DISCLAIMER: Not mine, to my eternal regret

I am aware that this chapter is extremely late in the coming- I can only apologise. I have put updates on my bio a couple of times, please do remember to check it for information. It's been a crazy time for me since last update, and I've had a lot of serious things to deal with that have kept me from writing. Thank you, as always, to everyone that has stuck with this story and my erratic update schedule of late- your reviews and messages inspire and motivate me to keep writing. I really hope you enjoy this chapter, and while I cannot promise when the next one will be, I can say that I am doing my best to continue to write and that this story is far from over. I suggest going back and reading the last chapter if it's been a while, as a lot of important things happened. I honestly didn't anticipate STMS would become what it has, but as Jon Snow once said "different roads sometimes lead to the same castle." Thank you again to everyone who has stuck with the story, and I hope you all enjoy- Over and Out! xoxo

RECAP:

Gendry finds Arya's note in the forge, and rushes to her room, where all of her things are missing. He realises that she must be planning on truly leaving for good, and rushes to the stables. He explains to Shireen that Arya will have gone to the nearest port town near Griffin's Roost, and that if anyone but him finds her first, she will run even faster. He heads out into the storm after her. Meanwhile, Arya has made it to the port town, where she considers staging an accident so that Gendry would believe her dead and move on, but realises that he would still love her and blame himself, so instead she leaves a trail to make it obvious that she left of her own will, so that he will understand what she did, and hate her for it, allowing him to move on. She uses her iron coin to get passage on a ship headed for Volantis. Gendry catches up to her and discovers which ship she is on. He fights his way to her cabin. Arya realises that if she wants him to give up on her then she must make him believe that she does not, and never did, love him, so she lies to him in order to hurt him enough that he will hate her for it, so that he can move on when she is gone. Her plan works well, and Gendry leaves, believing that she doesn't love him and was lying the whole time.

Davos peered around the room in dismay. It smelled of brine and drink. The air was stale and sour, and the few candles had burnt to stubs overnight, leaving the room dark in the early hours of the morning, rain lashing the window. The glass was steamed up on the inside, and condensation rolled down the faintly rattling panes. But the first thing that caught his attention was not the dimness, or the smell, but the way the room had been practically ripped apart. Furniture had been upended, and thrown across the room, papers and books littered the floor, and the walls were stained with ink, glass pots smashed below. It was a veritable battleground, and like all battlegrounds it was thick with grief and despair.

He stepped in hesitantly, squinting, nose wrinkled. "Milord?" he asked.

There was a grunt from the corner, and Davos looked around. He frowned. Gendry was slumped in a chair before the unlit fire. His clothes and hair were rumpled and stained, and his beard, usually clean shaven, was unkempt. There was a opened bottle of wine in his hand. There were two more lying on the floor at his feet, and Davos realised that not all of the stains on the walls were ink, and that some of the smashed glass belonged not to ink pots, but wine bottles. There were dark purple shadows under his lord's eyes, and bruises on his knuckles, no doubt a result of the broken furniture and cracked plaster.

He stepped closer, and rounded the bench. Gendry did not look up at him, but stared at the empty hearth. It had enough ashes to suggest that a maid had at some point attempted to light it for him, but had not been let back in to sweep it away and relight. Indeed, there was glass shattered among the ashes, too.

It had been two weeks since the girl had left. Two weeks since the young lord had returned and not said a word as he stormed through the castle and locked himself in his chambers. Davos had managed to run the castle well enough in the lord's absence, largely with the help of Shireen, who had been pale and tearful for days. He still caught her wringing her hands, face screwed up in contemplation. And the Dornish girl had seldom left her room, save to walk to the kitchens at night, wracked with guilt. Davos just hoped that the lord and the pregnant woman did not come to blows anytime soon, for neither seemed in control of themselves enough to prevent a brawl.

The girl's sudden disappearance had indeed left many in the castle feeling adrift. Her young squire had scarcely trained for days, and then had become obsessive over it, practising the drills she had taught him over and over and over again, until exhaustion sent him to his bed. Even Gan, the cook, was snappier than usual, and the maids and servants seemed to avoid the lord's quarters at all costs, as if fearful he might lash out at them.

No doubt that was one of the factors that had contributed to the state of Gendry's room- and Davos couldn't blame them for it. There was a darkness across the man's face and in his eyes that spoke not simply of foul temper and a promise of violence, but something... darker, somehow. Something broken beyond repair. Not for the first time, Davos wondered just what had occurred on that ship between the lord and now missing lady.

"Milord, I was hoping to discuss with you the matter of-"

"No." Gendry's voice was low and hard and rough from the copious bottles of drink.

Davos swallowed and tried again. "A raven came from Kings Landing for you, milord, and it seems urgent-"

"Get out."

"But-"

There was a crash as Gendry stood up with such violence that the wooden bench tipped over behind him. Davos stepped back as Gendry loomed above him, face black and fists clenched at his sides. "I said get out," he growled. "Leave me." The words seemed to shut something down in him, and he launched the bottle in his hand at the wall with a roar. "I don't care about Kings Landing or ravens or anything! I don't care, so get. out!"

Davos stared at the young man whom he admired and cared about so deeply, and wondered if it would have been better for all if Jon Snow had never ventured beyond the Wall to find his sister. He left without another word, blocking out the sounds as the lord unleashed himself once more upon the destroyed room.

It had always seemed to Aegon that his brother was in a perpetual state of melancholy. Sometimes he would walk into a room intent of finding Jon to inform him of some new plan or thought, and the dark haired man would be staring out of the window as if he were seeing something else entirely, or even into the fire, so intently that half the time Aegon wondered if that red god was whispering to him. Jon had always been serious, and Aegon doubted that would ever change. After all, the man was half Stark; it was in his blood to be melancholy. This whole Greyjoy affair certainly had done little to lighten his brother's disposition; even despite his sister's forgiveness of him, during her stay in Kings Landing (messy affair that had been), Aegon knew Jon still brooded over his decision to send her away so soon after her return- even if it had been to protect her.

Aegon pinched the bridge of his nose as he strode through the castle to his brother's quarters. If Jon had been foul tempered before... all of this, then now he was almost identical to that snarling wolf of his- and just as liable to snap. From what Aegon knew of it, Jon and Arya had always shared a special bond- the bond of the bastard and the reject. Well, perhaps reject was a touch strong- though not far off the mark. Indeed, where Jon had never fit into the family due to his heritage, yet was more a Stark than any of his true born siblings, Arya's place within the family had never been doubted- yet she had never fit in because of her own differences. The two outcasts were two sides of the same coin, it seemed; one destined to be rejected for his name, and the other because she was different. Thinking on it all made Aegon's head spin.

He found his half brother, unsurprisingly, stood at the window, gazing out across the Blackwater. He tapped the door twice with his knuckles. Jon turned, and offered a strained smile. "Brother."

Aegon stepped in, and sprawled on a seat at the desk. "You look even more brooding than you did yesterday- I suppose that means you've had no word from Storm's End, then?" He glanced at the table to the scrap of parchment there. It was wrinkled and smoothed, the ink smudged by so many readings. It had come near two weeks ago, and was followed by resolute silence.

"Nothing," Jon said, taking the seat opposite Aegon. There were shadows under his eyes, Aegon observed, much like Sansa's. Jon rubbed his jaw with his scarred hand. "Not since Davos' raven anyway. I just hope that he can get Gendry to pull himself together soon. We need him to start making plans for the fleet." A shadow passed over his grey Stark eyes.

Aegon took a long pull of wine. "If we don't hear from him by the end of the week, we shall have to send someone down there. At least your sister's betrothal to Willas Tyrell shall be of some help, though it will take time to immobilise them, and if Baratheon doesn't pull himself together soon then we cannot plan." He sighed, and rolled his jaw wearily. "Greyjoy's fleet could be of little importance, anyway. The iron islands have never been particularly rich, especially since their uprising. Even if he sold a thousand slaves, I doubt they would even buy a fleet to threaten one kingdom, let alone the whole of Westeros."

Jon slumped in his chair. "But if Elmar Frey can garner enough sympathy for his cause, we could end up fighting Euron's fleet as well as an uprising in the Riverlands. Do not underestimate this threat."

"I am not, brother," Aegon said, narrowing his eyes at the bite in Jon's words. "But when the Crow's Eye dares to venture on Westerosi sea, we shall simply turn his fleet to ash and dust. And then Elmar Frey's pathetic little rebellion will lose all force, and no one will support him. You need not worry so, brother."

Jon's eyes flashed as he shot up out of his chair and strode to the fireplace. He turned around again sharply, rubbing his jaw. "I need not worry? My little sister is currently on a ship bound for the same place as the man who once sold her as a slave- the man who made an alliance with another man, who not only murdered her mother and brother, but also believes he has some claim to her- and you say I have no cause to worry?" He licked his lips and looked away for a moment, and Aegon could do nothing but stare. "She is on a lone ship, heading straight for a fleet raised by her enemy. What if her ship is attacked, and she is taken? She barely escaped the last time, and that was when he didn't know who she was- what if-"

"Jon." Aegon stood up and crossed the room to his brother as Jon broke off, and gazed out of the window, and took hold of his shoulders. "Jon. Listen to me." Jon hesitated and then looked at him. "Cat- Arya- she is smart. You know how smart she is. If her ship is taken- they won't know her."

"That could make it even worse," Jon said, his voice rising with each word, and Aegon forced himself to keep calm. "She is a girl- what do you think will happen to her if she is captured at sea by sell swords and iron born?" He laughed bitterly and looked down, shaking his head. "But you are right. She is smart, always has been. And proud. You know what she'll do if it comes to it."

Aegon swallowed thickly as he began to understand the depth of Jon's fear. If she wasn't caught and recognised and taken straight to the Crow's Eye, and if she wasn't captured and raped and butchered, it would be for one reason. Death is a gift, she had once told him, so long ago on that ship bound for a doomed city. One of the crew had become grievous ill, and had begged for mercy at the end. Cat had given it to him, swift and steady. He had been horrified, and she had explained that death was a gift. It would be no surprise if she remembered that when faced by an enemy fleet. She was smart. She would understand the truth of those words and be unafraid to meet them- after all, better a knife to the heart than to be raped and thrown overboard to drown, or be tied to the prow of a ship to die, as he had heard the iron born did.

He forced the image away, and shook his brother firmly. "Jon. Your sister is clever, she has survived them once before, she can do it again. And who is to say her ship will even be intercepted by Euron's fleet? We cannot know what will happen; all we can do is prepare, and give us- and her- the best chance we can."

Jon swallowed and then nodded once, jerking his chin sharply. "I should have- that raven I sent Gendry when she was ill. I should have been more explicit. I should have just told him that Euron was in Volantis, and then she would never have taken a ship there, and-"

"And someone may have intercepted the raven and leaked the news," Aegon said firmly. "You couldn't have known, Jon. You made the right decision. You could not have known that he would refuse to come while she was on her sickbed, or that she would leave before he had a chance to come. He never got the news- but it is not your fault, brother. No one could have ever expected you to anticipate any of this."

Jon sat down as if his very bones were made of lead, staring at the empty hearth. He was silent for a long while, and Aegon began to believe he would not speak. He poured two goblets of wine, and passed one to Jon, before sitting opposite him. They drank in silence for a time, and Aegon wondered if he should pay a visit to Varys in case he had any new information. His little birds were everywhere, and it was thanks to one of them that they knew of Euron's whereabouts. With any luck, there would be new information already on it's way, and any little thing could win them the coming battles- and Aegon did not doubt that come they would.

"Arya was my closest friend when were children," Jon said quietly, breaking the silence, "Did you know that?" Aegon nodded; he had. "I never fit in with the others, not really. But neither did she, in a way. I was the unwanted bastard; she was the unneeded daughter. We didn't fit into their pack- so we became our own pack. A pack for two." He smiled bitterly. "She... was everything for me. When I said goodbye to her at Winterfell it broke my heart, and I missed her more than anything. I thought she was dead. I would picture her- skinny as a squirrel, dirty faced, scraped knees and muddy hems. Defiant, vibrant, and dead. And I knew it was my fault." He downed his wine. Aegon nearly voiced that it could never have been Jon's fault, but... he could sense that his brother needed to get it off his chest. So, he stayed silent, and listened.

"She was mine to protect, you see. My little sister, who loved me when no one else did. And I failed her. I let her ride off to the south, and she never came home. I had failed to protect her, and she was dead. And then she came back, but... she wasn't her anymore. Not as she had been. Her fire, so untamed and wild as a child, was gone. It was like she was made of pure ice. She was rage made flesh, steel made sword. And I knew that I had failed her in that, too." Aegon swallowed thickly, and poured another cup of wine, and passed it to his brother. It took Jon several moments before he even saw it, and another before he took it. He did not move to drink it.

"And then I let her believe I was selling her off, because I knew it would break her even more to know the truth." Aegon's confusion must have shown on his face, for Jon swallowed. "When I went beyond the Wall to find her, she- didn't want to come home. Believed she wasn't good enough to come home anymore. So when I learned of the alliance between Euron and Elmar Frey, I knew that if she learned of it, she would assume that her presence was nothing but a burden on us. So I lied. I let her think that I had sold her in marriage- and she believed it. So easily. As if she genuinely thought that she meant nothing more to me than collateral. That I regretted bringing her home. And I let her, because that was better than her being in danger. And... part of me hoped that she might find a home at Storm's End. Winterfell- she will always have a place there. It is a part of her, as it is a part of me. But she was so restless, so subdued, and I could see that it simply wasn't home for her anymore. And I wanted her to be happy. I thought Gendry might give that to her." He rubbed at his temple and sighed, slumping in his chair. "I guess I was wrong about that too. Because now she is gone, and in more danger than before. And I have failed her again."

The silence fell hard and heavy on the room as Jon stopped talking. Aegon did not know what to say. He had never known just how much Jon had carried with him- he had thought his brother was simply guilty for sending her away. Aegon could not imagine that kind of guilt, guiltless as his brother was.

"You tried," he said quietly. "You were only a boy when you parted. And you are no longer that boy than she is that girl. Do not torture yourself for things outside of your control. It was a hard call, sending her south again- do not condemn yourself for doing what you believed best for her." When he saw in Jon's face that he was unconvinced, he sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I told you once that I knew your sister before."

Jon nodded absently. "I remember. You gave her passage to Lorath." His eyes darkened at the thought of what had later occurred there.

Aegon nodded. "She called herself Cat- of the canals. She had been a fishmonger in Braavos. At least, that was what she told me. She had this terrible wound to her stomach- a knife wound. Vicious looking wound, too. She was barely alive when I found her at the docks the day of my departure. I had seen her before, you see, at the harbour. Had even spoken to her. She had been looking for a ship, and I offered her passage on mine, but she turned me down. Then she came back some days later, with that wound. Jon wanted to send her away, but she was so desperate that I couldn't. And-" he stopped abruptly. His heart stopped.

"You never told me your name," he had said.

She had paused. "Arya," she had said softly. "My name is Arya."

She had told him even then, and he had never even known. He had realised that as soon as he saw her in the ballroom weeks ago, but- there was something else. Something he had not even thought of.

"Brother?" Jon asked, frowning at him. "Are you well?"

Aegon blinked and swallowed. "I- yes. I'm fine." He took a pull of wine as he tried to remember.

"How do you know I'm not some crazy murderess, Griff?" she had asked, strolling idly along the rough planks. He chuckled and looked down at her.

"I don't," he said. "It's called having faith in people." But the girl wasn't looking at him- something had drawn her attention across the harbour. She seemed so on edge. Alert. Wary.

"That's stupid," she muttered, as if she were wondering why she was still talking to him. As if she expected him to lure her into a trap. "It will get you killed if you're not careful."

They walked in silence for a moment. "So?" he asked. "Which are you? Beautiful maid or dangerous assassin?" The girl snorted.

"What if I'm both?" she asked, stopping and turning to face him. He looked down at her, and as the sun hit her eyes- a flashing quicksilver. She was watching him oddly. She almost seemed to shake her head.

"Are you?" he had asked, tilting his head. She simply smiled and walked on. He followed behind a beat later. "So what is a lovely maid come assassin doing here alone?" he asked, and she sighed.

"I was waiting for a something," she had said. "But it doesn't matter now."

"Brother?" Aegon snapped out of his reverie and found Jon watching him warily. "Is ought amiss?"

Amiss? he wanted to say. If he was right- it could change everything. He nearly said as much but... if he was wrong. He sat up and steeled himself. He needed more time. Jon was hardly in the right frame of mind to hear it, and now, with everything, was not the time to go digging up the past. Arya was gone, half way across the Narrow Sea. If she did not return, he had no reason to sour his brother's memory. And if she did... he would have to talk to her himself. He was probably wrong anyway. She had just been making a stupid jest with a stranger. It didn't mean anything.

Did it?

He shook himself. "My apologies, brother. I was simply... lost in thought. Where was I?" He sipped his wine to collect himself. "Ah. That wound. Nasty thing, how she survived it I'll never know. She told me that a friend had doused it with boiling wine and then cauterised it with fire, but Lemore had to stitch it and rebind it several times on the way to Lorath."

Jon nodded. "Sansa told me after she saw it while Arya was in the bath. I always assumed she received it in the pits." He frowned. "I wonder how she got it. Where her life lead her that such a thing could happen to her."

Aegon had an idea, but now was not the time, and there was not the place, for it. "Even so, she was a strange little thing. Barely slept, barely spoke. She would stand at the prow and gaze into the horizon as if she could see something in it." He wondered if she had been seeing Winterfell. "At night she would go through drills over and over again. I would watch her, sometimes, though I'm sure she knew I was there." If he was right, then she had definitely known he was there... "I've never seen anyone... move like that. I asked her to teach me once, but she just smiled and told me to stick them with the pointy end." He snorted, and then paused as something crossed Jon's face, but when his brother said nothing, he shrugged it off. He sighed. "What I mean to say, is that if she could survive a stabbing at... fourteen? Younger?- and the Sacking of Lorath, and everything before and after- she will survive this. If anything, it should be Euron who ought to watch out."

And if he was right, if there was more to that joke she had made, then he did not doubt the truth of that statement. For it would not be Euron who had Arya, but Arya who had him- after all, it was a well known truth that no one could hold a faceless assassin when they did not wish to be held.

The sunlight fell through the arched open windows to create a shifting, dancing mosaic on the floor, catching the red in Sansa's hair so that it gleamed like polished copper. When her maids had asked what hairstyle she desired for the day as she dressed that morning, Sansa had missed the question, and they had been forced to repeat it. She had told them to leave it down for once, with just the hair around her temples braided and pinned to keep it from her face. She had long since abandoned the southron fashions that she had so eagerly adopted in her youth, despite her mother's insistence that a lady's hair should not be the most interesting thing about her, and had taken to the more simple, austere braids of her own people- yet even they seemed a struggle that morning. Indeed, simply pulling on her navy and cream gown had required far more effort than usual, as if her very thoughts and worries weighed down her very bones. They had certainly taken a toll on her appearance; purple shadows were smeared under her Tully blue eyes, and her skin, golden from the warm southron sun, seemed rather wan, and dull.

She had not even noticed until her maid had asked if she was ill and needed the maester's attention. But what plagued the eldest Stark daughter was nothing that could be cured by a few potions or tonics. It was born of something deep inside of her, something that she shared with her packmates; it was a bond- and it was broken. Once she had thought it ruined beyond repair; when her father had died and she had been stranded in a sea of enemies, when she had received news of her baby brothers' murders at the hand of a man who had once been a boy she had considered family, when she had learned of her mother's fate and her brother's mutilation after death- she had thought that bond ruined beyond repair.

But then she had reunited with a half brother who cared for her when he had no cause to beyond kindness and kinship, when a second brother returned to her, altered, changed fundamentally, but alive and well. When her only sister, of whom no one had ever known anything for near ten years except that her death was certain, was brought home- also changed, something new, something different- something distinctly other. But home.

The pack was smaller, and those lost to it were sorely and fervently missed, but it was a pack all the same. Jon had been her rock, her protector, the man who had reminded her of what it meant to be a Stark- not a captive, not a prisoner, not a plaything of ambitious and cruel men- but a Stark of Winterfell. And Bran... he had reminded her of how precious that very fact was- not for duty's sake or honour's sake, but for love and joy and safety. But Arya... there was something more there, too. Redemption, maybe, and forgiveness.

All those years in Kings Landing, alone and frightened and grieving, Sansa had not often dwelled on her younger sister's fate. It shamed her to admit it now, but she had been too scared to face herself when her baby sister disappeared. She had blamed herself, in part- all those years as children, she should have guided Arya, been her protector and best friend. Instead she had abused her position as elder sister. Where she should have guided her sister, she had belittled and condescended. Where she should have protected her, she had allowed other's to bully and ostracise and torment her. Where she should have been Arya's best friend, she had never had a kind or gentle word, never comforted or consoled her. She remembered how Arya had grieved for her butcher's boy, and she had not a word of condolence for her. She recalled how after Lady's death, she had screamed in Arya's face that she wished it had been her who died.

And when it seemed that was just what happened, when Arya disappeared and was never again found... Sansa had blamed herself. She had wished her little sister dead, had even prayed for it once, though she had taken it back right away, and she knew that it was all her fault- everything that happened, every horror and tragedy, was because she could not love her little sister. And she deserved to burn for it. No one ever seemed to know what had happened to Arya Stark- her name was seldom mentioned by anyone, and when it was people would do a double take. No one knew if she had been killed accidentally in the hysteria following their father's arrest, her death covered up, or if Joffrey or Cersei had had her killed for revenge- and who could argue that it was out of the question for either of them?- or even if she had escaped and died from starvation or exposure, if she had been kidnapped and sold, or captured and slaughtered among the masses of other innocent victims of war, nameless and forgotten. No one had ever seemed to know... until she was married to Ramsay Bolton. And then the truth was discovered, and the name Arya Stark carried with it even more confusion and sorrow. And through it all, through all of the unanswerable questions and years of grieving... Sansa had blamed herself for whatever the truth was.

And then Arya had returned and brought with her... absolution. Sansa had been ready to fall at her sister's feet and beg forgiveness, but that first time she looked into her sister's eyes, expecting hatred and anger- she had found nothing but love. There had been other things too- and Sansa had not understood at the time- things that frightened her, but she had realised that all those years that she had believed herself worthy of everything that happened to her, her sister had not. Arya had never held anything against her- not for one second. All those years apart, and it was not Arya, but Sansa herself who had misunderstood.

She did not need Arya's forgiveness, because Arya had already forgiven her for it all. Had never held it against her, or hated her, or blamed her for any of it.

Jon had reminded her what it meant to be a Stark. Bran had reminded her of joy and happiness and love and safety. But Arya... Arya had brought with her the realisation that Sansa deserved those things, that she was worthy of love and family and happiness. She had brought... peace.

And she was gone. Again. Sansa felt as though she had only just found her younger sister, so long believed dead, and she was lost to her once more. And in even more peril.

So, no; no tonic or tincture would bring Sansa peace.

"Lady Stark, are you well?" Sansa looked up, her footsteps faltering. Willas Tyrell descended the stairs at the other end of the hallway. His face was lined with concern as he limped towards her, his cane echoing slightly on the stones. "Forgive me, but you are so pale."

Sansa sucked in a shaky breath, folding her hands carefully over her waist. "I am, my Lord, though you have my thanks for asking," she said softly. "I must apologise for my lack of attention these past weeks. My mind has been... elsewhere."

Willas' face crumpled slightly in sympathy, and she knew that the sincerity in his words was not feigned. "Ah, yes. Please, you have no cause to apologise- I understand. I hope that you understand that should you require any support- anything at all- that I am always happy to lend whatever assistance I can."

Sansa smiled gratefully at him. He was such a good man- truly he was. It racked her with guilt. "I do," she said, "and I am grateful for it- truly, I am. The last few weeks have been rather harrowing." She took the arm he offered her, allowing him to lead her to a bench by the open window. The warm breeze drifted over her skin, fluttering her unbound hair.

"You have not had any further word, I take it?" he asked her.

She shook her head sadly. "No, not since- no. Or at least, not that I have heard." Jon had been even more torn up than she had since Arya's disappearance. He had withdrawn into himself- a man grieving. She wondered if years of worrying and never knowing what had happened to his sister had caught up to him. They had never known what happened to her- there was neither confirmation of her living or dying, and if so, in what manner. Had she been afraid? Had she fought? Had she been alone? Now Sansa knew the answer to every single one of those questions- yes. Yes, Arya had been afraid, yes, she had fought, unendingly, ceaselessly, yes, she had been alone.

"I wish there was some consolation I could offer you," Willas said gently, squeezing her hand. "Perhaps I could write to someone- perhaps Davos Seaworth might be more forthcoming now. He may have some idea of where she went, and then we might be able to contact someone there to see what word they have had."

Sansa smiled at him sadly. "Ser Davos has told us everything he knows, my lord, though I appreciate the thought. Lord Baratheon has been... silent, on the matter. We have had no correspondence from him in a fortnight."

"Perhaps I visit in person might persuade him to talk?"

"We have sent two men in such a manner," she explained. "Both were turned away. And with the current climate, it isn't possible for Jon or myself to leave the city." She chose her words carefully- deliberately. Though Willas was informed of the full situation, Sansa knew better than most the dangers of living at court. She had spent years as a captive here, after all- learning. Growing. Surviving.

Willas smiled at her softly, concern etched into his eyes. "If there is anything I can do for you and your family, anything at all- please, do not hesitate to ask." He stood up and bowed gracefully. "I am afraid I must leave you, my lady. I have a council meeting to attend."

Sansa stood and bobbed a curtsy. "Of course, my lord- I will not detain you. And thank you- for your kindness."

He inclined his head. "Anytime, my lady."

Once he was gone, his limping footsteps and clack of his cane receded into the distance, Sansa sighed and sat back down at the window. Her stomach was knotted tightly. She was wretched. She was a terrible sister, and a terrible betrothed. Willas was a good man- kind, honourable, clever, handsome too, if you looked past the twisted leg.

Yet when she closed her eyes it was another face she saw. Oh, Harry, she thought sadly. Willas made her warm; he was kind, and gentle. He made her heart flutter when he took her hand. He eased her worries, and soothed her pains. He was a softly flickering candle in a dark room.

But Harry... Harry made her burn. Harry was not kind, or gentle. Willas made her heart flutter, yes, but Harry made her knees go weak just from meeting his gaze across a crowded hall. He was a great bonfire, and she was a moth, who flew perilously close to burning herself in his endless heat.

You never learn, she thought to herself nastily. You're still a stupid, useless little girl. You're still Cersei's perfect little dove. Pathetic. Weak. Arya would never be so weak or foolish. Arya was smart, Arya was quick, Arya saw through facades and straight into the heart of things, as she always had.

And Arya was gone.

A silent tear tracked it's way down Sansa's pale cheek.

The girl was silent, and never slept.

At least, Captain Yarrow had not heard her utter a single word since that day they had left the Westerosi harbour, and every night without fail, he found a slender silhouette standing at the prow of the ship, staring, staring out across the churning black water and the darkened sky, with those haunted grey eyes.

There was something strange about that girl.

There was a darkness around her, shrouding her; indeed, it seemed as if the dark night air itself pulsed with malice around her. There was hate in her; hate, and grief, and unrelenting pain. He could see it in her eyes, in the blank set of her face as she stared and stared and said nothing. Not a word- to him, to his crew, not even to-

Well. That wasn't quite true though, was it?

He had heard her once, twelve days prior. Just a few words- and they had struck fear into his heart. He knew who she was- what she was. She had shown him her coin, and taken his name- taken his name as a promise that she could not harm him once she knew it.

And that was what confused him so. Because those words she had uttered- they had been names. A list of names, whispered like a prayer, and at the end of them were two words; words that any man of the free cities knew. Valar Morghulis.

She was one of them- one of the daemons from Braavos, weapons wielded by Him of Many Faces. She had shown him the coin, had said the words, had taken his name. They couldn't kill people who they knew by name.

And yet, there was hatred in the way she said those names. Hatred and anger and heartbreak so profound that he could not begin to imagine what a person had to go through in order to sound that broken. She knew their names... and she was going to kill them anyway.

Maybe he wasn't as safe as he had thought he was.

He crept up the steps as quietly as he could, poking his head up onto the deck, eyes straining to see through the dark of night. He did not see her immediately, but he could feel it- that hate and grief filled presence she exuded in such abundance. He saw her then- or rather, the vague shadow of her form. Standing where he had known she would be standing, at the prow, staring at nothing, one hand braced on the wooden railing.

One of the men behind him stumbled, and the ladder clacked against the decking. There was a muffled slap, a curse, and nothing more. Idiots, he thought. They were idiots, all of them. He peered down, and saw the flash of a knife gleaming in the weak light of the hanging lantern. He threw it's owner a sharp look, and the blade was concealed once more. If he could see it, then she would notice it before it even got within twenty feet of her.

He motioned for them to follow quietly and climbed the last few rungs of the ladder. He would not have her on his ship- he would not allow her to kill them all in their sleep. She had said his name was protection, but she could have been lying. He knew what that list of hers was- she knew all of those people by name too, and she intended to kill them.

As he approached, his heart thundering in his throat, he reminded himself of where each of his weapons were- two in his belt, one in his right boot. He grasped the one at his left hip and drew it as silently and slowly as he could.

"I would not do that if I were you." He nearly fell over with fear when she spoke, her cool, quiet voice cutting through the night air like a blade. "It would be... inadvisable."

She turned around slowly. Didn't even bother to draw a blade, just regarded him and his men with that cool, blank face, empty of love, devoid of feeling. He wondered how long she had known they were there.

"You're a demon," he told her, his voice a rasp. "You'll kill us all."

"I will not," she said simply. "Unless you force my hand. And seeing as I cannot steer this ship alone, I would prefer it did not come to that, Captain Yarrow." She used his name- was it a reminder, or a threat?

"How do I know you aren't lying?" he demanded. A deck board creaked slightly as one of his men shifted his weight.

"Because I have no reason to," she replied. "I already sail to my death. I do not need yours too."

"You might not," he countered, voice shaking slightly. "But your god might."

She chuckled- a cold, humourless chuckle, that sent dread pooling like ice in his gut. "He already does own your death," she said after a moment. "As He owns all of ours. Depending on your next decision, it is entirely your call whether He takes you in fifty years, or twenty, or ten, or tonight if you are foolish enough to attempt to kill me."

"I have twenty men behind me," he stated, licking his lips.

"Yes. You do. Yet you will be the first I cut down if you leave me no choice."

Panic rose. "Twenty strong men," he tried desperately. "Twenty good men-"

"And all of them will become twenty corpses if you do not change your course."

He felt his bowels turn watery. She was not afraid- not even a little bit. What was this demon, to claim such boldness in the face of such a threat? He hesitated. "I will not have my men attack if you agree to surrender your weapons."

That cold, joyless chuckle again. "Would that make you feel better?" He didn't need to answer her- no; no, it would not. "You will not have my weapons, Captain. But you do have my word."

He wanted to spit to show his contempt, but his mouth was too dry. "The word of a faceless demon?"

The corner of her mouth twitched. "Indeed."

He tossed the choices he had around his head. She would kill them all if they attacked. She may very well kill them all anyway, but he liked his chances better that way. He lowered his sword. "Alright. I suppose I have no choice."

She watched him carefully for a long moment, before turning around once more to survey the black sky and churning sea. "We all of us have choices," she said quietly. "Sometimes we make the wrong ones. And pay for it."

I know, I know *wails*. It's been a loooong time coming. I can only apologise, and hope that you enjoyed this chapter. I will do my best to update soon. If you enjoyed this chapter, please leave a review and let me know your thoughts.

Until next time (whenever that may be), Over and Out xoxo