Arya
Compared to the first part of their journey, they were in the lap of luxury. They sat in the back of the cart transporting grains up north. The furthest north point in Adrew Varner's routes ended at the Twins.
They had many days until they got to Frey territory, but the name alone gave Arya chills. She should be a Frey by marriage. She should have given birth to a child or two already.
"I want to trade a name for my secret," she said.
Jaqen raised his eyes from polishing his blade. A carefree smile played on his lips, and sparkled in his beautiful, dangerous eyes. He shook his head.
"Only death can pay for life, sweet girl."
She concealed the shiver that went through her when he called her that. No trace of mockery in his voice. She steeled her heart. She was no sweet girl any more.
"A name then," she said slowly.
"Give a name. Any name."
He said it with a quiet confidence that did more for Arya than a solemn vow on the gods. She didn't like to do it, but he forced her hand. She leaned toward him as if to whisper the name. He mirrored her movement.
"Jaqen H'ghar."
He froze.
"Don't joke, girl. You owe three deaths to the Many-Faced God."
She shook her head. "I'm not joking. I am asking you to kill yourself."
"Unname me," he said.
"No."
"Please."
That was what she waited for. When it comes to death, all men bargain.
"I'll unname you," she said. "If you promise to forget I am a girl."
"This, I cannot do. But I can promise I will never reveal your secrets to anyone."
Secrets. What else did he know about her?
"Agreed," she said. "A girl is dead. You only owe me two more names."
He nodded solemnly, and leaned back.
"Why don't you say them?" he asked lazily. "I know you have them."
"Because it wouldn't be fair. One may be unkillable. The other… is not important until the Great War ends."
"No one is unkillable."
"What do you know about what lies beyond the Wall, Jaqen H'ghar?"
Sandor
Jaqen H'ghar shrugged his broad shoulders. A Lorathi wasn't supposed to know much about it. Sandor Clegane knew the old stories. Wildlings. Wargs. White walkers.
The days before killing his target in King's Landing, he'd heard rumors on the streets about a delegation from the Night's Watch bringing troublesome news to the Queen. After a meeting with the Queen, the white cloaks had been sent to kill the men of the Night's Watch. Trouble surrounded the girl, and he could sense she was heading into even worse danger. He had known all that when he chose to accompany the little direwolf.
Something terrible was happening north of the Wall and the Night's Watch had been desperate enough to send men instead of ravens to plead their case in front of the Iron Throne.
"What are you not telling me?"
She shook her head and sighed.
"You wouldn't believe it. I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes."
He put his hand under her chin and tilted her head so that he could look her in the eyes.
"I will believe you. And I will kill the unkillable for you. Tell me."
If he had hoped to see warmth in those grey eyes, he would have been disappointed. There was only steely resolve. But maybe also a spark of trust.
"There is an army of the dead preparing to march south of the Wall. The Night's Watch cannot defeat it. All the armies of the living, if they worked together might stand a chance. My brothers and I came to the Iron Throne to get help. We failed. I'm going back to the Wall to die at my post. It's all I can still do out of everything I swore. I shouldn't have allowed you to come with me. "
That sounded like a warrior's death. A death that would make up for some of the horrors of his past.
"Give me the name," he said.
She looked up at him. "You don't understand. You can't kill that thing."
"Give me the name," he repeated.
"The Night King."
Arya
She regretted it as soon as she said it.
"No, I take-"
He put a finger on her lips. He shook his head and the sadness in his eyes seemed painfully familiar. She pushed his hand aside. He cupped her cheek and ran his thumb along her jaw.
"You said three names," she whispered. "I still have one left."
The man nodded.
"I forbid you to die until I give you the third name."
He smiled, but he bowed his head.
"You drive a hard bargain, my lady."
"I'm no lady, Ser."
"I'm no Ser."
She had heard those words. That very same intonation. He was dead. She knew it in her heart that Sandor Clegane was no more or nothing would have stopped him from meeting her in King's Landing.
At the first inn they stopped, they heard rumors of the wedding at the twins. Lord Stark's youngest son was going to marry one of Walder Frey's daughters. Did that mean that Jon had failed? Would her parents waste time arranging Rickon's wedding if they knew about the threat?
The Stark-Frey wedding was the talk of the countryside. She would be so close to her family. Could she take the time out of her journey to see them one last time?
No. She would stay on the Kingsroad and go further north. She looked longingly after the cart as it moved away.
Sandor
Travelling in that wagon had been a good way for both of them to rest and recover. He would need all his strength to take on an indestructible monster who commanded and army of undead. He wondered if the Red God would give him the strength to win or if he was destined to join the ranks of the wight army.
She never offered her body's warmth again. They bought heavier furs, and always slept at inns or managed to talk people into sheltering them for the night.
Sometimes when his eyes lingered on her, Arya tensed and shrunk and found reason to walk out of his sight. He raked his brain how to put her at ease, how to make her believe he would not force himself on her. He would never do that, but how different was the fact that he desired her? His desire was a sign that she could not fully trust him not to betray her secret.
They would reach the Wall soon enough. She would be safe from him once he went after the Night King.
The morning after they passed Moat Cailin, she was gone. Her horse and her few belongings were still there. He saw the signs of the struggle further in the woods. Saw the blood. He saw the dead man in a clearing. He ran with his sword drawn, his heart freezing at the sight of blood on the leaves.
"Girl!"
"Where are you?"
"Arya!"
He ran, frantic, blinded by panic, fearing that the next thing he saw up the bloody trail would be her body. Instinct alone made him stop. The tip of a sword grazed his neck. From the corner of his eye, he could see Arya at the other end of that sword.
"Who are you?"
He nicked himself on the blade when he turned to look at her. She had some cuts and bruises, her clothes bore the marks of a struggle, but she was alive.
"I asked you who you are," she said coldly. "How do you know that name?"
"Your name," he said.
She let her blade slide down without touching his neck, scratching the leather of his tunic as it moved further down, until its point rested over his heart. In his panic, he hadn't put on his armor. One determined push, and he would be dead.
"Yes. My name," she said. "I'll ask you one last time. Who are you?"
"It's easier if I show you," he said.
He hadn't done it in the sight of another living person before. Except the Kindly Man, and Sandor wasn't quite sure the Kindly man counted as a living person.
"I've done so many evil things… I need to bring balance back to this world."