Oh, tell me now, where was my fault
In loving you with my whole heart?
The queen's company had traveled five days from Moat Cailin before they crossed paths with the great wolfpack again. Arya hadn't realized how she'd missed the comfort of knowing the wolves were nearby until she heard the sound of their howling once again. Something about it settled her, even if it did not settle the horses (or, indeed, some of the men).
Camp was made at dusk near the edge of a wood. As the sun sank below the horizon, the howling began in earnest, at first just a lone call and then one to answer it. Before long, though, there was a chorus and it echoed through the trees. Ser Brynden had looked questioningly toward his queen when the sound rose up in the darkness and she'd merely smiled, reassuring him.
"Nymeria," she said with certainty. The girl could feel the wolf nearby. And the wolf could feel her.
"Your great direwolf?" Jon Brax asked excitedly. "Oh! I wondered if I would ever get to see her!"
The queen looked down at her little squire. "Would you like to? It sounds as though they can't be far off…"
"Your grace," Ser Jaime admonished, looking at her sternly.
"Lord Commander," she replied in a cajoling tone, "you know very well they pose no threat."
"Perhaps they do not but traipsing through a dark wood in the night does."
"We'd not have to go far. She'll come to me."
"Your grace, we don't know what bandits or brigands may roam the area," the Kingslayer reasoned.
"They'd have to be very foolish to take their chances with a large wolfpack nearby, wouldn't they?"
Jaime sighed. "Fine." He looked over at Ser Podrick and Ser Ben, snapping his fingers. "You're not to let her go so that far you can't see the campfire," he growled. "I want you in voice range." He'd barely gotten the words out when little Jon began to hop from one foot to the other, clapping.
"I can't believe I'm going to see a direwolf!" he squeaked.
"I'll go, too," Gendry offered, striding to Arya's side. He ignored the look on Jaime's face when he did and bent low to whisper to the squire, "Nymeria is my particular friend. She was part of the Brotherhood when her mistress was still in Braavos."
"Really?" the boy breathed, his eyes widening. "Is she a knight, too?"
The dark knight laughed. "No, of course not. She's a lady. My Lady Nymeria of the Wood."
The squire eyed the large knight skeptically. "Can wolves really be ladies?"
Gendry's face took on a very somber expression. "Lady Nymeria isn't just any wolf. She's a direwolf. She's practically royalty among the wolves south of the Wall." When Jon's mouth shaped itself into an astonished o, the knight added, "Besides, she grew up in a castle, eating at the head table. Well, beneath it, anyway." He winked and Arya bit back her chuckle at Jon Brax's absolute enthrallment with Gendry's tale. "And would your queen have some common wolf as a companion?"
The young boy shook his head emphatically, then asked, "Has Nymeria performed great feats, too?"
Gendry nodded. "Oh, yes. She and her pack once helped save the orphans from raiders."
"Orphans?" Jon frowned. "What orphans?"
"Come. I'll tell you about the orphans while we walk," the dark knight promised, nodding over the boy's head at the queen (and ignoring the look on both Ser Jaime's and Ser Brynden's faces at the gesture).
The small group approached the tree line, and the girl was the first to duck between two large trunks, stepping into the wood.
"Your grace!" Ser Podrick called with a hint of unease, trotting after her. "Perhaps you should let us go first!"
"No need, ser," the queen called back over her shoulder, moving with a sure and silent step over the uneven ground dotted with brush and littered with fallen branches. The men trailing her had to pick more carefully than she did, it seemed, and she pulled ahead. In the thick of the wood, moonlight and firelight barely filtered in, obscuring their path, and Arya's typically quiet movements made her difficult to follow. The howling grew louder and suddenly seemed to be coming from all around them.
"Your grace!" Ser Ben cried out in alarm, realizing he could no longer see the girl.
"Your grace, don't leave me!" her squire pled, worried he would miss his chance to see Nymeria.
Gendry said nothing, just took Jon's hand to keep him from wandering off and getting lost or stumbling and hurting himself. Together, they walked quickly as the boy's little legs would allow, moving in the direction they'd seen Arya go. A few minutes later, the knight had to draw up suddenly and jerk Jon back by his arm to keep from slamming into their queen. They found her kneeling on the forest floor as though in prayer, and before her, a great, grey beast had settled, immense, furry head resting on her paws.
"Nymeria," they heard the girl murmur, "this is Jon Brax." She reached back without looking, holding her hand behind her. The boy slipped his hand into hers and allowed her to pull him to her side. "You can scratch her behind her ears," she said softly. "She likes that."
The squire said nothing, just did as the queen bid, moving forward slowly and reaching out for the wolf's head. He gasped when his hand made contact with her fur and she whined and pushed against his fingers as they started to scratch.
"She does like it," he said in an awed whisper. "She does."
A moment later, the two men of the Winter Guard stumbled upon them. "Oh, your grace, thank the gods," Ser Pod breathed. At the newcomers, Nymeria growled low, causing Jon to freeze. This made the wolf whine again and bump her snout against the boy's thigh, making it obvious what she wanted. He resumed scratching her ears.
Taking in the scene, Ser Ben said, "I see you found her." He turned and looked behind him. "But we're beyond perimeter the Lord Commander set for us. We ought to go back, your grace."
Arya rose and Nymeria followed, causing the squire to draw in a surprised breath.
"She's bigger than a pony!" he exclaimed.
"But not as easy to ride," the girl replied, laughing, adding, "No saddle." Then, looking at Gendry, she nodded toward the boy. The knight took her meaning, leaning down to lift the boy under his arms and placing him on Nymeria's back.
"Don't tug too hard on her fur," the dark knight advised the boy. "She wouldn't like it."
"Gently, girl," Arya murmured, scratching the direwolf beneath her chin, and they all began to move back to the camp. All the while, Jon Brax spoke in awed whispers.
"I can't believe it," he said. "I just can't believe it. I can't believe it."
When they finally broke the tree line and approached the campfire, Lady Dyanna spotted them and squealed, grasping at her own neck. Fortunately, Lady Brienne and Rosie were next to her and were able to reassure her before Nymeria came any nearer. Once close enough to feel the warmth of the fire, the wolf hunkered down, allowing the young squire to slide easily to the ground. His face was a mask of wonder as he came to face Nymeria and peer into her intelligent, golden eyes.
"Thank you," he said. "Thank you, thank you!" Before anyone could stop him, he'd flung his arms around her neck and buried his face in her thick fur, causing Dyanna to start again. But to her credit, the wolf did not eat the boy, calming the crannogwoman, and when Jon finally released Nymeria's neck, she bumped his cheek with her snout then licked that same spot twice.
"You've made a friend," the queen told her squire.
"This is the best day of my life," he insisted, eyes shining in the firelight. "The best day!"
"Go on, get your supper," Arya said, swatting the boy on his bottom and sending him off.
"You should get your supper, too," Gendry said as the squire scampered away. It was the most he'd said to her since their confrontation the morning after she'd tried to spark a romance between him and Dyanna.
"I will." She looked up at him. "If you'll join me."
He gazed at her a moment, his expression impenetrable. It was a look that would be at home on the countenance of a Faceless Man, the girl thought. But then he nodded, holding out an arm to indicate she should go before him. Once they'd collected their simple fare and settled by the fire away from the others, Arya noted Thoros of Myr off to her right. The priest was far enough away that if they kept their voices low, he could have no hope of overhearing the two old friends speak, but by the way his gaze was drawn to the campfire, the girl thought he was likely too lost in his own thoughts and considerations to even notice them.
The queen took a bite of her food and chewed thoughtfully as she stared into the flames a moment, wondering what Thoros might be seeing now in the orange and red tongues. Swallowing, she continued to stare ahead but spoke to Gendry at the same time.
"I'm sorry. You have a right to your anger."
"I know." The knight did not say it unkindly, but neither was he excusing her.
She nodded slowly, still gazing at the flames. Her voice was soft; tired. "I can't help but want happiness for you."
"You may want it, your grace, but you can't dictate the form it will take."
The girl sighed. "I see that now." She finally turned to look at him. "It's very hard for me, though. I am for action."
Gendry chuckled a little, nodding. "Yes. Yes, you are."
"And the solution seems so simple…"
"Arya," he warned under his breath.
She bit back what she was going to say. "I'm sorry." The girl looked back toward the fire once again. "It's just… hard not to feel like I should fix this since it's my fault."
They were quiet for a while, just chewing and swallowing without looking at one another. Gendry sniffed and raked his fingers through his inky hair.
"So," he murmured, "it's guilt that drives you after all."
The girl blinked away the wavering image the flames had made for her, a distant hill with a man and a dragon, and blew out a breath.
"I suppose," she admitted, her voice low, "at least, in part. I did kiss you, after all."
"You did," he agreed, and the emotion behind his tone was something Arya couldn't quite identify. "But you've explained it, and I'm starting to realize that what… how… I feel isn't your doing. Not really." He shrugged. "I can't blame you for it. And I don't."
"Do you mean that?"
"Of course," the blacksmith-knight snorted. "You'll recall that I'm not the accomplished liar you are." She smiled a little at that, but then he added, "I suppose I'm just the man who looked at you too long and was blinded."
Arya sucked in a breath. "You heard that?" She felt inexplicably embarrassed as she thought of her conversation with Sam, and at her reaction to the maester's words.
The dark knight had the good sense to appear at least a little sheepish. "Guilty."
"Jon must've been drunk when he said it," she mumbled.
"No, I think not," Gendry replied. "I don't know Jon, but it seems right."
The two old friends had finished their suppers and were sitting in companionable silence when the Hand of the Queen approached them.
"Your grace," Hoster said, bowing. As he straightened, he said, "I've been thinking on our discussion several days past, the problem Ser Willem raised. May I?" He looked at Gendry sitting next to the queen. "I've no wish to intrude."
"Please," the girl said, indicating that he should take a seat by her side. "I'm sure Ser Gendry is tired of my company."
"I never could be, your grace," the dark knight said seriously, "but I am simply tired. I'll leave you and your Hand to the crown's business." He rose, bowing his head and taking his leave. Hoster and Arya watched him go.
"Ser Gendry seems a good man," the Hand remarked after the knight had disappeared into the darkness beyond the campfire. "Loyal, yes? To you, specifically."
"Yes," the queen agreed.
"More so than to the kingdom," he added. "Or, to anything else, really."
She nodded slowly, her face taking on a look of contemplation. "Yes."
"Ser Willem as well, I'd guess."
"Oh, yes."
"And Ser Jaime, Lady Brienne, Lord Umber, Harwin, Thoros…"
"Yes, for their own reasons." There was a question in her look.
"And me," he said. The girl hesitated. Hoster's brows pinched together at her silence. "You cannot doubt it, your grace. I owe you my life, and you made me your Hand."
"Of course," she said carefully, "but I understand that… politics are complicated, and family has a claim to our loyalties."
Hoster stared at the girl, holding her gaze with his own. "I love my family, and I am dedicated to the ideal of this kingdom, of course, but nothing supersedes my duty to you, your grace. Above all else, you may rely on my loyalty to you."
"I… thank you, my lord."
"It is I who should be thanking you. First, you saved my life. Then you saved me from spending it aimlessly."
"It's hard to imagine you as aimless, Lord Hoster."
"Nevertheless, as a third son and the one considered the most expendable…"
"Oh, I hardly think your lord father regards you as…"
"The most expendable," he insisted, "and, because of that, my life lacked purpose. Besides being the knife ready to pierce my mother's heart, I mean, used to direct my father's steps. I suppose for a while, I could claim that as my purpose."
"I was even less than that," the girl confided. "Even when I was a hostage, no one in my family even knew it, so I never directed any of their steps." She laughed, the sound of it bitter. "Imagine if rather than a third son, you'd been born a second daughter. Not only that, but a daughter with no beauty or accomplishments to recommend her. The most troublesome and disappointing of all your father's children."
"No beauty or accomplishments?" Hoster sputtered. "Disappointing? How can you even…"
"But," she interrupted, "just look at us now, my lord. A third son and a second daughter have become Hand and queen in a kingdom of our own making. What else might we accomplish together?"
He nodded. "This," he said. "This is what I wanted you to see."
"My lord?"
"It matters not that you're a second daughter, or a daughter at all, with a brother living still. That claim means nothing in the face of this." He leaned closer to her, whispering hotly. "Half the company is loyal to you. Not to your office, not to your claim, not to your throne. To you. The other half is in awe of what you've done, and what they believe you can do still. That buys their loyalty and faith. These are hard times, your grace, and they call for the Butcher of the Crossing, not a green boy. Your brother cannot threaten your position, because he may be a Stark, but he is not Arya Stark."
With Hoster's sincere speech, with the look in his eyes, the girl could not respond the way she had to the Bear and the Rat when their concerns had been raised. She could not say that she would be happy to cede the throne to Rickon or that her crown mattered not. She couldn't respond that way because his belief and trust in her was so real as to be nearly palpable. She couldn't respond that way because he'd taken the Bear's concern and worked through the problem over the intervening days, likely putting questions to the company to gauge their dedication. She couldn't respond that way because he needed for her to play this role.
No, not play a role, she realized, but to be this thing he believed she was.
So, she could not respond as she had to her brother assassins because Hoster was utterly convinced he was right.
And she could not respond that way because when he spoke, his passionate words convinced her as well.
Hand of the bloody Queen of Winter. Wouldn't father be proud?
Brynden Blackwood stared across the wide circle, over top of the dying fire, and into the faces of his brother Hoster and the queen. They had their heads together, whispering over something or another. Earlier, he'd watched her have a private conversation with the bastard knight she called a friend, and all the while, it was as though Brynden could feel his position, her esteem for him, slipping further.
For a time, it had been Brynden and the Lady of Winterfell who had engaged in such private conversations. It had been him she'd confided in and enlisted in her schemes. They'd been growing closer, hadn't they? In his father's house, then while traveling across the Riverlands. He was certain he hadn't imagined it. So, when had that changed?
When she was crowned.
The thought caused him to glare at Hoster, but that was unfair, and he knew it. The girl had been necessarily crowned, and it had little to do with Hos. It had been his father's plan from the moment Lord Blackwood had glimpsed the girl's face and knew her for a Stark. Even if it had been Hoster who'd started the cascade of events that led to the declaration that particular evening at the Twins, it wasn't his brother's fault. It would have happened eventually.
But perhaps not so soon; not before he'd had more of a chance to press his suit.
Brynden knew his chances weren't completely spoiled, but they'd become significantly less after her coronation. A betrothal was not required to buy the allegiance of House Blackwood and so such a betrothal would be of little temptation to the queen, at least for the political benefits the match would reap.
Then again, Arya Stark was not a particularly political creature.
That was where his hope lay. Even before she'd been crowned, the girl seemed to do precisely as she pleased, and what pleased Arya Stark was not what pleased any other woman Brynden had ever known. If he stepped carefully, perhaps he could be the thing that pleased her.
She certainly pleased him. He'd meant it when he told Arya she intrigued him; when he'd laughed delightedly at her banter and her antics; when he'd looked on in fascination as she fought, and cursed, and hunted; when she'd resisted being primped and pampered and coddled. She was a singular girl. He'd never met her like in all his six and twenty years. Her wit and irreverence beguiled him. Her grace, even in filthy breeches and oversized blouses, astounded him. Her shining silver eyes seduced him.
A memory came to him then, a memory of one heir dancing with another during a feast held at Raventree Hall: The Blackwood heir, and the heir to Robb Stark's throne.
'You are the sort of woman I could love. In fact, I see you as a woman who would be very hard not to love, in time.'
The girl had smirked up at him and her look then was remarkably charming. 'In time?'
'In a very little time.'
Lord Blackwood had looked on with approval then, his gaze made up of one-part calculation and one-part affection, for both of them. Tytos had desired the match then. But now?
Now, everything was different.
Now, Arya Stark was no longer heir to the Winter Throne, but the occupant of it. And despite his original intention, his father might now object to the match, Brynden knew. Not that Tytos Blackwood wouldn't see the great honor a royal match would bring to his house, but the lord was a practical man and one who believed wholeheartedly in the greater good. He would look beyond personal gain in his concern for the health of the Riverlands and her people, high and lowborn alike. Now that she ruled a kingdom, an unmarried Arya Stark was the most valuable piece in this great game of cyvasse they were all playing. Until it was determined they no longer needed that advantage, his lord father would wish to preserve it.
But, then again, betrothal was not marriage.
If a more pressing suit presented itself, a betrothal could be broken with honor. And if a more pressing suit did not present itself, a set betrothal would give Brynden a claim to the most advantageous union in all the land.
Advantageous, and desired.
Brynden's eyes traced Arya's face, the angles and lines of it. His gaze moved across her jaw and along her throat, down to the triangular patch of skin just below it, revealed when the laces of her blouse loosened and allowed the neck of it to open just a bit. He cast his mind back again to the feast his father had thrown to introduce her to the River lords and swallowed. He remembered their conversation, their dancing, and sighed. He remembered her scent; the strange, foreign spiced perfume he'd bought off a Braavosi trading galley and narrowed his eyes. He remembered the feel of her beneath his fingertips and clutched at his plate all the tighter.
Why was Hos sitting so close to her now?
The heir to Raventree Hall was not insensible to his own charm. Many a fair maid and kitchen wench had sought his company from the time his voice had begun to change as a young lad. His own late wife had never tired of his company during their marriage, still becoming a flustered, blushing mess when he gazed at her too long. He had his education and breeding to recommend him, a respected family name, and wit as well. And though he was an able commander, battle tested and hard, he was a kind man by nature. But, beyond that, he could claim an enviable form and a handsome face. He'd seen the way the queen had bitten her lip and blinked when he smiled down at her when first they'd met, back before she was queen.
He did not believe it arrogant to think Arya Stark found him attractive.
Brynden watched as Hoster stood and bowed, leaving the queen alone. He thought to stand then himself. To cross the space between them and seat himself next to her. He thought to engage her in conversation, to remind her of his worth, his wit, and of her regard for him. He thought to smile down at her and see if she would bite her lip and blink even still. But something rooted him in place.
Inside of him, a war raged.
Brynden Blackwood was a man of duty—to family, to kingdom, to his queen—and so he would do what was right. Still, he couldn't help but to want. For himself; for once. He'd married the woman his father wished, for duty, and made heirs to carry the Blackwood name. He'd fought and bled in battles for the honor of his house. He'd served across his father's lands, seeing to the smallfolk, the settlements, the security of those who depended upon House Blackwood.
Could he not now, for once, make a decision which was purely selfish?
Just then, the queen's gaze cut across the circle and found his, her eyes locking with his, her soft stare mesmerizing him. After a moment, her face was shaped by a small, sweet smile.
Brynden blinked, then swallowed, then dropped his eyes to the ground.
As the royal company broke camp on the seventh day, the Greatjon remarked that he thought with hard riding, they would make White Harbor before nightfall.
"Hard riding," Sam commented with a faltering smile. "Delightful."
"Excellent," Ser Brynden said, ignoring the maester. "We can secure a room at an inn for her grace and send word on to New Castle of our arrival. We should be able to meet with Lord Manderly first thing in the morning."
"Nonsense," Lord Umber guffawed. "No Northern lord would leave a Stark, much less his queen, to sleep under the roof of a common inn. We should make straight for the castle and call on Manderly to host. It would be seen as a slight if we do not."
"We'll not be expected," the Blackwood heir objected. "It will set Manderly on his heels."
"Wyman can be set on his heels for his queen," the Greatjon retorted, "and be thankful he hasn't spent nigh on six years in a Frey dungeon."
Brynden looked to Harwin for his concurrence. The Northman nodded slightly and so the knight agreed.
"No doubt you know Lord Manderly better than I," he acquiesced, eying the Northmen among them.
"Aye, I know his bloated, pompous arse very well indeed," Lord Umber replied gruffly.
"If we don't move along, the discussion will be for naught," Ser Jaime interjected, securing the last of Arya's things to Bane's saddle.
Lord Harclay chortled. "Don't worry your golden locks over it, Kingslayer. When we Northmen and the queen outride you, we'll be sure to let Manderly know you're on your way. I'll personally ask him not to bar his gates against you, though I make no promises. In the North, your reputation precedes you!"
The Lord Commander shrugged, saying, "If you think you can outride me, you're welcome to try."
And with that, they were off. Harwin set a punishing pace, but Donnor Umber and Arlen Snow took pity on the less-able riders among the company and helped guide them along. For her part, Arya enjoyed the thrill of flying along their route when they were able. So distracted was she by racing Harwin and Jaime neck-in-neck that she was surprised to look up and see the city walls of White Harbor in the distance as the afternoon light began to wane.
The company adopted a more sedate pace as they reached the outskirts of the city, clopping through the gates and then along the streets two abreast en route to the castle. The townsfolk stopped and stared, and Arya realized it was because Ennis Flint had hoisted the direwolf banner as they'd approached the walls. It was a new banner, she noted, with an important change: a silvery crown had been stitched over the grey wolf's head.
Whisperings and murmurs of 'Stark' soon turned to shouts and cheers.
"You should wave to your subjects, your grace," Jaime suggested as they rode side by side. She knew he was teasing her, but she did it nonetheless, and the action seemed to whip the growing crowd into a frenzy.
'Stark! Stark! Stark!'
The crowd pressed in closer. Gendry trotted up to her other side, hemming her in between himself and Ser Jaime. He eyed the people lining the street suspiciously, unsheathing his sword and holding it at the ready, but the townsfolk all seemed delighted to see the company.
By the time they reached the castle walls, the gates were opening. Apparently, the crowned direwolf banner had been spotted during their approach and the lord of New Castle had already been informed of the royal company's impending arrival.
Household guards in fine wool tunics dyed a vibrant green-blue lined either side of their path into the outer courtyard, their shining silver tridents held upright, pointing toward the sky. The royal company poured through the gates, stopping before the hastily assembling Manderly family.
"Your grace!" a massive man with a pointed white beard called as Arya dismounted. He could only be Wyman Manderly. "We are humbled by the honor of your visit!"
He somehow managed to lower himself into a kneeling position but required two strong household guards to lift him back to his feet once the queen greeted him and bade him rise. Wyman's son, daughters, good daughter, and wife were also introduced, as was a man who did not appear to belong to their family at all.
The girl reached the end of the receiving line and extended her hand to a wiry fellow with close cropped salt and pepper hair, a close-cropped beard of the same, and a tanned, weathered face with eyes the color of a stormy sea. Those eyes undeniably held both wisdom and kindness behind them.
The girl felt a warmth and a calm as she gazed upon the stranger.
"Your grace," the man greeted with a graveled voice, taking her hand. His accent was unplaceable to the girl, and intriguing. He seemed to have a bit of a brogue in his speech, like she'd heard so many times amongst the older residents of King's Landing when she roamed those streets as a friendless urchin, but there was something of Braavos in it as well.
How delightfully unexpected.
"This is Ser Davos Seaworth," Lord Manderly said.
Understanding dawned on the girl's face. "Ser Davos," she said with an air of fascination. "I know your story well."
"I am ashamed to hear it, your grace," the man said as he clasped her hand and pressed his forehead to it, "but I paid for my crimes and I've lived an honest life since Robert's Rebellion."
She bade him rise and he did.
"Nonsense, ser," the girl replied, and her tone betrayed her awe. "You're a hero precisely because of the skills you obtained in your dishonest life. I hope to hear more about your adventures during my visit."
"As your grace wishes," Davos replied, bowing his head and releasing her hand.
A servant scurried up with a large wooden platter then.
"Bread and salt," Lord Manderly said. "They still mean something beneath my roof, your grace. Beneath every Northern roof."
"Save one," Manderly's son growled.
"The Boltons are no true Northmen," his lady wife insisted, and the look upon her face was the same look one might have after tasting something foul. "Not after their betrayal."
"Too true," Lord Manderly agreed.
Arya stepped closer to the three Manderlys, saying, "Hear me now. The Boltons will pay for their treachery. This I swear. Then you will once again be able to say the whole of the North respects ancient guest right." As her hosts nodded, she amended her declaration. "The whole of the kingdom, for I hope I've restored respect for the custom at the Twins as well."
"Yes, I heard tell of your deeds there," the portly lord said. "I'd say you demonstrated the importance of guest right most… emphatically." He smiled with a sort of cruel delight. "The North is able to let their lost ones rest now. And please know, for avenging the death of my son Wendel, you have my personal and undying gratitude." Arya bowed her head slightly, acknowledging the man's words. Manderly cleared his throat. "Please, eat of my bread and salt."
When the formalities were over, the master of New Castle directed his guests up steps that were familiar to Arya from her vision with Bran.
"We'd had word that you were journeying to Winterfell, your grace," Lady Manderly revealed as she and the queen passed through the doors of the castle. "What inspired your… happy change of plans?"
"My brother," the girl said simply.
"Your… brother?" The lady gulped nervously and looked to her husband.
"Yes, my brother Rickon." The queen turned to look at Lord Manderly as they continued down the corridor. "He is here, is he not, my lord?"
Wyman's bushy, white brows furrowed, and he hesitated to answer while he studied the queen's countenance. It gave nothing away, however, so he licked his lips and answered her. "He has been my guest for a time," the lord admitted, "rescued off Skagos by Ser Davos."
"Rescued?" Arya raised one eyebrow quizzically. From behind her, she could hear Ser Davos chuckle.
"Lord Manderly and I would say rescued, your grace, as would you, if you'd ever been to Skagos," the onion knight said, "but I'm sure your brother will tell it different."
"I look forward to hearing that tale as well, Ser Davos."
"Your grace, I feel… honor bound to ask, as Lord Rickon's protector over the past year," Manderly began, then looked down at the girl before continuing. She merely looked back expectantly, and so the lord asked his question. "What is your intention toward your brother?"
They'd arrived in the great hall, a large, airy chamber draped with mermen banners and alight with blazing candles flickering all around them. At the lord's query, a hush fell over the entire assemblage. It only lasted a stunned moment before Arya's men, insulted at the implication of Manderly's distrust, began to bristle and argue.
Ser Brynden drew up to his full height and took on a tone of righteous reproach as he addressed the master of New Castle. "My lord, it's not your place to challenge your queen." His expression was caught somewhere between disbelief and disgust.
"Badly done, Manderly," Ser Jaime admonished, shaking his head, his reaction surprising the girl. That is, until she caught his sardonic smirk.
Podrick Payne, taking particular offense for his queen's sake, cut in, "Her grace would never have any ill intent for a subject, much less for one of her own blood!"
Wyman began to bluster back, insisting he had a duty to guarantee the security of Ned Stark's son.
"That's why I haven't yet sent him to Winterfell!" Manderly insisted. "I could not be certain of his safety there!"
"Manderly, you puffed up blowhard," the Greatjon growled, "she's Ned Stark's daughter and your crowned sovereign! How dare you…"
"The boy is under my protection!" Wyman spat. "I'll not hand him over just to…"
Arya moved before the arguing cluster of men and held up a hand. The chastisement and verbal sparring died down almost at once. When the chamber was quiet again, the girl spoke.
"My Lord Manderly, I am grateful for the care and hospitality you have shown my brother, and I am grateful that you continue to care enough to see to his interests. You have been here for him when no one else could be." Arya gazed at Wyman, letting him read the sincerity in her eyes.
"Thank you, your grace," the lord said, glaring at Lord Umber and then Jaime in turn.
"Your question is one I am happy you asked, and one I am happy to answer," the queen said, looking all around at her company as well as those of the Manderly household. "Rickon is my brother. He was but three when last I saw him, and I had been made to believe him dead." The girl took a breath and swallowed before continuing. "When I learned that not only was he alive, but that he was safe here, beneath your roof, my only thought was to be reunited with him and to return him home with me, where he belongs. My intentions are to reunite my family, as much as I am able. Family is something I have little enough of now and I have learned to cherish it."
Lord Manderly cleared his throat and placed his hand over his heart, bowing to the queen and saying, "Forgive me, your grace. Of course I am happy to reunite you with your brother." The large man straightened then called over a servant, telling the man to find the youngest Stark and bring him to the hall.
"My lord, if you would," the girl interrupted. "I would like to go to him."
"Er… yes… of course, your grace."
"The little lord is usually found in the godswood at this hour," Ser Davos offered. "Actually, at most hours."
"Thank you, Ser Davos," Arya said with a smile.
Lord Manderly indicated the servant he'd ask to fetch the boy. "I'll have Qaryl here show you the way."
The girl turned away and strode toward the doors leading out into the corridor. "No need, my lord. I know the way." She'd already pushed through the doors by the time the stunned looks had settled on all their faces, so she did not have the pleasure of observing the effect her words had on her hosts or her company. Jaime, Brienne, and Gendry scrambled after her once it occurred to them that she was walking about the castle without a guard to guarantee her safety. They followed her through the corridor, down some steps and through a door that let out into the godswood. She was already skipping down the outside steps to the garden below when her three guards arrived on the tall parapet.
"Wait for me there," she called to them without looking back. "I wish for privacy and I'll not need you here, anyway."
"Your grace!" the golden knight shouted, his annoyance only partially disguised, but then he looked at Brienne and shrugged, crossing his arms over his chest.
Arya moved along the path of broken oyster shells, turning her head left and right, listening for any sounds to indicate Rickon's whereabouts. She thought of the vision she'd had at the weirwood of the crannog; she thought of Bran, and of the place he'd led her, where she'd seen Rickon. Gazing about, her eyes caught sights which were familiar, and she moved toward them. Soon, she found where two paths crossed at right angles, half-bare trees surrounding her and blocking her view of her guards at the castle door. She stopped there, breathing in deeply and closing her eyes. The wind picked up then, the sound of rustling leaves filling her ears. A few worked their way loose from their branches and swirled away on the breeze.
And then she heard it: a low growl, followed by a whine.
The girl opened her eyes and saw him, the great black wolf with piercing green eyes.
"Shaggydog," she whispered. They stared at one another and the wolf seemed to be vacillating between a desire to approach her and a drive to attack her. He whined, then growled and bristled, then whined again, his eyes bright and his snout raising in the air so he might catch her scent. "Don't you know me?" the girl asked, taking a step toward him. She reached out for him them, with her mind, willing him to remember her.
Shaggy, and Nymeria. Summer. Greywind. The tussled and nipped, rolling in the dust of the bailey yard. Lady sat back next to Sansa, her fur pristine from a fresh wash and brush. Ghost, too, sat back, watching; always watching, silent and alert. Arya and Bran called encouragement to their pups, laughing. Robb watched, a smile on his face, his arms crossed over his chest. But Rickon… Rickon dove in with a great roar, wrestling with the wolf pups, snarling and snapping as though he were one of their number. Robb was disapproving, telling Rickon to get up before he was bitten and Sansa followed her elder brother, as she always did, fussing at Rickon. But Bran and Arya fell over each other with their laughter, unable to control themselves. As for Jon, he just smiled as he stood apart and watched over the scene.
Shaggydog's eyes shone then, emeralds in the sun, and he chuffed and yipped, moving to Arya in an instant, pressing his cool nose against her jaw and licking her neck. She reached out a hand, stroking the glossy dark fur of his head.
"Oh, Shaggy," she murmured.
"Lillikaskoer!" a voice called. It was one she recognized. Somehow, she recognized it. A name filled her mind and tugged at her tongue as a boy burst out of the trees and onto the path.
"Rickon," the girl breathed.
Gods, but he was tall now.
The boy whipped around and looked at her, his auburn braids swinging as he did, the bits of bone woven into them clacking together. He stared, his look mistrustful and pinched, then the wind picked up again, the leaves singing together. Rickon tipped his face up toward them, watching their dance overhead, breathing in deep through his mouth. He seemed to be listening intently. What he heard caused the line between his eyes to fade and the curve of his mouth to change.
"Masin mijn," he said then, looking at Arya. It was the old tongue, she realized.
My sister.
She swallowed and took a step toward him, whispering, "Bruudt mijn."
My brother.
They stared at each other for a long moment, and then, all at once, the space between them closed and Arya was wrapping Rickon in her arms so tightly, pulling him so hard into her chest, it made her muscles sting and her ribs ache.
"Oh, gods, you're alive. You're really alive," she cried hoarsely, pressing her nose into all his long, red hair. "Rickon, Rickon, Rickon…"
"Bludvargg," he corrected her, his fingers digging into her neck as he clutched at her.
"Bludvargg?" Arya asked, pulling back to study his face, unable to stop herself from rubbing at his cheeks and ears with her thumbs. "Bloodwolf?" She laughed. "I think that's a properly intimidating name for a Skagosi magnar." The girl hugged her brother to her again, pressing her cheek against his temple and then kissing his forehead before pulling away again. "Rickon, Bludvargg, do you know remember me?"
"A little," he said. "But bruudt mijn… he tells me you will come." She noted his accent. It was strange, his voice gruff; that was his stay in Skagos manifesting, she imagined.
"Your brother? Our brother? You mean Bran?"
The boy nodded.
"Bran talks to you?"
"The gods talk. Bruudt mijn talks. They say, 'Sister. Winterfell' to me, all the time." He shook his head, saying, "No one else hears, but I knew you would come."
Arya nodded and grasped the boy's shoulders, clutching at him as though he might slip from her grasp and disappear if she did not hold tight to him.
"Oh, gods… I'm so happy. I'm so, so happy." She sniffed, willing the tears not to fall but only partially succeeding in suppressing them. "You, Shaggydog…"
"Lillikaskoer," Rickon corrected.
"Lillikaskoer," she replied, laughing through her tears and swiping at her eyes with the back of one hand. The other was still wrapped over her brother's shoulder.
Another gust groaned through the treetops just then, causing them to sway. Rickon closed his eyes and tilted his head, directing one ear toward the branches overhead. After a moment, he smiled. Cracking one eye, he caught Arya staring at him, drinking in his profile intensely, trying to memorize it. His grin widened.
"What is it?" she asked with a befuddled chuckle.
"The gods," he answered. "They say 'Sinelvargg'."
"Sinelvargg?" Arya's brow wrinkled.
"You, masin."
"Me? I'm… Sinelvargg?"
The boy nodded.
"I… know vargg is 'wolf,' but I'm just now learning the old tongue. What is Sinelvargg?"
The boy grinned again. "Shadow wolf." He pointed at her. "You."
Shadow Wolf.
She did not hate it.
The ghost in Harrenhal. The Cat of the Canals. The Butcher of the Crossing. Shadow Wolf.
She answered his grin with one of her own.
The two Starks stood in Lord Manderly's godswood for half an hour, talking, laughing, remembering, sometimes crying, and only stopped when Osha came striding toward them, calling for her 'little lord.'
"It's almost time for your supper, little lord," the woman said once she'd spotted him. "Come with me, and I'll help you get ready."
"Osha!" Rickon called out excitedly. "Masin mijn! Sinelvargg!"
The wilding woman pressed her fists against her hips, retorting with her typical reprimand. "Common tongue, my fine lord, or Manderly may put you on a galley and ship you back to Skagos!"
"Good!" the boy cried, his cheeks heating. Then, he looked at Arya. "Will you come if I go to Skagos?"
Arya laughed, then took hold of the boy's chin so she could look him in his eyes and make him understand. "We're going to Winterfell, Bludvargg. As soon as we can." Rickon only sulked a little at the news, but when Arya told him Jon would be there with Ghost, it seemed to cheer him. He did not remember Jon much, either, but he knew Ghost. He was evasive about how he recalled the white wolf so vividly, but Arya suspected she knew.
They could discuss it later, away from curious ears.
"Osha," the girl said.
The woman gave a poor curtsy. "Your grace," the wildling replied.
"I wanted to thank you for caring for my brother all these years. Words can't express…" Her voice trailed off for a moment, and she sighed. "I can't thank you enough. Name your reward and you shall have it."
Osha folded her arms over her chest. "It weren't any reward that made me do it," she said, sounding affronted. "Nothing made me do it. I'm a free woman and I choose for myself. I chose the little lord. He's like my own blood."
The queen nodded, swallowing against the lump in her throat. "Still, you deserve…"
"Don't part me from him," Osha said. "That's all I ask. That I can stay with him until I'm ready to leave."
Arya looked at the woman, staring deep into her eyes, unblinking. Osha drew back a little, her expression changing to one of uncertainty as the girl studied her; reached for her. After a moment, Arya's eyes softened, and she rolled her lips together to moisten them.
"You shall have a place in our household for as long as you desire it," the queen said. "You'll be properly compensated for your work and your loyalty."
One side of the Osha's mouth turned up and she dipped another curtsy, this time a bit more gracefully, and bowed her head. "Sinelvargg," she said, sounding as though she were considering something. After a moment, she simply nodded and held her hand out for Rickon. Reluctantly, he took it, looking at his sister as he did.
"No worries, I'll be along soon," the girl told him and, knowing the cost of losing those you loved and cherished, she tried to make her smile reassuring.
The fearsome wildling nursemaid and the young lord turned and walked up the oyster shell path toward the castle then, intent on making themselves ready for the supper. Shaggydog gave Arya one last bump on her shoulder with his snout, then he turned, padding behind his master contentedly.
Arya watched the wildling woman take her brother away, and she knew she should follow; wanted to, so as not to be parted long from Rickon, but something held her in her place. Perhaps it was that she was still trying to make sense of him, this half-grown man, near to her own height, with his strange, foreign accent and bits of bone and feather in his hair. His face had lost most of the roundness she recalled, the plump cheeks that mark a boy as young. The angles of his face made him appear unaccountably aged, despite his mere ten years. It amazed her, and startled her, and saddened her.
What had his life been that his cheek had been bled of its fullness?
How long had she been away that his hair was longer than hers?
How had he suffered in those intervening years?
Arya blinked, staring after him until he disappeared from her sight and then started up the oyster shell path after him. Or at least she'd meant to but was stopped by the sudden appearance of a large Skagosi warrior. He was bedecked in furs and leathers and heavy blue paint across the top half of his face, and he stepped directly in front of her, blocking her progress.
The girl drew back, staring up at the man who was somehow familiar. His heavy black hair was divided into several small braids at his hairline, pulling it from his face and decorated with the same sort of feather and bone ornaments Rickon wore. The man's jaw was square and sharp, and his nose far too straight for someone who had lived a life of violence on a desolate island amid fierce, warlike people. Cannibals, to hear tell of it.
Despite the paint on his face, despite the matted furs draping his wide shoulders, despite the frightful scowl that shaped his face and the way he glared at her even though she could not think of one wrong she'd done him, the man was, quite simply, beautiful.
His full lips, his prominent cheekbones, his eyes…
Especially his eyes.
Gem-like in their faceted hardness, blue, and glinting, his eyes were arresting; undeniably so. She'd only ever known one man to have such eyes.
The Cat breathed in slowly the released all the air from her lungs in a steady stream, using the action to find her stillness. Centered, calm, she stepped forward, one step, then another. The man was as immobile as stone, not a flinch, not a single twitch to betray his intent. The only thing that moved were his eyes, those resplendent eyes, fastened to her face as they were, following her slow, steady movements.
When she reached him, she stopped, tilting her head up to stare into those eyes.
She might've stared for a minute, or an hour. She wasn't sure. Time seemed to fall away, and all the noise of the birds and the wind fell with it. They were there together, inside some private sphere, hushed and unstirring. When she finally spoke, she was loath to disturb the peace and her voice was barely more than a whisper.
"I dreamed of you," the girl said, and that wasn't the truth, but it was as close to the truth as she could reveal; the only way she could tell him she knew it was him. "I dreamed you would be here."
He continued staring, the imposing Skagosi, looking down at her, his eyes tracing her face, her neck, her shoulders. He stared and remained unmoving. But Arya could feel the heat radiating from him and something in her longed to close her eyes and lean into it, into his familiar warmth. When he spoke, his voice rumbled up from his chest, accented like Rickon's, and alien. He didn't sound like him.
"Is that why you came?"
The girl blew out a breath. "In a way."
"In a way? What way?"
She felt his warmth. It was undeniable. He could pretend to be cold, but she felt his warmth.
"I knew you were with my brother. I couldn't… trust that you'd not harm him."
His false lips curled into a sneer. "Augen Heldare is sworn to guard bruudt juwd." Your brother.
That was a version of the truth, she knew, but not one she could rely upon. Reality could be shaped and formed to fit any requirement. She'd learned that lesson at the feet of the Kindly Man, and then she remembered that he had, too. The Faceless Men were adept at manipulating perception. Watching one of her old masters play at it here, now, when so much was at stake for her, snapped the tranquility in which she'd just been wrapped only moments before.
"Only until you're told to do otherwise!" she hissed. "I came here to find my brother and bring him home. And I came here because you were here. So that I might stand between you and bruudt mijn."
"You wish to fight me then, girl?" His voice was all Skagosi, but the way he looked at her… his eyes… That was something different; something she'd known before.
His eyes took her to Braavos.
"We are all of us broken," she breathed, and she wasn't in Manderly's godswood then, but in the bath, in the temple, across the Narrow Sea. And he was there.
He looked stricken, then angry. "What did you say?"
The girl pulled back with a jerk, back from his radiating heat and the rumbled words in his chest, and glared up at him. "I will fight you. For my brother, I will, but do I wish to? No! That's not at all what I want." Her breath hitched a little, and she pushed out a heavy sigh, staring all the while, then softly implored, "Don't make me."
His sneer died and his brow lowered. His look was one of annoyed confusion. "Then what do you want?"
"Don't you know?" When he did not answer her, she shook her head. "I want my friend. I want the man who would give an exiled girl his iron coin!"
The Skagosi's confused expression morphed into something sweeter; something she thought might be real. A small smile beneath softly knitting brows as though he had somehow just solved a puzzle, the puzzle of her, and couldn't quite believe it.
"Little wolf," he said, and in the words, in the way he said them, she heard him.
If she'd taken time to think it through, she likely wouldn't have done what she did next. But she didn't take time. She didn't think. She just felt. And so, she went to him, falling against him and encircling his waist with her arms, pressing her cheek against his chest. The steady thud of his heart tattooed her ear and she sighed softly, allowing herself a smile she knew he couldn't see but thought he might feel. After a moment, he returned the embrace, arms wrapping around her, lips meeting her hair.
"This is why you were banished," he murmured. "You hold too tightly to things you're not meant to have."
"Just the important things."
He laughed.
They stood there, embracing one another, not speaking, not maneuvering. She thought of Braavos, of how she missed it, which was something she'd not realized before. She'd not realized how much she'd missed him, the handsome master who had taught her so much. She held onto him even tighter.
"They say you wear a crown now."
She felt the vibrations of his words before she understood their meaning.
"That's not one of the important things," she said.
I'll not hold so tightly to it, she did not add.
"You may be the only one who thinks so, my girl." The way he said it, the seriousness in his tone, caused her to pull away from him. Looking into his eyes once again, his glittering, gemstone eyes, she pulled her bottom lip between her teeth and nibbled softly. The handsome man laughed and tugged her lip down with his thumb, just as he had before, back in Braavos; just as Jaqen had, countless times. "What troubles you now, little wolf?"
"I don't want you to hurt him." She did not have to say which him she meant.
"Then you should see to it that he does not covet your crown."
"He's a boy of ten, more wildling now than Westerosi! He's not some wily conspirator."
"Then you should see to it that others do not covet your crown for him."
In a swift move that caught the false warrior off his guard, the girl snatched his hand, pressing the back of it against her forehead, her eyes slamming closed, her expression almost pained. He tried to pull away, but she held fast to his wrist, forcing the contact. It took him a moment to recognize the sensation just inside his temple. When he did, he growled and yanked his hand away from her, sending her stumbling backwards. She was able to right herself before she fell but now the two were separated, perhaps five feet of shell pathway between them. Both were breathing heavily. He glared at her but the look she gave him in return was beseeching.
"Gaelon, please…"
His jaw clenched and he stiffened as if stung. He took one step toward her and his lips parted but no sound left his mouth. He eyed her up and down, from head to toe, then back up, clamping his mouth closed once he held her gaze again. His jaw worked and his eyes narrowed. Then, he turned on his heel and stalked away, leaving her in the godswood alone.
The false Skagosi stormed up the path to the castle, climbing the steps to the parapet and brushing past the three Westerosi loitering there with a grunt and a curse spewed in the old tongue. He did not pause to wonder at their vaguely alarmed expressions as he did, and he did not turn to watch the large, dark-haired knight take the steps down into the garden two at a time and sprint along the shell path as he yelled out his queen's name.
He was too preoccupied for any of that. Too angry with himself. His recent dream came back to him then. His dream of her. The one that recurred. The one that always started the same way.
Someday, you will tell me your name.
And he had. Without even meaning to.
Without choosing.
Gaelon, please…
Before that, only just before that, he'd felt a sort of contentment he hadn't known in months and months. And then she'd plundered his thoughts, his memories, for her own purposes.
Gaelon, please…
His name.
His bloody fucking name.
The little thief.
He found the taste of her pleading sweet. And he found the thought of it insufferable. No, she could not have made a Faceless Man. She was too selfish; she had no stomach for sacrifice.
All that time; all that training. All the lessons he'd taught her…
She held on too tightly to things.
Just the important things.
He closed his eyes and breathed, "Lillahvarrg mijn."
My little wolf.
His steps ground to a halt and he turned, slamming his fist into the wall. It was made of unforgiving stone and his knuckles screamed, then bled. But it gave him a feeling to focus on; one other than the feeling he'd just been having. That one in his throat and his chest, dry and sharp; hard.
The pain in his hand was preferable.
Necessary.
The pain in his hand was the only sort permitted.
He could not afford to hold on too tightly.
He breathed in and out, in and out, then straightened and began walking again, toward his chamber. His hand throbbed but he was glad of it. He'd wash it and wrap it before the supper, then dull the discomfort with wine. The wine would dull other things, too. And then, afterwards, he'd leave this place and walk to the harbor.
There was a ship due in tonight, and aboard it, all that the Sealord had promised his master.
A/N: The dream the handsome man references and the line, "Someday, you will tell me your name" are taken from Morpheum, my handsome man companion piece. I know some of you may not have read it, so I didn't want you to think the reference to his dream and that line were some random insert. Arya has been saying that same line to Gaelon since her days in Braavos.
White Blank Page—Mumford and Sons