Arya had cried for a week when they fled the Twins, and then the tears had run out. Nothing had come in their place. Not rage, not sorrow, only emptiness. Mother had died, and Robb too, or so Sandor said. Father and Mother and Bran and Rickon and Robb. Sansa was as good as dead, and Jon was little better. Five dead, two enslaved, and one free. She snorted at the thought. She was not free. She was the Hound's prisoner, day and night. He cuffed her awake in the morning, swore at her till she fed the horses, and then rode behind her the whole day, his tiny hateful eyes watching her every move. They ate little and talked less. If Sandor spoke at all it was to scold her or yell at her to hide as a knight rode by. Arya did not speak at all.

Arya had plans. She had too many plans. Some days she planned to steal Craven, the palfrey Sandor had taken from the Frey camp, and ride away into the night. She would spend hours contemplating the idea. She would ride away to Acorn Hall, or Riverrun, to her great-uncle Blackfish. She would run away to a person she had never met, to a place she had never been. But then she would lie in bed at night, unbound and awake, with Sandor snoring a few feet away, and then she would go to sleep.

At other times, she would determine that she would kill Sandor, her hand going white on her knife's hilt as she imagined a thousand different ways she could stab him while he slept. It would be so easy, she knew, and so just. They were not far, now, from where Sandor had killed Mycah, had laughed about it. She would kill him and whatever came after would be worth it. But she always left Needle in its sheath. However long she plotted, she always went to sleep in the end.

Sleep remained her only refuge, her only solace from emptiness. When she slept she was the Wolf and the Wolf did not cry. The Wolf was strong, and other things cried when it ran them down. It did not die, it killed. The Wolf's brothers were all alive, and she was surrounded by a pack of hundreds of wolves, true wolves. Arya only had her one dog, and she wished she could be rid of him.

"Those are mountains," She said one day, as she fed the horses. The rain had been a curtain around them for two days before this, and when the weather cleared it had almost seemed as though the mountains had snuck upon them in the night, huge and imposing as they were. Were these the Mountains of the Moon? They must be, there were no other mountains this tall in the Riverlands. She had seen those mountains on her first trip south with Father. The mountains had changed not at all since then and she almost hated them for it.

"Aye, those are mountains," the Hound said, without turning. "You're not blind, at least, nor mute. That's good. Lady Arryn might not pay as well for damaged goods."

Arya's hand froze on its way to the saddlebags. Lady Arryn. Her aunt, her mother's sister, a woman she had never met. Was this what she had wanted? No. Lady Lysa was no wolf, no pack-mate. Lady Lysa was not Mother. Mother was captured or dead along with Robb.

"Why aren't we going back to save my mother?" She insisted, not for the first time.

The Hound did not reply, he just kept packing up his bedroll.

"If you were a proper wolf you'd stay and fight," she said, turning back to the horses and scowling.

The Hound sneered, his blacked face cracking and leaking. "Ain't ever had anyone say I didn't like fighting before."

"You're only brave if you're fighting someone who can't fight back. You won't fight anything that could kill you."

"I didn't name my horse Stranger because I was afraid of death," Sandor growled. "I'm just not in a hurry to go meet him." He exhaled sharply in something like a laugh. "Not as much in a hurry as you, anyway."

Something hard was gnawing at the hollow space in the center of her heart and she felt her face darken with resolve. She would run away from him tonight, Arya decided. She would steal Craven and ride off with the mountains to her back. She could remember the way, she felt sure, and she could ride through the night if needed. The Wolf was strong because it feared no man, and Arya was a wolf too if a little smaller. What would it be like, if the Wolf were to come upon Walder Frey? The Wolf could fit a man's waist in her mouth. Arya idly clicked her teeth together as she fed the horse.

All-day Arya sat on Craven's back trying to imagine what her aunt would be like. Would she be tall and wise like Mother? Or silly and air-headed like Sansa? No, she would be strange, she would not be Arya's. She would be some woman and not one that Arya knew or liked. Arya would rather go back to Acorn Hall and Lady Smallwood than to this unknown aunt in the Eyrie. Arryn or Smallwood, both were just as like to sell her to the Lannisters though, so it made no difference.

She had a cousin too, she remembered. The Arryns had a Robyn, just like she had Robb before he died. What did he look like, she wondered. She scowled. No, she decided, she did not care what he looked like. She wanted to see Robb again, not some fake. Could she even remember her own brother's face now? His red curls, his brand-new beard he had been trying to grow? It had been almost two years since she had hugged him before leaving Winterfell. Him and then Jon. Could she remember what they smelled like?

Night fell and the Hound was asleep almost instantly, his breathing heavy and steady. He did not watch her as closely as he once had. He did not even bind her up in a cloak when he went to sleep. Craven welcomed her with a low snort as she crept over to him.

"What do you say, Craven?" she whispered, "You want to go for a midnight ride?"

In a moment she had mounted and eased the horse into a walk, then a canter, and then a gallop. Craven was a lighter and faster horse than Sandor's monstrous war-beast, and Arya was a lighter passenger by far. If the Hound woke, he might pursue, but he'd never catch them. The wind pulled through her hair, and she felt tears leak from her eyes as they bounced up and over the hillside. The moon and stars lit her way, and for a moment Arya almost felt as though she were The Wolf again, but this time in the waking world.

She just had to get back to the Twins and find mother, or brother, if they still lived. She could free them, or at least she could die trying. She had left so many behind. Gendry and Sansa and Hot Pie and so many others. She would not leave her mother behind, not now…

Craven suddenly skidded to a stop, and Arya had to pull hard on his reins to regain control. The horse's great head turned left and then right, fighting to turn around, but Arya would not let him. There was no lie to Craven's name, at least, Arya thought with a grimace. "Who's there?" she called out.

Nothing but crickets and frogs answered her call. What had spooked Craven so? Was there a shadowcat lurking in the trees up ahead? Arya looked behind, half expecting to see the Hound in hot pursuit, but no sign of the giant appeared.

She turned back forward, and there it was, slinking out of the trees. Not a hound, nor a shadowcat, nor a bandit. A massive creature, long, and covered in thick fur that glimmered in the moonlight. The beast had huge, gleaming eyes, each the size of her fist, and a long snout filled with sharp teeth.

Arya froze. "Nymeria," she half-whispered, fighting to retain control over her horse. But no, this was not Nymeria. Nymeria's fur had been a lighter grey, and her eyes a more reddish-yellow. But this wolf's eyes were golden, and he was huge, huger than Craven, and almost as large as Stranger.

The direwolf circled her, sniffing the air, and eventually coming beside her. Craven quivered near underneath her, barely restrained, but Arya felt nothing but joy when the beast turned its great head and touched its wet nose to her face. She reached past its head to scratch at the neck, and the direwolf lifted its head up appreciatively.

"Grey Wind," she pronounced, speaking the wolf's name like a prayer. "I'm going to save Robb, can you take me to him?"

Grey Wind tilted his head questioningly. Arya bit her lip. Was Robb already dead, she wondered? Was that why Grey Wind had come to her, because they were the last of the wolves? Arya wondered what had happened to Nymeria still. Had some Lord organized a hunt and run her down? No, she could not bring herself to think about that. She closed her eyes and hugged Grey Wind's head.

"Come on then," she told Grey Wind after a moment had passed. "We need to make a lot of headway before dawn or else the Hound will catch us." She would feel better going into battle against the Freys with Grey Wind by her side. The Direwolf was bigger than Sandor, bigger than the Mountain, even, and probably smarter too. Craven had calmed, somewhat, and Arya eased him into a slow walk.

Grey Wind trotted forward and then turned, cutting them off so that Craven stopped dead in his tracks. "Come on!" Arya hissed, gritting her teeth and kicking Craven's sides. Stupid horse, why did he have to be such a coward? "Why are you blocking me?" she near-screamed at the direwolf.

Grey Wind merely tilted his head, panting, and let his great tongue roll out.

Arya cursed and turned Craven to go around the direwolf, but Grey followed her, remaining in Craven's way.

"Stupid wolf!" she yelled and then turned Craven around completely, straining as the nervous horse pulled this way and that. Suddenly, the wolf let out a sharp bark from behind, and then Craven's nerves finally snapped. Arya lost control completely as the horse bolted down the road from whence they had come, carrying Arya on it's back like a loose sack of oats.

Nearly half a mile of countryside had passed by before Arya regained control, and when she turned around, Grey Wind was right there, blocking her path and wearing the same stupid doggy grin. She tried again to get around him, but no matter where she turned, he herded them back toward where the Hound had made camp.

"Let me THROUGH!" She screamed, but the wolf did not budge. She dismounted and picked up rocks and threw them at him, but he just bowled her over in the road, pressing her to the ground and laying his massive snout on her to pin her in place. She pummeled the sides of his snout screaming, but he just let out a low bark and shook it off. Why would Grey Wind not let her pass? Was it a coward too? Did it want to leave Mother to die? Tears came up again, for the first time in days, and when they came they would not stop. Why had she been left alone, why would Grey Wind not let her get up and find Mother, find Robb?

Grey Wind let her up again and she pulled herself into a sitting position, wiping her tears away into his great woolly neck. How long she spent like that she did not know, but after a time the tears stopped and she was left with nothing but weariness. No rage, no fear, only a need to sleep and rest.

Mother and Robb were dead. She knew that, now. There was no use pretending otherwise, and there never had been. She would have died too if she had gone to the Twins. Grey Wind must have known that. She stroked his fur lovingly. "Where are we going to go?" she wondered aloud. She needn't stay with the Hound any longer. She had a wolf. He was bigger and stronger than any knight, and could hunt for her too, she supposed. He was bigger than the wolf in her dreams, even, though not nearly so savage.

Grey Wind lowered his head and pushed her forward with it, pushed her up onto her feet and back in the direction of the Hound's camp.

Arya sighed and pushed his nose away, but Grey Wind was persistent. She had to go with the Hound, for some reason. Or was it that Grey Wind meant to kill the Hound? The thought made her uncomfortable for reasons she could not really understand. With a great sigh, she rose to her feet. Grey Wind gave a sharp bark of delight and bounded upwards, chasing Craven around until the horse came back to her.

As she mounted, she wondered what awaited her at the camp. Had Sandor awoken? Was he looking for her? She did not think so, and neither did she think that Grey Wind would kill him. But what purpose could there be in going with Sandor to the Vale? She had never heard of a dog being so focused on such a particular goal, let alone a direwolf. Nymeria had run away after only a few rocks and curses. Arya swallowed. She was glad, though, that Grey Wind had not run away.

She need not have worried about the Hound. The big scarred man slept in much the same way that she had left him, and he did not wake when she tied Craven up, nor when she slipped into her bedroll. Grey Wind sat on the edge of the camp, watching her. If she ran again, would he chase her down and bring her back here, she wondered? But after a moment the great wolf laid down into a crouch and regarded her calmly with those great golden eyes of his.

Mother and Robb were dead, she reminded herself, but at least she was not totally alone. So long as she had Grey Wind, it was almost as though she had a piece of Robb with her, and he would always keep her safe.


Death, death, and more death yet to come. The Night's Watch, then the smallfolk, then the wildlings. Soon it would be the Night's Watch's turn to die again. Smallwood and the others worked day and night to be ready, but they would not be ready, could not be ready. Mance had more wildlings to throw at the Wall than the Night's Watch had arrows, and that was assuming the raiders did not simply force their way through the gate at the first press. A few dozen stewards and builders would not hold for long.

And what were they even defending? The North had fallen to threats from the south while they had defended from the North. Robb, Rickon, Bran, Father, Catelyn... every one of them had been murdered. Did Arya live? It seemed impossible. Sansa lived yet, but Jon took little pleasure in the idea. Of what value was life as an unwilling wife to your family's murderers? Traitors and Ironborn and bastards ruled in the North and in the Riverlands the situation was even worse. Winter is coming, Jon thought glumly, and he was half ready to welcome it.

Futile as the efforts of the builders were, Jon envied them. The builders, at least, had something to busy themselves with, something to focus on. Jon's only activity was contemplating the coming destruction of the Night's Watch, his only companion despair. The gloom of his sickbed weighed on him heavy enough that he wished for ale or wine with which to dull his mind.

Ygritte's arrow had condemned him to bedrest, and Ygritte's death had condemned him to melancholy. He should have liked to see her in a silk dress, he thought idly, would have liked to marry her and make her a lady. But he had known from the start that such a thing was not possible. He had intended to betray her from before he even knew her name. Ygritte's loyalty to Mance ran deeper than any oath, and though Jon might have been willing to break his oaths to run south with her, he could not turn his steel against his sworn brothers. Turning on her had been the worst thing he had ever done, and his only regret was that he had not done it sooner, before he had known her, before he had loved her. How many thousand like her would die attacking the Wall in a few weeks? How many of his brothers would die with them?

He forced himself to get up, to take the crutch by the door. Aemon had permitted him one hour of liberty from his cell. Any more movement risked re-opening the wounds in his leg, and though Jon would have willingly taken that chance, he knew that his Brothers would tie him to his bed if that was required. Better an hour of freedom and life than none at all. His wound throbbed as he tied his boots and fixed his cloak, but Jon pushed through and made it outside. The wind in the yard cut through him with sheer, delightful agony, and though he winced with every step, the pain felt good, felt like something he deserved.

Familiar faces dotted the yard, though not so many as there had once been. Samwell and Lord Mormont and Grenn and a few hundred others had left on a great ranging but only Jarman Buckwell had returned thus far, and he spoke only of death. Half of those that had stayed home from the first great ranging had left on a second one led by Bowen Marsh, and none of them had returned yet either. But still, Jon could put names to most of the faces. Halder, Pypar, and Satin, the boy from Mole's town, were all clustered up on one of the watchtowers. His heart lifted to see them, but a part of him wished they were away. There would be dark days coming when the wildings broke through, and then after them… he shivered even as the wind let up for a moment.

"Jon!" Pyp yelled, waving happily. "Jon! You will want to see this!"

If these crutches were wings, Jon thought, perhaps he could fly up there and see what Pyp was on about. "Just tell me, Pyp," he called back. "It will take me too long to get to the top with these crutches."

"There's a whole column of men approaching. They've got a big flag with a… a man on it, and their garb is all red and black."

Jon's spine turned to steel in an instant. Black and pink were the colors of House Bolton, and red was near enough to pink as to make no difference. "Is it a grey man on red, or a pink man on black?" he shouted, the urgency surprising himself. "The flag, Pyp, the flag!" He shouted, louder this time. Would Bolton really have come all this way? But if he did, if he did… Jon swallowed.

"Grey on red!" Pyp called. "Which house is that, Lord Snow?"

Jon sighed relief flooding through him in a rush. "It's the Umbers, from Last Hearth. It's not a man on the flag, it's a giant." Mayhaps House Umber had seen fit to send them help? That would be a welcome thing indeed. Or perhaps they wished to offer his skin to Bolton as a tribute to their new overlord.

Every watchman dropped their meager duties and assembled in lines to watch the column approach. It was not a large company, fewer in number than the black brothers that had gone north with Mormont, but prouder and better armed. The sunlight glinted off a full hundred steel helms and spear points. Even so, Jon noted, few enough of them had the grey and red tabards of Umber men-at-arms. These were peasant levies with weapons and arms that had been passed down through their families for generations. And yet they were far more fearsome than the stewards and builders of the Night's Watch that assembled to greet them. If a fight were to break out, it would be short.

"We're here for the Bastard!" Their leader called out. He was a huge, one-eyed giant of a man who Jon knew by description. Mors 'Crowfood' Umber had an ugly reputation half a century long.

"We're here for the Stark bastard!" Mors repeated, glaring at the assembled brothers.

John felt Pypar and Halder drawn in closer to him. What, did they think they could protect him? Halder might be thick and strong as an ox, but he was no castle wall. Jon pushed them both aside roughly and lurched forward, leaning heavily on his crutch. "Here I am," he said, "A Black Brother of the Night's Watch, a title used to mean something. But if you've come to war against the Black Brothers and carry me back to Bolton, I'll go willingly. I will not have my brothers dying on my behalf."

"Carry you to Bolton?" The Umber man cackled. "Aye, we'll take you to the bastard alright, and hand you a sword to stick up his arse! King Robb is dead without heir or trueborn brother, and this being the case his will names you as his lawful and legitimate heir!" The big man knelt and drew his sword, holding it out by the blade as an offering. "Take up this sword, become our king, and avenge your brothers, Jon Stark."

Jon felt nothing but cold wind. How long ago had it been now? Five years or six, it must be, since he and Robb had dueled with swords in the court of Winterfell. "You'll never be Lord of Winterfell!" Robb had yelled at him then, reminding him of his place. He had been right to do so. Jon had been too proud by half then, had mistaken Robb's and Father's condescension for equality. The North required a trueborn heir, and love him though they might, he could not ever believe himself their equal. He had been too proud then; he was not proud now. He wanted Winterfell as his own, almost as bad as he wanted breath, but that by itself would not sway him.

The hilt of the offered sword taunted him, goaded him to take it up and carve a bloody path. Vengeance tempted him more than glory, now. Glory he did not deserve, not for breaking his oaths, but vengeance? Bran and Rickon and Robb all deserved an avenger. Bolton deserved a sword to his traitorous neck. Traitorous. The word was poison to Jon's thought. He had been a traitor to Ygritte and the love she offered freely, had been a traitor to Mance and the others, would he be a traitor to his brothers now as well? A traitor to kill a traitor.

"My brothers are here," Jon said, the words and in saying them he believed it. Gods forgive him, but what could he do? The promise these Umbers offered him was half a lie in any case. He could not take back the North with a hundred men, not even with all of Last Hearth at his back. "My brothers that live are here, in the Watch," he repeated.

"Jon Snow has the right of it," Donnal Noye's voice called loud from behind Jon. "You can't make the boy a king against his will, and he's no oathbreaker."

"I wish he were. Better an oathbreaker for a king than a corpse," Mors replied. "And better a corpse than a Bolton. The flayed man turned on his own King while under guest right." Mors spat, and then turned his gaze on Jon. "You know your oaths as well as any of these black brothers, don't you? Then tell me, what does it mean to shield the realm's o' men if there's no realm to shield? You can do more to help the Watch as an oathbreaker than you can as a Black Brother." Mors gestured widely at the assembled levies. "A King might order every one of these before him to join the Watch."

Jon froze. Whether he could save the North or no, whether he avenged Robb and Rickon and Bran or died trying… the Watch needed those men. A hundred true warriors atop the Wall would be worth ten thousand Wildlings. How many of the Black brothers at Castle Black could wield a sword properly? Ten? Twenty? The would-be volunteers grinned at one another and laughed. This had been Mors' plan all along. He must have paid the families of these levies well for their service. With Winter howling down on them from the north, there would be many families in danger of starvation who could gladly sacrifice a young boy to the Watch for a barrel of grain.

"If you've aid to grant the Watch," Jon growled, "You should give it to them for your own sake if not the realm's. There are forty thousand wildlings behind that Wall and once they're through there will be no restraining them. When they break through and the rape and the murder starts among your smallfolk, will you act then?" Of the Other creatures behind the Wall, Jon said nothing. The wildlings should be threat enough.

Mors sniffed. "D'you think an old cuss like me is scared of wildlings? We Umbers have killed Kings from beyond the Wall before, and we can do so again. Kings your men have let through, time and time again. These fine men would do more good in my castle than atop your block of ice." He paused, "O' course, if my king were to order me otherwise, that'd be a different matter."

Jon glared the giant down. If he became king and ordered Mors to be shortened by a head, would Mors respect that? Close as he had been to taking the sword earlier, the very idea was hateful to him now. Robb would have ordered these men to hold the Wall, if he had known the situation. Robb would have cared.

But Robb was dead, with no one to avenge him. Arya, if she lived still, had nowhere to turn. Sansa was a prisoner. Gods. Jon closed his eyes. He had killed Ygritte for his oaths, could he doom his sisters? Could he break his oaths when it was nearly certain he would fail to save anyone? Why could Mors Umber not let him die as a man of the Watch, with something like a shred of intact honor?

"Take the damned sword, Jon."

He turned. It was Donnal Noye who had spoken, the one-armed smith's plain face grim with resolution.

"The way I see it, boy, if you take the sword, you're an oathbreaker and your honor is forfeit, but you swore to give your honor for the watch, right? No man can release you of your vows, and I'm not even a Lord Commander, but we need those men." Behind him, Pypar nodded solemnly.

Gods, but they were all dead men if he refused this. He looked back at the sword, almost resigned. This would not be freedom. This would not be salvation. If he took the sword he would be fighting for the rest of his life, fighting against the Boltons, the Wildlings, the Ironborn, the Lannisters, the men who objected to having an oathbreaker as a king… and then last of all the wights in the North, the true enemy. This was not like when he had joined with the Wildlings. A man could not turn back from being King. A King had to marry, had to father sons, had to hold land. He could not become a King in his body but remain true in his heart.

Jon reached out and took the sword. "I'll be your damned King," he said, his voice low and quiet. For the Watch.