There will be times when you have to put your interests, the kingdom's interests, ahead of their comfort. Even ahead of their lives. That is your burden when you wear a crown."

He was right. She knew he was right, yet it was precisely the thing she least wanted to hear just then. It was a large part of the reason she'd balked at the idea of being a lady, for as long as she could remember, and why she'd resisted claiming Robb's throne when the River lords had hinted she should. It was why she'd nearly panicked when her men had declared her the Winter's Queen. The responsibilities of the position, the responsibility of seeing to the interests of her people hadn't worried her, but the idea of allowing men to sacrifice themselves for her, to fight her battles for her, had troubled her immensely.

Her own life, she was willing to risk, when the circumstances called for it, but the lives of the Riverlanders and Northmen? The lives of her advisors and friends? That was a different thing altogether.

The girl lifted her eyes, shining silver with the weight of the Bear's words, and locked her gaze with her brother's. This brother she'd been gifted by Him of Many Faces. He reached out, cupping one side of her face in his hand, his thumb caressing her sharp cheekbone. His look was one of sympathy.

"How is it you know so much about being a queen?" she finally asked, one side of her mouth tipping up into a small, sad smile.

His expression matched hers and he licked his lower lip before speaking. "Well, it just so happens that the person I love most in the world is a queen, so you see, I've made it my business to know."

Arya's brow puckered with emotion and she covered the hand he held against her cheek with her own, turning her head to place a hard kiss against his palm, squeezing her eyes shut as she did. "I can't imagine this journey without you," she murmured after a moment, opening her eyes to look at him. "I really can't. I love you." She drank in his answering smile.

"And I love you, Arya. That's why I don't wish for you to send the bulk of the company on without you. There's safety in our number. You know it. I know it. And the company knows it." He read the look on her face as he spoke, the fondness as well as the irritation it contained, and continued before she could rebuke him over what he was sure she would term his unwarranted concern. "In truth, I'm saving you from Ser Jaime's strident tongue lashing, Lady Brienne's stubborn refusal to leave you, Ser Gendry's pouting disappointment, Ser Brynden's painfully sincere reasoning, Ser Ben's misplaced scorn, and the Greatjon's booming declaration that Northern lords will do their duty by their queen no matter the cost. You can thank me later."

She laughed, pulling away from him. "Yes, well, I suppose we can say we had word of Rickon at Greywater Watch. That should satisfy the more practical of the men. No need to explain that one supposedly dead brother used an ancient power contained within a holy tree to show me that my other supposedly dead brother is alive and well and enjoying Wyman Manderly's hospitality."

"Show you… You saw him?" the Bear marveled. "Did he look well?"

"He looked better than well. He looked… barbarous." The way the girl's face pinched with a mixture of disbelief and affection at the pronunciation ('barbarous') caused something deep inside her brother's chest to twinge.

The Lyseni assassin grinned widely. "Barbarous? Like his sister, then."

She answered his grin with one of her own. "Well, I lack the bone and feather in my hair, and the necklace of teeth encircling my throat…"

"You don't need them. All you need is a look and this little blade at your wrist." He traced the edge of the steel through her sleeve with his finger as he spoke. "But, if you desire a necklace of teeth, say the word."

"And you'd slay a hundred of my enemies so that I could loop a gruesome rope around my neck three times?"

"No, I'd not deny you the fun of slaying them yourself…"

"You do know me well," she laughed.

"…but I'd happily string the ornaments for you."

"Aw. That is quite possibly the sweetest thing you've ever said to me."

"I told you not five minutes ago that you were the most important person to me in the world, and that I love you."

"I know." The Cat bit back her smile as she answered. "Still…"

"You," the Bear growled, and that was all the warning she got before he leapt to his feet and grabbed her up from her chair, swinging her around the open space in the center of the room as she dissolved into a fit of giggles.

"Put me down!" she laughed breathlessly. "This is insupportable! I'm a bloody queen!"

"Only when it's convenient for you!" he retorted, hoisting her over his shoulder and bounding toward the door. He had her knees pinned against his chest so she couldn't kick him and flung the door open, taking her outside and moving swiftly down the stone steps before marching in the opposite direction from the great weirwood.

"Where are you taking me?" Arya demanded.

"The lizard-lions can have you!" he declared sternly. "I'm going to throw you in the marsh unless you take it back!"

"Take what back?" she asked, all innocence. The effect was somewhat tempered by her brother's shoulder pressed into her belly, making her words breathy and hoarse.

"That the sweetest thing I've ever said is an offer to string teeth for you!"

She was wheezing with her laughter now, struggling against him, pounding her fists into his flanks. When he worked her back over his shoulder and into his arms, swinging her to and fro as if to gain momentum for a toss, she surrendered, wiping her tears of mirth from her eyes.

"Alright! I take it back! You're always sweet to me. You're the sweetest person I know! The sweetest man in the kingdom. In all the kingdoms! You're sweeter than lemon cakes and cinnamon buns! You're so sweet, you're sticky! You draw ants!"

The Lyseni grunted. "Damn right." He set her down on the ground, dropping a heavy arm across her shoulders. They gazed out over the dark waters of the swamp together, quiet and contemplative once their laughter settled. Arya noted the skiff off to their right, pulled up on the bank and as she peered at it, she saw it was loaded with most of their things.

"Are we leaving?"

The Bear nodded. "Ranson and I packed while you were praying with Lord Reed."

"But it's late in the day to start such a journey," the girl objected.

"It's not yet midday."

"We left before the dawn to get here," she pointed out.

"Ranson said the most treacherous part is the part nearest here, and we'd have plenty of light to navigate it. I was rather impressed they did it in the dark during our trip here, but he says because of the daylight on this end, the journey will be faster going back."

The Cat shrugged. "I trust he and Lord Reed know best."

Her brother's eyes grew wide with false amazement. "Arya Stark, believing someone other than herself could possibly know best about something? Can it be?"

She punched at his arm playfully. "Don't get used to it."

As soon as the crannogmen returned from the weirwood, they packed the last bit of their belongings, loading them onto their craft.

"Are you sure? I really don't mind if we stay another night, my lord," the queen said to Howland. "You might like to rest before we leave."

"I'm quite sure, your grace. I feel invigorated after our morning prayers, and I think there is much you are anxious to do upon our return to Greywater Watch. I am anxious as well. I've not left my own land in some years, so the journey to White Harbor will require a bit of preparation." He helped her board the skiff and followed close behind, positioning himself at the front of the craft in a crouch so that he might scan their route for sunken threats and hidden predators. Ranson Cray and the Bear grabbed poles and stood on either side, pushing off and setting the skiff into motion.

"The journey to White Harbor?" the girl asked, perplexed. She crouched next to him. "Do you mean to come with us?"

"Indeed, I do, your grace."

"Can you leave your home?"

Howland looked at her, brow raised. "I am free to do so unless my queen instructs me otherwise."

"I mean to say, with the dragons set to march north at some point, is it wise to leave Greywater Watch without a master?"

"It would be easier if my children were home to manage things in my stead, but I trust my men to see to the business of my lands while I'm away. My steward is a most capable and stalwart fellow. And as you are without a father, and I find myself quite childless at the moment, I cannot imagine a better way to honor my friend Ned Stark than to offer my service to his daughter." The lord looked at her, smiling, then tacked on, "If you don't mind me saying so, your grace."

Arya shook her head, her gratitude warring with a niggling disquiet. "I don't mind at all, my lord." Her words were soft, and in the back of her mind, the ghost's words rattled and poked.

He is a childless father, as you are a fatherless child.

He will deliver you to the tomb.

The girl chewed her lip thoughtfully, wondering at the meaning of the strange words of the aged woods witch; wondering if they were a warning she should heed. In her experience, such prophecies were obtuse allusions, vague and macabre and poetic, better for filling her head with doubt and dread than for providing any real guidance, their interpretation always coming to her too late to be of any use. Without fail, the ghost spoke truly, but never plainly, and the girl had not the luxury of turning away men of fidelity and talent for fear of the unknown significance behind an old woman's bewildering utterances.

Pushing aside her sense of unease, the queen addressed Howland. "My lord, I had meant to speak to you of your niece."

"Dyanna?" The man's brow furrowed. "Has she offended you in some way, your grace?"

"Oh, no, nothing like that. In fact, I'd like her to accompany me to Winterfell, as one of my ladies."

"Ah, I see. Well, insofar as that goes, I have no objection, so long as the lady herself does not."

"She seemed excited at the prospect."

Howland smiled. "Yes, I imagine she would be. It is a great honor to bestow upon her, and she's never glimpsed any land beyond the Neck. It will be quite an adventure for her, seeing a bit of the wider world…" He grew quiet, and Arya thought he must be considering how cruel the wider world had been to his family. He is a childless father. Still, he nodded, signaling his assent.

"I'll look after her, Lord Reed. You needn't worry. And you'll be there, too," the girl reminded the crannogman.

"Yes." He nodded again, smiling this time, and Arya noted that despite his protestations of feeling invigorated, he looked tired.

"My lord, will you allow me to stand your watch here? I'm not the expert with the frog spear you are, but my skills are passable and…"

"…and you think a worn-out old man would be better served by napping in the middle of the boat?"

"Oh, no, I would never say such a thing! And you're certainly not old." If she had to guess about it, the crannogman was a bit younger than her father would have been, had he lived, and no one would've called Ned Stark old.

And now, he never would be.

The girl pushed her thoughts of her father away to stop the hot lump that tried to form in her throat then.

Howland patted Arya's arm fondly. "For a woman of your skill and experience, you are exceedingly kind."

The queen balked, unsure what she should say to that. She'd certainly never thought of herself as kind. "I only wish to be fair. You came here for me, at my insistence, and there are only four of us. I can do my part."

Lord Reed looked at the girl, his verdant green eyes full and deep and piercing. "You have, your grace, and so splendidly, too. You have."

Though Howland did not give up his watch to the queen, he allowed her to stay by his side and assist him. They used their time together to discuss some particulars of their upcoming journey to White Harbor and beyond. Then a question occurred to Arya and she allowed herself to indulge her curiosity.

"Lord Reed, this morning, I heard you praying."

"Yes, child?"

"I didn't know the language. It reminded me a bit of Dothraki in its cadence, but it wasn't."

He laughed. "No, indeed not. That was the old tongue, your grace. Do you not know it?"

Arya shook her head. The old tongue had been considered crass and antiquated at Winterfell, and it was not amongst the languages deemed important to learn in the House of Black and White (and no wonder—what man in Braavos would find himself inspired to pay for a Faceless assassin to venture beyond the Wall and deliver the gift to a wildling or a giant?)

"I see," Howland said, wrinkling his nose. He obviously considered it a glaring oversight in her education.

"Why do you speak it?"

His expression indicated her question surprised him. "It is the language of our gods. The old gods."

The girl felt something shift in her at the assertion. "Is it?" she whispered.

"They hear all prayers, of course, and understand them, in their infinite wisdom. But I've always thought they favored those who speak their own tongue."

Arya made a quick decision. "Will you teach me?"

"Certainly, if you like."

They spent hours that way, Howland teaching her a phrase and its meaning, and his queen repeating it until he was satisfied with her pronunciation and understanding.

"You have an ear for language, your grace," the Lord of Greywater Watch remarked as their companions poled the skiff to within shouting distance of the lighted dock of the castle.

The girl blushed, though the dimness of the lantern light did not allow for her companion to note it. "Takka, magnar mijn." Thank you, my lord.

The crannogman gave his queen a pleased smile at her mastery of the response and she could feel her blush deepen. She supposed the warm feeling that rolled up tightly inside of her chest was a consequence of Lord Reed reminding her a bit of her father, at least in his manner. Ned had never been effusive with his praise, yet he left no doubt of his regard when one of his children made him proud. Howland's smile left her feeling much the same way her father's small shows of approval often had.

Perhaps now such approval meant even more to her; now that she was a fatherless child.

Arya stared through the dark toward the castle as she mulled the idea over.

One of the men patrolling the dock called a challenge to the foursome as the skiff approached which Howland himself answered. Satisfied, the guardsmen allowed the craft to pull alongside the dock and even helped tie it off once Ranson Cray navigated within their reach, Ser Willem tossing a rope into the outstretched hands of one of the guards. When the craft was secured, Howland stepped up, gaining footing on the floating platform with exceptional grace. The Bear followed closely and once his feet were firmly planted, he reached down to assist his queen as Ranson brought up the rear.

After bowing to Lord Reed, the large assassin escorted his sister over the docks, through the gates and into the keep. It was well after midnight and the castle was eerily quiet as they entered. That was likely the reason Arya found it so surprising to see the Lord Commander of the Winter Guard pacing before the door to her chamber as she approached.

"Ser Jaime!" the queen exclaimed, startled. "Shouldn't you be abed?"

He stopped his agitated pacing and bowed. "If my queen were abed, then I would be, too."

"Let us both to bed, then, ser. You look as though you need the sleep."

"No, your grace. Not yet."

Interpreting the look on the Kingslayer's face, the Cat leaned into the Bear's side, murmuring in his ear, "I thought you said you would spare me Ser Jaime's tongue lashing."

"Only for attempting to split the company," her brother replied, "not for sneaking away from the castle without discussing it with your Lord Commander. Or anyone." He winked.

"I discussed it with you," she hissed.

"I doubt Ser Jaime will consider that adequate." The Faceless Dornishman bowed, kissing the back of his queen's hand and taking his leave, ignoring her glare as he did. When he was gone, the girl approached the golden knight.

"Perhaps we can save this discussion for tomorrow, after we've both slept," she suggested.

"I've been saving this discussion, your grace, ever since you left the castle unexpectedly, in the dark, like a prowling thief. Now, I prefer to have it."

Arya sighed. "Very well, Lord Commander. Come in." She opened her door, stepping into her chamber and awaiting Jaime. As he closed the door behind him, she began speaking, hoping to circumvent the lecture he'd obviously been ruminating over since her departure. "Before you say anything, let me assure you that I was never in any danger and the entire outing was completely uneventful. Furthermore…"

"Are you an assassin?" the knight asked bluntly, cutting her off.

"Uh… am I… what?"

"More specifically, are you a Faceless Man?"

She scoffed. "Are you serious?"

"Deadly." His golden hand rested against his hip, but his hand of flesh moved to the hilt of his sword. Arya could not be certain if the move was unconscious, or if Jaime meant some threat by it.

Or perhaps fear drove him. Fear of her? That idea gave her pause.

"No," the girl answered truthfully, her eye still resting on the hand gripping the pommel of his sword, her lip curling in distaste. "I am not a Faceless Man."

They stood facing each other, perhaps four feet of space between them, staring and frowning.

"If you were…"

"I'm not."

"Am I to believe you merely mopped floors and made stews in all the years you were in their temple?"

"I don't care what you believe, Ser Jaime. You asked me if I am a Faceless Man and I answered you with the truth: I am not." That she wasn't only due to the fact that she'd been unsuccessful in her final trial and the order had refused her admission to their ranks over her failure was something she did not relate to the Kingslayer just then.

Jaime blew out a great breath and set his jaw, glaring at her. It seemed he was unwilling to let go of his ire just yet. "And you'll swear that you are not an instrument of an assassins' guild, sent here to do their bidding?"

"Do you require such an oath of me, ser?" Her tone was all incredulity and insult, but just beyond that, it hinted at hurt.

His eyes narrowed and he looked hard at her expression, at her stance. "How do you explain… everything?"

"Everything?" She laughed but she did not sound amused. "I think you'll have to be more specific, Lord Commander."

"Don't act as though I'm being ridiculous, Stark."

"Is that how I'm acting? I thought I was behaving as a girl who'd been blindsided with baseless accusations leveled by someone she trusts and admires." The sincerity of emotion she displayed was undeniable.

For a moment, doubt crept into the knight's expression, but he seemed to push it aside. "Explain your swordplay, then, and your understanding of medicinals. Your mastery of throwing knives, your utter lack of squeamishness in the face of gore and death..."

"Would you prefer me weak and defenseless, Jaime?" the Cat asked, her voice low and almost sultry. "Stupid and compliant, a fearful, fainting thing?" She stalked over to him, placing her palm flat against his belly, then sliding it up his chest as she cocked her head to one side, looking up at him through her lashes. The Kingslayer stiffened at her touch. "Women can't be brave, or skilled with steel, is that it? In your estimation, a woman's domain is limited to the kitchens, the bedchamber, and the birthing bed."

The knight's eyes narrowed. "I've never suggested that."

"Haven't you?" She moved nearly flush with him then, her fingers digging into the leather of his jerkin. "I can swing a sword, and I don't weep in the face of violence, or blood. To you, that makes me suspect." The words hinted at an anger inside of her, but they were spoken in a tone more sensuous than sullen. "Do you need my tears, ser, and my dependence before you think me worthy of a throne? Do you crave my desire? My devotion? My admiration? Do you require me to be helpless, a fragile girl in need of your rescue?"

He swallowed, eyes narrowed, then all at once, grabbed her hand and plucked it from his chest, throwing it off and stepping back from her.

"No, Stark, I don't need any of that, and I don't need your seductress act, either. I just want the truth."

"And I've given it to you."

Jaime shook his head. "No. You've given me an answer to a question, but you've not given me the truth."

The girl was still for a moment, the calculations behind her eyes hidden from him, then she shrugged. "I was behind the walls of the House of Black and White for years. Faceless masters and priests and acolytes were my constant companions. It would be strange if I hadn't picked up some skills, don't you think? Skills beyond making stews and mopping floors, I mean." That last was spat curtly.

"The Faceless Men didn't send you here as part of some plan?"

"I can't speak to the motivations of the order, Jaime. I'm not privy to their schemes. They cast me out. But I'm here for my own reasons, not theirs."

"Cast you out? Why would they do that?"

There was venom in her answer that the Kingslayer might've thought was meant for him, but in truth, the girl was thinking of another as she spoke. "Maybe they were tired of my stews."

"You didn't return to Westeros to do their work?"

"No."

The knight visibly relaxed but then asked one last thing. "Will you swear to it?"

"If I do, will you let me go to bed?"

"Of course."

"Then I swear it."

The golden knight looked hard at her face, her eyes, and then seemed to accept that she was being honest. After a moment, he bestowed upon her a sheepish smile and tired as he was, the look of it charmed the girl more than she could say. "I'm sorry for overstepping, your grace."

"Just as long as you aren't cross with me…"

The man groaned. "I'm perpetually cross with you."

"Well, that sounds exhausting. You should reconsider that position, ser."

"Your grace, I'm reconsidering all of my positions."

Arya burst out laughing. "You've not been Lord Commander of the Winter Guard even a moon's turn! You can't resign yet!"

"Don't tempt me."

"Well, so long as you still hold the position, you should know, we leave here in a day's time."

The news seemed to buoy the knight. He'd made no secret of his general disdain of and discomfort with the crannogmen and their strange land. "Excellent! I shall begin making arrangements in the morning and we'll be ready to make for Winterfell as soon as…"

"We're not going to Winterfell. Not yet anyway."

"What?"

"We'll make for White Harbor."

"What?" Jaime's expression was colored by shock and confusion.

"I've business with Lord Manderly."

"Business with… What business?"

"Are you trading your position as Lord Commander to become my Hand, now, ser?"

Her meaning was clear enough. It was not Jaime's place to ask about royal affairs, only to protect her person. He sighed.

"Gods, Stark, can't it wait? Or be handled via raven scroll?"

"No, I'm afraid not, Ser Jaime."

The golden knight rolled his eyes heavenward as though imploring the gods for the strength he needed to endure such a tiresome monarch. The girl approached, patting him comfortingly on his arm.

"I suggest you find your bed now, Lord Commander. We'll be busy with our preparations tomorrow and have a long journey beyond that."

Jaime did not look pleased, but he bowed crisply, then turned on his heel and moved toward the door, pulling it open and stepping through. Before he closed it behind him, though, he turned back toward the queen.

"What happened at that weirwood?"

The girl merely smiled, shaking her head. The knight sighed again, resigned, then shut the door and left her to her own devices.

Where Did You Sleep Last Night—Nirvana

(though other versions, sometimes titled In the Pines, are wonderful—Lead Belly, Fantastic Negrito—but the feel is different)