I remember when running forever was the only escape I could get.
If only I knew what that meant…
"Why does he call you Sinelvargg?"
Jon was riding next to his sister, near the center of their reduced company, behind the Lord Commander of the Winter Guard, the Greatjon, Ser Gendry, Lady Brienne, Tormund, and the two youngsters who refused to be left behind, Rickon and Young Brax. It was the little chieftain Jon was nodding toward as he spoke.
The queen turned and glanced to their rear. There rode Lord Hoster, Ser Willem, his squire, the Skagosi warrior who was charged with protecting their youngest brother, and the rest of her guard. She seemed to satisfy herself that they were all far enough away that they would not overhear any conversation the two might have.
"He says the gods named me that."
"And what does it mean?"
Arya peered at him. "Your closest companion is a wildling, but you have no old tongue?"
"Not much," Jon admitted. "Nearly all the free folk came to us speaking the common tongue, and those that didn't have been learning." There was a glint in his grey eyes. "Even the giants."
"Giants," the girl breathed, a slow grin shaping her mouth. He'd thought that might bring a smile to her face. Arya had always played at being a wildling when they were children. She'd idealized wilding life, their self-determination, their refusal to be ruled. Nearly all her tantrums and sour moods resulting from being forced into one boring, ladylike activity or another had ended with her declaring she would run far and away, north of the Wall, and live in a mean hut with a wildling tribe. "Why have you not said before?"
"Because there is so much to say, and we've not had the time to say it all."
She seemed to consider his words, her brow furrowing as she stared ahead. After a moment, she looked over to him. "At Winterfell, then?" she suggested. "We'll settle in, and you'll tell me everything you've not been able to yet."
"And you'll do the same."
She chewed her lip.
Interesting, he thought. Was there something she did not wish to tell? Were there things she was reluctant to reveal, even to him?
That wouldn't do.
"Arya," Jon prompted. "You'll do the same."
It was not a request.
Finally, she nodded, a quick, stiff dip of her chin, just once.
"But no need to wait for Winterfell to tell me what Sinelvargg means."
"Shadow Wolf," she replied softly.
That was interesting, too.
"Why?"
The girl shrugged. "I didn't ask."
"Can you think of no reason?"
Arya laughed. "I can think of a dozen reasons. I'm just not sure which it is."
"You'll tell me those dozen reasons, too."
Her eyes took on a faraway look, her gaze soft and drifting, as though she were seeing things all around them that he could not. Ghosts, maybe. Or memories. Who could say? Her answer was spoken quietly, as though she did not wish to disturb those ghosts. "If you like."
If you like.
He tried very hard not to wince at her words.
Because what he would like was to already know her reasons, all of them. To already know everything about her. What he would like was for there to be no call for her to have to recount years of her life to him because what he would like most of all was to have never been parted from her in the first place.
But he understood that was impossible, that there was no way to undo the past, that time only worked in one direction, and so he would have to settle for her account.
"What I would like is for us to go into our father's solar as soon as we arrive, have wine and bread brought to us, and to close out the world until you've told me everything that happened from the moment we parted until I saw you again."
The girl gave a light laugh, but her silver eyes were sad as she did. "You already know much of it. I told you and Ser Jaime…"
"I don't care. I want to hear it again, and all the things you haven't gotten to yet, and all the things you left out." Arya started to protest, to say something like she'd left nothing important out, but he shook his head and continued. "I want to understand your life, every aspect of it, every detail you can recall."
He wanted to hear her voice speaking the words. Constant and unfettered. He wanted to get to the truth of her. He wanted to know she was real, and there; alive. For though he'd had her under his protection for days now, he could not shake the unsettling sense that this was all some sort of strange dream or spell he was under, and when he came to himself again, he would find her gone, no more than an illusion his mind had conjured.
She sensed his unease; he could tell by her expression. This surprised him. Not that she'd sensed it, but that he could tell she had. She was usually so guarded, much more so than when they were children. He'd noted that in their time together already. She was very good at hiding her emotions; at appearing as though she had none; at keeping her face carefully blank. She didn't always do it with him, but she did it more than he would like. She was not doing it now, however. He could see that she worried for him. It caused her to stop chewing her lip and favor him with a look of resolve. The answer she gave him was brief as could be, but he heard the sincerity in her tone.
"Alright."
Where the road was flat and wide, the royal company rode fast and hard. In this way, they made good time and kept ahead of the winter storm that brewed at their backs. When they were a few leagues beyond the halfway point in their journey, Shaggydog and Ghost became restless, outpacing the horses, then doubling back with whines and yips. Arya looked to Rickon and Jon, one brow raised in question. Jon looked perplexed but for his part, Rickon smiled and muttered to Young Brax.
"Blud kutsell blud."
Blood calls blood.
Before the queen could ask what he meant, she heard distant howling.
Nymeria.
The sun had sunk low, painting the western sky in oranges and pinks. Though the afternoon waned, it was early yet for wolves. She did not expect to hear them, and it made for an eerie accompaniment to their ride. Still, it was one she found comfort in, even if the horses and the rest of the company did not feel the same.
As the night descended, they debated riding on rather than setting up camp. Arya wished to push forth, but Ser Jaime misliked the idea of being caught unawares on the dark road by any men the Boltons might've set to watch the route. Jon agreed with him.
"Easier to guard a small camp with a tight perimeter than a column of riders picking their way carefully along a night road," the golden knight remarked.
When the queen balked, her brother added, "The little ones need their rest."
The girl had to admit that though Rickon did not appear to be flagging, it was true her squire was slumping in the saddle as night fell. And so, a quick camp was set, guards placed, and a cold supper was eaten so everyone could retire and be ready to ride at first light.
The howling of the wolves was closer as Jon and Arya sat together by the fire, and it seemed to come from all around.
"They've surrounded the camp," Jon observed.
"They will guard us well. Ser Jaime could give all the guard the night off," was her reply, "but he won't."
"He does seem stubborn when it comes to your safety."
"Noticed that, did you?"
"Mark of a good protector. He's not willing to compromise." He gave her a knowing look. "Even when you try to bully him."
"Me, bully him?" she scoffed. "Don't take his side, Jon. He needs no encouragement from you."
He smirked. "It seems some things never change. You still bristle at the suggestion you need looking after."
"Because I don't."
"That may be true, sister, but it's a way for others to demonstrate their devotion." The young lord looked at her wistfully. "And their love." When she bit her lip at his words, he leaned in closer, murmuring, "You must allow people to care for you. Not because you need it, but because they do."
The girl pondered that for a moment, but before she could respond to him, Ser Gendry approached, bowing to her before speaking.
"Your grace, your tent has been set, so whenever you're ready to retire, I'll accompany you."
"Ser Gendry, you've not been formally introduced to my brother," Arya said, rising. The dark knight bowed again, this time a quick dip of his head aimed at Jon.
"Lord Snow," he said respectfully. "I've heard much about you."
"Likewise," Jon said, standing to flank his sister. "You are the queen's sworn shield, are you not?"
"I am."
"And you were with her on the kingsroad, and at Harrenhal."
"I was, m'lord."
Jon reached out his hand, grasping Gendry's forearm firmly, startling the dark knight for a moment before he deciphered the look on Jon's face and returned the gesture.
"Thank you, ser."
"I… uh…" Gendry cleared his throat. "No thanks needed, m'lord. It was simply chance that brought us together and the fortune was all mine. I've no doubt your sister saved my life."
"She was a young girl on a dangerous road, and you kept her from having to go it alone." Jon gave the large man a piercing look. "That means something to me."
"I… appreciate you saying so." The dark knight swallowed. "But you should know, your sister was our courage during that time. Some days, we put one foot in front of the other only through the power of her determination for us to do so."
"Gendry," the girl said softly, shaking her head and clearly wishing he would keep his sentiments to himself. He ignored her.
"And she would not allow us to forget to hope."
Jon gave the knight a sad smile, nodding as though he understood the value of such a thing. The men released their grip on one another just as Lord Hoster joined them.
"Your grace," Hos said, bowing his head. As he straightened, he tacked on, "Lord Snow, Ser Gendry," with a nod toward each man.
"My Lord Hand," the queen replied expectantly, "you look like a man who has some interesting information to relate."
"Indeed," he replied. "That text I studied at Cerwyn, you recall the one…"
"Certainly." The girl's tone was cautious.
"It is as we expected. There was a foiled plot."
"Plot?" Gendry echoed, his brow furrowing itself.
"Nothing to alarm you, ser," Arya assured him. His Baratheon blue eyes drank in the way her lips curved as she spoke. "Just an interesting tale about the Wall. One from long ago, in the time of Queen Alysanne."
Jon's brow quirked and it was clear to his sister that his suspicions were raised, though likely without direction. She sought a distraction.
"I'm sure my brother could tell you many interesting tales from the Wall that would rival anything you might read in a book, Lord Hoster."
"Oh?" the Hand replied smoothly.
"Ser Gendry was just relating an interesting tale of his own when you approached," was Jon's way of brushing off any obligation to revisit his time from the Night's Watch.
"That's a tale already told around a campfire," the blacksmith knight revealed. "Lord Hoster knows it well."
"Our journey from the capital," Arya murmured when she saw Hos' confused expression. "And our escape from Harrenhal."
Her words caused the Hand's face to light up. "An adventure, indeed," he said, grinning at Jon, "but far from the only one. Your sister has lived quite a life."
"Is that so?" Jon glanced down the girl, then back at the Blackwood lord.
"Has no one told you of how she rescued me from execution at Riverrun?"
Jon's face darkened but he forced a grim smile as he replied. "No, they haven't."
"You give me too much credit, my lord," Arya protested quickly. "Your father and brothers were there, and all the fighting men loyal to the Tullys and Starks…"
"Yes, your grace, and they all followed your lead." He smiled broadly at the queen, then turned to look at her brother. "I was mere seconds away from having my head removed from my shoulders when your sister stepped in…"
"I simply created a distraction," the girl muttered, watching Jon's gaze narrow as he took in Hoster's words.
"Most assuredly," the Hand agreed. "Killing all three guards threatening me was quite a distraction, then cutting your way to Emmon Frey, who you captured, and…"
"This is a tale I would like to hear," Jon told Hoster, but his eyes found Arya's. "In detail."
"Of course! You know, I'm actually writing a book about…"
"Ser Gendry, I think I'm ready to go now," the queen whispered to her shield, taking his arm and urging him on. They left the two lords to chat by the fire, the blacksmith knight chuckling at her as they did. When she cut her eyes at him, he tried to stifle his amusement.
"Does it bother you to hear your men sing your praises?" At her answering scowl, he queried, "But why should it?"
The girl sighed. "I've never craved… attention."
"You command it, even so." Gendry's tone was gentle.
"These stories are bound to upset Jon." She tightened her grip on her friend's arm. "He feels guilty enough already."
"He wishes he could've been there to protect you," the knight guessed. Arya nodded.
"I can see it in his eyes, in his expressions. It's in his every gesture. And all this, these ridiculous tales of Riverrun and Harrenhal and the Twins, will only make it worse."
"They aren't ridiculous tales, though. They're the truth." They stopped when they reached the tent that had been set up for her. "And every man must learn to make his peace with the truth."
Arya cast her eyes to her feet a moment, asking, "Must he?"
The knight shrugged. "Peace or no, the truth remains."
"And you, ser?" The queen cocked her head and glanced up at her friend. "Have you learned to make your peace with the truth?"
Gendry stared at her, his gaze traveling from her eyes to her lips, then back up again. "I'm trying to, your grace," he murmured.
The queen's company broke their camp before the sun had broken the horizon and so they were already mounted and riding by the time the predawn grey began to lighten their path. The hills rolled gently, and the road was good, allowing them to keep a brisk pace. Not stopping for a midday meal put them further along their route and soon, the landscape began to look very familiar to Arya. And more than that, it simply felt familiar.
As though it had been tattooed on her heart.
Home.
Her eyes drank in the thick stands of sentinel pines and the way small boulders jutted through the fallen snow, their surfaces encased in frost which glittered in the sun.
Jon confirmed her feeling as they began to ascend the next slope. He trotted up to her and said, "We'll be able to see Winterfell when we reach the crest of this knoll."
The girl drew Bane up short, halting her progress. The pounding of her heart at his words had surprised her and she clutched at her chest for a moment, forcing herself to breathe in deeply, slowly.
"Arya?" Jon called. "Are you alright?"
How to answer him?
What was more than alright?
What words meant the hole in her heart, the one created by loss after loss, by fear and sorrow, by self-doubt, by a listless, drifting, untethered existence, was somehow made just a bit smaller by his blithe announcement?
Winterfell.
Home.
Her expression reflected some mixture of joy and pain, a perfect illustration of aching elation. Her brother seemed to understand it, leaning over from his mount and grasping her shoulder. She looked away from him, moving her gaze to the road before them, her eyes tracing the path to the ridge. Her lips parted, pulling in the cold, Northern air through her mouth, a great breath which steadied the staccato beating beneath her breast. With one last glance at Jon, she leaned forward, kicking into Bane's sides and flicking his reins. In mere seconds, they had thundered past the stunned company, bound for the top of the hill.
Jon was quick to follow, understanding her goal. As she topped the knoll, the girl yanked back on Bane's reins, causing the beast to rear back. She held tight and when he settled, she leapt from her saddle to the ground, gripping the reins in her one hand while she held the other like a visor shielding her eyes from the sun. Jon found her that way, standing and staring.
"Arya," he called down from atop his horse. When she did not answer him, he slid to the ground and came to stand at her side, looking out over the same view that had entranced her.
"Is this real?" she finally whispered. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her in close and kissing the top of her head.
The castle stood before them, hazy to her eye due to the distance, but unmistakably Winterfell. She thought of all the wondrous things her eyes had beheld in her life—the Great Swamp, the Narrow Sea, the Red Keep, the Sept of Baelor, the coastline of two continents, the Titan of Braavos, the melted towers of Harrenhal, the dragon pit—and not one of them could compare with the marvel that was her home.
"Aye, it's real," Jon murmured as the rest of the company found them.
Rickon did not dismount as his siblings had, but turned to Young Brax, saying, "Varggfast," which, as far as Arya could tell, meant something like wolf fortress.
"Winterfell," she corrected, feeling a bit like Osha then. The arrival of the company snapped whatever thrall the view had cast upon her, and she climbed on Bane's back, calling, "First to arrive at the gates gets the first horn of ale and a hot bath." She looked at Rickon and her squire, neither of whom seemed particularly impressed with the offered prize, and amended, "Or, whatever sweet the kitchen can whip up quickly." The boys grinned at that, and off they went.
Jon ended up besting them all, being both a skilled horseman and in possession of a mount particularly suited to the weather and terrain.
"Open up for the queen and Lord Snow!" the men topping the outer wall called down below. After a moment, the large gates swung inward.
"I'll take the ale, but I'll cede the bath to you, if you like," Jon said to his sister as they rode through side by side.
She smiled at him but did not answer immediately, craning her neck instead to inspect the walls of the castle as they passed. "I think I'd like to go to the godswood first."
"Of course. I'll accompany you."
The girl's eyes swept out over the yard, seeing the household guard and servants assembled to greet the company. Groomsmen rushed to take their horses and care for them. A man dressed in maester's robes approached, his eyes fixed on Jon. "It looks as though you're wanted."
"Matias can wait."
"No, go see to the business of Winterfell, then enjoy your ale. Play lord and host. I'll join shortly."
"To play queen?"
One corner of her mouth ticked up. "Precisely."
Jon's response to that was a sardonic twist of his lips, but he did not press the issue. Arya dismounted Bane, instructing a stableboy to treat him well, then strode across the yard, toward a nearly hidden door tucked between the armory and the guesthouse that would allow her to slip into the godswood. Ser Jaime sent Ser Kyle and Ser Podrick to scramble after her, but she instructed them to wait for her outside the door.
"No one will harm me here," she said. Much to her surprise, they made no attempt to argue and merely took up posts where she bade them. Arya was grateful for the reprieve. Her desire to enter the holy place alone wasn't about proving she needed no one or insisting her men respect her skill to defend herself. It wasn't about her chafing at the notion of being regarded as a child. It wasn't about her refusal to be looked at as weak.
Rather, it was about having a moment to herself so she might sort through all the feelings that tangled and swelled inside of her just then.
Her head was light, and she had the sense it might float away from her altogether. Her fingertips tingled and burned. Her heart fluttered. Her breath came unevenly. She walked toward the heart tree, every step a memory. And when she finally drew into the small clearing around the hot spring that sat before the weirwood, she stopped.
Stopped and stared.
Slowly, she sank to her knees.
It wasn't prayer, or devotion, or meditation. It wasn't some reverence for the gods.
It was just the staggering weight of love and loss, finally felling her.
The wood was still, quiet in that way that only exists when fresh snow has fallen. She stared at the scene before her, and it was not the white bark or the blood red leaves of the weirwood that caught her eye. It was not the carved face with its ancient tears of dried sap. It was not the steam curling above the heated pool. It was not the snow on the ground or the sunlight filtering down to create dancing light and shadow. It was none of the things she could see before her, but rather, what she couldn't.
It was absence.
Absence so heavy and sharp, it dragged her to her knees and bowed her under its mass. It pinned her in that place.
His absence.
Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell.
He should be sitting beneath the scarlet canopy, polishing Ice.
He should look up, just now, and spy her watching him.
He should call her over and bid her sit next to him.
He should tell her not to fight with her sister. He should tell her to obey her septa. He should tell her not to vex her mother with her muddy hems quite so often. He should tell her she was like Lyanna. He should tell her the importance of a pack.
He should tell her the gods were all around this place, watching and listening. Whispering.
And then it struck her that they were.
"You didn't have to take him," Arya muttered, and her voice cracked, riddled with her grief. She lifted her eyes, looking all around at the still wood. Anger crept into her tone. "Do you hear me?"
She'd been here half a hundred times since leaving Winterfell for King's Landing. More. In her memories. In her dreams. In visions. Once, when she'd clutched at the dimming spark of her mother's life and allowed it to carry her through the veil that separates one world from the next. But this was different. It was different now.
The air had bite. It made the inside of her nose and her throat sting. And the quiet had heft. It pressed against her ears and made them feel as if they were stoppered with wet linen. The light had an edge that sliced into her vision, bleeding the color from it. And the wind…
The wind had intention.
A breeze threaded through the leaves overhead, disrupting that weighted silence.
Sinelvargg.
Arya stilled, closing her eyes and simply listening.
Arya.
Sister.
Her eyes opened. "Bran?" she whispered as she rose, and then she was moving, rounding the warm pool to stand before the heart tree. "Bran?" She knelt there, leaning forward and pressing her forehead to the white trunk.
"Welcome home, sister."
Arya looked up. She was no longer kneeling in the godswood but standing in the mystical chamber beneath the great weirwood north of the Wall. She stood in the center, out of reach of the gnarled throne of roots upon which Bran sat.
"Bran."
He smiled at her even as his eyes studied and designed. "Your grief is an indulgence," he told her, his voice a soft admonishment. "You know where our father sits now, and with whom."
"I'm not allowed to miss him?"
"You're not allowed to wallow."
"I wasn't…"
"They depend on you too much. If you descend into despair, they will be lost."
"They?"
The boy tilted his head, piercing her with his stare. "Your men. Rickon. And most especially, Jon."
"You brought me here to scold me for my feelings, barely expressed while I was alone in the godswood?"
"I brought you here to stop you from sinking into a pit you will not find it so easy to escape."
She approached the throne, her jaw working. "Jon wants to come fetch you from this place." She wasn't sure if she said it because he needed to know, or if she merely meant to shift the discussion away from herself.
"I know. You mustn't let him."
The girl shook her head. "He doesn't seem especially keen to listen to me."
"You're the only one he'll listen to about this."
"So, if he decides to set out on a rescue mission, that's my fault too?"
"Petulance?" Bran's eyes narrowed and he leaned forward, sliding his palms along the smooth, white surface of his armrests. "This isn't like you, Arya."
"Isn't it?"
"No."
"And how would you know? You've been hidden away here, letting everyone think you're dead, whispering in their ears and making them think they're being blessed with divine revelations, depriving them of the comfort of knowing you're safe, while the rest of us toil and mourn and suffer…"
"Enough!" Bran roared. His voice was his, but more. Fuller. Thicker. Deeper and more forceful, like a chorus. It filled the chamber, echoing off the twisted weirwood pillars, bouncing from wall to wall, floor to ceiling, the sound of it gripping the girl's heart and wringing a gasp from between her lips. His eyes seemed to blaze with anger that had not been there a moment earlier. Arya's instinct was to shrink from him, but she commanded herself to stillness.
Calm as still water.
"Loss. Misery. Grief. Suffering," the boy spat down at her from his high perch. "I have it all, inside of me. All of it! Everyone's! Yours. Rickon's. Jon's. Especially Jon's. His guilt. His self-recrimination. His regret. It lives in my head as though it were mine! I feel every aching second of his pain. And yours. And everyone's! So don't you hiss at me about your mourning or your toil. I know every crack and crevice of it. I feel every prickle, every stab of it! I feel everything!"
Arya stared at him, mouth agape, and she was suddenly awash in pity for him. She took a step closer to him, one hand sliding over her heart to soothe the sting she felt there while the other reached out for her brother.
"Arya," he warned. "Don't come any closer."
Her step faltered. "Am I never to touch you again?"
"Not when I sit in this seat." There was hurt in his brow, in the pinching of his eyes at their corners as he spoke.
She stopped, her reaching hand dropping to her side. "Maybe Jon is right. Maybe I shouldn't stop him coming."
"No. It will only endanger him, and for nothing. I won't leave this place."
"But why? Don't you want to come home?"
"Want?" Bran shook his head. "What has want to do with anything?"
"You can choose," the girl insisted. "Nothing is stopping you."
Her brother sighed. "Our path is narrow. So narrow in places it's less a path and more a tight rope. We mustn't stray, Arya, none of us. If we do, all is lost."
"Where does this path lead?"
He stared hard at her, and she swallowed. Her spine stiffened under the intensity of his gaze. Taking a slow, deep breath, he cast his eyes past her, over her head as though seeing something in the space beyond that revealed itself only to him. Finally, he made her an answer.
"Through the darkness and onward, to the dawn."
One moment, Arya was standing at the foot of Bran's terrible throne, and the next, she was wrenched backward and falling, dropping through space and darkness, then rising so quickly, it robbed her of breath.
"What? Wha…" Her eyes flew open.
"Thank the gods," Jon breathed, his mouth set in a grim line. "Are you alright?"
"I… what? Of course, I am! What are you doing?"
It took her a moment to recognize that Jon was cradling her in his arms, tucking her close into his chest as he carried her away from the heart tree. "Gods, but you're cold," he muttered. "What were you thinking? You said you'd be along shortly."
"And I would've been…"
"Arya, it's been two hours," he gritted out. "I thought you'd gone to have that hot bath. Then I saw the queensguard still posted outside the godswood door. How long have you been kneeling in the snow? And why wouldn't you answer me? I called you and shook you… Can you even feel your legs?"
Two hours?
She resolved to ask Bran about the way time passed during their time together when next she saw him.
"Yes, I can feel my legs. Put me down." She squirmed in his arms. Reluctantly, he set her feet on the ground, making sure she had her balance before letting go completely. She had to admit, now that she was up and standing, her knees did ache, and the skin of her calves stung with the cold and the return of her blood flow. She betrayed none of that to her brother, though.
"What were you doing?"
She nipped at her bottom lip a second, eyes darting to the side.
"Arya," the brooding lord growled.
The girl's eyes flitted to her brother's. "Talking to Bran."
Jon froze. After a moment, he reached out, cupping her chin in his palm as he prodded her silver eyes with his own. "You can do that?"
"I told you, Bran was the one who warned me about Bolton's mercenaries."
"In a dream, I'd thought."
"Well, it's like a dream, but not exactly…"
"Were you sleeping here? In the godswood? Is that how…"
"No. This is more like… Oh, I don't know. Is it prayer? Is it warging? Is it some sort of fit? I'm not sure. But I do know anytime I touch a weirwood, that connection is unbelievably strong."
"Connection…"
"To Bran. To the gods. To those they've touched." Here, she thought of the ghost of High Heart.
"And you can speak to him?"
"Yes. Just the same as I'm speaking to you now."
"You see him?"
She nodded as much as she could with her chin in his grasp.
"Gods, Arya!" He drew his hand away from her face and slapped it across his own mouth, rubbing and thinking. "What did he say?"
"He said not to come for him."
Jon snarled. "Arya…"
"He said he must remain, for all our sakes."
"You know I can't allow it."
She shrugged, and there was no pleading in her tone, only bleak certainty. "You have to."
The queen allowed herself to be talked into the hot bath by her brother, if only to assuage his concern that she might lose a toe to frostbite otherwise. The maids had scrambled to air out a few of Catelyn's old gowns that had been stored somewhere in the castle not touched by the fires and found her something suitable. Her mother had been several inches taller than Arya, but the servants had made quick work of tacking up the hem so that it would not catch on her toes.
"We can alter the rest of your mother's things with more skill given time, your grace," one of the women said as she tightened the stays at the back, "but this should do for now."
The girl nodded, looking down at the bodice and not trusting her voice to speak just then. She remembered this dress. Wearing it touched her in a way she was not expecting. Catelyn's gown, in Winterfell. Arya felt nearly crushed under the weight of her memories.
Her hair was dressed quickly, the sides pulled back into two neat braids that were twined together into a knot at her nape. The rest of her tresses flowed down her back in gentle waves. Suitably attired and groomed, she left the chamber for the great hall where she joined her brothers and her men.
"Your grace!" the Greatjon called out in a booming voice as she entered the hall. All the men rose then, bowing as she passed and remaining standing, as was respectful, until she was seated at the head table.
"Sticky bread with spice," Rickon said to her as she leaned back in her chair.
The girl's brow furrowed. "What?"
"The sweet thing the kitchen could whip up."
When she shook her head and looked to Jon for help, he leaned over to her and said, "He means a cinnamon roll. He harassed the poor cook until she made the boys some cinnamon rolls."
"Cinnamon," the young magnar repeated, trying to word out with a grin. "It smells like Augen."
Arya's eyes narrowed and she scanned the chamber, finding the false-Skagosi sitting in a dim corner, dipping bread into a bowl of stew and chewing it slowly as he watched her.
It was more precise to say he smelled of cinnamon and cloves, but only when he wished to gall her.
A trencher of venison stew was placed before the queen, along with warm, crusty bread and a cup of sweet wine. She grimaced as she sipped it, but when Jon asked her if it was off, she waved away his concern. She did not wish to recount her distressing experience with wine at the inn by the Moon Pool just then.
Perhaps later. It was in part due to her grief over Jon's death that she'd over-indulged that night, after all, and it was as much the memory of that anguish as her memory of her hangover which colored her opinion of the stuff.
Though not exactly sedate, the supper was a less boisterous affair than usual, the company being much smaller and somewhat worn after their journey. Tormund's barking hars could be heard only sporadically and Rickon's head listed to the side after he'd consumed his stew and two more of the sticky buns he raved about, his eyelids drooping.
Jon and Ser Jaime discussed the defenses of the castle a bit, Arya chiming in to urge her Lord Commander to allow the household guards to supplement her security detail. Initially, she'd suggested that since they were now behind the soaring walls of Winterfell, she actually required no close security, but the Kingslayer would not agree to that. So, instead, she insisted the household guard be utilized to allow the Winter Guard more time to rest and train, since they were so few. Jaime misliked this recommendation as well, but as both she and Jon argued for it, he acquiesced.
"I trust them, to a man," the young lord told the Kingslayer.
"Fine. I'll allow it, so long as they follow my instructions precisely," the Kingslayer groused.
"This seems a burden for you," the girl commented, her tone all sympathy and sweetness. "Imagine how much relieved you'd be if you did not have to manage the watch schedule at all." She thought she'd have one more go at it.
"Nice try, your grace," Jaime replied, shaking his head. "But you'll not be traipsing about unguarded."
"It's so unnecessary, though." Her tone lost its sympathy and sweetness then, marked rather with a hint of annoyance.
"Arya, a man attempted to cut Bran's throat in his own bed chamber as he convalesced, or had you forgotten?" Jon asked, giving her a stern look. "If your mother hadn't been there to thwart him, our brother would be in the crypts as we speak."
The girl sighed. "Fine. I'll leave it for now. But if everything is as boring and safe as I expect it to be over the next fortnight, we'll revisit this."
The two men gave each other a look, Jaime ending it by rolling his eyes. Jon cleared his throat. "Are you very tired, sister?"
"Not at all. Why?"
"I thought we could have our talk. In father's solar, if you're up to it. I've had the fire built up."
Arya nodded, rising to bid the room a good night. Ser Jaime instructed Ben Blackwood to follow at their heels, along with a household guardsman Jon had chosen, a broad-chested fellow called Red Rendyl.
Upon their arrival at the door of the solar, the guards posted up outside the entrance to the chamber and the siblings entered, closing the men out. Jon moved toward the hearth, poking at the fire a bit with the iron rod he'd found leaning against the leg of the fireplace. For her part, Arya stood just past the thresh hold, her back to the door and her head on a slow swivel as she took it all in. She was trying to find something familiar in the space. The furniture, though, was different than she recalled, and the floorboards were brighter; newer. They smelled of pine.
"It's not at all the same," she whispered.
Her brother looked over at her. "I forget you've not been here in years. The sacking destroyed much of the interior of the great keep. This has all been rebuilt."
Arya said nothing, but moved further into the chamber, dropping onto a cushioned bench which looked toward the hearth. Jon remained standing, but set the iron rod back in its place and turned to face her.
"You are not to censor yourself," he said. "I do not wish to be spared."
One of the queen's sculpted eyebrows quirked up. "Do you promise me the same?"
"Aye, I do."
She gave him a quiet sigh, then shrugged. "Very well. Anything that's mine to tell you, I will."
His eyes narrowed at her carefully chosen words, but he did not challenge her. "Tell me about the road south with King Robert."
And so, she did. She told him of the wonders that had pulled gasps from her nine-year-old throat and smiles from her nine-year-old lips. She told him of friends made on the journey. She told him of Joffrey's cruelty and Mycah's death; of losing Nymeria; of Sansa's betrayal. She told him how in the end, Lady had paid the price for it all.
"Poor Sansa," Jon murmured. "She was put in an untenable position."
"I can see that now," Arya admitted, "but at the time, I hated her for it. And maybe a small part of me is still angry with her, for not being truer to her family. Or, gods, just to what was right. She was too torn to speak the truth, and both Lady and Mycah were killed for it."
Jon spoke soothingly. "There's no way to know if Cersei and Robert would've accepted Sansa's word, even if she'd told them the truth. It might not have changed a thing."
"Or it might've changed everything." She looked at the flames writhing in the fireplace, squinting a little. "Cersei might've been so enraged, she'd have insisted the betrothal be broken. King Robert might've been so angry that he dismissed father from his service. Maybe we could've turned around then and headed right back to Winterfell."
Her brother's answering smile was half-formed and full of heartbreak. "That sounds like the sort of thing a little girl tells herself in the dark when she can't sleep."
"Maybe it is," Arya whispered, her eyelashes fluttering closed. She breathed in, parting her lips a moment later to release the air slowly, steadying herself.
"What happened after that?"
"We made it to the capital without further incident. I've told you much of what came after. Nearly six moons had turned where I did nothing but squabble with Sansa, irk Septa Mordane, and disappoint father. Then, he discovered Needle, and Syrio Forel came into my life."
"I can tell how much you respect the man, just by the way you say his name."
"Respect?" Her brows drew together, forming a deep furrow above her nose. "Yes, of course. But it's more than that. I'm in his debt."
"He gave his life to protect you. There's no greater debt."
She nodded. "That's true, but he gave me more than that. He gave me… oh, how to explain it? He didn't just shape my fighting style, he shaped my mind. He opened my eyes. He helped me understand how to be brave, and he gave me teeth. I respect him. I owe him. But I also love him. He's with me, always." She slipped one hand over her heart, tapping lightly as if to indicate where her dancing master now dwelled.
"I'm glad you had him, then." Jon's voice was as bitter as it was sincere.
Arya gave her brother a small smile. "You were with me too, Jon. And Father. I kept you all with me, wherever I went. I couldn't look at Needle without seeing you. You walked beside me, even if you didn't know it. That made me brave, too."
He strode over and joined her on her bench. Turning his palm up, he rested the back of his hand on his thigh and waited. After a moment, she slipped her small hand into his, watching as he wrapped his fingers around hers and squeezed. When he next spoke, his voice was hoarse.
"Do you think you can tell me about our father? About that day?"
She knew what he meant. He wanted to know what had happened on the steps of the Great Sept. He wanted to know what she'd seen as she crouched at Baelor's feet. It had cost him to ask it, she could see that. It was written in the cant of his head, and in the almost apologetic slump of his shoulders. He did not wish to cause her further pain, but his need to know was powerful, that much was plain to see. And so, she obliged him.
She told him of being swept up in the crowd and not understanding the excitement and the movement as she was carried through the streets of the city. She told him of seeing the loathsome king and his vile mother atop the steps, and Sansa near them. She told how their father had been made to kneel beneath the towering menace of Ser Ilyn Payne, who raised Ice high above his head. She told him how she'd gripped Needle, her mind struggling to work out a solution as her heart hammered beneath her breast, because surely, she was meant to save him. How could she not? She was there, and armed, and she wanted it to be true so badly, it simply had to be.
The girl drew in a shaky breath, then told him that of course, she'd failed, and that it had happened fast, so fast she could scarce believe it had happened at all, and she'd been snatched away, saved by Yoren. She told him how she'd never before felt such terror, and such hatred, and such anguish, all at the same time; that she hadn't known one person could even possess the capacity to feel what she felt in that moment; that it felt like her heart had caved in on itself.
Her grip on his hand as she spoke had tightened to the point her knuckles appeared white, but Jon made no complaint. He just looked at her, his eyes unblinking, drinking in every last ounce of her distress. And she was surprised to find that as she shared it with him, that distress lessened. That gave her pause.
Arya stopped, gradually relaxing her fingers so that the color returned to both of their hands, and she looked at her brother.
"Are you alright?" she asked him, causing him to snort.
"Am I alright?"
"I know these things are hard to hear."
"Hard to hear?" His tone was brightly colored by his incredulity. "Oh, darling girl…" Jon shifted so that he was facing her more fully, then drew her into his arms, embracing her fiercely and pressing a hard kiss to the top of her head. "My brave, sweet, compassionate girl."
She did not pull away from him. It felt too good, too safe, in his arms for her to deny herself the comfort. But still, she chuckled. "I'm not sure you can rightly call me sweet."
"The sweetest," he insisted, mussing her hair like he'd done when they were children. "Tell me about the road to Harrenhal."
"I already told you…"
"I know there are things you didn't say. You're not to censor yourself, remember?"
And so, she told him of Lommy, and Weasel, and the wails and screams and groans of tortured villagers. She told him of the day she'd learned the depth of suffering a man could endure, and the depth of cruelty and barbarity one man could visit upon another.
Was there gold in the village? Silver? Gems? Where was Lord Beric Dondarrion?
Her story poured out of her, and Jon absorbed it all unflinchingly. He learned why she'd chosen the names she'd given Jaqen, the names the Faceless Man had told her she owed the Red god. She explained the things she'd seen and heard, the things done to her to make her choose the names. He learned of her overarching regret when it finally struck her that she should have been thinking more of strategy and less of justice or revenge in her choices. He learned how a girl of not quite two-and-ten bent a master assassin to her will and changed the balance of power in the Riverlands. Offered the chance to escape with the assassin she so admired, she refused for the sake of her family.
Cupbearer to Roose Bolton. Planner of daring escapes. Hostage of a band of outlaws. Witness to the terrible power of the Red god. Captive of the king's runaway dog. She told of all her unique experiences.
"How is it possible for one girl to have endured so much?" Jon murmured.
She told him how she'd arrived at the Twins too late, that her mother and Robb were already dead, but her arrival at the inn at the crossroads had been just in time. She smiled at that.
"I was able to take Needle back and give the Tickler what he deserved at the same time."
There was mercy refused, an iron coin used, and more water than she'd seen in her life, all put together. She made friends with a captain's son and he'd taught her some Braavosi. In return, she'd helped him with his common tongue and let him hold Needle.
There was wonder in her voice when she said, "I hope you get to see the Titan someday, Jon."
She glossed over much of her time in the House of Black and White. When Jon balked at that, she reminded him that she'd agreed to tell him what was hers to tell.
"It's not for their sake, or my own, but for yours that I keep certain things to myself," the girl said.
"Surely they wouldn't waste their time or effort on silencing me," Jon scoffed, but his skepticism was curbed by the look on his sister's face. Still, though she did not reveal specifics of the Order's organization or training or business, she was able to give him a description of how they served the worshipers who entered the temple and some of the details of her day-to-day life: walks in the garden beneath the lemon trees, cooking with Umma, sparring with the other acolytes and the masters.
"And when did you fall in love with your master?" he asked her softly. Arya sighed.
"I'm not sure. At first, I regarded him much as I had Syrio. I respected him. I admired him. I owed him. Later, as I grew older, I became infatuated with him. Enamored by him. He's so… beautiful. And frightening. And powerful."
"A difficult combination to resist," her brother remarked, and she could see that he worked to conceal his disapproval. She was still his little sister, after all.
She continued. "Then, not long before my sixteenth nameday, I came under threat in the temple and Jaqen defied his master to protect me. He made my safety his only concern, even though it meant sacrificing his own. I think that was when I started to realize what I felt."
"Did he feel the same?"
Her gaze grew soft as she nodded. "I didn't know it then. Didn't know it until later. And when I did, oh… the elation." The girl bit her lip, then added, "But also, the fear."
Jon frowned at the revelation. "Fear?"
"We were forbidden to even have contact with one another. He was not allowed to train me further. I was given a different master. So, every glance, every word we spoke to each other, every time his hand brushed mine when we passed in a corridor, was a defiance."
Obedience is a choice.
"I imagine the Faceless Men don't look kindly upon such defiance."
Disobedience has consequences.
"Since they asked me to open his throat to secure my place in the Order, I'd say you imagine correctly."
"You failed to do their bidding at that, yet they spared you. Why?"
"They do nothing without purpose, so I can only assume my life is somehow currency to them, but to what ends…" Arya shrugged.
"Could it not simply have been mercy?"
"No." Because to the Faceless Men, death was the mercy.
He nodded, accepting her judgment, then asked her to tell him of what had occurred since her return to Westeros. One corner of her mouth lifted.
"Did you not get your fill of those tales from Lord Hoster and Ser Gendry?"
"I'd like to hear you tell them."
Because she'd made him a bargain, the girl told him of the path which had led her from Saltpans to Winterfell. The story of Lady Stoneheart, she told haltingly, and by the time she related how she'd followed her mother into the shadowlands, she was whispering.
"Something changed after that," the girl confided. "Something deep inside of me."
His look was grim, as though he understood what she meant very well, and she resolved to ask him about that when it was his turn to tell all. She continued her tale, telling him of the Blackfish.
The questions he peppered her with throughout told her he'd heard more of her exploits than the bit he'd learned from Hos and Gendry the night before. Still, Hosteen Frey's death was a surprise to him, and he could not help but to chastise her for taking on the man alone. The caused her to pause her narrative.
"Look, brother, I've agreed to tell you the truth, but in turn, I require you to abandon your worry over things long past."
The young lord sighed, then dropped his head. "I'm sorry. It's hard, though. For years, my little sister has occupied my thoughts, dirty hems, smudged cheeks, mussed hair, and all. I've imagined every manner of awful thing that could've befallen you and all those thoughts have pressed so hard against my mind that the impression remains, even while I see you well and whole before me." He looked up at her from beneath his dark lashes. "I will try to curb my worry."
"Your worry and your guilt," Arya said, reaching for him and slipping her palm over the side of his neck. "None of what happened to me was your fault, and I'll not have you brooding over it. What's done is done, and in the end, we are back together."
Jon leaned forward, pressing his forehead against hers, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. "Aye, we are."
Satisfied, she gave him her version of the fall of the Twins, of becoming queen declarant, and of her coronation. She told him of the Great Swamp, the awe in her voice as she described it, and Greywater Watch, similar to the way she spoke of the Titan and the wonders of Braavos. She explained how it was Bran who told her Rickon lived, and where to find him.
"He's as much of Skagos now as is his of Winterfell," the girl said, "and if he's this fierce at ten, I cannot imagine how terrifying he'll be as a man grown."
"He'll be a formidable presence at your side."
"I have no confidence I'll be able to keep him there. That boy has a restless spirit. And the gods speak to him. Who knows what sort of tasks they'll lay out before him?"
"Being home may calm that restless spirit a bit."
Arya was not at all sure she believed that, but she let it go. "Your turn, Jon."
"I've told you most everything already, when you awoke from your… spell."
"But not about the betrayal of your men."
He smiled at her, but there was no humor behind the gesture. "Actually, I told you that as well, but you'd fallen asleep by then."
"So, tell me while I'm awake."
He sighed, but a promise was a promise, and so he described the chaos in the yard at Castle Black, with Wun Wun and Selyse Baratheon's men at its center. He explained how a handful of his black brothers had used the distraction to isolate and attack him.
"I knew all that," the girl revealed. "Tormund told me. What I want to know is what happened afterwards."
"R'hllor happened," Jon replied, and he did not sound at all happy. She determined she would come back to that later.
"But after the betrayal, and before the Red god intervened, what of that time?"
"Is there something particular you wish to know?"
Arya nearly vibrated with her frustration. "Really, Jon," she chastised. "Your hypocrisy astonishes me. What do you imagine will happen if you tell me of your time beyond the veil?"
"How do you know that's where I was?"
"Because I dreamed it. After the mercenaries, after turning you toward safety, I dreamed you were in the shadowed godswood, with Father. Only, it was more like a memory than a dream."
Jon's expression hardened. "Then perhaps it is you who should be telling me."
"Well, that's not what we agreed to, but fine. I'll tell you. You were with Father, in the godswood, and he said you would not stay there long, that the North had need and she would need you, too. I assume the she he meant was me?"
The young lord swallowed but did not answer her.
"He said he wished he had more time, that he'd always meant to see you again, and that the tomb would give you your answers."
Her brother looked stricken at her words. "He did. He said that."
"What do you imagine it to mean?"
"I thought he meant that only in death would the gods reveal who my mother was."
The girl's brow drew down. "Your mother?"
"The last time I saw our father, he told me that when next we met, he'd talk to me about my mother. Of course, there was no next time. Not on this plane, anyway."
Arya wondered if she had things wrong. "Do you think… maybe your mother was the she he meant?"
"I don't know. If I could've stayed longer, perhaps I could have learned the answer to that, but then I was taken in R'hllor's fiery grasp and there was no time to ask anything else."
"You burned." She stated it as confidently as she might say, "Your eyes are grey." He nodded.
"I did. I burned with unnatural heat, far beyond anything I could've ever imagined, but when I woke up, the room around me was cold."
"A red priestess pulled you back from the shadowlands."
"Tormund told you that part too?"
"She must've done it quickly. You're nothing like Lady Stoneheart. They let her lie far too long."
"It was quick, yes, but any time spent beyond the veil is too long to be brought back." He sounded resentful.
"Should I have stayed there, too?" Her voice was small as she murmured the question.
"Oh, no, sister. I didn't mean you. You weren't meant to be in that place. It's different."
"Not to me, it's not. You weren't meant to be there either, Jon. You were always meant to be here, with me."
"Was I?" The acridity bled from his tone, and he looked her in the eye. "I suppose I can live with that." The siblings smiled at one another.
"I expect you to live with it," the girl said with mock sternness. "For a long, long time." She pressed her cheek against his chest, allowing him to tuck her head under his chin. They sat that way for a while, but then Jon said something else to her.
"There was one thing you left out."
"What?"
"Your dream. Or, my memory, rather. Of Father. There's something he said that struck me as strange. I didn't understand it at the time. I still don't."
"Oh? What was it?"
"After he said he'd always meant to see me again, he told me he'd always loved me like his own son."
The girl hummed against his chest as she considered their father's words. "Like his own son?" she muttered, trying to puzzle out the strange phrasing. "Are you sure you're remembering it correctly?"
"Quite sure." Jon breathed in deeply, then asked, "What do you suppose he meant by that?"
Arya just shook her head. She was as perplexed as her brother.
The remainder of the queen's company arrived at Winterfell five days later. There was much fanfare and excitement. Maester Samwell was happy to be reunited with his friend and former Lord Commander. Lady Wynafryd and Lady Dyanna greeted their queen enthusiastically. Ser Brynden Blackwood clapped his brothers on their backs, assuring them the journey was uneventful. Osha fussed over Rickon, catching Tormund's eye as she did so. For his part, the wildling man seemed determined that she should notice him as well, sidling up next to her and introducing himself by way of a bawdy jape. The murderous look in her eye when she told him to watch his mouth around "the little lord" wrought a raucous laugh from both Tormund and the young magnar.
Only Howland Reed seemed unsettled in the bustle.
"My lord," the queen greeted. Howland bowed, taking her hand and pressing his lips to her knuckles.
"Your grace, it is good to see you again."
"Is it?" Arya gave him a keen look, but his own countenance revealed nothing.
"Have you settled in yet?" the crannogman asked, his eyes sweeping the yard.
"I think so. In many ways, it's strange being back, but in some ways, it feels as though I never left."
The lord nodded. "I should like to pay my respects to your father."
"You pay your respects to him simply by your service to me."
"Even still, I mean to visit him."
"Certainly, my lord. I should accompany you. I've been remiss and haven't visited myself since my return."
"Visited where?" Jon asked, approaching from Howland's left.
"The crypts," the queen replied. "Lord Reed would like to pay his respects to our father."
At the girl's pronouncement, the crannogman's eyes flicked between the siblings and his mouth formed a frown.
Jon gave Howland a sad smile. "I'd be happy to show you the way, my lord. Perhaps after you've rested and settled?"
Before the crannogman could respond, Maester Matias strode over, begging pardon for his interruption of their conversation.
"Your grace, Lord Snow, there's been a raven. From King's Landing." He pulled a scroll from his sleeve, holding it forth for whoever wished to take it. Brother and sister looked at one another, then Arya reached for the parchment. The red wax seal on it was embossed with the sigil of the Targaryens.
"Another petulant demand from the dragons for recognition, I wonder?" the girl muttered, scanning the yard for her Hand. All it took was a look from her to hasten Hoster to her side.
"Your grace?"
"A raven from the Iron Throne," she told him. "Convene the council."
A half hour later, the advisors' council and their queen were cloistered in Ned's solar, gathered around the oblong table that was similar but not the same as the one Lord Stark had used in his day. Arya herself broke the seal and read the letter, once to herself and then out loud for her advisors. It was penned by a maester but laid out as a dictate from Aegon himself.
"Who does that silver shit think he is?" the Greatjon growled as the queen finished her recitation.
"He thinks he's king of the seven kingdoms, according to the signature on the letter," Ser Jaime replied blithely.
"The tone is threatening. Insolent, even," was Ser Brynden's observation. He seemed insulted for Arya's sake.
"Can a king be insolent?" mused Lord Hoster.
"He can when he's addressing another monarch," Ser Brynden spat.
Lord Wull spoke up then. "Yer grace, if you dinnae wish to entertain this envoy, he can be stopped at Moat Cailin, and detained, if ye like."
"Yes," Howland Reed agreed. "It is already manned with some guards and workers making improvements. Word can be sent if you mean to stop this Dornish lord from moving further north."
"There may be value in hearing what he has to say, though," the Hand pointed out. "Aegon says he wishes to treat with you."
"He also says 'dragonflame' and threatens war, boy!" Lord Umber boomed, a sneer marring his countenance.
"As a means to guarantee the safety of a trusted lord. Perhaps Lord Dayne is his dear friend, and the king does not wish him to be in harm's way," Hoster said thoughtfully.
The queen tapped her finger against her lips, her eyes scanning the faces of her men. Finally, her gaze settled on her brother. "What do you think, Jon?"
The young lord considered for a moment, then said, "Receiving this envoy costs us nothing. It's possible that recognition of the separation of the kingdoms can be achieved solely through negotiation. Shouldn't that be our goal?"
All eyes moved to the queen who sat quietly for a moment. When she finally spoke, it was with authority.
"Lord Dayne will be received, and he will be afforded every courtesy. Lord Hand, please draft a letter and enlist the maesters to ensure a copy is received by every house loyal to us."
"Of course, your grace," Hos said. "And what of a reply to the Iron Throne?"
The girl's lips curved into her familiar, malicious smile. "That, I will pen myself."
"Is it true, your grace?" Gendry asked as he walked with the queen to the great hall for the welcoming supper. "Lord Dayne means to pay us a visit?"
Arya studied her friend's expression. "My, my. It seems word travels fast here."
The large knight shrugged. "I overheard Lady Dyanna telling Lady Wynafryd."
"And what do you make of this visit from our old friend?"
"Your old friend," he corrected, "not mine."
The girl bit back her smile. "Oh, come, ser, what did poor Edric Dayne ever do to earn your ire?"
"Aside from being a fancy lad who presumed too much, you mean?"
"Fancy lad!" Arya barked, stifling her laughter as best she could.
"Yes. And I don't doubt he's grown into a fancy lord with a stupid, fancy sword."
"So now his sword is an object of ridicule?"
The dark knight merely grunted.
"Well, you have a fancy sword of your own now, so no need for envy," the girl told him.
"My sword isn't fancy," the dark knight insisted, "and I prefer my warhammer, anyway."
The girl gave Gendry a sly look. "And what do you mean, he presumed too much?"
The knight's face darkened. "He just assumed you would be his friend, because of his station, and yours."
She laughed. "Why shouldn't we have been friends?"
"You already had friends! You had Hot Pie, and me!"
"I wasn't aware such friendships were mutually exclusive."
He ignored that. "And the way he flirted, so shamelessly, but dressed it up as manners and courtesy…"
"So now you take issue with his manners?" the queen scoffed. "Were they too fancy for you?"
"You don't deny the flirting, I see."
Arya rolled her eyes. "Of course I deny it! He was two and ten at the time, just a young boy! I doubt he even understood what it was to flirt."
"I'll wager he's a superior flirt now, though."
She shrugged. "I suppose we'll find out in about a moon's turn."
The dark knight drew back as though he'd been slapped. "You'd encourage that blatherskite?"
"Blatherskite?" she snorted in disbelief. "Honestly, Gendry, what has gotten into you? I thought you'd be excited to see him again."
He had the nerve to look affronted. "What would make you think such a thing?"
"He was our friend, whatever you may say, and one of the few people still living who knew us both then. Is that not enough?"
"Not for me. You may feel differently."
"I do."
"Well, that's it, then."
"I suppose it is."
"And what answer will you give him when he asks you to marry him?"
"What?" Her response was half surprised laugh and half gasp. "Are you simply trying to shock me, ser?"
"Not at all, your grace."
"Why else would you say it?"
"Because I fully expect it to happen."
"So now you can read his mind?"
"I don't have to read minds to know what he intends."
"I haven't seen him in five years, and we were only a little acquainted at that. Not to mention, the girl he will remember was more like a cross between a feral animal and an ill-mannered boy than a highborn lady!" Arya shook her head, her mouth twisted into a befuddled smile. "I can't think why you'd believe he has any intention of proposing a betrothal."
"I told you," the knight replied, "Edric Dayne presumes too much. He has always presumed too much. And by the time you were kidnapped by the Hound, anyone not afflicted with blindness could see you were a lady, and nothing like a feral animal or a boy of any sort."
"Your memory is faulty, ser. You're confusing your opinion of me now with how I was then."
"I'm not."
"You are. When you think back on those days, you likely can't help but color them with my crown and my throne."
"My memory is not faulty, and it's not your crown I think of when I remember us in those days. I also remember Lord Dayne's behavior, and how he felt when the Hound carried you off."
"What?" Arya stared at her friend. She supposed she'd never considered that Ned would've had any opinion about the incident, though of course, she supposed he must have thought something. "What do you mean?"
"The way he carried on about wanting to ride out after you, day after day, the fool. We had searched, of course, but after two days and no clear sign of you, it just seemed futile."
"Was Ned not satisfied with the search?"
"Ned," the knight growled to himself. Then he looked at her. "He wanted to split the Brotherhood into parties and send a group in each direction until you were found. He wouldn't shut up about it, for weeks! He'd have gotten himself killed in a day, but he kept questioning anyone who told him it wasn't a good plan, making everyone feel guilty, like they didn't care as much as he did." By the time he was done ranting, Gendry's neck had flushed pink, and his face had shaped itself into an impressive scowl.
Edric Dayne has been the lone voice pressing for a continued search to recover her?
The girl's mouth hung open and she was unsure what to say to that.
After the supper was through, the queen begged parchment, a quill, and a pot of ink off her Lord Hand and retired to her chamber. There, she sat at a small writing desk, a candle alight on each of the top corners, and began to pen her missive.
Aegon,
I received your letter. I must say, the tone of it was not appreciated by my advisors. I did not mind it so much, as your threats were in defense of a mutual friend. I gather you have written to each of the great houses in my kingdom, demanding safe passage for Lord Dayne. I have written the same, which should lend some actual authority to the request. You need not thank me, I was glad to do it, for Ned's sake.
I do not know if he will have departed by the time you receive this, but if not, I kindly ask that you pass on my regards, my sincerest wishes for a safe journey, and let him know that as an old friend, I eagerly await his visit. You may also inform him that upon his arrival, he will meet his milk brother. He'll understand my meaning.
Finally, you'll notice that the tone of this letter is more cordial and less menacing than the one you sent me. You should not take this as a sign of weakness or conciliation, but rather of common courtesy.
I remain,
Arya Stark
The next morning, the queen tracked down Maester Matias and bid him send the scroll as quickly as possible. When he affixed the parchment to the raven's leg, it was the queen herself who pressed the direwolf seal into the soft, grey wax and then they both watched as the messenger took wing from the window of the rookery tower.
The Highest Tide—The Wealthy West