Hello! It's been a hot minute since I updated this story, apologies for that! This chapter has been a bit tricky because I didn't want to ruin anyone's character - particularly Dany's - in the same way the show did. Nevertheless, after writing it and having my wonderful betas help iron it out, I'm very pleased with the result, and I hope you guys like it too!
Arya slips out of Gendry's bed an hour or so after he falls asleep. She dresses quietly, sparing one final backwards glance at him before leaving the tent. It's surprising, how much of her wants to stay, but she knows she can't let herself give in. She fears that, if she does, she will lose herself all over again, and more than anything she does not want that.
So she leaves, silently stealing through the camp in search of Jon. They'd planned to meet under cover of darkness to retrieve the face; Arya had told him she could do it alone, but he'd insisted on accompanying her. She'd wanted to tell him to stay, more than a little afraid of him seeing who she has truly become and rejecting her for it. But Jon has all of Father's stubbornness, and so she'd had no choice but to acquiesce.
Instead of Jon, however, she finds Davos, and one look at his face tells her he at least suspects why she's skulking around the Baratheon encampment. She doesn't try and lie about it - Gendry's camp is in the opposite direction from Jon's to the pile of bodies - though a part of her worries that he might tell Jon, whom she knows would not react favourably.
"Wasn't expecting to see you here, my Lady," he comments, but his tone is mild, without accusation. Even so, Arya folds her arms and raises an eyebrow, challenging the old man.
"Could say the same thing about you," she says, staring him down.
But Davos just chuckles. "I never can sleep the night before a battle."
Arya frowns. "There won't be a battle," she says. "The only person who's going to die tomorrow is the Dragon Queen."
It's the same thing she told Gendry, but Arya feels far less certain than she made out to him. She doesn't know Daenerys Targaryen well, but it's clear to anyone with eyes that her followers are wholly devoted to her, and will not take her death kindly.
Davos just smiles, and it reminds Arya all too much of her father. Kind, but sad and weary, as though he's seen this song played out too many times before. "As you say, my Lady," he sighs. "I wish you luck, then."
Arya nods once then strides past him, keeping a careful eye out for any lurking Unsullied, particularly as she gets closer to where she's meeting Jon. She's lucky though - she only sees a few who do not see her, and there are none guarding the bodies. Dead men pose no threat, now.
Jon doesn't hear her approach and he's startled when she appears next to him. "You have to stop doing that," he says in mock reproach.
"I'm not doing anything," she mutters, but she's barely paying attention to him, her gaze fixed instead on the rows of corpses stacked up in front of her. Some are little more than piles of charred bones, but others are more whole, just like Jon promised.
As she walks down the line, she can feel Jon at her back, watching on nervously. He hadn't liked this plan of hers, but Arya knows that he is at least partially aware that she is no longer the little girl with whom he played at being knights. She can still remember the look he gave her upon learning she'd been the one to kill the Night King, as though he were seeing her for the first time.
Eventually, she happens across a young girl, perhaps three or four years younger than herself, with a mostly intact face. There are burn marks across her left cheek, but those will only help to deceive the Queen. She carefully turns the girl's head, checking for any other damage, but there is none that would make her unsuited to Arya's task. Satisfied, she straightens and beckons Jon over, pointing at the girl.
"This one."
Jon looks at her apprehensively, then bends and eases the girl's body over his shoulder, carrying her a short distance away from the other bodies. He sets her down, and Arya crouches at her side, pulling the Valyrian steel dagger from her belt.
"Are you sure you want to watch this?" she asks, glancing up at Jon. He doesn't reply, but nods grimly, avoiding her gaze in preference to staring at the dead girl's face. Arya purses her lips, but stays silent, turning back to the body and carefully places the knife on her neck. She takes a deep breath, then makes the first incision, quickly losing herself in the task at hand.
It's not long before the face is completely removed. Arya stores it in a small sack she'd picked up on the way to the bodies then turns back to Jon, watching his face for any sign of disgust. He won't meet her eyes, still fixated on the body, and Arya begins to despair.
"Jon," she says quietly. His head jerks up at the sound of his name, and she's briefly afraid that he's going to walk away. But then he finally looks at her and there's something almost like sympathy in his eyes, so intense that Arya feels uncomfortable under the weight of it. He reaches out and touches her cheek.
"Arya-"
"I did it to survive," she interrupts.
Jon nods and his hand drops from her face. "I know. I know." He takes a shuddering breath as his eyes drop to the sack in her hand. "I'm sorry that you had to go through all that."
"We all went through terrible things."
"Aye." Jon sighs, then falls silent, staring off into the distance. Arya shifts nervously, before heading back to the bodies, quickly removing scraps of clothing from various corpses. There isn't much that's salvageable, but fortunately enough for her to be able to piece something together. She's never quite had Sansa's gift with a needle and thread, but Arya thinks she'll just about manage.
Once she's done, she heads back to Jon, noting with alarm the rapidly lightening sky. "Jon," she says. "We have to go."
He jerks, startled at her voice, then nods and turns to follow her as they head back to the Stark encampment. Davos is waiting for them in the command tent, and he raises a questioning eyebrow at them when they enter. Jon nods in response, and Arya hefts the clothes and face onto the table, which seems to satisfy his curiosity.
They spend the rest of the night talking in hushed tones over the plan as Arya tries to fit her disguise together. It's not much, what she ends up with, but it will do. Besides, Daenerys will hardly have time to notice any irregularities before she has Needle in her heart.
She's ready just as the sun is about to break over the horizon. She slips her makeshift disguise on, taking care to make sure her weapons are completely concealed under the fabric. Then, turning to Jon, she pulls out the dead girl's face, looking between it and him anxiously.
"You might want to leave," she suggests. She wants to put it on before leaving the tent - less chance of getting caught - but she also doesn't want Jon to see this side of her more than he already has.
But he just sets his jaws and shakes his head, grey eyes betraying his anxiety. Arya sighs, but raises the face to hers anyway, putting it on easily, as though she'd never left the House. She looks back at Jon through the girl's eyes, and she hates the horror she sees on his face. She understands, though. It had horrified her too, once, but she'd been a girl then. Now she is No One.
Jon hugs her before she leaves, although she's sure it is strange for him, holding her when she is not Arya Stark. He smiles when he pulls away, nodding at her encouragingly. She nods back, then darts out of the tent, blending in with the few Northerners who have already woken. None of them give her a second glance, but she pulls her hood up over her head as she gets closer to Daenerys's camp.
It's not long before she sees the Targaryen banners flying high, announced by sudden hordes of Dothraki and Unsullied. Arya knows that Daenerys has less than half her original army - probably less than a quarter, as the Dothraki were all but wiped out at Winterfell - but they are still a sizeable force.
She's been mostly keeping to the shadows, but once she's near the heart of the camp, she pulls her hood down and steps into plain view, drawing her shoulders in to seem smaller and scared. At the corners of her mind, she remembers the heat of dragonfire, the terror of oncoming death, the lick of flames searing her skin. Arya is not sure whether they are the girl's memories, or her own.
It does not take long before a hand lands on her shoulder, forcibly turning her to face its owner. An Unsullied stares down at her, eyes glaring out from behind his helmet, and Arya winces as he tightens his grip.
"Who are you?" he barks, and Arya drops her gaze to the dirt. She doesn't respond, prompting him to shake her and repeat the question. She forces tears to her eyes and looks up at the Unsullied again.
"The Queen," she whispers. The dead girl's voice is high and trembling, with a Fleabottom accent, not unlike Ser Davos's. "I need to see the Queen."
The Unsullied glares harder and, for a moment, Arya thinks he's just going to march her straight to the cells. But then he says something in Valyrian to a companion, who grabs her other arm and begins dragging her in the direction of what must be Daenerys's tent. Arya allows herself a small measure of satisfaction that the plan has worked, but makes certain to keep her mask from slipping, maintaining the image of a frightened peasant girl from the slums of King's Landing.
She's unceremoniously shoved into the tent, the two Unsullied still keeping hold of her. The inside is huge, the majority taken up by a large table containing a detailed map of Westeros. Arya tries to study it discreetly, but her attention is soon drawn by movement in her periphery.
"My Queen," the Unsullied to her left says. "We found this one in the camp. Should we put her with the other prisoners?"
Daenerys walks closer, surveying Arya coldly. She is just as beautiful as Arya remembers, but there is a new light in her eyes, one that speaks all too plainly of victory. Then, she smiles, a chilling and calculating thing, and looks to her men.
"Leave her with me," she orders. The two Unsullied hesitate, but Daenerys's tone hold no room for argument, so they bow to their queen and exit the tent, leaving Arya alone with her. Arya wonders at that, suspicious of how easily Daenerys had fallen into this trap, but she brushes her concerns aside, focusing on completing her task.
"Thank you, Your Grace," she whispers, staring at the floor.
"You come from the city?" Daenerys asks.
"Yes, Your Grace," Arya says, the lies coming easy to her lips. "I lost my family when I hid from y- from the dragon, and I haven't been able to find them. I thought -"
"What is your name?" Daenerys interrupts, turning to pour herself some wine. Arya fingers Needle under her cloak, but she holds herself back. Not yet.
"Mercy, Your Grace."
"Mercy." Daenerys hums, as if in amusement. Then she turns, and locks eyes with Arya, and there's something cruel and triumphant in them. "Is that what you're calling it?"
Arya freezes, dread stealing over her. "Your Grace?" she stammers, but she realises that the pretense is useless. Somehow, impossibly, she knows.
Daenerys smiles coldly. "I may have lost my Master of Whispers, but that does not mean I am blind to what happens in my own camp. I knew it was only a matter of time before my Hand and Jon Snow betrayed me again, then Lord Baratheon arrived with 500 men I don't recall asking for. And now you. I have been avoiding assassins since I was a child; do not insult me by thinking I would fall for your tricks."
Arya glares at Daenerys, but tightens her grip on Needle, readying herself for her opportunity. So, the Queen knows about their plan. That doesn't matter. She will still die the same whether she knows or not.
"Come now, Night King-slayer," Daenerys mocks, stepping closer. "Shall we end this?"
At the sound of the nickname, Arya sees red. Daenerys is too close now for Needle, so she grabs the Valyrian dagger instead, ripping her mask off and launching herself at Daenerys with a yell. It's almost poetic, she thinks absently, that this fire queen shall die in the same way as the Night King.
A look of fear flashes over Daenerys's face, but just before Arya can plunge the dagger into her heart, a strong hand grips her wrist and drags her away from the Queen. Arya fights against it, but she can't break free, and soon her arms are pinned behind her back, the dagger lying forgotten on the ground. She struggles against her captor again, but suddenly there's a knife at her throat so she stills, seething as Daenerys comes towards her.
Daenerys puts a hand to her cheek, and it takes everything in Arya not to jerk away from the touch. She smirks triumphantly, then her expression turns cold again as she turns her gaze to the Unsullied holding Arya.
"Take her away," she says, before switching to Valyrian. Arya does not understand what she says, but she manages to catch Jon's name, and Gendry's, dread and rage filling her at the thought of what Daenerys is going to do to them. She tries lunging at Daenerys once more, but the grip the Unsullied has on her is too strong.
Powerless, Arya is marched to the outskirts of the camp, where there is nothing but a single pole sticking up out of the ground. The Unsullied take Needle from her belt and she is forced to the dirt, rope being wrapped tightly around her whole body, binding her in place. She strains against the bonds, but the rope is thick and heavy, and she can barely move an inch. She slams her head back against the pole, then jerks it up in surprise when a short laugh rings around her.
Daenerys Targaryen strides towards her, smiling in faint amusement at Arya's predicament. Arya wonders if Daenerys is just going to kill her now, but she decides that that is not her way of doing things.
"Growing up in Essos, I heard tell of people who could change their face at will," Daenerys says. "I believed it impossible, as a girl, but most people believed the return of dragons was impossible, too." She considers Arya for a moment, something almost like regret in her eyes. just "We could have been great allies, you and I. I think we have much in common."
"We have nothing in common," Arya spits before she can stop herself. Daenerys hums, folding her hands together.
"Perhaps. Perhaps not," she says. "It doesn't matter now though." She turns, as if to walk away, then stops and glances back at Arya once more. "I hope Jon Snow will think twice about betraying me next time."
Then she walks back to the main camp, leaving Arya alone but for the four Unsullied guarding her. She pulls as hard as she can against her restraints, letting out a scream of frustration as she only succeeds in tightening them. She closes her eyes and leans her head back against the pillar in despair, her heart sinking to her stomach as she thinks of what her failure has cost.
Arya has not feared Death for a long time. She does not want to die, but if she must then she refuses to be afraid. But she knows that Daenerys will not allow Jon or Gendry to go unpunished for their hand in this plot, that she may well kill them alongside her, which is what truly frightens Arya.
And she is powerless to stop it.