Arya felt like a person who had lived her entire life in a darkened room, only to emerge one day and see the sky for the first time. She rode up and down the ranks of Lord Tywin's army, craning her neck to the immensity, the clouds in their multitude of greyness so deep, and the blue of the sky so unimpeded by melted stone that she never wanted to glance down again.

Arya had listened to Lord Tywin give the order 'burn the villages, burn the farms' at least once a month for years. But seeing it around her, seeing this; seeing how Lord Tywin had not been content with destroying life, but only with exterminating it; seeing this done here, in the land of her mother's people; thinking that she had known, for four years, and that she had never envisioned the greyness of the grass or the stark bones of trees that would never flower again; that she had never thought that the smell of burning and corpses would linger on the air miles away from Harrenhal; that she had never contemplated the loneliness and perseverance of the forest that was left, sadder than the wind as it mourned its kin..

The Lannister army stretched across the Riverlands like a plague, their crimson armour red as Arya's eyes and fragile as her heart.

When the door had closed behind Jaqen, she had sat crying silently, stifling the sobs that she secretly hoped would rip her chest out. He was still standing in the corridor outside her chambers. She could hear him. And she knew that if one sound escaped her lips, he would never leave her. And that would not be fair.

Did Jaqen do any of this? she wondered. Did he sear the earth in flames and turn green to grey? Was he one of the unknown hundreds that would ride out each day to obey Lord Tywin's orders? Was he one of the nameless whose stupid nicknames she would happily whisper to her pillow at night if she only knew who they were?

You do know who they were, she thought to herself, you know Lord Tywin, which is as good as.

For the first time in years, she felt consumed by anger at herself when she thought of the number of times she could have stolen battle plans and raven scrolls; of the number of times she could have stuck a knife in Lord Tywin's stupid back and done her family some credit. She could have been gone before anyone knew that the old bastard was dead. All she would have had to do was steal a horse and ride west to Riverrun. How hard could it possibly have been to find a great hulking castle?

Arya glanced around her. The men were marching with obscene precision and paying attention to nothing but maintaining it; Lord Tywin having made it the custom to whip soldiers who fell out of line. The commanders were all attending war council at the head of the army, easily half a mile away, and the nearby forest was dense, sheltered, and –

Don't be stupid. If you're caught, Lord Tywin will never let you see the sun again.

She smiled to herself.

So don't get caught.

And she cantered away from the ranks, spurring her horse into a gallop.

She hadn't ridden in years, and it was exhilarating. The wind was freezing, and she loved the song of the cold as it entered her blood; the blood of winter that did not fear it. She did, however, fear what she might find if she dared to glance over her shoulder, so she raced on ahead, the sky swirling above her like a sea of fog as she headed for the shelter of the trees that would show her the west; west that would lead her to her pack.

It was colder in the woods than out on the plain. The trees hid the sky and punctured it, and the air swirled with mist from the ground to the forest roof, though it was after midday. As she watched vapour pour out of her mouth like blood from a wound, Arya slowed her horse to a walk and opened her ears to the sound of the trees, the music of their leaves a rush and a roar in her ears, outdoors, yet indoors too; travelling and staying; like her; like the wind. She closed her eyes, and the music grew louder, and for a moment she believed, she hoped, she dreamed, that when she opened them she would find Father looking at her in disapproval, asking her what she was doing in the godswood and not at her lessons; or catch Jon in the act of sneaking up on her, a snowball clutched in his hand.

Arya felt beads of moisture form in her hair and thought of Bran, his eyes closed, and of Mother, her eyes open, and red. And suddenly something cold and metallic pressed against her throat; both the peace of the wood and the roar of her blood rushing out of her and into its blade, and she opened her eyes to find the tip of the Kingslayer's dagger nestled neatly at the base of her throat.

'Lost, Stark?' he asked nonchalantly.

'Hopelessly,' she replied, with equal coolness.

He did not lower the dagger, the blade scraping her skin like the wood that had touched her back while his hands touched her skin; the feeling of his fingertips still ghosting over her thighs and breasts. She remembered the smell of his hair and neck; the taste of his smile and tongue as she pulled them into herself time and time again, and that wrenching, straining longing at the juncture of her thighs and his. But above all she remembered how he had kissed her at the end, and how he had made her laugh.

Stop this. Stop it.

Arya tightened the grip of her legs on the horse's back, and beat her blood back down to the depths. He was doing the same, his lips clamping shut and trapping his breath inside him, his eyes turning pale.

'Let's go,' the Kingslayer said, elegantly sheathing his dagger, 'I'm supposed to be at war council, not entertaining the whims of children.'

'Of course. I forgot. Killing them is much more fun for you.'

The Kingslayer glared at her.

'I could always return with a full complement of guards and make sure that my father locks you up for the rest of your life,' he threatened.

'Go on, then,' Arya dared him hoarsely, 'bring me your full complement of guards and watch me slit all their throats. At least you'll have some good entertainment before I slit yours.'

He paused, and Arya realised, with satisfaction, that he was remembering the armoury.

Keep on remembering, Lannister. Remember it well. It can happen again anytime I want it to.

Suddenly he was drawing his dagger again, the sound as it left its sheath to find a new one in her throat like nails on glass. Every part of her died immediately except her hand, her arm and her mind, and only when she felt the unmistakable vibration of steel ringing through her body did she realise that she'd somehow gotten her own dagger out in time to meet his; the two blades pressed together, kissing.

'Incredible,' he murmured, so softly that she barely heard him.

Then he sharply sheathed his steel again and watched as she did likewise.

'Where did you learn to fight?' he asked quietly, with no condescension or mockery.

'From…a friend,' Arya replied, ashamed at how her voice shook and broke, 'he's gone now. He's not dead; he just…went away and isn't coming back.'

She blinked furiously and bit her lips to stop the tears from coming.

You will not cry. You will not cry.

'Is he Braavosi? Your friend?' the Kingslayer continued with something like gentleness.

'Lorathi,' she said, in a much fiercer tone than she had intended. She didn't want to talk about Jaqen. It would only make her cry again.

The Kingslayer seemed to sense this, because he hastily cleared his throat and turned his horse around, his eyes avoiding hers.

'Let's go, Stark,' he said, 'And if you try to run again, I'll throw my dagger at your back.'

'Fine,' she snapped.

They reached the edge of the wood without speaking, the wind coming for them the moment they emerged from the trees. On the road before them, the army continued to march for the capital; an earthbound serpent, a dragon, not a lion. The soil on which they walked looked stained with blood, their armour glistening like carnage in the sunlight, carnage that had been, and carnage to come.

He was right, Arya thought, I should have chosen death rather than be part of this; however small a part it might be.

The Kingslayer glanced sideways at her, refusing to meet her eyes.

'You fight well,' he whispered, and galloped back to the head of the column.