Previously, on The Dragon in the North:

Alys Karstark is at Winterfell, as are some Dothraki, Unsullied, Highgarden men, Petyr Baelish, and a few of the Lords Declarant. Meanwhile, Jon has persuaded Jaime Lannister to bring his troops North, and has liberated Torrhen's Square.

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It was poison did the deed," the innkeep insisted. "The boy's face turned black as a plum."

"May the Father judge him justly," murmured a septon.

"The dwarf's wife did the murder with him," swore an archer in Lord Rowan's livery. "Afterward, she vanished from the hall in a puff of brimstone, and a ghostly direwolf was seen prowling the Red Keep, blood dripping from his jaws."

(A Storm of Swords, Chapter 62, Jaime VII.)

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Chapter 10

The girl had not long been Alys Karstark when she glimpsed the towers of Winterfell in the distance.

She hadn't been Alys Karstark when she landed at Saltpans to deal with Walder Frey. As always, she resisted the temptation to spit when she thought of the man. Alys Karstark had been a proper lady, like Sansa, and ladies didn't spit. Or so the girl imagined. She hadn't known Alys Karstark at all, before taking her face.

The girl had called herself Mercy, after some consideration. She'd revealed her given name to the monster of Frey, before killing him, though she could easily have called herself Mercy – it had been a merciful death she'd given him, compared to how her mother and brother had died at his hands.

Working her way north, from the Twins, she had been Mercy again, travelling from tavern to tavern. Inns weren't just places to sleep (though she hardly slept at all), or eat (none of the food even compared to what Hot Pie could have produced) – they were sources of gossip. After such a long time spent away from the North, she was thirsty for news – but each morsel was stranger than the other. Often, she thought it had been easier when she was still Cat of the Canals, though she no longer remembered when she'd learned to sort out the truth from the tale, like a stew with a few precious morsels of meat in a sea of gristle.

The girl soon learned to discard the more insane rumours – that Sansa had married a flayed man, or that she warged into a whole pack of dogs at her master's bidding. But the ones regarding Jon were even stranger. It was madness enough that Jon was no longer at the Wall, no longer a man of the Night's Watch. But the stories grew in insanity the closer she rode to Winterfell – that Jon was now king of the Wildlings, that he'd let them through the Wall, that he'd forced Sansa into marriage, breaking the laws of both gods and men.

At a small, almost forgotten inn (which nevertheless almost painfully reminded her of the inn at the crossroads), one man-at-arms had been ranting loud enough to raise the dead. Though the latter was not an expression one dared use in the North nowadays, Mercy mused. She'd used it herself and had been the recipient of quite a few glares and muttered curse words, something else which puzzled her.

"He killed the Umbers and the Karstarks – proper Northern families, they were! Now they're gone, and him nothing but a bastard, born in the South! Who's to say he's even Ned Stark's son?"

Mercy had noticed the speaker had been careful to buy food and drink for his companions and himself, and his group had started a conversation which had gradually become louder until everyone at the inn could no longer pretend they weren't listening. An argument ensued, with everyone wanting to put in their bit; that of course Snow was Ned Stark's son, who else should he be? Why wasn't he at the Wall, then, someone else asked, and no-one had an answer for that.

"He let the wildlings through the Wall." The man's last statement sounded like the tolling of a great bell. "He became Lord Commander, and then betrayed the Night's Watch; he betrayed us all."

Mercy buried her face in her ale, thinking that this man, whoever he was, seemed practised in declaiming, almost as though he'd been taught what to say, and how to say it. Besides, she thought, how did he know Jon had become Lord Commander of the Night's Watch? Surely Jon was much too young for such an honour, such a duty.

Outside another inn, which was too filthy to stay in, she'd overheard two Valemen talking again about how Jon had forced Sansa to wed him. It was this that almost broke her resolution to go back to her home – she'd expected many things, but not this. Even so, these two men spoke for an audience of people who were simply pretending to saddle horses or load carts.

Underneath, or somewhat strangely, to the side of the gossip and rumours was something else, something no one talked about. In the middle of a long and involved story about some battle, a speaker assured his listeners that all the dead had been burned where they lay, and his audience communicated their approval with sidelong glances. At another inn, an old man asked for news of some village further north, closer to the Wall, only to receive noncommittal answers and shrugs. At the same time, Mercy could see the other patrons making warding signs against bad luck when they thought no-one was looking.

It was as though no-one wanted to speak too loudly about this, for fear of attracting the unwanted attention of . . . what? Surely, she thought, it was more dangerous to speak lies (they must be lies, she told herself, they must) about highborn folk, than to talk about whatever roamed the dark?

Wrapped in thought, riding through a snow flurry which threatened to become a blizzard, she might have missed the weak call for help, except she'd been expecting an ambush – the last inn had been full of hungry and angry-looking men, eyeing both her horse and her body with a similar kind of lust.

She rode off the road for a few paces, and her horse shied and almost threw her. When she managed to dismount and calm her beast, she looked around her to see what had frightened it. There, close to a withered tree and some rocks, was a dead horse, and, next to it, a dying girl.

"Help me . . . please . . . " The words were almost too faint to make out.

Mercy's heart sank when she contemplated the scene. This did not look good. She sat down next to the girl, searching herself for the right words. She wasn't in Braavos anymore: Valar Morghulis would mean nothing to this Northern girl.

"What's your name?" Mercy asked, and wondered why she'd done so. What difference would the girl's name make to her fate?

The dying girl answered her in a whisper that was quickly blown away by the rising wind. "I am Alys, of House Karstark . . . I was on my way to the Wall, to seek aid from Lord Commander Jon Snow . . . "

She did not know, Mercy realised, that Jon Snow was no longer at the Wall, if the stories told in the inns were to be trusted. Mercy surveyed Alys with a dispassionate eye. Another thing – Alys Karstark did not know she was dying. Mercy had seen that look on other faces, at the House of Black and White, and there was no doubt in her mind. There was too much damage, on the inside, and Alys would not last long.

Mercy sat on her haunches, next to the dying girl. "I can make it quick, if you like."

But Alys was slipping away, and ended up not needing the gift of the Many-Faced God - at least, not from Mercy.

When Mercy rode North, the next morning, she was wearing Alys's face.

She ruminated over the few things Alys had muttered before she died – of being forced to marry her uncle, and running away from her home, intending to get Jon's help at the Wall. But the weather kept getting worse, and so she'd turned back, only for her horse to break a leg and fall, throwing her.

Now Mercy was wearing her face and her clothes, Karstark's shield on her saddle and Karstark's ring on her finger. For the first time in her experience of serving the Many-Faced God, she felt uncomfortable. When she had become Walder Frey's servant, she'd watched the girl beforehand, taking care to learn her mannerisms and expressions.

Then, just as she'd been asking herself if she was really prepared to kill an innocent, just to take her face, she'd come across the servant girl, bleeding to death in the stable yard. One of Walder's grandsons had put a babe in her belly, and refused to take responsibility for it – she'd gone to a so-called wise woman for help, but instead ended up dying painfully. Mercy had given her just that, in a dose of sweetsleep. There were times when she wondered whether the Many-Faced God was really watching out for her.

Even better (if one could call this 'better'), now that she'd needed it, another face had presented itself, and she could come to Winterfell without anyone the wiser. It had been simple enough to gain admittance into the great hall with Karstark's sword and shield, and his ring.

That was when her plan started to go awry, because Jon was not there. On the one hand, it was perhaps to her benefit that Jon was away – she was not sure how much he remembered of Alys's long ago visit to Winterfell. But she needed to know whether the tales were true, whether Jon had turned into a monstrous traitor to all her father had believed in. Yes, her father. She was in Winterfell now, her home, and she longed, more than anything, to reveal herself as Arya Stark, daughter of Catelyn and Eddard Stark, blood of the wolf.

Arya could picture Jaqen, or the man who looked like Jaqen but said that he wasn't, shaking his head in disappointment. "A girl is not ready to serve the Many-Faced God," he would have said, and he would have been right. Still, she persevered.

She allowed a stranger, a wildling, to show her the tombs which she'd known since she was a babe in swaddling clothes. She allowed Sansa to put her in a gown and treat her like some simpering miss who thought only of the new ribbons for her hair. But she balked at helping with the sewing – she would not take that road again. Her lady mother was dead – gone was the only woman who could have made her sit at her needle, not her Needle, again. Though she thought that she'd made a mistake when she offered to help in the kitchens; maybe she'd been lucky, and Sansa simply thought that the Karstarks were rough and savage folk, even the women.

Arya groaned. Why was she still hiding? She was home now, and her sister was the Lady of Winterfell. She was clearly not married to Jon, and through careful questioning, or rather, pretending to be a rather simple young girl, and listening, had found the truth of all that had happened in the North.

Yes, Jon had let the wildings through the Wall, but only because of the Long Night and the Night King. Truth be told, that was the part Arya found it hardest to believe, though it would have explained so much about the underlying terror she'd felt everywhere in the North. It rose like a mist from the fens and the swamps, it surrounded people still in fields when dusk approached, it even penetrated the warmth and comfort of the inns, whenever talk started of travelling after sunset.

Still, she found it easier to believe that the Umbers and the Karstarks had broken faith with the North – the Boltons went without saying – as she'd been there the last time oaths had been broken. Even though no-one liked to talk about it, she'd eventually gleaned that Sansa had been married to a Snow: Ramsay Snow, who took on the Bolton name.

Arya tried to sneak looks at Sansa without getting caught, but wasn't sure how successful her attempts were, because Sansa had changed, and it wasn't all about the years they hadn't seen each other. Sansa had changed. She was colder, and much more practical – there were times when she overheard her talking about food and provisions, and Arya wondered whether this truly was her sister anymore.

Still, there was something hidden happening at Winterfell, she was sure of it. Sansa and the Northern lords, even the leader of the wildlings – they were hiding something. They would disappear together, in a way that would have fooled anyone, but Arya had been trained in the House of Black and White. She had been sent out into Braavos, the ageless city built on intrigue, and she'd always been told to find out three new things. So, she often would amuse herself in finding out three new things about Winterfell, though at first she was saddened – so much was new, and unlike what she remembered.

The buildings, the walls, the servants, nothing was the same. At times, she looked down on the courtyard, as her mother and father had, and could recognise no-one there. Except her sister, and she was barely recognizable.

Days passed without much change, though the feeling of tension, of expectation, never fully went away, and she caught herself grinding her teeth, or reaching for a sword which wasn't there. Still, a day came when she was ushered to the crypts and back in a hurry, only for her companions to vanish in the bowels of Winterfell on their return.

Then, to make matters worse, her sister and most of the lords of the North had left, to go riding, they said, but Arya found that even harder to believe than usual. She'd taken the opportunity to sneak right back into the crypts, because there'd been something which had been bothering her ever since she'd been back there. In the years since her last visit, there had been a new collapse in one of the older passages, and she'd wanted to explore what it mean, only to find out it meant nothing at all; only age.

Walking back out, she stopped, as usual, in front of her father's statue and stared at it, trying to find any resemblance to the man she had known all her life in this stone effigy. Close by there was the statue of her aunt Lyanna, and she wondered whether this one was any closer to reality, when she stumbled over some loose rubble in front of it. Crouching down, and holding the candle closer, she had a good look at Aunt Lyanna's tomb. It was hard to see, at first, but it seemed like there was a loose stone, and someone had been trying to loosen it even more. Or had they succeeded? She rocked the stone slightly, and it resisted at first, but then slid out in a puff of dust. She screwed up her nose and winced, in preparation for the stench that she was sure would emerge, but there was nothing but an old, mouldy smell. It had been over twenty years ago, after all.

As she prepared to move away, something inside the tomb caught the light of her candle. What was in there? Whatever it was, would not pass through the small hole left by the loose stone. She blew inside the tomb, trying to move the dust, and a sound followed, a sound she had heard before, though much stronger and more melodic. There was a harp in aunt Lyanna's tomb? But why? Also, who had been digging into an old tomb, and how had they known there was something to find in it? Just as she was about to loosen more stone from the tomb, she noticed that her candle was guttering, almost out. Too much time had passed, and she needed to get back to the keep before she was missed. She carefully placed the loose stone back in place, and decided she would come back another time – whether to uncover more of this mystery or hide it again with some mortar, she wasn't sure.

When she snuck back out again, Arya realised that she could have made as much noise as she liked – it would have been masked by the noise accompanying the return of some Lords of the Vale and their men. However, even though she tried to melt away into a hidden doorway, a happy greeting showed that she'd been seen, and she prepared herself once more to play the game of faces.

"Ah, Lady Karstark! You must meet Lady Waynwood, Lord Hunter, and Ser Lyn Corbray!" Petyr Baelish looked no different than the last time she'd seen him, with Tywin Lannister, at Harrenhal. The question remained: how did he know her, or, her face? Had they met? Was she expected to know him?

She decided that no-one would expect a proper young lady to be very garrulous with her elders, and curtseyed, with a shy smile.

"I am Lord Petyr Baelish, Lord Protector of the Vale!" he exclaimed, and she curtseyed again, swallowing a sigh of relief.

She also could not miss the glare the other lords gave him at that – or rather, one of the lords and the lady, while the other stared at her, sullen.

"I have brought with me the Lords Declarant," Littlefinger continued, "who will take up cases such as yours, my poor Lady Karstark." He turned aside, still holding onto her hand. "You see, King Jon Snow has given her lands to one of his wildling vassals – I'm sure he needs to pacify his allies, but must ancient Houses be despoiled for his ambitions?"

"Now, now," Lady Waynwood interjected, "you know very well that we have no authority in the North. We are simply here to make sure that young Lord Arryn's interests are not neglected."

Arya looked up through her eyelashes, unable to suppress a feeling of contempt for this highborn woman she'd never met before. She treated Baelish like a naughty grandson, while he'd just announced, for all in the courtyard to hear, that their new king favoured wildlings and would unfairly dispossess who he pleased. Arya herself had no illusions about the man. She hadn't forgotten the conversation she'd overheard between him and Tywin Lannister: the next thing she knew, her whole family had been snuffed out, like a candle.

But that wasn't enough for that insane day. No sooner had Littlefinger and his companions started towards the keep, than the guards had announced that Lady Stark and her companions were returning, but not alone. The Lady Waynwood had asked, imperiously, who was with her, and received a partly cryptic reply.

"Highgarden men, m'lady! And . . . savages!"

Arya barely suppressed a growl. Was Baelish bribing every servant and man at arms in the keep, to announce dangerous news as soon as they heard it? What good would it do to make the smallfolk panic?

When she heard Sansa's voice she felt somewhat reassured, though she still had questions.

"The Great Queen Daenerys blesses us with many gifts."

Who was the 'Great Queen Daenerys', Arya asked herself. And why was she blessing them with any gifts? She snuck a look around her – Lord Baelish strode eagerly to the gate, opening his arms in welcome. She ignored that, and any reaction Sansa might have shown, while looking at the Lords Declarant. They did not look happy, unlike Ser Davos, who, face wreathed in smiles, started directing the food carts and the livestock to various stores and pens. Arya understood why – they had needed food desperately if they were going to feed people who took refuge in Winterfell once winter finally hit. She was also starting to realise that when the Starks of old had said Winter is coming, they were rarely talking about the weather.

Sansa gave the reins of her horse to a stable boy and greeted Lord Baelish. Arya could tell that she wasn't happy – she smiled, but there was no happiness in her eyes. Then, everyone's attention was caught by the strangest people ever to ride through the gates of Winterfell. There were tall men, clad in leather, with long braided hair, and clean-shaven men with spears and shields, and helmets. Of course, there were men wearing the green and gold of Highgarden, but that was nothing new.

They all dismounted, but acted very differently. The clean-shaven men seemed happy enough to hand their horses off to another stable boy, but the men with long braided hair and beards, who almost seemed to be one and the same with their horses, were not. There was a silent struggle between a tall warrior and a stable boy, that might have resulted in a tug of war over the reins, until Sansa went to intercede.

Arya thought that she was the only one who heard the little sigh that escaped her sister's lips, and she had to bite her own to suppress her smile. This Daenerys, whoever she was, clearly thought she'd done them a favour, but these foreigners might cause more harm than help. Why were they here? Arya had finally remembered their names – the horsemen were called Dothraki, while the others might be the Unsullied. She had read a few lines about the latter, before Maester Luwin had snatched the book away from her, slamming it shut. The sudden memory of that kind face brought stinging tears to her eyes, and she blinked them back, as fast as she could, and decided to focus on what was happening in front of her.

Tormund, the leader of the wildlings, had decided to take over with the fierce strangers, and Sansa was clearly relieved. After conferring with the one who seemed to lead the Dothraki as well as the Unsullied, the wildling turned to her sister.

"Sansa Stark, the Dothraki do not wish to live inside stone houses. They will camp with the Free Folk, outside the walls. The Unsullied would rather stay within the keep."

Arya knew her sister – she was barely restraining herself from protesting. In the end, she gave in.

"I wish for the Dothraki, the Unsullied and the Tyrell men to accompany us – we need to meet in the Great Hall. There are many matters to discuss."

Tormund nodded, and turned away, not before muttering something under his breath, which sounded like 'you Southerners, all you do is talk.' Arya was indignant for a moment – they weren't Southerners – until she realised that to a wildling, anyone south of the Wall was a Southerner.

"Lady Karstark, I would like you to accompany us." Arya was still looking at the crowd of men and horses which was filling the courtyard of Winterfell, wondering what her father would have made of these strange folk from Essos, and it took her two or three heartbeats to remember that Sansa was talking to her.

She tried to distract her with one or two curtseys, but was sure that her sister was looking at her suspiciously all the while. "Yes, Lady Stark, of course!"

Gods, but Sansa must think she was a simpleton. Better that than an imposter, she thought. But still. Why was she continuing with this mummers' farce? She'd been in Winterfell for some weeks now, and none of what she had been told was true. Or rather, it was the truth, but had been twisted to serve someone's sinister purpose. Could Baelish be the one behind all the talk? She was sure that she'd seen the falcon of the Vale on the saddlebags of some of the men spreading the wildest rumours about Jon – and she'd just witnessed Littlefinger sowing discord with the Lords Declarant.

Still, Jon was not here. All of her doubts and fears, ridiculous as they were, could have been allayed by a few heartbeats' conversation with her brother. But he was not here. She had not seen or spoken to her sister in years – this woman was almost a stranger to her. And now her home was filled with all manner of strange foreigners. A voice in her mind mocked her, a voice that sometimes sounded like Jaqen H'ghar, sometimes like the Waif, and which added: so was she. She had chosen to come back to her childhood home in the guise of another. Hypocrite, the voice accused, and this time, it sounded like her own.

By then, they had reached the Great Hall, which was full to bursting with lords and men of the North, Dothraki and Unsullied, Lords of the Vale, and Petyr Baelish. Sansa sat at the lord's table, with Ghost in front of it, at her feet, huge head resting on his paws. His was only an illusion of rest, though, as his eyes stared, unblinking, at whoever spoke.

Sansa was flanked by Ser Davos, as Castellan, who had to bang on the table with a cup to get the hubbub to stop.

Arya stood as far to the side as she could, careful not to be in anyone's line of sight. Not that anyone was paying any attention to her. Almost everyone was gawking at the strange looking warriors, who were themselves staring back. One of the tall warriors with the braided hair and beard glanced at her, where she stood hidden in the shadows, and looked away. Then his head swivelled towards her again, and he lowered his head to talk to the member of the Unsullied, standing next to him. The latter also lifted his head to stare at her, and she could feel herself start to sweat. Why were they staring at her? Could they see her? Just as she was about to bolt from the hall, a welcome interruption broke their focus.

"Lady Sansa, what is the meaning of this?" Petyr Baelish sounded outraged, but who knew what he really felt.

The interesting thing, Arya thought, was that none of the other lords of the North looked shocked or outraged in any way. They'd ridden out calmly, and had ridden back with warriors who had never been seen before in the seven kingdoms . . . because they'd known, Arya realised.

"The meaning of what, my lord?" Sansa asked, and you didn't have to be her sister to hear the suppressed anger simmering under her words, Arya thought. She always had a temper to match her hair, just like mother. Arya blinked hard, to stop the tears.

"I beg your pardon for my rash words, my lady," Baelish added, and Sansa leaned back, seemingly mollified. But Arya wasn't convinced. Was Sansa playing the game of lies?

"As you all know, Winter is here," Sansa began, and Arya noticed how the Northern lords settled in their seats, as if to listen to a tale. Still, some of them, like Cerwyn, and young Lady Mormont, were tensely fingering their swords.

"As the King has told us, the real war has begun – the war between the living and the dead. The Night King and his army are on the march, and we need to prepare to fight. We also need provisions for the Long Night – what will it avail us if we defeat the White Walkers, but then die of starvation?" Sansa's voice had a soothing, almost hypnotic effect, and once again, Arya was unwillingly impressed by her sister.

"For this reason, King Jon has been travelling far and wide, making alliances with whoever will listen. On one of his journeys, he encountered Queen Daenerys Targaryen, daughter of King Aerys, who has returned to the seven kingdoms to claim the Iron Throne."

At this, the hubbub started again – arguing voices, some angry, most worried. Arya tried to sneak a look at the tall Dothraki, and once again, realised that he was staring right back at her, even as the Unsullied was muttering in his ear, translating what Sansa had said, she assumed.

Ser Davos banged on the table with a cup again.

"The Queen and King Jon have reached an agreement: The North will not be subject to her rule. We will be allies, and once she has regained her throne, she will aid us in fighting the Night King. To that end, she has given us some of her warriors, and food and provisions from Highgarden."

"How do we know these warriors are not simply here to kill the king, once he arrives? This could all be a trap!" Petyr Baelish did not even wait for Sansa to finish speaking, Arya noticed. That was how much respect he had for her sister. Arya realised she was grinding her teeth, and forced herself to stop. She wished she could just shut him up, somehow.

The tall Dothraki and his Unsullied translator strode forward, and every man's hand instantly went to his sword. Even Lady Mormont stood, and Arya reached within the recesses of her clothing for Needle, which she always made sure she had to hand.

The Unsullied opened his mouth to speak, but the Dothraki waved him down. He stared at the Northern lords in turn, glared at Baelish, and finally turned to Sansa.

"We . . . not fight you!" The man had an accent to be sure, but she could understand what he said. "We swear . . . many times!" The Unsullied at his side nodded, and hissed something at the Dothraki, who pointed at Sansa, and yelled "Blood of my blood!"

At this, all the Dothraki started shouting one word in their language, and knelt, while the Unsullied did the same. The few Tyrell men who had accompanied the foreigners also bowed deeply, and Arya could see that the Northern lords and all their men finally looked relieved. Even the Lords Declarant seemed impressed at the display. The only one who was unhappy was Lord Baelish, who seemed to be trying to hide his frustration. Arya wondered what the word they had been shouting meant, though. It had sounded like Halessi, whatever that meant.

The next few weeks passed without incident. Though that wasn't entirely true, Arya thought – Jaqen would have smacked her across the knuckles if she'd ever tried such a bald-faced lie on him – there was no incident in general, but a few in particular, as pertained to her. Everywhere she went in the keep, she'd grown a shadow – the tall Dothraki. She would look up, and there he was. He was not very good at stealth, as the Dothraki tended to announce themselves in battle, but he was good at stalking her.

Finally, she bumped into him in a corridor where she thought she'd been alone, and she'd been trying to follow Petyr Baelish without being seen, and she'd had enough.

"What do you want?" she snapped, but he grinned at her, unfazed.

"I am Vrelo," he answered. "It mean . . . fast," he continued. Against her will, she felt a tendril of interest grow in her mind. Their names had meanings? She had already found out how the Unsullied were named, and knew that the one who did all the translating for the Dothraki was called Black Dog, but this was something else. Still, she couldn't afford to show weakness, here, and had to keep wearing lady Alys's face if she was to find out what was really happening in the castle.

"Yes, what of it?" she answered, trying to seem as peevish as possible. "And I am Alys, of House Karstark."

"No," he said. "You lie. You have two face." He gestured at her, bringing up two fingers. "Why?"

Arya's blood froze in her veins. How could this be? How could he see her? She backed away from the man, turned and ran. She had some idea of asking Sansa for help, but what could she say? Never mind, she thought. She'd come up with something. When she dashed into the great hall, Sansa was giving another of her talks. Lord Baelish was not there, and she cursed Vrelo for having thrown her off the scent. The other Lords Declarant were there, though, and while Lady Waynwood and Lord Hunter hadn't contributed much, so far, Lyn Corbray was determined to be as disruptive as possible, it seemed. Had Baelish bribed him too?

"King Jon has written that he means to take Torrhen's Square from the Ironborn, and once that is done, he will march to Winterfell with his new ally." Sansa was reading from a scroll, but Arya wondered how much she was leaving out. She wasn't the only one.

"What new ally, my lady? How does he mean to retake the Square?"

While Arya noted that a few men in the hall nodded, and added their 'ayes' to the conversation, all the Northern lords looked to the side, or down, seeming to find great wisdom in the woven rushes which covered the floor. Even the wildlings exchanged knowing looks, which incensed Arya. The Unsullied looked impassive, which was nothing new, and the Dothraki . . . well. Vrelo caught her eye and managed to smirk at her, somehow without changing expression. Arya could not supress a sour thought: that was a trick not even the Faceless Men had learned, or if they had, they hadn't taught it to her.

Sansa didn't change expression, either. "King Jon does not want to risk his messages being intercepted, by Houses that wish us harm. He will not speak openly, not until he is back here, in the safety of his keep."

Arya's training enabled her to see what the others could not – an exchange of looks between the Northern lords, which surely caused what happened next.

"Might be he has some more of these Dothraki buggers with him – they be good fighters, I reckon."

A chorus of ayes followed, and, try as she might, Arya could not see who had spoken. Neither could Petyr Baelish, she could tell. Which seemed to infuriate him. But still, he remained silent.

"Does King Jon not trust the Knights of the Vale to aid him, then?" This time, it was clear who had spoken, a Valeman who she'd seen with Baelish.

A man called out in protest, another in anger, and this meeting, like so many, risked devolving into yelling and squabbling. Lyn Corbray stalked around the Great Hall, his hand on his sword, and both the Dothraki and the Unsullied clearly wanted to do something, but seemed to have been given strict orders not to. Whoever had done that was truly wise, Arya reckoned. No-one there would accept foreign interference in their affairs, especially not the proud and prickly Knights of the Vale.

She was not sure of what would have happened next, but when she looked back at the great table, a servant had somehow made his way past the arguing groups of men and was whispering in Sansa's ear. The blinding smile which broke out on her face told Arya what had happened, even before Ser Davos banged on the table once more, shouting for silence.

"The scouts have spotted King Jon and his army – they are close by, my lords!"

Forgotten was the anger of the past few moments – the entire hall erupted in cheers, a mixture of "King Jon" and "the King in the North", with some Dothraki trills thrown in. While this was going on, Arya noticed that Ser Davos gathered the Dothraki and the Unsullied to him, and spoke urgently for a few moments, after which they just seemed to melt away. She was sure that Littlefinger noticed, though. He always noticed.

An hour or so later, it seemed like the entire castle stood on the battlements, outside the gate, all straining for a glimpse of the King and his new army. She was standing in a spot which had a good view, but which had more than one exit point. As it was, she noticed something strange in the Tyrell encampment, below. The sergeant, who she'd become familiar with in the keep, was riding up and down, shouting something at his men. There were even some Dothraki there, and Arya started to worry.

That was nothing, though, compared to what she felt when Jon and his army came into sight. She had noticed some Dothraki and Unsullied racing towards the approaching men, preceded by a joyous Ghost, silent as always. They came closer, and closer still, until she could make out their banners, which were direwolves of Winterfell, with the colours reversed.

But the soldiers were not wearing Stark armour, or Vale plate. They were not in blue and brown, or silver and grey, not even the green and gold of Highgarden. No, their cloaks were red, red, red, everywhere she looked. Closer still, they rode, accompanied by the screaming Dothraki and the silent Unsullied, until she could identify individual riders.

There was Jon, who looked the same, but at the same time, much changed. There was a ferret-like man, and a tall woman, the same one, if Arya was not mistaken, who had defeated the Hound. The other man . . . Arya could deny the evidence of her eyes no longer. Those soldiers were wearing Lannister armour. The rider was wearing full plate covered in lions, his blond hair glinting in the weak sunlight, his golden hand catching solitary beams and sending them to dazzle her – that man was Jaime Lannister.

Even as her blood turned to ice water in her veins, she noticed the Northmen all around her, reassuring the few people in the keep who hadn't known about this. As she melted away into a passage down to the great hall, she saw that Baelish and the other lords of the Vale had somehow been separated from each other and their men.

In the great hall, she not only kept herself hidden, she no longer was Alys Karstark. She used the face of the servant girl from the Twins, but still kept to the shadows, no longer trusting in anything or anyone. She wanted more proof before she reached the conclusion that Jon had gone mad, allying with the family that had killed Father, that had destroyed them all.

Once more, they were in the great hall, but this time, there was dead silence. Jon stood, Sansa at his side, a group of Dothraki and Unsullied to one side, but clearly prepared to spring into action if and when it was necessary.

Jaime Lannister and some of his soldiers stood in front of Jon and Sansa – there was no expression on Lannister's face, though his men looked terrified. They clearly thought they were going to die here.

"Why are you here, Lord Lannister?" It wasn't fair, Arya thought, knowing how childish it sounded, even in her head. Jon sounded exactly the same! He had a few more scars, and now he held himself like someone who could win a fight, but his voice hadn't changed, at all.

Lannister lifted his head, and then, to a few shocked gasps, started unbuckling his sword-belt. He handed his sword to one of his soldiers, and then, with some effort, sank to his knees, took the sword, and laid it at Jon's feet.

"I am here to confess my crimes against the Stark family and the North. I led an attack on the Starks in King's Landing, and I took up arms against the Northern armies in the war of Five Kings. I am here to pledge my loyalty to House Stark, and to Jon Snow, the King in the North."

There were more gasps, and the muttering grew louder, until Jon lifted a hand for silence.

"What restitution do you offer for your crimes?"

"I bring with me the Lannister army, to join in the fight against the Night King and his armies." Here, he seemed to pause, looking around him, catching the eye of the tall warrior woman . . . what had been her name?

"I have seen the armies of the dead, and I have seen those who lead them. It is a war we must win."

"How do we know, Lord Lannister, that this is not a trick – how do we know that we will not be betrayed, once more?" Jon sounded tired, but determined. "Lord Manderley, here – he sent his son to a wedding, the boy hung his sword on their wall to feast with friends, and he was butchered. Gregor Clegane reduced the Riverlands to ash and ruin, all with your father's blessing. Your sister, now, has destroyed the temple of your faith, and the entire court at King's Landing, to escape her own punishment."

This last started the muttering again, but Arya only felt a fierce joy. So the Sept of Baelor was gone? Good.

Jaime cleared his throat. "I will bind myself in marriage with one of your allies – Lady Brienne of Tarth." Everyone turned to look at the tall woman, who flushed under their intense scrutiny. She didn't change expression, though, and Lannister wasn't finished. "Don't they say marriages make the best treaties?"

Even on such a solemn occasion, Lannister could not resist the hidden jape, the light tone – Arya loathed him, and Jon had brought him into their home.

Jon looked around him, a steely look in his eye. "You chose me as your king – I never asked for it. But I mean to do it right. That means I will ally with everyone and anyone who will help us fight the dead. There were those at Castle Black who refused to understand this, and they cut me down. But I did not die, and they are the ones hanging from cross-beams now. I will gather anyone, whether they be free folk, Targaryens, foreigners from across the sea, and yes, even Lannisters!"

He looked down at the man kneeling at his feet. Arya saw that he seemed to sigh, but then his voice boomed across the Great Hall.

"Jaime Lannister, I, King Jon, the King in the North, ruler of the Andals and the First Men from the Wall to the Neck, do grant you a full pardon for your crimes. Rise, Lord Lannister."

Arya could feel the bile rising, threatening to fill her mouth. She swallowed it with difficulty, and started to melt away into the shadows, but this farce was not over, yet. Jon looked all around him, making sure all heard what he had to say.

"Here and now, we are alive. The only war that matters, is the one with the dead. We must put aside our petty differences, our blood feuds, our warring families and fight, together. Will you stand beside me, Jaime Lannister, now and always?"

The Lannister looked almost dazzled – the first time she'd seen him look like that – but Arya had no doubt that it was another of his tricks. Still, it was fooling everyone.

"Now, and always," Lannister repeated, in a clear, ringing voice. He seemed to gather an echo, because the words rushed around the room, until everyone was shouting, "NOW AND ALWAYS!", with the Dothraki joining in, and the Unsullied banging their spears on the ground.

Arya caught a glimpse of the joy on Jon and Sansa's faces but she walled herself off from it. This was not real. None of it was real. The mummers' farce ended now, and she would end it.

She had followed Sansa enough times through the castle to have found the little room where she and some others discussed secrets. So she knew how to get there quickly, and the lock was nothing for Cat of the Canals, who could have picked it in her sleep. There was a nice big wall, just right for her needs. She made a deliberate cut on her thigh, and sneered slightly when she remembered the stories in song of warrior knights cutting the palms of their hands to make blood oaths. Why would you cut your hand? What were you going to hold a sword or a dagger in? But she was making no oath – the blood was her ink, and she had enough to write the word clearly, so that it would be seen by whoever entered the room, as soon as they did.

She was Alys Karstark again as she faded into the shadows, Needle at the ready, and did not have to wait long before the door opened, and Jon entered. He saw the word almost immediately, and she had time to feel a pinprick of shame as she saw him stagger, as if smashed in the face with a fist. Still, it wasn't a lie. That was what he was.

TRAITOR.

It was almost too easy to emerge from a corner behind him, and slide Needle across his neck. "Yes, that's right," she hissed. "You've betrayed us all!"

But Jon wasn't listening to her. He was trying to crane his neck to look at her sword, and then, at her, from the corner of his eye. His forehead crinkled, and the look in his eyes went from shock and fear, to hurt. He didn't try to explain, or call for the guards, anything like that. He just had one word.

"Arya?"

.

.

Notes:

So, yeah. It's been a while. As I've mentioned elsewhere, I've become sick with something that can be treated, not cured. Turns out, the treatment sucks even after you've stopped taking it. Hooray!
It's been a while since I even could think about this story, let alone write, but inspiration came back, and here it is.

I used the quote from A Storm of Swords to show how weird rumours can spread in a place in which news is disseminated by whoever wants to do it, and it's difficult to distinguish truth from lies.

The word the Dothraki were saying is of course "Khaleesi", but that's not how it's pronounced.

What could be in Lyanna's tomb? Well, Rhaegar was famous (among other things), for his skills at the harp!