HAPPY NEW YEAR!

Arya's world tilted when the face of Jaqen H'ghar emerged before her, a puzzle wrapped in an enigma. Questions danced like shadows in her mind. Did he see through her facade, recognize the wolf beneath the sheepish guise? Was he a silent observer in her game of survival?

The very air seemed to hold these queries, pressing against Arya's senses. But there, amidst the uncertainty, another question stirred, one she had yet to voice. Why did Jaqen choose the crowded streets of King's Landing as his stage? The timing echoed a familiar refrain, reminiscent of days past. Yet, the silence hung thick, leaving the answers to linger in the unsaid.

A flicker of relief danced across Arya's thoughts; her father, at least, was not a pawn in this dangerous game. The absence of Eddard Stark in the capital granted her a momentary reprieve. Still, the elusive query remained—whose name had Jaqen been whispered to remove?

In the city's labyrinth, Arya's mind traced the contours of potential targets. The highborn were unlikely prey; their coin too precious for the likes of the Faceless Men. Her father's stature, a towering figure in Westeros, would have been an exorbitant indulgence for any contract. It wasn't a lord or lady that occupied Jaqen's crosshairs.

The puzzle unfolded like a map in her mind—a merchant, perhaps. Someone navigating the currents of trade, concealed in the bustling sea of anonymity. In this game, the inconspicuous thrived, and the shadows swallowed the not-so-prominent.

Arya pondered, tasting the bitterness of the unspoken, feeling the weight of unanswered questions settle on her shoulders. High-profile targets, she mused, were the realm of the privileged few. Her father's stature, a towering peak, would have required a treasury to rival the wealthiest. Even then, the cost could drown even the mightiest houses in financial ruin. The Iron Bank would probably be the only ones with the wealth for such a contract.

Arya pushed the unsettling image of Jaqen H'ghar to the recesses of her mind as the journey unfolded. The plan was simple yet fraught with the unknown—sail to White Harbor, follow the White Knife to Castle Cerwyn, and then a day's ride to the walls of Winterfell.

The ship's deck beneath her boots, the scent of salt and sea lingering in the air, Arya's thoughts meandered through the twists of their route. Gulltown marked their progress when, against the vast canvas of the sky, a crimson comet ignited. Superstition gripped the sailors like a fever, holding them tethered to the port for what felt like an eternity—a moon and a half of cautious delay.

Gazing at the celestial omen, Arya's mind whispered with echoes of Westerosi lore. The sailors, a superstitious breed, hesitated to brave the waters under the comet's fiery gaze. It cast a shadow over their journey, a spectral hand steering their decisions.

Amidst this cosmic spectacle, Gendry remained an inconspicuous figure. The Vale offered a haven, a place where his name held no echoes and his presence stirred no ripples. A fortunate oversight that played in their favour.

Yet, despite the cosmic ballet above, Arya and her comrades sought passage northward. Their inquiries met stony refusals, ships unwilling to brave the unknown, citing the comet as an ill omen. The celestial wanderer, a silent witness to their struggle, became an unwitting arbiter of their fate.

"Do you reckon they'd roll out the welcome feast for you here?" Theon's inquiry sliced through the air as the ship found its mooring. "Who's the bigwig ruling Gulltown, anyway?"

Arya scrunched her brows, her historical knowledge a patchwork quilt of gaps. "Can't recall," she confessed.

"Lord Grafton," a voice piped up from the ranks of sailors.

"A vassal to House Arryn?" Arya probed.

The sailor nodded. "Seems likely, milady," before drifting away, absorbed in maritime tasks.

"Aunt Lysa might be a mad woman, but she's kin. Lord Grafton's bound to let us stay once he knows who I am. If not, we'll find a spot at some inn," Arya asserted, her tone carrying the nonchalance of one who'd faced uncertain beds before.

Theon, ever the sceptic, raised an eyebrow. "And how do you fancy explaining our merry visit to King's Landing, you and your father's ward, alone and gallivanting? Especially with a smith in tow."

"Inns are the way to go," Gendry chimed in, his agreement hanging in the sea breeze. "Folks spill the beans in those cosy corners. News spreads quicker than ravens on the road." Arya nodded in agreement, and they embarked on the quest for an inn, a task more difficult than she had anticipated it to be.

The sailors on their ship weren't the sole carriers of superstitions; the waters of Gulltown harboured a fleet of cautious souls. Many vessels huddled in the perceived safety of the port, not unlike their own, bearing crews gripped by trepidation.

Not all ships sought refuge, a fact evident in the scattered vessels defiantly anchored in defiance of celestial warnings. Arya recognized a pattern among those who lingered—the whisperers of the old gods, those tethered to traditions that danced with the winds of Westeros.

"They claim a storm's brewing, one fierce enough to swallow their cargoes whole," the murmurs reached Arya's ears.

A storm, she mused, tracing the constellations of fate in the night sky. The red comet above, a herald not just of celestial wonders but of dragons awakening in distant lands. Daenerys, with her mythical kin born beneath the celestial omen, a chapter from the tales Arya had gleaned.

Yet, the storm's fury would not lash Westeros for years, the currents of time distant and unfathomable. That, Arya understood, was the mission etched into her journey—to navigate the currents of fate and alter the impending tempest.

As Arya's thoughts navigated the treacherous currents of strategy, another quandary loomed—the prospect of preventing Daenerys' fiery march upon Westeros. The dragon queen, convinced of her divine entitlement to the Seven Kingdoms, stood as a formidable force. The challenge: find a path to either peaceful coexistence or, if necessity dictated, quell the storm before it sailed across the Narrow Sea. Arya envisioned a meticulous plan unfolding, a pact to be forged with Sansa and Jon, architects of destinies in their own right.

"Mayhaps Jon could snatch Rhaegal from the skies, deal with those icy Whitewalkers, and put an end to Drogon and Viserion before they stretch their wings," Arya pondered, her mind conjuring a tapestry of daring maneuvers.

They finally found an inn, where the threshold ushered them into its embrace, a haven from the shadows that trailed their every step. Coins exchanged, valuables secured, they descended into the common room, hunger gnawing like a persistent wolf at their heels. Amidst the hustle, her eyes caught a figure, a face long etched in her memories.

He stood there, not clad in his familiar armour, but the silver mane and the warm smile betrayed his identity. Ser Barristan Selmy, a relic from the days in the Red Keep, a Kingsguard she'd found favour with when the world was less harsh. Questions surged like a tide within Arya—why was Ser Barristan Selmy, a name entwined with the annals of King's Landing, now standing in the corners of Gulltown?

"Stay put," Arya instructed Theon and Gendry, her gaze flickering with determination as she approached the lone figure, immersed in the solace of ale. Seated before him, she watched as he raised his head, a venerable knight in solitude.

"How may I assist you, my lady?" Ser Barristan's words, a question dipped in courtesy, hung in the air. Arya yearned to deny the title, to shed the veneer of ladyhood, but now, in this moment, it was a mask she willingly wore.

"Why did they cast you aside?" Her voice, a murmur barely grazing the air, held an undercurrent of urgency. "You're among the best. If I held the crown, you'd be my choice for the Kingsguard."

A feeble smile graced Ser Barristan's lips. "I fear you mistake me for another."

Arya leaned in, her voice a whispered secret carried on the breeze. "I'm quite certain you're Ser Barristan Selmy. Don't fret; your secret is safe. I, too, harbour a significant truth. If your heart still beats with affection for Prince Rhaegar, then you've stumbled upon the right person."

Ser Barristan reclined, studying her with a hint of bemusement, a puzzle etched on his features. Arya grasped the irony in this encounter—here she stood, a mere girl of ten and three, yet poised to unravel the enigma that bound Ser Barristan Selmy.

"What could a lass like you possibly fathom about His Grace?" Ser Barristan's tone carried an undertone of amusement.

Arya's smile, a play of shadows on her face, held the weight of knowledge beyond her years. "Kingsguard's job is to guard the king. So, when Rhaegar and Aerys met their end, why station three white cloaks in Dorne, watching over a humble tower?" Her gaze remained unwavering. "Shouldn't they have been protecting Aerys, Rhaegar, Viserys, Rhaella and her unborn, or Elia and Rhaegar's children?"

A ripple of realization crossed Ser Barristan's face, a mask slipping to reveal the turmoil beneath. "How do you know all this?" he queried, his scepticism etched in the furrows of his brow. "Who are you?"

"Who was in Dorne?" Arya pressed, her question hanging in the air like a dagger waiting to pierce the veils of secrecy

"Answer me first," Barristan's countenance shifted into a stern inquiry.

Arya sensed the gravity of this exchange. Her revelation, a key to unlocking secrets, carried the weight of the truths she bore. "Arya Stark. Daughter of Lord Eddard Stark," she declared, her words hanging in the air like the echo of a distant wolf's howl.

Barristan's gaze lifted, meeting hers, a silent acknowledgment of her identity. Behind her, Theon and Gendry loomed like silent guardians, their presence a testament to the seriousness of this tête-à-tête.

"Theon Greyjoy, son of Balon Greyjoy, and Gendry. A blacksmith from King's Landing," Arya introduced her companions, turning to acknowledge them. "Leave us, let me and Ser Barristan talk. He won't harm me."

Gendry's forehead creased with concern. "Are you sure?" he inquired.

Arya chuckled, a melody of confidence in her laughter. "You'd be a corpse in seconds if he fancied a fight. One of the finest in Westeros, he is. But he won't lay a finger on me." Her assurance, a cloak around her words, swathed the room.

Theon and Gendry, oblivious to the magnitude of Arya's exchange, acquiesced, finding a nearby table.

Arya's gaze remained fixed on Ser Barristan, the weight of her knowledge draped like a cloak around her shoulders. "Now that you know who I am, you must realize I hold quite a bit of information about the deaths of Ser Arthur Dayne, Ser Gerold Hightower, and Ser Oswell Whent," she remarked, a smirk playing on her lips. "Aren't you even a tad curious as to why they weren't safeguarding a single royal family member, especially the rightful king or his heir?"

"The king ordered Rhaegar to lead the Kingsguard, save for Jaime Lannister," Ser Barristan retorted, his words carrying the echoes of bygone commands.

Arya, undeterred, delved into the tapestry of history. "You, Prince Llewelyn Martell, and Ser Jonothor Darry—all fought at the Trident. You were the sole survivor. Jaime Lannister was held to keep Lord Tywin in check. Yet, shouldn't Rhaegar have left at least one Kingsguard member with Queen Rhaella or his wife?" She seized a swig from Ser Barristan's ale, a bold act punctuating her interrogation. "Instead, they were guarding a tower in the middle of nowhere. Ever wonder why the Kingsguard would be stationed at a desolate tower?" Her raised eyebrow awaited a response, but Ser Barristan's furrowed brow betrayed confusion. "Who do the Kingsguard guard?" Arya asked, incredulous that Ser Barristan, a stalwart figure of the order, seemed unaware of the fundamental duty embedded in the vows of the white cloaks.

"We guard the king," Ser Barristan replied, his voice carrying the weight of a lifetime's loyalty. "But Robert..." he began, his words trailing into unspoken complexities.

"Robert claimed the throne, boasting the mightiest Targaryen claim in Westeros. Viserys and Daenerys fled, leaving a void," Arya interjected, her words laden with the threads of history she had woven in her mind. The tale, once recounted by Bran, now played vividly in her mental tapestry.

"Your aunt," Ser Barristan responded, acknowledging the secret that had languished in the shadows.

Arya probed deeper, her voice a knife cutting through the layers of silence. "Why, Ser Barristan, do you think they were guarding her?"

"It wasn't my place to question Rhaegar's orders," he defended, a loyal sentinel of the past.

Arya's eyes narrowed, a reflection of her determination. "I want you to question them now," she demanded, urging him to pry open the doors of truth that had remained sealed for far too long.

Ser Barristan's head swayed in negation. "Lyanna, I suppose. I don't know. He was in love with her, and she loved him. But I cannot claim to know why the Kingsguard would be guarding a mistress."

Arya pressed on, her words laced with a quiet urgency. "They continued to guard even after Rhaegar and Aerys died. No obligation to a mistress, only to a king, am I wrong?" Her gaze bore into Ser Barristan, a silent plea for understanding.

The shock on Ser Barristan's face signalled her message had struck its mark. "We need to talk somewhere a little more... private," he suggested, acknowledging the gravity of their discussion.

Arya nodded, leading him to her chambers, Theon and Gendry trailing behind like silent shadows. Theon voiced his scepticism, concern etched on his features. "Can you trust this man?" he queried.

Gendry, unfamiliar with the figure of Ser Barristan, frowned. "Who is he?"

"Ser Barristan Selmy. Former Lord Commander of the Kingsguard," Arya declared, the weight of his name resonating in the quiet chamber. Theon's smile and nod signalled recognition, while Gendry, still in the shadows of unfamiliarity, wore a furrowed brow.

Ale flowed like memories in the room, and Arya extended the offer to Ser Barristan, a gesture of camaraderie. "I'm sure you've heard the story. My father returned the Dawn to the Dayne family. Then he came back to Winterfell with the bones of his sister and his bastard son."

Ser Barristan, weathered by the years, seemed on the verge of a storm of emotions. "Seven hells. Is His Grace well?"

Arya's shock mirrored in her gaze, the unfamiliar title rattling in the air. "Prince Aegon Targaryen is doing well. Currently north of the Wall, parlaying with the Freefolk," she said.

Ser Barristan's face betrayed shock, a ripple of disbelief cascading through his features. "Wildlings?" Arya affirmed with a smile, confirming a reality that seemed to defy the established order. "How did Lord Stark manage to hide him all these years?"

"Jon was raised believing he was a bastard. Everyone, including my mother, believed it," Arya revealed, the weight of long-held secrets finding release.

"A shock, it was, when I learned he wasn't Lord Stark's son. He looks like a Stark," Theon added, his nod indicating the striking resemblance between Jon and Arya.

Ser Barristan scrutinized Arya, his gaze tracing the echoes of a past generation. "You look like your aunt Lyanna."

"So they say," Arya acknowledged, a nod to the ancestral threads woven into her very existence. "He's going to need a Kingsguard. I can't think of a better man to be Lord Commander of his Kingsguard."

Barristan's brow furrowed, wrestling with the complexities of lineage. "Isn't he a bastard? Rhaegar was already married," he asked.

"Rhaegar annulled his marriage with Elia and married Lyanna. There's proof. And my father isn't the only one who was there. Lord Howland Reed stood by him. I also suspect the Daynes had some knowledge of what happened. Lord Edric Dayne's wet nurse was also Jon's wet nurse," Arya revealed the tale, each word weighed with the gravity of a hidden truth.

"If the Daynes were involved, then Elia would have been involved too," Ser Barristan observed, connecting the dots in the intricate tapestry of Westerosi intrigue. "I take it His Grace wishes to claim the Iron Throne?"

Arya affirmed with a nod, the weight of responsibility and destiny pressing upon her shoulders. "Eventually. But he has important business before raising an army. I'd also like you to talk to him about his father. Jon sees my father as his own, but it would do him good for him to know something about Rhaegar, the man. Few alive were close to him. Jon needs to reconcile that part before becoming king. He's uneasy with the idea. If it were up to Jon, he'd live in his keep, with his wife and, hopefully, future children, no more responsibilities than that. But the world isn't fair, especially as Joffrey sits on the throne. He isn't even Robert's son."

"Who's son is he?" Ser Barristan inquired, navigating the labyrinth of tangled lineages that defined Westerosi nobility.

"Ser Jaime's," Arya responded with a matter-of-fact tone, the revelation cutting through the intricacies of royal deception. "All of Cersei's children were fathered by Ser Jaime. Although, I believe one child died," she added, a shadow of uncertainty flickering in her expression. Ser Barristan, a seasoned observer, acknowledged her words with a solemn nod. "I think he was Robert's. He didn't look like Joffrey, Tommen, and Myrcella, did he?"

Arya's words lingered in the air, a revelation that unravelled the carefully woven threads of legitimacy. Ser Barristan, the weight of realization settling on his shoulders, shook his head. "Seven hells, a bastard with no claim sits on the Iron Throne."

"You need to meet Jon," Arya urged, the resonance of her words carrying the weight of a kingdom in flux.

Ser Barristan, contemplating the implications of this encounter, nodded in agreement. "Aye, it sounds like I do," he smiled.