I saw exactly what was true, but oh, no more

That's why I hold

That's why I hold with all I have

Arya's thoughts were muddled and twisting as she ran from the training yard. Too much pressed in on her, all at once, and it made it hard for her to breathe, and impossible for her to think. She felt as though she'd never experienced a more difficult challenge than pulling air into her lungs or sorting one thought from another. Needles pricked at the skin around her eyes, her lips, her wrists. Needles pricked at her brain. Her fingers felt numb and heavy. Her steps began to falter, wrenching from her a frustrated groan. She needed to move, to race. She needed to put as much distance between herself and those thoughts as she could.

Not thoughts, her little voice whispered. Memories.

Jaime's memories.

It was irrational. She was irrational. Deep down, she realized it; realized that running would not distance her from the truth, but that did not quell her desire to do so. It did not stop her craving the space. Her body would not cooperate with her, however much she willed it to, her legs beginning to feel as though they were made of ribbon or something equally insubstantial. She was angry at herself for faltering. She could run two leagues, maybe three, without a twinge. It was only emotion which slowed her now.

Emotion.

She sneered at herself, disgusted.

Rule your face. Rule your thoughts. Rule your intentions.

The lesson was valuable, but its wisdom was lost in the guttural cry she gave when she thought of the man who had first uttered the words to her, his memory most unwelcome in that moment.

He was just one man of many who had betrayed her, it seemed, and with the addition of Syrio and Jaime, she couldn't help but wonder who was next?

The girl drew up to the stables and slammed one palm against the stone wall near the entrance, dragging in ragged breaths and squeezing her eyes shut. She pressed her forehead against the wall, willing the stabbing in her chest to die down.

It wasn't the exercise causing such pain, it couldn't be, and so she thought this must be what it felt like for a heart only half-mended to break again.

As she breathed in deep, caught between a desire to crumple and a need to flee, she realized she did not have to run. Bane could do it for her.

Arya pushed away from the wall of the stables and moved through the entrance, silently gliding to Bane's stall. He snorted when he saw her, and she stroked his long nose with a gentle shushing sound.

"Your grace?" a bleary-eyed stableboy yawned when he saw her retrieving her saddle. "Are you going for a ride? The sun hasn't risen fully…"

"Yes," the queen said.

"But the Winter Guard…"

"Best to let them sleep." She drew in a shaky breath and gave the boy a false smile meant to reassure him. She could still be Faceless, when she needed to be. "It's just a jaunt to the wolfswood for a bit. Will you tell Lord Snow for me? Later, though. When he breakfasts?"

"Yes, your grace." The stableboy nodded toward her saddle. "Shall I do that for you?"

"No need. I can manage. But there's a silver stag in it for you when I return if you get the guard to open the hunter's gate before I'm through here."

He bobbed his head excitedly then took off like a shot, making for the western castle walls. The queen made a mental note that she owed him a stag for his success as she raced through the gate and toward the wolfswood unimpeded. She leaned down low, her back nearly parallel with Bane's as they leapt over a stream and wove through the trees, passing them so quickly as to render them little more than a blur.

Arya had ridden just over a league from the castle when she caught the sound of Nymeria's howl. Shortly after that, the direwolf joined her, keeping pace with her galloping horse. The morning was cold, though not intolerably so, and while snow fell, the canopy of trees overhead protected them from most of it.

As the girl settled into her ride, dark thoughts crowded in, dissolving what little relief she'd found in the bite of the air and the company of her wolf. She wasn't ready to consider all that she must. She wasn't ready to decide what it all meant for her. She wasn't ready to absorb all the disappointment and uncertainty and pain.

Furrowing her brow, Arya turned Bane to the south, loping through the wood as she tried to outpace all thought and all feeling.

The alehouse was newly built, the piney scent of its rough-hewn planks still detectible. It was a pleasant sort of smell, Edric thought, and would be indelibly linked with his memories of the North. He'd observed that more than half the structures in the village were recently constructed, based on the lack of weathering of the wood. The village's expansion echoed what he'd seen as he'd ridden the king's road from Moat Cailin to Cerwyn, new settlements filled with laboring smallfolk dotting the landscape. The North was necessarily growing, its population exploding with the influx of refugees from north of the Wall in recent years.

The garret above the alehouse had not been designed to host guests, but it was amazing how enterprising a proprietor could be when tempted with enough coin and the promise of a good word spoken in his favor at court. It had taken the owner less than half an hour to outfit the space for the young lord.

Edric tossed restlessly on the thin mattress provided him, the wretched thing stuffed with straw that poked at his back, but he knew the accommodation and its sparse amenities were preferable to sleeping in a tent in the cold of the North. Another man might've wondered at the soundness of his own mind, leaving the comforts of Cerwyn behind for this, but Edric was not built that way. He'd set a task for himself, and neither blowing snows nor drafty garrets nor poking straw would deter him from completing it.

"My lord, the crofter's village has flourished, it's true, but still, it has no inn," Lady Cerwyn had told him in an effort to dissuade him from his plan to leave after a single night under her roof.

"I'm certain I can manage, my lady. When I squired for Lord Beric, I rested my head on a stone for a pillow most nights."

"We can certainly do better than that for the Lord of Starfall," Jonelle replied with a befuddled chuckle.

The young man had smiled, indigo eyes filled with his sincerity. "It is more than enough that you are so graciously sheltering my men and Lady Bethany."

"Will you not take respite here with your party awhile longer? You've had such a long journey. Once your horses are tended and your men are rested, we can make our way together to Winterfell. It's not two days ride. You can present yourself to the queen in less than a week." She had not understood the young man's need for such haste.

"I thank you for your hospitality, my lady, but I have a duty to my king." Aegon's last reply to him had made it plain how anxious he was to have a first-hand account of the Winter Court. Aside from that, Edric wished to speak with the smallfolk. He was anxious to hear their impressions of their new queen. His dealings with the servants at Raventree Hall and the fighting men at Moat Cailin had taught him that knights and lords weren't the only ones with valuable insights into the queen's character.

Truth be told, that was his primary reason for riding for the village rather than straight to Winterfell. This, however, he had not revealed to his hostess.

There was risk in the endeavor, to be sure. Only the lords and great houses had been apprised of his journey. His king had not written to the scattered villages and towns to secure his safe passage and he now traveled without his fighting men. Apart from whatever good nature they possessed, the people had no reason to welcome him, but Edric had been told often enough that his manner was winsome and if that failed him, there was always Dawn at his back.

During his brief time in the village, he'd learned it was populated with a mix of Northmen and wildlings (who called themselves 'free folk,' he'd garnered). The villagers seemed largely in favor of their new queen. Her name alone was enough to buy the respect of most Northmen (many of whom recalled Eddard Stark with fondness), but the free folk appreciated the queen not only for the sake of her half-brother (who was regarded as something of a hero among them), but also for the tales that had spread of her revenge. The latest story being passed around the alehouse described how she'd punished the Boltons for their treachery. The details shouted and shared while the alehouse patrons were in their cups were decidedly more gruesome than what he'd heard at Lady Cerwyn's table, though the crux of the story remained the same.

Edric had found such targeted admiration a curious thing, telling one grizzled man, "I've heard your queen is both beautiful and learned. It's also said she's fair with her people, no matter their rank."

"Aye," the man had agreed, "I've heard that, too."

"So why should such violence be the thing which impresses you?"

"This is a hard land, milord, but it's not as hard as the one we come from," the wildling had answered. "I marched south behind Mance Rayder. I know what waits beyond the Wall."

"And what is it you think waits beyond the Wall?"

The man had eyed the lord shrewdly. "A thing so dark, and so cold, and so evil that to look at it could drive a man to madness, and to touch it is to die." He'd taken a deep swallow of his ale, then leaned closer to the Dornishman, muttering, "If a time comes when that Wall fails to hold it back, it won't be how the queen looks or what books she's read that saves us. It won't be her fairness, neither. It'll be that violence."

As Edric tossed on his mattress, drawing the sleeping furs up to his chin, he thought on that conversation, and what judgements other villagers had made of Arya Stark. There was talk of new trade routes (and an increasing demand for woodcutters, work for which the men of the village were particularly well-suited), of keen attention paid to the defense of the realm (he'd seen evidence of this himself at Moat Cailin), and of justice for lowborn and high alike (he supposed the taking of Bolton heads had reinforced the idea among the people). But mostly, they had echoed the sentiments of the grizzled man in the alehouse.

"Winter has come," they'd said, "and the queen is a thing made for winter."

That seemed to be the prevailing theme, almost as if the slogan had been introduced to them in a coordinated campaign. Many said the words, just that way. A thing made for winter. It made him think of her as cold and calculating, and that gave him pause. He'd known her, after all, and though she could be brash and ill-tempered at times, he'd never thought her cold. Quite the opposite, in fact.

He tried to reconcile the image which had formed throughout his journey north with the childhood memory he carried of Arya. The two seemed far apart, the wild girl riding rough with the Brotherhood and the regal woman who'd won the respect of the North in short order through both action and policy. But what he'd learned in his travels allowed him to trace a line between the disparate images. Her path had been circuitous, there was no denying it, but each experience, each adventure, each challenge had acted as a marker on her road to becoming the Winter's Queen.

His own path had been somewhat more linear. Being the first son of a first son born to a great house did not allow for much deviation, though his time with the Brotherhood had provided him a small divergence in his journey to becoming Lord of Starfall and the Sword of the Morning. Of course, his divergence mostly served to make his conversation more engaging at feasts, his adventures now reduced to tales the maidens begged him to tell. Some had even been made into songs (not by him, though. His songs tended to be more wistful in nature). He was certain Arya's experiences gave her more than fodder for song or conversation. Instead, her strange trail was serving to create her legend.

Edric might've been jealous if he weren't so intrigued.

As the sun rose, so did the lord, stretching to work out the stiffness in his muscles from his poor sleep and then dressing. He'd thought to shave, but there was no glass in which he could see his face and so he left the blonde stubble rather than risk a cut.

The proprietor's wife greeted him with a nod as he climbed down the ladder from the garret and asked if he'd be wanting breakfast. At the flash of his coin, she scuttled to the back and returned a while later with a bowl of steaming porridge and a plate of duck eggs. After he'd eaten his fill, Edric asked her if there was more he should see nearby before he made his way to Winterfell.

"Milord might be interested in the laughing tree," the woman suggested as her husband refilled Edric's ale cup.

"The laughing tree?"

"It's the great weirwood on the lake isle."

"The lake I passed to the south? I don't recall an isle, or a weirwood," the lord replied, wondering if the woman was having a bit of fun at his expense.

"No, you wouldn't have," the proprietor agreed. "The village sits between two lakes and the one to the north has an island at its center. That's where the ancient weirwood grows. Right in the middle. You can make it out from the shore, but if you like, you can pay the watchman at the tower for use of his boat and row out. Men do that to pray sometimes."

"I follow the faith of the seven," Edric said.

"Aye, most southrons do, them as follow any faith at all," the woman retorted, "but you're in the North now, milord. It couldn't hurt to win the favor of the old gods, could it?"

"Hush, Lettie," the man said to his wife. "Don't insult our guest."

"No insult is taken," the young man assured them. "She may have a point. Besides that, we have no weirwoods in Dorne. I saw the great weirwood at Raventree Hall, but I've not seen one in the wilds. I think it an excellent suggestion." He smiled at the woman who gave him an approving nod. The lord supposed it could not hurt Aegon's reputation to have his bannerman pay respect to the beliefs of the Northmen at any rate. Finishing his drink and wiping his mouth, he left coin on the table and stepped out of the alehouse and into the frigid morning air. The watchtower was easy to see from his vantage point and he made his way there on foot.

Haldon half-maester had learned he need not inquire about penning a response for the king if the crowned wolf was pressed into the grey sealing wax on a message. Aegon always read such correspondence privately and always answered it personally. It was the only time these days the king's heart seemed light and despite his earlier protestations that one southron match was as good as another for the Winter's Queen, the half-maester understood that Aegon's feelings were more settled on the matter than he cared to admit. It made Hal smile.

And it drove Jon Connington to distraction.

This also made Hal smile.

"Your grace," the Hand argued, "you've not even had a report yet from Lord Dayne. We do not know the state of Winterfell! Indeed, we do not know much of the North at all! What could the girl have possibly said to make you wish to alter our plans?" Jon was gesturing rather forcefully toward the scroll which lay coiled in the king's palm.

"Your plans, my lord," Aegon replied, his blithe manner causing Hal to bite back a grin. One-handed or not, he did not wish to invite Lord Connington's vitriol upon himself.

"We agreed," Jon countered, "that there was too much work yet left here and that you should wait. Besides, if Lord Dayne is successful in pressing your suit, you may yet save yourself the trouble of undertaking any journey at all!"

"Lord Tyrion, do you not think a king should make a survey of the lands he intends to rule?" Aegon asked, turning to look at the dwarf.

"Well, if the opportunity arises…" Tyrion began.

The king interrupted him. "And what better opportunity than a nameday celebration?"

"That's what this is?" the Hand scoffed, staring so hard at scroll the king clutched that Hal wondered if he were attempting to set it aflame with his gaze. "An invitation to a nameday feast?"

"No, not precisely," Aegon admitted. "She merely mentions that in three moons time, she'll make seven and ten, and she hopes by then…" The king seemed to catch himself, stopping mid-sentence and shaking his head.

"She hopes what?" Jon prodded. "She hopes you will accept that she's usurped two of your seven kingdoms? She hopes you will leave her in peace so she can plot to take over the rest? Or she hopes she can scrape up enough coin to hire an assassin to deliver your head to her feet?"

Aegon glared. "You do the lady an injustice."

"Need I remind you of her work at the Twins? And now, with these reports of the carnage at the Dreadfort, it's clear she does not respect blood or name."

"Blood and name are the very justification for her work, as you call it," the king spat. "Need I remind you that both the Freys and the Boltons orchestrated the murder of her mother and brother?"

"Her brother," the Hand sneered. "Another usurper."

Aegon's jaw ticked as he stared at Jon. Hal could see the king was attempting to rule his temper. That he'd even allowed himself to be worked into such a lather was counter to his nature. It made the half-maester wonder if his connection with the Stark girl was more serious than he'd realized. What had she said in that letter?

"Let us not quarrel," Tyrion suggested. "I do not think the king is suggesting we abandon the capital within the week to ride north, Lord Connington."

"Indeed, I am not," Aegon agreed. "I merely wish to begin planning the journey. Arriving at Winterfell ahead of her nameday would be… ideal. That gives us three months."

"That's not enough time," the Hand said gruffly.

"It will have to be," the king countered.

"Willas Tyrell arrives in the capital soon," Hal supplied helpfully, "and the Citadel has promised a new Grand Maester within the week. That just leaves the position of Master of Ships to be filled and the council will be complete." The half-maester looked between the king and his foster-father. "Surely then, Lord Connington will feel the business of the kingdom is well in hand and a journey less disruptive."

The Hand grunted, the sound skeptical, but Aegon nodded. "Jon and I have already agreed between us to offer the position to Ser Rhaegar Waters," he revealed, naming the knight currently in service to House Velaryon and in charge of their rebuilt fleet. By tradition, the position should've gone to the Lord of the Tides, but as the boy was not yet three and ten and Ser Rhaegar was a veteran of the Battle of the Blackwater, the knight was a more fitting choice. Even his given name spoke to the respect his father had had for the Targaryens (even if his surname indicated the lack of respect he'd had for the bonds of matrimony).

"I met with Ser Trynten this morning," the dwarf revealed, naming the captain of the gold cloaks, "and he reports that thievery and violence are down in all quarters of the city."

"There, you see Jon?" the king said, his expression having grown serene at Tyrion's account of his meeting. "In another moon's turn, there will be next to nothing for us to fret over here. The timing will be perfect to make my way north."

As the meeting broke up and the council members left the king to his correspondence, Hal fell in step with the new mistress of whisperers, Daenla of Pentos.

"You were awfully quiet in there, my lady."

One of Daenla's dark eyebrows arched. "I'm much more of an observer, maester," she replied in her soft voice. "You'll find I speak only when I have something of import to say."

"A valuable trait in a spymaster, I suppose."

"Just so."

"What do you make of the king's plan?"

"Until I hear of some plot against him that arises from his plan, I make nothing of it."

Hal's eyes narrowed. "You have no opinion on his pursuit of this Northern match?"

The woman shrugged. "Having an opinion on whatever decision the king may make is not my role here."

"But advising him is."

"Advising him based on intelligence I've gathered," Daenla corrected.

"What of the reports from the Dreadfort?" the half-maester pressed. "That was intelligence you'd gathered."

The woman nodded. "And as you saw yourself, the king was aware of the information and made a judgement."

"So, you agree with his judgement?"

"If I hadn't, I'd have said so in the meeting."

Interesting, he thought. She approves of Arya Stark. Or, at least, she has no reason to disapprove.

Hal halted and bowed to her, watching as she walked away. Daenla was graceful in a way that was hard not to notice, and quite beautiful with her dark hair and even darker eyes. There were some who called her Daenla Darkcharm, for the way she could bewitch even the dourest of men and coax from them their secrets. She'd come to King's Landing bearing a letter from Varys recommending her for the position he'd held for so many years. Hal had thought once Aegon had settled the capital, the old spider might've come himself to fulfill the role, but it seemed he was still needed in Pentos, to manage the king's eastern business, and had sent Daenla in his place.

The half-maester could find no cause for complaint in that. He'd rather enjoyed council meetings since the Pentoshi woman's arrival. She gave him something better to look at than Tyrion Lannister's scarred face and Jon Connington's permanent scowl. Now, whether to trust her… that was another matter altogether.

"What do you mean, you don't know?"

Some men became red-faced with their rage and some men visibly shook. Some men raised their voices to rival the roar of a lion. But Jon Snow became very still and very quiet, his eyes sharper than the tip of his Valyrian steel sword. The guard worked to control the tremor in his voice.

"She did not say a word to me, milord. And she only told the stableboy she'd be riding in the wolfswood for a bit."

"How long is 'a bit' do you suppose?"

"I c-couldn't say, milord."

Jon's glower was filled with ice and daggers. "You couldn't say?"

"N-no, milord."

"And did you not find it strange that she rode out alone, despite having a queensguard of five knights and a sworn shield whose only purpose is to protect her at all times?"

"Well, I did find it strange, but she raced out so fast, at first, I thought they had only to catch up. By the time I realized no one was following, I called out to her, but she was past hearing."

Jon drew in an irritated breath through his nose and tried to temper his ire. The young stableboy could not be faulted for obeying his queen and though the guard ought to have informed him immediately, it wasn't as though he could've been assured of catching up to her with the time it would've taken to dress and mount his horse. Not with the way she rode. His only comfort was the howling he'd heard echoing in the wood as he'd risen to break his fast. At least he could be reasonably certain she had Nymeria with her.

Staring hard at the man as his jaw worked, Jon finally said, "In the future, should the queen leave the castle and ride out alone, you will inform me or one of the Winter Guard immediately. Am I understood?"

"Yes, milord," the guard said, abashed.

Jon stalked off, Gendry joining him as he strode across the bailey yard on his way to the Guards Hall.

"Is it true?" the dark knight asked brusquely. "She's gone?"

Jon cut his gaze toward his sister's sworn shield. "Aye, she is. So how is it you're here?"

A storm brewed behind Gendry's eyes. "I didn't have the watch, but you're right. I should be with her."

The brooding lord sighed, scrubbing his face with one hand. "No, that was out of turn, Ser Gendry. This is not your fault."

"What's being done to recover her?"

"I'm on my way to organize the huntsmen. They can try tracking her."

"Will they get very far with the way the snow is falling?"

"If she truly just went for a short ride and has stayed in the wood, the canopy may protect the tracks long enough for them to find her."

"What can I do?"

"Find Ser Jaime. Have him gather the Winter Guard in the great hall."

Gendry nodded and veered off, jogging back to the keep in search of the Lord Commander while Jon continued to the Guards Hall. Once the huntsmen were away, he joined the assembled men and Lady Brienne in the hall. Aside from the guard, Tormund was there, as well as Hoster Blackwood and his brother Brynden, their faces sporting twin looks of worry. The Kingslayer paced, muttering to himself. When the somber lord called out to him, the golden knight looked back with haunted eyes. It was enough that Jon pulled the man aside.

"What do you know, ser?"

"She was upset."

"Upset…"

Jaime nodded, and he looked as though he might be sick. "We were sparring this morning before sunrise, and I told her I'd learned something about Syrio Forel."

"Her old sword master? The Braavosi fellow?"

The Kingslayer swallowed. "Maximil Rominus knew him."

"So?"

"So, it turns out Syrio Forel had been long-dead before your father hired a man calling himself by that name to train your sister."

Understanding dawned on Jon's face. "He was an imposter," the lord said, blowing out a breath. He shook his head. "She almost worshipped the man. I can understand why she'd be distraught." He thought of Lord Commander Mormont then, and how he might feel if someone told him the man wasn't who he claimed to be. The very idea might knock his world off its axis, at least for awhile until he could reconcile himself to the truth.

"There was something else…" The dread in Jaime's voice pulled Jon from his thoughts.

"Something else? What do you mean?"

"I…"

Before Jaime could say more, Thoros of Myr approached them, interrupting their exchange.

"My lords," the red priest said quietly, looking back and forth between them, "perhaps I might be of use here." The men grew silent and thoughtful as Thoros explained his intention.

That Jon agreed to the priest's suggestion was evidence of both his love for his sister and his desperation. He had nothing against Thoros personally, and knew Arya trusted the man, but his own feelings about the servants of R'hllor were less ardent. His experience with Melisandre had marked him in a way he could not help but resent and the stories he'd heard of the Lady Stoneheart were enough to fill him with dread. Still, when the Myrish man stoked the fire in the massive hearth of the great hall then drew back to study the flames, Jon stood shoulder to shoulder with him.

Minutes passed as Thoros gazed into and through the flickering orange tongues. Finally, he spoke.

"I see a weirwood."

Jon did his best to curb his frustration before he responded. "That's it? A weirwood?"

"Patience, Lord Snow," Thoros murmured, his eyes narrowing as he leaned slightly toward the hearth. He breathed in as though to steady himself. "She prays there. Or will."

Jon jerked his head at one of the household guards posted by the doors to the hall. "Go, check the godswood," he commanded. "She may have doubled back and been missed in the chaos."

The guard ran out but after a moment, Thoros shook his head. "No, not Winterfell's godswood. I've never seen this place before. The weirwood has a laughing face."

"Is she at least well?" the lord demanded. The priest continued staring, his eyes soft.

"She is… bereft."

Her brother's fists clenched at the pronouncement. He did not think it right to blame Ser Jaime. After all, it was the sword master who had deceived his sister, not the golden knight, but he wished the man had come to him with the information first. He might've been able to deliver it in a way that was less… devastating.

"She's bereft, and praying at an unfamiliar weirwood," Jon said with a frown.

"A falling star kisses her brow," Thoros continued, "after she stands above a sea of men."

"A falling star?" Gendry called out. "What does that even mean?"

"This sea of men, do they threaten her?" the Kingslayer asked with urgency.

Thoros shook his head, a small smile shaping his mouth. "They sing."

"She's in the company of minstrels?" Gendry scoffed. "That doesn't seem likely."

Thoros turned to give the dark knight a withering look, then directed his attention back to the flames. After a moment, he asked, "Is there a weirwood surrounded by water nearby?"

Jon's brow creased as he thought. Then it hit him. "Aye," he said excitedly, "there's a lake in the wolfswood, not three hours ride south. An island sits at its center, and on it grows an ancient weirwood." The lord glanced at Tormund who nodded and joined him as he strode to the doors of the hall. Before they pushed through, Jon turned and looked at Jaime. "Are you coming?"

The sun was high overhead as the Edric rowed back across the lake toward the watchtower. He was pensive, squinting against the light winking off the ripples in the water. He wondered if the lake ever froze hard enough in the winter that men could walk across the ice if they desired to say their prayers to the old gods. He supposed it must, though he had to admit, as a Dornishman and as one born in the first days of the long summer, he knew little about ice and cold.

The lord had no trouble believing the men of the village would make such a trek, if afforded the opportunity. As a boy, he'd learned to pray in a sept, but his visit to the isle had left him with an understanding of how those who clung to the old gods might find solace and strength kneeling before a weirwood. He'd felt much the same, there at the foot of the bone white tree as he stared into its grinning face. He did not know what words the Northmen were taught to say when they prayed, so he was sure his were wrong, but they were meant sincerely and so he hoped the old gods would not take offense.

"I ask for peace," he'd said, thinking of the Winter's Queen. He'd meant it as a plea for the two kingdoms, so that they might be one once again, as was his king's desire. But at the moment he'd spoken, he considered all he'd been told of Arya's life, and all he'd read. He thought of all she'd endured and all that was yet to come. Then he'd thought that perhaps since they were her gods, and not Aegon's, the peace he'd prayed for might be reserved just for her. The wind had moved through the leaves overhead as he stood from where he'd knelt, and it was as though they whispered to him.

Peace, they'd said. Or so it had seemed. Here.

Edric hadn't known what to make of that, but the thought that the old gods had somehow answered him filled him with the sort of tranquility he'd not experienced since he was a young boy sitting in his mother's lap.

After he rowed to the shore and thanked the watchman, he made his way back to the village, intending to pack his things and ride out for Winterfell. He was keen to share his experience with the queen. It seemed to him the sort of thing she would appreciate. He thought she might even like to visit the laughing tree herself. If she did, he would happily accompany her. Sighing contentedly at the thought, he turned down the mud lane that would lead him back to the alehouse.

As he approached the place, his tranquility was replaced by confusion. The alehouse doors were thrown open and a crowd spilled out into the lane. He heard laughter and singing, and it was as though every soul in the village was crammed into the place. As he moved to the entrance, he had to push his way through the crowd to even enter. He saw some faces he recognized, the men he'd drunk with the night before and a few of the villagers he'd spoken to in the lanes and at the stables. He saw the blacksmith and caught the eye of the proprietor's wife who waved him in. He could not make sense of the scene, though, thinking if this were some festival or celebration or holy day, surely, he'd have been told by someone before now.

No, this could only be an impromptu gathering.

The older children jumped and clapped in the corner while the younger ones were raised high on their fathers' shoulders. The song the crowd was singing was familiar to Edric. He'd heard it first at Raventree Hall, then again just the night before when some particularly happy drunks had belted it out for his benefit after he'd asked one too many questions about their queen. It was a jaunty tune and by the sound of it, the crowd had nearly reached the chorus. Only, instead of singing it at the normal tempo, they paused and hushed after each line. It only took the lord a moment to see why.

There was a figure standing in the center of the room, perched atop a table, facing away from the entrance. By the shape of her, and by the long, messy braid trailing darkly down her back, Edric could see it was a young woman, though her clothes were those of a lad. A slovenly lad, at that. Her doublet was unfastened and hanging open, one shoulder starting to slip down her arm. The blouse beneath was overlarge for her thin frame and half untucked from her fawn breeches. Her boots looked to be of fine quality, but they were caked with mud and wet with melting snow.

The lord watched as the slight woman lifted a tankard of what he presumed was ale, moving it this way and that, in time with the song. The crowd surrounding her sang a line of the chorus, then halted, waiting with a nearly palpable anticipation.

"She's a great northern beauty!"

"If you like your girls horse-faced and dull!" the woman called out, her voice showing a hint of a slur. The crowd laughed heartily then sang the next line.

"A pale winter's rose!"

"More thorn than soft petal, I'd say!" the woman continued, raising her tankard higher in mock salute to the crowd before taking a long swallow.

"Great lords and knights follow wherever she goes!"

"They soon come to regret it, I can tell you that much!"

"She's fierce as a she-wolf…"

"Smells like one, too," the woman cried out amid the raucous laughter of the villagers, "more often than not."

By this time, Edric had pushed his way to the table where the woman stood, his brows pinched in with anger. He was insulted for Arya's sake and could not believe the same villagers who had spoken so highly of her the night before were allowing this disheveled, drunken slattern to disrespect their sovereign so boldly.

"How dare you speak of your queen in this way!" he bellowed as the crowd began to sing out the next line. At his thunderous expression, the song died, and he reached out, grasping the woman's wrist, and spinning her around. She wobbled, a bit of ale sloshing out of her cup and splashing against the tips of her boots. At the sight, she puckered her lip and stared down at him with a comical look of mourning on her face.

"Oh, how sad," she said, lifting one foot and twirling the toe of her now ale-stained boot, "to waste good grog." She pouted, making as if to wipe tears away and the crowd called out sympathetic noises before bursting into laughter along with her. Edric glanced around in confusion, then looked at the woman's face more closely and froze.

She grinned lazily down at him and blinked. "Hey," she drawled, "did anyone ever tell you that you look just like my old friend Ned?"

"Lady Arya?" the lord gasped, his hand still wrapped around her wrist.

The girl pulled away from his grasp, swaying slightly. When she gained her balance, she made a fist with her free hand and pressed it against her hip, cocking it before draining her tankard of its dregs. Tossing the cup behind her to the waiting hands of the proprietor, she glared down at the Lord of Starfall, saying, "It's Queen Arya now." At Edric's stunned look, the girl could contain her mirth no longer and released peals of laughter as the people joined in. "Oh, Ned, your face!"

"What are you doing here?" he asked, unable to master his shock.

Without warning, she leapt from the table and into his arms. To his credit, he caught her and only stumbled back a single step with his surprise. It helped that she was so slight, and that the crowd was so dense, it would have been nearly impossible to fall.

"What are you doing here?" she countered with a smile and half-hooded eyes. It was clear she'd consumed more ale than was good for her. He pulled her in tight to his side and moved through the crowd, seeking some air to help her clear her head. As they passed, the people chanted after them.

Stark! Stark! Stark!

The girl grinned and threw up her hand in a wave, causing the chant to become a deafening roar. Edric quickened his pace, walking her down the lane a ways, curious onlookers spilling out of the alehouse after them but not following.

"Are you quite alright, your grace?" he asked after a moment.

"Are you?"

"I am. Never better."

"Me too."

He did not buy that for an instant.

"Where is your guard? Your retinue?"

"My retinue?" she snorted. "Well, I left my lady in the wood. I didn't want her to frighten the villagers."

"You left your lady in the wood?" Edric repeated, alarmed. "Is your guard with her?"

"She is my guard."

"We must fetch her at once," the lord said, stiffening. "It's not safe for a lady to be alone in the wood. There are wolves…"

Arya snorted again, even more obnoxiously than before, pointing a finger at him, and declaring, "Lady Nymeria has no fear!"

"Lady Nymer… are you talking about your direwolf?"

This drew the girl up short. "Oh, you've met?"

Edric groaned, shaking his head then looking behind them to find the villagers all watching their exchange with rapt attention. "Your grace, perhaps we should go someplace less… public."

"Lord Dayne, are you impopper… impopular… improperly propo-ssssitioning me?" she questioned suspiciously, one eye squinted shut in an effort to focus the other.

"Oh, gods, no!" he said, aghast.

"Why not?" Arya demanded, then, leaning into him, she asked in an amusingly loud whisper, "Is it the horse-face?"

"You don't have a horse face, your grace."

"Oh, that's a good rhyme," she giggled. "They say you write songs now. I can see you have a gift for it." The girl began to hum, then sang, "They all said, 'your grace, you have a horse for a face…' Hmm. No. That doesn't make sense. Well, you'll work on it."

"I will not," he replied with all the dignity he could muster. "Come with me. We're getting out of here."

Edric escorted her to the watchtower, paying the watchman again for use of his boat. As he helped the queen into the vessel, Nymeria came loping along the shoreline, causing the watchman to give a yelp and scurry back into his tower. The great beast growled low in her throat and bristled.

"It's okay, girl," Arya said. Nodding toward the young lord, she added, "He's an old friend."

The wolf lifted her snout, scenting Edric, then relaxed and padded up to his side.

"She wants you to scratch her ears," the queen said, reclining in the boat. She folded her arms across her chest and closed her eyes. Hesitantly, the lord reached out and did as Arya bade him. Nymeria whined, then bumped his shoulder with her head before hopping into the boat and sitting at the girl's feet. The young lord stared at the pair of them for a few seconds then shrugged, pushing the boat away from the shore and jumping in to row them to the isle of the laughing tree.

The queen had slept as Edric rowed, and he'd let her, thinking she needed it. He did not make haste to cross the water, but moved the small boat a leisurely pace, enjoying the sun on his face. The way it warmed his cheeks reminded him of home.

When he felt the bow begin to drag against the graveled lake bottom, the lord stood, stepping over the side into the shallow waters, splashing as he dragged the small craft onto the shore. The job was made easier when Nymeria leapt from the boat, landing next to him, sending a cold spray into his face. He looked at her and the way she cocked her head and stared back almost convinced him she'd done it on purpose.

Only after the boat was secure did Arya jolt awake. She jerked her head right, then left, sitting up abruptly and groaning. She slapped her fingers over her eyes and swayed a little.

"Are you well?" Edric asked, drawing her attention.

"Ned?" she croaked, peeking at him through her fingers.

"Yes, your grace," he chuckled in answer.

"I thought I'd dreamed you."

"I should've been flattered if you had," he said with a smile, offering his hand to help her up.

"You shouldn't be," Arya told him, grabbing for his hand, and letting him lift her to stand. "I dream all sorts of strange things, all the time." She stepped out of the boat, onto the shore, and the young lord slipped his hands over her shoulders to steady her. He dipped his head down so he could look her in the eye.

"Good?" he asked. She nodded and bit her lip. The gesture made him question her. "Are you sure?"

Arya stared up at him, silver eyes shining, and he thought she might cry. He did not know if that was the effect of the drink, or if she were somehow troubled.

Of course, she's troubled, he admonished himself, else why would she be in this village, hours from her home, with only her wolf for a companion?

"You can tell me," he said gently. "I'd like to help."

The girl's mouth pinched, and he knew she did it in effort to stay her tears, but it had the effect of turning her pink lips into the tiniest, most perfect rosebud he'd ever had the pleasure of seeing. He had to stop himself from leaning down further and kissing her.

Control yourself, man. The lady is in distress.

"Arya?" His voice was little more than a rasp.

Her shoulders slumped and her eyes dropped to her boots. She opened her mouth, meaning to confide in him, he was sure, but the wind picked up then and the leaves of the trees seemed to echo the lord.

Arya, they said. Arya.

She looked past Ned then, noticing the laughing tree for the first time. Nymeria whined and moved toward the weirwood.

"I…"

"Yes, your grace?"

The girl met her friend's gaze and drew in a deep breath. "I'm… going to pray. Will you wait for me?"

Edric recalled what he'd heard the first time he had come to the island; how the leaves had whispered then, too.

Peace. Here.

He nodded, his look serious. And then, he did bend and kiss her, but on her forehead, with a light, almost reverent touch of his lips. After he'd pulled back and looked her in the eye, the Lord of Starfall said, "Of course, your grace."

"You could have told me," the girl said as she stared up at her brother from the foot of his throne of roots.

"I told you what you needed to know."

"Which is what? That I'm not allowed to be angry?" The look she gave him made clear what she thought of that advice.

"You may be as angry as you choose, sister," Bran replied. "You may be as angry as you need to be."

"Why aren't you angry?" she cried. "You should be angry!"

"I told you…"

"Yes, I know. It had to happen," Arya sneered.

Bran sighed and when he did, he looked older than her. Older than Jon, even. "Yes. It had to happen."

"So that you could live under a giant tree filled with magic and know everything even though you never tell anyone anything useful."

"Arya…"

"No, Bran. Do not think to chastise me. I've learned the man who made me was himself made up of lies."

"Were his lessons any less valuable because his name was different than what he told you? Was his wisdom any less true?"

"Who can say? Because he's a liar!" she seethed.

"So are you."

"What?" The girl stared up at him.

"Lying is easy," he said. "It's the truth that's hard."

The words were familiar to her and tickled at a memory somewhere in the recesses of her mind. "What are you…"

"Have you no pretty words that aren't lies?"

Slowly, the memory came into focus and the girl stilled. Bran was quoting a conversation she'd had months ago with Gendry, when they'd danced together at Raventree Hall. She gasped. "How do you…"

"So," he continued, ignoring her, "you're a master of lies. Is that what they taught you across the sea?"

"Stop!" the girl demanded.

"Did you learn your skill from that strange, foreign assassin?"

"Stop!"

"No, I was learning how to lie long before that. I only perfected the skill in Braavos."

With a cry, the girl flung herself onto the weirwood dais holding Bran's throne, grabbing his ankle to keep from being thrown to the ground as she had before. The second she touched the polished wood, it was as though time stopped and then rewound itself, dragging her backwards with it. She flew past Jon at the ruins of Hartcourt, then Rickon in Manderly's godswood, then the moment she named Lord Hoster her Hand at Moat Cailin. She moved smoothly over the waters of the Great Swamp, but backwards, until she walked the halls of Greywater Watch. She rode to the Twins where a crown was taken from her head and she moved up the steps into Walder Frey's chamber, removing bits of bread and salt from his mouth until his purple face was pink once more. Back and back and back she went, from Hosteen Frey's chamber in Riverrun to the sept in Lord Smallwood's castle, until finally she came to rest at Raventree Hall where she danced with Gendry as lords and ladies looked on.

The dark knight was angry, and she laughed, amused by his righteous disbelief.

For what was it to lie? To use a mere tool. To play a trick. At worst, it was simply a necessary misdeed. She told him as much, her air wavering between smug pity and outright cruelty. Gods, no wonder Gendry had been so hurt. She watched as they danced and argued.

"How am I ever to trust you?" he'd asked hopelessly after she'd spat out all the ways the truth had harmed her and all the ways she'd been saved by lies.

"Why should your trust matter to me?"

The girl's grip on her brother's leg loosened and she slipped to the ground, landing on her back with a thud. Bran did not even wait for her to get her bearings before he began lecturing her.

"Did Syrio's lie make his sacrifice to save you any less valiant?"

Arya sat up, shaking her head. "You're telling me that everyone lies, so I shouldn't hold it against my dancing master?"

"I'm telling you that you lie, so to fret over something that could not possibly make a difference now is hypocritical."

"And Jaime?"

Bran sighed. "Jaime fulfilled a role in my life. Nothing more."

"He tried to kill you!"

"And succeeded in making me the three-eyed raven."

She blew out a breath. "You want me to forgive him." It was not a question.

"Forgive him, or don't, as you will," her brother replied, "but you need him."

"How can I let him get away with it?"

"He hasn't gotten away with anything. His guilt has been his punishment these many years. Now, he pays his penance by serving you."

She shook her head. "It's not enough."

"If you take his head, what changes?" he asked, and when she did not give him an answer, he gave one for her. "You end his suffering and multiply your own."

It made her angry to hear it, but she knew Bran was right. She could imagine it, slitting Jaime's throat, or taking his head. She could imagine him swinging from a noose. And when she did, she just felt… sick.

Bereft.

It was the same feeling she'd had when she'd crouched by Baelor's feet and watched Ilyn Payne take her father's head.

"He is loyal to you," her brother told her. "Every day he serves you, he hopes to see his honor repaired, but it will never be enough for him and so his loyalty will never fail."

Because she knew that Bran spoke from a place not of conjecture but of certainty, his words weighed heavily on her shoulders. Somehow, her brother had achieved the impossible: he'd made her see a path to forgiving Jaime. She wasn't there yet, but she believed that she could be.

The matter with Syrio still troubled her, but less than it had before she'd come to this place. Arya understood what it was her brother wanted her to know and it fastened that piece of her that had come unstuck when she'd learned of the lie. Because Bran was right—Syrio's name may have been false, but his lessons were true, and so the parts of her he'd made remained true as well.

She thought on that a moment, and somehow, she found her peace.

"That's her horse in the stable," Ser Jaime confirmed.

"Best start asking around the village," Jon replied, narrowing his grey eyes as he cast them about, looking for anything suspicious.

"I'll take the alehouse," Tormund volunteered, heading off with a heavy stride.

"Just to ask!" Jon called after him. "There's no time for an ale!"

"There's always time for an ale, kneeler! Har!" Tormund barked without turning back. Then he disappeared through the alehouse doors.

Jon shook his head, then began stalking down the lane while Jaime instructed Ser Podrick and Ser Ben to go door to door. The rest of the Winter Guard had been left back, in case the red priest's visions were wrong and she had indeed gone only for a short ride. They had barely all set off on their tasks when Tormund burst back through the doors of the alehouse.

"The watchtower!" he bellowed as he began moving that way.

"What?" Jaime called after him, trotting until he caught up to the wilding man.

"Ale wench says some southron lord took her to the watchtower."

Jon heard his friend and ducked out of the blacksmith's forge mid-sentence, nodding to the man hammering at his anvil. By the time the five of them reached the watchtower, the watchman had stepped outside and was pointing across the lake at a what seemed to be a boat captained by a hulking wolf.

"I guess you're here for her?" he asked.

"What, the wolf?" Podrick asked, squinting. "Is that Nymeria?"

"No, not the wolf," the man said, giving the young knight a strange look. "Wait, are you here for the wolf?"

Jaime sighed. "Why is the queen in a rowboat with Nymeria?"

The watchman shrugged. "I guess the young lord took them to the isle to pray."

"The young lord…" Jon stepped closer to the water. He could just make out arms manning the oars but could see no more due to the direwolf's great bulk. He turned and stared at the watchman. "Who is he?"

The man shrugged again. "Dunno. Got here yesterday. Rowed out this morning to the isle. He came back a few hours later, then rowed out again, this time with a lady and a wolf. She's the queen, you say? Must be why the whole village packed into the alehouse earlier."

"And you didn't?" Ser Ben asked.

"Well, who woulda kept the watch if I had?" The man gazed out at the boat which was drawing close enough that they could now make out the lord's blonde head as well as Arya's dark one. "Paid me four coppers in all. To use my boat."

When no one responded to that, the watchman shrugged one last time and went back into his tower. Jon began to pace as he awaited his sister's arrival. When the boat was close enough to the shore, the men tromped into the shallow water and pulled them the rest of the way.

"Jon…" Arya began.

"Arya, how could you?" Jon's face was dark. "I was worried sick."

"I sent word that I was riding…"

"You didn't send word that you were riding three hours away, alone," he hissed.

"I wasn't alone," the girl protested. "I had Nymeria."

"Arya…" Jon's tone was a warning, but as he helped her from the boat, he noted how weak she seemed, and how tired. "Are you alright?"

"Fine," she assured him, grasping his arm and squeezing to settle him. "Just a bit… drawn. There was a weirwood on the isle. I… prayed."

He understood what she was trying to tell him and so he nodded. "Will you be able to ride?"

"Yes, I'm fine to ride."

The blonde lord had moved to stand before the Winter Guard then and Arya looked at him and smiled.

"Lord Snow, this is my old friend, Lord Edric Dayne of Starfall."

Jon and Edric bowed to one another, all polite courtesy, but that did not stop her brother from eyeing the young lord suspiciously.

"And how came you to be in this village at the same time as my sister, Lord Dayne?"

Edric's eyebrows shot up at Jon's tone. "The purest coincidence, I assure you, my lord. I arrived yesterday and just happened to see her grace at the alehouse today."

"Where is your party, my lord?"

"They rest at Cerwyn and will travel to Winterfell in a few days' time."

Jon's eyes found Arya's and what he saw there convinced him of the young lord's sincerity. He nodded to Edric. "You are most welcome to ride with us back to Winterfell, Lord Dayne."

"I thank you."

Jaime looked as though he wanted to say something, but Arya gave him a glare and muttered, "Later," as she passed him. Jon assumed she was angry with him over the way he had revealed what he knew about Syrio Forel. He resolved to leave it to the two of them to sort out and followed his sister to the stables.

The small party rode back through the hunter's gate just as twilight fell. They were tired, but mostly in good spirits, as Tormund had kept them entertained with stories of the amorous habits of she-bears when they rode slowly enough for conversation. Gendry had stood watch atop the wall, heading down to the yard when he spotted them. He saw the horses trot through the gate and enter the yard, counting two more than had left with Lord Snow.

One of the additional mounts was Arya's of course, and he saw her dismount, her hair a wild tangle Rosie would have to contend with for an hour, he was sure. The other, he did not recognize. The horse was large and fine, with a coat like midnight, but the man astride him was hidden from view by Tormund, the great hulk. When the wildling dismounted, Gendry could finally see a mailed knight astride the fine horse. His back was to Gendry, but Arya spoke to him, and he turned, leaping down from his saddle gracefully and coming to stand before the queen. The light was dim now, but a stableboy ran up with a lantern and it was then that Gendry could make out the knight's surcoat with its unmistakable falling star crossed by a greatsword.

Not a knight after all, Gendry thought, but a lord, rather.

Lord Edric Dayne.

The bastard knight watched grimly as the Sword of the Morning offered the queen his arm, escorting her into the keep.

After returning home, Arya had a light supper in her room then fell into a deep, exhausted sleep. In fact, the girl slept more soundly than she had in many moons. When she awoke, the sun had not yet risen and she contemplated simply rolling over and closing her eyes again, but there was much she needed to accomplish that day and so she sat up and stretched instead. She felt the hairs on her neck prickle and as she turned to look around her dim chamber, a familiar voice greeted her.

"Welcome home, little wolf."

"What now, Gaelon?" she asked in a bored tone, even as her heart began to pound.

She could feel the assassin's smile even though she could not see it. He moved to her bed, and she felt the mattress dip as he sat. She could just make out the outline of his profile as he did.

"I've come to bring you a gift."

"How… thoughtful."

"Yes. I put a lot of thought into it," he agreed. "You should remember that when you open it." He pressed a flat box into her hands, and the thing had about the same dimensions and weight as a trencher the kitchen might use to serve her stew.

The girl bit her lip, then whispered, "I was never in any danger. Not for a second."

The handsome man bent his head, wrapping one palm around her neck and pressing his cheek against hers. He made a shushing sound when he did, as though he were attempting to soothe a fretting child. In a way, she supposed he was. After a time, he murmured in her ear, "I believe you, my girl. I do. If I didn't, your gift would have been very different."

The girl swallowed, and when the assassin felt her nod, he stood and left the room so swiftly and silently, it was as if he'd never been there at all.

Arya took a few deep breaths through her nose, then muttered the familiar phrase of Asshai', setting the candle at her bedside ablaze. She stared down at the hinged box in her hands, wondering if she should open it or toss it into her hearth and set the thing ablaze. Thinking the better of it, she drew in a breath and held it, lifting the lid. When she did, she stared down at the contents and let the cold dread wash over her.

What she saw were three locks of hair, one dark, one light, and one red.

She was staring at a single, perfect curl from Jon's head, a tuft of the Bear's pale, silken strands, and one of Rickon's long, thin braids, worked through with bits of feather and bone.

After the Storm—Mumford and Sons