There's things out there that'll bend your bones
Boys, the night will bury you
"Bran is alive."
Arya said the words quietly, her tone gentle as she looked at Jon. She watched as an array of emotions played over his Stark features. Pain. Disbelief. Hope.
"Can it be?" Jon's voice was hoarse.
The girl bit her lip, then moved to her brother, wrapping her fingers around his wrist. "Have you not… felt him? In the godswood?"
"I…"
Jaime interrupted them. "Why would he feel Bran in the godswood?" he demanded to know. "What sort of sense does that make, Stark?"
Arya huffed, then turned to face her Lord Commander. "I said I would tell you everything, but as it turns out, everything is quite a lot, so if I'm to get through it all, you're going to have to kindly shut up, Kingslayer!"
"Arya." Jon's murmur drew her attention back to him. "Where is he?"
Her heart clenched at the look on her brother's face. She hesitated, then tightened her grip on his wrist, trying to impart some calm to him so what she had to say would not be such a blow. "He's… north of the wall. Well north."
Her brother stiffened and he drew in a stunned breath. "He can't be!"
"He is."
"Do you know where?" There was an urgency in Jon's tone. She could sense his worry and she could tell that half a dozen plans and strategies to rescue Bran and bring him home to Winterfell were already taking shape in his mind.
"There is a great weirwood, a tree more ancient and immense than any you've ever seen. It's far to the north of the wall, but I can't say exactly where."
"Does this weirwood mark a village? Is that where he is, in the care of some free folk?"
She shook her head. "There's a cavern beneath the tree itself. He dwells within."
"How do you know this, Stark?" Jaime's inquiry was undeniably skeptical, and he'd obviously ignored her directive to shut up.
"Because," the girl began, looking at Jon rather than the knight, "I've been there."
"When? How?" the knight persisted.
"In a… dream?" Jon asked, and his tone wasn't skeptical at all. His sister nodded.
"You could call it that."
It was Jon's turn to nod, and he placed his hand over the one she'd used to grip him, engulfing her fingers with his own. "Tormund may know this place, if you describe it to him. He might be able to draw us a map. If not him, then perhaps one of the Thenns, or…"
"Jon, I don't think Bran wants us to come for him."
Her brother's look was dubious. "What? Of course he does! Why wouldn't he?"
She flicked her gaze toward Jaime, mulling what she wished to say on the matter in front of him. Deciding there was little danger in revealing most of what she knew, she began to explain.
"This great weirwood is a place of power. Immeasurable power. From there, Bran can…" What could she say? How could she explain it? She probably didn't even know all he could do from his throne of weirwood roots. "He can see," she finally breathed.
Her brother's eyebrows pinched in. "What can he see?"
"Everything."
Jon shook his head, not fully grasping her meaning, but determined that no answer she could make him would supersede his own worry for the crippled boy. "Arya, do you remember what I told you? About what lies beyond the Wall?"
"Wights. And things much worse," the girl murmured. "Things not so easily killed."
"Sounds like exactly the sort of place you'd rush off to by yourself, Stark," Jaime grunted.
"She'll not be going," Jon said, his tone suddenly authoritative, "but someone must."
"No, Jon. I don't think so," his sister said. "I don't think he'd want that."
"He can't possibly stay there. It isn't safe."
"I think it is. For him, at least."
"You haven't seen them, Arya. And whatever tales you might've heard could not adequately describe the danger. No one is safe beyond the Wall. Not anymore."
"No one is safe beyond the Wall? Then why are you so determined to go there yourself?"
He looked down at her, his features hard, but they softened as he studied her face. "He's our brother."
"I know that. Do you think I care for him less than you do? If he were terrified, or if he even just asked, you could not stop me from riding north myself," the girl told him. "But I don't think that's what he wants. And I don't think he'd leave, even if you showed up and begged him to."
Jon was not convinced. "I cannot abandon him there."
"But you'd abandon me here?"
His expression was pained. "You'd be safe behind Winterfell's walls, and I'd come back. With Bran."
Arya made her face as young and as worried as she could. "What if Ramsay Bolton comes for me?" She could read it in her brother's eyes. She'd hit upon the thing which would make him give up his foolish plan.
That is, until the Kingslayer snorted.
"Oh! That's rich, your grace!" Jaime laughed. "Don't behave as though you wouldn't welcome just such a move on that bastard's part. It would save you the journey!" When she turned to glare at him, he looked at her sharply and added, "In fact, I'm certain you're already working on a scheme to trot off to the Dreadfort and take care of Roose's heir yourself if you can't find some way to lure him to you first."
She was, damn the man!
The queen pulled her hand away from her brother, crossing her arms over her chest and stalking over to the Lord Commander.
"What happened to you shutting up?" she hissed.
Jaime crossed his own arms over his chest, mirroring her posture, then leaned down, putting his face in hers. "From here on, I plan to call out every single one of your little deceptions whenever they put you in danger. Maybe then Lord Snow can talk sense into your stubborn head since the gods know I can't."
"Well, he won't be here to talk sense into me if he's gone ranging beyond the Wall on some doomed rescue mission!" Arya spat.
The golden knight straightened, looking over his queen's head at her brother. "She has a point, Snow. And whatever danger you think threatens your brother out there, I can promise you, it doesn't compare to the danger this infant poses to herself routinely. I could use the backup."
Jon's eyes narrowed. "Is this how you speak of your queen, Kingslayer?"
The man shrugged, unperturbed. "Usually."
"That's because he forgets he is the Lord Commander of my Winter Guard and fancies himself my nursemaid instead," the girl growled.
"Only because when you aren't acting like an assassin with a death wish, you're behaving like a spoiled brat in need of a spanking," Jaime countered.
"An assassin…" Jon's face took on a look of confusion.
"Oh, that's right, you've not seen her with a blade yet. Haven't you heard what she did at the Twins?"
"The Twins?" the young lord asked, his head snapping to his sister. She turned to face him. "That was you, Arya?"
"She earned a charming nickname," the knight revealed, his tone dripping with false enthusiasm.
"Enough!" the girl cried, looking over her shoulder at her Lord Commander. "Let me tell him, Jaime."
The golden knight gave her a curt nod. "Go ahead."
She turned back to her brother. "Yes, the Twins… that was me. But not just me. A knight and his squire were with me, and then we freed Robb's men from the cells, the Greatjon, and others, and they fought, too."
"It was mostly you," she heard from over her shoulder. "And Walder Frey was all you."
"Jaime! Please!"
"My apologies, your grace." His tone was colored overmuch with courteous deference.
Insincere, courteous deference.
Arya sighed, blinking a few times, then cast her eyes back to Jon's. She studied him a moment, then said, "Let me begin in King's Landing."
He does not know what game the silver king plays, had not thought of the man as one who would deign to play games in the first place. It's not that the dragon lacks the intelligence to be adept at them. He's savvy enough, and is a man of sense and strategy, it cannot be denied. But the Faceless sellsword had assumed the king had no taste for such manipulations, preferring instead forthright discussion and unflinching honesty. But there must be some strategy which underlies his latest decree.
Edric Dayne prepares to make his way north at the king's command. The Sword of the Morning will act as envoy between the two thrones, presenting his liege's suit to the young queen, but there is too much latitude and not enough direction in the matter. That alone is enough to raise the assassin's hackles as it is uncharacteristic of the king to leave things thus. And then there is the reaction of those closest to the issue. He has heard the Hand remark upon it with more satisfaction than he has shown for anything in a moon's turn. The dwarf has questioned the wisdom of such an approach. The khaleesi has been caught smirking as she considers the implications.
But it is Lord Dayne himself which gives the false-Tyroshi the most pause.
The boy is far too eager.
No man, no matter how loyal, should be so content with such a task. The journey is long and bound to be arduous. He will leave behind his family, including a beloved aunt with whom he has only been recently reunited. He will leave behind his land, his castle, his people, entrusting their management to others during this critical time. He will leave behind warm Dorne for the harsh climes of the Kingdom of Winter. He will leave behind the praise and adoration showered upon him by the inhabitants of the capital, including the fair women of the court, and travel to a land where he will be suspected and reviled for the sake of his king. And yet, Daario has not heard the boy utter one word of complaint. Nor has he given voice to a single doubt.
The Lorathi knows enough of the nature of men to understand that no matter how noble or honorable, a man could not be so selfless. And the Lorathi also knows that Aegon understands the same. So Edric Dayne will endure an abundance of hardships, but he must hope for something in return.
The 'something' is obvious to anyone with both his eyes and his reason intact.
But it is a 'something' that neither the assassin nor the silver king can allow the young lord to have.
Aegon may fool his Hand and his silver aunt and Tyrion Lannister with his nonchalance. He may fool the Lord of Starfall. But he does not fool the Lorathi. Jaqen has seen the want in his amethyst eyes; has heard the possession in his tone when he schemes and whispers with the dwarf. He knows the king does not mean to give his prize away.
So why the artifice? Why play at being aloof?
Why allow a rival, a subordinate, to be emboldened?
It is a question which gnaws at Jaqen and a mystery he does not know if he can solve before Edric Dayne departs the capital. And it is this uncertainty which inspires a change in his nightly prayer.
"Arya Stark," he mutters to his god in the dark. "Do not keep her from me."
"Father allowed you to train with your little Needle?" Jon smiled as he asked the question. His sister had been describing her time in King's Landing, and it was apparently marked by drudgery and her continued rivalry with Sansa, until Syrio Forel entered her life.
"He thought if I was going to have a weapon, I should learn to use it properly."
"Northmen," Jaime grumbled under his breath from the seat he'd taken in the corner.
Jon was sitting on the edge of his bed, watching his sister speak from her place before the hearth. They both ignored the Lord Commander's comment.
"Syrio Forel had been the First Sword of Braavos, so learning under his tutelage was a great honor," the girl revealed. She went on to describe their lessons, chasing cats, and then the fateful day everything changed for her. "Syrio saved me with nothing more than a wooden sword and a water dancer's skill. He sacrificed his life so I could escape."
Jon's eyes narrowed, one hand slowly clenching into a fist, and he stared at the golden knight. "And where were you when all this was happening?"
"I was not in the capital."
"Did you know what was going to happen? Is that why you left?" the young lord pressed.
Jaime sighed, shaking his head. "I doubt my sister meant to hurt Arya. She would've been too valuable as a hostage. But no, I didn't know."
"And my father? Did you know what was planned for him?" Jon's anger was rising.
"I was in the Riverlands. I didn't know about any of it until after it was too late to stop the folly, but I later learned he was supposed to be allowed to take the black."
Jon's mouth was open as if he meant to say something, but it snapped shut at the revelation. He stood abruptly and pointed at the knight. "You lie, Kingslayer!" It had to be a lie, he thought, because if it were the truth, it would be too cruel.
But then, when had life ever curbed its cruelty for his sake?
"He's not lying," Arya whispered.
"You trust him?" Jon's tone was incredulous.
"I do," she acknowledged, "but that's not why I say it. I was there, Jon. I saw it."
He moved toward her, but his step faltered and the hand he'd been reaching out for her dropped to his side. "You saw it?" The girl closed her eyes with the memory and Jon backed up and took his seat on the bed once again, his head falling into his hands as guilt weighed him down. He blew out a breath, telling himself he had no right to his sorrow; not when his sister had been the one to bear the burden of witnessing their father's death. He could not allow grief to paralyze him. Not when she had need of his strength.
"He died well," she said hoarsely, obviously fighting to keep the quiver from her voice. "Brave. Resolute. Like a Northman."
She was trying to reassure him; to console him, Jon thought. It made him feel like a selfish coward. Arya should not have to be his strength, and she'd borne the burden of watching their father's unjust execution alone for far too long. No longer. He rose again, and this time he did not hesitate as he strode over to her, wrapping her in his arms and pressing his cheek to her forehead.
"I'm so sorry," he whispered. "You should not have had to see that."
Arya laughed a little, the sound of it thin and sad. "Fate has never seemed to care much about should and should not, so we oughtn't waste our time dwelling on it, either."
He pulled back from her and slid his hands up her arms and neck in a soothing gesture, bringing them to rest on either side of her face. He peered deeply into her eyes, marveling at the silver spark he saw there. "You are extraordinary, do you know that? Strong. Courageous."
"No more so than you," she told him.
"I want you to know that from here on, I will protect you. It's my duty, but I plan to make it my life's work."
"Jon," the girl sighed, placing her hands over his and gently pulling them away from her face, "that's not a vow you can hold to."
"It is," he said in a tone that brooked no argument, "and I will."
She shook her head, walking away from him and moving to the window. She peered out over the landscape, quiet for a long moment. "I understand the desire," she told him without turning. "Of course I do. But I also understand the futility of it." Arya spun slowly then, looking at her brother. "And what's more, so do you."
Her brother's countenance trumpeted his frustration. "Did you allow your understanding of this futility to stop you from riding out in the night, leaving behind the safety of your camp? Did you allow it to keep you from trying to save me?" She started to object, to tell him that was different, but he stopped her, holding up his hand in a gesture meant to quiet her protests. "No, Arya. You didn't. You rode forth, out of a need to protect me. So you have no right to challenge me when I do the same."
"Yes, yes," Jaime broke in, his voice heavy with the sound of his exasperation, "you're both very selfless and noble and each would bleed out your last drop of blood for the other. No one can doubt your dedication to family and honor and truth and risking your bloody lives to prove how superior you are to the rest of us. It's nauseatingly admirable and all that. But can we continue with the narrative? At this rate, we'll never learn how she mastered the ability to make men murder one another."
The queen turned to face her Lord Commander, one eyebrow arched. "I understand your sister was fairly adept at convincing men to murder one another. It shouldn't be such a mystery to you."
"Well, your grace, seeing as how I seriously doubt you tempted that mercenary with your body or offered him a good fuck as reward for his actions, I'd say I'm still in the dark about your particular methods." He leaned forward in his seat. "Unless you're telling me otherwise?"
"You'll watch your tongue when addressing my sister," Jon growled, taking a step toward Jaime, his hand moving to his sword hilt. The knight scoffed at the gesture.
"She could make me watch it, if she were so inclined. Couldn't you, Stark?" The Kingslayer looked at Arya. "You could probably make me cut my own tongue out here and now, if you wanted." The young lord caught something behind the golden knight's eyes. His words were spoken like an accusation, with an air of certainty, but Jon heard the question in them. He read the probing. Jaime was searching for the truth. It was a truth Jon himself wished to know.
How extensive were her abilities?
The girl shrugged. "Probably. I've never tried it before." Her look became malicious. "Would you like for me to?"
"Arya," her brother warned.
The girl's face became a mask of calm at Jon's tone. She dropped into a chair near the window, looking first at Jaime, then at Jon. "What else would you like to know?"
"When did you realize what you could do?" her brother asked.
"Ah. That would be in Braavos. I was doing it earlier. I can see that now. Had been, for a long time. But I didn't realize what was happening until Braavos."
"Braavos…" Jon repeated, rubbing at his chin thoughtfully. He'd had word she'd been in Braavos, that she'd turned up in Westeros after having crossed the Narrow Sea from the free city, but he'd not put too much stock in the rumor. Why would she have gone to Braavos? How could she possibly have ended up there?
Arya picked up her tale where she'd left it. She told of Yoren, and her travels up the kingsroad with the Night's Watch recruits. She told of meeting a Faceless Man, though she hadn't known that's what he was until a long time afterwards. She told of Harrenhal, and the iron coin, and her time with the Brotherhood. Jaime had heard some of this story before as evidenced by a few of his remarks, but he paid rapt attention, nonetheless. It was as though the way she told it, the details she was willing to reveal to her brother were different what the knight had heard already.
Jon interrupted her very little, knowing he could always ask questions later; saving some of his questions for a time when Ser Jaime was not around as witness. By the time she got to the part where she explained buying her passage to Braavos with an iron coin, her brother was seated once again on the edge of his bed. He shook his head, not understanding how a girl of one and ten had the courage to step onto a boat and sail across the sea without a protector, without a friend, and disembark in a foreign world so far from anything she'd ever known.
She did it to seek this assassin she'd described, he thought.
"When I arrived at the House of Black and White, the Faceless Men welcomed me," Arya revealed. "They fed me and sheltered me. Eventually, they trained me."
"Bah!" Jaime cried, banging his golden hand loudly against the arm of his chair. "I knew it!" His lips pinched for a spare second, then he glared at the girl. "You little liar!"
"Ser Jaime!" Jon barked.
"I didn't lie to you," she said calmly.
"You did! You most certainly did! I asked you if you were an assassin! I asked you if the Faceless Men had sent you to carry out some scheme of their making…"
"And I answered you with the truth. I am not a Faceless Man, and I'm not privy to their schemes."
"You just said they trained you…"
"And so they did. To a point. They taught me about swordplay, well, more than I already knew, and about throwing blades. They trained me to concoct poisons and showed me how to deliver them. They instructed me in hand-to-hand combat and helped me hone my stealth. It was during their training that I stumbled onto the ability to warg. I found myself inside of a cat's head, using his eyes to help me during a… lesson."
"Of course you would somehow accidentally discover you have a rare talent that allows you to control the will of men with your mind," Jaime scoffed, "while training with the most secretive order of assassins known to man. Assassins who just happened to accept you because you just happened to save the life of one of their own after miraculously surviving on the streets of King's Landing…"
Arya rolled her eyes at the knight's annoyed tirade and continued. "I learned all about death in the temple. How it looks, how it smells, how it tastes. How it pleases the many-faced god."
Jon nearly shivered at her words; at the matter-of-fact way she delivered them. What had they done to his sister, that she could speak of death thusly and not be affected? But then, he thought of all he'd witnessed and all he'd endured, and he knew that the world would not have been any kinder to her than it had been to him; that the world would not have treated her tenderly simply because she was a girl, and young, and held a piece of his heart that belonged only to her.
Silently, he cursed himself that he could not make it so; that he could not bend the world to his will and cocoon his sister in what was pure and good and gentle, insulating her from cold pain and pitiless despair. From violence and loss.
"I learned a hundred ways to deliver death," she continued. "Maybe more. But I was not allowed to enter the Order. They would not allow me to take my vow."
"After investing all that time? After showing you all their secrets?" the golden knight asked.
"They didn't show me all their secrets."
"What happened, Arya?" her brother wanted to know. "Do they not allow women in their ranks?"
The girl shook her head. "There have been women among them, both masters and priestesses, though they are few. When I dwelled in the temple, aside from the cook, there was one other woman apart from me. A master assassin. Though if you were to pass her on the street, you would think her a lost child. A rich merchant's young daughter, perhaps."
Jaime pulled a face. "Diabolical…"
Arya just shrugged at his judgment.
"Why were you not allowed you to join, then?" Jon prodded gently. He watched as the girl pulled her bottom lip between her teeth and nibbled it softly, her eyes moving to the floor before her. Her words were low when she answered him and both men had to strain to hear her.
"They asked me to kill someone, and I couldn't do it."
"Well, you've certainly put that aversion to rest," the Kingslayer commented dryly.
"It wasn't that they asked me to kill," she snapped, "it was who they asked me to kill."
She was angry, yes, but there was an ache in her voice, too. Jon recognized it, the feeling behind it. He'd felt something similar when Ygritte had died in his arms.
"It was someone you cared for," he said, grey eyes soft and unfocused.
Arya swallowed. "It was the man who'd given me his coin. My master. I owed him so much…"
"Yes," Jon said, nodding slowly, "but that's not what stopped you." He looked up at her, their twin gazes locking. "You loved him."
"I failed at my task. I neglected my duty." Her voice was bitter.
"Love is the death of duty," her brother murmured.
"I fought them. For his sake, I fought them all, and I lost. And for some reason, instead of killing me for my betrayal, they put me on a ship back to Westeros with a promise to return me to Winterfell."
"For that, I owe them a debt of gratitude," Jon said, rising. His sister shook her head.
"I owe them something different." Her words were dark, shot through with threat and hate.
"Did they kill him, sister?"
She breathed in deep. "They made me believe so, but I've since learned he lives."
Jon nodded. That's something, at least, he thought, but he did not voice the sentiment. He was not sure she would welcome it. And though he wished to press her further, on this matter and many others, he could see that she was spent by their discussions. He knew the turmoil within her needed an outlet that wasn't answering questions or being interrogated by her irate Lord Commander or her concerned brother. He knew, because he'd lived with the same turmoil.
"Why don't we make use of Lady Cerwyn's training yard?" the young lord suggested. "Would you like that?"
"More than anything," Arya replied quickly, her relief evident in her tone.
"Hold on," Jaime growled. "She has much more to tell us and…"
"And it can wait, Lord Commander," Jon told the knight. "She needs some respite."
"And you think allowing her to exhaust herself in the training yard after she's barely woken from her collapse is a good idea, do you? What was it you were saying about making it your life's work to protect her?" the Kingslayer sneered.
"That's exactly what I'm doing," the young lord retorted. "Protecting her doesn't just mean guarding her life. It means guarding her heart, too."
Jaime merely rolled his eyes and made a disgusted sound, but he did not try to stop them as they left the chamber.
"I'd nearly given up on you, your eminence," Tormund groused when the queen appeared in the training yard, her brother and the golden knight moving in her wake. "Did you get distracted with ordering the maids to polish your crown?"
"These two thought my time would be better spent telling them stories of my misspent youth rather than sparring," Arya replied.
"I doubt much of your youth was misspent, Snow's Queen, but if it was, I'd like to sit in on those stories! Har!" He winked at her.
"Careful, Tormund," Jon advised.
"Oh, pish, Lord Snow. The girl's not half so sensitive as your prissy arse."
"Half? I'd say less than a tenth," the queen smirked.
"And I'd wager she's more likely to make the wildling blush than the other way around," Jaime added.
"I like the sound of that," the giant of a man said. "I know a sure way to bring a flush to my skin, too!" He gave the girl a wicked grin. "What say ye, your grace? How about instead of being Queen of the Ice Realm, you play at being queen of my c…"
"Ho!" Jon bellowed, moving to stand between Arya and his friend. "Tormund, I'll pretend you were going to say something civil, but I'll not tolerate you showing any disrespect to my sister."
"Fair enough, Lord Snow, but so you know, we free folk do understand how to behave around a delicate lady. I was only gonna say 'cock' and not 'pecker'…"
"Tormund!" the young man barked.
"…and what's more, I consider it a demonstration of the greatest respect to offer a woman my…"
"For the love of the gods, man!" Jon's pale cheeks had become pink with his discomfiture.
For Ser Jaime's part, he seemed torn between sniggering and clouting the back of Tormund's head with his golden hand.
"Don't fret," the girl soothed, patting her brother's arm. "I lived in Braavos nigh on five years, and much of that time was spent on the docks. I've heard far more offensive things than that, and in at least seven different languages."
"Har har!" was the response Jon got out of the wildling. He was holding a longsword and looked at Arya. "Fancy a fight, little one?"
"I thought you'd never ask."
"Take it easy on her," the young lord warned, giving his friend a stern look, "or you'll answer to me."
"Don't worry your pretty head about it, kneeler, I'll not bruise that white skin o' hers. Well, maybe a little."
"Ignore him," the girl instructed the wildling, giving her brother censuring a look.
Jaime moved to Jon's side. "Watch," he said, crossing his arms over his chest. "You may soon wish you'd asked her to take it easy on your friend."
Jon's answer was a questioning raise of his brow, but then he saw his sister draw sharp steel and he called to her. "Arya, is that wise?"
"I've yet to cut a man I didn't mean to."
Jon and Tormund looked at one another, and then the wildling said, "I'm not sure that's much comfort…"
"What's the matter, you big brute?" the queen taunted. "Scared of a little girl?"
"Har!" And with that barking laugh, the red-haired giant swung his blade. The girl side-stepped the blow easily and spun inward, bringing herself very close to the wildling's side, pointing her thin Bravos blade up, catching him just at the apple of his throat with its tip.
"Dead man," she declared, making Tormund laugh again.
"She's good, Jon, and quick as a young doe," the wildling said and at his compliment, she lowered her blade and made him a mock curtsey. As she rose, she was startled by her opponent snatching her at her waist and throwing her over his shoulder.
"Hey!" she cried.
"I didn't yield," the wilding told her, "and you didn't actually cut my throat." He smacked her upturned bottom with his broad palm, causing Jaime to chortle. "The fight's not over 'til it's over, little one!"
"Unhand my sister," her brother demanded, but before Tormund could comply, the girl arched her back away from the man in one quick and powerful motion, breaking the giant's hold on her legs and performing a graceful backwards flip. She landed in a crouch just beyond his feet, and this time, the tip of Frost pointed directly at his nethers.
"You're right," the girl panted, "the fight isn't over. The question now is, do I allow you to yield, or do I cut you? Either will end the contest."
"You'll want to be careful there, little one," Tormund said nervously. "That's sharp steel you're holding onto…"
"Would you say I threaten your cock or your pecker?" the queen asked sweetly, and Jaime could not contain his laughter.
"I'd rather you didn't threaten either, or anything in the region, really," the wildling replied.
"I owe you for that smack."
"Take an arm, then, or a leg!"
"You'd rather lose a limb?" she chuckled.
"What you're threatening is more valuable to me than a limb," he told her, then, with a mischievous glint in his blue eyes, added, "and nearly as big! Har!"
Jon shook his head, saying, "You really just can't help yourself, can you?"
"Oh, the tiny queen knows I don't mean any harm by it. By the way, little one, I yield. You can give up your plan to turn me into a eunuch."
Arya withdrew her sword and stood while her brother watched the scene, baffled by what he'd seen during the short contest. Jaime continued laughing under his breath, both at the wilding man and the young lord's bemusement. It was then that a well-dressed lady joined them, Tymmon at her side.
"Your grace," the woman said, making a deep curtsey.
"Lady Cerwyn," Arya guessed.
"I'm sorry it's taken me so long to greet you properly," the lady apologized as she rose. "Only, you were in… no fit state for a reception when you arrived and…"
"Be easy, my lady, you have nothing to be sorry about. I thank you, sincerely, for your hospitality."
"It has been my honor, your grace."
"Is everything alright, my lady?" Jon asked. The woman absently reached for her throat when he spoke, as though her heart had caught there at the address. A small smile shaped Arya's lips as she watched Lady Cerwyn. The woman was nearly old enough to be his mother.
"Oh, yes, my lord. Only, it seemed everywhere I went, I had just missed the queen and did not wish to be remiss in my duty as hostess." She looked at the girl. "And then Tymmon brought me word that your banners had been spotted crossing the bridge over the river, your grace."
A wide grin split Arya's face. "The company has arrived?"
"Nearly, so," Lady Cerwyn answered. "The bridge is not two leagues away."
"Can you see so far from your tower?"
"No, your grace, but we'd sent riders out. It was one of them who brought back the report. I expect your men should be here by nightfall."
"I should ride out and meet them," the girl said.
"I think not, your grace," the Lord Commander advised, his tone suddenly respectful and measured in mixed company. "Bolton's mercenaries could still be lurking. The company would not wish you to risk yourself."
"I understand, Lord Commander," the queen murmured, then calmly turned to Tymmon and asked him to have Darrick ready Bane to ride.
"Perhaps you should heed Ser Jaime," her brother suggested.
The girl shrugged. "Nymeria and her pack wouldn't allow that scum within a league of me, if they haven't already been slaughtered or run back to the Dreadfort in defeat."
The young lord obviously disapproved. "Why not wait for the company here?"
"My place is with my men, Jon. It was only for your sake that I left them."
"I'll ride with you, Snow's Queen," Tormund offered.
"There, you see, Ser Jaime? Perfectly safe. Tormund makes a much bigger target."
"Har har!" the giant chortled. "She has a point, Goldie. I'm by far the biggest man here, and that goes for my…"
"Ack!" Tymmon and Jon spouted at the same time. Lady Cerwyn simply pursed her lips and told the queen she would see to a supper for when she returned with her captains.
"Ho, riders ahead!" Ser Podrick shouted back to the company. "I cannot make out the banners yet."
Lady Brienne squinted from her seat atop her horse next to her former squire. "The direwolf," she announced after a moment, "and… the black battle axe of Cerwyn."
"Cerwyn's lady must've sent us an escort for the last league," Harwin remarked. Rickon rode next to him, sharing a mount with Jon Brax, and the little magnar rose up in his saddle, leaning forward and staring at the horses racing toward them.
"Masin mijn!" he declared after a moment.
"The queen!" Jon Brax called excitedly.
Without warning, Rickon dropped back into his saddle, muttering a quick instruction to his friend in their strange, coded language, then they both dug their heels into their horse's side, making him take off like he was being chased by demon wolves.
"Boys!" Harwin called, but it was too late.
"I'm on it," Brienne said, rushing after them. Kyle Condon and Gendry followed her at speed while the rest of the company continued at a more sedate pace.
When the riders met, Rickon and little Jon hurled themselves to the ground and rushed toward Bane. Arya saw them and laughed, sliding down from her seat and absorbing their great momentum as the two boys rammed into her and wrapped her in their arms.
"Sinelvargg!"
"Your grace!"
"Oof!" the girl grunted, stumbling back a step. Jon Snow was there to stop her from falling to the ground, catching her as she started to dip and righting the trio. "Jon," she murmured with a smile as her eyes became suddenly shiny, "this is Rickon. Rickon, this is our brother Jon."
The young chieftain released his sister slowly and looked at the dark-haired man standing behind her, cocking his head to the side. "Bruudt mijn?"
"Is that him?" Jon Brax whispered to his friend, eyes wide.
"Yes," Rickon said, and though his voice was barely above a whisper, there was a certainty in it that was hard to mistake. "He looks like Father."
"You remember what Lord Stark looked like?" his brother asked him, his voice growing hoarse.
The boy shrugged. "Hard to forget when he visits my dreams so much." Jon squeezed Arya's shoulder and moved from behind her, kneeling in front the little chieftain.
"I have missed you, Rickon."
The lad studied his brother's face, looking down to stare into Jon's grey eyes with his piercing, Tully-blue gaze. Slowly, he reached out his hand, trailing his fingers over Jon's cheek and jaw and chin, drinking in the familiar features. He smoothed the man's hair back from his face and after a moment, the boy leaned forward, pressing his forehead to his brother's.
"The gods tell me of you," the magnar murmured. "Flamonvargg."
Jon closed his eyes, reveling in the feel of having his baby brother safe and whole and there, then opened them once again and smiled. After a moment, he rose, moving back to allow Arya to greet her queensguard and others, standing near Tormund as he watched his sister take his baby brother's hand and walk among the company.
"Flamonvargg?" the wilding asked, looking down at the young lord. Jon shrugged.
"Is that the old tongue?"
"Aye."
Jon chuckled. "I guess Rickon learned a few things while in exile."
"I don't think he's been in exile," Tormund said. "Did you see his necklace? And the bone woven into his braids?"
"I wasn't looking at his hair."
"That boy has been to Skagos. And you don't survive that if you're just some exiled babe."
"What are you saying?"
The large man shrugged. "I'm guessing your little brother has a story to tell that will rival your sister's."
Jon stared after his siblings, grunting quietly. After a moment, he turned to look at Tormund. "What is Flamonvargg, anyway?"
The wilding man's eyes narrowed, his bushy ginger brows drawing down. He watched the red-headed lad laugh with the queen and some of the men of the company.
"Firewolf."
The queen moved amongst her men, inquiring after their health, exchanging pleasantries and the occasional bawdy jape, and listening to their quips about their days of travel without her.
"It is good to see you so hale, your grace," Lady Wynafryd said with an elegant curtsey.
"You as well, my lady," the girl returned graciously. "And fear not. We'll be at Cerwyn soon. I'm sure you look forward to once again eating in a hall and sleeping in a proper bed."
"On the contrary, this has been a most excellent adventure," the Manderly woman told the queen. "I've enjoyed the scenery and the fellowship." Her eyes cut toward a small group of knights giving orders to the men, and Arya could not tell if the lady seemed most interested in Ser Brynden, Ser Gendry, or Ser Willem.
Any would be a fine choice. Each of them cut an admirable form.
Lord Reed approached, stopping before the queen and bowing. "Your mission was a success," he observed quietly as he straightened, casting his eyes toward Jon Snow.
"It was, but it was a close thing."
He nodded. "It will be another grand tale to add to Lord Hoster's volume, then."
"Lord Hoster's…" Arya's voice trailed off in confusion. "His history of the Riverlands, you mean?"
The crannogman gave her a mysterious smile just as Thoros of Myr approached.
"Your grace, I am pleased to see you unharmed," the red priest told her earnestly, clasping her hand between his two.
"Why would I not be?" she asked, giving him a dubious look, her eyes flicking to Howland's. Lord Reed was only meant to tell the company she was meeting her brother, not of any threat.
"The flame was difficult to read," Thoros told her, his voice a pressured whisper, his eyes haunted. "I saw flayed men, armed and hidden, and they paced around two direwolves, but I could not see what happened next. R'hllor can be fickle."
She understood then that Howland Reed could be trusted to do as he said and keep her confidences, but the Red god was another matter altogether.
There were more men, more greetings, and more updates on the state of her company, but Arya moved through the line as swiftly as she could, Rickon and her squire in tow, until she finally found Maester Samwell.
"Oh, your grace!" the grey-robed man said, startled when he turned to see her standing at his back. He made her a bow. "I didn't hear you. You're so quiet."
She dipped her head in acknowledgement of him, then issued a command. "Come with me, maester."
"Of course, your grace." He scurried after her, trying to keep up with the queen. "You're very fast," he huffed behind her, "for someone of your stature!" He laughed pleasantly as he said it, watching her heels as he followed in her steps. So focused was he on dodging piles of horse dung and avoiding rocks which might catch his toe and cause a stumble into that same dung, he nearly rammed into the man his queen had drawn near. "Pardon," the maester said in good humor, then looked up and froze. He was staring into the face of the 998th commander of the Night's Watch. "Jon?" Sam's face broke out into a broad grin. "Jon Snow!"
"Sam?" the young lord said in surprise, looking between the maester and his sister. "Arya, Sam has been in your company?"
"Since Greywater Watch," she confirmed.
"You didn't tell me!" he accused, but the words were couched in delight.
"I wanted it to be a surprise."
Jon looked at his friend, smiling widely. "It's Maester Samwell now, is it? You've forged quite a chain." He pointed at the double-looped clanking metal links around Sam's neck.
"The most links of any maester in the last seventy-five years, I'm told," Sam replied proudly. "And you now lead an army?"
"Of a sort."
The two men stood staring at one another for a moment before they both broke out in joyous laughter and crashed together in a crushing embrace, pounding each other's backs.
It brought the queen great satisfaction to see such unpolluted happiness on Jon's face.
No one deserved it more.
In addition to Jon Snow and Tormund Giantsbane, the five members of the queen's Winter Guard, the head of the Bravo company (a man called Maximil Rominus), her Hand, Brynden Blackwood, Greatjon Umber, Lord Wull, Ser Willem and his squire Baynard, Rickon and his Skagosi protector Augen Heldere, her squire (which the company had taken to calling 'young Brax' to avoid confusion when both Jon Brax and Jon Snow were present), Beren Tallhart, her sworn shield, Howland Reed, and the ladies of the company were invited to sup with their queen at Cerwyn that night while the rest of the company set up camp outside the castle walls. Their late arrival and the inability to do more than knock the dust from their boots and run a damp cloth over their hands before dining made the affair less formal and stuffy and more raucous.
More raucous meant a competition quickly ensued between Tormund and the Greatjon to test which man could hold more ale.
The queen was impressed with Lady Cerwyn's tolerance. She did not seem offended by the vivacity of the men, not even when they began loudly bragging about their exploits as the platters and dishes were passed around. Seeing her loyal men in such good spirits cheered Arya, as did her hostess' conversation with her older brother about the state of Winterfell.
"I understand you've made great improvements," Jonelle Cerwyn was saying to Jon.
"Mostly repairing the damage done during the sacking, my lady, but the craftsmen from Winter Town have added a full gallery to the great hall."
"How splendid! It's sure to be of use now that Winterfell is once again a royal seat," the lady remarked. "Tell me, are the craftsmen very skilled? Only, I should like to have improvements made to my own keep."
"The staircase they built to reach the gallery is terribly fine."
"Cedar, my lord?"
"Ironwood, felled near the castle, and polished to a sheen so that the thing nearly appears to be made of ebony."
Lady Cerwyn gasped in appreciation. "Oh, that's sure to be magnificent! I'd wager your hall would rival anything to be found in King's Landing now."
"The bannisters are carved with a direwolves chasing through a forest. It is meant to represent the wolfswood."
"How wonderful," Lady Cerwyn breathed, leaning toward the young lord. "I should very much like to see it someday."
Arya was beginning to think her hostess' enthusiasm had more to do with her brother than his description of the updates to Winterfell's interior. She hid her smirk at the thought.
"And so you shall," Jon was promising, seemingly oblivious to the way Jonelle hung on his every word. "As soon as we can get the queen settled, we'll host a feast."
"A feast is indeed called for," the lady agreed. "The North has much to celebrate with the return of your sister and brother."
Jon smiled, the emotion behind the look genuine, making his sister smile as well. "I feel exactly the same," the young lord revealed. "And perhaps we shall have cause to celebrate another return."
"Oh?"
"I have learned my brother Bran lives."
Arya's smile faltered.
"Can it be so?" their hostess asked. Her shock was palpable.
"Yes, my lady." He looked at the queen, his expression determined. "I have it on good authority."
"And where has he been all this time?"
"North of the Wall, it seems."
"How incredibly shocking! He's been in the care of wildlings these many years?"
"That, I cannot say," Jon told her, "but what I can say is that I mean to fetch him home."
"Jon…" the queen started, shaking her head.
"Oh, but you're very brave, Lord Snow, to trek beyond the Wall. There are such stories… The tales reach us, even here." The woman visibly shuddered.
"Jon," Arya said a bit more firmly. Her brother ignored her.
"Then you understand why I cannot leave a crippled boy in that place."
"Indeed, I do, my lord. Indeed, I do. But you must promise to be careful."
"Of course, my lady."
"The North looks to Winterfell for guidance, and Winterfell has looked to you for the same these last few years. Your loss would be too great a blow, I suspect," Jonelle continued. "Both for her grace, but also the whole of the North." Arya felt somewhat vindicated by the woman's observation.
"I have said the same," the queen chimed in.
"I would take no undue risks," Jon pledged, and though his eyes rested on Lady Cerwyn, the girl knew his words were meant for her. "This is not a vainglorious undertaking, but it is a thing which must be done."
"I imagine you are more prepared than anyone to face the challenges beyond the Wall," the woman told him. "You seem the very embodiment of my house words: Honed and Ready."
The young lord smiled and dipped his head humbly. "I thank you for saying so, my lady."
Honed and Ready, indeed, Arya scoffed to herself.
The girl sighed, looking away from the conversing pair. Jon could win support for his suicidal plans from Lady Cerwyn if he wished, but as a practical matter, the lady's approval meant nothing. Arya would make him see sense, and she did not need to create a disturbance at the supper to do it. That could wait until they were alone.
She cast her gaze over the hall. Rickon and little Jon Brax were snorting at some blustering story told by a half-drunk Tormund. Lady Wynafryd was engaged in quiet conversation with Ser Kyle. Gendry and Brienne stood on either side of the doors in their capacity as guards for the evening, eyes scanning for any dangers. Lady Dyanna spoke with her uncle and Ser Podrick. All the Blackwoods were cloistered in a far corner, sending furtive glances her way then putting their heads together to discuss something which made Brynden's face look grim, Hoster's face look determined, and Ben's face look bored. Her Faceless brothers were seated near Royan Wull and seemed locked in a debate with the mountain lord. Ser Jaime was grilling Maximil Rominus over something or other. Everyone looked to be conversing or japing, drinking or laughing, except for Augen Heldere.
The false-Skagosi warrior leaned back in his seat, head cocked slightly to one side as he stared unabashedly at the Winter's Queen. She met his gaze, expecting that he would give her a smug look and turn away, or perhaps a scowl, but he did neither. He just kept looking at her with an indecipherable expression. It wasn't until after the supper had ended and Arya had been escorted to her room by Gendry and Brienne that she learned what had been running through the handsome man's head.
"Wolves are said to be intelligent creatures, wily and cautious," Gaelon began in a bored tone after Arya had bid her guards a goodnight, entered her chamber, and closed her door behind her, "but you are giving lie to the claim."
The girl gave a short, strangled cry in her surprise, whirling around and searching the room for the assassin. She did not have to look long. He was, of course, stretched out nonchalantly on her bed, boots on, arms raised and bent at the elbow with his hands cupping the back of his head. He looked for all the world as if this were his chamber and she'd just barged into it. And it wasn't just his voice or his posture that was familiar to her this time. It was his face. He'd shed all traces of Augen Heldere and looked back at her with his handsome temple face.
His true face?
She'd always wondered.
"Why are you here?" she hissed.
"To deliver a message."
His forthright admission drew her up short. She'd expected his typical japing, some haughty declarations, a few more insults, and perhaps a flirtatious innuendo or two before he'd come to his point. She did not know what to make of him putting wit and teasing aside to say what he meant up front. Truth be told, it unsettled her a bit. But she did not wish him to know it, so she simply strode over to the table where Rosie had left her a wash basin, a pitcher of water, and some soft linen cloths to clean herself before bed. She poured the water and dipped the linen, swiping at her neck and face with the damp cloth before speaking to the assassin.
"Should I guess at the message, or do you mean to tell me?" the Cat asked casually, her back to the bed. That was her mistake.
The handsome master was on her in a flash, his front pressed into her back, his hands snatching the linen from hers and pulling it against her neck, pinning her head to his chest by her throat. Her instinct was to grab at the cloth and try to pry it away from him before he could choke her to unconsciousness, but she knew she was not a match for his strength and if she clawed at his hands, he would only tighten his hold. The girl forced herself to relax, breathing evenly while slowly moving her left hand to her right wrist.
"Don't even think of pulling out your little blade, my girl," Gaelon growled. "I don't want to hurt you, but I will."
His words were convincing, but she knew him to be an accomplished liar, and she hoped his threats were merely artifice meant to buy her submission. Seeking to assure herself, she used her gift to reach for him, for his intentions, softly, tentatively. She used her lightest touch, only meaning to gauge his sincerity and judge what latitude he might give her. It was not light enough. The assassin pulled at the linen, causing her airway to narrow uncomfortably.
"What have I said about rummaging around in my head, little wolf?" he whispered against her ear. His breath tickled even as his hold around her throat robbed her of air.
"What's… your… message?" she rasped.
"You should not think your careless adventuring will be tolerated. Sneaking off in the dark without a proper escort was reckless and the principal elder would not be pleased to know you take such risks. He has determined you will arrive at your home unharmed, and so you shall." The handsome man's hold on the girl loosened after he'd delivered his vague threat. Feeling the slack in the linen cloth he'd kept wrapped around her neck, she jerked away from him, coughing. She took two stumbling steps before spinning around to face the assassin.
"Am I supposed to care what the Kindly Man thinks?" She was breathing heavily as she spoke, both to gulp in the air her attacker had deprived her of and to tamp down the rage which had bubbled up at the mention of her nemesis.
"Seeing as how not caring is what landed you in this position in the first place…"
"Which position is that?" she inquired smugly. "Lady of Winterfell? Leader of the Brotherhood Without Banners? Avenger of the red wedding? Head of an army? Or Queen of the Winter Kingdom?" She gave him an arrogant sneer, thinking that no matter which title he chose, it would be far superior to living under the Kindly Man's thumb, existing only to serve as a small piece in whatever game he was playing. She was certain the assassin could make her no answer that would trump her words. She was, of course, wrong. He was able to decimate her façade of supremacy within seconds.
"The position of forlorn lover, torn from the arms of her paramour and exiled across the sea for her disobedience."
Fury colored the girl's countenance. "I never knew you could be so cruel," she finally muttered.
"Then you never knew me at all."
Arya stared at the assassin. "You knew Jaqen was alive," she realized. "All this time, you knew, and you never said…"
Gaelon shrugged. "Did you need to hear the words from my lips?"
The girl wrapped her arms around her middle, hugging herself. "It might've been nice."
"And redundant." He looked at her sharply. "Don't pretend to be hurt. You'll not win my sympathy. I knew you were aware."
"But, how…"
"Do you think my apprentice keeps anything from me?"
The girl made a disgusted face and growled, "The Rat…"
"…understands his place in the Order. As do I. As should you."
"I'm not in the Order, remember? Your master made damn sure of that!"
"You've not taken vows, it's true, but we all have our roles to play, you included. And your role does not allow you to dash off on a whim…"
"It wasn't a whim!"
"…unprotected!"
"Ser Jaime was with me," she spat.
"A worn, one-handed knight of dubious reputation."
"Do not speak of him that way," the queen seethed, taking a step toward the master. Gaelon chuckled humorlessly at the sight.
"There are three avowed men of the Order in your company," he reminded her, brushing away her ire. "One of us should be near you at all times."
"You're not even supposed to be here!"
"Failure to comply with this directive will have consequences."
At his words, she heard the Kindly Man's voice in her head. Obedience is a choice. And disobedience has consequences, for all involved.
It was the girl's turn to laugh without humor. "What can you possibly do to me? I know your master needs me for some plan of his. He'd not forgive you for killing me. Not if it meant ruining whatever grand scheme he's plotting. We all have our roles to play, remember?"
"Kill you?" the handsome man laughed acidly. "Don't be stupid."
"I thought as much…"
"No, I'd kill your brother," he told her, his voice cold. He paused and amended, "Both of them. I'd start with the bastard you love so dearly and then I'd kill the little red-headed savage, much as he amuses me."
"You… wouldn't," the girl sputtered, but her assertion lacked conviction, because she knew that he would.
"And then I'd kill the Lyseni you've grown so attached to, if you pushed me to it."
"Gaelon…"
The handsome man erased the space between them, stepping to Arya and slipping his hand into the hair at her nape. He tugged at it, forcing her face to tilt up so that he could glare at her. "Little wolf," he said, his voice rough like gravel, "do not speak my name."
"Or what?" she challenged, defiance burning behind her eyes. She'd never liked being told what to do, and even if she'd grown more adept at masking her temper, something about the assassin throwing her separation from Jaqen in her face had snapped her control. "You can't threaten my brothers for it, else what would you dangle over me to guarantee my cooperation with your rules? And you can't hurt me, or you risk displeasing your master, and we both know how you crave his approval…"
The assassin's hold on her hair tightened, causing her scalp to burn and his gemstone eyes seemed made of ice as he traced the lines of her face with his gaze. His mouth curved into a cruel smile, but his whisper was soft and seductive when he finally answered her.
"Do you think slitting your throat or running your brothers through is the only way to hurt you, my girl?"
She laughed, causing him to narrow his eyes. "As if you have any power to hurt me beyond that which you use to wield with your blade!"
"Do not tempt me."
"And if I do?"
The assassin bent his head, pressing his cheek against hers, bringing his lips near her ear. "Then I'd tell you what your master has been doing with his time since he landed in Dorne."
At his tone, the girl's heart began to race. He knows something about Jaqen, she realized, swallowing thickly. She desperately wished to know what it was, but she understood that whatever the handsome man knew, he intended to use it as a weapon against her.
He's only trying to goad you, she told herself. Don't let him.
But she could not help herself.
She begged him hoarsely. "Gaelon, please."
He drew back and glared furiously at her, then his lips crashed against hers. There was no tenderness in the gesture. The kiss was a ferocious thing, born of rage, his tongue pushing into her mouth as if to force his name back down her throat. This time, she was not stunned, however. This time, she'd expected it, and rather than reaching for a blade he would never allow her to keep, she met his rage with her own, grabbing at his neck and digging her fingers into the flesh there, pinning his head in place. She bit at his lips and his tongue, enough to sting but not enough to draw blood, and she pressed into him, her thighs meeting his as she pushed up onto her tiptoes, her arms banding themselves tightly around his neck.
The Cat felt the moment his rage ebbed. Just a bit. Just enough to allow a small shard of lust to cut him. He groaned into her mouth, releasing his grasp on her hair and sliding his hands down her back. He bent at the knee, stooping to grasp her behind her thighs and lift her. She allowed him to guide her legs around his waist. He'd raised her so they were face to face now and she grabbed his hair as he'd grabbed hers, yanking his head back and forcing him to look her in the eye.
"Tell me truly," she gritted out. "What do you know of Jaqen?"
The handsome man scoffed. "You think I'd trade that truth for a kiss?"
"Yes, because you've said it will hurt me." And maybe it would, but she needed to know, because he'd also said he knew what her master had been doing since he landed in Dorne. Any clue she had about his mission might help her understand what it was the Kindly Man had planned for her. And it might help her understand how she could find her master and reunite with him. Any degree of pain was worth it, if only she could see Jaqen again.
"And I also said that I don't want to hurt you," he reminded her, his voice gentling around its edges.
That would not do.
And then it was she who was goading him.
She smirked. "Come now, Gaelon…"
He growled, the look in his eyes nearly murderous. She only had a split second to wonder if she'd pushed him too far, and then the assassin was turning, striding toward the bed and throwing her off him and onto her mattress. She'd barely had time to register where she was and then he was on her, pushing her flat on her back, laying over top of her and pressing against her throat with one forearm. His other hand he used to snatch her wrist, holding it down so she could not reach for any of her blades.
"You want me to hurt you, little wolf?" He pushed down harder with his forearm and her eyes began to water. "Fine. Your master wears the face of a sellsword captain in the service of Daenerys Targaryen. It was chosen for him by the principal elder because the sellsword had long been the khaleesi's lover." He watched the girl closely, gauging her response. When she gave him no indication of her thoughts, his sadistic smile returned. "I see you don't fully comprehend what this means. I sometimes forget how naïve you still are, my girl."
Gaelon released her throat and slid that hand against her temple. If it weren't for the vicious twist of his lips as he did it, the gesture could be mistaken for affection. His thumb stroked the angle of her jaw. Arya stared up at him, waiting for him to get on with it.
"You see," he murmured, "the easiest way to ensure a woman as powerful and beautiful as Daenerys Targaryen will do what you wish of her is to keep her in your thrall. In this case, such thrall begins and ends in her bed. Or his, too, I suppose. And you can imagine, after so much time together, it becomes more difficult to keep a woman's interest. Especially a woman like the khaleesi. Twice married to powerful men, and with her brash paramour, her experience is… well, unlike yours, to be sure."
The girl pursed her lips, but she did not make a sound.
"There are two ways to guarantee a woman of such varied experience stays, shall we say, engaged enough to do your will without realizing it's all part of a manipulation. Do you know what those ways are?" He studied her face as though truly curious. "Hmm. I imagine not. You hadn't received much tutelage in that arena before you left the temple. Well, I'll tell you, little wolf. In such a case, you can either strive to provide the woman with ever more intense encounters, or you can make her fall in love with you and shower her with so much affection that she does not suspect your intentions are insincere."
Arya could not stop her heart from pounding as the assassin spoke, but she bit her tongue and ruled her face, waiting for him to finish.
"I wonder which route my brother has chosen?" the handsome man murmured, dipping his head so that he could trace her cheekbone with the tip of his nose. "It was bound to be a difficult decision. Both techniques have their rewards, after all." He brushed his lips across hers in a featherlight kiss, lingering over her mouth while he waited for her to respond. When she did, her words wrought a chuckle from him.
"You can't know this," the girl insisted quietly.
"I know that he made no protest when the face was chosen for him, and when the reason for it was explained."
"That means nothing. He could've changed faces. He could've found another way."
"As I said," the assassin whispered as he pulled back and looked at her, "naïve."
There was a knock at her door then, and Rosie's voice called out from the other side. "I've brought some of your things, your grace, from the wagon train. More clothes…" The maid pushed through the door without waiting for an invitation and Gaelon made no move to separate from the queen, apparently not caring a whit for the judgement of her maid. Or so it seemed to Arya. But within two seconds of entering the room, the servant had a blade to the handsome man's throat.
"Rosie," the queen croaked in warning, fearing the assassin would slaughter her before the curly haired woman could even understand the danger. But Gaelon just looked amused.
"Put away your dagger, brother," the handsome man commanded. "I'll not hurt the little wolf. At least, not more than I have already." Rosie slowly pulled the knife back from his throat and backed away a step as Gaelon rose from the bed. He looked at the maid for a moment, then said, "Inventive. But tedious." In a swift move, he pulled the dagger from Rosie's grip and turned to the bed, snatching up Arya's hand and using the steel tip to prick her palm. Both girl and maid gasped, though Arya was more surprised than anything else. She watched as the handsome man tossed the blade, letting it clatter on the ground while a drop of blood welled at the wound.
"What are you doing?" Rosie demanded.
"Certainly not putting on a dress to leave this place," was the assassin's snide reply. Gaelon looked at the Cat, murmuring, "I have more to say to you."
"No, you don't," the maid said boldly. "You're done here."
The handsome man did not even acknowledge her. Instead, he told the girl, "Later, then." Leaning over her, he forced the queen's palm to his forehead, smearing her blood there. He walked to the door then, muttering, "Gizle, gizle, gizle…" all the way. He threw open the door, much to Arya's shock, and walked through. Then he was gone.
Arya jumped up and dashed to her door just as Gendry and Brienne poked their heads in.
"Your grace, did you need something?" Lady Brienne inquired.
"I… did you see…" The queen cleared her throat. "Did someone just walk through the door?"
The dark knight gave her a strange look. "Of course, your grace. Rosie there. She entered a moment ago."
"No, I mean…" The girl pulled her lip between her teeth, then shook her head. "Never mind. Goodnight."
"Goodnight, your grace," her protectors said, pulling the door shut before moving back to their posts. Arya turned to face her maid, but Rosie no longer stood near her bed. Instead, she saw the Bear, wearing a maid's gown.
"Honestly, the things I do to keep you out of trouble," the large man groused, pulling the dress over his head. He wore a thin blouse and trousers beneath it. "What was that, anyway? Blood magic?"
"What are you doing here?"
The girl felt as though she were destined to ask that question all night.
The Bear looked at his sister grimly. "I had an inkling you might be in trouble. The Rat made mention that his master was angry with you, and when I saw him disappear from the supper, I went looking for him. Did he hurt you?"
Arya shook her head, even though it wasn't strictly true. Still, she didn't want to worry her brother. "He just wanted to warn me."
"Warn you of what?"
"Of the consequences of disobedience," she muttered, her tone bitter.
"Oh, that again?" the assassin japed, rolling his eyes. "This must be your thousandth infraction. At some point, I expect them to give up hoping you ever show any obedience." He made the Cat laugh.
"I'm glad you're here."
"Oh?"
She walked over to where he stood then leaned into him, wrapping her thin arms around his middle and sighing.
The Lyseni stayed with his sister that night. They didn't talk much, at least, not about what was bothering her. He did not press her on it, but he could tell her mind was toiling over troubles. He did his best to distract her, filling her in on the company's journey to Cerwyn after she'd left.
"I would've ridden with you, you know."
"I know. But I couldn't afford the delay. I barely made it in time as it was."
He stroked at her hair. "I understand."
"I could've lost Jon," the girl said softly, "before I'd even found him again."
"But you didn't."
"That fact certainly didn't appease the Rat's master," Arya grumbled.
"It wouldn't have appeased me, either, if you'd been hurt."
"That was never going to happen," the girl assured him, yawning. "Bran would've told me. Or Lord Reed would've seen it."
"Sleep, sister," the Bear told her, wrapping her in his arms. Sinking into her friend's warmth, the girl did as she was bid.
The next morning, Arya's eyes fluttered open before the sunrise. She sighed and turned to look at Faceless brother. She was surprised to see him already awake.
"Good morning," he said, his voice thick with sleep. She surmised he must not have been up long.
"I hope you weren't too uncomfortable, having to share a bed with me." The girl brushed his blonde locks away from his eyes.
He laughed a little. "You hardly take up any room at all, but I sleep better for having you near." The Bear kissed her forehead, then whispered. "At least when I'm with you, I don't have to worry what mischief you're getting into."
"We could both do with a bit of mischief, don't you think?" She looked melancholy as she said it. "The stakes are so much greater now, it leaves room for little else but worry."
"What troubles you, Cat?"
The girl shrugged. "Speculation, I suppose. Or possibilities."
"Hmm. Am I meant to understand you?"
"Let me ask you this. What's more important in your eyes, the actions a man may take, or the motivations behind such actions?"
"That's a broad, philosophical question. I don't know how capable I'll be of having a satisfactory discussion of it before sunrise," the Bear japed. "What calls such ponderings to your mind at this early hour?"
"Something the Rat's master said to me last night."
"And what was that?"
Arya shook her head. "I don't like to give voice to it."
"Why not?" he asked.
"Because then I'll feel bound to work through to a solution, and I'm not sure I can stomach the likely ends I can see so far."
"I really wish I understood you better," her friend lamented. "Then I might be of some help."
"You help just by being here," the girl insisted, snuggling in close to him.
"You know you can tell me anything. There's nothing you should feel you have to hide. Not from me."
"I know. And I'm not hiding it from you. I'm just putting it away for now. I'll come back to it later, if I must."
"Alright then, sister." The large assassin sighed, hugging her tight, then releasing her and sitting up. "I suppose I should take Rosie out of your chamber before she arrives to help you dress and confuses your guards."
"Thank you for coming last night."
The Lyseni placed a broad palm on his sister's shoulder and squeezed. "I'll always come for you, Arya."
She smiled. "I know."
While she watched, the assassin became Rosie once again, slipping the dress over his clothes and winking at the queen before leaving the chamber.
The girl did not wait for the true Rosie to arrive. She wiped down her face, scowling at the cloth the handsome man had used to half-strangle her and choosing another for the job. She changed her breeches and slipped on a clean blouse, then buttoned up the crimson doublet Jaime had given her. She combed out her hair, then plaited it into a simple braid before leaving her chamber.
"Good morning, your grace," Ser Podrick greeted as she entered the corridor. Ben Blackwood was with him, serving as second guardsman, and nodded to her politely as well. "You're up early."
The queen made a noncommittal humming noise, then asked, "Did you enjoy the supper last night?"
"Indeed, I did. After so long eating around a campfire, sitting in a castle's hall and eating dishes prepared by a proper cook feels like quite a luxury."
"And how did you find the fellowship?" she asked slyly, knowing he'd spent the better part of his evening engaged in conversation with Lady Dyanna.
"More than pleasant," Ser Podrick remarked jovially. "Crannogmen, and women, are fascinating. Lord Reed is a man of unique insight, and his niece is a woman of uncommon intellect, I find."
"I quite agree. I have been glad of their company on this journey," the queen said. "And you, Ser Ben? Did you and your brothers enjoy the supper?"
"I find one supper is very like another, your grace."
It seemed the Blackwood knight was not in the mood to elaborate, so she left it there and asked him, "Is your brother likely still abed? The Lord Hand, I mean."
"I'd be surprised. Lady Cerwyn's library is not extensive, as I understand it, but Hoster had meant to scour it. He said something about the histories of the North. I've honestly never understood why men spend time worrying about what is past rather than living in the present."
"Would you like us to take you to the library, your grace?" Ser Podrick asked.
"Yes. Thank you."
As Ser Ben had suspected, his brother was in the library, hunched over a pile of scrolls and a few open texts.
"Ah, your grace!" the Hand said, rising from his seat and bowing when he saw Arya. The two queensguard knights withdrew, leaving the queen and her advisor alone.
"Have you discovered anything of interest yet?"
"I've not been at it long, but there's much of interest here, though not much of it is helpful to our cause."
"I see."
Hos reached out and patted the open book before him. "I am hopeful that this will prove useful."
"What is it?" the girl asked, craning her neck to get a better look at the text.
"It's an account of Lothar Burley's term as Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. Apparently, the man kept meticulous records."
"Lothar Burley… why do I know that name?"
"It was during his command that Queen Alysanne visited the Wall."
"With her dragon," the girl breathed, and the Hand nodded with excitement.
"A dragon in such close proximity to the wildlings might've presented an opportunity…"
"Surely if anything had come of an attempt, it would be in all the histories. I've never heard such a story."
"Nor I, your grace, and I think it unlikely that such a thing occurred. But that doesn't mean plans weren't made and then thwarted, or that discussions weren't had. If they were, I expect I'll find some reference to it in here."
"I'll leave you to your research then."
Hoster bowed once again, saying he would see her at the council meeting that was planned for the afternoon.
"My lords, have you anything of note to report from the last leg of your journey to Cerwyn?" the queen asked as the council meeting began.
Howland Reed cleared his throat. "Your grace, we had word of a band of mercenaries sent from the Dreadfort, intent on taking possession of your person."
"Oh?" The girl raised an eyebrow in surprise and mild alarm, ignoring how Jaime shifted impatiently at her side as she play-acted. "Did you find the report credible, Lord Reed?"
"We, uh, did, your grace," Howland confirmed, "and thus a group of our men was sent to intercept them. The forward party was chiefly comprised of members of the mountain clans, as well as the men of House Umber, as they understand the terrain better than most. Though, of course, Ser Brynden insisted on accompanying them."
The queen looked at the Blackwood heir, a wrinkle appearing between her eyes.
"It was like spearing fish in a barrel," the Greatjon laughed. "Lord Reed's intelligence was exceptional. I swear to the gods, it was like we found them cowering by the exact rock where he instructed us to look!"
"What happened to these mercenaries?" the queen asked.
"They are mercenaries no more, my queen," Lord Umber assured her, "and I sent my cousins on to return their heads to those cunts in the Dreadfort."
"Really, Lord Umber," Ser Brynden admonished.
The Greatjon slipped his hand over his heart and bowed his head in contrition. "My apologies, your grace."
"No need for that," the girl assured him.
"We thought you'd approve, your grace," the crannogman murmured, redirecting the focus of the council.
"Indeed, I do, Lord Reed. Heartily." Her smile was genuine. "Though I'll miss the company of Donnor Umber and Arlen Snow."
"They've been so long away from home, they were eager to take on the task," Lord Umber said. "The Last Hearth is an easy journey from Bolton lands. We sent the mountain lords to accompany them, save Lord Wull."
"A wise decision, knowing how little stock the Boltons put in guest right," the queen observed. "Still, I will say a prayer in the godswood for their safety."
Perhaps less a prayer and more a conversation with her brother Bran, if she could manage it. He might have some influence in the matter.
"There's your return to Winterfell to discuss," Hoster said the girl.
"Jon?" Arya looked to her brother.
"Lady Cerwyn has said she would be honored to host us for as long as we care to stay, but I do not like to put the lady out longer than we must," Jon replied.
"How soon can we reasonably depart?" the girl wanted to know.
"Four days should give us the time to shoe the horses, rest the men, and assess provisions," the young lord told her. "I'd also like to send a raven the Maester Matias so he can make final preparations at Winterfell."
"So long?" Arya's face fell.
"Sooner would not be wise, your grace," Jaime murmured discreetly in her ear. "Aside from the tasks your brother has outlined, there's the matter of your… long sleep. The cause of which, I'd like to remind you, is still not well understood."
The Kingslayer was pressing her for more of her story and hoping that if they sojourned at Cerwyn a bit longer, he might get it.
The girl gave her Lord Commander a look which said this was a subject she wished to discuss in private. He did not argue with her and straightened, standing tall by her side. One thing she could say in Ser Jaime's favor, the man understood discretion.
The meeting continued, the Lord Hand adeptly directing the agenda. They heard from Ser Bryden on the fitness of the company, from Jon Snow regarding the size and skill of army he commanded, made up of Northmen and wildlings, and from Howland Reed on improvements he suggested for Moat Cailin ahead of a potential visit from the Targaryens (not the least of which was installment of the redesigned scorpion ballista Lord Piper was producing). Finally, Thoros stood from the place he'd been quietly seated in the corner.
"Your grace, if I may…"
Jon Snow leaned his head near Arya's. "Who is he?"
"Thoros of Myr," she murmured, thinking his reputation might've been known to her brother, even at the Wall. When he gave no sign the name registered with him, she added, "A red priest of R'hllor."
Jon stiffened at her words. "How did you come by a red priest?"
"Later," the queen whispered to her brother, then projected her voice so that all could hear. "What is it, Thoros?"
"Those as are rested, and the Winter Guard, of course, should mount the freshest of the horses and escort you to Winterfell. On the morrow would be best."
Jaime frowned and started to object, but Arya held up a hand to quiet him. Her eyes darted to Howland's but the crannogman seemed as uncertain as she was. No green dream then. "What have you seen in your fires, priest?"
"Flayed men, your grace. And winter."
"Stannis trusted too much in fire visions," Jon said. "It did him no favors."
"You're suggesting a forward party to save a few days?" she asked Thoros.
The priest nodded. "As much as Lady Cerwyn's hospitality is appreciated, the defenses here are porous and a delay of a few days allows the snows to grow deeper on the road, slowing pace the company can keep."
"Then shouldn't we all depart?" the girl inquired.
"Without you as a draw, Bolton men have no call to harass your company, and adding a day to the journey is of little consequence to your men so long as you are not exposed on the road."
"Why would Roose risk more loss?" Jaime asked. "He's already tried unsuccessfully to abduct the queen and paid for his failure in blood."
"The plan is not Lord Bolton's," the priest replied, "but Lord Ramsay's, and though I cannot suss out his motivations completely through the flames, I do see that what drives him is different than what drives his father."
"Until we decipher his motivations, his actions will be unpredictable," Ser Brynden observed.
The Greatjon grumbled, "The Bolton bastard is becoming a problem."
"A nuisance," Arya corrected.
"One that won't likely be remedied until his head decorates a pike," said Jaime.
"Why stop at one head?" Royan Wull asked. "Why not raze the Dreadfort until all that remains is a black pit where it once stood?"
"The Boltons deserve that and more for their betrayal," Lord Umber agreed.
Arya leaned back, considering it. Their righteous anger and need for revenge was something she understood very well. It appealed to her. But her energies were pulled in many directions and with the threat of the dragons to the south, she did not believe now was the time to split their focus.
"Dealing with this… annoying disrespect from the Boltons is a discussion for a different day," she decided. "One we can have once we have all settled in Winterfell. For now, we should prepare for the journey. I'll be taking the advice offered by Thoros. He's not steered me wrong yet." She looked at Jaime. "Select those among the queensguard you wish to ride with me."
"That will be all of us," the Kingslayer told her firmly. She nodded, accepting his judgement.
She looked at Hoster. "Lord Hand, are you up for the ride?"
"Of course, your grace."
"I told you I'd take you to the gates of Winterfell," the Greatjon boomed, "and I mean to keep my word. I'll be riding as well."
"Ser Brynden, I must ask you to command the company and lead them up the kingsroad in a few days' time, once all preparations have been made and the men are rested," Arya directed. The Blackwood heir hesitated, a disappointed look coloring his face, but he dipped his head in acknowledgement. At his acquiescence, the queen gave him a grateful smile which seemed to cheer the knight some.
Her brother spoke in low tones then. "Are you sure, Arya?"
She turned to him, her silver eyes locking with his, a serene smile curving the corners of her mouth. "We're going home, Jon."
Boys, The Night Will Bury You—Richard Buckner