A/N: I went back and renamed the chapters for this story so they now show the povs for every one of them.

I just want to thank everyone for your incredible support for this story. Really appreciate hearing from you and your encouraging words always mean the world to me.

So the first part of Arya's chapter takes place on a boat and likely everything about it is wrong. So let us think of this as a magic ship because the plot must sail on.

Our Blades Are Sharp 2: The Red Reign

By Spectre4hire

23: Ysilla III & Arya III

Ysilla:

She watched Robb's youngest brother, Rickon, a wild, growing thing playing in the yard with Lord Robert. The cousins were joined by Tommen, the once Baratheon prince was being fostered at Riverrun until he was old enough to take his vows whether it be to the Faith, the Citadel, or the Watch. Rickon's massive wolf was nearby, black furred and green eyed, even when lying down, it proved a fearsome sight.

Their direwolves were not exaggerated. Ysilla had heard many stories about the direwolves both in the Vale and then in the Riverlands as her and Lord Robert's party made their way to Riverrun. Songs sung of their ferocity, tales told of lions cowering and fleeing to wolves. Her betrothed sounded more like a legend who belonged in the tales of the Age of Heroes than a man of flesh and blood.

The Young Wolf, that was what they called him. Those had been the first words that spun through her head when her father told her at the Redfort that it was him, she was to marry. It was said he fed his enemies to his wolf. She wondered what he'd do to a betrothed if he found her disagreeable.

The next morning, she had gone to the Redfort sept to light a candle in thanks to the Maiden. Ysilla Royce made many trips to the septs in her life, and learned from her castle's septa, but she'd never considered herself pious. She prayed to the Seven because she was told to. She lit candles because she was expected to. She sang songs and read and recited from its holy pages because she was taught to. She gave her thanks to the gods because she was supposed to. There was no spark within her like her lit candle. She did these things more out of obligation than belief. Traditions she was expected to carry on like those who came before her. We remember.

It was only after she left Redfort's sept did she remember: The Starks worship the old gods. And she laughed, frightening a Redfort servant, who likely thought she had gone mad. Struck by it just as the revelation of the Starks had struck her. Gripped in its mirth, she found it hard to stop laughing. All those traditions, lessons, obligations, that were put to her morning, noon, and night were as useful to her as nipples on her family's ancient bronze armor.

"He looks like Robb did at that age," a voice pulled her out of her swirling thoughts.

"My lady," Ysilla turned to curtsey, but Lady Stark halted her with a raised hand and kind smile.

Her future good mother was a pretty and proud woman. She wore Stark grey with a touch of Tully blue. Ysilla had been here less than a sennight, and everyday Lady Stark had her take lessons with her to help her prepare for her future as the next Lady of Winterfell. She was a far kinder teacher than Septa Jan back at Runestone, who Waymar had privately dubbed Sweetums, since the only thing their septa seemed to like more than scolding them was eating sweets, which she was just as good at since she had become rather plump over the years.

"Though, he's far wilder than Robb was," She finished, a wistful glint in her eyes.

If Ysilla had not been told that Lady Stark was expecting, she'd likely not have guessed it. Though, she was a poor judge of appearances. As a girl of ten and one, she thought a visiting knight's wife was with child, and when she asked after her and her babe, she learned the truth. She was not with child, Ysilla would endure teasing for that gaffe for many moons. Waymar stuck a pillow under his own tunic, a time or two so as to reenact her blunder to the amusement of many within the castle. What she wouldn't give to hear her brother's laugh one more time. To see his ruddy face and sly smile, even if it meant she was at the other end of his ribbing. He'd tease me, it was true, but I was not for others to mock. He'd be her champion and fiercest defender.

Now, I must be a champion for all the realms, Silla, when I take the Black and defend the Wall, he had told her when he had made his decision. And he had died for it, for them. If only I had been more selfish, she thought, he would've stayed for me.

"It's good to see Lord Robert so happy," Ysilla pushed down the cold ache that always seemed to bloom beneath her ribs now when she thought of Waymar. She hadn't seen much of the boy since he was oft at court, but in the few trips she took with her father, she saw glimpses of him, and they hadn't inspired much confidence in what his future rule would be.

Lady Stark agreed with a hum. "He's suffered much this past year."

The boys were continuing to enjoy whatever game they were playing. Shaggydog, the direwolf who looked like it could sever a horse's head from its body with a single bite of its massive jaws was now loping around the three boys. Kicking up dust and howling, which only inspired the boys to follow the wolf's example.

"As have so many." She turned away from them to face Ysilla, who found herself a tad fretful when her blue eyes swept over her.

Her posture which had been laxed, shifted and straightened instinctively into the stance expected of a noble woman. It would bring ill tidings to her marriage if her future good mother thought little of her.

It didn't go unnoticed given Lady Stark's flickering smile. But what she was to say, Ysilla would never know as Maester Vyman emerged, standing in the open doorway. "We've received news from the south, my lady."

"Yes?" Ysilla was envious of Lady Stark in how she instantly and effortlessly changed her bearing. She was the Lady of Winterfell, a woman who commanded respect. She calmly took the maester's words and its many implications without letting a wit of worry from showing. While Ysilla felt worry sprouting up inside her like icy flowers. "What is the news?"

Vyman smiled. "Your son has won a great victory."

The legend grows.

Ysilla went to the castle's godswood instead of its sept when she learned of her betrothed's victory in the Reach. She found it empty, and herself unsure of what to actually do now that she had come up to the heart tree, a slender weirwood with a sad face. Mayhaps, my betrothed's victory will cheer it up. Seeing its red mouth tilt upwards in her mind's eye, made her smile, but her amusement didn't linger. It was swept away by mounting intimidation. She felt herself a dwarf in the shadow of a giant, who kept growing.

It was said Robb Stark slew a great many men, nobles and knights, but his direwolf killed even more. He chased Lord Tyrell out of his own kingdom with the remnants of the once vaunted army of the Reach. She was pleased and proud to hear of his success, but doubt wedged itself inside her chest. Not towards her future husband but aimed at her. I've not been taught for this. She had been prepared to marry a fourth son, but now she was to marry the heir to Winterfell.

Wracked with nerves that dug into her with cold claws, she was thankful she had chosen the godswood. The castle's sept was likely filled by those who went to celebrate the news, to pray and hope that this battle would help to bring the war to a swift end.

And then he'd find me, she felt small just imagining being in his presence, as well as his direwolf's. Her father had bestowed upon her a great honor and she feared she would bungle it. Winterfell didn't feel a plum prize when she thought of how she'd fail the north and disappoint her husband, then it was nothing but a daunting prospect that would forever keep her far away from kin and kith.

He was the Hero of the Riverlands, and the Pride of the North alongside his bastard brother. And still he was not done, Robb Stark faced the Reach, the birth of chivalry, and shield of the south, and sent them scurrying. He makes armies tremble, she thought, and me. From when she left the Vale to reach Riverrun, a day did not pass that she didn't hear a story or song sung about his virtue or valor or his victories. And every day with every deed she heard, she felt herself shrink, feeling as tall as a mouse when she rode inside his grandfather's castle walls. Another reminder of his prowess, another site of his success.

He'll think me a poor reward. She felt the pressure growing in her chest until she thought her heart would stop.

"Are you familiar with the Old Gods?"

She turned to see Lady Stark come into view. She moved to curtsey, but again she was stopped. "I'm not, my lady." She answered truthfully, would your son love me more if I was? Would he be impressed? Ysilla doubted such a thing would, especially him. It was true her family was proud of their first men's blood, their traditions, and history, but their faith in their old gods waned over the years despite their house words. When her ancestors sought to appeal more to all that was now new, the Andals, the Arryns, and their new gods. Still, she knew some kept to them, but their names she couldn't remember. Nor did she, since she had been certain her marriage would be to some southern knight or lord.

Lady Stark didn't seem disappointed, taking in her answer with a nod. "Neither am I," she confessed. "He built me a sept even though I did not ask for one, but it brought me great comfort," she said, "Not just for my faith, but for my future."

"I am glad, my lady."

"And I am glad," She turned to her, "That I'll be able to call you my good daughter." Something on Ysilla's face betrayed her surprise since Lady Stark gave her an indulgent smile. "Ned and I were strangers when we married. He was quiet, and seemed so stern and intimidating," she let out a light laugh at the memory. "Here, he stood before me, having already done so much. He rallied the north, this second son who never was supposed to rule Winterfell," she said proudly, "He rescued his friend and future king in the Battle of the Bells, and then came here to marry me."

"How did you feel?" Ysilla asked, thinking of her own pending betrothed and the reputation he has made for himself.

"The feelings of many a maiden, who is tasked with marriage," She answered, "nervous, hopeful," she listed them, "But father taught me well, and I imagine a lord like your father did as well."

"He did, my lady," Ysilla felt some comfort in knowing she was not alone in having such fears.

She smiled and nodded. "They will not sing songs of our duties. Of the courage a maiden must face when she's given over to a stranger. Of a woman's bravery for having to leave all she's ever known, to live in a new castle amongst new servants and guards, who are loyal and familiar to her husband's family, not you and yours," she gestured for her to join her which Ysilla did. "Nor will minstrels sing of the battles a woman faces." They were walking together now. "A birthing bed is a bloody thing."

Ysilla thought of her own mother for a flickering heartbeat before having the memory pass through her. She instead listened to the babbling of an unseen stream.

"Wives and mothers raise and counsel great men, lords, and even kings, but those parts of the songs and stories are never played," Cat said, "For every Queen Alysanne that is praised, how many have been forgotten or ignored? Too many," she answered, her own question. "They'll talk and sing of all my husband has accomplished, his battles won."

She spoke of her absent husband in such deep affection that Ysilla couldn't help but smile too. "Even now I hear them call him Kingmaker, having put first Robert on the throne and now with King Stannis, but battles never made him smile," She took Ysilla's hands. "It was seeing his son for the first time. It was walking Sansa to the heart tree to wed her betrothed. It was the family that we made that truly made him proud and happy." Her blue eyes shimmered. "And my son will be no different." She squeezed her hands. "They all see him as the Young Wolf, my son, but to me he is always that sweet babe, I nursed at my breast. Did you know he was born here?"

Ysilla shook her head.

Her smile only grew. "Oh yes, toothless and hungry."

She had to stifle a giggle at trying to picture the ferocious Young Wolf as this mewling babe. "What was he like?" All she knew of her betrothed was the stories and legend, but thinking of him as a babe, a boy, loosened that constricting pressure she had felt around her chest.

Lady Stark started at the beginning.

Arya:

"Do you know who I am?"

Arya stared at her captor behind bars. The brig was small and cramped, with not even enough room to lay down. The floor was covered in wet straw, smelled of puke and piss and when she saw a black smear, her stomach turned, but she forced her eyes up to where she was watching, to where she was waiting. "I do." That earned a small smirk, and Arya ignored the slight tug inside her chest, seeing the familiar smirk on someone so different then him. "You're Asha Greyjoy," she answered, knowing she was waiting. Theon's sister, she was unable to stop herself from comparing the woman before her to him. She came up wanting, Arya concluded.

Asha Greyjoy was a dark woman. Black hair, black eyes, wearing black breeches, jerkin, and boots. A wink of gold was the only bit of color that she wore. It was a kraken pin. She wore another metal besides gold, iron. Her axes were holstered and her dirk was sheathed. The latter's handle looked old and worn, but it had a pair of obsidians in its pommel. As well as an imprint of a house that was not the Greyjoy's kraken. "I'm more than that," Her thin face shone with satisfaction. "I'm the captain of this prestigious ship you've found yourself on," There were chuckles from behind, but Arya couldn't see the crew. "I'm your gaoler," She touched one of the bars, before she dragged the finger down. Her black eyes on her, openly challenging for her to try to strike her.

Arya didn't rise to the bait.

"I'm your guardian," she withdrew her hand, giving Arya a confident shrug. "And I'm the heir to the Seastone Chair." She ended her proclamation with a little flourish.

No, you're not! Arya nearly blurted out; hot anger lashed in her belly. It's Theon, not you! Her opinion of Theon's sister sank further at her brazen attempt to steal Theon's birthright. His own sister trying to take what was not hers. It repulsed Arya, just the idea of trying to take Winterfell from Robb made Arya's stomach turn. That's not what families do. That's not what wolves do.

Asha's cocky tone and next words pulled her out of her thoughts. "You'll be my thrall too if those bears don't pay your ransom."

"You'll never own me!" Arya saw Theon in Asha's growing smirk and hated her more for it.

"That defiance, a quick spurt of flame," one of her hands rested on the handle of her ax. "But it can easily be smothered." She took a step forward, nearly pressing her face to the bars. "And I know who you are, my expensive bear cub." Go ahead, the taunting look in her eyes said, hit me.

She didn't. She kept her hands at her sides, her fists clenched. She couldn't lose herself to her anger. They think me a Mormont, she reminded herself, knowing she couldn't expose who she really was. A wolf would be a fatter purse and better prize than a bear. And one they might want to hold onto, but Arya wouldn't let them.

"I had to pay Grimtongue for the ransom rights, but I'll recover that and more," She chuckled, she kept her voice low so only Arya could hear. "A great fighter he might be, but he's not on my ship because he's smart." Asha's eyes swept over the cramped brig. "This is all yours until we reach the Iron Islands," she mocked, walking backwards still facing Arya, she gave her a mocking wave and a cheeky smile before she disappeared from view.

Arya sat in a huff, ignoring the wetness that was seeping into her trousers from where she sat. She hated her. She wanted to learn to fight to defend her family, her pack, but not Asha, she did it to hurt, to kill, to steal. She closed her eyes. She felt the waves beneath the ship, using its rhythmic motion, she tried to swim in the dark, to leave this ship. A pinprick of light bloomed in front of her, she chased after it, still feeling the rocking of the boat, still smelling the pungent odor that hung in the brig. She kept going.

Running, Arya smiled, feeling four legs beneath her instead of the sea. The scents of hundreds of things filled her nose, as the light grew, and then she saw him, up ahead. She ran towards him knowing she was free.

The ship rocked under heavy lashes of waves. The wood groaned at the battering, but Arya kept her seat. Her knuckles were white as she held on, just as another wave hit them.

They had checked on her no more than an hour ago, to make sure she hadn't hit her head and died. They'd have tossed me overboard, a waste of space and a weight not worth carrying, but Arya was alive. Not just alive, but she was free. They thought to contain her in this brig, but they couldn't. Every night Arya visited them, and sometimes during the day, she could as well, but she needed to concentrate and be careful. She could not have them discover her secret. The reason why her mood hadn't deteriorated inside her small prison. It had puzzled the crew when they came to give her measly rations for the day.

But not Asha. Arya remembered when she had come down to see for herself, on the third day, or so she thought. Asha showed nothing and said nothing. She walked around the brig, dark eyes that seemed to see all. The slightest frown born beneath her big, sharp nose, before it fled as if knowing it was trespassing. She even had a pair of guards haul her out of the brig so she could look inside, pawing the ground with her boots, to see if any of the boards were loose or if something else was hiding under the straw besides old piss. The inspection took no more than a few minutes, and the guards put her back in the brig. They left, but Asha stayed for a long second, and she nodded, to whatever it was she saw or thought, it alluded Arya. A look passed next over her face, but she was sure she imagined it. She almost looked impressed, but Arya banished it, not caring what her jailor thought of her.

The rough waves had pulled Arya from Nymeria. But she saw enough to comfort her.

Jon, she had seen him and Ghost, on a ship. Just a glimpse of her brother was enough to keep the cold unrest from crawling around her insides. They're coming for me. She had seen Theon too. Through Nymeria, she had even heard her name in his prayers, but Theon never minded Nymeria's presence. He'd pet her head once and continue in a murmur. His face was pale in the moonlight, and grim. There wasn't a trace of his usual confidence, nor a hint of his smiles. She missed them, and him, she realized.

Dacey was with them, and she was mourning. She's mourning because of me, a twinge of nausea clutched at her. Lyanna, there was not an hour that went by where she didn't think of her friend. The worst were the dreams, when she couldn't take shelter inside Nymeria, she saw Lyanna's death hundreds of times.

And then she'd rise from the ground. The arrow still lodged in her. "Why Arya?"

A cold slithered down Arya's back,

"Why didn't you listen?" Her friend asked again, the arrow in her chest quivered. "Why am I dead?"

"Because of me," Arya answered, but her friend's corpse never heard her, or the apologies that would follow.

She was not sure how she could face Dacey again. Nor what she could say to ease the loss of a sister. Arya bit her lip-hard, the tinge of pain made her forget about the tears in her eyes.

"You awake?" A voice called out to her. She was back.

Arya grunted, turning in the darkness to scrub at her eyes with the back of her dirty sleeve. When she turned back to the visitor, she cringed at the torchlight, unused to it with the damp darkness of the storm that had taken hold of the sky.

"You don't look happy to see me," Asha said, as casual as could be while the sea waged its war against her ship, "But you should be." The torchlight glow made her sharp face haunting, "my crew listen to me, but even they have their urges." she said the word in disgust. "Have any of them-" Her question trailed off.

"No," Arya answered before she could finish, understanding what she meant. She'd bite and kick and curse and scream, and claw if any tried.

Asha nodded, but she didn't look surprised by the answer.

She has me watched and guarded, Arya realized, even though she never felt eyes on her nor seen anyone guarding her. She kept her own guard up too, while reminding herself who she was. I'm Jorelle Mormont, she couldn't forget, not here, not in front of her.

"My crew took bets on when you'd go mad," Asha remarked, "But you haven't."

"I'm used to ships," Arya lied, "I have to be," she should've stopped there, but she didn't. "Because of your family."

Asha took her spite with a chuckle. Amused at her, as if she was a puppy teething instead of a ferocious wolf. "The women of Bear Island are as fierce as ever." She drawled. "I nearly pity the man you'll be marrying," she leaned closer, "who was he again?"

A test, Arya saw through it. "Cley Cerwyn," she didn't blink under Asha's gaze.

She made a noise, a brief hum, that turned into a whistle. "And you went south to see him?"

"Among other duties," Arya answered, "Those of Bear Island do not ignore the call from Winterfell." She tried to say it with the same pride that Lady Mormont and her daughters would say it in. Arya remembered how quickly and ferociously they responded when the letter from her brother arrived. They moved without a second of hesitation.

"So, you fought?" Her dark eyebrows climbed an inch.

"You saw my sword." Arya almost asked after it, but she didn't.

"That I did," she answered, "when you were in the south did you-" something flashed in Asha's eyes before she buried it. Her countenance shifted in an instant. "Get some rest, Mormont," she told her. The bark had no bite, and she took the torchlight with her, to leave Arya in the dark.

The sea air whipped her face in greeting as Arya blinked in the overcast sky above her head. It was the first time she was on the deck of The Black Wind, since she had boarded it. It had been Qarl, who had come to collect her. He bound her hands before leading her up to the prow where Asha was waiting.

There Arya saw a smile on her face that changed her look in an instant. Theon, she thought, carefree and pleased. The smile even lingered for a second or more when she turned to Arya and Qarl. She dismissed the latter with a gesture. Arya could hear the crew working behind her, but she didn't dare turn to look away from Asha.

And then something caught Arya's eye past Asha. Emerging out of the mist, loomed a castle, resting on the edge of the sea. She saw towers rising, taller than the cliffs. The castle cradled both land and sea, using both sea rock already there and adding new stone to keep it standing. It did not look like one castle, but several. "Is that Pyke?"

Theon didn't speak much about his home. He would boast that it was his by right. He'd say it was a great castle, one fit for his family, and that he would rule from it one day, but he never once tried to describe it.

"No, this is Ten Towers, the seat of my Nuncle Rodrik," Asha answered. "I thought you could keep him company while we wait to hear from Bear Island."

She was expecting to go to Pyke. Arya's stomach dropped. They were expecting her at Pyke. That was where they would go. Not here.

Arya wouldn't meet Lord Rodrik Harlaw until the next day.

The moment she had walked into the castle, Asha had given her over to the castle's steward, an old woman, who Asha called Three-Tooth. Arya was then ushered into one of the towers and into a room that was damp and cold. The tapestries that covered the walls were faded and musty. The same could be said of the bedspread, the curtains and the blankets that covered it. The one thing she had liked about her room was the smell, a salty tang that hung in the room. Despite its poor conditions, she had no complaints, considering it a great improvement over the brig.

Rodrik Harlaw sat hunched over his table in the main hall. Her attention first went to what was above his head, where two large scythes of beaten silver crossed. They were so big; Arya wasn't sure the giants in Old Nan's stories would be able to wield them. She then lowered her gaze to where her host sat.

His eyes on a book that was placed beside his plate. He had short brown hair, but a grey goatee. She saw no scars across his brow, or any noticeable features that would've marked him as either ugly or handsome. Nor did she see any of Theon in him, seeing as he was his uncle. He didn't seem to see her, too engrossed in his book to have heard their footsteps as she was escorted to the front of his table, by a pair of guards. Neither seemed surprised at being ignored, the one on the left gave a slight cough that finally got their lord to raise his head. Brown eyes flicked to them and then back to his book, and he seemed to be considering going back to it, and she thought he had, until he spoke.

"Against my advice, my niece is determined to keep you," He leaned over the table to get a better look at her. "After you break your fast, my maester will take you to his rookery, and there you'll write a letter to whatever kin you have on Bear Island," he sighed, "she left for her father's castle this morning, so you are my charge until either she returns, or your family comes to ransom you."

They're coming, she's seen them and their ships. The wolves are coming.

"I understand."

"The war is lost," he said, "Everyone sees it but my good-brother and my niece."

"So why don't you just let me go?"

He smiled. "Because my orders still come from Pyke, and I'm sworn to serve."

The wrong Greyjoys.

"Asha believes as long as the Baratheon brothers are fighting, our cause isn't lost," he mused, "But I say, our cause never had a chance," He said bluntly, "And what strength we had was lost in the north, when Victarion was killed and much of our fleet burned."

Arya didn't hide her own smile. She had heard of her brother's victory while aboard Asha's ship, proud of what he had done to the ironborn. They deserved it for attacking us.

"No, I didn't think you'd weep for dead ironborn," he didn't take offense to her reaction at his people's defeats. "The Mormonts have long memories and quick tempers." She assumed she was dismissed since he turned his attention back to his book, but her guards hadn't moved yet.

"If I give you leave about the castle, will you try to escape?"

"Yes."

He didn't look up, but she heard him chuckle. "You remind me of Asha."

Arya bristled. "I'm nothing like her."

Her protesting only further amused him, but he didn't look up from his book. "I consider you, my guest, Jorelle Mormont, but that's a privilege that can be easily revoked." There was a sharpness in his voice that made the scythes above him appear dull. "Do we understand each other?"

They did.

Ten Towers was no Winterfell.

It was the newest castle on the Iron Islands according to the castle's maester, a paunchy and scruffy man. It had been raised by a former Lord Harlaw, who blamed the deaths of three of his sons on the old Harlaw castle.

He had taken her to his rookery which was the top floor of the Book Tower. There he watched her compose a letter to Bear Island. She wrote it as Jory Mormont, but sprinkled in details that Mathis, the Mormont's maester would recognize. He has to know it's me. She needed to be careful too. Knowing that her letter would be read over by Harlaw's maester, who had groused about having better things to do than watch children write. He had made sure to make his complaints known only after he had left his lord's presence.

It's Arya, not Jory who's writing to you, would've made it far simpler and faster to write, but instead she wrote deceptively, but also vaguely. She wrote slowly which further annoyed the maester, who had given up on watching her after no more than a couple minutes and told her to give it to him when she finished. "I have important work to do."

The worst part to write was about Lyanna's fate. She had to push the parchment away when she felt a loose tear dribble down her cheek before it fell onto the table, just missing her letter. Arya wanted to write so much about her, but she wasn't allowed. She eventually handed it to the scruffy maester, whose important work seemed to be reading: A Caution for Young Girls. She didn't know why he would want to read about such a boring topic. Arya never heard of the book, but the title alone made her think it'd be about how to be a proper lady. The sort of book Septa Mordane would read and then cite to her and Sansa in their lessons when they were younger.

He grumbled at her interruption and further grumbled as he read her letter, but it passed his inspection. He sent it off then and then sent her off.

Arya was left to wander. She thought Ten Towers a nice castle, but she was still a prisoner. It was larger than the brig on Black Wind, but it was still her prison. She left the book tower, and its many books behind. She had been curious to see what sort of books an ironborn lord would read, but she suspected that was where Lord Harlaw spent most of his time. She didn't want the company nor the responsibility of playing Jory Mormont.

They think I'm at Pyke, she thought dismally. It continued to haunt her since Asha revealed that they had come to Ten Towers and not the expected Pyke. Theon's sister had since left for the Greyjoy castle, but not Arya. She wished she could tell them. She wanted to scream it when she was Nymeria, but her direwolf couldn't speak. Her frustration leaked through, weakening her concentration, her bond with Nym. She felt herself falling away from them, their ship, and their path.

The sunlight was warm and refreshing against her face. Arya blinked out of her thinking to see her feet had carried her to one of the many windows. She looked out into the sea, the great shimmering blue that spread out as far as the eye could see. She found the breeze invigorating as it passed over her. She was content to just stay at this window and watch the sea, the ships that sailed below, looking like small toys.

Arya didn't know how long she was staring out when a voice made her turn to see someone approaching. She thought at first it was just one of the castle's thralls, an older one, but she walked too proudly, the sort of confidence and refinement not found in castle servants and maids.

She didn't seem to see Arya at first, even though her eyes were flicking this way and that. She was bundled in furs, but barefoot. When she finally noticed Arya, she called to her. "Maron?"

"No, my lady," Arya frowned, wondering if this was Lord Harlaw's wife. Her skin was pale and parchment thin. Her hair was bone white and long and done in a queer braid that she guessed was in the ironborn style. She looked around the corridor hoping to see a guard or servant, who could take her, but it was empty save for the two of them.

"Did you bring my baby boy?" Her eyes were dim and cloudy.

"Is he missing?"

"Yes," her mouth trembled.

"What's his name?"

"Theon."

The name formed a cold knot beneath Arya's ribs. "Theon," she repeated dumbly, realizing she was standing in front of Theon's mother. Why is she here?

"Have you seen my baby boy?"

Baby boy? Arya frowned. Is she sick? Why does she think her husband's rebellion a recent thing? She seemed confused, but she still spoke with such certainty, such ache. Theon had never spoken of the mother he left behind, just as he never spoke of the brothers who died in the war.

"Yes," Arya blurted out, her mouth moving of its own accord. You're Jory Mormont! She chided herself. She had to see the world through those eyes, not Arya's. The panic she had felt rise within her at answering before thinking, now faded in an instant at how Lady Greyjoy's face lit up.

"You have?" She released a small choke sound in her throat.

"Yes," she answered, before hurriedly adding, "but it wasn't here."

"Where?" Lady Greyjoy's anguished eyes were fixed on her.

She didn't answer. The guilt throbbed inside her. She tried to quiet the unease that was roiling through her. Straining for an idea of what to say that could work when it came to her. The wedding! She clutched the sudden inspiration like a key. All the northern nobles were there.

"At Riverrun."

Her gaze was shiny with shock as she repeated the words, "At Riverrun?"

Arya nodded. "At the wedding of Lord Stark's eldest daughter to Lord Bolton's son and heir." She tried her best to keep her tone neutral so as not to betray her, but Lady Greyjoy didn't seem to have cared how she had said the words about her son just that they were said.

She smiled feebly. "My boy was at a wedding." Her voice was thick. "How was he?"

I danced with him, but she couldn't say that. Arya Stark danced with Theon Greyjoy, and she wasn't Arya Stark. Not here, here she was Jory Mormont. And Jory would never dance with him or would want to. And there was a time she would have agreed with her friend, but she had danced with him and a small, secret part of herself had enjoyed it.

"He was hale," She should've stopped there, but she didn't. "I saw him dancing with someone."

Her eyes glistened. "Danced?" Her voice was thin as a thread. "He was dancing?" She smiled with a weary pride. "Oh, she must've been a pretty maiden."

She wasn't. Her chest tightened. "She was Lord Stark's youngest daughter." She was me.

"D-did they look happy?" she asked, "Dancing?

"They did." And they were.

A/N: Why did Asha take Arya to Ten Towers instead of Pyke? It's been awhile since I read the books, but I'm pretty sure it was her uncle's seat where she took her hostages, and not Pyke. Now, that might have happened after Balon's death, and if that's the reason, let's ignore that, shall we? B/c I've already written this.

Rodrik's a great character, but he's still an ironborn. He's against Balon's plan and Euron's, but still partakes in both of them, and keeps Asha's prisoners in the book when their cause was just as doomed as this one.

This is the last chapter of the year. Hope everyone has or is having a happy and safe holiday. If you enjoyed the chapter and/or the story in general, it would really mean a lot to me to hear from you as 2023 winds down. Thanks.

Until next time,

-Spectre4hire

P.S: For simplicity's sake there is no Euron in this story. What happened to him? Let's just say: His home planet needed him, but tragically he died on the way back.