Some legends are told. Some turn to dust or to gold. But you will remember me…

Remember me for centuries.

After the supper, the queen was obliged to allow the Lord Commander of the Winter Guard and Lady Brienne to accompany her as she left the great hall. Most of the journey consisted of Jaime needling her about the wager, Brienne telling him to stop being such a child, and Arya staring absently into the distance as she mulled over what she'd learned.

And what she now suspected.

A gift from the Sealord of Braavos. Support for the Winter Throne. Vorena Biro. The Iron Bank. All connected to the House of Black and White.

Or, more precisely, to its principal elder.

"You know, it's no fun to irritate you when you don't behave as though you're irritated," complained the Kingslayer as they turned down the castle corridor which led to the queen's chamber. "What is it, Stark? You're not in your usual humor. Which is to say, bratty and antagonistic."

"Ser Jaime!" the maid of Tarth scolded.

He ignored the knightly woman, scrutinizing the queen's expression. Or, rather, her lack of expression. "Are you ill?"

"Hmm?" The girl blinked, then turned her gaze to the golden knight's face. "Oh. No. Just tired."

She'd discovered that claiming fatigue was an expedient way to satisfy the concerns of those around her when her behavior did not meet their expectations.

Jaime gave her a dubious look. "Are you certain that's all? You look a bit peaked."

"Are you the Lord Commander of my guard or my mother?" she snapped. At Brienne's censuring look, the girl bit her lip, then apologized. "Forgive me, ser. I did not sleep well last night."

"Dreams again?"

"As a matter of fact..."

"I'll fetch Lady Dyanna and your maid to tend you," Brienne said, bowing slightly before moving off to do so.

The girl stopped her. "No, my lady, please don't trouble them. It's late, and this dress is not so complicated I can't manage it on my own. I'd rather just go straight to my bed."

"As you wish, your grace."

Arya bade them goodnight and entered her chamber, her mind heavy with thoughts of the Kindly Man and the Sealord. Heavy with thoughts of all her years in Braavos. When had the principal elder begun to covet a crown for her? She could make no sense of the idea. Nothing he'd done, nothing he'd taught her, seemed directed at preparing her for a throne. Nothing he'd ever said to her made her suspect he believed she was destined for rule. Surely there was some more rational explanation to be had!

But then, nothing he'd ever said or done had made her suspect he was preparing her for exile, either, yet he'd sent her away without a second thought; had apparently planned to do so all along. Perhaps the more rational explanation was simply that he was exceptionally talented at masking his true intentions.

She told herself this should not surprise her. He was, after all, a Faceless Man.

The girl closed the door behind her and leaned back against it as she blew out a great breath. So distracted was she that it took a moment to register she stood in total darkness. No fire burned in her hearth, and not one candle remained lit. Odd.

No, not odd, her little voice whispered. Suspicious.

Goose prickles formed along her arms, the hairs on the back of her neck rising, and she held her breath, listening for any tell-tale sounds of an intruder. The fingers of her left hand smoothly slid the slender blade at her right wrist from beneath her sleeve. When no movement or small sound betrayed a trespasser, the girl closed her eyes and reached out into to room, feeling for errant thoughts or ill intentions. Her mind brushed up against such a thought, just barely, just enough to know that someone was indeed with her in her chamber. She raised her dagger. As she made ready to release it with the flick of her wrist, a familiar voice shattered the silence, filling the darkness around her.

"Put down the blade," the handsome man commanded. "You'll not need it."

Arya froze, then growled, "Nar 'amala" with purpose, setting the candle closest to her ablaze. There, lounging on her bed, boots on, was the Faceless Skagosi warrior. She gave him a sour look, pushing off the door to stand straight, folding her arms across her chest. "I swear to all the gods, Gaelon, if you get that face paint on my pillows, I'll bury every dagger I can find in your gut."

He made a tsking sound, as though chastising her.

The nerve of this man!

"No need to be so testy."

His face was Skagosi, but he'd dropped all pretense of the old tongue. He now spoke in his usual Myrish lilt, his low tone a blend of conceit and mockery, edged in threat.

"What are you doing here?" She took a slow step towards the bed, slipping her dagger back in the little pocket Rosie had sewn for her.

"Are we not showing up places we've not been invited? My mistake. But I was only following your most excellent example."

The Cat raised her brows in surprise. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

He gave her a warning look. "Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't lie to me!" he hissed.

"What makes you think I'm lying?"

Lips pressed into a tight line, the assassin shook his head and sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed to stand. "Did you think I would not feel you?" his voice rumbled out slowly, deeply, as he closed the distance between them. Arya stiffened but did not back away even as he loomed over her and snatched her chin in one hand, tilting it so that he could glare down into her eyes. "Did I not once warn you to stay out of my head, little wolf?"

"I wasn't in your head."

She was in his dream. It was a fine distinction, but one which made her words not quite false.

He scoffed. "Your touch lingers. The feel of you… lingers." With a finger of his free hand, he pushed against his own temple firmly, indicating where he could feel her. The touch was hard enough that the Cat wondered if it hurt him.

"I… don't understand."

The Faceless warrior's look was frightening to behold, his barely contained rage nearly a palpable thing, and the fingers that hovered near his temple curled into a tight fist. For a moment, the girl was certain he meant to strike her, but her confusion seemed genuine enough to stay his hand for a moment.

"When I woke, I felt you," he muttered, glaring at her accusingly. "I feel you still."

That surprised her.

Sniffing, she feigned indifference. "What you feel is your affair."

"That's right. It is."

Arya shrugged, jerking her chin from his hand and staring off to the side. "Well, now that we're in agreement…"

His eyes narrowed, then faster than she could fathom, he jerked his hand up and gripped her by her throat, shoving her backwards into the door she'd only just been leaning against. Pinning her there with his grasp around her neck, he hunched a little so that they were eye to eye. Breathing angrily through his nose, he stared hard at her, as though trying to read some truth in her gaze.

"Gaelon," she rasped, and that snapped whatever spell he was under. He snarled and then his mouth collided with hers and he was kissing her, smearing her face with his blue paint. For a moment, she was too stunned to react, but then she lifted her hands, shoving hard against his chest. This only served to make him tighten his grip on her throat and she gasped. He used the opportunity to assault her mouth with his tongue, plunging it past her parted lips. Her resultant squeal was smothered by his own growl. When she scrambled for her dagger, he intercepted her wrist, slamming it back against the door with his free hand and holding it there as he continued his ferocious kiss. Frustrated, she bit him, clamping down on his tongue. Hard.

The handsome man grunted and jerked away, releasing her and staggering back a step. They stood that way, facing one another and breathing hard, glowering all the while.

"Your teeth are sharp, little wolf," he finally said, swiping at a trickle of blood on his lip with the back of his hand.

The girl wiped at her own mouth and chin, her fingers coming away stained blue. "Seven bloody hells, Gaelon!"

"Don't say my name." His stormy look wrought a chill which traveled down her spine. "And you can stop your pathetic denials. It was you," he pronounced with certainty. "You were in my head. In my dream."

"In your dream? Do you hear what you're saying?" the girl scoffed. "Quit being preposterous."

He shook his head. "If I wasn't sure before, I am now. Your kiss betrays you. Do you really believe I would not know false from true? Even your taste is the same!"

Arya gasped, then clamped her mouth shut, frowning.

"Nothing to say to that, my girl?"

She deliberated what she could reveal. Finally, she opted for the truth. At least, a part of it.

"It wasn't on purpose," she told him in a small voice, eyes cast down. "I don't know how I ended up there. I just… did." She swallowed, then moved away from the door, walking toward her bed to sit. Once she was settled, she released a small sigh and leaned forward to rest her arms against her thighs. After a moment, she dropped her head. Her eyes stared at the hem of her grey gown. "I can't always control it. Sometimes, when I sleep, I just… wander."

The girl felt the mattress dip next to her, then the handsome man's warmth began to seep into her side. Strange as it was to think it, she found it a comfort.

"This was the first time you wandered into my dream."

It wasn't a question, but she answered him anyway.

"Yes."

"But there have been others," the assassin guessed.

Arya closed her eyes, pressing her cheek into his arm. "Yes."

They were quiet for a while. Gaelon slipped one arm around the girl's shoulders and his other reached across his lap for her hand. He took it, gently stroking the back of it with his thumb as they both reflected on what they now knew.

"A dream wraith," he finally murmured. "Maybe."

"Dream wraith," Arya repeated, trying the words on her tongue. They felt strange. "Is this something you've encountered before?"

"No. I only know of it from my studies of Asshai. A sort of sorcery. Dark sorcery."

"Isn't all the sorcery of Asshai dark?"

He grunted his agreement. "This requires a potion consumed before sleep. Brewed mugwort and sweet gale..."

"Sounds more like a tea."

"…blended with a few drops of shade-of-the-evening. And, of course, there are right words…."

"Of course. Nothing comes out of Asshai without a spell attached to it."

"And a sacrifice."

"Blood magic," she breathed. She thought of the way she felt, the strange piercing sensation she got through the breastbone when she practiced the bit of blood magic Jaqen had taught her. The sensation was fleeting, but distinct, and not something to go unnoticed. Yet she'd never felt that as she slipped into the dreams of others. Was it simply because she was sleeping? But that didn't seem right. Surely such a pain would drag her from slumber. "I don't think it's the same. This isn't… that."

"No?"

"When this happens, it doesn't have the feel of blood magic."

Gaelon made a thoughtful humming sound as he considered her words. He softly traced the bones and veins of her hand with his fingertips. "I've heard no other account of such skill…"

"It's not a skill," the girl protested. "No more than tripping or flinching with pain or developing a sudden headache is a skill. It just happens without warning. It's not predictable. Trying seems to be of little use."

"A natural ability, then, not yet honed."

Arya pursed her lips and drew back from the assassin so she could look at him. "Does any of this seem natural, Gaelon?"

"I've asked you not to use that name."

Frustrated, she shook off his arm and stood, walking toward the cold hearth and lighting it with a murmur and a flick of her fingers. The stabbing at the center of her chest was quick, there and then gone in an instant, but undeniable. The girl stood there, her back to the assassin, glaring at the fire as she worked to rule her anger; rule her face. When calm did not come immediately, she bided her time, staring into the flames. They lulled her somehow. Her glare softened to an unfocused gaze and the edges of the fire blurred and reshaped themselves.

A dragon on a distant hill, a man before him, naked and unburnt.

A dragon in the snow, swallowing a direwolf whole.

A dragon in her path, staying her step, breathing its fire all around her, creating a cage of flame…

She blanched, then blinked against the visions and spun, fleeing the hearth.

"Little wolf?"

Arya ignored the handsome man and stumbled over to a chair in the corner of the chamber, falling into it and slumping. She buried her face in her hands. Within the space of a breath, he stood before her, dropping to one knee and gently plucking her fingers from her face. Sighing, she flicked her gaze up to see his brilliant eyes looking back at her.

"What is it?" he asked.

She just shook her head.

"I can't help you if you don't tell me."

The girl's mouth curled nastily at that. "Help me?" A bitter laugh slipped past her lips. "You're going to help me?"

Gaelon's grip tightened on her fingers, and he leaned in, pressing his forehead against hers. "I already have, little wolf. And will continue to, where I can."

Arya felt the assassin's warm breath fan her face as he spoke, and his words rang with sincerity. Her eyes drifted shut as she allowed herself to share her worry with him.

"Dragons dog my steps," she whispered, "just as you dog Rickon's. I feel an invisible hand directing it all. And no matter how hard I try, it seems as though I'm powerless to resist its pull. His pull."

They both understood very well whose pull the girl meant.

"Perhaps there is no need to resist him," the assassin suggested, "but it is only your willful nature which convinces you there is."

"Perhaps it is easier for you to believe so," the girl countered, "but it is only your blind allegiance which convinces you that's true."

The assassin's false face looked grave then. "Fight him if you must, but just know it will only make your submission more painful in the end."

"I was not built to submit."

"I know." His look was marked with sorrow as he spoke the words.

Gaelon stood, letting the girl's fingers slip from his own as he turned and walked toward one of the windows in the chamber. Arya saw that he meant to exit that way and raised an eyebrow, causing him to grin at her. As he perched on the ledge, she recalled something and asked him a question.

"What did you mean when you said you've already helped me?"

The false Skagosi tilted his head and regarded her. He seemed to be deliberating whether to make her an answer. After a moment, he made his decision.

"There was another here," he told her. "I am not the first to wear this face."

"Another? Another Faceless Man?" The girl's brows pinched together. The man she'd seen at Ragman's. The man boarding the ship bound for White Harbor. "What happened to him?"

"I relieved him, and sent him on, though I was the one meant to go."

Her breath hitched. "You… were not sent here to be with Rickon?" She rose from her seat and moved toward the window. "Then, why?"

"Don't be stupid." His look was one of annoyance. "You know why."

She swallowed, feeling a sudden lightheadedness as the realization hit her. She'd moved very close to him and so he was able to hear her faint whisper.

"He'd be dead but for you."

"He may yet be."

Arya shook her head. "No."

"Remember what I told you, little wolf. You must see to it that others do not seek to place your crown on his head. Do not give me reason."

"Gaelon," she began, ignoring the way he breathed in then frowned as she spoke the name he'd forbidden her to use, "please don't tell your master about… the dream."

He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "I'd hardly know what to say." And with that, he was gone. She didn't bother peering out to see which way he scrambled or how he made his escape.

The next three days in New Castle were spent preparing for the journey north and penning endless raven scrolls. Between the writings of Maester Theomore, Maester Samwell, and Hoster Blackwood, Arya thought there was scarce a pot of ink in White Harbor that had not been drained dry. The queen japed that they would soon have to start pricking their fingers and writing in their own blood. Sam replied that while such a measure would certainly work in the near-term, blood on parchment tended to fade quicker than ink. This made it an ill-favored choice amongst those trained at the Citadel, where accurate historical records were prized.

It seemed the young maester had studied the issue and was something of an authority on the subject.

Ravens flew in all directions, both coming and going, with news being sent to and received from Riverrun, Seaguard, Wayfarer's Rest, Pinkmaiden, and Raventree Hall.

Clement Piper reported that they had hit upon an improvement to the design of their weapon fit to slay dragons and had enlisted bands of craftsmen to begin the modifications. Ser Marq, he said, had ridden the length and breadth of his lands, gathering men for training.

Jason Mallister had received both supplies and news from sailors aboard trading galleys which had made their way up the western coast, with stops in Dorne and the Reach before their arrival at Seaguard. With the information he gleaned in this way, he was able to report more accurately on the size and skill of the dragon army. Too large. Too skilled.

Karyl Vance stood ready to march his levies north, either to occupy Moat Cailin or all the way to Winterfell's gates to shore up the great castle's defenses, whichever was deemed most necessary. He asked particularly that Roseinda Frey's compliments be passed on to the queen and wished her to know that her visit to Wayfarer's Rest had been a pleasant one.

Tytos Blackwood had received emissaries from the Iron Bank and the builders guild in Braavos, both looking to secure trade routes with the new kingdom: timber and grain, which the free city lacked, for preserved food stuffs (particularly lemons, oranges and figs as well as dried and salted fish), cloth, and glass, which it had in abundance. The girl knew from experience that both Braavosi glass and cloth were of the highest quality.

The Blackfish informed them that the fortification and supply of Riverrun was going well, and that he had sent ravens to Jon Snow, explaining that Arya had begun the long journey home, but her sojourn at New Castle would detain her longer than had been anticipated.

The girl could not tell if that bit was meant as an admonishment for her. Should she feel guilty for delaying her arrival home?

There was also news from Winterfell. Or, if not exactly news, at least word. A demand, to be precise, addressed to the council.

My lords,

I have been patient, but that is at its end.

Send my sister home. Now.

Or, if needs must, I can lead three companies of free folk south to escort her.

Jon Snow

Lord Manderly did not care for the threat, muttering about the damage nearly five hundred rowdy wildlings could do behind the walls of the city. For his part, the Greatjon guffawed, snorting about "the balls on that bastard." Ser Brynden seemed mildly offended at the commanding tone used in a missive, until Arya pointed out that Jon was her older brother and had always sought to protect her where he could. She insisted the letter was surely born out of such intention.

"Imagine if it were Bethany," the girl said, "and you awaited her return after years of thinking her lost."

It was difficult for the knight to find fault with Jon's tone after that.

The queen assured them she would write to her brother herself, to assuage him, and did just that, trusting Sam to affix the scroll to a raven and send it that very afternoon.

The next day, the large and strange company departed White Harbor. They were now a mix of mounted Riverlanders and Northmen, both highborn and low; Bravos on foot, their brash, colorful uniforms hidden beneath heavy firs; lords and knights and guards; a wheelhouse meant for Arya (at Manderly's insistence) but in fact, carrying the other women of the party: Rosie, Lady Dyanna, Osha, and now Lady Wynafryd, the eldest of Lord Manderly's two granddaughters. She was meant to serve as one of the queen's ladies, binding White Castle to the Winter Throne not just by oath, but by the blood of their house.

Arya tried convincing little Jon Brax and Rickon to make the journey in the wheelhouse as well, worried for them in the biting cold as they moved further north, but the boys insisted on riding in the open with her. Jon said it was his duty as her squire, and her brother just growled something in the old tongue about not being a soft, perfumed woman unused to hardship. His pronouncement earned him a knock on the back of his head from Osha as she climbed the steps into the covered cart.

The girl guessed it was as much for being lumped in with the "soft and perfumed" as it was for the boy's use of the old tongue.

Despite Rickon's gruff demeanor and Jon Brax's wide-eyed innocence, the two boys got along well. Being of an age, they shared a certain sensibility, in their humor and in what delighted them, and they shared a sort of openness that time and hard experience had not yet bled from them. They trained together in the evenings after the company had made camp, and they spoke of the things they had in common over their suppers.

"I was but four when my father was last home," little Jon told Rickon one night around the campfire as Arya walked by them. "He died three years back, without ever returning. I don't remember his face anymore, but I remember his armor. It was silver, and it had amethysts set in the breast." The boy waved his hand over his thin chest, indicating where he'd seen the purple stones.

"I was only three when my father left," Rickon revealed, "but I remember his face."

"How can that be?" the little squire wanted to know, squinting as though trying to call up his own father's countenance and then grunting in frustration when he could not.

"Because I stared at it atop his tomb after they brought his bones home. They carved him in granite and put him there and I looked at him every day after that, so I'd never forget."

"I wish they'd carved my father in granite." Little Jon's tone was forlorn.

"Maybe he'll visit you in your dreams. Then you can remember him again."

"Does yours visit you?" There was a tinge of hope in the boy's face as he asked. The girl held her breath, slowing her step so as not to miss her brother's answer.

"Yes. Sometimes. He tells me I will be a great warrior."

Jon's eyebrows shot up. "He does?"

Rickon nodded. "And I tell him I already am, and then show him my teeth." He held his looped necklace aloft for Jon to examine as the squire hummed his admiration.

Arya chewed her lip at her brother's words, wondering if Rickon's dreams of their father were anything like her own; if he implored the boy to return to Winterfell; if he told him he was 'the hope of the North.' But from what the boy had said, Lord Stark's expectations of his youngest son directed him toward the battlefield.

The girl wondered what strange twist of fate had marked her for rule in her father's eyes when her ten-year-old brother's destiny seemed to be the one she had always dreamed for herself: blood and steel.

A knock sounded at the door of the solar, then, without waiting for an invitation, the door pushed open, and a jolly giant of a man strode through.

"Lord Snow," a husky voice called, amusement dancing at the edges of the words.

It seemed to delight Tormund to address his friend in this manner.

"I would say 'come in,' but seeing as you're already here…" Jon stood before a roaring fire, still and pensive. He glanced over his shoulder at his friend, one side of his mouth quirking up into a half-hearted smile as he took in the man's red mane, wind-tangled and wild, bits of sap-laden pine needles stuck in it here and there. "Have you been riding?"

"Aye, I was hunting with some of the southron lads. Showed 'em a thing or two they apparently don't teach you lot down here."

By 'southron lads,' Jon knew he meant some of the young men from Winter Town, and perhaps a few of Winterfell's huntsmen.

"Not your grooming secrets, I hope," Jon said, eyebrows raised as he turned and looked pointedly at the wildling's hair.

"Har!" Tormund barked, not offended in the least. "Those boys are already too pretty by half! It's hard to tell some of 'em from the ladies."

"Maybe the ladies you're used to…"

"At least I'm used to ladies at all, unlike you, my chaste friend." The large man smirked. "Tell me something, kneeler. Is it true your cock shrinks if you never use it? I've heard that it does. Yours must look like a newborn babe's by now. Har!"

Jon's look was dour. "I'm not good company."

"Your company might improve with a little practice, eh?" the wildling chuckled. "I know this pretty little spearwife, Brilla is her name, and she's got an eye for you, Jon Snow. Let me introduce you…"

"No thank you."

Tormund took in his friend's mood and asked, "What has your breeches in a bunch now? Still brooding over your royal sister?"

Jon answered his friend's question with a pointed one of his own. "What brings you here now, Tormund?"

The wildling man laughed, approaching Jon. "I ran into the maester in the bailey yard. After I'd been to the kitchens and dumped off the two boar I took down in the wolfswood, mind you. Great beasts, they were! We'll feast tonight! And don't think that kitchen wench wasn't duly impressed. You know, the one with the hair black like crows feathers and those wide hips I love to sink my fingers into when…" He was holding his hands aloft as he spoke, curling his fingers into imaginary hips as he extolled their virtues.

Jon cleared his throat. "The maester?" he prompted, causing Tormund to halt his digression. The man's wicked grin faded.

"Oh. Aye. He was heading this way, to bring you a message that had just arrived. A raven from White Harbor, he said. I told him I'd bring it myself." He gave his friend a mocking sort of bow, then plucked a scroll from beneath his cloak and extended it in one meaty palm. Jon pulled it from Tormund's grasp, breaking the seal and turning back to the fire to read it. The scroll was penned in Arya's own hand. His pulse quickened to see it.

Jon,

The delay was not in vain. I have found Rickon and am bringing him home. By the time you read this, we will be well on our way, traveling along the west bank of the White Knife where the road is easy. I do not know how long it will take, the company has grown quite large and not all are mounted. This will necessarily slow us, but I will make what haste I can.

Patience, brother, I beg you. Soon enough, we'll dine together beneath Winterfell's roof, the three of us, and you shall tell me all I've missed.

Arya

Jon clutched the letter in his fist as he dropped his hand to his side and stared at the swords crossed over the mantle of the hearth.

"What is it?" the big man grunted.

"My sister."

"So, you finally have your news, eh? Tell me, Lord Snow, are we to march on White Harbor, then? Give these southron lords a taste of the might of the free folk and rescue the pretty little snow maiden from their grasp?"

Spinning around, Jon faced his friend. "No. She's coming here."

Tormund's smile was genuine. "So, I'll finally get to meet a queen, eh? Very nice. I suppose I'll have to brush my hair. Might even bathe for the occasion."

"She's found Rickon. She's bringing him home."

The wildling's brow furrowed deeply. "Rickon? The babe? I thought he was murdered by the turncloak."

"It makes no sense…"

"No doubt she'll explain it to your satisfaction when you meet. How far a journey is it?"

Jon growled. "Too far."

"Well, one thing I know for a certainty, Lord Snow," Tormund said. "Pacing and brooding in this chamber won't make the distance any shorter."

"No," Jon agreed. Flicking his grey gaze up to his friend's ruddy face, he asked, "How would you like to accompany me to Cerwyn?"

Tormund grinned. "Depends. Are there any women there?" Jon just smiled grimly as the wildling slapped him on the back in good humor. "Of course I'll go, lad, women or no. Though I do prefer women to no. When do we leave?"

"Your grace, the goldcloaks have brought a woman to the gates of the keep. She claims to be of noble birth. They ask what they should do with her."

Aegon gazed with impatience at the steward who delivered the news, but he did not have to utter a word. His Hand did it for him.

"What woman?"

"She calls herself Walda Frey…"

"Walda Frey? Well, that doesn't narrow it down much," Tyrion quipped. "There are at least thirty women who answer to that name." The king looked at the dwarf quizzically, prompting Tyrion to clarify. "What the Freys lack in imagination they make up for in… fruitfulness."

"She says she brings news from the Twins," the steward continued. "News your grace will want to hear."

The king's boredom seemed to lift a little. "Oh?" He gave the messenger more of his attention, turning fully to the man standing in the doorway of his solar. Aegon had been cloistered there with Tyrion and Jon Connington for the better part of the morning, discussing the business of setting King's Landing to rights and arguing over the journey he wished to make north, which accounted for his ill temper upon the steward's arrival.

"Yes, your grace. She says that Walder Frey is dead…."

"Hmm," Tyrion mused. "As a practical matter, it's not shocking. The man was nearly one hundred, after all. But then again, I did wonder if he'd ever do us the favor of expiring. He seemed to have a knack for outliving heartier men…"

"…killed by Arya Stark's own hand," the steward finished.

The chamber fell silent at that.

Lord Connington cleared his throat. "I think you'd better have her brought in."

"Here, Lord Hand?" the steward asked.

It was the king who answered. "No. Have her brought to the throne room." He looked at his advisors. "We should send for my aunt."

"Yes, your grace," Connington said, bowing. He motioned for the steward to be gone, directing him to carry out the king's commands, and then left himself, to seek Daenerys. Tyrion was left alone in the solar with Aegon, who held his tongue until the door closed.

"You knew the girl," began the silver king.

"Only a little," Tyrion reminded him.

"Do you think her capable of killing a man herself?"

The dwarf looked thoughtful, his mismatched eyes narrowing. "It's hard to say. One would tend to think a highborn woman, particularly one so young, would shrink from such violence. But…"

"But?"

"She is Ned Stark's daughter, and her father believed in carrying out his own executions."

"Oh?" Aegon seemed surprised. "From all I've heard about Eddard Stark, I'd never have pictured him as particularly blood-thirsty."

"Nor was he. A fine warrior, to be sure, who spilt more than his share of blood on the battlefield, but not one to revel in it."

"Then why carry out death sentences by his own hand?"

"It's a uniquely Northern practice. Northmen consider it a stain on their honor to use headsmen."

"Do they?" The king seemed intrigued by the idea.

"Yes, your grace. In their estimation, one should not be willing to condemn a man to death if one does not have the temerity to carry out the deed oneself."

"Hmm." Aegon reflected on what he'd learned, pacing slowly across the chamber. "But a headsman's ax is a heavy thing…"

Tyrion wasn't sure if the king meant it in the literal sense or if he was thinking more about the toll carrying out such a sentence would have on a young girl's heart and mind. He supposed both could be true.

"Your aunt has killed her share of men," the dwarf pointed out. "She would've killed you had the gods not seen fit to bless you with protection."

"Not by her own hand."

Tyrion nodded. "True." He looked shrewdly at the king. "Does the idea trouble you? A woman killing with her own two hands?"

Aegon looked surprised for a moment. "Should it?"

"There's no wrong answer to the question, your grace. I merely ask because concern would be only natural, considering you wish to make a bride of the girl. There are men who would hesitate to share a bedchamber with a woman who does not fear to take a life."

"Would you mark it strange or untoward if I said I was not concerned?"

"Not at all. I suspect your willingness to accept these sorts of… Northern traditions will ingratiate you to Lady Stark."

The king smiled, his look sly. "So, the lady is in the Riverlands. Or was until recently."

"And apparently wreaked havoc during her visit. Or, at the very least, left an indelible impression."

"Perhaps this explains the lack of communication from the lords there."

Tyrion nodded. "They wish to keep their secrets close. Smart. Why give up an advantage before you must? Still, such news cannot remain hidden forever."

"Hopefully, this Walda Frey can shed more light on the matter for us. Do you suppose she makes her way north? Arya Stark, I mean. To her family home?"

The dwarf's look was contemplative. "As I've said, I only knew the girl a little, not enough to claim any understanding of her character, but I do know Jon Snow, and he loved his little sister dearly."

"Indeed?"

"They were quite close as children. He spoke of her often when we rode together to the Wall. I imagine if she knows he's at Winterfell, that's where she'll go."

"Assuming the River lords haven't exercised their influence to keep her in their care."

"And if she did not wish to stay in their care, as you put it?"

Aegon shrugged. "She's one girl, alone. What could she do against all their strength?"

"These are the same lords who declared Robb Stark their king," Tyrion reminded him. "They'd owe her a debt of respect for that alone, and for her mother being a Tully."

"Respect has a way of dwindling in the face of men's own interests."

"Perhaps. But if she did indeed send Walder Frey to one of the seven hells by her own hand, she'd have bought the River lords' respect in her own right. For avenging the Red Wedding and punishing the violation of guest right. Many of them lost sons to old Walder's plot."

The king looked at Tyrion, his expression keen. "If that is the case, this Arya Stark is a rare girl indeed."

"As is only fitting, your grace," the dwarf replied, "for one being considered as your consort."

Aegon's answer was a canny smile, his eyes taking on a look near to craving, but all he said was, "We'd best remove ourselves to the throne room and see what this Frey woman has to say."

He waits in the long shadows cast by the Iron Throne. They feel like home to him, the shadows. Or did, once upon a time. They are comfortable still, but home is… elsewhere.

He lingers and watches, waiting to hear.

Listening with Tyroshi ears.

In truth, he could stand forth, and boldly, if he so desires. He could stand at Daenerys' side, unquestioned. The khaleesi clings to him still, despite her words, and the words of those advising her. She has not let him go, not really. Cannot, it seems. That alone affords him a certain status within these walls. For now.

Until inconvenience outweighs attachment.

It was she who brought him here. Or, rather, he escorted her, at her request, all the way from her bedchamber to the small seat they have made for her in the throne room; the small seat set to one side of the steps leading up to the throne. He does not suspect there is true insult meant in placing the khaleesi at her nephew's feet, but it is felt just the same. Still, Daenerys' expression is smooth, regal. She betrays no emotion in her countenance as she takes her seat, her spine straight and stiff.

Her protector, the brash captain of the Stormcrows, had delivered her to her cushioned pedestal; had seen her settled there before withdrawing to one side of the vast chamber. He may be wanted, but he is not needed. Greyworm is ever-present, and he carries the sharp, curved blade so admired in the east. The whitebeard, Barristan Selmy, is always a step behind the khaleesi, always ready, hand resting on his sword pommel. Ever vigilant, that one, and quick, despite his age. And so, the security afforded by a sellsword captain is unnecessary. Yet here he stands.

In the shadows.

The throne room doors open, capturing his attention. In comes a woman, drab and frowning, walking between two guards. She would be entirely forgettable, the Faceless Tyroshi thinks, but for her eyes. They burn with hatred, like smoldering black coals, with a heat felt more than seen. The assassin wonders what has put that enmity inside of her, so that it shines forth through her eyes like a dark beacon of loathing.

Behind her strides the Lord Hand, his countenance grim.

He knows something, Daario realizes. He's spoken to this woman already, and he knows what she's about to say. His false blue eyes narrow and he moves a step closer to the throne; closer to this woman and her burning eyes.

Greyworm shifts, too, putting himself between the newcomer and his khaleesi.

"Your grace, this is Walda Frey, great-granddaughter of Walder Frey, Lord of the Crossing," Connington announces when the procession reaches the foot of the throne. Aegon, seated atop the monstrous mound of melted swords, nods, then descends the steps. His carriage is elegant, befitting a king. One would hardly know he was fostered outside of a palace for his entire life, living the life of a common man. Well, mostly common. He has had a septa, after all, and a sworn shield, and a maester of sorts. Luxuries not afforded to most common men. Still, his grace is innate, not practiced.

He could've made a fine water dancer, the assassin thinks. He has the temperament and the natural elegance required to be great.

As Daario watches him descend, he thinks the king is being kind. He likely does not wish to cause the woman discomfort, forcing her to shout her tale up the stairs, straining to reach his ears. Or, perhaps it is less kindness and more curiosity. The assassin supposes Aegon may only wish for a closer look at the simmering hate in this woman's eyes.

"You bring tidings of the death of your lord, I am told," the king says once he reaches the bottom step.

"Not death," the woman seethes. "Murder." She speaks the words as though her tongue and teeth are coated with grit.

"You will address the king as 'your grace' and in a civil tone, my lady," the Hand admonishes her, his expression haughty.

The woman swallows. "I beg your pardon… your grace. I've traveled a long, arduous road to arrive here. You can't imagine the hardship…"

"His grace has waged a military campaign across half of Westeros and conquered the capital," Connington interrupts. "He understands hardship very well. But you are here to tell him what befell Lord Frey and the Twins, not bend his ear with reminiscences of your journey along the kingsroad."

Chastened, the Frey girl drops her eyes before continuing. "Your grace, my grandfather was murdered in his own bedchamber, in the dead of night, in a most heinous way. The same killer later slew my brother when he sought revenge for the sake of my lord's memory."

"And who do you accuse of these deeds, my lady?" the king asks, silvered eyebrows raised.

"The Butcher of the Crossing, your grace. The wolf bitch, Arya Stark."

That name, spoken aloud in this place, seizes the assassin's heart. He breathes in slowly to ease the grip of emotion in his chest, then breathes out quietly, listening as the Frey woman spins her tale.

Bread.

Salt.

Torture inflicted by a small, white hand.

"One who could carry out such treachery deserves nothing more than a hangman's noose!" Walda declares.

Throats opened and hearts run through.

Rightful prisoners released.

Wonton violence and incalculable death.

"Most unnatural for a woman to wield a sword so," observes the woman.

A lady bathed in blood and gore, so much so, she is rendered nearly unrecognizable.

Heads on pikes.

Great funeral pyres.

A knife buried in a beloved brother's throat.

"An assassin's weapon," the woman hisses, "employed with an assassin's skill. How is such a thing possible, but for dark forces? I hear her mother was a witch…"

A council of lords and knights, from the Riverlands and the North.

Discussion, then declaration.

A new kingdom.

"Monsters, all," Walda spits, "to name such a cruel creature their queen."

A coronation.

A conspiracy.

A departure.

The woman ends her tale.

"With enemies in control of the castle, I had no choice but to travel the kingsroad in hopes you would hear my plight and take pity."

"My lady, you have endured much and risked more to bring us this news," Aegon says. "You have our gratitude and our protection."

The king's words are filled with sympathy even while his expression betrays his impatience. He wishes her gone so that he may discuss these tidings with his advisors, it is plain to see. The woman does not seem to notice the latter. The Hand waves over a servant and whispers to him. He nods, then indicates the lady should follow him, no doubt intending to find her suitable accommodations.

The false sellsword thinks the king should not have promised his protection. It is a promise he cannot hope to keep; not if the assassin deems it necessary to question the woman further. But perhaps he has heard all he needs to from her.

Arya is alive and well. She has struck another name from her list, and in astonishing fashion. But then, most of her offerings to Him of Many Faces have been carried out with a certain flourish. It seems she cannot help herself. When it comes to violence and death, the girl is a prodigy.

Jaqen tamps down the smile that threatens to shape his mouth, and he is Daario once more. At least on the outside. Inside, he is still parsing through what he has just learned.

A lovely girl now wears a crown.

He can envision it. He can envision how carefully she wields its power, just as he can envision how she chafes beneath its constraints. He understands very well this is nothing she would ever have wished for herself; nothing she would ever have dreamed could come to pass. But such a lofty station is not without its benefits, despite its encumbrances.

Would she embrace them? Or flee from them?

'Oh, lovely girl,' he thinks, wondering where she is now, and if she feels burdened or buoyed by her office.

Wondering if she feels lonely.

But he only has a moment to lose himself to his thoughts, for after that, he sees Aegon's expression and reads the king's amethyst eyes.

Like Walda Frey's, Aegon's eyes burn hot, but it's not hatred that fuels the flame.

It's thirst.

Arya Stark, the Lady of Winterfell, heir to the North, would have been a fit enough match for a king looking to unite his realm.

But Arya of House Stark, First of Her Name, Queen of the Winter Kingdom, is something else altogether.

Something… extraordinary.

The assassin knows it. The Hand knows it. And by that thirst apparent in his eyes, the king knows it, too.

Centuries—Fall Out Boy