Been traveling these wide roads for so long.
My heart's been far from you, ten-thousand miles gone.

Oh, I wanna come near and give you every part of me,
But there is blood on my hands, and my lips are unclean

"Your grace! We must rest the horses!" Ser Jaime shouted to be heard over the pounding of hooves. "Stark!"

Arya jerked her head over her shoulder and saw the Kingslayer just behind her, his form outlined by the rising sun. Gritting her teeth in frustration, she pulled up on Bane's reins, slowing him then finally bringing him to a stop. Her mouth was set in a displeased line as she hopped down from his back and led him to the river's edge to drink. Her companion followed suit with his mount.

"Unless you mean to make the last third of the journey on foot, I suggest we ease up a little," Jaime said. She could tell he fought to control the edge of irritation in his tone, but he was not entirely successful.

"We can push harder," the girl protested. "Both of our horses are capable of it. Yours is of particularly fine stock."

The knight agreed. "He is. That's why I'm trying not to lame him." He stroked the bridge of Goldshitter's nose as he spoke. "Now, why don't you tell me what all this is about?"

"You're a clever man, Ser Jaime. What do you think all this is about?"

"You said you wished to save Jon, but it's a common name. There are so many Jons in this world…"

"Jon Snow," she murmured.

He squinted toward the distance, then looked at her. "Your father's bastard?"

"My brother," the girl corrected, her tone marked with a certain heat.

The Kingslayer ignored her indignation. "Isn't he safe behind the walls of Winterfell? As I recall, they're terribly high, and we've had no word from him since he rattled his sword at Manderly." Jaime snorted at the memory, but then looked at the girl, his forehead wrinkling with consternation. "What makes you think he needs saving?"

Arya glanced at her protector, eyes hard, then revealed, "Ramsay Bolton plots against us."

"Bolton." His lip curled as he spat the name. "Ramsay? Or is it Roose?"

"Who can say? Possibly both. It doesn't matter."

"And what do they plot?"

"My abduction."

The knight stiffened, his head snapping toward her. "What?" he exclaimed. "How did you learn of this? And why was I not told?"

"I'm telling you now."

"And you thought it safest to leave the camp and the protection of your men, your army, to escape an abduction attempt?"

The girl scoffed. "I wouldn't take one step out of my way to avoid Ramsay Bolton. Or his band of ragged mercenaries!"

"No matter how ragged the band, a large enough number of them would give even you a challenge."

"They are no more than puppets whose strings are pulled from behind the walls of the Dreadfort." Her disgust was evident in her tone.

"Then why have we ridden forth? And what has the bas… your brother to do with this?"

Arya sighed. "Jon learned of the plot. He rides now to warn me. To save me. But his path unexpectedly puts him in danger, so now, I must warn him." She glared at the knight. "I will save him."

The Kingslayer's words were low, his pronunciation precise. "Puts him in danger how, Stark?"

She stared at him for a long moment as she chose her words. "He does not expect to find the Bolton men before he finds me." The girl searched her companion's eyes. "But he will, if we don't get to him first and change his course. And there are too many of them for him to…"

"How many?"

She swallowed. "Twenty."

"Tw…" Jaime clenched his jaw then closed his eyes for a three count while he huffed out a frustrated breath. "Twenty men, Arya? And you thought you could leave camp alone?"

She nearly flinched at his use of her given name. She knew it must mean he was very agitated. "I wasn't planning to fight them!" she hissed defensively.

"No? Then why is your chest crossed with throwing blades?"

"Well, just because I wasn't planning to fight them doesn't mean I'm stupid enough not to be prepared for such a fight."

"I'm confused, Stark. Are you actually trying to get yourself killed? Because it seems as though you are." He gave her a serious look. "Again."

"I'm just trying to save my brother."

"How do you even know he's in danger? Where did you come by this intelligence?"

"Does it matter?"

Jaime studied her expression, his suspicion written plainly in his features. "At this point? I suppose not. But I'd still like to know."

She shook her head, her expression bitter. "You won't believe me, so why should I waste my breath?"

"How do you know what I'd believe?"

"I just do."

"Try me."

Arya tilted her head, narrowing her eyes as she looked at Jaime. Her gaze locked with his and she moved toward him, until she was close enough to whisper and still be heard.

"Bran."

"Bran?" The knight's confusion was evident. The girl merely nodded once. "Are we to speak in riddles, then, Stark?"

"Bran told me."

"Bran who?"

"My brother Bran."

Jaime's knitted brow softened, and his lips parted as his face drained of color. The girl watched curiously as he took a step backwards, away from her. "He's… alive?"

"Why should that surprise you?" she asked. "I'm alive. Rickon is alive."

"But he…" The knight swallowed. "The… fall. His legs? I'd just assumed…"

She shrugged. "I do not know how he managed to survive all this time, only that he has."

"He wrote to you?"

She breathed in and out before slowly shaking her head. "No."

"He sent a messenger? An envoy?"

"No."

"Then how…"

"We spoke."

Jaime shook his head. "Impossible."

"It's really not."

"I don't know what game you're playing, but…"

Arya sighed. "This is no game. I spoke with Bran. He warned me about the danger Ramsay's men posed to Jon."

The Kingslayer scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Bran told me that I must intercept him before he passes Hartcourt if I'm to save him," she insisted.

"Bran was not in the camp. I would've seen him. I would've known."

She agreed. "He was not in the camp."

"And you woke up from a dead sleep and charged out of your tent to saddle your horse in the middle of the night."

"Yes."

Jaime began to look very irritated. "Please don't tell me we tore out of the camp under the cover of darkness because you had a nightmare, Stark."

"I told you, I spoke with Bran…"

"And I've told you that's impossible. He wasn't there."

"Didn't I say you wouldn't believe me?"

"An easy prediction to make when you mean to tell me nothing but lies."

Arya shook her head then shrugged. "I don't require your belief, ser, only your speed." She glared at him. He glared back at her. She gave him a disappointed look, her shoulders slumping, then gripped Bane's reins, pulling him back from the bank of the river and mounting him. Jaime's brow drew down as he followed suit. With a reluctant sigh, he trailed her as she continued her mad rush along the river path.

"Lord Dayne," the dragon king greeted his friend and loyal supporter as he entered the king's solar.

The Dornishman pressed his fist over his heart and bowed. "Your grace."

"I apologize for interrupting your visit with your aunt, my lord. I was loathe to cut it short."

"Not at all. She understands the needs of the crown take precedence over leisure, as do I. We both live to serve you."

"And how do you find her?"

Edric smiled. "She is very well indeed. Settled, it seems. Happy."

"Good. No one deserves it more. I hope she is pleased with her quarters."

"The Maidenvault is well appointed. She lacks for nothing." He hesitated a moment, then looked at the king. "I did try to convince her to remove herself to Starfall…"

Aegon laughed. "Let me guess. She refuses to go?"

The Sword of the Morning shook his head. "She worries for you, your grace. She believes you have more need of her than she does of the comforts Starfall would provide her."

"There are comforts there, to be sure, but memories as well," the king reminded his friend gently. "Perhaps not all of them would be so pleasant for her, even after all this time."

The young lord bowed his head in acknowledgment. "You speak true, your grace. I sometimes forget how well you know her."

"She has been as a mother to me." It was the king's turn to smile. "I am very glad of her company and will happily host her in the capital as long as she wishes to stay." He hesitated a moment before adding, "I hope this does not put us at odds with one another, my lord."

"Of course not. I know Allyria longs for her sister, but I'd not presume to tell Ashara what is best for her."

"A wise choice," Aegon smirked. "She is a woman who knows her mind." The king looked at the young lord keenly then. "But you may have guessed I did not ask you here solely to discuss your aunt."

Edric straightened, pushing his shoulders back, and nodded. "I did."

"You know that I wish to push northward as quickly as possible."

"To survey your lands, establish your authority, and meet your lords."

"Not only my lords."

"Yes, the Lady Stark as well." A small smile touched Edric's lips as he spoke. "Or are we agreeing to use her new title?"

Aegon gave a slight wave of his hand, dismissing the question. "I understand you knew her a little."

The Dornishman's smile grew. "Yes. A little. When I was but two and ten and squired for Lord Beric. We were friends of a sort, she and I."

"It is that friendship I must call upon now."

Edric lifted his eyebrows, surprised. "Oh? How may I be of service?"

"In due time, my lord. First, I would like you to tell me of her."

"Of Lady Arya?"

"I'm eager to hear your impressions of the girl."

"Of course. Though they are now over five years old. I imagine she is much changed."

"Aren't we all?"

"Mmm. I cannot deny it, your grace." The Dornishman clasped his hands behind his back and sighed, his eyes growing soft with memory. "How to describe Lady Arya… Of course, she was very young when I knew her, but it does not surprise me that she survived and now finds herself in a position of some power."

"No?" The king's tone marked him as intrigued.

"Even at the time I recognized she was unlike any lady I'd known to that point, but looking back now, I understand her to have been wholly unique."

"In what way?"

"In… every way, your grace."

Aegon's fingers curled around the arms of his chair, and he leaned forward slightly. "Perhaps you can expand on that." His voice lacked humor.

Edric stilled. "Forgive me. Yes." He nodded, then looked away from the king. "I never saw her frightened. I never heard her complain, except perhaps when the Hound was released."

"The Hound?"

"Sandor Clegane, your grace. At one time, he was the sworn shield of Joffrey Baratheon. He and Lord Beric engaged in a trial by combat. Lady Arya bore some grudge against the man…"

Aegon sat up straighter. "Had he harmed the girl?"

"As I recall, her ire was for the sake of a friend who had been wronged."

"Ah." The silver king seemed satisfied. "Go on."

"She rode as well as any knight and she was skilled with a bow. She loved to play at swords and would not shrink from a tussle. Sleeping on the ground did not bother her. Being surrounded by rough men did not trouble her. Violence did not astonish her."

"Perhaps the North is so barbaric, she was simply unaccustomed to the comforts we think typical of the life of a highborn lady," Aegon suggested.

"Not at all, your grace. Her bearing was noble, and her manner of speaking made plain that she had received a superior education. She understood all the courtesies and employed them readily enough, even though it did not seem to be her preference."

"Hmm." The king's look was far away. "A girl brought up with an understanding of her place as the daughter of a great house…"

"…but not constrained by that understanding in the least," Edric finished.

"She sounds rather fierce, this friend of yours."

"Fiercer now than even I had imagined her to be," the lord agreed, "if we are to believe White Walda's tale."

Aegon nodded, murmuring, "I suppose I would've been disappointed to hear otherwise, though it might've made my task easier."

"Which task is that, your grace?"

The king's mouth shaped itself into a grim smile. "The task of marrying north to south."

They ride hard, the Winter's Queen and the Lord Commander of her guard. Hooves pound the path along the river. It has been clear and easy, just as promised by the crannogman's dream. But, as the sun passes overhead and begins to glare at them from the west, the girl feels the urgency of her task stabbing at her, like a sharp pain beneath her breast.

As though she were pierced by the bolt of a mercenary's crossbow.

They stop to water the horses when the Kingslayer insists, but they do so quickly, and in silence. He seethes to think himself not trusted with the truth and she seethes at the time she considers wasted.

The girl tries to keep her mind clear as she rides, but every so often, a sense of dread wells up inside of her. At such times, she finds comfort in telling herself, 'I have not come so close to lose him now.'

She pushes ill thoughts aside; will not allow herself to dwell on such unthinkable notions. She cannot afford the distraction.

As the sun sinks lower, her focus is entire. When she feels her mount begin to flag, she leans low, stroking at his lathered neck and whispering to him. The words have the quality of a plea; of a prayer. Then they are one, horse and girl, for a moment; long enough for her to feel the burn in his flanks and see their path through his eyes. She lends him her strength, her resolve. She infects him with her determination. And then they fly.

Ser Jaime, who had been keeping pace with her, cannot match her speed now and he shouts her name. She gives him no indication she hears him. She does not slow, she does not turn, for in the distance, she can see Hartcourt, its broken walls and collapsed tower rising from the landscape like the ghost of a promise, beckoning to her.

Taunting her.

She becomes aware of others, across the river. She sees their movement from the corner of her eye, skittering along the tree line, and her heart quickens. They are nearer to Hartcourt than she, and their eyes are not trained on her, but on something ahead of her. She glances up and sees them in the distance. Dark silhouettes of mounted men galloping down the slope of the land toward her; toward Hartcourt. They are also closer to the ruins than she is.

The men in the tree line scramble to form up. She feels it as much as sees it. They make two rows, those in front kneeling and those behind standing. Ten and ten. They are armed with crossbows as Bran had said they would be. They raise their weapons and wait.

Arya glances ahead once again. She is closing the distance to Hartcourt, but not quickly enough. Jaime's alarmed shouts are distant now. She cannot make out his words. The mounted men are closer. Jon is closer. He has nearly reached the tumble-down stone fence that marks the western edge of the ruined holdfast. Panic seizes her heart, and she thrusts out her hand without thinking, reaching for a kneeling man, gripping his mind with her own. She feels his confusion, immersed in it for a moment. He does not understand why he is suddenly standing; cannot understand why he is raising his crossbow as he spins to face the man standing behind him. He does not understand why his finger triggers the weapon to fire.

Her mercenary ears hear the strangled exclamation of her dying companion even as she loads another bolt. The line of standing men breaks. Those kneeling shift and move in confusion. The men begin shouting as her second bolt catches another in his throat. Those nearest rear back from her as she loads a third bolt while those furthest rush to subdue her. In the turmoil, no one thinks to raise their weapon against their attacker, but it matters little. She leaves him to his fate as the mercenaries fall on him.

The commotion has caught the riders' attention and they become aware of the threat across the narrow river. The big man pulls back on his horse, the great beast rearing up, but his companion does not slow.

Arya sees the moment her brother recognizes her. She sees him stiffen in his saddle, then lean down and dig his heels into his mount's flanks. He thinks the men a danger to her, she can tell, and he will not let them have her.

Will not, even if it means his death.

She can't be sure that what she's done is enough. She can't be sure that the Bolton men won't raise their weapons again against her brother. All she can be sure of are the words Bran said to her in the night.

'If you pass the ruins of Hartcourt before you meet Jon, you are both safe.'

But Jon is rushing forth to save her.

And his pace will take him past Hartcourt before she can reach him.

One advantage to having been in countless battles and skirmishes as a mounted knight was that it was second nature for Jaime to absorb details and assess threats even while riding at speed. When he saw the men on the opposite bank of the river lifting crossbows, he grabbed for his shield, lifting it from where it was secured to his horse's side and sliding his golden hand through the straps. He held it up, blocking his torso from the threat, and continued the trajectory which would lead him to the queen.

She wasn't wearing her breastplate, the little shit.

He bellowed after her once more, to warn her, but his words were cut short as he watched her lift her arm, her hand reaching toward the river. The way she held her hand up made it seem as though she were commanding the mercenaries on the other side. And, just as he thought it, he saw one man rise and use his weapon on one of his companions.

And then he used it on another.

And another.

No. It couldn't be. She couldn't possibly…

He watched in fascination as the mercenaries began to attack the one who had killed three of their fellows, beating him and knocking him to the ground. The Kingslayer turned to stare at Arya, his face drawn into an expression of disbelief. It was then he realized she did not mean to slow but was thundering toward the ruins. He cursed whatever gods had made her such a skilled rider and redoubled his efforts to catch her.

"There's an extra cup of grain in it for you if you hang on, 'Shitter," the knight promised through gritted teeth. "Might even scrounge you up a carrot or a fat radish."

Jaime saw two men on horseback ahead. One seemed to have stopped, sitting atop his mount and staring toward the men on the opposite bank. He was far enough away that their crossbows would be no threat to him. The other, he noted, rode straight for the queen. The knight suddenly felt very cold as he calculated the distance between them all. There was no way he would catch the girl before the rider reached her.

He stared at the man, assessing the threat, knowing the girl could hold her own until he caught up to them, so long as the rider did not carry a crossbow like the mercenaries on the opposite bank. As he looked on, he became aware that the rider was somehow familiar.

The waning light behind the rider's back hid his features, but Jaime could tell the man had dark hair, wavy and long, much like the queen's. But it wasn't that which stuck him so much as the rider's bearing. It reminded him of someone.

Ned Stark.

All at once, the knight realized this was the bastard brother Arya had meant to save.

And, all at once, he realized they were meeting at Hartcourt, just as she'd said they would, while under threat from twenty men.

Well, six and ten, now.

Perturbed and perplexed, he stared after the girl in a daze. How had she known? She'd said her brother Bran had told her, but he knew that to be impossible. And yet, everything she'd said had come to pass.

Well, not everything, he realized. She'd said she was meant to intercept Jon Snow before he passed the ruins of Hartcourt, but that did not seem likely based on their current positions.

He watched her race and understanding dawned on him. He turned to stare across the river, at the men on the opposite bank, watching as several of those still alive raised their crossbows.

"Stark!" he screamed, urging 'Shitter on. "Stark!"

Jaime watched as she sat up, straightening in her saddle. This time, when she lifted her hand, it was directed before her, as though she were reaching for her brother. Her pace began to slow as she did, her mount's energy seeming to suddenly drain from him. The Kingslayer flew, closing the distance between them, noting that Jon Snow tugged back harshly on his horse's reins, causing the beast to scream and rear up, pawing at the air before slamming his front hooves against the ground and wheeling around.

As the Stark bastard galloped haphazardly in the opposite direction, Jaime reached the queen, pulling up near enough to touch her. He drew in one great breath in anticipation of the stream of obscenities he meant to spew at her. Just as he did, she slumped over, listing dangerously to one side. As she fell from her saddle, he was able to snatch her collar to keep her from plummeting to the ground. Alarmed, he dragged her from Bane's back, pulling her to him and settling her against his chest as he trotted behind the safety of Hartcourt's ruined walls. He assessed her quickly, looking for buried bolts and wounds but finding none. She was unconscious but breathing.

Her scolding, it seemed, would have to wait.

Arya was standing in a courtyard, snow drifting around her, and her shoulders were weighed down by a heavy black cloak with a wolf-pelt collar. She'd never seen this place before, and yet, she knew it. It felt like home, somehow.

A stinging pain bit her neck and she spun to see what had caused it. There before her stood a group of men dressed in all black. The one nearest her was round and red-faced. Tears streamed down his face and his eyes trumpeted both regret and resolve.

"For the Watch," he sobbed before thrusting a dagger into her gut. Another blade, wielded by another hand, stabbed her between her shoulder blades and she fell, her face prickling as it met the snow. Her breath caught and then, all she knew was cold and darkness.

An eternity passed, but finally, her eyes opened, and she found herself in the godswood of Winterfell.

"Jon."

It was her father's voice which spoke the name. She turned and saw him there, Ned Stark, her lord father. He was polishing Ice beneath the weirwood tree.

"Father," she said.

"There's work yet for you," Lord Stark said. "You'll not be here long."

Arya glanced around. It was the godswood she knew, yes, but… not. Not exactly.

It was darker. More still. And so, so quiet.

This was the shadowed godswood, in the shadowed Winterfell, beyond the veil.

Jon had died, she recalled. He'd been killed by the traitorous black brothers who had earned a place in her nightly prayers. Her lips pinched as she thought of the faces she'd just seen; committed them to her memory.

Had he travelled here, to be with their father? Had he found his rest beyond the veil, only to be cast out by the old gods?

"Father…" She spoke, but it was Jon's voice which passed her lips.

Ned looked up at her then. At him. "You must be ready. The North will need you. And soon, she will need you, too."

"She?" Arya wasn't sure who her father meant.

"I wish we'd had more time," the lord lamented, and she thought she could read guilt in his eyes. "I'd always intended to see you again."

The girl swallowed. "I know."

"Don't fear the tomb. You'll have your answers there."

Before she could ask him what he meant, she was consumed by a burning pain. It felt as though she'd been doused with wildfire; as though one of the Targaryen beasts had rained dragonflame down upon her. She thought of the silver man she'd seen in dreams; in visions. She thought of him under the torrent of fire breathed down on his head and she wondered if this was what he'd felt. She opened her mouth to scream but no sound came forth. The fire was all-consuming, the pain of it unbearable. Her chest seared, her gut, her back, as though her skin bubbled and melted there. She could not fathom how such pain was possible.

And then, all at once, the burning ceased.

Her eyes flew open to see a woman with red hair and red irises staring back at her. A ruby the size of a robin's egg glowed at the woman's throat, some arcane jewel which pulsed and vibrated with terrible power. Heat surrounded her like a shield; like a wall. But inside, the girl felt cold. Cold and hollow.

Alone.

She shivered

The distant sound of wolves howling drifted to her ears, pulling her from her deep slumber and strange dreams. Arya flinched, her eyes fluttering open. Her mouth felt like it had been stuffed with roughspun and her head felt as though it were being crushed beneath a boulder. She winced and breathed out heavily. Her ears detected the crackling of a fire and after a moment, she realized it was contained within a hearth, not a ring of stones in the middle of a camp. She was indoors, somewhere.

She flexed her fingers and gripped fir. It did not seem to be attached to an animal. Gritting her teeth against the pain in her head, she turned to face the hearth, feeling the warmth of the flames there bathing her face. Gingerly, she lifted herself into her elbows.

She was in a low bed. The fir was her coverlet. The girl glanced around, taking in her surroundings, and found herself in an unfamiliar bedchamber, quite alone. As her head cleared, a sense of trepidation crept up on her. She wondered if she had been captured after all and was even now in the Dreadfort, under Ramsay Bolton's power. She strained to remember anything, but all she could recall was pushing herself into Jon's head, forcing him to turn and ride away from her, and then all the world had gone black.

In the corner, she spied Frost and Grey Daughter, propped against the wall.

Surely that meant she was not under Bolton's control, her little voice reasoned. He would not be so stupid as to allow her to keep her weapons.

Arya sat the rest of the way up and pushed her legs over the side of the bed, her feet finding the floor. As she stood, she felt a sudden rush in her head and swayed but gripped the bedpost and steadied herself. She saw that she was swimming in a white cotton sleeping gown, the sleeves and hem too long for her slight frame. Moving carefully so as not to trip on the trailing skirt, she made her way to the corner and strapped Frost to her hip. Grey Daughter she unsheathed from its scabbard and held aloft, moving unsteadily to the door. She listened for a moment, then, hearing nothing, pulled at the latch and opened the door quietly.

As the girl moved beyond the threshold, Jaime's voice startled her and she jumped, spinning and holding her sword out before her.

"What in the seven bloody hells are you doing, Stark?" the man barked, knocking her blade away from his heart with his golden hand.

All her sudden tension bled from her, and she slumped back against the doorframe, dropping her sword arm. "Ser Jaime," she croaked, her eyes drifting closed in relief.

"You look like death," he chided, his tone softer now. "What are you doing up?"

She shook her head. "Speak sense, Kingslayer," she muttered. "Where are we?"

"Castle Cerwyn, your grace. You've been brought here to recuperate."

"Recuperate?" Her grey eyes pierced the emerald of his own. "Recuperate from what?"

The knight raised his brow. "Ah, that is precisely the question I have. Would you care to enlighten me?"

She ignored him. "Is Jon… did he…"

"Your brother's health is good, even if his mood is as black as that cloak he wears."

Arya clutched at Jaime's sleeve. "Where is he? I must go to him…"

"Don't be stupid, Stark. You can barely walk." He slipped his arm around her and guided her into the chamber where she'd awakened moments before. "Get back in your bed. I'll send for him."

She shook her head, causing it to dip as a bout of dizziness took hold. "No," she said hoarsely. "I just… I need a sip of something. My throat is dry as kindling."

"Here," Jaime said, leading her to the bed. She dropped to sit on its edge. "I'll pour you some water." He moved to the corner where a stand was situated with a pitcher and a cup. She'd not noted it before. He turned and moved to her side, handing her the cup which she accepted gratefully. The first swallow was almost painful, and she pulled a face as the water went down, but after that, she drained the contents without complaint.

"How long have I been here?" she asked as she wiped at the corner of her mouth with her sleeve.

"A day, your grace."

"A day…"

"After a day of riding to get here."

"No…"

"Yes. You had us all worried. Nothing could rouse you. Not smelling salts, or burning sage, or compresses filled with snow lain against your neck and belly, or a sharp slap across your pale cheek." Here, one corner of the man's mouth quirked up. "I tried that one. Twice."

Absently, the girl lifted her hand to her face.

"Your condition sent Maester Rhodry scrambling to his study. The man has been reading half the day looking for an answer. And that giant wildling brute set out this afternoon to gather roots and plants to make some concoction he claims a she-bear taught him once. Said it would wake the dead in a large enough dose. Truthfully, I suspect he means to brew some spirit."

"And Jon?"

"Praying in the godswood when he hasn't been pacing outside your door." He sighed. "Though I think Lady Cerwyn has finally convinced him to take some supper in his room."

"Jaime," the girl said, her voice a plea he could not ignore, "let me go to him now. I need to show him I'm alright."

As if lending support to her argument, the wolves began howling again.

"Has anyone ever told you you're annoyingly persistent?"

"Does that mean you'll escort me and protect me from any dangers lurking in the corridors of the castle?"

He gave her a withering look. "Off your arse, Stark. If we're going to do this, let's do it before you faint."

She glared at him. "I'm feeling much better, thank you. I just needed some water." She swayed a little when she stood and sniffed haughtily, ignoring the Kingslayer's smirk. And though she truly was feeling stronger, she took Jaime's proffered arm and allowed him to help her down the corridor to the door of Jon's chamber.

"Thank you, Lord Commander," the queen said softly when they'd arrived. She gave him a tired smile then turned to face the door. After a moment, she raised her hand and knocked.

Jon had merely picked at the food Lady Cerwyn had sent up to him. His mind was too occupied with worries about his sister to feel any guilt over his disinterest in his supper. After the meal had grown mostly cold, he set the platters on the floor, allowing Ghost to eat his fill. At least one of them could be satisfied. The great beast now lay curled before the hearth, drowsing as his master stared out of his window, listening to the wolves howl in the distance.

The same wolves they'd met halfway back to Cerwyn, carrying Arya's unconscious body with them. The same wolves led by a monstrous grey direwolf who could only be Nymeria. The same wolves who ran on either side of them, far enough away so as not to spook the horses, but near enough to protect them from further threat. Even now, they surrounded the castle, offering an added layer of defense beyond the tall plank walls of Cerwyn.

Let Ramsay's men come now. Even if they managed to slip past the wolves, they would meet their end at Longclaw's sharp edge.

Anger at Roose Bolton's maniacal offspring burned deep within Jon's gut and his stare grew hard.

A quiet shift behind him caught his attention and he turned to see Ghost lift his head and look toward the door. The wolf's ears pricked only a second or two before there came a knock.

Rhodry, Jon thought, here with some far-fetched solution he's found in one of his books.

"Come!" the somber lord called. His door creaked open slowly, but Rhodry did not speak. Jon moved a step closer. "You may enter," he said. The door opened further and then he saw a small hand wrap around its edge. His lips parted and he drew in a breath as bare toes peeked from beneath a dragging hem, moving in slow steps past his door and into his chamber.

The lord barely dared breathe, barely dared lift his eyes to take in her figure swathed in layers of white. But lift them he did, trailing his gaze from her hem to her hip to her belly to her shoulder to her neck. When his eyes reached her face, he blinked, somehow assembling the distinct images into one complete vision.

And there she stood, all her long hair twisting over her shoulders and shining in the firelight.

His long-lost sister.

Arya.

They looked at each other, both seemingly stunned to silence. After a moment, she slipped to the other side of the door and backed away from him. Her movements pushed the door closed behind her and when the latch caught, she leaned back and rested against it. Her eyes lifted, finding his once again, and her silver stare paralyzed him.

She was beautiful, so, so beautiful. He'd known it, of course, knew she would be, then had seen it for himself. Even in her deep sleep her features had arrested him. Astonished him. But here, now, awake and standing before him, lithe and pale, alive, he could hardly stand to look at her.

And could not look away.

"Arya," he whispered, watching in amazement as her lip trembled, and she pushed away from the door. She moved then, one tottering step giving way to another, and he meant to rush to her, to grab her and steady her and hold her to him, to press kiss after kiss to her face, her hair, but he didn't, couldn't, pinned in place as he was by the sound of her hitching breaths and the vision of her stumbling footfalls as she made her way across the chamber.

As she made her way to him.

A journey which had taken her over two thousand days to complete.

And then she was there, quivering before him, her expression almost pained, her chapped lips parted as she pulled in a breath. She reached out for him, slipping her small hand over his heart as though to assure herself it truly beat beneath his breast. When that wasn't enough, she leaned into him, wrapping her arms around his middle and resting her cheek where her hand had been, closing her eyes and shuddering as the rhythm of his heart vibrated against her ear.

"Jon," she murmured, and her voice jolted him. It was the sound of all his longing, all his treasured memories, the sound of all he had ever known of hope, tied around one word. "Jon. Jon. Jon."

When his sister spoke his name, it was as though she'd revived him. The stiffness fell away, and his skin prickled. His arms, which had hung still and straight by his sides, lifted, and he pulled her into his embrace, dropping his nose to her hair and inhaling deeply. There was something of summer in her scent, and steel, both things which he had always associated with Arya. But there was something new, too, something exotic. Rare spice, like cloves, or ginger, perhaps, and it fit her, but not the her she had been when they were children together at Winterfell.

The her she was now.

A woman grown, familiar but also with something of a mystery about her. A Northman's daughter who had traveled the wide world before finding her way back home. And a Winter's Queen.

He groaned and clutched at her neck, her hair, his face contorting as he fought tears he had not realized he was still capable of making.

The girl stumbles toward her brother, her head spinning. How much of the swirling of her head is a remnant of her strange sleep and how much is her astonishment at finally seeing Jon, she cannot say, and she does not care. That is not what is important.

He is there, no longer across the sea, no longer across the kingdom, but merely across the room. He is there, and that is where she needs to be, too.

She stands before him and is struck with a sudden fear. What if this is all merely a dream? What if she still slumbers and this is little more than wishful imagination? What if she did not stop him from advancing on Hartcourt and a mercenary's bolt had found him?

She seeks to reassure herself, reaching out her hand, pressing it over his heart. Its dull thud against her palm is not enough. She encircles him with her arms, praying he does not turn to mist and dissolve in her embrace, and lays her cheek against his chest. She sighs. She listens.

And listens.

And listens.

The beating of Jon's heart melts away her fear and she shivers with relief. She says his name hoarsely, her pronouncement timed with the thump of the organ. "Jon." She repeats it with the next several beats. "Jon. Jon. Jon." His warmth seeps through his tunic and into her cheek.

When she feels him move his arms around her and pull her into him, the moment comes crashing down on her.

This is real.

He is here.

She is here with him.

Her heart pounds mercilessly against the cage of her ribs. She thinks it might burst from all that she feels in this moment.

He's alive. Somehow, he is. And she's alive, too. And they have found one another, against all the odds. They are here, together, finally.

Her fingers dig into his back, and she thinks she will never let him go.

Never, never, never.

Her brother drops his nose to the top of her head and inhales. He tightens his grasp on her until it's almost painful and she wonders how she can breathe beneath the rigid bands of his arms. When she feels his lips press against her hair, she does something she has never before done in the whole of her life.

She sobs.

River—Leon Bridges