All night, dance after dance and song after song, Arya had longed to contort her arm behind her back to scratch and scratch until the itch disappeared. It was her damned stays. Or rather the shift underneath, which had bunched somewhat uncomfortably. Arya slouched in her seat with a huff and reached for her half-filled goblet and squirmed, hoping to force her shift back into place. When it persisted Arya groaned and once more, she wished to scratch to the bone, courtesies be damned. But that wouldn't be ladylike, least of all in the middle of the feast.

The starting notes of the Bear and the Maiden Fair clamored throughout the hall. Most of the revelers had finished their meals ages ago, and the long trestle tables had since been pushed to the sides to make room for dancing. Musicians sat grouped to the far left of Riverrun's hall, which was lit by more candles than Arya could count. From her seat at the high table on the raised dais she could see most of the hall, and they could certainly see her. To her left sat Robb, who idly sipped at his ale.

To hell with it. Arya set her goblet back on the table with a resolute thunk and twisted her arm behind her back, but it was to no avail. The itch was too high and her arm too short. With a sigh, she sagged back in her seat and retrieved her goblet.

"Are you alright?" Robb asked. He failed to hide the amusement in his voice, and he further failed in hiding his chuckle behind a sip of ale when Arya glared at him.

"My feet ache, and I've an itch beneath my stays." Arya drained what remained in her goblet in one go before catching the eye of the girl tasked with filling them. Arya motioned to her goblet and sat it on the table whilst the young girl worked her way closer.

Sore arms and legs woefully accompanied her aching feet, which ached worse than they had earlier. Syrio had taken no mercy with her that morning. Not that he did any morning, really, though it'd been hard to truly train with him whilst on the march with Alysanne. They were always on the move, or in council meetings, or too weary for more than an hour of sparring at most.

After mercifully granting her one morning of reprieve following their return to Riverrun, Syrio had ordered her down to the yard at dawn the following day. He'd worked her for hours with such intensity that by the end, Arya felt as though she lacked the strength to even hold her wooden practice sword aloft.

"I would imagine they do. You've been popular tonight." Arya pursed her lips and peered sidelong at her brother. The serving girl refilled Arya's goblet and after a muttered thanks, Arya took a deep sip.

"It would seem that way," she groused. After another small sip of her wine, Arya returned the goblet to the table. Dancing always left her winded and thirsty, and she'd done much of it that night. Arya had not sat once since her uncle's friend, Ser Marq Piper, asked her to dance.

She'd not even had the chance to properly finish her meal, for after Ser Marq had come the newly knighted Olyvar Frey, and after him another Frey. Then there was a Bracken boy, and because she'd danced with a Bracken one of the Blackwood's had to follow. Patrek Mallister, Torrhen Karstark, Ethan Forrester, Ser Wendel, Arya could hardly keep track of everyone who'd asked her for a dance that night, nor did she think she'd ever danced so much. Sansa had always been the one to spend the night dancing, never her.

The only one she'd honestly enjoyed dancing with that night, aside from the Smalljon, had been her Uncle Edmure. He'd proven to be great fun, leading her around the room in a dance so graceless it left her joyfully breathless. That, paired with the mocking remarks he had for her previous dance partners, had left her sides aching with laughter.

"You sound truly miserable for someone who's spent the night dancing," Robb laughed. Arya shot Robb a sharp frown and fixed the twisted sleeves of her dress.

He wore his crown that night, and his doublet was one of icy gray. His beard was trimmed short and his hair neatly swept back, and Arya thought he cut a rather striking figure. Especially next to Alysanne, with her own crown so similar to his and a dress of deep crimson, though she'd abandoned the table in favor of dancing.

She'd been quick to drag Robb to the floor as soon as the dancing had started, and whilst Robb had tired of dancing fairly quickly Alysanne showed no signs of stopping. After Robb she'd danced with the Greatjon for a song or two, along with other important lords who danced rather than sat and drank. Now, slouched in her seat, Arya regarded Prince Oberyn as he spun Alysanne around the floor.

"Half of them would have rather danced with you, and the other half merely wished to dance with a Princess. None of them wished to dance with me." She'd have been a fool to think otherwise.

Save for her uncle, Ethan Forrester, and the Smalljon, everyone she'd danced with had asked after His Grace, the King. Those who were lords in their own right, or near enough to it, asked how she fared during the war councils and if perhaps the King had need of yet another advisor. Never did Arya think she'd resent her position as Alysanne's cupbearer, a title conferred unto her for formality's sake only yesterday. It changed nothing, really, save for it now appeared as though every lord, knight, and squire knew she attended those councils.

If not for either of those reasons, they asked her to dance hoping to win her favor. They'd have a far better chance of Robb agreeing to a betrothal if Arya actually liked her suitor, that as much was true no matter the lady in question. Pity for them, Arya wished to marry none of them. My match will likely be with Dorne, anyway, if Alysanne's alliance is to hold.

"That's far from true," Robb protested. "You're Uncle Edmure's favorite. He's given none of us a horse."

"Yes, well, he doesn't wish to marry me." Arya hoped, at the very least. "Why must it be my hand offered in exchange for alliances? Bran is unwed, and you've legitimized Jon."

At the topic of her impending betrothal, Robb shifted in his seat and avoided her gaze. "I have considered offers for Bran. Jon too." Though she scanned the hall, Arya couldn't find Bran. She did spot Jon though, who appeared to have just finished a turn about the floor with Beth Cassel and was graciously relinquishing her to a blushing Cley Cerwyn. Princess Arianne sauntered up to Jon, and were Arya in a better mood she might have japed with Robb about the way she'd cornered him.

"Then let them seal alliances. Let them be paraded about. I'll drive away anyone you attempt to parcel me off to." To her dismay, Robb chuckled. She reached over and smacked his chest, to which he flinched. "I'm being serious!" She finally spotted Bran, who sat lazily with several friends, and silently fumed.

"What has Robb done now?" Alysanne asked as she marched up to their table, her skirts gathered in her hands, flushed and out of breath. Small strands of hair fell down about her face, and more loose hair was plastered to her neck with sweat. She swiped Robb's goblet once she reached the table and drained what remained.

"Are you drunk, sister?" Arya ignored her question about Robb, not wishing to dampen Alysanne's good mood by bringing up talks of her betrothal. She feels guilty enough about it, though it's no fault of her own.

Amusement pulled Arya's lips upwards. She'd never seen Alysanne so… disheveled at a feast before. Her skirts were wrinkled where she'd previously grasped them, and one of her sleeves, long and draping, had coiled about itself. Alysanne didn't appear to notice as Arya strained across the table to untangle the sleeve.

"And if I am?" Alysanne gestured carelessly behind her, and the sleeve which Arya had fixed tangled about itself once more. "This is a feast celebrating my victory, is it not? And seeing as it is, I demand another dance, Robb."

"You demand?" Robb repeated. His smile was playful and teasing, and already he was rising from his seat to make his way around the table.

The last Arya had seen Robb and Alysanne dance with one another had been before any of them left Winterfell, at their wedding feast. Almost a full year ago. Arya always thought they danced beautifully together, and the five songs Alysanne commandeered Robb for that night left her aching for home, where her mother and father would have danced with one another, Theon with some serving girl, and Sansa with whichever lordling plucked up the courage to ask.

"I demand," Alysanne nodded. She strained to keep her face placid and serious. Just beneath the surface a smile lurked, and with each step Robb took she struggled more and more to keep it at bay. Arya watched fondly as Robb grasped her hand and led her back to the floor. If only for that night, the dark cloud which had shrouded Alysanne since they left Casterly Rock seemed to have lifted.

Intent on relishing what little solitude she'd found that night, Arya contented herself with watching. Northerners sat amongst men from the Riverlands, drinking and cheering and singing along to the livelier songs. Some dornishmen had even emerged from their self-imposed corner of the hall and mingled with the odd river lord. From her seat, Arya could hear the Greatjon regaling yet another river lord and a particularly bold dornishman with the tale of how Grey Wind stole several of his fingers.

Speaking of the beast. Some ways down the table, Grey Wind lazed under the table at her mother's feet. Only Grey Wind bothered to hang around in the noisy hall; Ghost had remained long enough to secure a haunch of boar before stalking off. Likely to the Godswood, where he liked to lurk. Not for the first time, Arya ached for Nymeria. Soon. When Arya had last dreamt as Nymeria, she'd recognized the two, stone castles of the Twins straddling the Green Fork, and that had been nigh on two weeks ago.

Arya leaned backwards to get a better view of Grey Wind, only to catch her mother tossing down a hunk of meat without once breaking eye contact with Lord Manderly, who sat beside her. Grey Wind's tail thumped gleefully against the floor. Arya smirked and remembered all the times her mother had scolded them back home for doing the very same.

The tedium of the feast continued on around her as Arya rested her chin in her hand, surveying the hall. If there was anyone perhaps more miserable than Arya that night, it was Wylla Manderly. Wylla and Harrion. Arya did not think she'd ever seen two people so displeased to be dancing with one another. What a grand jape that was.

To be wholly honest, Arya had thought Wylla to be lying when she burst into Alysanne's solar the morning after their return and announced that her father had arranged for her to wed Harrion bloody Karstark. Eddara had been mid swallow, and the absurdity of Wylla's declaration almost made her choke. Arya herself had snickered along with Beth, Alysanne, Jorelle, and Jeyne; even Joy smiled timidly in amusement, still unsure of her place amongst the rest of them.

But even after their laughter faded away Wylla had not relented. Her face remained an indignant puce and her fists tightly clenched, and when prompted, reiterated her earlier statement. It was no jape at all. Wylla, as serious as the grey plague and thrice as deadly, ranted and raved to them for the entirety of their morning meal.

Even Arya knew that the Lady of House Karstark was a fine station. She wouldn't be surprised if her own parents had considered the same match for either of her or Sansa. Were it not for the enmity between Wylla and Harrion, Arya suspected Wylla would be pleased

The bitterness hadn't faded. Arya saw Harrion approach Wylla, who scowled and turned her nose upward. Harrion proffered his hand in an invitation to dance, and Wylla only accepted after a stern scowl from Lord Manderly. Will that be my fate? A stern look from her mother or brother, and a forced acceptance of an outstretched hand? A pity her own hair was not light enough to dye like Wylla had.

The song came to an end, but Harrion did not seem keen to release Wylla. Arya scanned the hall in search of Bran once more and spotted him standing amongst Cley Cerwyn, Patrek Mallister, and surprisingly, Daemon Sand, who appeared to be telling a riveting tale if Bran's mesmerized expression was anything to go by. Arya caught Bran's eye and motioned him over to her. Reluctantly, he said farewell to his small group of friends and loped over to her.

"What do you need?" Bran asked moodily. "Daemon was telling us a story. Did you know he squired for Prince Oberyn? He's been to all sorts of places. Pentos, Braavos, Lys, you wouldn't believe it!"

"Yes, I've heard," Arya dismissed. She'd heard many of his stories from the man himself, on their march back from Casterly Rock. Arya gestured to Wylla. "You should ask Lady Wylla to dance."

"Why?" Bran wrinkled his nose. "She's betrothed to Harrion, and dancing with him. She won't want to dance with me."

"She will. Wylla's not overly fond of Harrion. Look at her, she's miserable. She keeps stomping on his feet." Arya knew Wylla was far too graceful a dancer to step on his feet by mistake. Arya felt some semblance of pride at her friend's stubbornness and her green hair, which was suspiciously brighter than it had been that morning.

"I don't wish to dance with anyone," Bran insisted. Arya huffed and rolled her eyes. I hadn't wished to dance with anyone, either. No one had made Bran dance, or given him a stern eye when he'd remained seated with his friends.

"You don't have to dance with her for long. Only long enough for her to make an escape. Please Bran." Arya pinned Bran with a stare, and held his gaze until he broke it with a grumbled ascent.

As Bran weaved his way through the crowd towards Wylla and Harrion, movement at the back of the hall caught Arya's eye. A guard in Frey livery stepped out of the hall to converse with a man whose face Arya could not identify. The guardsman stepped back in and leaned against the back wall. Not long after, another guardsman in similar livery joined him.

Few Frey men remained, aside from Olyvar and Ser Edwyn. Ser Ryman, Black Walder, and Lame Lothar had left with a handful of Frey men-at-arms to meet her uncle's betrothed on the road from the Twins. Arya didn't see why they needed such a large party, if the poor woman was already traveling to Riverrun with a small contingent of men. Perhaps she's just as displeased, and just as like to flee as Uncle Edmure.

"That was untoward, Arya," her mother chided. She slid over to claim Robb's vacated seat, and Arya grimaced at the realization that her mother had heard the entire exchange. "I know Wylla is your friend, but she'll need to learn to get along with Harrion, if they're to be married."

"Mayhap Harrion is the one who should be kinder to her," Arya argued. And why must she dance with him, anyway? Half the time, it was Harrion who started the arguments with Wylla.

"Perhaps." Her mother reached down and scratched Grey Wind behind the ear, the direwolf having followed her. "But if they wish to be friendly with one another at the very least, they'll both have to try. It will take time, best they start now."

A brief hum was Arya's only reply. There were many men Wylla might have married who she wouldn't have to make such efforts with, and each of them would have served House Manderly just as well. Next feast, it will may be I who dances miserably with my betrothed. Arya picked at the food on her plate, but found it had long grown cold in the time she'd been dancing. A pity. She'd barely had any, before taking to the floor.

"The dress fits you beautifully. You look lovely," her mother said. Arya glanced at her mother and softened at the sincerity in her voice. Arya laid a hand atop her's, which rested idly on top of the table.

"Thank you, mother." Arya withdrew her hand and fiddled with the sleeve of her dress, which felt slightly too tight, and rolled her shoulders in annoyance at the way her sweat made the fabric cling to her back.

It was a lovely dress; Tully blue, with delicate, silver trouts dancing along the neckline and cuffs. There had been trouts along the bottom hem too, but unlike Sansa, Arya inherited none of their mother's height. Her mother hemmed the dress herself, doing away with the trouts which had swam merrily along the bottom.

As much as it meant to Arya, her mother staying up nearly the whole night to alter the dress, she didn't think she'd wear it again anytime soon. It's wasted on me. Arya thought her mother should have saved it for Sansa. Arya was certain Sansa never felt as awkward and out of place in dresses like this.

Her mother stayed her fidgeting hand and clasped it before releasing it to smooth Arya's hair. "You've grown into a beautiful young woman, Arya. Your father would be so proud of you." Her mother held her gaze for a moment before she dropped her hands to her lap and shifted to look out over the crowd. "I often wonder what he would make of all this."

"All of what?" Arya followed her mother's gaze, to where Robb and Alysanne had stopped dancing and now stood speaking with Jon Connington. "The war?"

"That. The North declaring Robb its king. Aegon Targaryen returning from the dead. He wanted none of this for his children."

At the mention of Aegon, Arya sought him out amongst the crowd. He sat on top of a table with his feet resting on the bench seating, with Ser Rolly, several of his cousins, Bess Bracken, and various other ladies Arya knew naught the name of crowded around him. Aegon tilted his head back in laughter at something Bess Bracken said, and an ugly coil of fire wrapped around her throat. Simpering fools. Even Arya knew Aegon would likely marry Arianne.

That night, Aegon wore clothes far finer than anything Arya had seen him wear thus far. Even from her place across the hall Arya could see the way the rubies embroidered on his black doublet glittered, and could see the shimmer of his red damask cloak in the candlelight. His new, golden circlet gleamed as well, against the pale silver-gold of his hair. The circlet was simple, and Arya suspected they would craft a far more elaborate one for him once he took King's Landing. Though it would be a shame, for she thought the plain circlet was powerful on its own and suited him nicely.

Bess Bracken, with hair far neater and silky than Arya's, must have possessed a positively delightful sense of humor for another round of laughter erupted from Aegon and his companions. Arya knew precious little of Bess Bracken. She'd never spared her a second thought, nor would she continue to. Let her play the fool. Let her smile brazenly at Aegon, Arya decided, and let her find herself as disappointed as any other lady when he inevitably wed Arianne Martell.

Arya must have been staring for too long, as Aegon caught her eye and flashed her a slight smile. Swiftly, she averted her attention back to her mother. "I don't imagine any father wants war for their children."

"No, I imagine not. We often talked about what we wanted for you children." Her mother paused for a moment, seemingly lost in distant memories until she shook her head to free herself of them. She put the talk of war behind them and said, "you appeared to enjoy your dance with Jon Umber."

Arya liked not the wry, little grin on her mother's face. Of course I enjoyed dancing with him. Arya counted the Smalljon amongst her friends, having spent much time with him whilst in the Westerlands. Always genial and good-natured, Arya could not name a time in the past moons where Jon Umber had failed to at least lift her spirits. She liked to think that the Smalljon could make even Lord Bolton crack a smile, if given the chance.

"He's a good man, quite taken with Jorelle. He was telling me of the dagger he's having made to gift her on her name day." Arya picked at the lemon cakes in front of her in vain, finding them sodden and cold. She did not miss the slight disappointment that shadowed her mother's face at the mention of the Smalljon's fondness of Jorelle. Eager to avoid further probing at any of her other dance partners, Arya continued. "I enjoyed dancing with Uncle Edmure far more. Did you see the horse he gifted me before we left?"

"I didn't. You'll have to show me, on the morrow perhaps. But what of the others?" Her mother waited eagerly, and even Grey Wind peaked his head out from under the table to watch her. Traitor.

"What others? I enjoyed dancing with none of them, and would like to marry them even less." Arya sniffed and frowned down at her goblet, finding it empty for the second time since she returned to her seat.

Her mother sighed. "Arya, I'm trying to help you. There must be someone who you find somewhat agreeable."

If only to strike her mother's ire, she almost replied that she had, in fact, found Prince Oberyn quite agreeable. A man with more bastards than one could be truly certain of, and whom Arya had not actually danced with. She had however exchanged pleasant conversation with him early in the evening regarding the various poisons he'd found in his travels, and none could deny that he was surpassingly handsome. Her mother was spared that comment, as the approach of Aegon, who approached them with his back straight and hands clasped politely behind him stayed Arya's tongue.

"Aegon," Arya greeted, a bright smile splitting her face near in two.

Her mother shot her a quick glare as she dipped her head slightly. "Your grace," she said. The rebuke she directed at Arya, though unspoken, was blatant in her tone.

To his credit, Aegon did not seem to mind. He followed their exchange with an amused smirk, and when he met Arya's eyes she nearly scowled at the teasing glint. He dipped his head, and said, "I apologize for the interruption. I had hoped to ask Princess Arya for a dance."

Aching feet forgotten, Arya jumped up and rounded the table without another word to her mother. He tucked her arm into his and her stomach flipped in a queer manner. Nerves, from the talk of my impending doom with mother. Aegon smelt of clean soap and warm amber, tinged with something pleasantly foreign that set her nerves alight.

"I thought we agreed. No titles," Arya muttered. Aegon led her to the floor by her hand, and when he came to a stop, spun her around to face him. Arya gave no real thought to her movements and instead let Aegon lead her about the room, with one hand securely holding her own and the other laying gently at her waist.

"We did. But your mother seemed quite intent on them, and I thought it best not to offend." His hair, longer than when she'd met him but still short, had been slicked back, save for a stubborn strand which dangled over his forehead.

"My mother is intent on a great many things tonight. You spared me a positively dreadful conversation." Upon spotting a rather dejected looking boy in the livery of House Vance watching them, Arya added, "and perhaps another tiresome dance partner." The loose strand of hair mocked Arya, and she itched to return it to where it belonged.

With a light chuckle, Aegon swept her around in time with the swell of the song. "Had I known you found them so tiresome I might have spared you earlier, rather than wait so long to ask for a dance."

"It's alright. Bess Bracken appeared awfully entertaining, I suppose I too would loath to pull myself away from such splendid company." Shame, sick and bitter, burned low in her belly. Why did she care who Aegon spent his evening with? He's to marry Princess Arianne, regardless. Aegon hummed and peered down at her.

"You can't have had too terrible of a time tonight. You appeared to enjoy dancing with that tall lad just fine. And Lord Edmure's friend, Ser Marq." Aegon's gaze stayed trained downwards on her, but Arya resolutely focused on those dancing around them. Jon Umber is my friend. And Ser Marq was so like her uncle, with a similar sharp wit. "I'm not certain when I might have cut in to ask for a dance, anyhow."

"My mother's doing, I'm certain. Or Robb's. They seem intent on marrying me off sooner rather than later. I suppose my running off to the Westerlands didn't help matters." It would be like her mother, to encourage lords who hoped for a match to push their sons into her path. Arya huffed and with a scowl met Aegon's eyes; a brilliant violet, which, disconcertingly, almost sent her stumbling over her words. "And not that it's your business, but Jon Umber is a friend. And I've no intention of marrying Ser Marq."

The song swelled, and Aegon spun her around as he'd done the last time. Though this time when she came to a stop facing him he drew her the slightest bit closer. Arya glanced over her shoulder and spotted Jon Connington, who regarded her and Aegon with a dark expression.

One song bled into another, yet Aegon and Arya did not part. Aegon glanced around before catching her eye. "What of our beloved Jon's squire? He seemed rather disheartened when your dance ended. He's been staring at you ever since. Each time someone asked you to dance, I've half expected the lad to run them through with his training sword."

As Aegon steered them about, Arya peeked over at Alyn Blackwood only to find him staring as intently as Aegon said, with a glower to boot. "Don't be cruel, he's only a boy." A harmless one. Only just older than Rickon.

Syrio had told her before they left Riverrun that Alyn Blackwood fancied her, and Arya had taken him for a liar. However, over the moons spent in the Westerlands, she'd seen the truth in his statement. It'd only become more apparent earlier that night when Alyn flushed as red as a weirwood leaf and stumbled over his words as he asked her for a dance. As bothersome as Arya found him at times, with his hovering and gawking from afar, he was sweet and honorable, and Arya wasn't so cruel as to deny him the one dance. He deserved the dance, for mustering up the nerve to ask.

"Yes, well, we're all very fortunate his glare can't harm anyone. Else wise half the men here would be dead. That wouldn't bode well for your brother's campaign, I imagine." That drew a giggle from Arya, one which melded into something rather unladylike at her poor attempt at stifling it. Aegon smiled down at her. His hand slipped from its place at her waist to circle around to her lower back, pulling her closer.

His hand seared into her skin where it rested, and for a brief moment Arya thought perhaps Targaryens did burn hotter than the rest of them. Arya grew hyper aware of every point which they touched; her hand in his, his at her waist, her free hand draped over his shoulder, even where her chest brushed his. Each point set her aflame down to her very bones. They were so close, it forced Arya to tilt her head back to meet his eyes. From the shadow in them she feared Aegon knew how hot he burned.

The song ended and Arya made to step back out of a desire to still her twisting stomach, but Aegon declined to release the grasp he had on her. He pouted down at her instead and Arya looked up at him pleadingly. "My feet ache dreadfully, Aegon. I wish to sit. Let me go."

"I'll sit with you, then," Aegon resolved. All too willingly, he tucked her arm into his and led her through those still dancing back towards the high table.

Commotion erupted from the back of the hall, and the musicians stopped playing leaving the song suspended in the air. Arya and Aegon halted their progress towards the table and whirled around. Arya stared wide-eyed with the rest of the guests at the young guardsman who had burst into the hall. The guardsman shoved his way through the crowd to reach Robb and Alysanne, who had stopped with the rest of those dancing.

A small circle formed around Robb and Alysanne as the guardsman stopped a respectful distance from them. The crowd grew swiftly, and Arya could no longer see what was happening. She might have gone to stand on the dais with her mother who looked over the crowd with a worried frown, but she instead started forward, narrowly avoiding an outstretched hand from Aegon meant to keep her by his side.

She broke through the crowd and found Bran, who watched on just as confused as everyone else. He spotted her and motioned for her to join him at his side. Arya recognized the guardsman for one of her Uncle's men. Or rather, her grandfather, as he was still Lord Tully even confined to his bed. The guardsman could hardly catch his breath, and he scanned the crowd with crazed eyes.

"He's gone, your grace. Jaime Lannister is gone," the guardsman said. Confused rumbling erupted all around her and Arya seized Bran's arm.

"What do you mean gone?" Alysanne asked. She stepped forward closer to the trembling guardsman, her shoulders rigid and hands clenched at her side. Robb stepped forward to join her and settled a hand on her shoulder. "How could he be gone?"

"I—we don't know, your grace. The guards at his door had their necks sliced clean, and the man guarding the servant's entrance at the bottom of the eastern tower is dead too." The confused rumbling from before burst into an outcry of disbelief. Already, Ser Brynden was shouting orders over the din and men rushed to obey, all eager to join the search for the escaped Kingslayer.

The skirts of Alysanne's dress snapped as she whirled about. She shouted something at Wylla, who hurried out of the hall in the opposite direction whence the guardsman had came. Alysanne, however, did not turn back around to keep questioning the guardsman as Robb was. She shut her eyes tight as if that would cease the swelling nightmare. One hand was pressed tight to her chest, and the other remained clenched tight at her side.

Arya's heart lurched, and she peeled herself away from Bran and headed straight for Alysanne. She grabbed Alysanne's still clenched hand and unfurled her fingers, clasping it in her own. Alysanne stared at her with wide, guileless eyes and her other hand fell limp from her chest. Arya grasped that one too.

The two women said nothing as chaos unfurled around them, its sickly arms careening throughout the hall and seeping through the keep. Defeat and despair already etched deep into Alysanne's being, and her resigned daze worked a cold, sliver of anger deep into Arya's chest. There will be those who suspect Alysanne. She suspected there would always be those who questioned Alysanne's loyalties, though Arya could not reason why. Has she not proven herself loyal enough?

The young guardsman scurried away at a word from Robb, who then stepped to Alysanne and set a heavy hand on her shoulder. Alysanne watched him wordlessly and nodded along as he assured her they'd find him, that he would lead the search parties himself throughout the night if he had too. Before Arya could question him further or ask to join the search herself Robb was off, already yelling for Ser Brynden and their Uncle Edmure.

The clatter of the hall lessened as men ran to their horses and Arya peeked over her shoulder at the sound of fast approaching footsteps. Wylla glided to a stop beside them, red faced and out of breath. "The dragons are unharmed, Alysanne. Obara and one of her sisters have been with them the entire night." For a moment, Alysanne's hands tightened around Arya's. Her rigid shoulders eased as she nodded.

Alysanne dropped Arya's hands and wiped her own on her skirts, and with a sharp exhale she rolled her shoulders back and faced Wylla. "Robb will want to speak to his lords. We'll call those not joining the search and those not too far in their cups to a council. However few that leaves." Not very many, I imagine, Arya mused. The northern lords did like their ale, and those not too drunk would no doubt want the honor and glory of returning the Kingslayer to his chains.

"They'll find him, Alysanne. He can't have gone far," Wylla said. She rubbed a reassuring hand up and down Alysanne's arm, but the worried twist of her mouth persisted. She faced away from Arya and Wylla, towards the far exit of the hall that led out of the keep and to the courtyard.

"It's not that which I worry about." A forlorn shadow veiled Alysanne's face, and sightlessly she stared after the retreating men.

Over Alysanne's shoulder, Arya followed Aegon as he stalked out of the hall with Prince Oberyn close beside him, and she wondered how many joined the search parties to return Jaime Lannister alive. There were many and more who had reason to hate Jaime Lannister, the Karstarks among them. They'd been some of the first from the hall.

"Robb won't let any harm befall him, Alysanne. He's far too valuable." Even as Arya said it, the words tasted sour and uncertain. Robb was only one man, and many of his lords would have been just as content had he taken the Kingslayer's head from the start.

"Then we'd best pray to the old gods and the new it's Robb who finds him first." Without another word, Alysanne stalked towards the opposite exit of the hall which led deeper into Riverrun. Wylla followed, but Arya did not.

Arya waited until Wylla and Alysanne left the hall before flying towards the opposite exit. She would join a search party herself, or otherwise bid Robb to let her lead one. For however much pain her father had wrought on Alysanne, Arya knew she still cared for him. Jaime Lannister will not die tonight. If not only to spare Alysanne more grief, then for Sansa, if, gods forbid, Theon failed. She's lost one father, she shan't lose another.