There was very little wind that day, and the massive oaken bucket that hauled them from the waycastle of Snow up to the Eyrie hardly swayed at all. The little that it did sway, however, was just enough to make Arya feel sick, and she soon stepped away from the side to sit down next to Nymeria and bury her face in the direwolf's fur.

'Scared, Stark?' Jaime jested.

Arya glared at him, and did not reply.

Earlier that day, they had been received at the Gates of the Moon by Lady Myranda Royce; a consummately stupid and irritating person who seemed to be the queen of absurd decisions; refusing to admit Nymeria to her solar; insisting, multiple times, that they call her 'Randa' (why in seven hells would somebody want to be called that?) and not appearing to have the slightest interest in arresting them despite their being two of the three most wanted people in Westeros.

'Randa' had also earned Arya's instant dislike by turning a bright shade of pink the moment she caught sight of Jaime; flirting outrageously as she offered to feast him, house him and bathe him, and to cover Arya in stinky perfumes and fashionable dresses. Jaime, of course, had been delighted to have his ego so unexpectedly stroked, and had flirted right back at her with equal blatancy; employing sweeping courtesy, subtle obsequiousness and a great deal of innuendo to send the lady into transports of blushes and giggles in exchange for immediate passage up to the Eyrie. Arya had stood aghast, annoyed, and growing angrier with her betrothed with every passing second; a part of her (the reasonable part) knowing that he was only playing the Game (and playing it well); the rest of her seething with a wolf blood desire to set Nymeria on both of them; and the uncomfortable thought that she might possibly probably perhaps just maybe be insanely and unreasonably jealous.

I am not jealous. I am not. Only stupid people get jealous.

It was in attempting to convince herself that she was not jealous that she had tried to shut out the sound of Jaime and Lady Myranda's flirting, and to listen instead to the sounds of the guards, soldiers and lords who were marching in the corridors, practicing out in the yard, drinking ale and wine, shouting to each other…and ignoring the two runaways sitting snug and warm in their lady's solar.

She and Jaime had spent the past few weeks travelling across fields and forests; steadfastly avoiding any roads that they encountered; freezing to death every night because they could not risk a proper fire; behaving, in short, like the fugitives they were. And yet when they had arrived at the Gates of the Moon, nobody had given them so much as a second glance: not the lords they had encountered on the way to Lady Myranda's solar (who had greeted Jaime with coldness and Arya with indifference); not the officers of the garrison who had seen them arrive; not the soldiers of lower rank in search of knighthoods and coin. Not even 'Randa Royce' (seven hells, what a name), who Arya grudgingly admitted must possess some degree of intelligence if her father, the Steward of the Vale, trusted her to hold the Gates of the Moon in his name. Good as Jaime's looks were, they certainly wouldn't be enough to make Myranda disregard a royal decree; and while it was true that Lysa Arryn no longer paid attention to such things, the people serving her would certainly not share her indifference. Lysa didn't want interference from Cersei; the men serving Lysa didn't want war with Cersei; and the only way to avoid either would be to seize Arya and Jaime and to send them back to King's Landing in chains.

And yet here we are, Arya had thought, right in the middle of what should be a lion's den, and nothing happening at all. Is this some kind of elaborate trap?

She found herself wondering what Tywin would have done; before turning away from the thought, ashamed.

'Thank you so much for visiting, Ser Jaime,' Lady Myranda had crooned when the time had come for them to leave, 'I do so hope you come again soon.'

'My lady,' Jaime had purred in reply, kissing her plump hand and earning himself a giggle of thanks, 'had I only known the sort of beauty that awaited me here, I would certainly have come sooner.'

Arya had stamped out of the room and not spoken another word to him, and when they had been introduced to Mya Stone, the girl who would take them up to the Eyrie, Arya had stood silent and fuming while Jaime introduced both himself and her; chuckling gently to himself each time he caught sight of the look on her face.

As they mounted the mules that would convey them part of the way, Arya had found that she liked Mya. The girl was tall and muscled like a boy, she wore breeches instead of dresses, and she had climbed the Giant's Lance more times than she could count; both in daylight and at night. Arya had found the latter so wondrously incredible that the two were soon animatedly discussing the subject like old friends as they climbed; Arya taking special care to turn and glare at Jaime each time he so much as looked in their direction; Mya looking confusedly at her and saying:

'You say you two are getting married?'

'Yes.'

'So why are you acting like you hate him?'

'Ask him about Randa!'

But Jaime had only laughed some more, making Mya laugh too, and Arya had felt betrayed by both of them; stubbornly refusing to admit to herself that she could feel the corners of her own mouth turning up.

Because she was happy. Happier than she had ever been in her entire life. She still felt her losses and her ghosts aching in every bone in her body, but for once they did not carry guilt with them; and each time she looked at Jaime, knowing that she could allow herself to look at him, her heart leapt in a glorious kind of disbelief that he was still here. Their journey through the Mountains of the Moon had been a long, never-ending, breathless kind of delirium; not just because of the snow that she had not seen or touched or smelt in four years; but because she could look behind her or beside her and see him; life burning in his cheeks from the cold and his golden hair a riot in the sun; the song of him in all of her like a beautiful thing; not a torment or a weapon that she used to hurt herself.

At night she would lie in his arms as the wolf dreams became more and more powerful; her memory of the Stranger's whispers turning her and Nymeria into two creatures; not one; and when Jaime had almost died, the blood-stained blade red at his throat; her mind had torn open instead of falling apart, because falling apart was what would happen if he died, and she had gone to the place where Nymeria was and screamed for her, and Nymeria had saved him.

Thank the gods.

Arya felt Jaime sit on his haunches behind her and put his head on her shoulder.

'Are you alright, little wolf?' he asked.

'Shouldn't you be asking the buxom Randa Royce how she is?' Arya snapped.

She could feel Jaime's face changing as he frowned.

'Stark. Much as I appreciate your candour, don't you think you're being just a tad ridiculous?'

'Ridiculous?'

'You know perfectly well that I only flirted with that unbearable woman to buy us passage to the Eyrie.'

Now she could feel him smiling.

'No, I don't know that,' Arya growled, Nymeria growling with her, 'you seemed to be enjoying yourself tremendously.'

'It was rather amusing,' he observed nonchalantly.

'Of course it was!' Arya replied testily, shrugging him off, 'very amusing! Speculating on the proportions of some other woman's cunt while your betrothed is standing right there! What a good joke! They'll be telling that one for years!'

'Are you jealous, Stark?' Jaime asked with delight as he sat down next to her.

'I am not jealous!' Arya insisted, cursing her face for turning red, 'so don't flatter yourself!'

'I will if it's true!'

'I am warning you, Lannister! And so is Nymeria.'

The direwolf bared her teeth. Jaime cocked an eyebrow at both of them and folded his arms.

'Are you planning on threatening me with Nymeria each time we argue in future?'

Arya opened her mouth to reply, but clamped it shut again and found herself beginning to smile. She tried to stop – she'd lose the argument if she didn't – but she couldn't, and soon she was laughing and reaching for him and kissing him softly; sighing contentedly as she felt his mouth open and his tongue flicker gently between her lips as it searched for hers.

'Are you jealous?' Jaime whispered, breathing hard as he pulled abruptly away.

'Insanely,' Arya whispered back, and kissed him again.

They couldn't tell exactly how high up they were, or how far they were from the top of the Giant's Lance; not with both of them sitting on the floor, and Arya wondered for a moment if they were ever going to arrive; or if they would stay suspended in the air forever and never get to Sansa. It was a small uncertainty that soon bled into the greater doubt that pulsed and swarmed in Arya's mind, and she knew that he felt it too.

'Jaime,' she said, 'this has been too easy.'

Jaime looked at her gravely, his eyes like the Jade Sea.

'I know.'

Arya stroked Nymeria; the direwolf's tail beginning to wag with such enthusiasm that it almost batted Jaime in the face.

'What if Littlefinger has us killed when we arrive?' she asked.

'I don't think he will,' Jaime replied, sitting slightly back as Nymeria turned to put her head in his lap, 'Baelish is a ruthless, clever man, and a formidable enemy, but he is still a complete child. Sending Ser Denys to kill us was an excellent idea; but in doing so; he deprived himself of the opportunity to gloat. Now that a second chance has come his way, I don't think he'll deny himself - does she have to do that?'

Nymeria had nipped one of Jaime's fingers and left a scratch so small it was barely visible.

'Nymeria, don't bite Jaime,' Arya drawled, rolling her eyes.

The direwolf whined in complaint and nestled her head more comfortably in his lap. Jaime sighed and scratched the fur between Nymeria's ears, earning himself a lick of approval.

'Then there are the circumstances of our almost-assassination,' Jaime continued, 'I must admit that I find them rather troubling.'

'I should hope so,' Arya smiled.

Jaime waved his hand at her with playful dismissiveness.

'Not just for the conventional reasons, Stark,' he observed, 'Baelish was sent here to bring the Vale back into the fold. Sending his household guard to murder two people; one known to be the Lord of Casterly Rock; the other a ward of Tywin Lannister doesn't really sound like bringing the Vale back into the fold, does it?'

'No,' Arya agreed, 'it sounds like looking for war. Perhaps Littlefinger conceived the idea by himself, then convinced Cersei that she had thought of it – '

' – and my sweet sister jumped at the chance; not thinking for one second that the entire small council would force her to declare war the moment the deed was done,' Jaime finished, 'it would not surprise me if it turned out to be true. What I really want to know is why Baelish would want to start a war in the first place.'

Arya's head was starting to spin.

'We can worry about that later,' she declared, 'how are we going to get him to give Sansa back? Or even to admit that he has her at all?'

'I can think of a number of creative ways,' Jaime smiled, making Arya laugh, 'but it might not come to that. I could simply ask him what Cersei paid him and double it.'

Arya smiled sadly at him.

'It won't be that simple,' she remarked gravely, 'my sister is the heir to Winterfell. That will mean more to him than gold.'

Jaime grinned cheekily at her.

'Very well. Creativity it is.'

Arya punched him in the shoulder.

'There'll be guards, Jaime,' she declared.

'You think I would resort to physical force?' Jaime asked innocently, 'you wound me, my lady.'

'I'll wound you as much as I like if that's what it takes to stop you wounding Lord Baelish too grievously,' Arya insisted.

'You care about Lord Baelish being grievously wounded?'

'No, but I do like the possibility of getting out alive at some point.'

'Of course. I hadn't thought of that.'

And if we don't get out alive…Valar morghulis.

An abrupt darkness and an uncomfortable shuddering announced their arrival at the Eyrie, and suddenly Arya's heart was in her throat and dread was choking up the humid, stony air she breathed. They were in a dungeon.

Arya could not even bring herself to wonder how such a thing was possible. She could smell the black cells in King's Landing and see their darkness waiting for her; Father and Tywin trapped in blind tenebrous kingdoms beside her, no comfort in their presence; only heartbreak.

She shouted at herself not to act like a stupid little girl who was afraid of the dark; imperiously telling herself that all they had to do was wait until the guard came, set Nymeria on him, and get out of the way. But the low ceiling and the black stone walls looked as though they were moving, and the room was becoming smaller and smaller, and 'Arya!' Jaime exclaimed in alarm, and she found herself crawling into his lap and putting her arms around his neck; his scent and his warmth like her own; his hand and his stump on her back, and his nose in the nape of her neck. He held her tight, then kissed her forehead; the fingers of his hand running through her hair.

'This is the only castle in Westeros where the entrance is in the dungeon,' he said, knowing her, 'that's all it is. I promise.'

She stared at him; his voice like fresh air on her face. And she looked above her, and beside her, and saw that the walls weren't moving at all.

I'm a stupid little girl, still. Afraid of dungeons and darkness.

Arya jumped as a chorus of high-pitched yells greeted Nymeria's attempt to see outside the bucket.

'Nymeria!' she commanded, 'stay!'

The direwolf restrained herself with grudging obedience as Arya and Jaime got to their feet and were helped out of the bucket by members of yet another complement of guards with no inclination to arrest them. Their captain was a short and stocky man with mousy brown hair that peeped rebelliously out from beneath his helmet. He kept glancing sideways at Nymeria with a great deal of trepidation, but in all other respects seemed delighted to have something to do.

'You are welcome to the Eyrie, Lord Jaime, Lady Arya,' he greeted cheerfully, 'Lady Lysa asks your forgiveness that she did not come to receive you herself. She is detained in the High Hall with Lord Baelish and Lady Alayne, and said I was to bring you straight in.'

Arya's heart began to pound unpleasantly as Jaime thanked the captain and reassuringly took her hand; but as they climbed the dungeon stairs; leaving the darkness behind as they entered the Eyrie itself; her sense of malaise only increased.

It was the quietest castle she had ever been in; its silence, emptiness, pristine white stone, and vaulted ceilings ensuring that the place more closely resembled a mausoleum than a residence. Their footsteps rang uncomfortably against the floors like boisterous children; heroically choosing to laugh despite the knowledge that they would later be punished for it.

Arya gripped Jaime's hand harder as yet another wave of irrational, uncharacteristic fear swept over her, and as they neared the High Hall, she noted with shame that she was beginning to tremble.

Seven hells, will you get a hold on yourself? You have seen and done worse things than walk through a stupid castle!

'I don't think I know the Lady Alayne of which you spoke, Ser,' Jaime said to the captain; his voice breaking the silence like golden light, 'is she some distant relative of Lady Lysa's?'

'She is Lord Baelish's natural daughter, my lord,' the captain replied politely.

'His what?' Jaime responded in amazement, and Arya's fear reached a crescendo; her hand sweaty in Jaime's; her heart suffocating in her chest as she felt nausea erupt all over her body.

Something's wrong. Something's terribly wrong.

'Are you alright?' Jaime murmured, turning her to face him, 'you look –'

'Yes, I'm fine,' Arya murmured in return, 'really, I'm fine, I just –'

But they had reached the High Hall, and its enormous wooden doors were thrown impressively open by the two guards that flanked them as the captain stepped forward and announced in a voice so booming that it must have been heard in King's Landing:

'Ser Jaime Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West; the Lady Arya Stark of Winterfell!'

There was no one in the hall…except a girl.

She stood alone at the edge of the Moon Door; the tremendous, circular hole in the floor that held the distinction of being the only thing about the Eyrie that Arya could remember from her lessons. The wind tore at the girl's clothes like a lover as she stared down into oblivion; her dark hair, black like misfortune, blowing violently into her face and hiding it from view. Sensing their presence, the girl turned to look at them, and as Arya recognised her sister; her sister with hair that was black like misfortune something's wrong, something's terribly wrong, Sansa fixed them with a regal stare and spoke aloud to the captain.

'Leave us,' she commanded.

The captain bowed, as though obeying her orders were something that he did every day, and smartly left the Hall with his men; his command that the doors be closed behind them shattering the silence; the sound of creaking wood and metal bolts falling into place destroying what remained of it.

Arya ran across the hall to her sister; her footsteps ringing loudly on the marble, and Jaime was shouting at her to be careful, and sprinting after her; restraining her before she could reach Sansa.

'Don't worry,' Sansa mumbled, looking at them, 'I've no intention of throwing myself out too. What an anti-climax that would be.'

As Jaime let her go, Arya stared out of the Moon Door to the leagues of emptiness below… then back at her sister.

'Sansa – where are Lord Baelish and Aunt Lysa?'

Sansa turned back to her contemplation of the void; as though nothing existed for her but that abyss. Then she elegantly raised one arm and pointed out of the Moon Door, as though preparing herself for a dance.