ARYA

There was a log fire was burning in the hearth, yet Arya Stark was cold to her bones. And though the table before her was laid with more pastries and sweetmeats than she could ever eat in a lifetime, she felt absurdly guilty taking even one under the gazes of the siblings from whom she had been parted for so long.

For a long time the three Starks sat in silence. Sansa stared at Arya as if she might disappear again at any moment. Rickon fidgeted all the while, watching her with a toothy grin. Arya wanted to smile back, but she was not sure if she could. So she kept staring straight forwards, tight-lipped, feeling colder and colder by the moment.

It was Rickon who finally broke the silence. "The Hound told us you went to Braavos," he said to Arya. "Did you really?"

"Yes." She didn't want to talk about her journey, but it was better than the silence. "All the way across the Narrow Sea, and back."

"What was it like?"

"Very wet," said Arya with a shrug. "There's nowhere else in the world quite like it."

"If you ever go back, can I come with you?"

"I don't think I'm going back." She thought of the kindly man, the waif, and of Jaqen H'ghar – and the Nightingale, too, if she counted as a Faceless Man at all. Though their expedition to King's Landing to tame a dragon had failed, Arya doubted the cult of assassins would let her leave them so easily.

They could be anywhere. They could be here already. They could be sitting across from me at this table, wearing the faces of my brother and sister.

"Why did you go to Braavos?" Rickon asked.

Arya took a deep breath. She could not tell them about the Faceless Men, or about her brief encounter with Tyrion Lannister, or about Ferrego Antaryon or the months she had spent disguised as Daenerys Targaryen's scribe. "I was training," she said, finally.

"Training for what?"

"It's a long story."

Sansa seemed to understand that. "So is mine." She was not lying – Arya could see it in the lines of her face, in her eyes, in her mouth. While I was off in Braavos, she had to find a way to survive alone. And Rickon did, too.

"And mine," said Rickon. "But it's our story, now."

Arya met her siblings' stares. "Yes," she said, "it is." She wasn't sure if she meant it, but she tried to sound genuine.

In the long silence that followed, all that could be heard was the pitter-patter of the sleet that was starting to bounce off Raventree's tiled roofs. There was snow falling, too. "Do you still remember the last proper snowfall at Winterfell?" Sansa asked, suddenly.

"Yes." Or at least, she thought she did. It could have been any snowfall. Snow. That reminded her. "Have you had any ravens from Jon? Or from Bran?"

Sansa shook her head. "Not for a while. Should we have?"

"No. I just thought…." Maybe Jon forgot as well. Maybe he forgot about Sansa, and Rickon, and even about me. But she knew that could not be true. He would not forget me. He would never forget me. Jon had loved her most of his siblings, except for maybe Robb, and Robb was dead. Unless he thinks I am dead, too. "I want to write to him. And to Bran."

"Our ravens can't get north," said Sansa. "We haven't had any proper news from above the Neck in a week. Not even from White Harbor. Lord Manderly has blockaded the port, and forbidden anyone from getting in or out."

Arya nodded, but this was not what she cared about. "Do you have any letters from Jon?"

"A few. You can have a look, if you'd like."

She nodded again. And said nothing more. She didn't really know Sansa or Rickon, and she definitely didn't know herself. So what else was there to say? Someone had once told her that words were wind.

"It's been so long," said Sansa. A long pause preceded her next words. "If they could see us now, do you think they'd be happy?"

"Who?"

"Mother. Father. Robb."

They're dead. They're not happy. They're not anything. Arya shrugged. "I don't know. But I hope so." That was the answer Sansa wanted, wasn't it?

"I dreamed of Mother," said Rickon suddenly. That took Arya aback. He knows. She stared at her little brother, trying to play the game of faces with him as the waif had once played it with her. How much does he know?

"Now, Rickon," Sansa was saying. "We both know that's not—"

"He wasn't dreaming," Arya heard herself say. "I… I dreamed of her too." And there was the first lie. She was certain it would not be the last.

"You did?" asked Sansa.

"Yes," said Rickon. "I saw her. She was at the river. At the Trident."

"But… but they're just dreams."

"You wouldn't know. You wouldn't understand."

Sansa had never been a Stark as the rest of them had, Arya knew that much. She was never truly part of the pack. She never loved Jon. She never listened to Father. She never wanted anything other than to be a princess and to live in the south. Arya was not such a fool as to think that her sister had not changed since then – the years had not stood still for her, it was plain to see from her face – but Sansa was still not quite a Stark.

Jon was never a Stark, not by name. And I cannot remember what being a Stark means. That leaves only Bran and Rickon…

"What do you mean I wouldn't understand?"

"It's the wolves," said Rickon. "I can see through Shaggy's eyes, but you can't because Lady is dead."

"I spoke to Bran too," Arya said, remembering faintly. "In Braavos. He talked to me, said he was some sort of magician. He made me remember things."

Rickon nodded. "He's the three-eyed raven."

"What things?" asked Sansa.

"What?"

"You said he made you remember things. What things?"

"I…" How could she tell her this. "He made me remember you. I remembered what you looked like, what you sounded like… and myself. I remembered who we were, before…"

"Before we went to King's Landing." Sansa seemed to accept that rather easily. It was almost disarming to Arya. She wanted her sister to say, how did you forget me? That way she could tell the whole story. But instead the matter of the Faceless Men would remain a barrier among them, a part of her life that could not be explained, even now.

"I remembered other things," she said, a bit shakily. "Like my list."

Rickon asked, "What list?"

"The list of people I'm going to kill," said Arya flatly. With Dunsen's death at the inn, only four names remained. Queen Cersei, Ser Meryn, Ser Ilyn, Raff the Sweetling. And for all she knew, they might be dead already. Sansa would not know about the knights or the men-at-arms, but she would know about the queen. "Is Cersei still alive?"

Sansa hesitated a moment. "I think so. Yes, she must be. Jeyne Westerling got a letter from her sister. And she's queen, now. In Casterly Rock, I mean. But the proper queen, not the Queen Regent. So they say."

"Oh," said Arya. She did not know how far away Casterly Rock was, but she supposed it must be on the other side of Westeros, because otherwise the sailors in Gulltown or Septon Meribald or someone in the Brotherhood would have mentioned it. "Well," she said. "That puts an end to that."

Sansa kept staring as though she'd seen a ghost. Which was true, Arya supposed, because here they were, ghosts to each other.

And then Rickon burst out laughing. "A list?" he said incredulously. "Really? A list, Arya?"

Arya smiled along with him. Yes, she wanted to say to Sansa, it was a joke, it was all just a joke, a silly trick I was playing on you to prove that I am your sister.

"You've got a sword," Rickon observed.

"Yes. It's called Needle. Jon gave it to me a long time ago, when I left Winterfell. I had lessons with my dancing master, Syrio Forel, First Sword to the Sealord of Braavos." Slain by Meryn Trant. Queen Cersei, Ser Ilyn, Ser Meryn, Raff the Sweetling…

"I've got one too," said Rickon. "A sword, I mean, not a list. Do you know how to use yours?"

"Yes."

"Have you killed people with it?"

"Yes," said Arya, with her eyes on Sansa. This time her sister did not flinch. She opened her mouth. "Arya, I—"

"Can we practise?" Rickon interrupted. "Together? Please?" He pressed his hands together and made a childish face at her.

Arya decided it might be best to get away from Sansa. "If you want," she said. No sooner had she said the words than Rickon had jumped up from the bench and sprinted halfway down the hall. "Come on!" he was calling. "I'll show you Shaggydog, too. You won't believe how big he is now! And then we can visit Jeyne and Roban—"

"One moment," Arya called back. "I'll be out soon." When he was gone, she turned to face Sansa again.

There was a long moment of silence at first. Then her sister said, "You said you've killed people."

"Yes."

Sansa took a deep breath. "And how did that make you feel?"

"I don't know."

"Was it…? was it…?" She did not seem capable of finding the words. "Why?" she blurted at last.

"Because I had to."

"Because of Father?"

"When I escaped King's Landing, I killed a stable boy. He tried to stop me and take me to the queen. So I stabbed him. That was all."

"Only a stable boy?" A pause. "And how did you know he was going to take you to the queen?"

"Because he said he was going to take me to the queen."

There was another long silence. Arya watched her sister closely. There was a very brief flicker of worry in Sansa's eyes. If she had not spent so long playing the game of faces Arya would never have noticed it. But it was there, and she had seen it.

"What is it?" asked Sansa in the silence.

"Nothing. I'm going out to Rickon."

"We should meet later."

"Meet?"

"For supper, maybe." Sansa chewed her lip. "You, me and Rickon. I just thought… since you're home now, and everything."

"This isn't home." Had she forgotten that?

"No. But it is a start."

Arya nodded and left the hall. She knew her sister's eyes were on her all the way.

It was snowing lightly when she got out to the yard. The sky was black, fading to grey where the sunlight was trying – and failing – to get through. It was an unnatural morning. Even Arya could see that. The red priest of Thoros of Myr had said that the sky would clear later, but here and now she felt a little unnerved. It was, she thought, a little like being back in the House of Black and White again, with all the gods staring down from their inscrutinable faces.

"Arya!" Her brother's shout rang clear across the yard, turning heads. If the inhabitants of Raventree Hall did not know that she had returned, they did now.

Rickon had taken out a practise sword, and was clumsily outfitting himself with leather padding and a heavy iron helmet. Arya watched him as the swordsmaster helped him into his armour, trussed him up like a chicken. "Aren't you going to get yours on?" he called to her.

Arya shook her head. With a whip-like movement of her wrist Needle was out of its sheath. "I don't need it." What was it Syrio Forel had said? Swift as a deer. Quiet as a shadow. Quick as a snake. And, fear cuts deeper than swords. He was right. It did.

She waited for Rickon to get his armour on. "Right," he said, as the last strap was done up. "I'm ready. Is that your sword? It's very skinny—"

Arya went at him. The first thrust nearly overbalanced him, but he managed to twist away, and to be kind, she gave him a moment to straighten up. But then she was on him again, swiftly from the left, then the right, switching the sword from one hand to another. That made him step back a full three feet, putting as much distance between them as he could. Arya did not give him time to make a measured blow. She ducked beneath his hurried slash, twisted round, and brought Needle's point up in the gap under his arm. If she pressed forward now, his whole arm would go dead. And if she went further than that, the blade would slide sweetly into his chest. "Done," she said, quietly.

Rickon stared blankly down the sword. "How the hell did you do that?"

Arya did not answer. Instead she turned a somersault away from him, landed on the balls of her feet, and brandished her sword again. "If you watch more carefully," she said, "maybe you'll find out."

For a moment the world held its breath. Then Rickon advanced, with a heavy two-handed stroke that came nearer than she had been expecting. Nonetheless she twisted away, leaping back across the square. She poked Needle out, catching Rickon unawares. He is afraid of my sword, she thought, while I have no fear of his. And fear cuts deeper.

Sometimes you knew what your opponent was about to do ages before they did it. So when Rickon stepped in close and turned her blade away, ready to shoulder her to the ground, Arya locked her feet together and jumped, away and out to the side. She landed smoothly and swept her trailing leg back; Rickon tripped, and fell flat on his back in the wet dirt of the training square, disarmed. Arya kicked his sword away.

From across the square she heard a whoop of laughter, and then clapping, and then a voice shouting, "Yeah! Go Arry!" Hot Pie lumbered towards them. "You did good there, Arry!"

"Thank you, Hot Pie," said Arya stiffly. She offered a hand to pull Rickon to his feet. Her brother stood up, brushing off the splattered mud. And so Arya introduced the baker's boy to the youngest son of Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell.

"Oh," said Hot Pie. "More o' you from Winterhell."

"Winterfell," Arya stressed.

"Oh. Sorry, m'lady." After a pause, he added hopefully, "I saw you fighting. You were really good."

"Thank you, Hot Pie." There was something odd about this; he was just hopping from one foot to the other, looking lost. "What is it?" she asked.

"It's Gendry."

"What about him?"

"Who's Gendry?" asked Rickon.

"A friend," said Arya quickly, before Hot Pie could answer for her. "Me, Gendry and Hot Pie travelled together once. From King's Landing."

"After Father died?"

"Yes." She turned back to Hot Pie. It was less risky than admitting all she had forgotten to Rickon. "What does Gendry want?"

"He was wondering if you wanted to talk. In the forge. Well… he wasn't, but I said he should talk to you…"

"You said I should talk to him?" Arya frowned. "Wait… what?"

Hot Pie sighed. "I'll tell you on the way."

He did not tell her on the way. Instead he turned and said, "I didn't like the way he was looking at you, m'lady."

"Who?" said Arya.

"That squire. Watching you. You might have seen him. He was all blushing red, and everything."

"I don't know who you're talking about."

Hot Pie shrugged. "Doesn't matter, then. Sorry. It's just, I didn't like the way he was looking at you, and all."

"You don't have to worry about me."

"Sorry. 'S just what friends do, though, isn't it?"

Arya shrugged. It was the thought that counted, she supposed.

Gendry was standing over the bellows, heating up a piece of hot red steel, his face all screwed up from concentrating too hard. Either he did not hear Arya and Hot Pie come in –that seemed unlikely, given all the noise Hot Pie made – or he did not want to talk to them.

Hot Pie cleared his throat. "I told you," he said. "I told you I could convince her."

"Convince her to do what?" Arya asked.

Gendry didn't answer. He just kept scowling.

"Remember when we used to do this at Harrenhal?" Hot Pie said brightly. "Meet, I mean. I would bring stuff down from the kitchens – well, I say that, but Arry would nick it, mostly, an'—"

"She doesn't remember," Gendry said flatly. "She doesn't remember any of it. Or us. You don't remember anything nowadays, m'lady." He paused a moment, expecting her to speak. When she did not, he pressed on: "Back at the inn, you wouldn't even have recognised Hot Pie if I hadn't pointed him out to you."

"I would have," Arya lied. "I could never forget Hot Pie."

"But you did."

"I had a long journey."

Gendry shook his head. "Oh, you might have. But even if you went halfway round the world for tens of years, you wouldn't have forgotten us. You wouldn't have forgotten Harrenhal."

"I haven't forgotten Harrenhal," Arya shot back. "I didn't forget you, or Jaqen, or—"

"Oh, you remember your foreign friend well enough. But what about us? Do you remember what you did at Harrenhal. What about the torturer? The one what broke his neck. What was his name?"

"He… his name was…"

"The Tickler."

"The Tickler," said Arya. That name had been on her list once. She could not remember the face that went with it. But she remembered the list.

"You said your foreign friend killed him with a whisper," Gendry said. "But you gave him the name. You killed him, Arry. And you don't even remember his name." He shook his head reproachfully. "What happened to you in Braavos?"

"I don't know."

"And I don't believe you," Gendry said. "I think you do know, but you just don't want to tell me. And if you're going to keep all these secrets from me, I don't think we can be friends anymore, Arry. Or Lady Arya, I should say." He put down his hammer and stormed out of the forge. Arya thought about going after him, but Gendry was stubborn and stupid: she remembered that much.

"Well," said Hot Pie through the silence. "You've still got me, Arry."

"Yes," said Arya meaninglessly.

"He'll come round soon enough. He's been bitter ever since… well, for quite a while now, come to think of it. Ever since he found out that he was a king's son. Strange, innit? To think he could've been sitting on the iron chair."

"You mean the Iron Throne," she said. "And no, he couldn't have. He's just a bastard. A stupid bastard." She was angry at Hot Pie too, for bringing her here, but it was not worth losing him as well when he was pretty much all she had. So instead she turned and walked out before he had a chance to respond. Then she ducked behind a cart outside the stables, and waited until he had walked off in the wrong direction – searching for her – before creeping out.

Where to, now? Rickon would still be waiting for her in the yard, but if she went back there, she might never leave. I should explore, she decided. That would not do any harm. Raventree Hall was not particularly interesting, though. She climbed roof tiles and ducked behind chimneys, but there was little here to look at; a few malformed alcove gargoyles here, a screen of ivy that hid a pointless there. The only thing of any great interest was the godswood, with its massive dead heart tree that splayed across the yard like some drunk about to keel over for good. That would be better than nothing, though, she decided. It took her a while to find the right staircase, but eventually she found a likely looking set of servant's stairs that rose towards an abandoned tower. She was halfway up, creeping on her tiptoes, where she heard the low thrum of voices:

"…don't trust her. She's looking round like she's never seen us before. Like she's forgotten us." Sansa, she realised with a start. That was wrong. Sansa did not hide out in a castle's nooks and crannies.

"Was she always a fighter?" An older voice, and more gravelly.

"I'm… I'm not sure. She mentioned her dancing lessons in King's Landing… dancing with swords. But in Winterfell, I don't think so. Mother never would have let her."

"I imagine Cat was offended by the very prospect." Hearing her mother spoken of thusly, Arya supposed that the other voice must belong to her uncle Brynden Tully, the Blackfish. She tried to remember what she knew about him, but her mind was blank. "Well," said the Blackfish. "I imagine Rickon will benefit from being knocked on his arse every now and again."

"She was always wild," Sansa said, slowly. "But never like this. She's killed people, uncle."

"You don't know her story yet. If you were in her position, you might have been forced to do the same."

"Yes. Only… when she told me, she didn't seem bothered. Not one bit. I thought, if you'd killed someone, you'd be more… remorseful."

"I don't know."

"Well, when we leave for Winterfell, I don't want to be sharing my carriage with a remorseless murderer. And I don't want a murderer around Rickon, either."

"Well," said the Blackfish, after a heavy sigh. "All I know is your mother wouldn't approve. Not of this murdering business, but not of your disagreements either. Family, duty, honor."

There was silence for a moment. Then Arya heard footsteps close above her, descending. She leapt from her perch on the stairs, and ran, three at a time, nearly twisting her ankle as she landed on the lowest step and darted round the back of the tower. A few moments later Sansa came out, followed by the Blackfish. Together they headed towards the castle without once looking back.

It was a moment before Arya realised she was in the godswood proper now, down among the bramble bushes and the naked trees. The snow on the ground was perhaps half an inch thick, and it was melting into sludge around her feet. More would fall tomorrow, she knew, but for she knelt on the damp blanket of leaves, beneath the goggle-eyed gargoyles that lined Raventree's walls. The leaves were red, so the sludge looked a bit like entrails.

How were you supposed to pray? Had she forgotten, or had she merely never known? "Oh, gods," she murmured, looking up into the tearful face, "oh, you gods…"

Just then the wind changed to blow against her, and as it did so, a solitary leaf detached itself from the tree and skated over her head, brushing through her hair, and as it moved it seemed to whisper her name: Aryaaaaaa…

Had it heard her, or was she just imagining?

Arya looked round. There was no one else there. Very quietly, she crept a step closer to the stump, and whispered, "Hello? I… I'm listening. If you've got something to tell me."

Again, her name: Aryaaaaaaaaa…, followed by sibilant hissing, as if the voice were trying to say the word Stark but could not quite manage it. "Yes," she said back. "I'm Arya. And you… you… you're a tree. But… you might not just be a tree." What were you supposed to say to gods? "I'm… I'm sorry. It's been a long time since I was last in front of a tree. I was in Braavos, in the House of Black and White. That's why I haven't prayed to you." She licked her lips, wondering at how silly this was, and how silly her next impulse was. "If… if you know where Fath—"

"Girl."

Arya spun quickly, so quickly that even he seemed taken aback. "What do you want?" she said, her hand moving instantly to Needle.

Sandor Clegane looked down at her fingers curled around the blade's hilt. "So you kept that, did you, eh? You kill anyone else with it while I've been away?"

"Lots," she lied. "Tens. A hundred, maybe."

"I wouldn't be surprised if you had," the Hound growled. "Though if you'd killed hundreds, girl, I imagine you'd be showing a little more respect."

"Why's that? You've killed hundreds, and you don't—"

"I didn't say me. I said you. Like it or not, you're still just a little girl. You don't know what violence is."

"Violence is—"

"Violence is a disease," the Hound said, very deliberately. "Thought I'd got most of the Elder Brother's nonsense out of my head, but seems like some of it got stuck."

"What do you want?"

"What do I want? Never mind that. I came here to see what you want, girl. With that tree, I mean."

"Nothing."

She kept her face still, playing the game of faces, but the Hound was not convinced. "You were talking to it a moment ago."

"You weren't supposed to be listening."

"Now there's a bit of hypocrisy," said the Hound. "'Specially considering you were eavesdropping on your sister earlier."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Yes, you do. And I know what you were talking to the tree about. Your father." He snorted. "You think he can hear you?"

"No," said Arya firmly.

Sandor shook his head at her. "See, that's the problem with you, wolf girl. You think you'll get something out of acting tough like that. You think I can't see how you really are, deep down? You can act like a wolf all you like, but you're not, not really."

"And how do you know that?"

"Believe me, I just do." Sandor stepped away from her. "You want some advice, girl?"

"No."

"Don't you go doubting your sister, now. The little bird might be all porcelain and ivory on the outside, but underneath she's steel, and a steel far less brittle than you. You don't know what she's done to get to where she is now. You might have the wolf on the outside, and she on the inside, butyou'rebothpart of the same pack. Aye, and both as bad as each other."


My least favourite part of Season 7 was the confusing Winterfell plotline, and to some extent KotN is an attempt to correct that aspect. Obviously, it's unreasonable to assume that Sansa and Arya will simply reunite and everything will be happy, but there are limits, too. Unlike the shambles of S7E6, I intend to make their relationship understandable, at the very least.

Anyway, I quite liked this chapter, and I hope you feel the same.

Thank you for reading, and Merry Christmas to everyone, etc, etc.