A/N: As mentioned in a previous chapter, Sovngarde is the Nordic equivalent of heaven, but...as part of the curse that the Companions are afflicted with, all of those who are werewolves forfeit their right to an afterlife in Sovngarde and after they die, they go to Hircine's hunting grounds in Oblivion instead. They aren't really going to hell, since that's what Oblivion technically is, they're just going to the realm of their respective Daedric prince instead of that of the Divines. I hope that all makes sense. There's an allusion to that in this chapter so that explanation may answer possible questions. Many thanks to my beta reader (and sister) GrowlingPeanut. Reviews are welcome.

Disclaimer: Everything belongs to Bethesda and GRRM except for Jed who is mine.

Rating: T for minor language and the consumption of alcohol.

Skyrim had gone dark. It was almost as if the Gods themselves had blown out all the lights. When Arya returned to Jorrvaskr, its halls were as dim and cold as the rest of the world suddenly seemed. It took all the courage she had to walk down the empty corridor to Vilkas' room. It was silent save for the sound of her own footsteps.

The room itself was exactly as they'd left it. Bowls of exotic ingredients adorned the shelves and tables, a testament to Vilkas' repeated but empty claims that he would try his hand at alchemy one day. The potion of extreme stamina she'd jokingly given him for his last name day sat beside their bed. One of her boots remained on the bookshelf where it had landed in a hasty attempt to remove it. If she recalled correctly, the other one had just stayed on. The bed was still unmade.

Shaking away the memories, she gathered her belongings in a burlap sack and then hesitated. A part of her wanted to take a few things of his as well, to remember. But...she was afraid. Afraid of the memories even the smallest items might bring back. And so she left them.

When she heard the sound of quiet footsteps and looked up toward the doorway, Jed was standing there, watching her in silence. She looked up to meet his gaze and he stepped forward.

"You're going." It was a statement, not a question.

She nodded.

A moment of silence passed. The question between them hung ominously, unasked. When she answered it, her voice trembled. "I got there too late."

"Then there was nothing more you could've done."

"It was my own gods damn fault he was hunting alone."

Jed frowned. "Don't blame yourself. You weren't the one who held the sword."

"No. Gendry Waters was. Vilkas was right about him the whole time." She was quiet for a moment before sighing. "We got into a fight. That's why he left. He wanted to ask your permission for us to go to Winterhold and get married. I was too scared to say yes."

"That's understandable. You're still young, Arya."

Arya looked away and didn't try to fight the tears that welled in her eyes. "But...I never got to tell him that I loved him."

The Harbinger smiled slightly. "You may never have said it, but he knew. We all did, even if you didn't yet." He held the young Nord woman against his chest as she began to cry and sighed heavily. "I understand why you need to leave. I promise I won't let the others try to bring you back. I expect we'll see you again when you're ready. Is his body still at the fort?"

Arya shook her head, sniffling and angrily wiping away her tears. "I burned it. It was the closest I could get to a proper funeral. You...you wouldn't have wanted to see the body. The things they did to him..." Crying anew, she clung tightly to the man in front of her and sobbed until there were no tears left to fall. When she finally pulled away, he let her leave without another word. A scrap of paper with a message scrawled in charcoal was the only sign of her departure. It included an apology. For everything she'd done, and everything she hadn't.

The corner of the Bannered Mare was just as dark as the rest of her world, hidden in the shadows that fell over her as she drank alone, watching the revelry around her from a safe distance. Their happiness only served to fuel her growing rage.

Arya was drowning herself equally in both strong ale and her own thoughts when the arrival of a new customer drew her attention from the tankard before her. He was tall and slender, outfitted in red and black leather armor of expert make, his face shrouded from view by a loose-fitting hood. She could tell from a brief glimpse at his high cheekbones that he was of elven or highborn human descent, but no other hints toward his identity were evident.

With an air of self-confidence, he strode toward the bar and seated himself on one of the stools, beside the Bosmer hunter, Anoriath, who had arrived nearly an hour before. Neither one of them spoke a word to the other. The mysterious stranger gave a gesture that earned him a flagon of wine.

"Arya, I know you just want answers, but, try to be careful."

Somewhere off to her right, Arya heard the topic of discussion once again turn to her sister. If the rumours she'd heard in the hour she'd been in the Bannered Mare were to be believed, Sansa had either been kidnapped, raped, or killed by either Tyrion Lannister, General Tywin Lannister himself, or one of the Clegane brothers. Whichever was true, it served her right.

"Care for a drink?" His voice was silk and steel, as dangerous as it was alluring. The Bosmer beside him shrugged and scooted over his glass to accept the offer.

"One day, you'll ask too many questions and wind up getting yourself into trouble."

Once again, they lapsed into silence. The stranger had yet to touch the wine.

"I'm a true Stark, Vilkas. We can hold our own."

"Might a man challenge his companion to a drinking contest?" Anoriath gave him a suspicious look and then shook his head, mumbling something Arya couldn't hear.

"You're dead."

"One hundred septims to the winner." This time, the Wood Elf hesitated.

Gods, Vilkas, you're dead.

"Alright."

The other man poured them each a drink and then gestured to his companion. "You first."

Anoriath nodded slowly then narrowed his eyes and peered into his mug. It was easy enough to guess what he was thinking. Recently, the hunter had been growing more and more paranoid. For once, Arya could see a valid reason for his distrust.

"You're dead."

The stranger evaluated his expression then clicked his tongue in disapproval. "A man is merely offering the reward of gold to whoever can drink more wine. Wine that was purchased from this very tavern." When the hunter didn't falter in his mistrust, he sighed and downed his own glass then gestured toward the Bosmer's drink. "Now you."

"I'm not ready!"

Anoriath frowned and Arya noticed with some unease that she was the only one paying any attention to the two men. All the other patrons were talking, laughing, drinking; in their own world somewhere far away from what played out before them.

"Divines, I must be blind..."

"And that coin," He motioned toward the hundred gold septim lying on the table. "Is it real gold?"

"Yes." The stranger handed it over so the Wood Elf could test it. After biting down on the gold coin and then nodding curtly to show his acceptance of its authenticity, he finally relented, placed his own coin on the table, and drained his glass of wine.

"No, Vilkas, that's not it. I swear it's not."

"Alright. Your turn."

"I just...I need time to think about...you. And me. Us. Everything."

Arya could see the man smirk beneath his hood and he tilted his head in a slight nod of acknowledgment as he raised his tankard to his lips. "Valar Morghulis..."

"You're dead."

After five glasses each, the stranger downed a sixth and grinned broadly when Anoriath drunkenly declared him the winner and then passed out cold on the bar counter. From her vantage point, Arya could see the thin trail of blood that trickled out between his lips.

The mysterious stranger smiled and picked the golden coins up from the counter, flipping one in the air before catching it again and rising from his seat on the barstool. He withdrew a different coin from his coinpurse to pay the barkeeper then left as silently as he'd come. When he reached the door, he turned slightly and Arya found herself staring into the deep blackness of his hood. His teeth flashed in a grin and then turning on his heel, he was gone.

Standing up, Arya skirted around the crowd watching a brawl that had started in the center of the tavern and made her way outside. The street was empty, but somehow, she knew he was still there.

"Valor Morgulis...what does it mean?"

"Valar Morghulis," he replied, subtly correcting her pronunciation. "All men must die." His voice was right beside her ear and she whirled around to see him leaning casually against the doors of the tavern. He had removed his hood and she looked him over for a moment in silence. He was a Breton, though looked more elven in appearance than human, with sharp, handsome features, pale skin, deep blue eyes and shoulder-length hair, one side red and the other white.

"Who are you?"

"A man has the honor of being Jaqen H'ghar. And you? Does a girl have a name?"

She wasn't sure how much she trusted him, and she hesitated. "I'm called Arry." It was the first name that came to mind.

He smiled. "So you were. But that is not what a man asked. Does a girl have a name?"

She hesitated for a moment longer, eying him warily. "...Arya. Of House Stark. I saw what you did back there."

"Oh? But a man did nothing. The drink was not poisoned. A man drank his own glass first, a girl saw as much. His friend is only unconscious. It is not his fault if he never wakes."

"I saw what you wanted me to see. Everyone who was watching did. Not everyone saw Anoriath bite that coin though."

Jaqen's eyes sparkled in amusement and he smirked. "A girl is very observant. And now with her lover killed, she has nowhere to go. Perhaps a man can help."

Arya's heart lurched. "How do you know about Vilkas? Are you a part of the Silver Hand?" Her hand flew to the dagger at her hip, but he merely laughed.

"No. Jaqen H'ghar is of an order far older than that of which you speak. An ancient guild only recently restored to its former glory."

"And if I don't want to go with you?"

"A girl does not know what she truly desires. She must follow her destiny. It will lead her where she needs to be." He stepped forward and took her chin in his hand, his thumb absently caressing her cheek. She took a fumbling step backward and he looked at her for a long moment before speaking again. "A girl will find what she seeks in the city of Dawnstar. When asked, answer, "Innocence, my brother."."

Arya frowned, confusion and hurt making her chest feel tight and her head fuzzy. "I don't understand..."

"You will," Jaqen replied. "When it is time." He turned to go then hesitated and bowed low. "Farewell, Arya of House Stark. Until we meet again."

She stayed the night at the Bannered Mare, tossing and turning as she tried to fall asleep, her conversation with Jaqen H'ghar playing over and over again in her mind.

"A girl will find what she seeks in the city of Dawnstar."

When sleep finally took her, she was back in the bowels of Gallows Rock, standing above Vilkas' broken and lifeless body, though instead of Gendry, she was the one holding the knife. A sultry voice echoed softly in her head. "Valar Morghulis. All men must die."

Dropping to her knees, she began to weep, pounding on Vilkas' chest, tearing bloody gouges in his skin as she tried to revive him. Her kisses fell on cold, pale skin. It wasn't until she felt it fill her mouth that she realized it was blood falling from her eyes instead of tears. She retched, but all that came up was her own blood, painting her lover's wounds a macabre red against the white of his skin.

Screaming, crying, dying, she dragged his body over to the straw mat in the corner of the cell, staggering over to retrieve a torch and throwing it down, collapsing beside him as the flames swallowed him whole. She cried against his chest as he burned, felt the heat of the flames against her skin as they rose higher. The knowledge that she would die and be at Vilkas' side in the Hunting Grounds was a balm to her battered soul. For once, she felt at peace.

Slowly, she rose to her feet and laughing, held out her arms. Her entire body was enveloped in flame.

"A girl does not know what she truly desires."

In her dream it seemed so clear. It was death that she desired. More than anything, she wished she wasn't alive to suffer from the pain. In death, she would be free. In death, they could be together again.

"...follow her destiny. It will lead her where she needs to be."

The inferno before her began to shift and change into the shape of a man. Cloaked in flame, he walked toward her, pale blue eyes filled with rage. His hands wrapped tightly around her throat, choking her as she struggled feebly in his grip. She loved him. He had to know before she died. When she tried to speak, his hands tightened their grip and as she finally slipped away to Oblivion, she heard his voice beside her ear.

"Until we meet again..."

Panting and gasping for breath, Arya tore herself from the furs confining her to her bed as she fell to the ground, retching feebly into the chamber pot in the corner. She half expected to see her blood staining the bowl. Instead, it was ale and her half-digested dinner that came up.

Hugging her knees to her chest, she huddled against the wall and let herself cry. She had never believed in the interpretation of dreams, and for once, she was immensely grateful for her rejection of the Gods. She didn't want to know what her dream was supposed to mean.

She was still shaking when she managed to pull herself to her feet and she weakly gathered her things before leaving a few septims on the table to pay for the room and the ale and walking into the main room of the tavern before pushing her way out into the city.

The streets were dark and eerily silent as she made her way to the city gates. One of the Whiterun guards wished her safe travels and opened the gate for her. She stood outside in the cool night air for a moment before turning and walking along one of the roads out of the city. She wasn't sure what she was looking for, but she knew where it would be. Dawnstar. The city of nightmares.