Early April, 300 AC

"Arya, get back here!"

Her mother's voice echoed in her ears as Arya ran, Needle's sheath slapping against her thigh. Nymeria was a grey blur in the distance, her four paws faster than Arya's two feet. Her heart pounded frantically in her chest, each beat reminding her of her guilt.

Thump thump. I let Syrio die. Thump thump. I let Yoren die. Thump thump. I failed Sansa. Thump thump. I failed mother. Thump thump. I failed Robb.

She had to catch Nymeria. The direwolf was as good as a knight, together they would make Robb listen. Why should she care about honor and duty if her family was in danger?

Springy grass gave way to mud. It sucked at Arya's riding boots, slowing her steps as she paused to yank herself free. How far had she come, a league? There was the sound of a great splash and she ran faster, dodging mudholes. Nymeria was swimming across the river, her grey fur turning black in the water.

Arya hesitated, frightened by the roar of the current. Frantically she tried to remember her mother's lessons on the many waters of the Trident. This was the Green Fork, deep and swift. The Freys had built their bridge here for a reason; there were no fords nearby.

She had to catch Nymeria. If anything happened to mother or Robb, it would be her fault for failing to make them listen to Sansa's message, to the direwolves' warnings. Arya slipped out of her heavy boots, took a deep breath, and plunged into the river.

The water crushed the breath from her lungs in an instant. A floating log hit her in the shoulder; her feet kicked for the riverbed far below.

Never panic, her mother said, the pools of Winterfell steaming around her. A Tully is a fish, and what is it that fish do best? Arya had answered faster than Robb, faster than Sansa. "Swim!" She'd yelled, and Lady Catelyn smiled. Lie on your back with your head upstream. Hold your arms out, and keep your head above the water. Let the river carry you. Exhaust yourself, and you'll only drown the faster.

Remembering the lessons was one thing, following them another. She wanted to flail, to fight the current. Calm as still water, Syrio reminded her. Arya gritted her teeth. She was a water dancer, a wolf, a fish. She could do this.

First she kicked her legs until her entire body was lying flat, her feet aiming downstream. Then Arya spread her arms out like an eagle's wings, her eyes fixed on the grey clouds above. Once you are ready, swim at an angle to the current , her mother said. Not straight across, nor straight downstream, but halfway in between. Her soaked skirts clung to her legs, but at last she faced the opposite shore, her arms pulling the water in practiced strokes.

The river pounded Arya like a drum. Her sleeve snagged on a piece of driftwood, its thorns biting at her skin until the current swept it away. A wave crashed over her head, stinging at her eyes as she held her breath. The second wave caught her unawares. In her surprise she gasped, choking as water poured into her nose and mouth. With a frantic kick she brought her head up, spluttering as she coughed up the liquid.

It felt as though she had been swimming for hours when she found herself clinging to a boulder on the far side of the river. The bank rose steeply, the grassy sward of the meadow a few feet above her head. Her arms were exhausted, her legs useless. How was she to pull herself up?

Arya heard a low whine, the sound so welcome she almost cried with relief. Nymeria stood above her, golden eyes shining. Slowly, painfully, Arya pulled herself up the boulder until the direwolf could grasp her jaws around one skinny wrist. The direwolf braced herself, tugging upwards while Arya scrabbled at the boulder with her free hand. It was slippery from the river, and her feet nearly went out from under her several times.

Arya was almost standing, one hand grasping the top of the river bank, when her right foot skidded into empty air. She shrieked, Nymeria's teeth desperately yanking at her wrist, then something pressed her foot up, up, and she was on her belly on the grass.

When she came back to herself, it was to the rough rasp of Grey Wind and Nymeria's tongues on her cheeks. It was Grey Wind who had saved her, shoving his head under her foot. Robb had sent him, to keep her safe. We could have died, Arya shouted in her mind. Nymeria shook her shaggy head. Mother needs us, Robb needs us, why did you run?

The direwolf whuffled, twitching her powerful nose. She wanted to attack the bad men, to knock them from their saddles and rip out their throats. Her girl wouldn't let her, had forced herself inside her skin to stop her. Then, when her skin was again her own, she'd caught the scents on the breeze, scents she knew. Dimly Arya heard the sound of men approaching. She staggered to her feet, her wet hair plastered to her head, drawing Needle with stiff fingers.

"Lookin' for a fight, m'lady?" A rough voice asked.

Arya slid Needle back in its sheath, took a step forward, and punched Gendry in the face.

As Thoros cleaned her knuckles Arya stared at her muddy bare feet. A bruise was already forming on Gendry's cheek, angry and red. He didn't deserve it. Thoros had only watched for her in the flames for Gendry's sake.

"It were a few weeks back, m'lady," Tarber explained, handing Thoros a strip of cloth to wrap her split knuckles. The youth was as gangly as she remembered from the hollow hill.

"I saw you at the Twins, surrounded by foes." Thoros' face was drawn, his robes faded, patched here and there with clumsy stitches. The red priest filled his cheeks with air and blew. A hot wind dried her gown in moments.

"We were comin' this way anyway, but that weren't all," Tarber continued. Gendry slapped him upside the head.

"Yes it was," the blacksmith's apprentice growled.

Tarber frowned, rubbing his head. "No, it weren't. He saw the Young Wolf and your mother too."

Gendry grabbed Tarber, yanking him off toward the horses picketed in a cluster of trees. Most of the outlaws were scattered about the hidden camp, but a few were gathered about her. Greenbeard sat on a stump, stroking his whiskers. Lem Lemoncloak scratched his nose. Jack-be-Lucky fiddled with the horn at his hip. Tom o' Sevens plucked at his harp. Thoros stared into the little campfire. No one would meet Arya's eyes. No one, save Lord Beric.

"You must be brave, child," the lightning lord said. There was a raw red pit where one eye should have been, but the other watched her keenly. He looked even worse than she remembered. His temple was caved in above his left ear, his cheeks as hollow as a skull.

"What did he see?" Arya demanded.

"Your brother, an arrow buried in his cheek. Your mother, with a knife in her hand. And all around them..." Lord Beric paused. "Blood. Blood and dead men."

"Thoros must have seen it wrong, he must have." She tried not to think of how desperately Nymeria and Grey Wind wanted to rip the Freys limb from limb.

"Perhaps," Thoros said sadly. "But I think not."

Arya balled her hands into fists. No. I won't let it happen, I won't. Grey Wind and Nymeria were crouched at her feet, waiting. Find the nearest packs, Arya told them. As many as you can, and bring them quick. With a yip Nymeria was off, loping north through the grass. Grey Wind stared at Arya for a moment, his golden eyes slitted, then ran east. Suddenly she remembered Tarber's words.

"Why were you coming this way?" She demanded. Greenbeard glanced at Lord Beric before answering her.

"Following Bolton up the Kingsroad."

Every hair on Arya's body stood up.

"Bolton?" She whispered, disbelieving. "Robb said he wouldn't be here!"

"He's here, m'lady." Tom o' Sevenstreams plucked at his harp. "There's been nasty tales of him and his men. Workin' with them Bloody Mummers, leaving women naked in stocks for his men to take their pleasures."

"Then why haven't you killed him?" Her heart pounded in her ears.

"He is well guarded and cautious," Lord Beric explained gently. "We've picked off some of them along the march."

"Them that go too far from the column for a piss or a shit," Jack-Be-Lucky snorted.

"Sansa sent a warning, a raven. Bolton's going to betray Robb, we have to kill him!" Arya tried not think of Bolton's men, northmen sworn to a bad lord.

"Bolton's in the castle across the river," said Thoros gently. "In the encampment to the south he has over a thousand foot and half as many horse. We are outlaws, not a host, my lady. If we can keep you safe that will be a blessing from the Lord of Light."

They couldn't abandon her mother and Robb, they couldn't. How would Sansa make them listen?

"Family, duty, honor," Arya blurted out. "Those are my mother's words. Would you let all Robb's men be killed just to keep me safe? Anguy is with them, in the big feasting tents."

"Feasting tents?" Jack-Be-Lucky scoffed. "They had plenty of ale and wine, but no food that I saw."

A hush fell over the men as the outlaws looked at each other. Lord Beric frowned; Lem cursed. Quick as a flash Tom o' Sevenstreams was trotting south, his harp slung over his back.

"Even if Tom and Anguy can warn them, there's little we can do for your brother," said Thoros. "These castles are strong and well defended."

"There's two thousand horse grazing east of here," Greenbeard pointed out.

"The Greatjon!" How had she forgotten? Lord Beric stared at her, his good eye full of pity. "He'll believe me, I know he will, I just need a fast horse to catch him." Arya took a deep breath.

"Sansa was lost because of me. I won't lose anyone else." The fire crackled, the wind whistled… and at last, Lord Beric nodded.

Her hair flew in the wind as Arya galloped through the trees. You can do it, she urged the mare, faster, faster. She and the horse were one, and together they could do anything. They leaped a rotten log, dodged a jagged boulder, kept their footing on the grass despite the sparkling drops of dew. Between trees, up and down hills, over ditches they flew. It was a race against the sun setting at their backs, and Arya knew they had won when she glimpsed the clearing full of horses.

Where are you? Arya called out, listening for Greatjon Umber's enormous grey stallion. Here, Giant answered, surprised. His rider was touring the host, supervising the setting up of the tents. Bring him, fast!

The Greatjon's eyes were huge in his shaggy face when the destrier galloped up to Arya. He gripped his reins tightly with mailed fists the size of hams, and his eyes widened when he saw Arya.

"What happened, little princess?"

"Bolton's here," she blurted. "The old gods sent a warning; Robb's in danger-"

"TREASON!" The Greatjon bellowed. "BLACK BLOODY TREASON! I'LL FLAY HIM AND MAKE A BANNER OF HIS HIDE!"

In a thunder of hooves he was gone, roaring commands at the host. A great clamor surrounded her, men shouting, horses forming into lines, banners flapping in a gust of wind.

The Greatjon had not given her time to explain the raven's warning, the direwolves, the outlaws fording the river on horseback. It hurt to be forgotten, but there was one benefit— no one would stop her from riding back to the Twins, back to her mother.

The host moved out as dusk began to fall. The road was wide and heavily traveled, an easy path to find even without a moon overhead to light their way. As they drew closer Arya listened for the sound of the river, that low rush of its waters. Instead she heard the clanging of steel. Light shone up ahead, flames leaping from the feast tents.

"CHARGE!" The Greatjon roared.

The men threw their heads back, and with a howl the host attacked. Arya clung to her reins, her mind racing.

Your brother, an arrow buried in his cheek. Your mother, with a knife in her hand. Robb's men would never let that happen; he had a sword, an honor guard. But who would protect Lady Catelyn? Ser Perwyn was a Frey, not to be trusted, even if the direwolves liked him. Her mother might have killed one outlaw with a knife, but she was no warrior, no cold blooded murderer.

Arya made her decision, and with a tug of the reins the mare veered from the road, heading north to the outlaws' abandoned camp.

There were dozens of dark shapes waiting for her, gaunt and silent and terrible. We hunt? Nymeria asked coldly, fangs bared. We must hurry, Grey Wind growled, tail lashing. My boy is in pain.

Across the river! Arya shouted, urging her mare toward the bank at a gallop. The wolves followed at her heels with a great howl that sent chills up her spine.

Please, gods, don't let me be too late.