Arya

Despite the cold, despite the driving wind, despite Nymeria's odd skittishness of late, Arya scarcely went a moment without seeing the dragon melt the Iron Throne in her mind's eye. At the time, it was like she was seeing something her thoughts couldn't comprehend. The Iron Throne had been there, in King's Landing, since before she was born. All the fighting I saw in the riverlands, all the men dead on this side or that so someone might be king. And the dragon twisted it in on itself with a breath. But while the others could see only the metal glow brighter and brighter until it hurt to look at, Arya saw the dragon, too. The scales were so black and the light so bright his body had become a huge shadow, red eyes wide and full of pain and rage. Not his, though. The black fire had surged forth, and Arya saw iron bubble. I saw it run like melting ice. A stiff, no-nonsense voice from ages ago echoed in her ear. Do you know what happened?

"Dragons." Arya had replied, as if it were mundane. It was a story then, she thought. The same as the giants and the Others and Sansa's tales of brave knights and valiant heroes.

"Dragons happened. Aegon Targaryen changed the rules." Tywin Lannister had told her. The expression he wore in Harrenhal's solar had been one she'd never seen before, nor since. Until the throne room. Arya felt no cold as the voyage pressed on, her hands clasped in front of her as she played it all out on the cabin ceiling. Balerion, flying over the highest towers, the strongest walls. It wasn't wings that put an end to Black Harren and his line, though. Had Aegon been astride a wyvern, Harrenhal would never have fallen. A sea of black flame, of crumbling towers and sagging walls later and Black Harren's folly was done. And dragons were seared into the thoughts of every Westerosi from that day until their last. To further stymie her efforts to put it in perspective, the dragon she saw had been little. At least, compared to the Black Dread. I saw his skull beneath the Red Keep. She wondered what it looked like from his back. What did the Conquerer see when Balerion loosed his fire? Like men dying in the hundreds, in the thousands. On the Field of Fire, too. She'd wanted nothing more than to see them in the flesh, talk to Aegon's warrior sister, Visenya. After King's Landing, she was not near so certain. She had no idea what kind of people they were, the first Targaryens, out of the public eye, but Arya of late had grown unimpressed with them. Either they were as ignorant as the rest of Westeros or their flippant use of the power they wielded made them more dangerous than the beasts they rode. They used a warhammer to crush an ant.

She was still brooding on the disparity between Aegon and the kings whose crowns he sought to take when Gendry stirred beside her.

"Wolf dreams?"

"Dragon dreams." she replied moodily. Rather than try to console her, Gendry just sat up and stretched. Part of her wished he'd whisper comforting things, but the other part knew that would do no good and only irritate her. He knows me well.

"At least you found your mum." he said, shrugging. Did I? There was part of Catelyn Stark in the woman…person...being that occupied the smallest cabin. Elsewise she would not have struggled so to find me, nor did she try to steer Jaime Lannister from his course. There was some and more of the rivers in her now, though. And in Robb's widow. She is more daughter to who men call Catelyn Stark now than I am. Perhaps Gendry understood that much as well and was just trying to get her mind off dragons.

"What are we going to do when we reach White Harbor? We have only a few more days at sea." she muttered.

"Probably I'll marry a turnip."

"What about me?"

"You'll be my wedding gift, a shiny anvil." She punched him in the side, knowing he'd not feel it.

"You're a turnip."

"Well, better a turnip than a carrot-" She quieted him with a kiss, trying to shove away her unease as if it were another person in the room.

"Carrots are better." she whispered against his mouth.

"Are not." he replied. "Anvil-heads are, though." Her exasperation at his serene stubbornness to her amazement seemed to do just the trick, the butterflies in her stomach the excited sort instead of anxious. Did he know that much would work as well? "I'm going up for some air." he announced, standing and dressing. Even with all those layers he's still going to be cold to the bone.

"Not without me. You might spot a fish and jump into the sea to marry it." Arya said in turn, dressing as warmly as she could manage.

"Why would I, when I'm too busy polishing you, anvil-head?" Their banter continued up to the deck until the sudden frigid exposure made Arya's next loving barb stick in her throat. "Bloody fuck." Gendry swore, easing her behind him and out of the wind.

"I could build a second Storm's End in your shadow. You're too big to marry a turnip-" Arya had got right back to their game only to stop midsentence at the sight of Davos Seaworth at the ship's bow, fiddling with something in his hand. Lady Marya was at his side, but if she noticed his fidgeting, she paid no mind. She knows him better than he knows himself. Maybe that's where Gendry learned the trick. Lord Buckler and Ser Rolland Storm, the Bastard of Nightsong, were on the deck as well, in deep conversation. A golden dragon says they're talking about Gendry. Arya was surprised to find that they were actually talking about Nightsong itself.

"Caron lands have no lord just now. Word is some foot stepped on your brother during the Blackwater-" Lord Buckler began.

"I don't give an iron bob about what catspaw the Lannisters named to steal a castle from Stannis years ago. What are the chances we make it back, anyhow? The last army that left the stormlands for the north never returned, if you recall." Storm replied. They're discussing Ser Rolland's possible legitimization. Rather than pull Davos from whatever memories were tormenting him today Arya found herself stepping up to the two men. On noticing her they both nodded. "Princess Arya." they said in unison.

"Ser Rolland, I couldn't help but overhear your conversation." At once the man looked weary of her words. "I spotted you at Storm's End, ser. You know as well as I that any men still with the heart to fight are dearer by the day. What's the harm in wearing your sire's name if you're never going to return to Nightsong anyway? Why not die Lord Rolland Caron, if only to spite the Lannisters and their stupid foot?" Ralph Buckler clapped Storm on the shoulder.

"Well said, princess!"

"Who's to spite? All the Lannisters are dead or fled-"

"So are many of the stormlords." she reminded him. "Thanks to Stannis' northern adventure more than half of the noble houses of the stormlands have died out or vacated their holdings, with vast swathes of the admittedly small kingdom left outstanding." Including his own. "What little we can do from here to sort his mess out, we ought." Buckler threw his other hand up, as if she'd just said the simplest truth.

Storm looked rather uncomfortable, but he was saved having to reply when footsteps behind Arya advertised a newcomer. Both he and Buckler 'my lord'ed their visitor, and even though the man in question was indeed a lord by writ it still surprised Arya when she turned to see Davos Seaworth standing by the deck. They know he is not a man who lives trivially. He wasn't even a stormlander, born in Flea Bottom, and yet the stormlanders proper put as much stock in his words as in anyone's. Save Gendry, of course. Arya caught a faint whiff of burning wood and saw the man's bloodshot eyes. What little sleep he's gotten has been plagued by nightmares.

"If you'd excuse us?" he asked of the other two, who nodded and were off at once. Lady Marya didn't so much as meet Arya's gaze, instead ensnaring Gendry in idle talk about his work. I know when someone doesn't want to be overheard, my lord, Arya thought. Still, she let the Onion Lord's mummery proceed until he was ready to talk. "Apologies. I know full well you're able to have a chat unheard, but I wanted you to hear it before I went bringing up bad memories for the lad." He opened his hand. The bit of charcoal he carried always was smoking slightly. Arya frowned.

"Did you try to get a fire going on deck?"

"No." Seaworth replied, gazing down at the burned bit of wood.

"Nightmares?" When he looked up quickly, Arya gave a snort of humorless laughter. "Come, ser. You're not the only one with his mind on what happened in the throne room." He shook his head.

"Fire's on my mind, aye, but not the sort a dragon breathes."

"The red kind?" He nodded. Arya swallowed. "On the way to Storm's End, I thought perhaps it wasn't something you were eager to bring to light. You told me how you found yourself with Jon…but I'm wondering how it came to pass you left Stannis' service."

"I made a bloody botch of things, as I most often do." he said simply.

"Did you sneeze and give away the army's position to Bolton scouts?"

"No. I left when I ought have stayed, or at least not left alone." He was silent for awhile, looking torn between hurling the wood into the freezing sea and slipping it back in his pocket.

"If you'd rather not speak of it, Lord Seaworth, I understand." Arya said, trying her best to sound like Mother had whenever Father was upset about something. "We have enough to contend with at moment without drudging up past pain."

"We were marching from the Wall, on the way to Winterfell when we suddenly came up snowbound. Either we would freeze to death, starve, or the Bolton army would do for us." Arya wasn't surprised. More than once she'd heard men say that in the north, autumn was just winter lifting up her skirts. "Stannis charged me with heading back to the Wall to fetch aid from your brother. Men, food, whatever could be spared, as if the Night's Watch had an ear of corn in surplus. The red woman sought her fire god's aid in melting the snows. Well, if you remember what went on between her and Gendry, that R'hllor only gives after he's been given." I remember. Only too well.

"The army escaped the snows, I know that much. Stannis and the rest were finished off by the Boltons in battle."

"Only after Stannis gave his daughter to the flames to melt the snows in the first place. Most of his men abandoned him then, either gone over to Bolton or wandering off to die. I don't imagine there was much proper battle after that."

No wonder he has fire on the mind. From what Arya had seen, the dragon's breath would turn a man to ash before he could so much as scream. Not so with the stake. Had No One remained, Arya did not doubt she would be howling to track the red woman down and cut out whatever beat behind her pale chest.

"So you think R'hllor melted the snows? Wouldn't he have saved Stannis proper, also? Shouldn't he?"

"It took me a good few months to get the first thought together regarding the whole farce. Something the king said though, about the old gods, got me thinking."

"Jon?" Davos nodded.

"He said the red woman was free to proclaim R'hllor had sent him back all she liked. It wasn't R'hllor who lived, who lives, in the moors, the hills, the forests of the north." Arya felt a surge of longing, of affection for Jon.

"He was talking about the old gods. Saying they sent him back." Again, Davos nodded.

"That logic made me wonder if maybe the old gods hadn't meddled beforehand, too. Melted the snows, I mean."

"Why would they do that? The old gods aren't fond of fire-"

"Regardless of the girl's death, I mean. Or maybe because of it. I don't claim to know how gods think or feel, but maybe they just made it easier for the Boltons to rid them of Stannis and R'hllor's remaining faithful both."

"The tick buries itself in the wolf's flesh, and the raven plucks it out again." Arya mused. Davos gave a joyless snort of his own.

"Maybe that's all this business with the Others is."

"How do you mean?" Davos shrugged.

"The Freys killing a northern king protected by guest right, a hungry fire god and his pet zealot running amok on ground that belonged to them since before the First Men came, since when it was just giants and children of the forest…how much more were they going to let pass? How much more were they supposed to take? Could be they let the Others loose to stir up trouble, their way of finally putting their foot down. 'Right, we've had enough of you fucking people, now here's a broom to sweep you clean away.'" Davos' words drove what little warmth Arya could muster straight out of her. Like what happened to the Freys. They broke guest right and Mother came back up from the rivers to rain them from the world. What did the old gods care for Andal blood? Why would they stay their hand? Neither Arya nor Davos had found their voice when Lady Marya returned with Gendry. Only when her bull gently slipped an arm about her waist did Arya speak.

"What was her name?"

"Shireen." Davos replied. "She'd be about your age now."

"Were you attempting to rid yourself of that, then? I assume it must have belonged to her." Arya indicated the bit of wood he held.

"This wasn't my doing, princess. I woke up this morning to find it on fire proper, burning on the cabin table without scratching the wood beneath. By the time I got the bloody thing out, my face was black of smoke."

"I had a right time of it trying to air everything out afterward. All out clothes smelled of smoke." Marya intoned.

"Well, no harm done. Your clothes are too thin for winter, you'd have replaced them at any rate." Arya told her. Wearily, Davos agreed. "Just keep an eye on it, Lord Seaworth." Arya told him. "Wood prone to bursting into flame without being consumed might well come in handy where we're headed." A paltry concession for your loss, Onion Lord, she thought, but at least the old gods are content to let you bob through every squall and storm without sinking. Her earlier thoughts on the Targaryens seemed foolish, especially in comparison to the gods they mocked. Dangerous. They were men and women, no less mortal than the meanest orphan. It was the dragons the world knelt to. Why didn't the old gods intervene then, she wondered? Why didn't they send blizzards to slap Balerion, Vhagar and Meraxes from the sky like the buzzing flies they surely were? Perhaps it was because the old gods knew what would become of the overproud people from the east. Ground down to a single barren girl, the possession of their most devout son. The dragons themselves fled to who knows where. It had taken years, centuries, but then, Arya supposed gods had nothing if not time. Burn our trees. Chop them down. Pray to bloody fire demons and gods made of wax and glass and sweet incense. One day your bones will be dust. What pittance of your kind interests us, we will take for our own. In the end, we get it all.

It was no fault of Davos Seaworth's that he'd endured more tragedy than most, but Arya could endure being in his silent mourning presence no longer. She bid the Seaworths good day and went to find someone else to talk to, anyone, who might gods forbid broach a cheerful subject. Spotting the shivering form of Lord Selwyn, Arya made for him, Gendry in tow.

"Oh, good day, princess." he said, typically pleased as stormlanders were to see she and Gendry in each other's company. Though he lives on an island, a world apart from the mainland.

"Hello, Lord Tarth. I had a question about your daughter, if you'd permit me?"

"By all means, princess." Talking of Brienne took the weariness from his face a little.

"She told me her father taught her the sword." Glad though he might have been to talk of Brienne, Arya could see the color rise in his cheeks.

"Oh, I was never one for the tourney yard, nor the practice yard."

"Then who taught her to fight?"

"A leal knight in my service, Ser Goodwin, gone these many years."

"Well, were he alive I'd give him my congratulations."

"I beg your pardon?"

"It's not every knight whose pupil overcomes the Hound." His eyes went wide.

"Clegane?"

"The same. She bit an ear off and tossed him down a mountain for good measure." The color rose higher despite the cold. "I would not be so embarrassed to have a daughter who can fend for herself, my lord. Silk dresses and pretty songs are not like to be proof against the Others, while Valyrian steel in a practiced hand is battle-proven, if the King in the North is to be believed." Lord Selwyn swallowed uncomfortably.

"I heard rumors, but only those."

"That she's got half of Ice? I've seen it myself, my lord. Oathkeeper, she calls it, and I quite like the name." Meanwhile the other half languishes beneath my bed for want of a proper wielder. A proper name, as well. Then another voice echoed in her ear, one rough and gravelly. Lots of cunts. The idea of Sandor Clegane presented with the other half of Ice struck Arya as quite a good one. He's one of the best fighters I've ever seen, but if Jon speaks true of the Others he's useless with even the best steel. Normal steel, anyway. Gendry seemed unwilling to press Lord Tarth further.

"I suppose we'd best get back below before one of us loses an ear." he said when the winds picked up as they always did come evening.

"I don't fancy losing my nose, either." Arya replied, allowing him to lead her back to their cabin. Dinner came in the form of a pair of bowls of broth. "Careful, it's hot." Arya told her bull.

"Not so hot as the forge, nor your face when you're embarrassed."

"Says Ser Stupid when he was blushing like a maiden in lordly garb!" Arya scoffed. Gendry thumbed his nose at her, so she stuck her tongue out in reply. "Mleh!" she said defiantly. He only rolled his eyes.

"Eat. We'd best get as much rest as we can, no telling what shape White Harbor will be in."

"You've never even been to White Harbor. What do you know about it?"

"Nothing. But things tend to go shitways right when I'm having a good time, so I'm just getting ready for it." She ate in a sulk, unable to wholly refute his point. Things will be better, she thought. There's nobody to come chasing after him, nobody cares that he's Robert's bastard anymore. No throne to fight over, either.

Being that there were comparatively few lords and their retinues coming from the stormlands, all their ships arrived in White Harbor on the same day. Lucky, Arya thought. They passed the massive jut of stone men called Seal Rock, teeming with weather-eyed crossbowmen. Scorpions, spitfires and their crews besides also manned positions on the rock. She spotted ships of the Redwyne fleet and Daenerys Targaryen's own at the city's outer harbor, people wearing a hundred different badges trying to keep track of one another. Someone ought get down there and sort that mess out. When their own ship closed with the docks, Arya spotted Jon's friend Samwell Tarly standing on a statue's plinth, its occupant a merman cut from white stone. He sounded a trumpet in his fist every now and then and seemed to be busily directing the shambles into a semblance of order while the city guard did their best to help, namely pulling people out of the water who found it in themselves to fall off the docks. The north, Arya thought. I'm only feet away. The ship slowed to a halt and while it was being tied down Arya watched Nymeria carefully. No running off now, girl. I know you're as excited to be home as I am, but you'll scare people if you fly off in a full sprint. Gendry stepped closer.

"Ready?" he asked.

"So ready." she replied, yet not without uncertainty. This is my home, she thought. I should feel differently about seeing it again than I do. Perhaps White Harbor was bringing back unpleasant memories of Braavos or King's Landing. Or maybe it's the snow piling up in the corners of the walls, the waters frozen so solid they've had to extend the docks. Indeed, she could see men standing on the ice jutting out from the stone foundations of the city port, idly fishing or fetching water. She got the distinct impression that snowing as it was and busily, it was still a reprieve from what the city had grown used to. The walk down the gangplank proved treacherous even, as the snow made it go slick and singularly slippery. Arya's teeth only let her tongue go when she set foot on the wood of the dock with her bull behind her and her wolf behind him. She let out a slow exhale and saw her breath rise in a white cloud. I'd forgotten that. She found herself shrinking backward into Gendry rather than walking ahead, apart, as a Princess of Winterfell ought. Not like it matters, nobody here will glance at me twice but for Nymeria. And did the direwolf get looks. Jaws dropping, eyes popping, yet the Queen of the Fords nimbly followed her mistress, resolutely ignoring every sight, sound and smell White Harbor could tempt her with. Nymeria gave no sign she was distressed, yet Arya knew they shared the same misgivings. Surely she must remember the north, yet she's skittish and uncertain to be back. Perhaps it had been her dreams. A set of blue eyes, and one mismatched brown-and-white. Funny goats, too. And the ravenousness… Arya turned and saw Nymeria's fur had stood on end. Her eyes were wary pools of gold and the look they gave Arya was not one she liked. "Fine. There's nothing wrong with stupid dreams about stupid eyes and stupid goats, anyway." she told Nymeria, told herself.

"Nothing wrong with stupid anvil-heads dreaming them, either." Gendry said gently from behind her, easing her on. In Braavos I dreamed I was Nymeria, she thought, but who does Nymeria dream she is?

She spotted a direwolf banner flying above the merman of Manderly. Eager to have Jon back, she mused. She doubted that someone would risk their neck flying a banner from the top of the New Castle to honor a girl thought dead for years. She spent the journey to the castle proper explaining House Manderly's origin to Gendry.

"They were from the Reach, but they got kicked out a thousand years ago. I forget why. They came north landless and friendless, and the King of Winter put them on the White Knife and bid them defend it. So they're northmen proper now."

"Might be they always were. The Reach could have booted them because the Manderlys saw the rest for what they were." Gendry replied, making her smile and no few passing guards carrying tridents cheer his words. Once inside the castle, Arya got to rubbing her palms together. Where Nymeria had refused out of hand (paw?) to enter the Valyrian fortress on Dragonstone, Lord Wylis' own castle seemed to be no such obstacle and she came along without a second's hesitation. No foul magic here, then. Before she could help Gendry any further she found herself beset by a dozen maidservants, each it seemed more eager than the last to wait upon a princess. Seven hells, she thought before she could help herself.

"Good day, Princess Arya! I'm Lottie-"

"-you look so like the King-"

"-are you and Lord Baratheon going to be married?-"

"-were there dragons on Dragonstone-"

"-did the dragon queen sail with you?"

"Quiet now, stop clucking like a coop of hens!" said a rather strict looking septa, plucking Arya from the throng. "Apologies, princess. Their enthusiasm for meeting you is comparable to meeting Daenerys Targaryen." Does she even know White Harbor may well be the seat of the Faith of the Seven in Westeros these days? That thought make her tremble most terribly, her recent thoughts on the old gods coming back with a vengeance. We get it all. "Goodness, Princess! You're shivering!" The woman sounded so like Septa Mordane fawning over Myrcella that Arya was tempted to bolt like a frightened fawn but Gendry took her slender hand in his big one, running a callused thumb down her wrist.

"I'll not be far."

"Fear not, my lord. We'll have her warmed up and in a proper winter dress by dinnertime." The septa said, all business. "In fact, perhaps a hot bath might do you good as well."

"After the forge, nothing's hot, septa." Gendry said, making the serving girls giggle. He followed them to the threshold, then kissed Arya's hand before he sought out his own room. I wouldn't mind a bath, but all this fuss makes it hardly worth the getting wet! Her hair had grown long in the stormlands and still longer on the voyage north as well and besides a few artful snips here and there, Arya found the locks rather less a burden than they'd been when she was small. Smaller than I am now, anyway. Gendry had known her with short hair and long anyway, he'd likely just laugh himself silly at the sight of her hair brushed, combed and set in a curtain down her back than a flyaway sparrow's nest all about her head. All the while Nymeria slept in a corner, more than passing fond of floor that didn't rock and sway beneath her. I hope she doesn't have another nightmare. She'll start awake with teeth bared and scare the daylights out of everyone. The maidservants were quick to realize she wasn't in the mood to talk and went about their chores without pressing further, chatting idly amongst themselves.

"So many knights! The ones from the Reach are all so handsome! There was one with a green apple clasping his cloak, he looked like something out of a song!" A dozen Sansas, each more besotted than the last. Arya could only pray the gods did right by them. Righter than they did by Sansa, at least. Thinking on her sister gave her a whole new set of gooseprickles. I can only remember the girl Cersei had on the steps of the Great Sept the day they murdered Father. It had been the queen, her son, and their mute catspaw who had done their killing for them. What had possessed Ilyn Payne, an aging headsman with no exceptional skill to speak of to cross swords with the monster that the Mountain had become escaped Arya. Maybe he wanted his old infamy back. Or maybe it was something else. Knights kill monsters, even knights like Ser Ilyn.

The silver-thread dress they slipped her into could not have been for any other person. They might have done better to buy a Manderly's weight in food than throw away good silver on me. The septa gently set her hair to rights one more time and slippers were found to keep her feet warm even against the white stone that made up the New Castle.

"There we are, a Stark princess for true." she said as Arya stared at herself in the mirror. I look beautiful. It was her first thought, and one so strange that she didn't know herself if that was quite it. She'd seen the highest-born ladies in Westeros at the Hand's tourney, though, and even wearing all manner of finery of cloth and jewel, they were hardly what Arya was now. And what that is, is beautiful. She was still wrestling with that when they ushered her out to the Merman's Court for the feast to welcome the assembled lords of Westeros. On the way they picked up Gendry, who far worse than laughing or even blushing and acting besotted, just looked at her.

"It's just the dress and the way they fixed my hair." she whispered as she slipped her arm in his.

"We both know if lies were gold, that single one would make you be richer than any Lannister ever born." he replied. The color rose in her cheeks before she could stop it and then the doors to the hall were opening, the merman's herald calling their names. It was like they were underwater, with sea creatures covering every inch of floor and column, the wall behind the throne doubtless meant for Lord Manderly himself covered by a battling kraken and leviathan.

"No man-fishes." she noticed.

"They'll have to add some if they come to visit." Gendry agreed, as they took their seats. But for the Manderlys themselves, we are nearest the dais that holds the chair. Wylla was older than she and a pretty girl enough besides, but Arya knew for every look she got the Princess of Winterfell got ten.

"Usually it's you people stare at." Arya muttered as the rest were seated, storm lords and river lords and lords of the Reach, even a few from the crownlands down at the end.

"Aye, in the south and the stormlands. Here, you're the one who matters. Here, you're the one they love." They were simple words, without pretense, but Arya could hear the love in them. It made her want to cry. She had a real task on her hands trying not to let tears fall, with all the attention she was getting she wanted to project strength. Gendry slipped his hand over hers under the table, obviously sensing how overwhelmed she was. "They'll likely think you're just glad to be home. No need to hold back, Arya." She wiped her eyes on a napkin and took a moment to settle all the butterflies inside. Calm as still water.

Those nearby were rather pointedly engaged in conversation with their neighbors when she looked up. I wonder what they think we're talking about.

"Picking out names, most probably…" she muttered under her breath, half-consciously.

"For what?" Gendry asked. Thick as a castle wall. Then it was his turn to blush.

"What is it?"

"I thought it was proper to wait until after marriage to start…"

"Trying for a baby? Well, I suppose it is, but they've no idea you haven't asked me yet." Gendry flustered and tried to hide his embarrassment by passing along a tray of lobster. "Well?" she prompted.

"Well, what?"

"Why haven't you asked me yet?" He coughed aloud, nearly spitting out his wine. A half-cup, too. He looks so like King Robert, yet he couldn't be more different. A surge of affection for she of yellow hair, whoever she was, who had given Gendry Waters life filled Arya then.

"Because you're a princess."

"And you're a lord." she shrugged. "So?"

"So far as I know, princesses come before lords." Does he mean I ought wed a prince instead? At her confused expression he shook his head with a smile. "Anvil-head. I mean, you ought do the asking, as you're my better. Just like before."

"That's not how it works, stupid." she said. "The man asks, always. Even if he's a stupid stag-"

"Stag this." he responded, kissing her on the cheek and making her go scarlet. The cheers made it sound like the whole hall had been watching! "There aren't enough people here to embarrass you proper. Maybe I'll wait until we reach Winterfell, where a proper godswood waits." Arya didn't know how to feel about that. Father followed the old gods, Mother the Seven. Or she did, before… She gulped. "What's wrong?"

"I just…I don't think the old gods much care, is all. They don't care one way or another about most things, but the things they do care about, they care a whole lot." And Father died on steps sacred to the Seven, not the old gods.

"Not a godswood, then?" That seemed to startle Gendry.

"I just don't want to wait, is all." Her voice was a whisper. His typical expression, a blend of uncertainty, fatigue, and plain stubbornness, vanished and Arya saw Robert and Renly shine through like the sun peeking through heavy cloud cover.

When Wylis Manderly spoke from his spot on the dais it almost made Arya jump out of her skin. Lord Baratheon vanished and Gendry returned, her Gendry, brow furrowed as the hall's attention turned to their host. Arya would have been nervous to speak before so many lords from all over Westeros but the fat man before her showed no such skittishness.

"As it seems unlikely His Grace will join us before the day is done, I'm taking he opportunity to welcome you all to White Harbor. Though the North proper belongs to the Old Gods, the Snowy Sept is quite outfitted for our southern friends who keep faith with the Seven." His words sparked a goodly amount of relieved murmurs. "As for organizing the moving-on to Winterfell, we can get about that in the morning. I don't think a crowned head is needed to tell us that much. The snows and winds have stopped ravens flying between here and Winterfell for some time, but I can't imagine they've gone and moved the whole castle on us." Laughter now from the filled hall. Not so if there were crannogmen in attendance. While Wylis went on about these lords being quartered there and such, Arya reached for Nymeria, asleep in the room she and Gendry shared. To her surprise the direwolf was up and pacing, hackles raised and nose twitching. What is it, girl? The wolf's ears heard what she could not, and the storm on approach sounded one fit more for the stormlands than the north. Coming from the east. Or was that north? She had to wait a few moments to make certain her mind wasn't playing tricks on her- or at least that Nymeria's wasn't. Two storms, each coming closer. That made no sense whatsoever to Arya. But then, she wasn't a direwolf, Nymeria surely knew her ears better. I just hope we aren't caught out in the open by one of those. When she returned to the Merman's Court, dessert was being served. Gendry showed no interest in it, noticing her getting back to her own body.

"At least you didn't seize up. You were leaning on my shoulder and looked like you were dozing for a few moments, that's all." He muttered out of the corner of his mouth so only she could hear.

"Was I? I thought I'd gone up against a stone column." He rolled his eyes.

"Ready for bed, then?"

"Aye, and one that isn't going back and forth and makes you dream sideways." His words made her giggle. He stood, bid his storm lords good night and led Arya from the hall.

Nymeria was if anything more agitated when Arya met her in the bedchamber, all but pawing at the window and whimpering like a kennel whelp during its first thunderstorm.

"What's the matter with her?" Gendry asked, looking as confused as Arya felt. Again Arya reached for her, and was promptly floored when all she found inside the direwolf's mind was a raging tempest with thunder so loud her ears rang. She tried to get a grip, to center herself on Nymeria, but it was no good. A raven in a snowstorm. Less, a sparrow in a blizzard. When she came to her senses, she was on the bedchamber floor, a pillow behind her head and Gendry frozen in place over her. "I thought you were dying-"

"No. I can't get to Nymeria proper, something's wrong."

"Obviously, you're on the fucking floor-"

"Not with me, Gendry." Her saying his name made his eyes go wide. "I think we ought find Lord Manderly." she said in a small voice. There was nothing for it then but that Arya be granted an audience with the fat lord, Gendry looking in no mood to try convincing all was well. All the trust he denies his own instincts he puts in mine. Two sleepy guardsmen received quite the shaking awake when the Lord of Storm's End gave one a literal shaking.

"Lord Manderly, where is he?"

"Upstairs, milord, preparing for bed with Lady Leona-" Gendry elbowed him aside, Arya following close behind with Nymeria bringing up the rear and ensuring their path was not impeded. In the lord's private chambers Arya found Wylla sitting by a lit hearth in a chair made for someone her father's size. On seeing her the girl's eyes went wide.

"Princess Arya!"

"I need to speak with your father, my lady." Arya said tersely. "If he must be woken, please do so." Wylla curtsied and dashed out of the room, returning with a yawning Wylis. With a glance at Arya his sleepy demeanor vanished, the eyes in the doughy face before her rapt and wary. The fat man is just a front, there is iron 'neath the icing. "Apologies-"

"Hang apologies, princess. I let the flayed man lead me straight into captivity on the Green Fork when I ought have dragged him down to river's bottom. You need not ask for my pardon." Arya gulped and nodded

"Earlier I- well, Nymeria… heard storms approaching from the north and east. Two different ones, mind, and that struck me as odd. She's not so nervous normally-" Wyman held up a hand and called for his captain of guard.

"Have the city walls manned, wake the sleeping guard shifts. We're under attack, or about to be." The man vanished at once while Arya felt so foolish. "Now it's my turn to beg your pardon, princess. I was with your brother in the riverlands, I remember Grey Wind well. Oft, we'd be marching along plain as pidgeon pie when all of a sudden, he'd slink off in the wrong direction, only to lead our outriders right to a Lannister force meant to be tracking us. Your wolf, Nymeria did you name her, is not to be ignored. If she thinks something is wrong, it is." There was no ridicule in his words, no suspicion, even as his wife appeared from their chamber door and gaped at him.

"I don't understand, Wyl-"

"Neither do I, Leona. I haven't the first clue, but I don't need one. Fate can wave its hands in a man's face only so many ways, and this is one of them."

Those men of White Harbor who rode with Robb needed no convincing either that something was amiss. The river lords, too, who fought with the Young Wolf and survived the War of Five Kings and the chaos afterward were resigned to another fight, while the lords of the Reach were mystified by the sudden shift from merriment to grim purpose by their neighbors. Arya heard Samwell Tarly telling anyone from the Reach who would listen about Ghost, how he would bring Jon game when all the hunting hounds of the Great Ranging turned up nary a squirrel.

"They know when trouble's near. They'll act funny, like." Her uncle Edmure added in passing. He turned to Arya then. "I think you'd best go find your mother."

"So I can hide with the women?" she asked, feeling coddled.

"No, so she can help however she may. I hear you might know a thing or two about fighting, but that won't help in pitched battle. Not when there's a dozen men pushing and shoving around you and mud's in your eye and your helmet's so hot it makes it impossible to think. You ought stay out of danger if at all possible, we don't even know what's going on yet." Though she would have given a thousand Needles to stay with Gendry for whatever the storms would bring, instead Arya found herself leaving him in the care of Davos Seaworth and the storm lords in the armory. When the onion knight tried to explain how all the armor went together, Gendry only put a hand on the man's shoulder.

"I'm a blacksmith. I know how to get armor on." he said with a bemused smile. When Alyn Estermont held out a sword, too, Gendry looked at it like he was being handed a live chicken. "Never was one for swords." he said, looking past Estermont to a warhammer leaning up against a wooden circle shield. He picked it up and gave it a looking over while one of the lads slipped the shield over his left arm. Just before Davos went to slip a helmet over his head, Arya saw the look on Gendry's face.

"Wait!" she called. "Gendry, what's wrong?" Anvil-head. We're about to face gods-know-what, he wants to marry you but can't work out how to ask, a thousand other things-

"The hammer's too small." Lord Baratheon's smile flashed out from under the helm. His storm lords laughed heartily, Ralph Buckler slapping him on the back. Arya felt ready to punch him, then remembered he was clad in steel. No fair, she thought.

"If I can't stay with you, Nymeria will." she said, crossing her arms.

"Eh. She's less likely to bite than you are." Another round of laughter from the men around them, Estermont and Buckler and the Bastard of Nightsong. She leapt at him and he caught her in the air, letting her sit on his forearm so she could kiss him 'neath the helm.

"You'd better come back. If not, I'll beat you up." she whispered.

"As my princess commands." he replied.

Finding her mother proved to be quite the chore. You'd think a pair of bloody water-women would be all anybody wants to talk about. Stupid lords. It struck her then that perhaps they were remaining out of sight quite deliberately. It used to be me that hid from Mother. White Harbor was not King's Landing though, in size or waywardness of planning. Arya found her way back down to the water with ease, spotting men readying weapons or getting armored or even bringing what defenses lay on the city walls to bear. Spitfires and trebuchets throwing flaming rocks are well and good but the Others' dead men won't run when a scorpion bolt spits them. She dashed up the steps as fast as her silver dress would allow, out of breath when she reached the top.

"You have to set your bolts alight." she said between gasps.

"Eh?" the sergeant of the line asked, turning to look for someone his height. When he finally spotted her, he stared like she was something out of a drunken ramble. Perhaps I am. "Bloody hell, you're short." he said.

"The King in the North says dead men don't feel pain. Blades and blows won't stop them. Set your bolts alight. Even if you miss, you'll see where your shot landed and if you happen to hit an enemy, he'll go up in moments." Her words seemed to only confound the man further.

"Right, lads, pitch on the bolt-heads." he blurted, too confused to argue. "Pass it up and down the wall." she said, going back down to look for her mother. I hope she hasn't frozen solid somewhere. That would be my bloody luck. At last she found her sitting by a fountain in a small cobblestone square, ignoring the gapes the few people present were giving her. The water had frozen, of course, but the Young Wolf's mother and widow were watery as ever. Arya found herself lost for words. Nothing? Not even "I missed you?" It took Catelyn looking up by chance to spot Arya and by then she was ready to head back up to the New Castle. Her eyes are the same, she thought. The same as I remember. The face was different, younger, fuller, and of course there had been no rippling across it in Arya's youth, but the eyes that looked at her were all Tully. Rather than exasperation or disapproval as had been the rule during Arya's girlhood, relief washed over Catelyn's features.

"The rivers didn't wash it all away." Arya whispered. "Didn't wash you all away."

"They must not have. At first I thought I was more river than woman, but…"

"Not now. Not once the anger has gone." The Volantene girl finished for her. But while the anger remains, you're a storm with a thirst for vengeance. Arya chose her next words carefully.

"It may be that your anger will serve us better than your newfound peace." Relief turned to uncertainty and Catelyn looked in her hands.

"I used to think if I only had the power, I could end Robb's war in a fortnight and we could all go home. Once I did, I rid the riverlands of the Freys, and still I've yet to have my children and my home returned to me."

"Sansa is at Winterfell, closer than she's been to either of us in years. We have to make it to her, though, lady mother. If whatever's out there has its way, it won't matter that we came so close." Her hands came up and they found Catelyn's. She could feel the currents flowing beneath the surface, yet her fingers remained dry. "Right now, we don't need Catelyn Stark. We need the Lady of the Rivers. Once it's over with, though…I'd like to have my mother back." The sound of drums began to grow over the racket of White Harbor arming itself. At first it was barely audible, then a strong steady baseline to the chaos all around. Jon never spoke of the Others banging drums. Dead men need no preservation of morale. "What's out there isn't going to buckle from volleys of arrows or couched lances. If we're going to live to tomorrow, you're going to need to give them as good as they'll give us." If those drums are any hint, it will be quite a fight. Any louder and I'll not be able to hear myself over them. Arya felt a raindrop on her cheek, the first since the snows had begun to fall in unceasing earnest. The doubt on Catelyn's face began to harden into resolve. "My husband-to-be is out on the walls with my direwolf. I'd like to get them back afterward, as well." Arya said.

"You will." Her mother answered.