No one plans to take the path that brings you lower

Arya,

As our titles seem to be a source of contention, I am choosing not to use them for now. I hope you will see this as an overture of friendship. Though I do not yet know you well, I suspect we are much alike and hope we can become great friends. To that end, let us leave aside any quarrel over how many kingdoms each of us rules. Though I do find it curious that you seem to be confused as to where the Vale's loyalty lies. It was my understanding that your sister presides there as the Lady of the Eyrie. Are you not in the position to know her mind, perhaps better than anyone? How is it her allegiances remain obscured from you?

My septa is named Lemore and she has always treated me with kindness and grace, even when correcting me, either for my poor understanding of the holy book, or for flaws she perceives in my character. Just today, she chastised me for not being more generous in my assessment of your motivations, but she said it in her same gentle way, as though she were more disappointed than angry. She has been as a mother to me, and I am loathe to disappoint her.

I do hope your business at the Dreadfort was concluded successfully and was not too unpleasant.

Your friend,

Aegon

The royal party rode out from the Dreadfort after a week of assisting Lady Bolton, her steward, and the captain of her guard in reaffirming her household's loyalty to the Winter Throne and organizing her defenses. All who belonged to the household swore oaths, including one to protect the lady's young sons, and Ser Jaime apprised the fighting men of the potential threat from the south.

The queen had her doubts about Walda's ability to adequately guide the new Lord Bolton. Lady Bolton was amiable but a bit foolish, and too mild by half. As far as the girl could tell, Roose had not allowed his wife much of a hand in the running of the household, apart from directing the supper menus. Despite the woman's shortcomings, Arya could not see her way to removing the young lord from his mother's care, as he was only a boy of four. Instead, she vowed to keep close watch on his development until he could be sent to foster at Winterfell.

As they travelled the road home, Ser Willem rode next to the queen. They spoke in low voices.

"Will you tell your brother how it all happened?" he asked. He kept his expression inscrutable, but he was thinking of the way they'd found her, crouched over the slaughter in her chamber, so wild-eyed and bloody herself that for a moment, he'd feared she would succumb to the wounds he'd assumed she must've suffered. He did not like to recall how the pain in his chest had nearly brought him to his knees in that moment.

"Jon? Of course." The girl shrugged. "I don't see much point in keeping it from him. He's bound to hear, anyway. And it all went according to plan, so he can't berate me over it."

"Oh? I hadn't realized your plan was to be knocked unconscious, raped, then flayed alive."

She cut her eyes at her friend. "None of that happened."

"Could have. I saw the lump on your head."

Arya smirked. "Good thing my skull is thick."

The Bear was not amused.

"Don't jape," he warned, dipping his chin to look down his nose at her. His tone caused his sister's brows to pinch together.

"Are you… angry with me?"

"Yes, Cat," he muttered, "I'm angry with you."

"But… why?" She was incredulous. "Everything happened as it should have. It was flawless!"

"If you leave with an injury, it's not flawless."

"A minor wound…"

"Why was your door barred?"

She sniffed. "Ser Jaime instructed it."

"Oh, yes, I know how keen you are to obey Ser Jaime's every command."

"I didn't expect the bastard to sneak into my chamber through a hidden door!" she hissed. "I'd planned to go to him."

"And so, you did," the Bear said, his voice hard. "You went right to him. You let him put his hands on you and hurt you."

"Hurt?" she scoffed. "Hardly."

"I thought we were done with this foolishness, Cat, but you continue to take unnecessary risk."

"Killing Ramsay was necessary," she argued.

"Yes, but how long was the blade you used to kill him? How wide? Why were your swords so nearby yet unbloodied? Why did you not use your trick of Asshai'?" The girl's lips pressed into a tight line, and she stared straight ahead. When she made it clear she did not mean to answer him, him pushed her. "Well?"

"I promised him he would be scared and screaming," she muttered. "Would you make me an oathbreaker?"

The Bear rolled his eyes. "You're fortunate the gods smiled on you. You could've struck your head against your bedpost when he tossed you off and broken your skull. Then it might've been your corpse we found when we finally breached the door."

"That would never have happened."

His look became one of censure. "You're also fortunate the Rat's master was otherwise occupied. Had he seen what I saw, he might've thought you were due more than a lecture on having care for yourself."

Arya's eyes narrowed. "What do you know about that?"

"I know he means to keep you hale and hearty," the Bear replied, and then his tone turned grim as he added, "and I know that he'll force your compliance by any means he sees fit to employ."

The girl tried to look unconcerned. "No one else seems bothered by what transpired. Ser Jaime has not said one sharp word to me, and he frets more than a nervous bride before her wedding." She smirked at the thought.

"That's because everyone thinks you were caught unawares in your chamber…"

"I was…"

"…and they are grateful you were able to fend off the fiend with quick thinking…"

"I did…"

"…but they don't know what you and I know…"

Arya's brows lifted. "Which is?"

"…which is that you aren't just a fierce fighter, but an elite assassin with many tools at your disposal…"

"Well, elite seems overstating the matter a bit…"

"…and you could have ended Ramsay Bolton within two seconds of him announcing his presence without all the dramatics and mummery!"

She paused for a moment, thoughtful, before saying, "There was very little mummery involved."

He cocked an eyebrow, looking down at her. "Oh, so your seduction was genuine?"

"Seduction," she scoffed, her disgust causing her lip to curl. "Hardly."

"No? You just prefer a sleeping gown more suited to a pleasure house in Lys than a night in a Northern castle? Where did you even get that thing?"

"My attire that night is what upsets you?"

"What upsets me is your carelessness. The man needed to be dealt with, but you didn't have to let him get so close."

"He wasn't that close."

"Then why do I still see the impression of his teeth on your ear?" the Bear hissed, his blue eyes burning with cold fire.

Arya had been wearing her hair down since that night rather than pulled back in her usual practical braid. He knew it was an attempt to hide the small, arced bruise on the top of her ear, evidence of her recklessness. But he'd seen it. He'd seen it starting to bloom that night when they'd rushed into her chamber and found her with Ramsay's corpse. And he'd seen it the next day, less angry red and more purple, when he'd taken her aside after the macabre breakfast scene to ask if she were okay. He'd stroked her cheek and pushed her hair back behind her ear in an affectionate gesture, only to have her jerk away from his touch when she saw his eyes land briefly on the wound. And he knew, he knew that if she sported such a mark, there must be others, hidden from his eyes. It had made his blood boil. Only Maester Samwell's approach had stopped him from interrogating her over it at the time. And she'd kept herself busy while at the Dreadfort, so he'd found no occasion to speak with her privately until now.

And all the while, his consternation had been building.

She shrugged, frustratingly nonchalant. "Every bruise is a lesson."

She could pretend to be unaffected, but he'd seen the way she stiffened slightly when he'd spoken.

"Yes," he growled, "for a little girl learning to hold her sword properly."

"Syrio would wish for me to continue to learn from my mistakes."

"It's not a mistake when you do it on purpose, Cat. And you can't blame your old dancing master for this. I doubt Syrio Forel would look at you with pride for your deeds at the Dreadfort."

The Bear could tell his words stung his sister. He hoped that was a bruise from which she would learn a lesson as well.

Arya shook her head in disbelief. "I cannot understand this reaction. You had no care when I was in the household of Atius Biro. You did not question my plan to slay Hosteen Frey. You had no objection to me cutting my way through the Twins. How was this different?"

"You were different," he insisted. "So bent on your perfect revenge that you tossed all caution, all sense aside. And he was different."

"Him? Ramsay?" the girl snorted. "You think him more of a threat than Hosteen Frey?"

"Yes, and don't pretend for one instant that you disagree."

"But I do. How can you even think…"

"The man was a monster."

The way the Bolton bastard had looked at her during the supper, when she was turned away, toasting Roose… It had filled the Bear with cold dread. He'd said as much to her that night before she'd gone up to her chamber. Of course, she'd dismissed him with a small smirk.

"I've known monsters," the girl replied quietly. "They no longer scare me."

"Your refusal to fear what should be feared may be your undoing."

"You'd have me shivering with fright at every threat," she accused sourly.

"No, I'd have you be prudent. It is not too much to ask. You're not a little girl fleeing Harrenhal, Cat, and you're not a green acolyte. You know better. You're a queen with a whole kingdom depending on you. And you're a trained assassin."

"You'd lay those achievements at my feet with one breath then doubt my abilities with the next."

The Bear shook his head. "You misunderstand me, sister."

"Then speak plainly."

He sighed, casting his eyes towards the grey Northern sky. Swallowing, he dropped his gaze back to her face, piercing her silver eyes with his own. "When we first arrived here, after we crossed the Narrow Sea and rode to the inn at the crossroads, do you recall what I said to you? In the stables, after you'd introduced me to Nymeria. Do you remember?"

The girl bit her lip. "Much the same as you've just said," she admitted, her voice hoarse. "You thought me reckless."

"What I said, little Cat, was that I would not risk you. That I had no intention of losing you. Do you suppose any of that has changed?"

"Of course not, and I feel the same about you, brother," the girl murmured.

"I know you do not prize your safety for your own sake, but will you not prize it for mine?" Both the Bear's voice and his countenance grew soft as he spoke.

When he thought of what might have happened to her behind that barred door, what that madman might've done to her, it pierced him in a way he'd not experienced since the night of his final trial. And perhaps it was unfair of him to lay that burden at his sister's feet, but he did not know what else to do with it in that moment.

"How do I convince you there was never any danger?"

"You mean how do you convince me of a lie? You can't. I spent too long learning to parse out truth from falsehood in Braavos."

It was the girl's turn to sigh. "I'm not lying to you. I wouldn't."

"The lies you tell are to yourself."

Arya turned away from her brother, watching the road ahead as they ambled along. They were quiet for a time, and when the girl next spoke, the Bear was surprised by the anguish he heard in her voice.

"Do you ever wonder if you made the wrong choice?" She continued staring straight ahead, refusing to meet his gaze. "If you'd have been happier just taking Olive and running away?"

It was a scenario he'd played over in his head a thousand times, with a thousand different variables. But he always reached the same conclusion.

"No. I could never have left you."

Arya nodded, her shoulders slumping a little. "I'll try to be better," she murmured.

"Safer, Cat. Not better. Just safer."

"Safer," the girl agreed. "For your sake."

He felt something settle inside of him at her promise.

Jon Snow stood back as his sister trotted through the gates of Winterfell and into the bailey yard, an uncharacteristic smile shaping his face. He watched as she slid from her horse and was immediately assaulted by Rickon and Young Brax, the latter bowing quickly and clumsily before throwing himself into her arms alongside his friend.

"I was only gone a fortnight, boys," the queen chastised without any real ire behind her words. "You act as though you haven't seen me in a whole year."

Rickon squeezed her fiercely with his thin arms. "Masin mijn, you're the only one who lets me do anything," he complained, "so it felt like you were gone a whole year!" The wild redhead looked as the rest of party dismounted all around them and watched Augen Heldere enter the yard. "And I was worried you got stolen on the road."

Arya snorted. "You don't have to worry about that, no one is going to steal me."

"Little lord," Osha chastised from behind the queen, "let your sister breathe. You're like to crack her ribs if you keep squeezing her like that." The wildling woman approached, giving the queen a small curtsey before turning her attention to Jon Brax. "You, too, my fine little squire." The girl smiled as Osha gave each of the youngsters' ears a light tug then ushered the boys away. Arya turned her attention to her castellan, striding toward him as a stableboy led Bane away. When she was within his reach, he pulled her into his arms and wrapped her up.

"Welcome home, your grace," he murmured against her hair.

"Don't call me that," she groused. "Not you."

He laughed and mussed her hair like he'd done when they were young. "Come inside, let's get your damp cloak off and you can warm your feet by the fire."

"Yes," she agreed, "and you can tell me what I've missed. I'm sure there's much to catch up on."

He nodded. "Aye. And you'll tell me how it went at the Dreadfort. And there's a mountain of raven scrolls to read. I think every lord in the kingdom has written you at least twice in your absence."

"Every lord in the kingdom, you say?" Arya asked, a look of interest lighting her eyes. "And what of those outside of the kingdom?"

Jon studied her expression carefully before posing a question of his own. "Was there someone else you expected to hear from?"

The girl shook her head slightly. "No, not expected, exactly…" Her look became more guarded. "Of course, I had wondered, with word spreading…"

"Yes?"

They had entered the great keep, headed for what Arya still thought of as her father's solar, and Jon murmured to a passing maid to send word to the kitchens and have refreshment brought for the queen.

"Only… I thought we might hear from the Vale."

Jon nodded. "Perhaps if you were to write directly."

Arya sighed. "I don't really know who I'd be writing to."

"A general inquiry, then?"

She bit her lip and crossed the threshold of the solar's door as Jon held it open for her. The queen strode over the to blazing fire, standing and staring into the flames, not really feeling their heat. After a moment, she muttered, "I'm almost afraid of what the answer might be." Her brother closed the door softly and moved to her side, holding his hands out toward the warmth of the hearth.

"What do you want it to be?" he asked, turning to stare at her profile as she continued watching the fire.

Her brow furrowed. "What a question…"

"You cannot deny that another Stark heir complicates things."

"Not for me, it doesn't."

"Then what is it you fear?"

"Loss," she replied hoarsely. "More loss."

"You've either lost, or you haven't," he told her, his voice soft. "Writing won't change that."

"It will carve it in stone."

Jon reached over and unclasped her cloak, sliding it off her shoulders and moving to drape it over a chair to dry. "Is uncertainty preferable?"

"Preferable?" the girl repeated, saying the word slowly, as though she were trying to decipher its meaning as she spoke. Turning, she walked to the table in the center of the room, pulled out a chair, and fell into it, slumping as though suddenly exhausted. "Uncertainty is… equal parts hope and dread."

"Two sides of the same coin."

"A coin you are asking me to flip now, with no idea which side will face me when it lands."

Her brother joined her at the table, taking the chair across from her. "I have written before," he revealed. "Many times."

"Were your letters ignored?"

"Sometimes. And other times, they were answered generally. Cryptically. And not by her."

"Then who?"

"The maester at times. Other scrolls bore the signature of Lord Baelish. But none would clearly state who governs from the Eyrie or if Sansa is even there."

A knock at the door interrupted them.

"Come," Jon called, and a pair of servants pushed in, one carrying a covered tray filled with food, the other with a flagon of wine and a pitcher of cool water. When they'd placed the food on the table and left, Jon bade his sister eat while he told her of Winterfell's business. "We've received none of the new weapons Lord Piper builds, but he sent us copies of his plans, and the armorer thinks we can fashion the things ourselves. He has a team of blacksmiths and carpenters who've been working on the project day and night."

"For mounting on our walls?" the girl asked between bites of bread and cheese.

"A pair for each gate, one on each side."

"Do you think they'll work?"

The man shrugged. "Who can say? Such a thing has not been tried since before even our grandsires were born, but the armorer thinks it promising."

"No weaknesses in the walls?"

"None. I concluded a complete survey just after you left."

She nodded. "Good." The girl nibbled at another cube of cheese thoughtfully.

"Do you wish to tell me of the Dreadfort now?"

"Well, you'll have to wait at least another four years for your Bolton squire," the queen said. "The oldest of the boys has only just mastered sitting atop a privy."

"Was the transition smooth?"

"As smooth as can be expected when a household is greeted by the heads of its lord and his mad son at breakfast. All in all, it went well."

"I note you have a fading bruise at the center of your forehead."

"Ah, yes," the girl said, swiping at the spot with two fingers. There was still a faint discomfort there if she pressed hard enough. "I was obliged to break Ramsay's nose."

"Did he break anything of yours?"

Arya snorted. "Please," she said, rolling her eyes.

"You are well, then?"

The girl sat up, then leaned over the table, reaching out for her brother's hand, and squeezing it in a reassuring way. "Completely."

Jon nodded, then pulled away from her grip, standing and walking back toward the hearth. He retrieved a small box from the mantle the girl had not noted before. "I have something for you," he said, turning back toward her. "I had it made while you were gone."

Her eyebrows rose. "Oh?"

He moved back to the table and this time, he took the chair at her side. "I thought it might help with your correspondence."

The girl glanced at the box. It was too small to contain a quill, though it could perhaps contain a tiny pot of ink. "My correspondence?"

Jon lifted the lid, revealing a shining silver and gold ring. On its face, the head of a familiar snarling wolf was carved in relief, only this one wore a crown. "You've been using father's signet for your stamps," he said, "but it's too big for your finger, and it's not quite appropriate for your new station." He reached out for his sister's hand and slipped the ring on her finger, then looked at her. "Not too loose?"

Arya swallowed, then shook her head. "No," she whispered. "Not too loose." Then she flung her arms around her brother's neck and pressed her lips to his cheek.

A knock interrupted them once more, only this time it was Winterfell's maester begging entrance.

"A message, your grace," the man said in his salty Dornish accent as he bowed, "only just arrived. From King's Landing." He held out the scroll and the queen spied the familiar red wax with its Targaryen sigil pressed into it.

"Aegon," she said, accepting the parchment.

"Mightn't it be his maester, or his Hand?" Jon asked, eyebrows lowering.

"No. That's his personal seal."

Her brother squinted at the wax. "Is it? How can you tell?"

"I just can."

"Do you wish me to stay and pen a reply for you, your grace?" Matias asked.

"No. If any response is required, I shall see to it. Thank you, maester."

The man bowed once again, then withdrew. Jon stood, saying, "I should go, too. I am to meet with Ser Brynden."

"Oh?"

"We are reorganizing some of the companies and trying to figure how best to use your Bravos," he revealed.

"You two have been busy in my absence," the girl observed. Her brother smiled at her, bending to place a kiss on her forehead.

"I'm glad you're home, Arya. See you at supper?"

"Yes, of course."

With her assurance, Jon left for his meeting.

Strange, Arya thought to herself as she released one end of the raven scroll, allowing it to curl itself up once again after she'd finished reading it, that the king would reference her sister when she'd only just been ruminating on that very subject. But then, she supposed she had been the one to broach the subject of the Vale in her last message to him.

But that wasn't all that was strange about the letter.

First and foremost, she was unsettled by her complete lack of annoyance at Aegon's words. Despite her goading, she'd expected him to cling to his titles, his formality. That he hadn't, that he'd proven unpredictable to a degree, should've irritated her. Yet… it didn't.

And then there was the fact that she wasn't the only one goading. He clearly meant to pick at her over her sister. That should've irritated her as well. Instead, it had made her thoughtful. She brooded over her conversation with Jon as well as Aegon's words on the subject. The girl was forced to confront her own reluctance to write to the Eyrie.

Reluctance, her little voice sneered. Why not call it what it is? Cowardice.

That Arya did not know her sister's condition shamed her. Or, more precisely, she was shamed that she had not pursued the knowledge more insistently. She had not made the acquiring of such knowledge a priority. But then, she felt perhaps she could not, should not seek her answer until she understood the answer to a different question.

Which was worse? That Sansa was alive and well and aware her sister had returned, yet did not care to contact her? Or that she was dead and buried and the two would forever be denied a chance at reconciliation?

The girl had told her brother that what she feared was loss and he had said she'd either lost, or she hadn't; that certainty was better than not knowing which was true. But that didn't quite get to the heart of the matter.

Because she knew that it was possible no matter the truth, no matter whether Sansa was tucked safely away in the Eyrie or slumbered now in the Nightlands, Arya might be unable to escape the loss of her sister; that she might've lost her, either way.

When the girl retrieved parchment and ink, then sat back at the table to pen her letter, her little voice uttered coward once again as she wrote Aegon's name at the opening rather than Sansa's. And perhaps it was that self-recrimination which directed her words to the king, for what she wrote was not what she intended when she'd initially finished reading the scroll he'd sent.

Aegon,

I find myself chastened by your words, though I doubt that was truly your aim. You were right, though. I should know my sister's intent, yet I cannot even be sure she lives. I have only rumor and conjecture in answer to the question, but I cannot make myself put pen to paper to settle the matter once and for all. It's fear, you see. Fear stops me. You may think it strange that a woman who has earned the title of Butcher of the Crossing should shy away from such a mundane task as writing a letter. I name it strange myself, yet there it is. I believe it's hope that is to blame. Or rather, my inability to trade my hope for truth. I don't suppose that will make much sense to you, and I may be a fool to even commit such thoughts to paper, but you wished for friendship, and this seems to me the sort of thing one would like to talk over with a friend.

I envy you your excellent Septa. Mine was called Mordane, though I think she considered herself more my sister's septa than mine. Sansa certainly learned her lessons better. And her stitches were practically art. Septa Mordane seemed to consider them almost a holy expression of maidenhood. Mine were somewhat less admired. More like a dreary expression of disregard, I'd say, with a dash of resentment sprinkled in.

The Dreadfort is sorted. I thank you for your concern.

Your new friend,

Arya

"The Twins," Bethany Blackwood squeaked as she gazed out on the immense east bank towers of the place. After taking a moment to gather her senses, she turned toward Lord Dayne, who rode beside her. "It's… so much more imposing than I'd pictured in my mind." She pronounced her admission with the sort of breathless admiration of a young person who has rarely ridden beyond the sight of her own home.

"An impressive castle, to be sure, my lady," the young lord agreed, smiling down at her. "I am told Ser Patrek Mallister has charge of it for the time being. Do you know him at all?"

The young woman shook her head. "My father and my brother Brynden know him, but I've never met the man."

No sooner had she spoken the words than the gates of the barbican were raised, and several men rode forth. The knight at the forefront wore shining mail, a fine surcoat emblazoned with a silver eagle, wings spread atop an indigo shield belted over it.

"Ser Patrek, I presume," Edric said when the small party came to rest before his company.

"Lord Dayne," the knight said, bowing his head in greeting. "Welcome to the Twins."

"May I present Lady Bethany Blackwood?"

"My lady." Ser Patrek gave her a friendly nod as he spoke. "We had word of your visit from your father. You are most welcome here."

Bethany blushed and smiled, dropping her gaze demurely as she murmured, "My thanks, ser."

The new arrivals were led through the castle gates and across the bridge over the Green Fork into the western towers. The household was assembled to greet them there and though Ser Patrek offered to have the newcomers shown to their chambers, Lord Dayne was most anxious to speak with the Mallister heir, Maester Brenett, and other men who held positions of import in the castle.

"You seem to want to make a survey of us," Ser Patrek observed. Edric grinned sheepishly.

"I assure you, I have not come under your roof as a spy, ser. I am merely curious."

"About what?"

"Oh, well, I'm very interested in the castle, of course. The layout is unique."

"I shall arrange a complete tour for you, then."

"I'd be obliged, ser. I've never had the privilege of visiting, though I spent much of my youth in the Riverlands."

"Yes, I recall hearing of it now," Patrek said. "You were squire to Lord Beric Dondarrion, were you not?"

"Yes, that's right," Edric nodded.

"A good man, Lord Beric."

"He was the finest of men, ser, though as you might imagine, not much welcomed in some of the great houses here at the time, once he was branded an outlaw."

"Men sent out in a king's service one minute may be branded outlaws, brigands, and thieves the next," Ser Patrek acknowledged.

A somber look colored Edric's face at the knight's words. "It is good of you to say so, ser. Not everyone would be so forgiving."

"Any man of honor would understand what I have said to be true, my lord."

Edric placed a hand over his heart, bowing his head for a moment with his eyes closed. When he straightened once again, his eyes roved all around, drinking in his surroundings. After a moment, he asked his host, "How do you run this place now that there is no hereditary lord here?"

Ser Patrek did not miss a beat. "It's more like a military outpost currently, though I imagine the queen will have designs of her own once things are more settled. Whether she will award the castle to a Frey heir she trusts or another family entirely, I cannot say as yet. She'd be within her rights to do either."

"Ah, yes," Edric breathed. "Your queen."

"My lord?"

"I knew her, you see, though that was many years ago, when we were children." The Dornish lord looked keenly at the knight. "Tell me, ser, do you know the lady well?"

"Well enough, my lord."

"Well enough for what?"

"Well enough to understand serving her is an honor." Patrek gazed out over the yard a moment before adding, "And a necessity."

"Is that so? A necessity, you say?" Lord Dayne's face reflected his doubt. "I understood that King Aegon had sent ravens explaining his position. And his expectations of the River lords. But you found yourself a queen to whom you felt driven to pledge allegiance, despite that?"

Ser Patrek's face turned hard at his guest's words. "Yes. I did."

Maester Brenett cleared his throat and leaned in toward the two men, his eyes finding Patrek's. "It might help if Lord Dayne were to understand the… uh… totality of the queen's… accomplishments."

"Indeed, it would," Edric said, turning toward the maester. "Are you the man to tell that tale?"

"There is a volume…" Brenett began.

"A volume?"

"As yet incomplete, but still, I think, enlightening."

Confusion drew the Dornishman's mouth downward into a small frown. "An incomplete volume detailing the exploits of a girl of six and ten?" The look on Ser Patrek's face said he did not appreciate his guest's tone, Sword of the Morning or not, but the young lord ignored it.

"Just so, my lord. It is the work of Lord Blackwood's son, Lord Hoster," the maester revealed, "though I have lent my hand to it as well."

Edric crossed his arms over his broad chest, looking from Brenett to Patrek, then back again. "I think you'd best show me this book, maester."

"Their mood is unaccountably serene, he writes, as though they have all agreed to ignore the fact that the actions they took in fracturing the kingdom could lead them into war." Aegon dropped Edric's scroll on the table and looked across it at Lord Tyrion and his Hand. "What do you make of that?"

"A show, perhaps," the dwarf suggested. "The River lords surely know that Lord Dayne reports back to you all he sees. I doubt the Blackfish will allow any of them to forget for one moment that war is at their doorstep. I'm certain he takes steps to prepare the land for it, and pains to conceal those steps from us."

"Agreed. Brynden Tully has never been unaccountably serene a day in his life," Lord Connington said. "His mind is made half of military maneuvers and half of sword technique."

"I suppose there is a degree of serenity to be had in certainty," the king mused.

"What do you mean, your grace?" Tyrion asked.

"Only that being settled in a course of action might alleviate anxieties. If you have determined you will fight a war, then knowing it may come would not disturb your peace overmuch."

The Hand scowled. "It matters little if they play a mummer's farce for our sake or if they are filled with bravado. If war comes, they cannot hope to stand against dragonfire. They must know that."

Tyrion nodded, his face grim, then asked, "Does Lord Dayne say anything else of interest?"

"There is news here about their queen," Aegon replied, glancing down at the parchment. "The Frey girl's tale was not much exaggerated, he says, and she has done more besides. Apparently, Lord Blackwood's son is writing a book on the subject."

"A book on Arya Stark?" Tyrion chuckled.

"A book on her many adventures," the king corrected.

"Oh, has she had many in all her long years?"

"So it would seem," Aegon murmured.

"Perhaps she has related some of them to you in her latest message," Jon said, glaring pointedly at the scroll with the unbroken wolf seal on the king's desk.

"If she has, I shall be sure to let you know," Aegon promised with a small smile, refusing to be bullied into reading the thing with his advisors in the room. He would save it for later, when he might savor the words in private.

Then men went on discussing the business of the kingdom and calming the chaos in the capital. Tyrion was overseeing the reorganization of the goldcloaks, determined to structure their hierarchy in such a way that they were less capable of a coup and more likely to actually keep the peace in the city. Gold from the Iron Bank to pay the men a fair wage helped his cause considerably. The Hand pushed Aegon to name Willas Tyrell master of coin, both for his sensible head when it came to finances and as a balm to his house for their disappointment over the failure of the throne to offer a royal marriage for either Margaery or Willas.

By the time they'd finished discussing the state of the navy, the sun had sunk low and Aegon remarked that he would take a simple supper in his solar before retiring.

"Will you not dine with Daenerys in the small hall?" Jon asked. The note of censure in his voice was unmistakable.

"I think not."

"Your grace, you must make an effort. She is your kin, and you treat her like an uneasy ally," the Hand admonished.

"I assure you, Jon, she desires my company even less than I desire hers, and that's saying something, especially since I never tried to kill her."

"Even so, Lord Connington is not wrong," the dwarf told the king. "Besides, I think she's warming to you. I've heard she's now keen for the match."

Aegon snorted. "That's not born out of any real affection for me. She merely understands how to play the game."

"A game you would be wise to start playing as well, your grace," Jon said, "if you intend to hold this kingdom together."

The king sighed, dropping his head down for a moment before lifting his eyes to his advisors. "Fine. Arrange a supper for tomorrow. I shall sit with my aunt and eat and drink and attempt to charm her. But leave me now to my solitude and have someone send up a light tray."

Later, when a tray of grapes from the Reach, cheese from the Stormlands, and wine from Dorne had been set on the table in his solar, Aegon retrieved the scroll from Winterfell and settled in his chair. He popped a grape in his mouth, chewing slowly as he considered the seal, the snarling wolf pressed into the wax now crowned.

The queen had a new signet. So, not one for titles, but symbols were acceptable, it seemed.

Aegon grinned at the thought.

"I'm sorry we couldn't offer you better accommodations, my lady," a crannogman said to Lady Bethany during their breakfast at Moat Cailin. "I reckon Lord Blackwood's daughter is used to more luxury than we could ever hope to provide here."

The girl smiled, in her usual good humor despite the sparse chamber she'd slept in after their arrival at the ruined holdfast. "Not at all," she said. "It's an adventure I shall tell my children of one day, I'm sure. And our queen slept here, did she not? On her way to Winterfell? If she could endure it, who am I to complain?"

Edric admired Bethany's spirit and nodded his approval as she spoke. The journey had not been unpleasant or overly arduous to this point, but the girl had no experience riding the road. The lord thought she would've been within her rights to complain, yet she never did.

"She endured worse," the crannogman replied. "Many improvements have been made to Moat Cailin since she passed through. The chamber you slept in now has four solid walls and new thatch overhead. When the queen was here, you could've counted the stars while lying in your bed."

"Oh!" Bethany seemed surprised. "I suppose we're all lucky she didn't freeze to death, then."

"She's made of stern stuff, our queen," the crannogman said as he spooned more porridge into his mouth.

"So I have heard," Edric revealed.

"You've heard," the crannogman told him, "but I've seen."

"What can you tell me about her?" Bethany asked excitedly. "We've already heard such tales! I can scarce believe the same friend who was nearly undone at the thought of corsets and kohl is the Butcher of the Crossing!"

"Aye," the man nodded, "though I know naught of corsets. Queen Arya is her father's daughter, to be sure, and one of the few people not born in the Great Swamp who has ever walked the halls of Greywater Watch."

A Northman near them, overhearing the conversation, piped up, "She'll need a new name now that she's taken Lord Bolton's head, and that of his bastard son."

Edric's ears perked. "She had the Boltons executed?"

"Had them executed?" the Northman scoffed. "Hardly. This is the North, milord."

"What does that mean?" Bethany asked, befuddled.

"It means she took their heads herself. By her own hand. That's the way I heard it," the Northman replied, then, seeing the girl shudder, added more gently, "though maybe it was wrong to say it to you, milady."

"No, no," Bethany protested weakly, "it's fine."

Edric wondered if the girl was starting to question her enthusiasm to be part of the Winter Court. The reality might prove to be less romantic than she'd envisioned. He felt a pang of sympathy for her. She'd led a sheltered life, her parents doting on her since the day she was born. Her heart might be stout, but it was also naïve to the dangers of the wider world. The lord was torn between a desire to protect her from such knowledge and the thought that his protection would do her no favors in the end; that knowing was better.

She should know who she serves.

That led the young lord's contemplations to another who should know.

The king.

Aegon should know who it was he sought to marry. Edric had endeavored to inform him along the way, filling his letters with the tales he heard in the great houses and along the road. Would these tales sour the king on the match? Would his eye turn elsewhere, perhaps toward someone gentler and more retiring?

Somewhere deep inside of him, Edric felt a spark of hope at the thought.

Hope not for Aegon's sake, but for his own.

The king sups with his aunt in the small hall. He will not return to his solar for hours, if he even returns at all this night. It gives the assassin the time to search out the letters.

Her letters.

He's heard whisperings of them, the gossip of servants who have overhead this bit or that; snippets repeated and embellished and amended so often, he cannot be sure what is true and what is false.

He will see for himself.

He finds scrolls from Sunspear and Highgarden and Casterly Rock and casts them aside. He finds scrolls with the seal of the Iron Bank, his lip curling at the sight. He finds several scrolls from Lord Dayne, and reads them with interest, but he does not find any scrolls from a lovely girl.

Until he discovers a small, locked chest beneath the king's bed. He does not have the key, it is nowhere in the room, he is sure, but he does not need it. Locks present no deterrent to a man who has studied the sorcery of Asshai'.

He settles on the floor next to the bed, leaning back against it as he mutters the words that turn the lock. Within, there are three scrolls, and three scrolls only. He picks up the first and unfurls it, his false blue eyes dancing over the words, heart clenching at the familiar hand. It is not her, but it is the closest thing to her he has touched in eight moons.

The assassin smiles as he reads, hearing her voice in his head. He can perfectly envision the girl's haughty sniff as she takes a king to task for something as trivial as tone.

He sets the first scroll back in its place and reaches for the second. This time, it is her words rather than her hand which causes his heart to ache. She speaks of her crown, too heavy and too large, and he thinks she means more than the actual fit of the thing. His brow wrinkles with his worry over her and the role she's been forced into; the toll it is taking on her.

When he reads about the Dreadfort, his concern only deepens. He knows a girl would crave her revenge, but she's only just arrived home. What could possibly exist behind Bolton walls that could tempt her to leave Winterfell, and her brothers, so soon?

He vows to find out, then finishes the letter, an uneasy feeling coiling in his gut. Her words become softer than he expects, more cordial. Does she consider the silver king her friend now? He had not considered the possibility it would be so. He chastises himself for his surprise. He himself likes Aegon. Why would she be different?

If the first scroll makes him nostalgic and the second unsettles him, then it is the third scroll which completely undoes him. He reads it, blows out a breath, then reads it again.

He does not know how it is possible for one brief message to make him feel all that he feels in that moment. Sadness. Worry. Regret. Anger. Jealousy. Emotions he had mastered when he was still young enough that Umma's spice cake was his greatest delight. And somehow, here they all are, filling him up and spilling over like a powerful waterfall, dragging him under like a relentless current.

This is Arya. Her work.

She has done this to him.

The assassin has control, always, but Jaqen H'ghar cannot make such a claim.

He closes his eyes and breathes, thinking of the temple; of his master; of all the lessons he'd learned behind the ebony and weirwood doors. When he opens his eyes once again, he feels a calm take hold of him. He cannot know what the silver king has said to a lovely girl to inspire such raw honesty. He cannot know what she has endured, what she might be enduring still, that led to such a display of trust. He cannot know what has drawn such expression of emotion from her. He cannot know, and so he cannot judge.

He resolves that he will not be unnerved.

The part of him that is Faceless understands how to do this.

The part of him that is Jaqen H'ghar does not.

"I hated baths as a girl," Arya said, sinking lower in the warm tub as Rosie washed her hair. "Absolutely detested them. But I rather like them now."

Lady Dyanna shook out the gown she'd chosen for the queen and laid it carefully across her bed. "Why the change, do you think?"

Arya shrugged. "I train now. The warm water helps with sore muscles."

Lady Wynafryd rolled her eyes. "Of course, it does," she snorted.

"It also helps that I don't have a cadre of nasty servants scrubbing at my skin like its an affront to the gods every time I step into a tub."

"I'll take that as a compliment, your grace," her maid said, rinsing the suds from the girl's head.

"You should, Rosie. Your touch is as soft as fresh fallen snow," the queen told her.

"Less cold, though, I hope," the maid giggled.

"Who knew our queen was such a poet?" Wynafryd laughed. "You should write songs, your grace."

"I leave the poetry to you, my lady," Arya grinned. "My talent lies elsewhere."

"I'm not so sure about that," Dyanna replied. "Perhaps you just need the right inspiration."

"What sort of inspiration?" the queen inquired as Wynafryd picked through her jewelry and held up the cat comb for Arya's inspection. The girl shook her head, and the lady returned the comb and found a different hair ornament.

"A great love," Dyanna suggested. Arya grew quiet at the words and her ladies took it as a sign of thoughtful consideration.

"You'll have your chance when Lord Dayne arrives," Wynafryd said, "though you'll certainly have competition."

"Competition?" Dyanna scoffed. "Who could hope to compete with the queen?"

"Not for his affections, silly," Wynafryd laughed. "For her song. I swear half a dozen have been written about the man, and he's barely eight and ten!" The Manderly woman cast her gaze upon the queen. "You'll have to devise a clever angle if you want your song remembered."

The girl scoffed as Rosie twisted her hair to wring out the water. "It won't be memorable because I won't be writing any songs."

"Then perhaps he'll write one about you, your grace," Wynafryd continued, her eyes twinkling. "I hear he sings and plays the lute."

"You hear?" Dyanna asked. "From whom?"

"I come from a harbor town, remember. There are always tales making their way off ships in port. Plus, I've had a letter from my father."

"He wrote of Lord Dayne?" Dyanna asked, surprised.

"He says Lord Blackwood wrote him. Lord Dayne stayed at Raventree Hall over a week. He's escorting Bethany Blackwood here."

All this, Arya knew. She'd had letters from Raventree Hall and New Castle herself. Lord Blackwood asked that she take on his daughter as one of her companions, and Lord Manderly urged her to agree to nothing Lord Dayne might suggest in Aegon's name until the great lords could be convened to consider any proposals. But she hadn't known about the songs. Or the lute playing.

She could picture it, though. Ned seemed like someone who would be adept at plucking strings.

"I have no interest in being the subject of Lord Dayne's songs," the girl said, "no matter how pretty he may sing. He's a friend. That's all."

"That's all for now," Wynafryd teased, making Rosie and Dyanna giggle.

"You are a hopeless romantic, Lady Wynafryd," the queen chided, then, turning her head to look at Dyanna, she added, "and you are little better."

"Your grace, I am a maid of five and twenty, as yet unmarried," the Manderly woman retorted. "I must either be a hopeless romantic, or an embittered spinster."

"There are worse things in this world than being unmarried," Arya said.

"Maybe for you, your grace, but not for me."

"Then maybe we should be discussing Edric Dayne as a match for you instead of the queen," Dyanna said.

"I'm not a great enough prize for the Lord of Starfall," Wynafryd replied, all practicality.

"What if he were to spy you across the room and simply fall in love at the sight of you?" the crannogwoman asked, breathless with her imagining. "You're certainly comely enough to capture his heart."

"Oh, you sweet girl," Wynafryd sighed. "If only it worked that way. Besides, he's a bit young for me."

The queen's gaze softened as she stared at the flames licking up in her hearth. After a moment, she said, "Tell me, my lady, what do you think of Brynden Blackwood?"

"Lady Cerwyn sends word," Maester Matias announced at breakfast. "Lord Dayne's party is expected to arrive at her door within a day. She's sent riders to escort them but asks how long we would like her to entertain them."

Jon looked at his sister. "I see no reason for delay, do you?"

"No. Hal has said we are prepared for guests," the girl replied, referring to Winterfell's steward, "and we've mounted at least a few of the scorpions."

"Planning to test them out on Lord Dayne, your grace?" Lord Umber japed.

"In a manner of speaking," the queen said. "Test out the impression they make, anyway."

"If he pisses his pants, you'll know they were worth the time," Tormund snorted, causing the girl to smirk as both Ser Brynden and her brother shook their head at the wildling's lack of decorum. It amused Arya that they still bothered.

"Send word back to Lady Cerwyn that she need not trouble herself any longer than courtesy dictates," Jon told the maester. "We will receive Lord Dayne as soon as he sees fit to arrive. Oh, and tell her she is invited to the welcoming feast, should she choose to join them on the road."

"That will make her happy," Arya murmured, "though if you wrote her yourself, she might faint for the joy of it."

"What can you mean?" Jon asked blithely, causing his sister to grin.

"Don't pretend you don't know."

He cut his eyes at her. "It's not for my sake that I pretend. It's to spare her feelings."

She leaned in toward him. "You are more a knight than any man I've ever met, Jon." The girl gave him a peck on the cheek. "Still, it might be kinder to be more forthright with the woman. I'm not certain feigning ignorance of her regard will be as effective as you hope."

"I'll take your advice under consideration."

The girl stood, smiling at her brother, and telling him she needed to see to her correspondence if she was to be free to play hostess when Lord Dayne and his party passed through Winterfell's gates (and beneath the menacing shadow of the ballistas mounted on top of Winterfell's walls). It was true that she had some queries from her lords needing reply, but mostly, she wished to sit in quiet and compose a thoughtful response to Aegon's most recent letter.

It had arrived a week past, and she had never waited so long to answer. Only Ned's imminent arrival pressed her to do so now. Otherwise, she might've reflected on it a bit longer. The king's words had left her… unbalanced, somehow. Yet not in an unpleasant way. She could not account for it.

He'd assured her that her thoughts on her sister were something he understood very well; something he envied, even, as he could never hope to recover his own sister.

If fate had seen fit to grace me with such a hope, I do not know that I could surrender it either, he'd written.

He'd apologized for his teasing about knowing her sister's mind. He explained that he'd not realized she was unaware of Sansa's fate and never would have japed about it if he'd known.

I hope you will forgive me, he'd written, the sentence set apart on its own line, standing out from the rest of the message.

He told her he was glad she had left the business of the Dreadfort behind her, whatever it was, as she'd made it plain she found the place to be unpleasant. She decided that was thoughtful of him, strangely so, that he'd care for her comfort.

After reading the letter, she'd been left with a single thought.

Aegon Targaryen might not be such a bad man after all.

And that was what had left her feeling so unmoored.

Her logic told her he was a threat to her kingdom, to her, to everyone she loved. But his words told her he was a decent person and a friend.

She hadn't known how to settle the conflict within, and so the letter sat on her writing desk, unanswered.

She intended remedy that today.

Once her letters were written and handed off to the maester, the girl found her squire and her youngest brother in the training yard with Ser Willem and Baynard. She crossed blades with all of them in turn, laughing as the younger boys finally gave up trying to attack her with swords and simply rushed her in concert, knocking her backwards onto the ground. She deftly rolled, heels over head, then popped up, none the worse for wear, save a bit of mud on her arse. Rickon and Young Brax had both lost their footing in the effort, though, and landed on their bellies in the cold mud. The girl laughed.

"You'll have to bathe now," she needled. "Osha won't let you get away without it."

As if summoned by the sound of her name, the wildling woman appeared.

"I don't know why your sister wastes a bedchamber on the likes of you two," she groused, "when a stye would be more fitting! Alright then, up, boys!" With that, she herded to two out of the yard, presumably somewhere she could rinse the mud from their skin and clothes.

"Thank you for taking the time to train them," Arya told her brother assassins after the youngsters had gone.

"Not much else to do around here," the Rat sniffed.

"You could go home," the Cat suggested. "You've fulfilled your duty and delivered me to Winterfell. There's nothing to keep you here now, is there?" Her look was sly as she asked.

"Only the seas," he said. "It's not a favorable time to voyage to Braavos. Winter storms…"

"Winter could last years. Are we to have the pleasure of your company for so long?"

"Leave him be, sister," the Bear grunted.

She shrugged. "Just asking." The girl winked at the assassins then left them in the yard as she made her way to the godswood.

She walks through the trees until she finds the warm pool before the weirwood. Her toes come to rest at the water's edge, and she peers down, watching the lazy swirls of steam which curl and fade like ghosts. She does not expect to find an answer in the water, nor in the mists which mask it, that is for her brother to provide, but she finds stillness in the exercise. She finds reprieve.

Enough so that she wonders if this is how the gods speak to her now; in the mists; in the slowly dissolving shapes the steam creates. Maybe they are like the flames to a red priest. She stares harder but the mist reveals nothing.

Nothing which makes sense, anyway.

The girl wanders to the white tree. Its crimson leaves stir and whisper her name. She knows Bran is calling her. She is glad, thinking perhaps it means he has something to say; something important. Perhaps he will make her path clear to her.

Arya sits as her father did, then leans back against the wide trunk, her head coming to rest just below the ancient, carved face of the tree. It only takes a moment, and then she is standing before her brother's knotty throne.

"Bran," she says, and her voice is warm. "How are you?"

"I am, I was, and I will be again," he answers cryptically, and she does not know whether to laugh or curse him. He does not ask her how she is. She supposes he knows.

"Jon will leave you be, for now," she tells him. "That's one folly put to rest."

"It's another folly which concerns me," Bran replies. "Yours."

"Mine?" She does laugh then. "What have I done?"

"Nothing yet."

The girl shrugs. "Well, it hardly seems fair to judge me, then."

"I do not judge you; I only mean to save you from regret."

"I could've used a little of that seven years past," she snorts. "You might've stopped us leaving Winterfell."

"All that has happened was meant to happen, else we could not be ready for what is to come."

Arya eyed her brother curiously. "Has anyone ever told you that sometimes it's better to simply say what you mean? I understand you love your mysterious riddles, but…"

"Had our father not left Winterfell, and you with him, you would not be queen today."

"You say that as if I should want my crown."

"Want it or not, it makes no difference. You need it. Or, rather, the North needs you to have it. We all do."

She sighs. "I don't suppose you're going to explain why?"

"You are the grey daughter."

"So I've been told," the girl mutters.

"Yes, you've been told, but you've not understood."

"I've always assumed it meant I was the Stark heir."

"You are. But that is not what it means."

"Alright. Enlighten me, brother."

"The grey is the place where darkness dies, and the light is born; the place the night fades as the morning rises."

Arya's eyes narrow. "It's also the place the day wanes before the night takes hold."

"It can be that, too. Yes."

"So, which is it?"

"That choice is yours."

"I came here to find an answer but instead, you saddle me with your riddles before I can even ask the question."

Bran looks down at her, unimpressed by her grousing. "You don't have to ask it. I know." He lets that sink in for a moment, that he knows, and that he still has not given her an answer, then he asks, "Do you remember what I told you about our path, sister?"

"That it is narrow?"

He nods. "So narrow, in fact, that in places, it is more like a tightrope."

"I recall." She stifles the urge to roll her eyes at his dramatics.

"Good. Remember this, too. What has been, had to be, or I would not be. What has been, had to be, or you would not be. And we must be, sister, lest the light fade from the world."

"And if I remember this, it will save me from some future folly only you know?"

"Yes."

The girl shrugs. "And I thought the ghost of High Heart was annoyingly cryptic…"

"A wise woman."

"You admire her? Figures." The girl moves closer to her brother's throne, ignoring the way he holds up a hand in warning. "Is this all the answer I'm to have?"

He leans down a bit to glare at her and his eyes radiate pure frustration. "It's the only answer you need. The only thing that's important right now. The rest is… distraction."

"Right. Distraction. I see. Anything I want to know is 'distraction' and anything you think is important to tell me can only be expressed as a vague puzzle."

"I cannot say it plainer, sister. The truth, the three truths, are in my words. You have only to hear them."

"That the path is narrow…"

"Yes."

"…and all has happened as it was meant to happen…"

"As it had to happen," he corrected.

"As it had to happen," she repeated.

"Yes. And the last?"

"The last truth? Have you said? I don't know…"

"That I am. And I was. And gods willing, that I will be again."

Two restless nights had passed since Arya had had her strange encounter with Bran. She supposed it might not just be her disquiet over their interaction which kept her from her rest, but also her indecision regarding the way she should approach a friendship with Aegon Targaryen and the general anticipation of Edric Dayne's arrival. After a second night of staring at her ceiling for hours as she fruitlessly willed sleep to come, the girl gave up trying and rose, dressing in the dark.

The morning was still a deep grey when Arya entered the training yard alone. She was surprised to find Ser Jaime there. Truth be told, she was surprised that anyone would be there at all, considering the hour.

"Stark," he said, giving her a jaunty bow.

"Kingslayer," she returned, one eyebrow cocked high. "What brings you out before the dawn?"

"The same as you, I imagine."

"Trouble sleeping?"

"Mmm."

"Shall we spar?"

"If you like."

The two crossed blades, circling one another with feints and jabs as the sky lightened above them.

"You seem… preoccupied," the girl observed after she'd clapped the knight on his shoulder with a move he should've countered.

"I suppose I am."

"Care to share what with?"

Jaime dropped his sword, locking her in his gaze. His look made the girl tense.

"It's something Max said a while ago, and I can't make heads or tails of it."

"Max?" Arya's eyebrows pinched in.

"The captain of your Bravos, Maximil Rominus."

"Ah," the girl nodded, then smirked. "You know him well enough for a nickname, Ser Jaime? It's nice that you're making friends." The Kingslayer just scowled at her. "Well, what did he say?"

"When we supped at Cerwyn, I asked him if he knew Syrio Forel. Turns out, he did. Or, had, rather."

The girl's heart skipped, a smile curling her lips. "Did he? And what had he to say of my dancing master?"

"Many things—the man was as good as you claim, for one, his reputation known across Braavos…"

"Of course! He was the First Sword, after all…"

"…he never refused a challenge to duel…"

"Well, why would he? No one could match his skill."

"…including the one that killed him."

The girl's smile died, and she took a small breath, holding it as memory pricked at her heart. "I wouldn't have called that a duel," she finally said. "Syrio had only a wooden sword, and even then…"

"No, your grace," Jaime interrupted, his voice soft, "that's not the duel I mean."

Arya's mouth tipped down at its corners. "I… don't understand you, ser."

He stepped closer to her. "Syrio Forel, First Sword of Braavos, was killed in a duel when you were still a crawling child."

"What?" the girl whispered, shaking her head. "No. You are mistaken."

"I'm not. I grilled the man all evening when he told me that. And have questioned him since. Twice. He is insistent. He says it is well known in Braavos."

"No, I can't… it's… not an uncommon name. That must be the confusion."

"If it were merely a shared name, perhaps, but the office as well? There can be no mistaking that."

"I… don't understand."

"Your grace, your dancing master was not who he claimed to be."

Grey Daughter and Frost dropped to the ground with dull thuds as Arya stumbled back one step, then another. "It can't be," she muttered. "He killed five guardsmen with a stick. Who else could've done that?"

Jaime shook his head. "Someone with the same sort of skill. Likely a Bravo fleeing his debts or some other trouble in Essos. King's Landing would have been the perfect place to hide—few would have even heard the name Syrio Forel, much less ever laid eyes on the man. It would have been a simple thing to claim his identity and make easy coin teaching a lord's daughter."

"He wasn't just some Bravo," the girl protested. "You didn't see him, Jaime. Even now, with all my skill and training, I couldn't hope to match him. I can think of no one who could…"

Arya's head felt strange and light, as though a stiff wind might carry it away, over the walls of the castle and into the wolfswood. She bent over, placing her hands on her knees, and squeezing her eyes shut. Blood rushed to her eardrums and the sounds around her dulled.

"Are you alright, Stark?"

The girl did not answer her Lord Commander. Instead, she thought of Syrio, or the man who had called himself Syrio, at least, and shook her head in disbelief.

My words lied. My eyes and my arm shouted out the truth, but you were not seeing.

Boy, girl… You are a sword, that is all.

After a few moments and some deep breaths pulled in through her nose, Arya straightened. She moved to retrieve her swords, her dancing master's lessons swirling around in her head. Had he tried to tell her? Was that what his words had meant after all? That she could see through the lie, if only she focused on the right things? That identity did not matter, only skill? Something tugged at the corners of her mind as she considered it. Something familiar. Something that caused her pulse to quicken. It slowly dawned on her that Syrio's words, his lessons, had sounded…

Faceless.

The girl stiffened, her eyes growing wide.

"No," she said, her gaze snapping to Jaime's. She stared through him, though, not seeing him.

"Your grace?" She shook her head and something about her look must have alarmed the man, because he moved to her, grasping her arm with his good hand, and squeezing it reassuringly. "Stark?"

She blinked and swallowed, her thoughts a muddle, her burgeoning suspicion clawing at her denial. She felt as though she were back on Titan's Daughter, in the middle of a storm, the ship's deck rolling beneath her feet. She thought she might be sick. Inside, she scrambled for some reassurance; some truth; something she could trust. Someone she could trust. She stared into Jaime's emerald eyes, fighting back shocked tears.

"Jaime?" she whispered, and she felt weak, as though they'd just finished sparring for hours. And maybe that was what pulled her in, that weakness, coupled with her need for comfort, for the security of certitude. Maybe that was what drew her into his thoughts, that search for solace. But she did not find it.

Instead, she found…

Betrayal.

The girl's mouth dropped open and she blinked hard two times, then three. She pulled back from the Kingslayer's grasp, clapping her hand over her mouth to stifle her gasp.

"Your grace?"

This time, she was unable to fight back her tears, and they began to track down her cheeks.

"Stark…"

She shook her head, back and forth, over and over and over again, small motions that were almost a tremor she could not stop.

"Arya, what is it?" The golden knight's worried tone was edged with a plea. He watched as the queen finally dropped her hand from her mouth and gaped at him, her eyes holding an unfathomable amount of hurt. When she finally found her voice, he paled visibly at her words.

"Bran?" she groaned, a sob clawing its way up her throat. "How could you?"

All the guilt he had carried inside of him over the years washed over him then, his face suddenly looking older than she'd ever seen, and he closed his eyes as though he were in pain. "Arya," he murmured hoarsely, "please…" He breathed in and out, opening his eyes and taking a step toward the queen. She began to shake her head again, scrambling back from him for a few steps before she turned and bolted from the yard.

Your Decision—Alice in Chains