Arya
It was easier to warg into Nymeria than try to come to terms with it all. Certainly her unease seeped through into the direwolf but it was blunted, abstract. There were no names among the Pack, no more than it mattered whose sire one among their number was, and so what little of Arya's befuddlement reached Nymeria the wolf barely noticed. She was more concerned by far with a brother of her own, Shaggydog acting as though the meat on the nearby table was as inedible as the wood beneath it. Dead and bloodless, no better than a wight. The wild siblings from outside the litter Father and the boys had found years ago showed no such disinterest, the pups among them in particular pulling all manner of things off the table while the men sitting at it were distracted. I suppose after Skagos, with its unicorns and great bears and cliff-climbing sheep, the hunt is as much a part of the meal as the meat itself. Nymeria gently nuzzled her green-eyed brother, making him twitch so badly the nearest people hastily drew away. Take him out, girl, Arya thought, reluctantly returning to her own body. Nymeria led Shaggydog from the hall, people scrambling to get out of the way while Ghost watched, still as stone, from the center of the wolves in the hall. The white wolf got more looks than all the rest put together, but for all Ghost seemed to care the lords of Westeros and the wildling chieftains besides might have been a herd of sheep on a hillside somewhere. And he a sheepdog watching over them. Does that make Jon a shepherd? She had been trying to keep it from her mind but it came rushing in then, despite her earlier refuge in Nymeria's mind. Aemon Targaryen. Aemon, the First of His Name. He doesn't look like an Aemon, though. Arya's eyes slid from one face to the other, nearly identical. Nor does she look like a Naerys. Clearly her aunt had named the babes for Aemon the Dragonknight and Queen Naerys, but the boy had grown into a man more comfortable around savages and monsters than courtiers and knights, and the girl had grown into a woman as different from the Seven-following frail wisp Arya imagined the Naerys of old to be as could be imagined. Nothing fine, fragile or frail survives in the Neck. Ghost didn't much seem too out of sorts with the revelation, but then she'd felt Nymeria's own indifference to such workings of men not a moment before. Names are words and words are wind, as the saying goes. It was hard to think the Others might much care, for one, and that was most everything that mattered these days, being able to keep up with their sudden sorties. Well, those of us suited for that kind of fighting. The rest of us do our best to keep out of the way. Cast into that bleak light, the king's origins were something of an afterthought.
Arya turned to Rickon, still glowering at the beef.
"There's precious few at Winterfell would turn their nose up at a full plate." she said sharply, though lost in the countless voices that had resumed the endless chatter once Nymeria and Shaggydog had left the hall. Of course, Rickon had no difficulty hearing her, upper lip curling in irritation. "You may have been living the life of a wolf, but there is man in you yet, and he'd best make an appearance. Else you want your place to be the kennels instead of our tower. You're not a beast, you're a man." A prince, Arya thought, though Rickon sinking his fingers into the meat and simply tearing it in half strongly evoked memories of Nymeria tearing into whatever she'd downed during her time as Queen of the Fords. A sudden thought occurred to her then, and Arya let her eyes flick to the tables. More than one face was looking up at the high table- in particular, at Rickon, though he was too busy ripping chunks of meat off the whole with his teeth. Several of the Mormont worthies seemed rather more interested in him than the meat and mead, Alysane muttering into the youngest of her sisters' ears. Lyanna Mormont seemed rather content to watch Rickon from afar, though for decency's sake or nerves at the thought of approaching Arya couldn't say. Both, she decided after a moment's thought. Nor was Lyanna Mormont the only girl in the hall in such a position. More than one wildling clan or other had long since taken note of the wolf prince, if anything each was even more eager to catch the eye of Jon Snow's most interestingly unmatched younger brother. There were southern lords with daughters in tow as well, but Arya put them out of her mind without a second thought. Best count your granddaughters and see if one of them might someday turn Howland's head, my lords. No southern girl is about to tame the man-wolf. More interesting was a girl whose arms were full with a precocious little boy, excitedly spooning stew into his mouth. Roslin wore a faded blue dress chased with red, with Ser Brynden the Blackfish seated next to her and keeping the lad from scurrying off after the hundred distractions that filled the hall. Uncle Edmure died at White Harbor, Arya recalled. That little boy is Lord of Riverrun, ostensibly with his lady mother as his regent. Gently she elbowed Gendry, seated beside her and snoring with his head on the table.
"No no, there's no turnips here, go away." he murmured, making Arya laugh aloud.
"Wake up, you great lout. I'd need six of me to carry you to bed so you'll just have to walk as befits a proper Lord of Storm's End."
"Oh, hells. One of you's already too many, whatever would I do with six? One to say you're hungry, one to say you're not, one to tell the rest to be quiet, one to command me not to follow commands because you're pretending not to be a lady, one to tell me to kiss you and one to blather on about nothing in particular. Before all six of you start arguing about which Arya is the most Arya."
"This one." Arya replied, kissing him once on each cheek before her lips found his. "Now go to bed before I have a giant smash his way in and drag you."
"Bah." Gendry replied. "You don't speak a word of the Old Tongue."
"I can point and pound my fist on the table. A giant would understand that much."
"Aaaah. Best not argue with a princess, else I might look a proper fool. Would she like to be carried to bed, as befits a dainty princess in the stories? The ones with the shiny knights and pretty tourneys, I mean. Not the ones where the Others show up and cause a scene."
"Like this one?" Arya replied, rolling her eyes. "I'll be up soon. I want to call on my mother's family for a moment." Gendry quit his sleepy antics.
"I'll get a fire going in the hearth." he said, kissing the top of her head before leaving the hall.
She wove her way out from the high table down to where the riverlanders were seated. A Ryger man hastily got up on her approach, letting her sit down across from Roslin Tully. My aunt. The War of Five Kings had given just as it had taken. If rather less of the former than the latter. The little Tully boy looked at her curiously while Roslin blushed, trying to keep him from clambering onto the table.
"Lady Tully." Arya said, smiling.
"Princess. Say 'hello', Hoster." Roslin told her son. Hoster. Named for my grandfather.
"Wolves are here!" he cried.
"There certainly are. All different colors, too." Arya replied, nodding knowingly.
"And giants! They're big! And dragons!" It struck her that Hoster Tully and children his age would not grow up in the same world Arya herself had, not by leagues. Parents will gape in awe at dragons and giants and direwolves while their children won't know any different. Dead men would not seem nearly so horrifying, certainly a threat easier dealt with than a blizzard or famine. Ser Brynden was not under the same enchantment, looking every bit the haggard aging knight he was. It can't be easy seeing the world spin past you, faster every day. And with a young widow and her son to mind. The ceiling shook suddenly and dust filtered down, the dragon's roar loud enough to rattle every dish on every table. There was a collective gasp, a brace for whatever was coming, but no cold monsters' cries sounded over the wind outside. Arya listened to the beast move about on the roof, rumbling to himself.
"Must have spotted something. Scared 'em off." Someone muttered. Arya looked to the high table where Bran and his wife were shushing their son, though the babe seemed content just to suck on his fist and gaze up at the ceiling. The blonde wildling girl, Val, was not so lucky, and her own babe seemed too frightened even to cry. Two or three of her own people were on her in a flash, each soothing the babe or else helping Val however they could manage. Rickon paid the dragon's roar no mind at all, gnawing sulkily on what remained of the steak, while Jon's wild little winter rose pointed skyward excitedly, looking around as though she were the only one who heard.
"It will be the green." Arya heard an Estermont knight tell his squire from the next table over.
"Of course it is, it's always the green. White don't leave his pool unless something's been dangled in front of his ivory snout." A Golden Company officer replied, filing past for another bowl of stew.
"He don't miss what's dangling though, do he? Snaps it right up, bold as you please." A man from the Frozen Shore with bits of antler poking through his furs opined. More grinding of claws on stone from above and then the great unseen body pushed off, the sound of wings carrying him away. Jon's mount. If the prospect of Jon's true parentage was something of an irrelevance if looked at dispassionately, the door it opened certainly was not. Arya turned back to the high table, taking in Meera Reed's face. How fortunate she grew up hidden away in the Neck, Arya thought. Had she come to Winterfell with Jon and Father, she would have had Mother glowering at her all the while just as she glowered at Jon. Then the fact that Father had not, in fact, bedded another woman during the rebellion suddenly loomed large in her mind. Did he think that when Joffrey called for his death, that wrote an end to the whole secret, sorry tale? Howland Reed would never have left the Neck, of that much Arya was certain, but such a thing could never have remained a secret forever. Not with dragons returned to the world. The white dragon took to the Neck on his own, he would have come upon Meera Reed eventually and then the truth would out.
"Ser Brynden, do you happen to know where my mother might be?" Arya asked.
"Where she always is, in the godswood. Bit more comfortable there for her, I daresay." he said with a hollow chuckle.
"I thought I'd call on her during the lull, if you'd like to accompany me?"
"There's a dragon napping in the pool and a giant-babe coming up where she'll not be gawked at. Hardly a place for a greying old knight."
"No more than for a princess, even a wolfish one. You may think the times have passed you by, Ser Brynden, but you're not the only one to feel so. I'm of precious little use when the cold winds rise and the Others send their monsters, unlike my siblings." She raised her hands. "These aren't about to rip a nine-foot horror limb from limb." Nor can I hope to do whatever mischief Sansa works hidden from view or help Bran with the Children of the Forest.
"Maybe you're for after is all, princess. After all this, I mean." Roslin said.
"Like Hoster and all the others his age. None of them are about to do much fighting." If there is an after, my lady, Arya thought, making pleasant sounds before taking her leave of her Tully relations. If there is an after.
The girl Arya was thought the godswood nothing more than a place to hide from Septa Mordane when she couldn't find Jon. A quiet three acres she could go to when it was too unseemly for her to ride outside the castle walls.The woman she'd become knew better. The gods are listening, she thought, watching all. Or at least, the Children of the Forest are. A sudden outcry had her darting behind a tree, ready to scale it wholesale to keep out of reach of a curious giant-babe, but all Arya found was Alys Karstark seated before Winterfell's heart tree, her wildling lover and Jeyne Poole accompanying her. Each had a babe in their arms, their mother's dark hair coming in atop their little heads. Snow had sprinkled into Lady Alys' own, and Arya was stricken by how fitting she looked to her place in the world. How northern.
"Lady Karstark, allow me to get you in front of a hearth." Arya called, trying not to sound the worrywart septa herself.
"Believe me, wolf princess, I've tried to pound some reason into this thick Karstark skull myself. I'd have better luck trying to crack stone with my tongue." The wildling replied, shaking his head even as he kissed Alys on her forehead.
"Enough from you. And as it happens, your tongue does wonders when it's used on the right bit of Karstark." Arya snorted loud as a branch snapping while Jeyne Poole blushed, yet her rosy flush was nothing to the scarlet the wildling had gone.
"Some lady you are, eh?" he said after his splutter had died away.
"Why, am I shaming you? Imagine that, the Magnar of Thenn embarrassed. Should the lads see you go so red, they'd never let you hear the end of it." The man mumbled something of the Old Tongue into the bundle he held.
"What are their names? Your daughters?" Arya asked.
"Our daughters. This bloody ox's seed must have gotten lost the first few times only for all of them to find the track at once." Lady Alys replied, who seemed to love making her barbarian stammer and splutter like a septon caught in a brothel.
"Aynikka, Harra and Torrha. The sorts of names northmen and Free Folk alike would take a shine to." She lifted the girl she held. "Look, Torrha. The king's sister has come for a peek at you, don't go hiding now." The girl stared uncomprehendingly at Arya, younger even than Howland. Arya made a popping sound with her lips, the babe going wide-eyed and grinning ear to ear in her toothless way.
"Even if it weren't so cold and with snow falling like arrows in battle besides, I hear the giant-babe is in here somewhere."
"So she is, but her father's quite hawkeyed where she's concerned, always keeping her from the water and the white dragon swimming in it." Arya nodded.
"I heard mention of his idling in the hall." Alys snorted.
"Idling, is that what you heard? Well, princess, I came through the Neck with your brother. I saw the white in all his glory in those hellbogs. On his kind's terms, mind you, not ours. When you're the biggest, strongest bull in the water, idling is what you do. Every so often you'll pull down some mooing creature for a nibble or let your cows teem around you like bees 'round a pretty flower, but there's none of this dotting about screaming murder, like the green's been doing."
"But he's not a lizard-lion," Arya said, "he's a dragon." Alys gave a sad smile.
"I tell it true, princess, when I say I'd rather piss in an Other's eye than try the Neck again. The bogs, the rains, the creeping biting things…Ask Ned Umber how his hand is. Yet the dragon acted as though the place was nothing short of paradise. And who's to say it isn't, at least to him? Cows beyond counting flocking to him, food every which way he turns his head… What does life as a dragon have over that?"
An upwell of hot, moist air billowed off the pool, Arya's hair sticking to her head immediately. Lady Alys got to shushing her babe as the sudden heat discomfited Torrha, while Arya braced for the sound of a dragon stomping over. When no such disturbance issued from the pool, she turned for a look and got a proper shock when she found herself staring into one of the beast's golden eyes, his pale bulk emerging soundlessly from the still water. The wildling muttered fearfully in the Old Tongue. The dragon paid them not the least bit mind, just more squeaking pink things milling about on the ground, until Arya's scent flitted over his snout. He gave a sudden snort and the listless ennui he had affected disappeared at once, no more than a mummer's farce. The golden eyes snapped open, ivory pupils trained on her while a low guttural growl rumbled up from the depths of his belly. Arya stood there, statue-still. What do you say to a dragon? A gust of hot air drove whatever she might have said from her mind. Well, words are wind, as they say, Arya thought resignedly. As gingerly as she could, she reached for the dragon. She heard herself gasp as the ground seemed to fall out from under her. Nymeria's body was as known to Arya as her own, but the dragon was like plunging into a bottomless black lake. She had no notion of where the beast might be in the morass but Arya was rather certain he could see her just fine. Memories of Nymeria flowed out from her into the blackness, everything from the trip south from Winterfell to the House of Black and White and back. Almost immediately Arya regained her senses, sitting dazedly in front of the weirwood.
"Easy, my princess." Jeyne Poole murmured into her ear, helping her to her feet. The dragon was nowhere in sight, though Nymeria nuzzled her arm anxiously.
"What happened? Where-"
"Back into the pool, princess." Jeyne looked out over the water. "I might ask you the same thing." Arya put a hand to her mouth, trying not to giggle.
"I think I bored him." Jeyne Poole's lip quivered. Arya gave a snort, unable to stop herself from snickering. A faint giggling joined in, Arya looking to the trees. "Are you still awake?" A tiny face half emerged from behind a tall pine. The little girl's red hair was a tangle as always, and the resolute utterance of "Hmph!" told Arya all she needed to know. "And Septa Mordane thought I was trouble."
Arya made for the girl's red tangle, deftly picking her up. Jon's own blood. Rose Snow, as she had come to be called, had a mischievous face, which made Arya wonder just what her mother had looked like. Certainly, Jon's never worn that look before. While Arya amused herself with the idea of Jon trying to look mischievous, the solemn brooding King in the North, Alys Karstark led Jeyne Poole and the wildling past.
"Where are you going?" Arya asked.
"Oh, we'll find space." Alys replied, nodding to the pool. Arya started as her lady mother took shape before her eyes, walking the last few steps upon the surface of the water before stepping onto the mossy green of land's edge.
"Lady mother. Is Talisa coming up after you?" She didn't answer right away, didn't even react to Arya's words. "Lady mother?" Arya got closer, Rose murmuring uncertainly, no doubt put off by Catelyn Stark's unique state. Perhaps I should get someone… Then Arya remembered there was no one to get. Who would know what to do? She put Rose down, who promptly scurried off, and tried to catch her mother's eye. "What's wrong?"
"I was keeping an eye on the dragon, for a want of something better to do. Shireen can help make those Tarly toys, but…" she trailed off for a moment, as if she'd forgotten she'd stopped speaking. "I overheard what Howland Reed told… told him." Oh, Arya thought. Well, that's rather unfortunate.
"Why didn't you just come up and excuse yourself?" As if I didn't know. "I wanted to hear it. I wanted to hear her name said aloud in Winterfell's walls. To hear what I'd known since your lord father returned form the Rebellion from Ashara Dayne's own lips. I thought it would…help, somehow, or at least bring me some semblance of peace." Instead, you were treated to a secret of a different sort. Arya supposed it could not be held against Catelyn Stark to listen to such a tale unfold. She's waited for this, wondered on it longer than I've been alive.
"Well, at least this means Father never dishonored himself, or you." Arya said, shrugging, trying to make it seem relative. "With the Others about-"
"Hang the Others. I didn't spend my marriage to my lord and love worrying about whatever they were up to, I spent it keeping my trueborn children close and the bastard at a distance."
"Except he isn't a bastard. He isn't a Stark either, I suppose, he's gone and taken it further. When the Free Folk say 'Snow,' they don't mean it the way we do. There's no undertone of unworthiness or bastardy. When they say 'Snow,' they mean a huge white direwolf at the head of a pack of dozens and more. They mean a giant-speaker and a dragon-rider. A grey-eyed king who stole the full moon from the sky to make his queen." In short, someone rather more remarkable than all your children put together. Arya waved her hand impatiently. "What does it matter? There are more important things at hand. I'm going to bother Gendry a bit before we turn in, I expect, and then we'll see what tomorrow has to offer. Probably plenty of dead men, as most days bring."
Despite her gods-may-care attitude, Arya waited until Talisa emerged from the pool to take her lady mother in hand. The younger shade made some noises about possibly going to Volantis to see if her family had withstood the tumult in Essos as well as the pale mare stampeding through the slaving cities. I wonder if they ever talk to each other underwater, and the dragon gets terribly confused about just what the bother's going on around him. There was no sign of Jon's little red pup, which could only be a good thing. Hopefully she's gone off to bother Ghost. Back inside Winterfell's stone corridors, a thousand voices and more echoing off the walls, Arya felt a bit more at ease. At least here, the gods weren't listening- or if they were, they cared less about what they heard.
"A bloody princess shouldn't be able to get lost in her own castle." someone grumbled from the darkness between two sconces.
"And archers shouldn't linger in hallways when they belong atop the walls." Arya replied, as if she'd just caught him loitering. "Where have you been, anyway?"
"A girl gave a man a name, she did this thing. She did not tell him he must be dogging her heels. A man wears no leash. A man is not a dog." The man's voice had gone from gruff and common to silky and polite. But is a man a wolf? Arya thought, thinking of Rickon. Where does one stop and the other start?
"At least you made it out of White Harbor. Mine own uncle wasn't vouchsafed that much." The archer shrugged.
"Men die every day, not just in war. Sharing blood with a certain lovely girl does not make him any more beloved of this world. A man is knowing he left a son, and so by this land's customs, his name will live after him." That seemed to amuse the archer. "It is the other way around in the House of Black and White."
"Men are made of meat and bone. Names are made of thought, and don't die when the people bearing them do. Valyria is gone these centuries and yet everyone knows about it. The Targaryens are gone…well, the kind to sit on thrones, and everyone remembers them. Even people who aren't remembered might linger, if they left something behind. A ruin or a relic."
"Or a ruby. A prince's, or a priestess'." Arya's mouth tightened, well remembering meeting the red woman during her time with Beric Dondarrion's outlaws-called-brotherhood.
"What do you know about it?"
"It is no secret that a certain red woman has fallen from power without her crowned puppet. Half the castle wants her dead, the other half content to know she's gone."
"Why, the way you say that, it's as if she's neither." He shrugged.
"A girl said it herself. A name can live on its own, with no need for a living face to bear it."
"And what about the opposite? Has she put off her red silks and cut off her locks, lingering here still?" Another shrug.
"If a girl would like, a man can find out." Arya frowned.
"You said you weren't a dog, at my beck and call." The archer turned and started to skulk away.
"Aye, but if a princess wants to see a frog, a common bowman had best start hopping."
A nearly silent padding advertised Nymeria's return, Arya absently giving her neck a scratch.
"Have you put Shaggydog someplace he won't cause any trouble?" The direwolf licked her hand. I just hope he vents his wroth on the Others when they come. A murmuring from down the corridor caught Arya's attention. There was Valyrian in it, certainly, but much and more of what she heard was the Old Tongue. Cautiously she crept toward it, Nymeria following closely with teeth bared. Several men stood in the corridor, outlined somewhat by the torches on the walls. Unsullied, Arya thought at the sight of their spiked helmets. Unsurprisingly, none reacted to her appearance. What are they doing guarding an empty corridor? Behind them she saw more Unsullied, keeping the door between them clear of any passerby. Even down here, far from anyone of note. Suddenly it opened and the hall was awash with heat enough to make Nymeria yelp. One of the Unsullied turned toward it, face rigid and unyielding before the heat boiling over him. More of the argot was interrupted when the speaker emerged, a woman whom Arya might have mistaken for yet another Unsullied had she not learned to see in the dark. On seeing Nymeria she froze, clearly alarmed despite the wall of eunuchs between them. Only after the initial shock did she see Arya as well. She edged her tongue between her teeth, thinking hard. Then came a flurry of the Old Tongue flavored with Valyrian. Arya had learned something of the latter during her time in Braavos but it was of no help, so it fell to one among the Unsullied to fill the gap.
"Bytarys is saying you look like the wolf king."
"I'm his sister. So what?" Arya said. More Old Tongue, which she was certain the Unsullied understood no better than she did. Their Valyrian is better than mine, though.
"The wolf king is matched to Queen Daenerys, and Bytarys wishes to pass her a message. It is not for another's ears."
"Oh." Arya said.
"You can call on the queen, as the king's own sister, when others may not. You will not tell others what they need not know." the eunuch continued translating.
"I can. I won't." Arya replied, feeling as though Jaqen H'ghar had taken a new guise after all.
"Tell her then, that the time is drawing near." Time for what? Down in the bowels of Winterfell with sweat pouring down her face, Arya had a queer feeling whatever was going on had little and less to do with the Others. And if so, what does it matter, whatever it is?
"I will." Arya said, turning and leaving the eunuch and his fellows to continue to sweat in the hot darkness. Not the woman, though, Arya realized. She wasn't bothered by the heat.
A far cry from the halls above the cellar, of note only to the rats, the Great Keep was full of bustling servants even at night. As well, there were guardsmen, scouts, officers of the watch making reports, the odd direwolf, and every other manner of visitor clamoring about the place. The tower in question that housed the Starks and the king and queen besides was quieter, with less chatter to wake those asleep. Though nobody stopped Arya from ascending the stone steps up out of the throng, none followed, either. A grizzled old direwolf sat on the landing, four of his fellows lazing upon the steps or idly turning to peer at the nearest men. Arya sidled past them as well, a rather bold individual nipping suddenly at Nymeria's shoulder. At this the elder wolf bared his teeth, but his warning went unheeded by the spirited youth. Though Nymeria was larger and the retort of her fangs sharp enough to make her wanted suitor yelp in pain, his interest was not diminished. The others, previously idle, were on their feet in moments, teeth bared and displeasure plain at the conduct of the bold wolf. Whether it would come to blows Arya could only guess, but by then she and Nymeria had reached the next landing, leaving the steadily rising voices of the direwolves below behind. Most probably the bold male was in for a thrashing at the hands of his comrades and their leader, but better a thrashing than Shaggydog tearing him limb from limb. She knocked on the door to Jon's chambers, starting when it whipped open immediately to reveal Rose's beaming face.
"How did you get up here so fast?" Arya asked while the little girl giggled. "Are they awake?" Rose shook her head. "Can you get them up? I have something to tell the queen." Rose's grey eyes went wide. Quietly she scurried away from the door, her little face in time replaced by Daenerys' softly yawning beauty.
"Tarts!" Arya heard Rose exclaim.
"At this time of night? Hmph." the queen replied dismissively. Arya heard grumbling and Rose's own utterance of "Hmph!" Then she realized who was waiting in the corridor and her purple gaze widened in turn as she eased the door open. "Oh, princess Arya! Come in out of there, Nymeria may have a fur coat but you don't!" Arya was ushered inside posthaste, the door closing behind Nymeria to keep what cold out it might.
"I was on my way back from the godswood when I found some Unsullied in one of the lower corridors." Arya said, the queen's warm welcoming manner cooling into purpose. "The woman they were attending told me to tell you that it's nearly time." She did not ask and the queen did not say.
"Is that all she told you?" Daenerys inquired after a moment of quiet.
"It is." There was no yearning note in Arya's voice, though she noticed the queen's hand sliding steadily down her rounded front. "You'd best get back into bed, Your Grace. Come, let's get you under warm covers again." Arya said, as if it, whatever it was, was nothing and less to her. That the queen knew it was coming, was nearly here, that was the important thing. She escorted Daenerys back to bed, Jon snoring like a lout all the while. Daenerys sighed, looked at Arya, and tossed a blanket over his head.
"As if it will do the first thing to help."
"If it doesn't, hit him with a pillow." Arya suggested. Rose was on the both of them by then, darting about on quiet little feet. "Sweetling, let your mother sleep. In fact, it's time you bedded down as well, else you'll sleep through breakfast tomorrow."
"Tarts?"
"For breakfast?" Arya made a face, which was promptly copied. "Bacon and stew."
"Tarts are better."
"Not for breakfast, they aren't, and who's going to tell the cooks they must make any tarts if the queen is asleep all day for want of a night's proper rest?" At that Rose fled the room, a flapping of blankets in the next chamber over telling Arya she'd gone to ground. By then the queen had dozed off as well, Jon rolling over to slip an arm around her. That's my cue to go to bed myself, I think.
Nymeria had only to lie down in front of the fire in the chambers Arya shared with Gendry to fall asleep at once.
"You took your time." he said from the bed, peering blearily at her. "I wondered if you'd gone and gotten lost, or married a frog."
"I met a few people, and I'll marry all the frogs I want." Arya replied, crossing her arms and not moving from the threshold.
"The septons would never stand for it. Only one frog for you."
"The septons can say what they like, but we're in the north."
"The trees would rather you marry a toad, I think."
"What do you know of the old gods?"
"Ribbit." Arya's face flushed and she rushed the bed, vaulting up to land atop Gendry.
"The stories all say if you kiss a frog, he turns into a prince. I wonder, if I kiss a lord, will he turn into a toad?"
"I hope so. Toads are better than frogs."
"They are not-" Gendry quieted her with a kiss, murmuring the myriad advantages toads had over frogs against Arya's mouth, which for some reason only irritated her further. "What does a blockheaded bull like you know about frogs or toads?" she asked indignantly.
"More than a wild she-wolf does." For some reason, Arya's stomach sank. Wild, she thought. I'm the furthest bloody thing from. I'm the only Stark untouched by the wilds. Gendry noticed her discomfiture and eased her down to her side of the bed.
"We ought get at least a bit of sleep. Elsewise we might sleep through the Others' coming and wake to find the rest of Westeros has beaten them without us."
"As my princess commands. Would she like a pillow?"
"She would like all the pillows. All the blankets, too!"
"Of course. Once you're all bundled up, you'd make a splendid mattress in your own right." Arya murmured darkly under her breath, not even getting a glimpse through Nymeria's eyes before she was asleep herself.
Someone jostled her gently.
"Nnnguh." she mumbled.
"Yyyguh." Gendry countered, already moving around the room. Arya slowly sat up, wriggling like a caterpillar trying to spin a cocoon around itself. While drunk. Wondering absently if dripping ale on a caterpillar would indeed get it drunk, she extricated herself from the pillows and blankets, shivering violently once she had.
"I thought you'd never get out of there." Gendry said, already bathed and wearing a splendid yellow tunic.
"Meanwhile I thought the sun had come to pay me a visit." It was Gendry blushing this time.
"Blacksmiths oughtn't wear yellow. It's in the name and everything."
"Baratheon blacksmiths may, can, and do." Arya replied. "Take my word for it, I know a thing or two about them." He stuck his tongue out at her.
"Small help any steel I can hammer will be when the Others' icy blades shear right through it." Gendry got the thoughtful look again, the one Arya was positive he had his mother alone to thank for having. All Robert Baratheon wanted had to do with the feasting table, the tourney yard or the bedchamber. "I wonder if I can winkle Shireen away from bronzeworking for a bit."
"Why? You saw the tumult those Tarly toys rained down on the Others, we need as many as we can get-"
"Tarly toys don't count for much once the Others and their big lads have come up close. We've been raided enough times to know that much. Come on, let's get you a bath and into the ladylikest dress we can find for you, I want a good laugh before I get to work."
"'Ladylikest?' Shows what you know!" Arya shot back.
"That's enough out of you. I should know better than to think so much as half-sense will come falling out your Stark face. Nymeria's more like to say something worth listening to than you are."
"She is not!"
"She is so."
"Is not!"
"Is so."
"Mlhhh!" Arya stuck out her tongue.
"Plbbtt!" Gendry replied, sticking out his own and blowing, crossing his blue eyes for good measure.
The forges were hotter than they'd ever been in Arya's girlhood. Two more foundries had been built and were turning out odds and ends full bore, aided by the flickering form that seemed never to rest flitting between the shaped metals and the forges. To her surprise, Rolland Caron was walking Desmera Redwyne through the whole affair, telling her what he could of this, that, and the other thing. Arya didn't fail to notice that every so often the girl from the Arbor shot Shireen a sidelong look, lips pursing nervously. Why does she want to marry, anyway? Arya thought. Her brothers died when Cersei destroyed the Great Sept of Baelor, she's Lord Redwyne's only child. In time, she could rule the Arbor in her own name. While Arya mused, Gendry muttered something unintelligible in Shireen's ear. It was hard to tell one expression from another on the girl's face, even with some time to learn to hold a form, but Arya guessed it wasn't very hopeful.
"I don't think that's very safe, Gendry." she said finally, gesturing for the latest of the bronze tubes to be hauled away. "Wouldn't that take a truly fearsome heat?"
"What would?" Arya asked, getting as close as the sweltering forges would allow.
"Gods, are you a wolf or an anvil-head after all?" Gendry asked exasperatedly, hastily wrapping her in a thick leather apron.
"This is only going to make me hotter!" Arya complained.
"Aye, and it will stop a stray spark from singeing your Stark behind to the bone." Gendry replied, Arya blushing.
"You keep your mind where it ought be just now."
"I'm fairly certain not letting you stick your hand in liquid bronze counts for that. An anvil-head like you is sure to do some such fool thing."
"At least I'm smart enough not to play with white-hot steel and call it a trade."
"We're not brewing stew here. We can't melt steel and dragonglass and simply pour them in the same mold or whatever you have in mind, I'm like to burn the whole of Winterfell down to the stones." Shireen cut in, sounding both exasperated and a little irritated. Gendry's face fell.
"Well, we'll figure something out. If I may say so, coz, your being here makes doing the trick more a matter of degree than possibility."
"Well, I suppose…"
"It's not like fire can do much of anything more to you, Shireen." Arya said dryly, hoping Jaqen's search would turn Melisandre of Asshai up sooner rather than later.
"Before we go about it, though, you'd best make yourself scarce, sweetling." Gendry said, kissing the top of her head. "Go chase that little redheaded scoundrel awhile or look after your wild brother. It's going to get hot in here."
