My, my, how you've grown
Did it all on your own
I knew that you could, now
All the tears dried away
Somehow a different shape

They changed into diamonds
Diamonds and pearls
Made yourself into one of those girls
That makes her own diamonds
Bright diamonds and pearls

Jon's legs were stretched out before him, one ankle crossed over the other. He was reclined against the headboard of the bed Lady Cerwyn's hospitality had afforded him. Arya lay curled in his arms, her cheek resting against his chest. She was still and sleeping, perfectly silent, her expression a reflection of pure peace. It was a peace he was loath to disturb, even though he was anxious to question her. He supposed there would be time enough for that, anyway. Now that he had her back, he had no intention of ever parting with her again. As far as he was concerned, she could fill the rest of his days recounting every detail of her life since they'd last seen one another.

She'd drifted off over an hour before while listening to him ramble, but he'd been unable to stop looking at her long enough to sleep himself.

"Tell me, Jon," she'd demanded hoarsely when her tears had slowed.

"What?" He'd tilted her face up, wiping at the wetness on her cheeks with his thumbs. "What do you want to know, Arya?"

"Everything," she'd rasped. "Anything. Tell it all."

And so, he'd talked.

She hadn't asked him a single question. She'd seemed afraid to speak, as though in doing so, she might break some spell that surrounded them, protecting them from interference from the outside world. Or perhaps she'd merely been that exhausted. Whatever the reason, she'd commanded him to speak and then allowed him to do so without interruption. Eventually, he'd settled in his bed, taking her with him, unwilling to release her from his grasp.

He'd told her of his journey to the Wall in the company of Tyrion Lannister, of training with the black brothers, of Lord Commander Mormont and Maester Aemon, of wights and fire, of living amongst the wildlings, of Ygritte. He'd told her of things that shamed him, of things that caused him misery, of things that brought him joy. He'd told her how he'd missed home, and missed their lord father, and missed their siblings. He'd told her how he'd missed her most of all. And she'd listened, giving no indication of judgement or disappointment or sadness or relief. She'd cradled his jaw in one palm and listened, until eventually, her eyes had drifted shut and her hand had slipped away.

Jon had continued talking for a while after she'd fallen asleep, but quietly. He'd murmured to her about the moment that exists between betrayal and death, how it is no more than a blink but seems to stretch out forever. He'd whispered that when he'd found himself suspended in that moment, surprise and anger and disbelief had seeped away, even as his lifeblood had seeped away, until all that had echoed within him was grief.

His resounding grief over leaving the world without having seen her once more.

When he'd been torn from his rest and wrenched back into the world by some profane magic, that grief had remained, heavy and cold, intractable. And there it stayed, until he'd seen her standing before him once again; until she'd touched him and said his name.

"You've erased that grief for me, little sister," he whispered, bending his head to brush his lips against her hair.

He stopped speaking then, pulling his head back to rest it against the headboard. He tightened his grip on Arya. After a time, he closed his eyes, allowing sleep to take him, and when it did, his sister finally ended her silence.

"I've been waiting for you," she said.

Jon turned when he heard her voice and found her standing near the weirwood tree in Winterfell's godswood. She was dressed in a simple woolen gown of grey blue, a small direwolf stitched just beneath its high neckline, at the base of her throat. It was portrayed in an attitude of running. A little wolf in motion. He thought it fitting. Her hem was weighed down by four inches of dried mud, just as it had always seemed to be when they were children.

He thought that fitting, too.

"You're here," he said, then, looking around, amended his words. "We're here." He smiled and it did not feel forced or strange to do so now. "I love this place."

"Me too." She breathed in deeply as though savoring the very air. "I've missed it."

"I come here every day I am within Winterfell's walls," Jon revealed as he moved around the steaming spring that separated them and came to stand in front of Arya.

"You're very pious," she teased.

"When I'm here, I feel…"

The girl reached one hand out, tangling her fingers with his. "Hmm?"

"This place makes me feel closer to everyone. Father, Robb." He bent his head and studied her grey eyes, so like Ned's. So like his own. "You."

She swallowed and nodded. "Do you ever dream of them?"

"I don't… dream. Not really. Not since…" His eyes dropped away from hers and his jaw clenched.

Her grip on him tensed. "I know."

"Or, I didn't. Hadn't in so long…" He looked at her. "But lately, I do."

"And what do you dream?"

"I dream of you."

Arya's expression became thoughtful at his admission. "I dream of you, too. Perhaps it has been the same dream all along. Like now."

"Like now?" His dark brows lowered, creating a deep crease between them.

"Like this dream we're sharing."

Jon smiled at her indulgently. "It does seem like a dream, to finally have you home. You can't imagine how it felt to find out you were alive."

"Can't I?" Arya cocked one eyebrow as she spoke.

His look became sheepish, and he murmured, "I suppose you can after all."

She nodded, then looked around her, observing, "It really hasn't changed. Not at all."

"Welcome home, little sister."

"But we're not home, Jon. Not yet."

"Oh?" He gave her a dubious look as he tried to figure out the game she was playing.

"We're at Cerwyn. Remember?"

He laughed. "This looks nothing like Cerwyn. Cerwyn has walls and a roof. And those grossly uneven steps leading to the outer doors of the keep. They really are a menace. I caught my toe and nearly fell on my arse once when I visited." He made a show of turning his head side to side and inspecting their surroundings. "I see no steps. We are definitely in the godswood."

One corner of the girl's mouth lifted. "Yes, but not the real godswood. This is a dream. Can you not feel it?"

Despite her smile, he felt panic seize his heart at her words. This had to be real. He could not have dreamed her so flawlessly. Her voice, her expressions, the feel of her in his arms… She had been in his arms, hadn't she? He recalled that she had, that he'd embraced her and wiped away tears, that he'd held her and talked, though the memory seemed hazy to him now and he couldn't quite make sense of it here, near the weirwood tree.

He did not think he could endure it if he woke up to find she was not truly there; that he'd merely dreamed it all.

His free hand lifted, gripping her shoulder. "You're here," he insisted. "This is no dream. You're really here!" He snatched her to him, wrapping her in his arms as his countenance became grim. "He didn't get you. He won't. I'll take his head and leave his body for the crows…"

"Jon," she laughed, befuddled, "who are you talking about?"

"Ramsay Bolton," he spat. "His men. They meant to take you and he was going to…"

"I know," she said, her voice soothing, like a mother calming her distraught child. "They failed. It's alright. They failed."

"You're no dream," he said stubbornly, tucking her into him more firmly.

"I'm not a dream," the girl agreed. "But we are in a dream, Jon."

The things she said were making his head spin. He felt odd.

"A… dream." His words were halting, unsure, pronounced the way one might pronounce words for the first time when learning them in a foreign language.

"Place us somewhere else," she encouraged. "You'll see."

"Where?"

"It doesn't matter. Just think of some place and…"

Before she could complete her sentence, the godswood disappeared and then they were standing in a muddy yard, black stone keep where the Lord Commander slept to the west, low timber hall where the black brothers dined to the east. To the north, the great switchback staircase and its companion iron winch cage adorned the immense ice barrier, climbing higher almost than the eye could see from this vantage point. They were surrounded by various towers and buildings, some of dark stone, some of wood, joining to form a haphazard rectangle encasing the yard.

"Castle Black," Arya breathed as she pulled away from her brother. "The Wall." The excitement in her tone was hard to miss.

She had always wanted to visit the castle and the Wall. She had always wanted to see what lay further north as well. He recalled their mummery when they were little more than babes, pretending to be wildlings living in a tower made of ice blocks or rough-hewn trees they'd pretended to fell with the great axes they'd pretended to wield. They hadn't understood how the free folk lived then; had only ever known life in an immense castle themselves, and so they'd created a pretty fiction from their imaginations. Ice castles in the Frostfangs. Timber palaces on the Frozen Shore. All built in a day with only two pairs of hands to rely upon for labor. All meant to ensure freedom from convention and courtesies. They would be beholden to no one.

The paradise of their young minds.

He'd seen the reality of the lives of wildlings in his time traveling with Mance Rayder. He'd learned that freedom from convention mattered little to a starving man and that beyond the Wall, concern over courtesies was replaced with concern over survival. Life in what Tormund always termed 'the true North' was far less romantic than they'd envisioned as children. He wondered what his sister would make of that.

Jon watched as his sister spun in a slow circle, casting her eyes up and down, this way and that, taking in all that surrounded them. It was strange, her being here, but somehow it was right as well. Castle Black felt like home to him. And Arya felt like home.

"Would you like to see the view from the top?" he asked, pointing toward the Wall. His sister grinned at him and nodded. When he grabbed her hand and began pulling her toward the winch cage, she resisted. "What?" he asked. "You're not scared, I hope? I promise it's safe. I'd never put you in danger."

"No, I know you wouldn't, but you can just take us up there."

He gave her a quizzical look. "Yes, in the cage… or, by the stairs, if you prefer, but…"

"You brought us here," the girl reminded him. "Now, take us up there." She stabbed at the air with her index finger, pointing straight up. Jon pictured the top of the wall as Arya pointed, and then they were there. "See? It's your dream. You can do anything you like," she told him with satisfaction. She paced to the north-facing edge of the Wall, first peering down, then looking out over the vast expanse of the Haunted Forest. "Magnificent," she breathed. Somehow, her tone filled him with pride, as though he were solely responsible for all her eyes could see from their high perch.

Jon started to ask her a question, but he thought she must be cold, up here in only her summer gown. He made to give her his cloak, but when he blinked, he saw she wore a heavy black cloak of her own, its dark grey fur collar wrapping her shoulders and throat. Her hair was bound back in a tight braid so the stout wind high on the Wall would not tousle and tangle it.

"How did you…" he started, his head tilting to one side. His hand lifted as he gestured toward her attire. She turned and he saw she now wore black furred boots the to her knee, dark skin breeches and a tunic under a leather brigandine in black. She was dressed as a brother of the Night's Watch.

Arya grinned, glancing down at herself before meeting Jon's eyes. "Do I get to defend the Wall now? Or perhaps march forth into the Haunted Forest to confront ice spiders and…"

"No!" Jon barked, but at her surprised look, his tone softened. "Look well, sister. See all that you can see now. You'll never step a toe north of the Wall." He could not permit such a dangerous folly. The very idea of it petrified him. He knew the horrors that lurked there. He wouldn't allow such evil to touch Arya.

The girl bit her lip and the sight of it softened him further. It was a small hint at her mood, a habit which lingered from earliest childhood, indicating she was unsure. Contemplative. He felt a pinch of guilt then, for he did not mean for her to be unsettled. He merely wished for her to be cautious.

He meant for her to be protected.

"There are… things," he murmured, moving to stand beside her. "Out there." He gazed over the great hinterland, his eyes drinking in the leagues of snowy wilderness beyond them. She turned and looked upon the same view. "I mean for you never to encounter such things."

"Wights," she said. It registered with him that he'd used that word when talking to her earlier. In a dream? Had that been a dream? But no, she'd said this was a dream.

"There are more than wights that prowl and wait beyond the protection of the Wall." There was a warning in Jon's tone. "Things much worse than wights, and not so easily killed."

The girl breathed in, and her exhaled air was a delicate cloud drifting near her lips and nose for a moment. It faded to nothingness, and she said, "You'll tell me later. You'll tell me of things worse than wights that are not so easily killed."

"No."

"Yes. But not here. Not now. Dreams should be pleasant." She angled toward him slightly, smiling up at her brother. "I want your dreams to be pleasant."

"Then show me something pleasant."

"I can't, this is your dream."

He nodded, trying to think of something which might please them both. And then they were in the crypts of Winterfell. The pair watched as nine-year-old Jon placed a four-year-old squealing Arya on his shoulders. Together, they made one great monster to chase Princess Sansa and her formidable knight-protector, Ser Robb, about their grand castle.

"No fair!" Sansa shrieked, scurrying behind Robb who held out a blunted training sword before him, defending his charge. "You can't gang up!"

"Rawr!" Arya replied, little hands shaped into menacing claws reaching out for her sister. Jon dodged and swerved to avoid being poked by Robb's blade, making his sister bounce precariously as she grabbed at his hair to steady herself, alternately giggling and growling at the knight and princess.

"I hope I didn't hurt you, pulling your hair like that," the now-grown girl said to her now-grown brother.

"You were careful. See?"

Arya watched her younger self's hands gripping Jon's locks, close to the scalp, not tugging or yanking, just hanging on. She smiled. "You probably just choose to remember it this way."

"No." Jon shook his head, his look very serious. "You were always careful not to hurt me." He stared down at her. "Only you."

The shrieking laughter of the children faded and then brother and sister were alone in the crypts. Arya sighed then moved along the stone path leading to the newest tombs. As she walked, her black cloak and boots gave way to a shimmering, silver gown with an impossibly long train. Her braid had unraveled itself, Jon noted, and her hair was loose and wavy, falling down her back. She was wearing a crown. The thing appeared to be made of ice with sharp points that jutted and stabbed in all directions, like thorns. Small winter roses formed and grew between the thorns, scattered around the circlet.

"Arya," he called but she did not turn. His skin prickled, and his head felt suddenly heavy. He followed.

The girl stopped in front of Lyanna's tomb, staring up at the stone likeness of their long-dead aunt. Jon saw glittering streaks of frost trailing down the face of the statue, as though tears had fallen, and their path had frozen. His eyes narrowed and he turned his gaze to his sister. Her face was marked similarly, as though she reflected what she saw. As he watched, teardrops fell from Arya's silver eyes, and they froze nearly instantly, into small diamonds of snowy sorrow. Each of them dropped to the ground and bounced at her feet. Her expression alarmed him.

"What is it?" He stepped closer, staring at her, trying to understand the source of her pain.

She looked at him. "I feel… oh." Her breath caught and she turned her face away, staring at Lyanna's tomb, reaching out to run her fingers over its face. Jon saw a trickle of blood moving sluggishly down her temple. He glared at her crown. It was hurting her.

He grabbed for it, wrapping the palm of his scarred hand around the barbed coronet and yanking it up. It would not budge but it punctured his palm, his fingers, opening his flesh and freezing it, all at once. He snatched his hand back, watching as blood dribbled from his wounds. The droplets froze, just as Arya's tears had, turning into frosted rubies that fell and mixed with his sister's frozen teardrops. Only, when his blood hit the ground, it did not bounce and ting.

Rather, it burst into tiny tongues of fire.

Arya's eyes opened and she blinked, sighing quietly. The sun had not yet risen but it was not far off. She could tell by the patch of grey she could see beyond Jon's window. Carefully, she slid from her brother's arms, planting her bare feet on the ground and rising from his bed. Glancing toward the hearth, she noted only embers remained from what had been a roaring fire. The chamber was chilly, and so she grabbed the sleeping furs piled at the foot of the mattress and tugged them over Jon's legs. He had not stirred and so she chose not to disturb him, allowing him to sleep while she reached out and ran her hand over Ghost's head after the wolf appeared at her side. She smiled when she looked into the beast's red eyes, holding her finger to her lips as though he could understand the gesture. Then she left the chamber with silent steps.

There was a guard in the corridor, standing next to the door. She knew Ser Jaime must've directed the man there for her sake and she acknowledged him.

"Good morning."

"Your grace," the man said, startled by her appearance. He bowed his head respectfully.

"Are you one of Lady Cerwyn's men?"

"Yes, your grace."

"Did Lord Commander Lannister set you here?"

"He did, your grace."

"You've probably been here most of the night."

"Since midnight," the guard agreed.

Arya's mouth twisted with mild exasperation. "I'm sorry about that."

"No, your grace, it's my honor. The lord asked my lady which of her men she trusted most to defend her life. She chose me. That's how I won the post."

Leave it to the Kingslayer to poach the best of Castle Cerwyn's men for his own purposes, she thought ruefully.

But there was a note of pride in the man's voice as he spoke and the queen did not wish to diminish that, so she merely nodded, then turned down the corridor and made her way back to her own chamber, her guard trailing her all the way. Before she opened her door, she turned to the guard and spoke.

"If you're to be in my service, however briefly, I should know your name."

"I am called Tymmon, your grace."

"Tymmon," she repeated, committing the name to memory. "I thank you for your steadfast protection." She had no need of it, but that did not mean she should take such dedication for granted.

The man stood up taller then, a look of gratification sweeping over his features before he schooled them and bowed once more. "Your grace," he murmured humbly as she walked into her chamber.

Inside, she was pleased to see the clothes she'd left the camp wearing had been laundered and were laid out for her. They were not her finest, but they were practical, comfortable, and now clean. She shed the voluminous white sleeping frock and dressed herself quickly, finding her boots polished at the foot of her bed and slipping them on. Her hair she did not bother to dress, certain that any effort on her part would result in a mess worse than the one she sported now.

By the time she was done, the sun had risen, and her room was filled with warm light. She grabbed her cloak and left her chamber, inquiring after the stables. She wanted to check on Bane after all their hard riding.

"The stables, your grace?" Tymmon asked. "Do you mean to ride? I can send for the master of horse…"

"No. I just want to check on my mount."

The man nodded then led her where she wished to go. Wherever she walked, the people she passed hushed and bowed deeply. Some greeted her with murmurs of "Good morning, your grace." There weren't many awake and about yet, thankfully, but it gave the girl a queer feeling to be treated thusly. It wasn't that she hadn't received reverent addresses and courtesies before, but they had mostly been paid by people familiar to her, people who'd compelled her into this position where she was obligated to receive such courtesies in the first place. To have strangers recognize her and show such deference had the unexpected effect of making her crown feel very real.

And very weighty, and cold, and sharp, like the crown from her dreams.

She met a young stableboy caring for the horses when she finally found Bane. The boy jumped when he saw her, scrambling to make a bow. He watched, open-mouthed, as she walked to her mount and patted his neck, murmuring to the beast quietly.

"I've brushed him already this morning, your grace," the boy said, "and fed him extra oats."

"I'm sure he appreciates it," the queen told him. "I certainly do."

"He's very brave," the boy continued. "A stout lad!"

"What makes you say it?"

"Well, the other horses were not settled. With the wolves howling all night, I mean. They get nervous with so many wolves this close. They stamped and nickered so much, I didn't get a wink, so I came down early to see what I could do to calm them." He pointed up toward the hayloft. She supposed he meant that's where he slept. "But while the others kicked and whinnied, he just stood still as stone."

"He's accustomed to wolves," the girl confided with a small smile. "They don't frighten him."

"Is he fast, your grace?" the boy asked in wonder.

"As fast as a thunderclap chasing the lightning."

"So that's how he outran the bolts."

"The bolts?"

"The mercenaries' bolts. We heard tell of it when you first arrived, how you outran the bolts they fired at you, and though they shot a hundred, not one found you or your horse."

Really, the stories people told! the girl scoffed to herself, suddenly understanding how Old Nan's tales became so tall. "I don't recall it being quite so dramatic," the queen said to the stableboy, laughing a little. "Anyway, it wasn't me they were trying to kill."

"No? But Tormund said…"

"Tormund?" The girl mulled the familiar name. "Where can I find this Tormund?"

Tymmon cleared his throat. "If he's not still abed, he'll be breaking his fast with enough bacon and eggs to feed a full company, your grace."

"And if he is still abed, it's probably in one of the kitchen maid's chambers," the boy revealed.

"Darrick!" Tymmon chastised, but the queen just snorted.

"Well, Tymmon, show me where he dines," Arya said, "and pray we find him there, so we don't have to seek him out in bed."

"Yes, your grace."

"And… Darrick, is it?" she continued, looking at the boy. "I want you to take special care of Bane while he's here. There's a silver stag in it for you if you do."

"Yes, your grace!" the boy cried excitedly as she left.

The gods had apparently smiled on them, for they found the giant, red-haired wildling spooning thick porridge into his mouth when they arrived in the great hall of Cerwyn. Just as Tymmon had predicted, there was also a large platter with a pile of eggs and stacked bacon on the table before him.

A large man with a large appetite, the girl thought, smiling a little to herself.

Though no one else dined there, Tormund was not alone. A kitchen maid was perched on his lap, laughing as he tickled her middle between bites of his breakfast. At the sound of the door banging shut behind Arya and her guard, the wildling and his companion looked up, spotting the newcomers. The maid hopped up as though she'd been burned when she recognized the queen, rushing toward Arya hastily enough that Tymmon stepped between them and placed his hand upon his sword.

It seemed Lady Cerwyn's trust had not been misplaced.

"Irys," the guard said in warning, causing the maid to draw up. Quickly, she dipped a curtsy and squeaked a promise of a quick breakfast for the queen, then scurried off to prepare it.

Arya began moving toward the table where Tormund sat, curiosity dancing in her eyes. The wildling man reached for a piece of bacon, bringing it to his mouth and devouring it in two bites while he watched the girl's approach. When she arrived at the spot across from him, he cocked his head and studied her a moment before wiping his greasy fingertips down the front of the chainmail vest he wore. Smirking, he rose, stretching to an immense height, and nodded to her, likely his approximation of showing deference.

"So, you're the little Queen of Snow," he said gruffly by way of greeting. Behind her, Tymmon made a choking sound.

"It's the Winter's Queen, actually," the girl said, shrugging, "but I don't stand on ceremony. And you are Tormund, I gather."

"Tormund Giantsbane," the wildling replied, eyeing the girl up and down. "You look like your brother, though you don't seem as moody. But then, I don't really know you, so mayhap you're even moodier! Har!"

Arya snickered along with Tormund. "Is Jon really so moody?"

"He broods like a wronged woman about to get her moon's blood," the wildling revealed.

Tymmon's choking sounds intensified.

"Have you made the acquaintance of many wronged women about to get their moon's blood?"

"Enough to know how they brood."

Arya snorted, then said, "I suspect you were the one who wronged each of them."

The large man grinned, his look licentious. "I only ever tried to honor them. Greatly. And repeatedly."

"Some women require more of a man than just his arrogance and his cock before they feel honored, no matter how great the man may consider his talents."

Tymmon began coughing harshly, sounding as though he'd inhaled a great ball of lint.

The wildling wheezed with his laughter. "Are you sure you're a queen? You have a mouth like a spearwife."

She shrugged. "I speak many languages."

He lifted a palm, indicating the seat across from him. "Will you join me, Snow's Queen?"

The girl almost corrected him again about the title, but then she thought perhaps he meant something different altogether.

Snow's Queen.

Jon had told her the wildlings called themselves 'free folk.' Perhaps they would not look upon her as their queen though they dwelled in her domain. Perhaps they would regard her as queen of the Westerosi only, as Jon Snow's queen.

All reports coming out of the North indicated the wildlings comprised the majority of Jon's army. He was their commander and they owed him their deference. Any regard they had for her might be merely a consequence of her relationship to her brother.

The idea of it lessened the weight of the crown she'd felt earlier and brought a small smile to her lips. Arya looked keenly at the giant of a man, then inclined her head, signaling her acceptance of his invitation. She took her seat. After she was settled, so did he.

"How long have you known my brother?"

"That's a likely sort of question," the wildling observed. "But you don't strike me as a likely sort of girl."

"No?"

"No. I'd expect you to come at me sideways."

Arya's expression remained mild. "Not before I've broken my fast."

Her words caused Tormund to guffaw. "I like you, little queen."

"I'm reserving judgement about you."

"No, you like me too," the man said. "I can tell. I can always tell."

The girl did not contradict him. "I'd like you more if you answered my question."

"Well, let's see then…" Tormund's sapphire eyes narrowed as he thought. "I knew him before he was Lord Commander of the crows. That's more than five years ago now."

Five years. As many years as she'd known the Bear. Possibly a little more.

Long enough to grow close.

"Were you there when…" She swallowed, finding the words hard to force past her lips.

"When he was betrayed by the crows who were sworn to obey him?" His words were quiet as though he were trying not to spook her. The girl's eyes flicked to his and she waited. "Aye, I was there."

She breathed in, nodding. "Did you try to stop them?"

"Would have, if I'd seen it in time. Too late by the time I came across them. Killed two of the turncloaks though, with my own knife." He patted the hilt of the blade that rested between his mail vest and his belt. "The others scattered. You have to understand, it was an unholy mess. Free folk cheering in the hall, drinking ale, their blood up. He'd asked them to join his march on that Bolton bastard. But in the yard, Wun Wun was tearing some southron knight to pieces. Queensmen scattered, crows ran to and fro, screaming, fighting… Nothing but confusion, until I saw him on the ground, turning the snow red."

Arya shook her head. "What march? And who's Wun Wun?" she queried, confused. "And what do you mean by 'Queensmen'?"

"The crow castle was home to more than just those black buggers then, snow queen." He told her of that time, explaining how Stannis had left his wife and daughter in Jon Snow's care as his army advanced on Winterfell; how he'd left his red witch, too. He explained how the free folk had come through the Wall and camped around the castle. He described the letter Ramsay had sent to her brother and how it had spurred Jon to action.

"He said it was for the threat to his men, to the Watch, but that wasn't the reason. Or, leastways not the whole reason," the giant man said. "It was for your sake. His beloved sister." The way Tormund said it made Arya think he understood Jon's actions rather than resent them. He did not seem to resent her, either, though she thought she might deserve it if he did.

The girl bit her lip, forehead wrinkling with concern. "Then the betrayal… His… death. That's my fault."

"No, little one, it's not," Tormund said more gently than she would have believed him capable. "The responsibility lies squarely on the shoulders of the turncloaks, but if you must look outside Castle Black for someone to blame, then look to the Bolton bastard."

"Jon would've broken his vow for me."

"Aye, and there's no shame in it. What sort of man prizes a vow over his own sister?"

Tormund quickly told her the rest of the story, how the chaos had been calmed, and how loyal men, both free folk and crows, had revenged Lord Snow, ferreting out the traitors who'd participated in the mutiny and taking their heads.

Her nightly prayer, it seemed, would become necessarily shorter, even with the addition of Ramsay Bolton's name. She felt a touch of satisfaction at that, though she might've preferred to mete out justice with her own hand.

He told her of Melisandre and her dark art. He said no one had to plead for the red witch to beseech her god, that she'd come to them and suggested it herself. She did it because she claimed Jon was too important to let death keep him.

"I've never been so relieved to see another man draw breath! Har!"

He told her how the vast wildling army had been divided in two, half marching to Hardhome to rescue their brethren, the other half following Jon Snow south, to Winterfell. He told how when Ramsay had learned the size of the force opposing him, he'd escaped with a handful of men, sneaking away to the Dreadfort in the night, back to his father, tail tucked between his legs. When he'd done so, he'd left the rest of the Bolton forces to fend for themselves.

"They still curse that bastard's name," Tormund told her. He explained that the disarray behind Winterfell's walls once Ramsay's absence was discovered led to the castle falling quickly into Jon's hands. "Your brother didn't lose a single man in that battle. Do you know how rare that is? He's revered among the free folk. For that, and for planning the mission to Hardhome."

Arya drank in the tale. She'd known Jon had achieved the rank of Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, but she'd heard no accounts of how he'd performed in the role, nor had she heard more than rumors about what he'd done and all he'd achieved after he was betrayed at the Wall. When she'd thought of her brother and the Night's Watch, she'd focused solely on the idea of seeking revenge for his sake. She was starting to realize she'd lacked an understanding of all he'd achieved in his short life. Leading the Night's Watch. Commanding an army. Taking back Winterfell from the enemy.

There were men three times Jon's age who hadn't accomplished half of what her brother had.

She told the wildling as much.

"Why do you think I followed him? Why do you think I follow him still?" the man asked. "Who do you think Lord Snow is, little one?" Tormund looked at her, not waiting for her answer, and remarked, "He may not be the trueborn son of a lord, but that man knows how to inspire people."

Irys returned just then. The maid slid a plate of food into the space in front of the queen before scampering away with nary a glance at the wilding man. His expression became melancholy as he stared after her, then looked back to Arya. "I think you may have cost me my… companionship."

"Sorry," the girl said, not sounding sorry in the least. "Were you very attached?"

"Huh? Attached? Har!" The wildling nearly spit his eggs. "I didn't know her name until your shadow there said it." He nodded toward Tymmon who stood a discrete distance away, pretending not to listen to their conversation.

"And now I understand your unique insight into the brooding of wronged women…"

Tormund snorted. "I'd remember your name, Snow's Queen," he promised, waggling his thick, ginger eyebrows comically. "And I'd not wrong you."

Arya smiled sweetly back at him. "You'd never have the chance."

"Har!" he barked as she tore a piece of warm, honeyed bread and popped it into her mouth. "I'm glad you're here, little one. You're just what Lord Sourpuss needs."

The girl let her defenses down for a moment and told him, "And I'm glad he's had you all this time, when I couldn't be here for him. He needs someone to look out for him, even if he doesn't realize it."

"Aye, that he does. I've been happy to do it, and I'll continue to, for as long as he needs me." The man looked at the queen shrewdly then, as if he meant to say the thing he might need to look out for was her.

More than three days had passed since the Winter's Queen had fled with Ser Jaime. Augen Heldere had found himself alternately infuriated and impressed with the little wolf's unpredictable action. The morning after she'd departed the camp, the strange crannogman had told the men of the company that their queen had received word her brother was riding out to meet her. He'd claimed she'd left in order to greet him that much sooner. The plan was for the company to join their queen at Castle Cerwyn in a few days' time. It was a story that was accepted without question, but the Faceless savage saw through it readily enough. He didn't even need his apprentice to apprise him of the true tale to know to know the crannogman's words to be a lie.

But apprise him the Westerosi boy did. Because he understood their respective places in the Order, and he did not question the plan.

At least, what he knew of it.

"A threat from a rogue Northern house," the Rat had revealed a few hours after the girl had absconded.

"What sort of threat?" the handsome man had demanded quietly. Anyone overhearing them might think him calm, but his apprentice understood the deadly edge to his tone.

Not that the Myrish assassin would ever allow anyone to overhear them.

"Abduction. Ramsay Bolton claims she is his wife, and her place is at his side."

Gaelon shook his head, frowning. The Bolton bastard was little more than a gadfly. The girl could handle him readily enough, he had no doubt. And he also had no doubt that she felt the same. So why leave? Not to avoid the threat, certainly. Not when she wouldn't even consider it a threat.

"So why make the effort to seek him out? Why not simply wait for him here and take his head whenever he dares to show his face?"

"He sits behind castle walls, sending proxies to do his work."

"Coward," the handsome man sneered. His gemstone eyes glittered sharply. "Does she mean to visit him in his own chamber and slit his throat?" The plan made sense to him. The little wolf had never truly mastered patience.

"No. The proxies threaten her brother. She means to save Jon Snow."

Of course she did.

So sentimental. So…

Attached.

Gaelon had stopped himself from rolling his eyes at his apprentice's words. He'd glanced into the distance, gaze narrowing, and considered the problem. It wasn't worry for her that niggled at him but worry for the mission. She was not meant to be out of their sight. There was more than her life they were meant to protect. How to do so when she was leagues away?

And how had she managed to slip through their grasp without a single Faceless Man realizing it until it was too late?

That was the question which inspired both his rage and his admiration.

"So, what are we to do, master?"

The Myrish assassin had looked at the boy, his jaw working. Finally, he said, "We're to continue on with the company."

"Not ride after her?" The Rat had seemed surprised.

"No. Doing so would mean shedding these faces, and they still have some utility left."

"You're not concerned?"

Gaelon's eyebrows raised slightly, giving his savage countenance a distinctly haughty appearance as he gazed at his apprentice. "She rides with Ser Jaime, and she rides toward her brother. Neither are a threat to the plan."

"And the proxies?"

The handsome assassin had snorted, somehow making the noise sound elegant. "They are less of a threat than even her brother."

Because Gaelon had no doubt that the little wolf would bury a throwing blade in any mercenary's throat before she'd allow him to come within twenty paces of her. No, it wasn't ideal, but the assassin did not fear that anything would endanger Arya Stark's value to the Iron Throne, and therefore her value to the Order.

As for her value to him, well, that was of a much more personal nature. It would take far more than the violation of the terms of his master's bargain with Aegon Targaryen, sixth of his name, to diminish it.

"Good morning, your grace," Haldon greeted as he swept into Aegon's solar.

"Haldon," the king said, continuing to peel the blood orange that had been brought to him as part of his breakfast.

The half-maester nodded toward the bits of peel the king was piling on the table before him. "Don't you have people to do that for you? A team of royal fruit preparers or some such?"

Aegon looked up to find his old friend smirking at him. "Insolent," he pronounced, turning his attention back to his orange.

"I consider it my duty to ensure you remain humble," Haldon revealed before tacking on, "your grace," in a japing tone.

"I had rather a different duty in mind," the silver king said. "It's why I sent for you."

"Oh?" Haldon was all business at Aegon's revelation. "What is it you require of me?"

"Ravens scrolls. A good number of them, I'm afraid."

"And what will these scrolls say?"

"They will say I am sending my envoy, Lord Dayne, to Winterfell, to treat with the newly raised Winter's Queen in my stead. They will say I expect Lord Dayne to be received cordially and helped along his journey north. They will say any disrespect visited upon Lord Dayne or his company will be viewed as a direct insult to the Iron Throne and will be dealt with accordingly. They will say that 'accordingly' means with dragonflame and steel. They will go out to every house in the Riverlands and the North and they will say that the crown expects to receive acknowledgement and acceptance of these terms forthwith so Lord Dayne can begin his journey without delay."

Haldon looked at Aegon, his hesitancy plain to see. "Lord Dayne, your grace? Are you certain?"

"You question my choice, Haldon?" The king seemed genuinely curious.

"I had thought you intended to speak with the lady yourself, after making a survey of the kingdom."

"And so I shall. But I am loath to wait until the capital is settled and I can wind my way across half the kingdom to make my intentions known to her. It may take six months or more, and much can happen in the interval. I mean to control what I can until I can visit Winterfell myself."

"Surely, a raven scroll, or a letter sent by courier…"

Aegon shook his head. "Such sentiments should be spoken directly into her ear, I think."

"But is Edric Dayne really the one to speak them?"

The king stopped peeling and looked at the half-maester, a small smile playing on his lips. "What is your objection to the man?"

"He knows the girl. They are acquainted."

"That's one of the reasons I chose him."

"And he's… the Sword of the Morning, your grace."

"Yes. He is."

"Don't you think you should consider… some other envoy? A lesser lord, a sworn knight... Or, Lord Tyrion, perhaps."

"A lesser lord would be an insult to her station. I do not mean to raise her ire before I've even met the girl. And I have need of Lord Tyrion here. I cannot spare him for this task."

"I could go, if you'd allow it…"

"Until the Citadel sends a new Grandmaester, I cannot spare you, either." Aegon pulled a section of orange free and pushed it through his lips, chewing thoughtfully. "Tell me, Haldon, what is the root of your opposition to Edric, apart from his worthiness to wield Dawn?"

"I… it's…" The half-maester grunted in frustration. "Lord Dayne is worthy, to be sure. He's well-respected, both by the army and in the capital. And he's adored in Dorne."

Aegon nodded, chewing another section of his blood orange. "Go on."

"He's younger than you, more of an age with Arya Stark, and he's considered quite comely."

"Oh, to be sure. I've seen my aunt cast her eye toward him a time a two," the king laughed mildly.

"He's a great lord in his own right, a capable commander, exceedingly wealthy…"

"All true," Aegon agreed.

"…honorable, witty, and he sings, your grace. You've heard him at the feasts. The maidens all swoon when he belts out that damn ballad of the dragon and the rose. I think he even plays the lute passably well…"

"Honestly, Haldon, you sound half in love with the man." The king's eyebrows were raised in question. His friend understood the king's humor too well to take the jest as insult, but still, he blew out a frustrated breath.

"Why in the seven bloody hells would you send such a temptation to the girl's doorstep, especially when you will not be free to temper that temptation yourself for at least half a year?"

The silver king smiled and popped another piece of the orange into his mouth, leaning back as he chewed. "Lord Dayne is everything you say, it's true. But he is also loyal."

"Sometimes I forget how inexperienced you are, your grace, with the nature of love and heartbreak," said Haldon, shaking his head. "Loyalty has a way of dissolving in the face of lust."

The king studied his friend, his lips twitching. Finally, he said, "The kingdom must be united. Something must bond north to south. Starfall may serve that purpose just as well as the Iron Thone."

Haldon's shock was plain to see. "What? But when you spoke with Illyrio, you said, and Lord Tyrion agreed, that…"

Aegon held up his hand, arresting his friend's sputtering.

"I know what I said. And I know what Magister Illyrio and Lord Tyrion think. But what is most important is making the kingdom whole, under one rule." The king looked at the half-maester. "However that is accomplished.

"You wish for the girl to wed Lord Dayne?"

"It matters not if she accepts my proposal or if the fates decide she will fall in love with Edric, lute playing and all. Ultimately, I will achieve my aim."

"And what of the Faceless Men? A marriage with Starfall breaks their contract."

"But I would not be the one breaking it. In fact, it would be the assassins who were in violation of the terms. They agreed to provide me a bride. A very special, very specific bride. They took a rather large payment to guarantee it. Would I not be the wronged party if my betrothed were to marry another?"

"But he's one of your subjects…"

"A very disloyal subject indeed, if he were to steal my promised bride. Even treasonous, you could say."

"This is a very dangerous game you play, your grace."

The king looked unimpressed with his friend's warning. "Any game worth playing is."

"Did you not hear me say he is adored in Dorne? The Dornishmen would revolt if any harm befell him. We cannot afford to lose that support, nor to fight a war on two fronts."

"What I heard you say was that Lord Dayne is exceedingly wealthy. I imagine if he were to commit such a betrayal but for a reason as noble as love, the crown could forgive that sort of crime. If proper recompense were made, of course."

"You'd sell Illyrio's assurance, and the promise of the Faceless Men, to fill the kingdom's coffers? You'd really allow your intended to marry your bannerman in exchange for gold?" Haldon challenged, his expression dubious.

"You think it a mistake?"

"I do, your grace."

"Even if it would unite the kingdom in the process?"

"It might unite the kingdom. Or it might give Starfall, and Dorne by extension, far too much power."

"But not nearly as much power as a throne which commands three full-grown dragons."

The half-maester shook his head. "When did you become so cunning?"

Aegon laughed. "You say cunning. I say prepared. After all, who can predict the vagaries of a woman's heart? This is merely a contingency plan, my friend."

"It sounds more like a sinister plot."

"You always did have a love for dramatics. Now, don't you think you should start on those scrolls? I'd not like to delay my sinister plot," the king chuckled.

Haldon bowed, saying, "Right away, your grace." He turned and left the solar, the look on his face marking him as troubled.

Aegon finished his orange, chewing slowly, savoring its dark juice as he mulled over the discussions he'd had with both Haldon and Edric (mulling over how some might consider his words to them misleading, if only they understood the truth. But at times such as these, such ambiguities and deceits were necessary.)

He had no intention of surrendering his claim to Arya Stark. It might've been wiser to do so, he knew; to genuinely encourage a match between Winterfell and Starfall. Edric was honorable, as Haldon had said, and the young lord would gladly pay half his wealth to atone for such a treason if it were to occur, perhaps more. And occur it would, the king was fairly certain, if he allowed it. Edric was half in love with the girl already, at least the idea of her, his regard stoked by his memory of their time riding with the outlaws as well as her fantastical rise to power.

And perhaps a little by Aegon himself. He could not deny it.

The kingdom would still be united by the union, to be sure. What's more, the so-called Winter's Queen marrying the Sword of the Morning, her childhood friend, would make a compelling tale, one that would surely travel the world on the lips of bards. It would also conveniently serve to disentangle the Iron Throne from the Order of the Faceless Men. It was possible the assassins would even return Illyrio's gold, if they had an ounce of honor in them.

Such a marriage would free Aegon to wed his aunt, which would please his Hand to no end. After all, it would guarantee the king had a large say in controlling the only dragons in existence.

Most of all, it would spare Aegon the sacrifice of his child, the most distasteful part of Illyrio's bargain. After having suffered the loss of his father, his mother, his sister, the king understood the value of family. That alone should have made him consider the union between Arya Stark and Edric Dayne as a reasonable alternative.

But he did not consider it. Would not. The girl had been promised to him, and it was a promise he meant to see fulfilled.

Still, the king did not need for the court or even his friends to see his covetousness. He did not mean for his determination to be known. Such appetites were weakness, ready to be exploited. Ambitions, once discovered, were easier to thwart, and that, he could not allow. His discussions with the half-maester and the Dornish lord were useful subterfuge for his single-mindedness. No one overhearing them (and he did not delude himself into thinking he was not overheard within the walls of the Red Keep) would guess at Aegon's true desire.

No one would guess at his unmitigated and insupportable want.

His fervor had been fueled by Braavosi assassins and Pentoshi politicians, fed by tales and plans and encouragement from the mouths of lords. His entitlement had grown in his mind, in his heart, as he'd traveled across the Narrow Sea, and across the warm Dornish sands, and past the walls of a conquered capital. News of her gathering support in what should be his own kingdom (no, in what was his own kingdom) only intensified his passion. His claim had set, hard and fast, as he dreamed his strange dreams and read the same texts his father had read. Aegon had come to understand that there was more to his destiny than what men would make of it.

Arya Stark would be his wife, his queen, and she would bring her kingdom with her as dowry, healing the rift which had torn Westeros asunder. She would warm his bed and bear his children. She would love him, as he would love her, and together, they would fulfill the prophecy his father had so famously failed to satisfy.

Jaime found the queen finishing her breakfast with Tormund Giantsbane, her brother's wildling advisor. He wasn't sure he trusted the man yet, or any wildling for that matter, but the red-haired giant had done nothing thus far which would solidify him as a danger in the Lord Commander's mind.

That was, until he saw the wildling lean back and chortle at same jape of the girl's and noted the long knife secured in his belt.

And Lady Cerwyn's man standing too far from the girl to do anything about it if the unwashed savage decided to draw that knife and slash the queen's throat.

"Tymmon!" the Lord Commander barked as he stormed over to their table. "Did you not know the man was armed?"

The guard started, his face suddenly slack with his confusion. "Milord?"

"The man sitting within arm's reach of your queen, Tymmon. He has a blade, readily visible," Jaime explained in sarcastic tones.

"But… everyone has a blade in the North, milord."

"'Tis true, Goldie. It pays to stay armed. You never know when a shadowcat will pounce on your back, or a she-bear will stalk you for getting too near her cub!" the wildling man agreed, rasping out his usual laugh. Har!

Always laughing, that one, Jamie sneered to himself. What did the oaf find so fucking amusing all the time?

"Besides," Tormund continued, "if I meant the little queen harm, this wobbling turd snatching at my blade wouldn't stop me."

"Oi!" Tymmon objected.

"Please excuse him, Tymmon," Arya apologized, then, turning to her crass companion, she shook her head. "Impolitic," she admonished while giving him a pointed look. She nearly succeeded in suppressing her smirk.

"Is that a fancy southron word for 'impressively well endowed', your holiness?" the wilding wanted to know.

"I'm not the high septon," the girl told him, "and no. It means you have a vulgar mouth, and you employ it recklessly."

Tormund beamed. "Thank you."

"It wasn't a compliment," Jaime seethed.

"No?" the wilding asked innocently. "Sounded like one to me. Har!"

"I look forward to seeing you in the training yard later, Tormund," Arya said, obviously completing whatever conversation they'd been having when the golden knight had walked in.

"Training, your grace?" Jaime's look indicated his obvious disapproval of her plans.

"Of course, Lord Commander. As I do every day, a practice of which you are well aware."

"Perhaps it would be best to postpone your training today, seeing as how you just awoke from a two-day bout of unconsciousness." Jaime struggled not to hiss the last bit at her.

"Nonsense!" the girl laughed. "I feel better for the long rest. Good as new!"

"I'll see you later, then, Snow's Queen," the wildling said, snorting at the look on the golden knight's face and lumbering out of the hall. The Kingslayer glared at the man's broad back.

Maybe the wilding was a danger to the queen, and maybe he wasn't. But Jaime knew one thing for sure—danger or no, he was awfully fucking irritating.

Arya rose and watched as the Lord Commander dismissed her guard.

"Did you need something, ser?" she asked him when Tymmon was gone. "You must've sought me out for a reason."

"Yes, Stark. I wanted to speak with you. In private."

She looked around. "We're alone now."

"Anyone could walk in at any time." As if to prove his point, Irys entered the hall then, bustling over to clear the plates from the table where the queen had sat with Tormund.

"We can go to my chamber," she suggested.

"That's hardly proper, your grace."

The girl rolled her eyes. "I'm the bloody queen! Isn't everything I do 'proper' by definition?" When Jaime did not immediately agree with her, she said, "Fine. We could ride."

"The Bolton mercenaries could be just outside the walls," he warned, then watched as a malicious smile shaped Arya's mouth.

"Good."

"No, not good, your grace. One of them might fire a bolt through your eye before you could even be in range to throw one of your knives. Worse yet, one of them might fire a bolt through my eye."

The girl snickered. "Very well. Let us seek out Jon, then. His chamber will afford you the privacy you want, and no one can question my integrity or your intentions if he is there as chaperone."

"I'm not sure you'll want him to hear what I have to say."

"I have no secrets from my brother."

"As you wish, your grace."

They made their way to Jon's room and knocked. When Arya entered, she found her brother up and dressed, looking less weary than he had the night before.

"Arya," he said, a smile spreading across his face. "I wondered where you'd gone." He noted the Kingslayer as he entered behind the queen. "Lord Commander," he greeted, his expression becoming more guarded.

"I had breakfast with Tormund," the girl revealed, and Jon groaned.

"Listen, whatever he said, just know, it's meant in good humor."

"Oh, I did not find him offensive," she assured her brother. "Tymmon, on the other hand, might still be smarting…"

"Is that why you're here, Ser Jaime?" Jon wanted to know, looking around Arya to the golden knight. "I can vouch for Tormund. He's brash and irreverent, but he'd not hurt my sister."

Jaime shook his head. "No. This visit has entirely to do with her grace."

"Even I don't know what it's about," the girl mock-whispered to her brother. "Isn't it exciting?"

Jaime stalked further into the chamber, scowling, and came right to the point. "I'd like to know how you turned one of the mercenaries against the others. I'd also like to know how you forced your brother to ride back the way he came when it looked like he was hellbent on passing Hartcourt to reach you."

Jon's brow crashed down. "What does he mean, Arya?"

"I think we should ask him, Jon."

The girl's expression was carefully blank. She looked first at her brother, then at her Lord Commander. Behind her eyes, the Kingslayer thought he could see her calculating. Narrowing his eyes to slits, he decided to play her game.

"I apologize if I wasn't clear. What I mean to ask, your grace, is how was it you were able to make one of Bolton's men stand, turn, and fire upon another of Bolton's men? And then another? And then another? And I also mean to ask, your grace, how was it you made your brother change his course when it seemed set in the opposite direction, preventing him from passing Hartcourt before you did? I recall that was something you were particularly anxious to do."

There was silence for a beat, and then the girl spoke.

"Why do you attribute these actions to me?" Arya's grey eyes were wide and innocent, her tone a perfect mummery of breathy surprise.

She was good. But Jaime was not fooled.

"I attribute them to you because you are responsible for them."

Her brother's expression had not changed. He was still confused, and curious, and a little irate, probably at the tone the Kingslayer was using with his sister.

"Oh, Ser Jaime…" the girl laughed.

"Don't 'Ser Jaime' me," he bit out, then he looked at Jon. "Did you know? Were you aware?"

Jon just stared at the golden knight, his expression morphing to one of disbelief. He didn't know, Jaime decided, but he was starting to work it out.

"Arya?" her brother said, turning to look at her. The disquiet in his voice caused the girl to glare at her Lord Commander. She swallowed, then drew in a slow breath, pushing it out through her nose and walking over to the window. She stared out of it for a long moment before making the men an answer. When she finally did, she spoke simply and precisely.

"I'm a warg."

"A warg?" the golden knight repeated. The word was not one he knew, but he understood there was a gravity to her admission.

Arya turned, shrugging. "A skinchanger. A... dream wraith. Or, at least, something like it."

"The dream…" Jon murmured under his breath. His eyes sought hers. "You were there? That was really you?"

"I tried to tell you." Her tone was soft, almost regretful.

"Let me see if I understand you," the Kingslayer interrupted, his voice hinting at a mixture of incredulity and consternation. "You… changed skins with one of Bolton's mercenaries. So, it was you killing those other men. Then, you changed skins with your brother and made him alter his path. Do I have that right?"

"Yes. Well, no. Not exactly." The girl chewed her lip, gazing up at the ceiling for a few seconds. "It's not so easy to explain."

"Try." Jaime's voice was hard.

"Arya, you're a… warg?" Jon asked quietly.

"Not just me. Rickon, and Bran…"

"Bran?" Jaime said and then understanding dawned on him. "That's how he told you about the mercenaries?"

Her brother's shoulders stiffened. "You knew about the mercenaries? And you rode out alone?"

"Not alone," the Kingslayer corrected, but then shrugged and said, "but yes, that was stupid of her. She often does stupid things. I'd assumed she was the same as a child, so you'd be used to it. Is that not correct?"

Arya gave the golden knight a dirty look, then turned to her brother. "I did it for you, Jon! Bran told me they would ambush you! If I hadn't reached you in time…" The girl pressed her fists to her temples in frustration and groaned. "Ugh!" She clenched her eyes shut tightly, heaving great breaths, one after another, until her vexation eased. Opening her eyes, she looked at the two men. "Please," she said, sounding suddenly tired. "Just… sit down." She shook her head, rolling her eyes heavenward as though imploring the gods for strength. "Sit down and listen. I'll tell you both everything."

Diamonds—Joshua Radin (acoustic)