Somebody said it's unspeakable love
Well, you don't believe I can speak well at all
You're a maze to me
The journey to Moat Cailin through the Great Swamp was longer and more arduous than the route from the causeway to Greywater Watch had been several days past. For one, the party was larger, now containing Howland Reed, his niece Dyanna, and Maester Samwell, in addition to the men needed to crew the added skiff. Additionally, the area was less travelled than their previous route, making the lizard-lions and water snakes bolder and more aggressive, something Arya would've thought impossible, but was nonetheless true. The company's vigilance was necessarily constant, and, as there was no safe place to moor their crafts for a rest, they had to travel through the night, poling through and watching over the menacing waters in continuous shifts.
The lord of the crannogmen contended that despite the dangers and difficulties, the time they would save by using this route was worth the risk. If they'd merely retraced the original route which had brought them to the castle, they'd have had to trek over the causeway on foot quite a distance since all the horses were with the men at Moat Cailin. That would've added days to their journey and presented its own challenges and threats.
Arya herself found it quite refreshing that no one had cited her safety as a reason to choose the safer but less convenient route.
The queen kept close to Howland on the journey, still intent on learning the old tongue, a quest the older man was happy to support. Hoster Blackwood begged a spot on their large skiff when he realized what they were up to, fascinated by the language and wanting to satisfy his own academic curiosity, as always. Gendry's staunch insistence that he belonged with the queen in his capacity as her sworn shield was enough to guarantee his passage in her company as well. There was little harm in allowing it, the girl thought, and the indulgence would go a long way in salving a wounded ego. He'd not expressed it to her directly, but Arya could sense the dark knight's displeasure with her choice to leave him behind when she'd journeyed to the weirwood of the crannog. Ranson Cray was aboard as well, never one to be found far from his lord. Little Jon Brax rounded out the party on the royal skiff, wearing a new pair of boots that had only been finished the night before.
"No one at home has anything half so fine," the boy said with wonder, staring at the tips of his toes, admiring the natural pattern and rich, varied color of the lizard-lion skin.
"I don't doubt it," Arya replied, admiring his footwear. "I'm quite envious."
The youngster's face fell. "Oh, your grace…" When his lip began to quiver, the girl placed a hand on his thin shoulder.
"What is it, Jon?"
"I should've had something made for you. I didn't think…"
She laughed good naturedly. "No, no, don't fret. I don't begrudge you your boots. I'm not the one who slew the beast, that was all you. It's only right that you should enjoy a fine trophy for your bravery." She patted his back reassuringly, but the boy still looked stricken.
"I've a new sword belt, too, and you could have that."
"Nonsense. I have my own sword belt. If I take yours, I'll have two and you'll have none." Her voice was steady, her tone reasonable, and she bit back her smile so as not to ruin the effect.
"I should have killed another one," the little squire groused. "I just didn't think of it."
The girl bent at the waist, resting her hands on her knees to brace herself, bringing her eyes level with those of Jon Brax. "Your boots are very fine, young Jon, as befits someone in the service of the queen. They are a testament to your skill and courage when hunting dangerous quarry. No man will look at you and wonder why I keep you by my side." Her words seemed to bolster the boy and he met her serious look with a stiff nod. She straightened and added, "I should be very glad if you promise me a set of slippers when next you hunt in the Neck."
"Of course!" he cried. "The finest slippers. Perhaps even snakeskin! The crannogmen said snakeskin slippers are coveted by their wives and daughters, because the scales are so delicate and beautiful."
The boy prattled on happily about trapping snakes and what a delicacy their meat was as he wandered to the stern of the skiff, watching Ser Gendry poling to propel the craft and asking the knight's opinion on the suitability of the skins of swamp vipers versus tri-banded serpents in the making of ladies slippers. Arya nodded to her sworn shield with a playful smirk on her face, placing her hand over her heart briefly. It was a silent thanks for occupying her exuberant squire for a bit.
"Talmodta, dronnigal mijn," Hoster Blackwood murmured. You are patient, my queen. He pronounced the old tongue with an accent most precise as he looked up at her from where he sat resting on the bottom of the skiff. He was reclined against its raised side, his long legs stretched out before him and crossed at the ankle. She glanced down at him, impressed.
"You learn quickly."
"Learning quickly is my one talent."
"You're supposed to be sleeping, my lord. It will be your turn to keep watch soon." She dropped down next to him, her posture mimicking his, their shoulders nearly touching. The young man looked thoughtful, then shrugged.
"I hardly dare close my eyes, lest I miss something wondrous." He made a sweeping gesture with one hand, indicating the wide world beyond the safety of their boat.
"You're like Jon Brax in that way."
The lord laughed. "I suppose I am. In that way."
The queen turned, studying Hoster's profile. There was something like contentment in the set of his jaw, she thought, and something like beguilement behind his eyes.
"You wish you could stay here longer." Anyone might've thought her words a guess, but there was more behind them than conjecture.
"Yes. There's much to learn here. But there's no time." He turned to face her, and she thought his smile a little sad.
"No," she agreed, shaking her head slightly. Though they'd not discussed it during their brief visit to Greywater Watch, it was never far from their minds that they had much to do before the dragons marched North. After a moment, Arya squinted up at Hoster. "You'd have made an excellent maester."
He snorted. "If only you could've told my mother that six years ago, my chain would be nearly complete by now."
"You might've studied alongside the new Maester Samwell," the girl mused, jerking her chin toward the skiff which floated just behind theirs where Sam sat. The grey-robed man appeared to be prattling to Brienne about something or another.
"Might've," the Blackwood lord echoed, "but didn't. Sadly, I spent my time less productively, as a hostage, reading whatever I could in Lannister libraries." He looked as though he were grieving all the tomes and scrolls he was denied in the great library of the Citadel.
"Our dreams for ourselves have an irritating way of not manifesting," the queen lamented. "Instead, we find ourselves assigned roles in life we had never imagined."
Hoster laughed lightly. "So, as a young girl, you never saw yourself as the Queen of Winter?" he teased.
Arya's answering laugh was heartier. "Indeed not! I saw myself as a wildling. Or an archer in a great Northern army. I only wanted to ride horses and spar with my brothers and sleep under a canopy of pine needles in the wolfswood with Nymeria. The most settled role I ever hoped to claim for myself was commander of a small holdfast, ready to ride and fight at a moment's notice when my father or my brother Robb called upon me. Beyond that, I only hoped to be left to my own devices."
The lord chuckled with amusement. "You dreamed yourself a life of anonymity, and you're the most famous woman in half of Westeros. Soon to be the whole of Westeros if I had to speculate."
"Whereas you hoped for a life of knowledge and service," the girl mused.
Hoster grunted his agreement. "And yet I find myself frustrated on both counts." He looked at her and grinned. "By our own standards, we're both of us terrible failures, your grace."
Arya's look became serious, her brow furrowing and her mouth pulling down as she considered her companion's words. "You're no maester, it's true," she acknowledged, "but that doesn't mean you can't have a life of great knowledge and service, if that's what you truly desire."
Hoster regarded his queen quizzically. "I… live only to serve you now, your grace."
"Then serve as my Hand," she suggested.
The young man drew back. "What?"
"Perhaps the sort of knowledge required is different than a maester, but considering your education and experiences, I think that an advantage for you, really, and…"
"You want me to be…"
"Hand of the Queen. Yes."
It was Hoster's turn to look serious. "Your grace, I'm not insensible to the honor, the tremendous honor, but you should consider the importance of the position."
"You think I haven't?"
"I… I simply mean that there are men far more qualified than me who you might choose."
"I could've said the same when you pushed to make me queen declarant. Don't let your courage fail now, my lord." Her one eyebrow arched with her challenge as she looked at him.
"I feel as though the council might have… opinions."
"Do opinions frighten you?"
"Objections, rather."
The girl absently rubbed along the column of her white throat with her fingertips, gazing out into the distance. "I think not."
"No?"
"The Northmen in the company will not oppose me, and your father is like to quell any dissent amongst the River lords."
"My father is like to prefer Brynden over me for the role."
"Brynden is his heir. He cannot think to make his life at court. He'll be required at Raventree Hall someday."
"Yes, I suppose I have my lack of inheritance to recommend me." One side of Hoster's mouth curled into a bitter smile as he spoke. The girl rolled her eyes.
"That has nothing to do with my choice," she assured him. "I merely point it out so you will see your father can have no reason to oppose your appointment."
"There are Northern lords you've yet to meet. They will expect one of their own to be named, surely."
Arya shrugged. "I don't think I care."
"But you should."
She painted her features with surprise for his benefit. "Should I?"
"Of course. You'll need their support, to a man. I know you have no love of politics, but that won't spare you from having to consider such things, annoying as you may find it."
Arya tilted her head back to stare into Hoster's eyes, noting his concern. Her own gaze was shrewd. "My lord, your advice is exceedingly sound." When he nodded at her, certain he'd made her see sense, she added, "Precisely what I'd expect from my Hand."
His nodding stopped and his mouth opened slightly before he let out a chuckle. "Very deft, your grace." His eyes narrowed and he leaned his face closer to her ear. "It's actually frightening how easily you lay your traps, right in plain sight, yet completely undetected until it's too late. Most unfair."
"I'll take that as a compliment, my lord."
"It was most certainly meant as one." He returned his gaze out over the water, studying the dark branches of the trees they passed for a few moments before observing with a snort, "Aegon Targaryen should rethink his plan."
"His plan?" Arya looked at her Hand expectantly.
"Leaving the safety of King's Landing to march north."
"Why is that my lord?"
Hoster looked down at her, amusement dancing in his eyes. "He has no idea what you're capable of. I almost feel sorry for the man."
"I find it frustrating that we've been unable to get a straight answer from any of these lords."
Aegon was standing on the balcony of his solar, peering out over the city as he spoke. His voice was deceptively calm, betraying none of the frustration he claimed but all the while, his fingers tapped restlessly upon the railing. His Hand stood perhaps five paces behind him, lingering in the doorway which led back into the chamber where they'd been discussing the state of affairs in the various regions of the kingdom. As usual, the correspondence they'd received from the Riverlands was vague and noncommittal while that from the North was merely nonexistent.
"The Northmen are a strange and insular people, and they do not easily trust, so their reticence is not surprising," Lord Connington mused, "but the River lords think themselves cleverer than they are. No doubt they are waiting to see what advantage they can gain before declaring allegiance."
"They would be better served to ask themselves what consequences they will suffer if they do not declare allegiance." The king's voice was soft as he spoke the words, but his gaze moved toward the half-ruined dragonpit in the distance.
"I doubt it will come to that, your grace. They are a people weary of war and death. Their reluctance will melt away as the capital is settled, and they have had a taste of peace."
The king spun around, purple eyes sparking with ire. "Reluctance? Defiance, you mean." His posture was straight and stiff, his bearing one of regal impatience. Tyrion, who had been seated on a low stool at one end of the balcony, hopped to his feet and moved toward Aegon, his hands clasped behind his back as he moved. It was an attitude he tended to adopt when he was working through a problem.
"Not defiance, your grace," the dwarf said. "Not open defiance, anyway. Not yet."
"What, then?" Aegon demanded. "What is their game?"
"I think Lord Connington has the right of it, to some extent. They are looking for an advantage."
"They're more likely to accept you after the coronation, your grace," the Hand added.
"Do these River lords care so much for pomp?" The king asked the question with an air of disbelief.
"It's not the pomp," Tyrion said, "it's just another step in solidifying your legitimacy. Why declare for a king who does not yet have a throne? Not officially, anyway."
"Another step beyond that would be marrying your aunt," Connington added. "That is a sure way to settle many of the questions…"
"Jon, I will not have this conversation again," Aegon growled.
"Forgive me, your grace, but this is why you appointed me to be your Hand. I would be neglecting my duty to you if I did not say these things. Such conversations must be had." The older man was only partially successful in hiding his irritation. For all that their dynamic had shifted over the years, Jon still slipped into his role of the stern father on occasion, seeing Aegon as Young Griff in need of firm guidance.
The king blew out a frustrated breath and stalked toward Lord Connington, brushing past him and entering his solar. His two companions followed close behind. When he reached a table stacked with correspondence and a pile of tightly wound scrolls, Aegon placed his balled fists on the surface, leaning over and bearing his weight on his knuckles.
"The Riverlands and the North will be hard pressed to deny you are the rightful king if you marry Daenerys and have command of her dragons," the Hand reasoned.
"The Riverlands and the North will be hard pressed to accept a king and queen who both came of age in Essos and only arrived lately on their shores," Aegon objected. He straightened then and turned to face his companions. "And lest you forget, Jon, my aunt would have happily stood over my ashes and claimed this kingdom for herself if things had gone differently in the Stormlands. This is the woman you'd have me wed?"
"Many a successful marriage started on rockier ground," the Hand insisted. "You cannot afford this grudge. Tossing away such an advantage for the sake of your pride is foolish."
"But tossing away such an advantage for a greater advantage is quite sensible," Aegon replied.
Connington grimaced and glared down at Tyrion. "This is your doing. If you have a care for this kingdom, you'll speak sense to him now."
"I agree with the king," Tyrion retorted. The Hand let out a disgusted sound at the dwarf's pronouncement but that did not stop him from continuing. "Strange and insular as they are, the North would not reject one of their own."
"Again with this Stark nonsense?" Lord Connington cried in disbelief.
"You didn't think it nonsense when Ilyrio sent a chest of gold to Braavos," the dwarf reminded him.
"Ilyrio had the gold to spare," the Hand hissed, "and it was my job to find every possible path for Aegon to claim the Iron Throne. I am not in the habit of limiting my king's leverage!"
"Then why do so now?" Tyrion asked.
"Marriage to Daenerys provides him with every possible benefit," Jon insisted.
The dwarf shook his head. "Only if he desires his kingdom split in two, perhaps irrevocably."
"A kingdom split in two?" the Hand sputtered. "With dragons at his back, the king would easily be able to unite the land! Besides, a kingdom split in two is far preferable to what happened the last time a Targaryen royal attached himself to a Stark girl!"
"That Targaryen royal was already married," Tyrion reasoned, "and the Stark girl in question had a father and brothers who took exception to the way she simply vanished, not to mention a betrothed known to be hot-headed and jealous, who, you will recall, had his own claim to the throne. The situations are entirely different. This Targaryen royal is king, not prince, and this Stark girl has Tully blood, too, which will entice the loyalty of the Riverlands as well as the North." The dwarf moved a step closer to Connington, adding, "Aegon is not Rhaegar, and Arya is not Lyanna."
"You don't know who Arya Stark is! She could be sickly, or mad, or despoiled."
Tyrion shook his head. "Ilyrio received assurances from the Faceless Men that she was none of those things, as you well know, Lord Hand."
"And assassins are known for their love of honesty, are they?"
"Perhaps not, but these assassins are known for their love of gold, power, and their own reputation. I don't think they'd risk any of those in this case."
"We don't even know the girl is alive!" the Hand seethed. "She might've died crossing the sea or succumbed to disease as soon as she arrived upon the shore. For all we know, she perished in that strange temple years ago, before the elder even dispatched his assassin to extort money from Ilyrio!"
The king had been very quiet during the tense exchange between his two advisors, but he spoke up then.
"No," he said, sedate and certain. "She's alive."
"Then why have we not heard a single word of her?" Lord Connington asked. "Ned Stark's true born daughter, thought lost these many years, discovered alive and well in Braavos, then delivered to her home by an order of foreign assassins with a hefty bride price paid by the most powerful man in Pentos? That's quite a tale to go untold. Yet we've not even heard a whisper of it!" He pointed at the stack of raven scrolls on the table behind Aegon. "Not one whisper!"
"Indeed," Tyrion agreed, his tone thoughtful as he rubbed at his chin. "Quite a tale to go untold… though, perhaps it's less astonishing if the men who might tell it are… hmmm..." The dwarf paused, but only for a moment, then looked up at the Hand. "How did you put it, my lord? Waiting to see what advantage they could gain?"
When not learning the old tongue, the royal party and the crannogmen passed their time traversing the swamp by telling tales. Lord Hoster asked Arya more about her time with the Hound and in Braavos, paying rapt attention as she relayed her experiences. At times, he muttered about needing to procure more parchment. The others with her were interested in her stories as well and little Jon Brax could hardly restrain himself from asking a thousand questions. The girl answered what she could and skirted around what she could not.
"He really turned his face into a skull?" the squire squeaked in disbelief as the Cat relayed one of her many confrontations with the principal elder.
"With grave worms crawling from his eye sockets!" she rasped, lurching toward the boy and eliciting a delighted squeal as she tickled him.
"And you weren't scared?" he breathlessly asked.
"Just a magician's trick," she assured the squire with a grin, ruffling his hair. "He wanted me to be scared, so I wasn't, just to thwart him."
"Yes, that sounds like you," Gendry muttered. Arya ignored him, but Howland did not.
"It also sounds like your Aunt Lyanna," the lord said with a smile. "Fearless and stubborn."
"My lord, you said you'd tell me about her," the girl reminded him. "Something about a shield painted with a weirwood at the tourney?"
"Ah, yes." The man's face lit up. "The Knight of the Laughing Tree."
They passed most of an afternoon listening to the crannogman recount the story. Young Jon was nearly beside himself with his excitement over it and he asked even more questions of Lord Reed than he had of Arya earlier. The lord answered each one patiently.
"But how could she unseat so many riders if she'd never jousted before?" the boy wanted to know. "Surely she wasn't as strong as her opponents."
"The skill in jousting lies in the rider's seat and agility," the lord explained. "The better rider will most often win a tilt, and I've never seen a better rider than Lady Lyanna."
To that, the squire declared, "You've never seen the queen ride!"
"Jon!" Arya admonished.
"No, he's right, your grace. I haven't. Your skill may well overshadow your aunt's. I imagine you have… some advantage over her."
The girl knew the crannogman was referring to her warging capabilities, but she looked at Jon Brax and winked, saying, "Yes. I've had more time to practice."
The tale finished, the boy moved to the stern and peppered Ranson Cray with observations and questions about navigating the sluggish waters of the swamp. Arya took a moment to enjoy the scene before moving closer to Howland.
"Did Rhaegar know? When he discovered the shield, did he find her as well?" she asked quietly.
"She never said, your grace, but I've always suspected it."
And yet, the silver prince had not given her away. Lord Reed had said as much in his recounting. The Knight of the Laughing Tree had remained a mystery despite the mad king's ravings.
"So, he protected her." Arya considered what would motivate the prince to defy his father for a Northern girl he barely knew.
"It would seem he did."
"But why?"
"Possibly for the same reason your aunt protected me when I was being ill-used, your grace. For all you may have heard of him, Rhaegar was a deeply decent man. He would not stand by and allow an injustice to occur if it were within his power to prevent it."
The girl nodded, humming slightly. "It's strange to hear it. That account of him doesn't really jibe with the things I've heard about Rhaegar Targaryen my whole life."
"Did you hear any of them from your father?"
Arya hesitated, her brows pinching together as she chewed at her bottom lip lightly. "No," she finally admitted.
Howland swallowed. "Your father was also a deeply decent man."
The girl blew out a breath and steadied herself against the sudden ache in her chest, but her reply was still hoarse.
"He was."
It was late morning on the third day when they were able to ground their skiffs and hop onto dry land. Moat Cailin was just over a league away, Ranson Cray told them, and so despite the way the ground seemed to sway and rock under their feet after so long on the water, the company grabbed their packs and supplies and marched toward their destination. Even with their burdens, they'd reached the walls of the ruined stronghold in under two hours. They approached the Gatehouse Tower, which was the most habitable portion of the structure.
"Open the gate!" a voice called out from somewhere overhead. "It's the queen!"
Arya squinted up but was unable to identify who had spoken through the arrow slits. A moment later, the sound of scraping and then the protesting whine of rusted hinges announced the gate's opening. On the other side, Brynden Blackwood, Jon Umber, Royan Wull, Beren Tallhart, Podrick Payne, and Kyle Condon stood. As Arya passed under the arch of the gateway, each man dropped to one knee, and they all bowed their heads in deference. Beyond them, the crowd of Northmen in their party as well as the crannogmen who had guided them along the causeway to the stronghold followed suit, kneeling and bowing as one.
"Rise," she commanded impatiently, still uncomfortable with such displays. As they did, her eyes locked with those belonging to the heir to Raventree Hall. "Ser Brynden, I trust all has been well in my absence?"
"Yes, your grace. Both the men and the horses are rested and hale. We can depart for Winterfell as soon as you like."
"We're not going to Winterfell."
The Greatjon's booming voice cut through the confused chattering of the party then. "What?"
"First, we must away to White Harbor," the girl explained. "I mean to pay Lord Manderly a visit." Around her, the men clamored.
"White Harbor?"
"But we're for Winterfell…"
"Manderly?"
"What can she mean?"
Hoster Blackwood stepped in behind the queen and she turned to him. "Gather the company together, Lord Hand. I'll be along directly. We have much to discuss."
The lanky man bowed, murmuring, "Your grace." He could barely be heard over the renewed outbursts at the title Arya had just uttered.
"Lord Hand?"
"When did this happen?"
"What does she mean, Hoster?"
"Your grace!"
Arya ignored them all and strode away, Gendry and Jaime on her heels and Dyanna Cray on theirs. The dark knight reached for her satchels, relieving her of the burden while Jaime laughed under his breath.
"You certainly know how to disturb the peace, Stark," he muttered. She merely answered with a shrug, so he added, "It might've been more compassionate to just lob a barrel of wildfire over the walls to announce your presence."
"Have you any wildfire you might lend me, Ser Jaime?" the girl inquired sweetly, smiling at his censuring expression.
The queen greeted the men she passed along her way until found herself a relatively isolated spot in the holdfast to toss her bedroll and satchels. Rosie greeted her with delight and a sprightly curtsey before scrambling to find some water and a clean cloth so Arya could wipe down her face and neck. Dyanna had somehow procured a skin of wine and offered it to her mistress. The girl took a sip, grimaced against the sour taste, then handed it back.
Once she'd finished cleaning up, she found her sworn shield and the Lord Commander of the Winter Guard awaiting her just outside the ruined door of her chamber.
"Ser Gendry, go find yourself some refreshment and take your ease," the queen directed. "I don't think I'll need a shield to protect me from the company."
"I wouldn't be too sure, your grace," the Kingslayer smirked, earning a dark scowl from the blacksmith-knight. Arya ignored him and nodded to Gendry, dismissing him. She could tell he was reluctant to leave her side, but he obeyed after a moment of hesitation.
"Shall we, Lord Commander?"
"I am at your service," Jaime replied, his tone entirely too amused for the girl's taste. They marched back down the crumbling steps they'd ascended not a quarter hour past and strode across the tower courtyard. They found the men assembled in a large chamber on the ground level of the tower, just east of the gate they'd entered earlier.
A smattering of voices greeted her upon arrival, a mixture of "Your grace" and "My queen." Lady Brienne stood just inside the chamber, along with Ser Ben, the two serving as her queensguard knights since Jaime was there in his capacity as her security advisor. Howland Reed had joined them as well.
"My lords," the queen began, not wasting any time, "I've had word of my youngest brother, Rickon."
"Impossible, that traitorous kraken murdered him."
"Word? What word?"
"No Stark lord lives!"
"A trick!"
"The boy would be unrecognizable, barely four when last he was seen!"
"My lords!" the girl barked. "I have had word of my brother, Rickon. Lord Manderly holds him at New Castle. We ride for White Harbor tomorrow to retrieve him."
"Your grace, from where did this report come?" Brynden Blackwood asked.
"I received the news while visiting Greywater Watch," she replied carefully, and Howland Reed confirmed her words with a nod.
"No ravens fly to that castle," Kyle Condon disputed. "It is well known."
"I did not have the report by raven," Arya said. "It was told to me directly."
"By whose mouth?" the Greatjon asked suspiciously. Further grumbling on his part indicated he was perturbed that someone might've misled his queen about such a sensitive matter. The girl pictured Bran then, walking up the steps of New Castle on strong, whole legs, striding through its corridors with surety.
"By a Northman's mouth, Lord Umber."
"What Northman?" Lonn Liddle pressed.
Arya pinned him with her sharp gaze for a long moment before answering, "One I'd trust with my life, my lord."
The Greatjon's expression became resolute at the conviction in the queen's voice then. "That's good enough for me." He turned and eyed the Northern men in the chamber. "Lads, you heard her grace. We ride for White Harbor on the morrow. Be ready at first light."
"Do you not think it better that you travel to Winterfell straight away and allow a few trusted men to investigate this report of your brother?" Brynden Blackwood asked gently. Several others murmured support of his suggestion.
"I do not. I have been too long separated from my brother and wish him by my side as soon as possible."
The girl could sense Ser Brynden nearly vibrating with the need to ask for more detail, but he curbed the impulse and bowed his head slightly, acknowledging his acceptance.
"Your grace, there is also the matter of royal appointments," the heir to Raventree Hall remarked.
"Yes, thank you, Ser Brynden." Arya stood straight and stony faced, turning to survey the chamber a moment before speaking, looking each lord and fighting man in the eye in turn. "I have named Hoster Blackwood as Hand of the Queen."
"Barely more than a boy," she heard from somewhere in the back, but she was prepared for that particular criticism.
"Tywin Lannister was but twenty when he was named Hand of King Aerys, and I doubt any of you would've challenged his suitability for the position," the girl snapped. "Lord Hoster is nearly two and twenty, and more educated than any man outside of the Citadel. Likely better than many within it, as well."
"Your grace, my brother is certainly a well-read man," Ser Brynden began, "but he has no experience with governing."
Arya scoffed. "Who here does?" The men grew quiet at her words.
Beren Tallhart cleared his throat. "Even the most established kings have relied upon their small councils. There are loyal men to advise you, your grace. Should you not avail yourself of their expertise before making such decisions?"
"The most expert of my men are fortifying their castles in the Riverlands as we speak, my lords," the queen reminded them. "Let their absence serve as a reminder that we have matters more pressing than squabbling for days over council appointments."
Brynden Blackwood frowned. "The careful consideration of candidates need not result in squabbling."
She lifted her chin. "Is it outside of my authority to name my own Hand?"
"Of course not, your grace, but…"
"Hoster Blackwood is my Hand," the girl said, and the note of finality in her tone was unmistakable. "Other appointments seem less important to make at this time. I'll be happy to consider all suggestions when we take up those discussions in the future." No one voiced further resistance, so she continued. "Now, Lord Umber, how long will the ride to White Harbor take?"
"How many of them do you suppose are considering giving Rickon your crown?" the Bear whispered to his sister as they finished their supper later that night.
She snorted. "I should be so lucky."
The Rat, sitting on her other side, muttered, "I should be so lucky."
"Why should it matter to you?" the Lyseni asked him.
"Because they would cease to care about her, and we could break away from the company and ride straight for Winterfell. Then I could board the next ship back to Braavos that much sooner."
"Tired of your homeland already, Justan?" the girl needled. The Rat just glared. "Besides, even if they did crown my brother, I wouldn't simply ride away and leave him. So, you'd still have to tag along with the company, only without the queen's protection."
The pinched-face assassin sneered. "I don't need your protection."
"Perhaps not," the Cat murmured thoughtfully, glancing around the courtyard at the men scattered there, her voice trailing off. She paused every so often, her eyes fluttering closed for a second or two as she tilted her head. Anyone watching her might've thought she were merely fighting off sleep. Finally, she blinked, then turned to the Rat. "But you'll not have the opportunity to prove it. The company remains loyal." She did not sound particularly pleased by the idea.
"At least until they see Rickon," the Bear said quietly. "I suspect half of them don't really believe he's alive. Once the see him with their own eyes, they may consider their alternatives." His voice betrayed a hint of concern.
"Why should that trouble you, brother?" she asked quietly, narrowing her eyes at him. "You must love my crown better than I do."
"How many monarchs have been deposed peacefully?"
"How many were happy to relinquish their throne?" she countered.
"I'm serious, sister. Your position is tenuous."
Arya barked a laugh. "It's not, but if it were, I wouldn't grieve."
Hoster Blackwood approached the small group then. "What amuses you, your grace?" He dropped to the ground across from her, folding his long legs and resting his elbows on his knees.
"Ser Willem worries for my head," she told her Hand.
Hoster's look was one of confusion. "Your head, your grace?"
"He fears it may soon decorate a pike."
The Bear shook his head, unamused by his sister's refusal to acknowledge the real danger to herself. For his part, Hoster blanched visibly.
"Why would you think that, ser?" The Hand was aghast at the mere suggestion.
"Forgive me for my candor, your grace," the false-Dornishman growled, "but when in the history of Westeros have its people supported a queen when a rightful king was available to them? Did we not just hear that the dragons have chosen Aegon over his aunt?"
"Has Daenerys Targaryen's head been liberated from her body because of it?" she retorted.
"Do you have dragons to guarantee your own stays attached?" he bit out.
"I don't need dragons, Ser Willem, I have you." The Cat blinked innocently up at the scowling assassin.
"Rickon Stark is a mere boy," Hoster interjected, "and the queen was chosen by powerful men of repute and intelligence." He stared at Arya. "Your grace, you should not worry that your people are so fickle. We are not. You are… beloved. Respected."
"Oh, I wasn't worried. The concern is all Ser Willem's."
Still looking disturbed, Hoster rose, excusing himself and stalking off. Arya could tell his mind was still churning.
She shook her head at the Bear, making a tsking sound with her teeth and tongue. "You've upset poor Hoster."
"You've upset poor Hoster," the Bear argued. "Though I suppose I shouldn't wonder at it."
"Meaning what?" the girl laughed.
"I feel as though all you've done is upset people since we arrived."
"Well, it wasn't intentional."
"Wasn't it?"
"Are you two done bickering?" the Rat groused. "It's terribly boring."
"Oh?" The Cat feigned surprise. "Well, here's something you're like to find more entertaining. Your master is at New Castle with my brother."
It was the Bear rather than the Rat who reacted with the most surprise.
"What?" the large assassin hissed. "And when were you going to tell me?"
She scoffed. "I just did."
The Rat was quiet, his expression one of concentration.
"What do you make of this, brother?" the Bear asked urgently. The smaller man just shook his head, then his gaze met Arya's and understanding seemed to dawn in his eyes. The Bear read it at the same time as his sister and prompted the Westerosi. "Well?"
The Rat looked at them, lifting his eyebrows. "Perhaps she's not the Stark whose head we should be worrying about."
The next morning, Arya was up earlier than the rest of the company and she found Bane corralled with the other horses. After saddling him and attaching her satchels and other belongings to the saddle, she brushed his neck and murmured soothing words to the beast.
"I've missed you," she admitted. "Visiting the Great Swamp was an adventure, but I'm looking forward to travelling with you again. I've had my fill of skiffs."
"You're up before the sun, your grace. Could you not sleep?"
The girl turned and saw Howland Reed standing just beyond the makeshift stable.
"I find I don't need much sleep these days."
"No, me neither."
She noted his eyes were bright and alert in the light thrown by a torch mounted nearby. "Perhaps it's the curse of those like us," the girl suggested.
"You may be right, though I've known few enough like us that I cannot say for a certainty." He moved toward her, admiring Bane for a moment. "Curse is perhaps too strong a word, though, eh?"
Arya smiled. "You're correct, of course. It's no real curse." She breathed in slowly and then pushed the air out through her nose with force before changing the subject. "I was thinking of my brother; wondering about him."
"It's understandable, your grace, but you'll see him soon. And you needn't worry. I'm certain Lord Manderly is treating him well. He's a Northman, after all."
"Not that brother."
"No?"
The girl pulled her bottom lip between her teeth for a moment before releasing it and saying, "I was thinking of Jon."
"Ah." Something unreadable shaped the crannogman's expression, but it soon smoothed over and he smiled. "You'll see him soon, as well."
"You've heard the story, surely. About Jon, I mean." It wasn't a question. Howland's smile faded.
"Your grace?"
"You know…" She swallowed and the crannogman waited for her to continue. "…he was betrayed. By his own men."
"I… had heard that story, yes. Maester Samwell discussed it with me at great length, actually."
Arya was perplexed. "Maester Samwell? Did he bring news of it from the Citadel? Strange…"
"Not so strange, your grace." The man sighed. "I realize now I've been remiss."
"Remiss, my lord?"
"I haven't properly introduced you. He ought to have ridden with us through the swamp."
Twin creases formed between her eyes. "Why?"
"Samwell was a Black Brother before he was a maester. Jon Snow was his Lord Commander. He sent him from Castle Black to the Citadel to study."
The girl gasped. How had she not seen it? Felt it?
She'd largely ignored the maester, it was true. There had seemed to be more pressing matters during her short stay at Greywater Watch than meeting a newly made maester. She'd known the grey-robed man was bound for the Wall, but she hadn't known it was a return trip. She'd no idea at all that Samwell was linked to her beloved brother!
"I must speak to him," Arya whispered.
"Of course, your grace. There is much he can tell you about Jon Snow. They were quite close to hear the maester tell it."
"Were they?" the girl asked, eyes widening as the corners of her mouth lifted a little.
"Yes." The two were quiet for a few moments, Arya's mind racing with the news. Howland studied her then licked at his chapped lips briefly. "Your grace, I… sense there was more you wished to ask. About…"
"About Jon," she agreed softly, her eyes drifting to the crannogman's. The sky was just beginning to lighten and a few of the others had begun to stir and move about the courtyard. Arya thought a moment longer, then shook her head, saying, "It will keep, my lord."
"You're sure?"
She looked at the men moving through the courtyard, readying to depart, then down at tips of her boots, and finally back to her companion. "Yes. Quite sure. Thank you."
"Are you alright, Maester?" the queen asked as she trotted to his side on Bane. They'd left Moat Cailin behind two hours past and the sun was now shining brightly in the sky though the air was chilled. Arya's cheeks turned pink with it as she rode.
The portly man sat uneasily atop his palfrey, his knuckles nearly white where he clutched the reins.
"Ah, your grace," Sam said. "Yes, well, I'm not much of a horseman, as you can plainly see. I hope I get the hang of it." His nervousness was easy enough to detect, even for his horse, the girl thought.
"Don't worry. In a week, you'll ride like you were born to it."
The maester laughed. "I don't know about that, your grace, but I appreciate your optimism."
"They've given you a gentle mount," the girl assured him. "Not like this daemon here." She patted the side of Bane's neck then and the stallion snorted. "He'd just as soon throw you and break your neck as look at you."
"Oh, well, is it… is it safe for you to ride him, then? I can't imagine anyone here would like you to risk your neck."
"Quite safe, I assure you," she chuckled. "We have an understanding, Bane and me. I'd not recommend him to anyone else, however." Arya eyed the maester's grip again. "Loosen your hold on the reins," she suggested. "This is easy ground, and your horse will not be readily spooked. You can relax a little."
"Oh, oh, yes?" Sam looked down at his hands grasping tightly at the reins. He chuckled and shook his head then unclenched his fingers. "Like this?" he asked, holding the leather more loosely. When the queen nodded, he asked her if she had any other tips for him and so she gave him a few more suggestions.
"See?" Arya encouraged after he'd adjusted his posture and his knees a little. "I told you. In a week, it will be as though you've been at it your whole life."
"I'd settle for not falling off or feeling constantly terrified that I will." They laughed together at that. After riding along in easy silence for a few minutes longer, the girl turned to regard Samwell.
"Maester, Lord Reed tells me you knew my brother."
"Not knew, your grace. Know. I was on my way to see him at Winterfell when I crossed paths with Lord Reed. It's been years…"
"I should apologize. My need to travel to White Harbor first will keep you from him a while longer."
"That's true, but I can just imagine his face when I finally do arrive, and in the company of his sister and brother!"
"He was your Lord Commander?"
Samwell's breath caught as he suddenly wobbled in his saddle. His horse was tramping over a bit of uneven ground and it had caught him off his guard. After a moment, seeing that he was not going to fall, he was able to answer the queen. "Yes, he was my Lord Commander. But before that, he was my friend. We came into the watch at nearly the same time and trained together. We took our oath together. I consider him a brother, your grace."
The girls face lit up with that. "Oh! You've known him a very long time, then! How wonderful…" She glanced over at the grey-robed man, now perched in a marginally more comfortable way atop his mount. "You must tell me everything."
Sam answered her with a grin. "Well, the first thing you should know is that I'd been at Castle Black more than a moon's turn before I ever saw him smile. I wasn't even sure he could until I finally saw it happen."
"Yes, Jon always could brood."
"So broody," her companion agreed, causing Arya to throw her head back and laugh.
"What else, maester?" she asked once she had control of her mirth.
"He spoke of you a great deal."
She was surprised by how much this touched her, and she bit the inside of her cheek a moment before releasing it and whispering, "Did he?"
"Oh, yes. All of you, really. I've heard countless stories of Bran and Rickon. Fewer of your sister. Sansa, is it?" When Arya nodded, swallowing, he continued. "He spoke of Robb and your father of course, but there was no one he seemed to miss as much as you."
The girl smiled sadly. "I missed him greatly, too. He was always there for me, more than anyone else ever was."
"That sounds like Jon," her companion remarked softly.
"I was too young to be of much use to him, of course, but that didn't keep him from watching out for me." Her voice was wistful. "We two misfits."
"Misfits?" The grey-robed man shook his head. "No. He never spoke of you that way. Clever, he said, and brave. Of course, he also said you attracted trouble more easily than a winter rose attracts bees, but he thought you quite beautiful, too."
The girl snorted. "Now I know you're embellishing!"
"I'm not!" he insisted. "He missed you fiercely, and worried over you, but he said he knew that no matter what, you'd be alright, because you were so clever and brave and beautiful. He said he only feared for the man you finally consented to marry."
She laughed at that. "Oh? Did he say why? Was it because that man would be saddled with an unkempt, uncouth, coarse horseface for a wife?"
"No, your grace, certainly not." The maester smiled, seemingly at the memory. "He said no one could be good enough for his little sister, and that someday, you'd burn so brightly, it would blind any man foolish enough to look at you for too long."
Arya's breath caught and she blinked rapidly, looking away for a few moments to gather herself. After a few deep breaths, she murmured hoarsely, "Jon always saw the best in me. Better than what was really there to be seen, I think."
The crinkles at the corners of the man's eyes relaxed and he shook his head. "If you'll pardon me for saying it, your grace, looking at you…" He sighed. "You are so like him. Well, less broody, to be sure."
The girl chuckled softly. "I don't know that you could pay me a kinder compliment, Maester Samwell."
"Please," the grey-robed man said, "call me Sam. Your brother always did."
"Sam," Arya murmured, and somehow, saying it made her feel closer to Jon.
The weather was fair and the terrain even for the most part, and so the company covered more ground than expected that day. Even so, Arya was surprised when the Greatjon called that it was time to make camp for the night. The queen considered pressing for them to ride further, reasoning that they did not have to make full camp in light of the weather, but then she saw Rosie and particularly Dyanna, unused to such hardship, and took pity.
Later, as a campfire crackled and danced and they gathered around it to eat their supper, the girl noticed her sworn shield eating alone. She herself was surrounded, Ser Jaime and Ser Ben standing just behind her, the Bear and the Rat to her left, and Dyanna and Rosie to her right. Though lively and laughing, Dyanna had been casting furtive glances in the dark knight's direction often enough that it caught her queen's attention.
"Ser Gendry!" Arya called across the campfire to where the knight was seated. His head jerked up at her voice, his eyes finding hers. At her answering smile, he rose, his long strides carrying him before her in no time. He stood between her and the fire, his imposing form silhouetted by wavering firelight.
"Your grace?"
"Have you met my Lady Dyanna Cray?" The queen indicated the woman seated next to her.
"I… um." The dark knight's brows crashed lower. "No. I mean, I've seen her, of course, but I've not had the pleasure of an introduction."
"Lady Dyanna, Ser Gendry and I have known each other since we were children," the girl said. "He is my oldest friend."
"How lovely, your grace, and rare, to have such an old friend in your service," the crannogwoman replied, rising and offering Ser Gendry her hand. He stared a moment, then took it, bowing his head and pressing his lips to her knuckles briefly.
"I am… pleased to make your acquaintance, my lady," the knight replied stiffly.
"Gendry, this is Lady Dyanna's first journey outside of the Neck! Isn't that exciting?"
"Uh… yes?" he tried.
Arya rose, taking each of them by the hand excitedly. "Dyanna, Ser Gendry was born in King's Landing, but he's travelled extensively in the Riverlands. Most of the great houses have hosted him."
"Is that so, Ser Gendry?" Dyanna asked. "I myself have only seen Greywater Watch."
"Er… yes." His fingers flexed in Arya's grip then.
"He's seen Harrenhal," the queen whispered conspiratorially. "And Raventree Hall. Acorn Hall. Riverrun. The Twins…"
"Oh, my! You must think me very sheltered, my lord," Dyanna said with a blush.
"I'm not… I'm not a lord," the blacksmith-knight grumbled.
"No? But your bearing is so… lordly," the woman offered, and Arya blinked up at Gendry, sucking her cheeks in slightly. He glared at the queen a moment, but he did not have long to glower before she suggested he escort the lady to her tent. He tried to object, sputtering something about being the queen's sworn shield, but she dismissed his argument.
"Dyanna is one of my ladies in waiting," the girl explained. "I want to extend her my protection."
"It's my protection you're extending," the knight muttered just loud enough for Arya to hear, but he offered Dyanna his arm nonetheless and skulked off with her, only throwing one look back at the queen over his shoulder and frowning at the amusement he read in her eyes.
The next morning, Gendry cornered Arya as she was throwing a saddle over Bane's back.
"Do your royal duties now include matchmaking?"
The girl pursed her lips. "Oh, come on, do you mean to tell me you don't find her handsome?"
"She's handsome, I suppose, but that's nothing to do with…"
"So, just say thank you."
"I won't." His look was almost angry. It surprised her.
"No?"
"No."
She sighed. "Are you so determined to be unhappy?"
"Is it my happiness that concerns you, or your own guilt?"
This drew the girl up short. "What?"
"I don't need you to throw women into my bed, your grace."
Arya drew back as though she'd been slapped. "I… wasn't. I… didn't…"
Gendry's mouth formed a tight line and his jaw ticked as he stared down at her. "You didn't?" He snorted. "You most certainly did! And what's more, it's not the first time."
"What are you talking…"
"Elsbeth," he hissed.
"Elsbeth already fancied herself in love with you long before I showed up. All I did was point it out."
Redness crept up the knight's neck. "That's not all you did, and you know it."
The girl huffed. "You act as though I tried to force you into a betrothal!"
"It wasn't within your power to do so then, elsewise you might've! And now that you're queen, I don't want you trying to…"
"Trying to…?"
The knight breathed in and out a few times, looking off to one side. His eyes flicked back to hers after a moment and he said, "Don't you think I know why you wouldn't allow me to be a queensguard knight?"
"That wasn't solely my decision," Arya objected weakly.
"Could've been."
He was right, of course. She could've pressed the issue. Gendry was no less capable than Podrick Payne. Their positions could've easily been swapped. Or she might've agreed to six queensguard knights. The council would have been excited to indulge her in that matter. But Arya was determined not to deprive him of a future with home and family, whether he admitted he wanted that or not.
She sighed. "Gendry…"
"Please," he said, his eyes softer now, "please don't try to push me into the arms of a woman I don't want just to make yourself more comfortable." He swallowed thickly.
"No, that wasn't my intention…" At his look, she stopped. After thinking a moment, she said, "You're my oldest friend."
"So you told Lady Dyanna. Do you know she wanted me to tell her about the famous baths of Harrenhal? As if I'd ever glimpsed the inside of the baths!"
"I just wanted… I mean, lately, you seem so…"
Gendry stiffened. "I don't need your pity and I don't require distraction." He stepped closer to her then, a mere breath separating their bodies. "Stop pushing me away. If I can endure it, then you can, too."
"I… don't like to think of you… lonely. I only wish for you to…"
The dark knight stepped back and held up a hand, stopping her. He sighed, running that hand through his hair before continuing. "I have sworn to protect you. I owe you my hammer, my sword, even my life if need be." The girl started to nod her understanding, but he held up that same hand, staring down at her. "My heart, however, is my own affair. Let me see to it myself, your grace. My heart and my bed."
Arya's mouth dropped open but she made not a single sound, merely watching as her sworn shield turned on his heel and left her standing there alone.
The Maze—Manchester Orchestra