July-October, 304 AC


The direwolf scrabbled and scratched, her sharp claws kicking up snow. The rabbit's burrow was here, she could smell it, the scent of hot blood and the stink of fear. Slaver ran from her jaws as she dug deeper, deeper, the night music of the wolfswood loud in her ears—

"Princess?"

Arya Stark opened her eyes. Gone were the hoots of owls and the rustling of branches covered in snow. She stood within the walls of Winterfell, beneath the arched stone door of the godswood. Days were long during seventh moon, the sunlight turning the snow so bright it could blind. But now dusk had finally fallen, draping the world in darkness. Now was the time for shadows and soft steps, for hunting and racing through the trees. Arya might love the night as much as her she-wolf did, but she was not free to roam the long leagues of the wolfswood.

"I just need a little while, ser," she answered, turning.

Ser Perwyn Truefaith frowned at her, his beady eyes filled with worry. Behind him Ondrew and Porther stood at attention, the blades of their halberds gleaming silver in the moonlight. More guards were stationed throughout the keep, but she could not so much as set foot outside her room without these three following at her heels, like hounds trailing a rabbit.

"The hour is late. All the other young ladies are in their beds," Perwyn told her. "And I should like to see how my lady wife and my son fare."

Guilt pricked at Arya's conscience. Wynafryd Manderly was seven moons gone with their second child. Their first, a chubby babe named Wyman, was a year and four moons old, and afflicted with the same cough and runny nose that plagued his mother.

"Just until the Hour of the Stranger?" Arya pleaded, giving the godswood a look of longing.

Perwyn sighed. "The King wouldn't like it."

"The King doesn't have to know," she reminded him.

Ondrew and Porther wouldn't tell. She had commanded them not to, and given them coin as thanks. Robb always holed up in his solar immediately after dinner, so there was no danger of him coming upon them, and the rest of the keep was abed. There was no one to see Perwyn heave another sigh and mutter his begrudging approval, no one to see Arya take a deep breath as she entered the godswood.

Frost and snow might grip Winterfell in their teeth, but within the godswood was another world. Mist steamed from the hot pools, swirling like dancers. Outside the ground had been frozen for months; within the godswood the ground was soft with mud and slush. The trees in the wolfswood bent beneath coats of ice and snow; those in the godswood stood proud and tall.

The heart tree was not proud. Its long face was solemn and melancholy, with deep-set eyes that followed her as she drew near the ancient trunk. Arya's fingers brushed against bark pale as bone as she gazed into those eyes, searching their depths. Sometimes, when she stared until her eyes began to water, she could have sworn she saw her father's face, Lord Eddard's eyes closed as if in sleep. Other times she saw cruel, hard faces, like the ones on the statues in the crypts. The ancient Kings of Winter had forged their realm in blood, the blood of the petty kings they slew and the blood of the princesses upon whom they sired children.

But no matter how long Arya looked, she never found Bran. Nymeria might be sure that Summer yet lived, but her brother had gone where she could not follow. The black pool beneath the weirwood was as empty as her heart, the hot springs quiet and forlorn. She wondered if Robb ever bathed in them after sparring the yard, like he used to as a boy.

She could almost see the shades in the mist. Robb, younger than she was now, his face dotted by pimples, his cheek unscarred. At his right was their brother Jon Snow, just as young, to his left, their foster brother Theon Greyjoy, five years their elder. Jon sat with one arm slung over Robb's shoulders, his long face calm, his skin dappled by bruises. Theon did not sit so close, but left a gap betwixt himself and Robb. His dark eyes gazed into nothingness, his lips smirked, and then he was splashing. Robb laughed and splashed him back; Jon yelped in anger and surprise.

Arya closed her eyes. Better to taste hot blood as Nymeria feasted than to start weeping like a little girl. There was no time to waste; she had perhaps two hours until the bells tolled midnight. Perwyn stood on the open ground beside the black pool, his sword raised, and Needle hung at her side, eager to be free of its sheath.

When she began, Arya found her steps clumsy, her arms stiff. Properly she ought to have stretched first, to loosen her body, but there was no time for that. Gone were the long mornings when she might train with Oro Nestoris almost from dawn to noon. Now she had only stolen moments alone in her chambers, training in her shift when she ought to be sleeping.

But the forms and drills of the water dance were as familiar as old songs, and dancing was just singing with your feet. As Arya sparred she felt her limbs relax, her steps grow light. The knobbled roots and the uneven ground forced her to watch her step; she was not just the blade, but the godswood itself. Knights might use their eyes and ears, but she used all her senses as she drank in her surroundings. She smelled the scent of Perwyn's sweat and soap whenever he drew close, tasted the patch of rotting leaves that almost made her slip, felt the air move as Perwyn lunged and parried.

All too soon the bells tolled twelve. Arya's face was streaked with sweat, her chest heaving, yet she felt as though she could breathe for the first time in weeks. Until her belly cramped, and fear flooded through her veins. No, she thought desperately, looking up at the heart tree, at the beads of red sap shining in the moonlight.

Please, gods, no, not yet. She was not Jeyne Poole or Beth Cassel, to await her moonblood with bated breath and gasp with joy at becoming a woman flowered. Old gods, please, help me, Arya prayed staring into the heart tree's eyes, ignoring Perwyn's voice as he beckoned her to leave. I planted all the seeds we had left, I have Nymeria bring you offerings, please, please, help me. But there was no answer, and she was forced to leave, her belly still cramping.

Climbing all the stairs to her bedchamber did not make her stomach feel any better. Her bedchambers felt too warm, the hearth fire crackling away merrily as Arya prepared herself for bed. Properly she should have awoken her maid, Meri, who slept in the adjoining chamber with Jeyne Poole. She was lucky Robb had even let her keep Jeyne as her closest lady-in-waiting. Jeyne was only a steward's daughter, not the daughter of an ancient house, but Arya could not stand having some stranger share her rooms. Even Jeyne and Meri, who she knew so well... the featherbed was colder without them serving as her bedmaids, but it was better, being alone, with how she slept since the coming of the new year.

Sleep was a long time coming, and when it came, she wished it had not. There were no wolf dreams of running beneath the moon with Nymeria, no sweet memories of her father and mother cradling her close. There was nothing but the chasm, dark as death, and her drowning it in, naked and shivering, the darkness clinging to her like tar as it gripped her in a suffocating embrace.

Arya, whispered the voice. Sister, help me. Bran's likeness swam before her, dark auburn curls tumbling down his shoulders, their mother's high cheekbones stark in his thin face, his arms strangely muscled.

You're not my brother, she told it, as she always did.

Perhaps someone else might be fooled, but never a water dancer. The eyes were wrong, their blue-grey depths flickering red, and filled with a hunger that frightened her.

I'm Brandon, the shade insisted. The words were muddled, as though two voices shared one mouth. Sister, help me, please, it will be easier if you stop fighting, if you let me.

I won't, she said. You're not Bran.

The darkness held her fast; for a moment Arya could have sworn she saw a thousand red stars gleaming overhead, all of them staring at her. Her belly cramped; it felt as though there was a demon sitting on her chest, digging a claw into her navel. The claw sliced into her in a single stroke, plunging deep into her gut, yet there was no blood. Instead the wound wept shimmering grey light, like a moonbeam, like stardust, the essence that filled her up and made her Arya.

She had no sword, she was bound too tight to thrash or flail. All Arya could do was watch as the demon drank up the starlight which flowed sluggishly from the wound. Intent on gorging, the demon did not hear the soft flutter of feathers, or see the dark shine of crow's wings. But even he eventually noticed that her belly was healing, the wound closing, and cursed when the trickle of starlight ran dry.

Not enough, the demon snarled with Bran's face, his voice cracking. Useless boy—

Arya awoke with a gasp, the world spinning. The chamber pot was beside the bed where she had left it, and she retched until her belly was empty. Still shaking, she reached out for Nymeria, and found the direwolf bounding through the yard, rushing toward the Great Keep. The terror did not come every night, but when it did, the she-wolf always knew. Guards hurried to let her through each set of doors, her claws rasping against the steps as she trotted up the steps of the northwest tower, past the torches in their weirwood sconces, past Rickon's chamber where Shaggydog and his boy slept fitfully.

When Nymeria burst into Arya's room, she vaulted onto the bed with a single leap. The bed groaned from the weight of a direwolf near the size of a horse, but the bed slats held. Arya buried her face in the she-wolf's fur, her cheeks salty with her tears, her mouth still tasting faintly of bile. When she finally fell back asleep, she did not dream.

Arya spent the next few days abed, pleading illness. It was not truly a lie; she felt boneless, her muscles refusing to answer her will. Climbing down the many steps of the tower was out of the question, let alone seeing to her duties as princess. Instead she slept, and ate the food Meri brought her, and listened to Jeyne practice the high harp. She wasn't good, but she wasn't bad either.

"Horns and woodharps are better," Rickon grumbled when he came to visit. "Osha says the old gods gave them to the First Men at the dawn of days, to wake music from the silence."

"Careful, Rickon," Arya warned him. Bad enough he ran in the godswood all day with the youngest wildling hostages, and spoke the Old Tongue he learned from Osha better than the northron Maester Luwin was teaching him. "Don't let Robb hear you say things like that. You're almost nine, you have to act like a prince, not a wildling."

"You were nine when you left," Rickon said suddenly. At his feet Shaggydog gave a low growl, his tail lashing. "You can't leave again, I won't let you. We can stay in the godswood; Robb can't send you away with Shaggydog and Nymeria guarding us. They'd tear Grey Wind to shreds."

Jeyne stiffened, giving Shaggydog a nervous stare as the black wolf bared his fangs.

"No, Shaggy," Arya snapped, as Nymeria stalked to her side. She was bigger than Shaggydog, if not by much, and battle hardened from their time in the south. A few moments passed, then Shaggydog showed his belly, though his green eyes still burned with Rickon's rage.

"You'll be able to visit, stupid," she promised, laying a hand on Rickon's small shoulder, brushing his long dark auburn hair out of his face. "You like the Greatjon, and I'm sure you'd like Last Hearth. There are wildling villages nearby in the New Gift; maybe we could visit them, if you show Robb that he can trust you to behave."

Rickon crossed his arms, scrunching his face up in a frown.

"I don't want to visit stupid Last Hearth. When I grow up, I'm going to beyond the Wall, and live in the wilds and do whatever I want, all by myself."

"What about Wylla?" Arya asked. "You can't abandon your betrothed."

That made him pause; he liked Wylla Manderly.

"She can be a spearwife," he decided. "And she'll sew my clothes and tell stories at the campfire, and Shaggy and I will hunt snowbears and giant elk. And we'll cuddle every night," he said, giving her an angry look. As if it were her fault that Robb had decided it was improper for a boy of nine and a maid of fifteen to share a bed when Rickon had bad dreams.

The next day Arya felt well enough to leave her chambers, though she leaned upon Jeyne and Meri as they descended the many steps, followed by Ser Perwyn and her guards. When they reached the godswood, it was to find Rickon swimming in the black pool. Arya sat upon a bench and watched, wishing she could join him in the cold waters.

Rickon liked swimming, but not as much as she did. Shaggydog was less enthused. He paced the edge of the pool, tongue lolling, a low whine in his throat. Finally the direwolf plunged in, paddling in circles before gently taking Rickon's wrist in his mouth and dragging him from the pool.

"Too long, Rickon," Arya called from her seat, watching him shiver as he dried off. Cold water might be refreshing, but it was dangerous too. Even a good swimmer could drown if his body grew too cold. Wynafryd Manderly said the fishermen and sailors didn't dare swim the waters of the Bite in winter, even to rescue a fallen friend. Maester Luwin called it cold shock. When a warm body met freezing water, it drove the breath from the lungs, and set the heart racing. Ten, perhaps twenty minutes, and the muscles weakened as a man's body began to shut down.

Wary of the danger, neither Ben Blackwood, a squire of fifteen, nor Rodrik Ryswell, a boy of ten, had joined their friend in the black pool. Instead they soaked in a hot spring, idly talking of horses. Rickon didn't like the hot water; instead he stood beside them, his face red from the steam. The wildling boys and girls who often played in the godswood were absent; that was good. Almost all of them were eager to spar with Rickon, who gave as good as he got, resulting in ripe crops of bruises for everyone, even with sticks in place of wooden swords. Rickon's anger didn't seem to worry them as it did Robb.

"It isn't fair," Rickon had screamed, when Robb told him that Hoarfrost Umber would be coming in ninth moon to fetch Arya away to Last Hearth. "They can't have my sister, they can't, they can't make you!"

"Betrothals are a solemn oath," Robb had told him, as grim and unyielding as the bronze and iron crown upon his brow. "I owe my bannermen the same loyalty and respect that they owe me."

"It isn't fair," Rickon screamed again, tears and snot streaming down his red face. "You're the king, you should make it fair!"

"We don't always get what we want, Rickon." Robb said sadly. "Kings and princes least of all."

Or princesses, Arya thought, staring at the heart tree. Soon she would be back at Last Hearth, confined within its timber walls. No matter that Hoarfrost might have chosen to spend winter at Winterfell, like the sons and daughters of the mountain clans. No, she must foster with her future goodmother, shut up all day to do nothing but sew and sew and sew some more. Lady Marna loved needlework.

Well, Lady Marna didn't have her yet.

Two more days, and Arya felt well enough to visit Alys Karstark in the Guest House. Or so she told Lady Edythe Cerwyn, who kept watch over her comings and goings. Instead, once she reached Alys' chambers she traded her grey and white gown for a warm brown tunic and breeches. Jeyne and Meri changed too, from the elaborate gowns of a princess's attendants into the modest garb of wealthy merchant's daughters.

Of course, there was no losing her guards. Ser Perwyn and Dacey Mormont accompanied her when she left the Guest House, Ondrew and Porther at their heels. With so many guards between the Guest House and Wintertown, one was bound to tell Robb, no matter how normally she behaved as she commanded them to let her pass, as if she had permission to leave Winterfell. But what Robb knew and what he acknowledged were different; so long as she was careful, he would not deny her this.

Ever since they returned from Last Hearth, Arya had slipped into Wintertown once every fortnight or so. A morning, an afternoon, it made no matter, so long as she was away from the court. Most of the nobles preferred to stay within Winterfell, not trudge through the snowy streets, picking their way around frozen puddles of black ice.

Winterfell was almost as packed as the Wintertown. The wildlings had the First Keep, the squat round fortress still gloomy and drafty despite the men laboring to fill the cracks in its old walls. The Great Keep and the Guest House overflowed with lords and ladies-in-waiting, minor lords and petty masters from the coldest lands of the North, not to mention the young ones of the mountain clans. Only the northwest tower of the Great Keep still had empty chambers, being the private domain of House Stark.

The blacksmith's forges were just as packed, with smiths from humble holdfasts and villages eager to earn their keep by forging whatever the King in the North might need. Master Theowyle Steelsnow was vexed at having so many journeymen underfoot, as was Gendry. Gendry would not be a journeyman for much longer, a prospect which filled Arya with mingled pride and fear.

"I won't feel I'm truly a master, less I study with old Tobho Mott," he'd told her a few weeks past, his eyes soft. "I've the coin saved up and all."

"The queen will have you killed," Arya said, her voice strangely high and sharp. "The goldcloaks will come for you again."

"It's been five years, m'lady," he sighed. "I can shave my head easy enough. Queens have more to trouble themselves about than a mere bastard." His mouth twisted. "Even a king's get."

Furious at his stupidity, Arya had left. She was still angry with him, else she would have fetched him to join them in Wintertown. He had joined them before, though he stuck by Perwyn, never standing too close to the princess. Even in simple boy's garb, the folk of Wintertown knew who Arya was. The King and Princess came to the Wintertown often, to give out food and clothes to the poor, garbed in their regalia, mounted on horses with grey and white bardings, with the Stark banner flying above their heads. But folk acted more easy around her when she did not have her bronze circlet atop her head, even if she did have a direwolf trotting at her heels.

Arya Underfoot loved Wintertown more than Princess Arya ever could. Arya loved the wooden houses and the long streets kept clear by men paid to shovel dirty snow and chip away the ice. Arya loved the bakeries and the taverns, always bustling. Arya loved the sense of orderly chaos, that came from so many folk all jammed in together, all from different villages and hamlets.

Arya did not love the way the poorest huddled in the cold, their thin wool cloaks flapping in the wind. Arya did not love the sight of women counting coins as they waited in line for the baker, only to be told they could not buy as much as they wanted for their children. The King in the North might keep them fed, but he could not fill their bellies to bursting. Grain and meat, all of it was rationed, lest they run out before the end of winter came. Even then, there might not be enough. The war in the south had depleted their granaries to feed the hosts of men, and though Robb was buying as much grain as he could, there was only so much grain to be had.

Winter rations did not help the sickness that festered with so many gathered together. Grippe and winter fever, measles, scrofula, all of them would have their due of the folk of Wintertown. The aldermen who had charge of Wintertown did their best to isolate the sick, closing off streets to let the sickness run its course, but the guards could only do so much.

The sound of a lash echoed through the air; Arya flinched.

Try as she might, she could not grow used to the public floggings required to keep thousands of folk orderly. The King in the North handed down judgments for the most serious crimes, but the aldermen had charge of those beneath his notice. Brawling, petty theft, perjury, adultery, drunkenness, all merited being hauled before the aldermen. If found guilty, the criminal would be stripped to the waist, tied to the nearest whipping post, and flogged before a crowd that was either tense or jeering, depending upon the offense and the man or woman who had committed it.

"Here," Arya said, passing Meri a coin.

With a nod, Meri slipped into the crowd, Porther following. Princess Arya could not interfere; the King in the North would have no choice but to take notice. But her maid could give the coin to a child and bade him give water to the criminal when they cut him down, his back in bloody ribbons.

Even after the flogging soured her visit to Wintertown, Arya was not ready to return to her duties. With no queen to lead the court, it fell to Arya to entertain all the ladies of Winterfell.

Every minute was an hour, and every hour an age. A princess must sit in a fine chair at the head of a circle, so all the ladies might see her. A princess must keep busy, whether with a book of poetry, playing music, or doing needlework. After the visit to Last Hearth and more than a month of Lady Marna's tutelage, her stitches were much improved.

That should have pleased Arya. Her mother Lady Catelyn was always one for the needle, and had embroidered many of her children's clothes herself. All of them were too small now, but Arya treasured them nonetheless. Still, even her mother's memory could not make her enjoy staring at one tiny spot, stabbing it over and over again. It took hundreds of agonizing stitches just to make one part of a simple design, and thousands for the sort of embroidery Lady Marna and Lady Catelyn favored. Teeth gritted, Arya kept trying, and hated it more with each passing day.

Jeyne Poole didn't want to fling her embroidery to the ground. No, she was quite content, her head bowed as she stitched away at a scene of a shaggy cow in a pasture. Just like her harp playing, it was neither particularly bad nor impressive. Her dancing was competent, her singing acceptable, her knowledge of poetry adequate. Why couldn't Arya be like Jeyne, like all the other ladies-in-waiting? Was there something wrong with her, that she took no joy in any of the womanly arts?

Alys Karstark didn't play any instruments, but she could sing and dance. Pious Catelyn Bracken was a wonder with a needle. Lady Edythe's penmanship was delicate, her embroidery fair, her knowledge of poetry deep as the sea. At present, she was showing a book to little Bessa Bolton, just turned four, tracing the letters as she read aloud.

Jessamyn Belmore and Cornel Umber knew everything about fashion; Wylla Manderly was amiable to everyone, happy to follow the mood of the room. Even Mya Stone, bastard that she was, with hair cut short as a boy's, even she seemed to fit in with the rest better than Arya did, now that she was pregnant. Mya sat by Wynafryd Manderly, uneasy with her swollen belly, talking of singers and skalds and asking what to expect as her time drew near.

Arya resisted the urge to shudder. In a few short years, that would be her fate. Hoarfrost Umber would share her bed, and she would have to give him children, heirs for Last Hearth. She did not like the idea of sharing a bed with a man near seven feet tall, or birthing his giant children. Arya had examined herself in the bath, and found it ridiculous that an entire babe should somehow come from the maiden's place between her legs. Lady Edythe said her wide hips were made for bearing babes, that her small bosom would swell once she had milk to nurse. Arya didn't like the sound of that at all.

At least when she went to Last Hearth to suffer the discomfort of marriage, she could keep Jeyne Poole and Meri. The betrothal contract permitted her four ladies-in-waiting; she was not sure who else to bring, save Alys Karstark. Wylla and Wynafryd would have been her choice, but Wylla must remain at Winterfell with Rickon. As for Wynafryd... Arya eyed the lady's swollen belly. Ser Perwyn might be devoted, willing to follow her to Last Hearth, but she could not imagine Lord Wyman being pleased by his daughter and grandchildren removing so far away, especially in winter.

It was a wonder Jessamyn Belmore had arrived in White Harbor in one piece, there to begin the long ride west to Winterfell. The daughter of Lord Belmore, she was the only one of Arya's ladies from the Vale. Rhea Royce had left shortly after the new year, to escort her father Lord Yohn Royce's body home. Lord Horton Redfort's niece had refused Arya's invitation, claiming ill health, yet that had not stopped her from wedding Ser Harrold Hardyng.

"Princess Arya, are you well?" Alys Karstark asked, her brow furrowed with concern. She must have been silent for too long again.

"Well enough, my lady," Arya lied, forcing herself to resume stitching.

Thank the gods Harrion Karstark was so set on pushing his sister at Robb. Alys should have been wed by now, bound to some lord and running his keep. But with Robb still unwed... well, anything might happen. Poor Harrion would be most disappointed when Robb announced his betrothal to Jessamyn Belmore.

Nothing was official yet, but Arya knew it was coming. The Vale was the only kingdom not bound to House Stark by blood, and Robb was the only Stark left to forge an alliance, with Bran lost and Sansa so far away. Robb thought she must be with child by now, despite the reassurances of her maidenhood in the last letter over a year ago. As such, Robb must be the one sacrificed upon the nuptial altar.

"You don't even know Jessamyn," Arya had objected, when she last managed to seize a private word. "She barely talks. For all we know she could be mean, or a liar, or barren, or something. Alys is much better; you can do something else to make the Vale happy."

"You will not have Alys for a goodsister, so cease your pestering. A lord weds for his people, not himself," was all Robb said. "Blood binds an alliance more closely than anything else, and a king must have an heir."

Arya resisted the urge to say that in that case, he should have wed a good deal sooner. Four years after the Red Wedding, and still he mourned, as though they had buried his heart in Jeyne Westerling's grave. If that was what love did to you, then Arya wasn't sure she wanted it. Plenty of people were widowed and still carried on with their lives. Ser Rodrik Cassel and Donella Hornwood had found happiness, even though they were old and grey, and would never have children together. Robb was young, only twenty, even if he didn't act like it.

Arya stabbed her needlework. Robb acted like a king, not a brother. If only she were better at acting like a princess. She was sick of always having eyes on her, always the center of attention. She would have rather faded into the background, like Ser Perwyn and her guards. At the hollow hill, she could do as she pleased, darting into the shadows while leaving Sansa to bask in the sun, playing the role of the lady that suited her so well. Then Sansa had left her behind, off to have adventures over the sea. What was it like, seeing a dragon take wing? The letters had not said, nor described the strange sights of Meereen.

Arya stabbed the needlework again. If Arya had a husband who could ride dragonback, she would have made him take her to see Sansa right away. Dragons flew faster than any bird, after all, and the narrow sea wasn't that big. From dragonback they could go find Bran, and bring everyone back to Winterfell. Although, she supposed it would be awkward when Robb met Ser Olyvar Sand. A bastard wasn't worthy of a Stark princess, even one who could ride a dragon. It was as silly as the notion of her marrying Gendry, and he had royal blood, and was so handsome that maids lingered by the forge for a glimpse of him, much to Arya's annoyance. The other young smiths were just as muscled as he was, even if they didn't have his bright blue eyes or gruff smiles.

At least Sansa got to see the world, not just stupid Last Hearth. Arya wouldn't mind living in a place like Seagard, or Gulltown, or White Harbor, where the docks were packed with ships from a hundred lands, and sailors who spoke dozens of tongues. Miserable as she had been in King's Landing, she could understand why Gendry missed it. Last Hearth was the opposite of a port city, quiet and remote. She could still recall Lady Marna tsking over Arya's calluses as she promised she would grow out of her childish love for the water dance, just like Marna had grown out of her love for archery when she left the mountain clans to wed.

Seventh moon dragged on, as did Arya's suffering. The only break from her ladies came when she served as Robb's cupbearer during council meetings. Outside the council chambers, Robb spent most of his time with his thane of winter, Hother Umber, and his keeper of accounts, Torrhen Poole. Though he might spend a few hours in the training yards, he did not jape or jest with other young men. At dinner he drank little, but listened in silence to whichever of his men had the honor of taking the extra seat at the king's table that night.

Arya could not recall the last time Robb truly laughed. She watched him as she filled the cups with cider, marking the grey hairs at his temples, the sunken bruises beneath his eyes. Was he sleeping as poorly as she was? Perhaps a wife would do him good, even if Jessamyn was duller than dirt. Ser Patrek Mallister was always in a better mood after he snuck off to tumble Dacey Mormont. A queen could take charge of the ladies when Arya was gone. Gods help poor Rickon, who would take her place as Robb's cupbearer.

As Arya waited for council to begin, she could not help overhearing talk of the last court session which she had missed. The King in the North had passed judgement on a thief who broke into one of the king's granaries, a murderer who slew his wife, and a firesetter who swore he had not meant to set several houses ablaze, just to warm himself in the cold stable where he had taken refuge. All three had been found guilty, and given the choice of the Night's Watch or of the usual penalty. To her shock, both the firesetter and the murderer had chosen death; only the thief had chosen the Watch over losing his hand.

Now the greatsword Ice hung upon the wall, washed clean of the blood from the executions. Robb's chair sat beneath it, with Grey Wind crouched at his feet. The bronze crown with its iron longswords shone atop his brow; his tunic was white velvet, with the grey direwolf blazoned across his chest.

As usual, the meeting began with the Wall. There was little news to report, since the wild events of the new year, when Jon Snow had slain a dragon as large as Balerion the Black Dread, though made of ice and shadow rather than fire and blood. The mad shadowbinder who birthed the dragon was dead as well, as was Stannis Baratheon. There were already songs about them, the evil red priestess and the king whom she ensnared, who burned first his wife, then his lord hand, then his daughter at her behest. Some said the king had flung himself into the flames to save his daughter, but most said it was Jon who saved Princess Shireen, which made more sense.

Robb was still very angry at Jon for sending Shireen to Braavos. The princess's hand in marriage would have been a valuable gift for Robb to bestow upon some worthy lord eager to claim the Stormlands from the Lannisters. After all, Shireen was the last Baratheon, save for Gendry and Mya, who were bastards, even though all men agreed they bore an uncanny resemblance to old King Robert.

"The situation remains unchanged," Robb said grimly, one hand resting on a parchment covered in Jon's cramped scrawl. "The host of wights remains beneath the Wall, clustered around every keep save the abandoned Nightfort. They stand too far out for fire arrows, and the rangers cannot ride out to attack, not with the lands beyond the Wall chest deep in snow and ice. The Lord Commander reports that Westwatch, Hoarfrost Hill, and Rimegate have all gone silent, and half dozen other keeps are down to less than fifty men, and the cold only deepens as time goes on."

"The Vale has done our part," blustered Gilwood Hunter, Lord of Longbow Hall since his father's death a few moons past. "Fifteen thousand men, aye, and how many shall ever return?"

"And how many came from House Hunter?" Lord Jason Mallister, the thane of ships said sharply. "Monsters out of legend, and the Vale sends less than a third of its strength."

Lord Gilwood swelled up like a frog. "And how many did the Riverlands send, my lord? Where are your mighty hosts?"

"Buried in the Riverlands and the Westerlands," Lord Jason said quietly, his eyes cool. "Slain by Lannisters whilst you hid behind Lysa Arryn's skirts and waited to see which way the wind would blow."

"Enough." Robb's voice was iron. "There is little point calling the banners to sit and watch a foe they cannot fight, and the Night's Watch does not have the food to support a vast host. A wall is only as good as the men who defend it, but the Wall is the greatest ever built. The wildlings swore they would answer to the Lord Commander; let him call upon them."

With that settled, the talk turned to the south. The ironborn remained upon their islands, having glutted themselves upon the bounty of the Westerlands and the Reach. But even with the ironborn gone, both kingdoms remained in an uproar, thanks to the strange events which had transpired in King's Landing at the end of fifth moon.

Lord Mace Tyrell and a dozen other lords were dead, slain within the Red Keep during a masked ball. Who had slain them, though, no one could agree. Queen Cersei claimed a host of northmen were responsible, but that made no sense at all. Willas Tyrell, the new Lord of Highgarden, certainly didn't seem to believe her. He was sitting atop his grain stores, refusing to send a single ship to King's Landing until the crown answered his demands for justice, not to mention the bones of his father, sister, and brother. Queen Margaery and Ser Loras had been abducted during the slaughter, tortured, and slain, their unrecognizable bodies left before the Great Sept of Baelor with a note writ in blood claiming vengeance for Eddard Stark.

That had sent Robb into the deepest rage she'd ever seen. Ravens had flown in their dozens from Winterfell, going forth across the Seven Kingdoms denying any involvement in such butchery. Much as the King in the North despised the Tyrells for making alliance with the crown, it was the Lannisters whose heads he wanted on spikes.

But as Robb had not done it, who had? Hother Umber thought it might have been the Dornish, what with Prince Oberyn Martell abandoning his council seat and leaving with his bastard daughter. But then, a Dornish lord had died in the attack, and Ser Daemon Sand of the Kingsguard, Oberyn's former squire, had been grievously wounded. And if it was not the Dornish, who on earth could it be? No one else benefited from killing the queen's richest, most poweful allies.

The massacre at the masked ball wasn't the only trouble plaguing the city. The day after the attack, a band of holy brothers and sisters and common peasants had descended upon King's Landing. Some knave called Jack the Smith had seized the pretender High Septon Luceon, and beaten him so badly he lost all his teeth and an eye, and would never walk again. And Ser Bonifer Hasty had almost seized Tommen Falseborn, who had tried to reason with them, before Lord Randyll Tarly, Hand of the King, came to his rescue. Hundreds had been slain in the streets, and hundreds more were seized, charged with treason, tortured, and hanged.

The High Septon of Harrenhal had called for all godly men to rise up against the Lannisters; even the new High Septon of Oldtown had condemned the wanton violence against holy brothers and sisters. Weeks of riots had erupted in King's Landing, only to be brutally put down by the hosts of Lord Tarly and of Lord Crakehall. Now the city was quiet, doubtless due to all the free bread the crown was giving out to the poor on behalf of Good King Tommen, the First of His Name. They said the boy was deep in mourning for poor Margaery Tyrell, though he was already betrothed to one of Randyll Tarly's daughters, and would soon be wed.

But those were problems for the Lannisters. Arya stifled a yawn as the conversation moved to the Three Kingdoms which were Robb's domain. Uncle Edmure was still frustrated with the lack of additional grain for the Riverlands, never mind that winter was so much harder in the North. It wasn't Robb's fault that he had so few people, and could afford to lose none of them. In the old days, the Kings of Winter would send old done men and young men who were unmarried south, to raid and plunder the Vale or Riverlands. Robb certainly couldn't do that, and he didn't have enough men to send a host off to attack King's Landing.

The Vale had enough men to attack King's Landing, all those they had not sent to the Wall, but there was no one to lead them into battle. Her cousin Lord Robert Arryn was still trapped atop the Eyrie, his mother Lady Lysa sending ravens begging for aid. Their granaries still had perhaps half a year of food, plenty of time for a rescue to be made. Robb had even offered to send men of the mountain clans to help, men who climbed mountains as easily as stairs, but Lord Nestor Royce, who had run the Vale ever since Jon Arryn became Hand of the King, refused. The mountains of the Vale were taller and steeper, he said, and their own efforts would surely succeed.

If they didn't... well. Harrold Hardyng had the best claim, or so Jessamyn Belmore said. That was why her father hoped to wed her to Harry, before they received the invitation to join Arya's ladies. Instead Harry had wed Lord Horton Redfort's niece. Robb wasn't pleased about that; Lord Horton still bore a grudge over his son Ser Mychel joining Robb's guard after being disinherited.

By the time the council finished going through the latest reports from Gulltown and White Harbor, Arya's eyelids were drooping. Determined not to fall asleep, she kicked herself in the ankle. No matter how long she practiced standing guard in the godswood, in the forge, in the Great Hall, she could never manage the same steady focus during council meetings. There just wasn't enough to see; all the council members sat quite still, their voices droning on and on. Even pretending she was the First Sword of Braavos, here to defend Robb from faceless men didn't help.

Not that it would take a faceless man to kill the King in the North. If Robb wasn't careful, he might work himself into the grave. For every hour spent on the Wall, the south, the Riverlands, and the Vale, he spent two brooding over the North. Once he had lost Winterfell to Theon Greyjoy; he refused to lose it to the winter.

Already winter had lasted for over a year and a half, with no end in sight. Grain, salted meat, wool, those were only the beginning of what Winterfell needed to stay hale and hearty. The supplies of firewood must be kept flowing, with the wolfswood growing colder and more treacherous as snow and ice blocked the roads. Supplies of sand must be bought for the Myrish glassblowers to keep at their work expanding the glass gardens and training apprentices; supplies of salt must be maintained for preserving meat and clearing paths of ice.

While Torrhen Poole read off the latest numbers from the accounts in his dull voice, Arya pinched herself to stay awake. She wished she could move about the room, not stand like a statue behind Robb's chair. Shouldn't she have grown out of this by now? Ser Perwyn could stand in one spot for ages, motionless, perfectly calm and content. Ser Rodrik said someday Arya would be able to do the same, just like Lady Edythe assured her that when she grew up she would come to enjoy the skills at which she worked so hard to make so little progress. Alys Karstark was less sure. She thought if you gave something a fair try and still didn't like it, you probably never would.

Arya worried that Alys was right. As seventh moon ended, she found herself going about her duties as if in a numb stupor. She let Jeyne and Meri dress her in silks and velvets. She presided over the ladies-in-waiting, trying to read, and converse, and sew, and pretend she cared about whether one skald was better than the last, when none of them held a candle to Old Nan. She still told stories by the fire of her little room in the Servant's Keep; if not in the godwood or training yard, Rickon could usually be found there, along with Osha and the wildling children. Robb allowed it, if only because the stories seemed to calm him when nothing else would.

It was early in eighth moon when a page interrupted Arya's attempts at needlework. Ser Perwyn and her guards waited for her as she traded slippers for boots, then let Jeyne fasten a heavy fur cloak over her gown. One could go from the Great Keep to the Great Hall without stepping foot outside, but she needed the brisk slap of a cold wind, the crunch of snow beneath her feet. It was days since her last secret water dancing practice in the godswood, and even running with Nymeria could not stop her feeling like a fish caught in a net.

When Arya reached the solar above the Great Hall where Robb had summoned her, her cheeks were rosy, her fingers stiff from cold. The sight of Robb's guests was as startling as a gust of cold wind. Arya gaped as she took off her cloak, eyeing the young knight and maid who stood beside the fire. They shared the look of a brother and sister, their hair a mass of rich chestnut curls, their brown eyes like honey. She did not know the maid, but she knew the knight, had seen him with a lance in hand in the practice yards before the Tourney of the Hand.

"Ser Loras?" Arya stammered, baffled.

"My lady," the handsome knight said gallantly, bowing deeply. "I hoped you might recall me." He turned to Robb. "There, Your Grace. Unless you still wish to summon Lord Mallister, to be sure?"

His voice was courteous, yet there was a hint of offense beneath his smile. Hadn't Robb taken Ser Loras prisoner at Sweet Root? Why did he need Arya?

"Lord Mallister is busy," Robb said, seating himself upon a chair as if it were his throne. He glanced at Arya; she took up her place at his left hand. Grey Wind sat at his right, his yellow eyes fixed on theit guests. "I am content with Princess Arya's word, though I wish you had not interrupted a court session. You might have declared yourselves at White Harbor, and bade Lord Manderly send me a raven."

"We dared not, Your Grace," said the maid who could only be Margaery Tyrell. She cast herself at Robb's feet, sprawling across the Myrish carpet like a mummer in a play. "We feared to ask mercy from any save Your Grace himself, lest we be imprisoned for our lord father's folly in supporting Queen Cersei."

She began to weep, her bosom heaving. Already beautiful, her grief seemed to make her even lovelier. Yet Robb remained unmoved, and after a moment, Margaery composed herself.

"Your Grace is even nobler and comelier than the singers say—"

"There is a time and place for pageantry, my lady," Robb said. "This is not one of them."

To Arya's amazement, Margaery smiled grimly.

"Oh, praise the Seven. May I rise, Your Grace?" A nod from Robb, and the lady rose, brushing off her skirts. "Shall I tell it all at once, then? It will be faster, I think."

Another nod, and Margaery began to tell her tale. Ser Loras stood behind her; Arya listened wide-eyed from her place beside Robb.

It started with Prince Oberyn's bastard daughter pulling Margaery aside during the masked ball. An odd remark from Queen Cersei had put the Dornishwoman on guard; the masked ball was a trap, and treachery was afoot. Margaery was not surprised. The queen hated her, no matter how much she smiled and jested and called her gooddaughter before the court. Lord Mace did not believe her, so Margaery did not ask his leave before slipping from the ballroom, her brother at her side.

"I never thought the queen would hurt my father," Margaery said, her voice thick. "It was me she hated, so I thought if I left..." she began weeping again, less prettily this time. Ever courteous, Robb handed her a kerchief. She blew her nose, drew a shuddering breath, and resumed the tale.

Ser Loras's rooms were beside those of the queen's former favorite, Aurane Waters, the lord admiral. Much as he despised Cersei, it still took gold to persuade him to steal one of the queen's dromonds. They were halfway to the docks when they heard Lord Tyrell was dead.

"The Stepstones are overrun by pirates; we dared not sail home." Margaery sniffled. "Nor did I wish to entrust my safety to the lords of the Vale, who I know only by repute."

"You only know me by repute," Robb said dryly.

Margaery looked at him steadily, her head high and proud. "Your Grace is right, of course, but my brother Garlan spoke well of you after Sweet Root. Besides, Winterfell was the furthest I could get from King's Landing. In the Vale the queen's hired knives might find me."

"And the highest young lords and heirs of the Vale are all wed." Robb's hands gripped the arms of his chair.

Margaery shrugged. "I will not wager my life and freedom on the strength of a lesser lord or knight. Your Grace is better able to protect me than any man in Westeros. We brought all the jewels from King's Landing which we could carry; a meager dowry, I know, but it would not be all. My brother Willas will reward you handsomely when he learns that we yet live. Highgarden's bounty will flow to the North, not King's Landing, and at a fair price. Our lord father swore to Lord Tywin that not a single ship would you have, but as Lord Tywin's daughter killed him—"

Margaery choked back rage. "So, Your Grace. Safety for myself, and grain for the North. Hardly the stuff of songs, but enough to forge alliance."

Robb frowned. "Winterfell is not Highgarden, or King's Landing, my lady," he said slowly. "You would be expected to comport yourself as a lady of the North, or at least pay heed to our customs and traditions."

Margaery bowed her head. "I am well aware, Your Grace. I will not give up my Faith, but the children I bear you will be raised to follow your gods, not mine. Unless Your Grace is already betrothed?" Her eyes glimmered; a sly smile tugged at her lips. "Though I cannot think of any lady of the North, Riverlands, or Vale who could match my dowry."

Robb rose to his feet, as solemn as if he was about to pass judgment on a criminal. "I was not betrothed," he said. "I shall be, as soon as we draw up a contract. I will not wager on the generosity of Lord Willas. Terms must be set forth before I bind myself to a family who ignored Tommen's bastardy for the sake of their own advancement."

"Vile slander," said Ser Loras, his hand on the hilt of his sword. "Renly assured me the rumors were false, spread by Stannis to support his claim over that of his younger brother, and by the northmen to undermine the Lannisters' grasp on the Iron Throne. Nor would my lord father knowingly support a bastard. If the rumors were true—"

Margaery turned on her brother, eyebrows raised. "Oh, Loras," she sighed, placing a hand on his arm. She glanced at Robb. "I hope Your Grace will excuse my brother; his talents lie in battle, not in the council chamber."

The council was in an uproar when Robb summoned them. The king's marriage was of utmost importance; they misliked being backed into a corner almost as much as the king did. Hother Umber had been resigned to a southron bride, but one from the Vale or Riverlands, not the Reach. Lord Mallister was displeased that the Tyrells offered only grain, not swords against the Lannisters. Lord Gilwood Hunter agreed; was it not meet that Lord Willas should swear fealty to King Robb, and turn the Three Kingdoms into the Four Kingdoms?

Yet though they went round and round, in the end they could not gainsay Lady Margaery's terms. They could not afford to turn away a fresh source of grain, and there was no way to compel Lord Willas to bend the knee, unless they threatened the life of his sister and brother. That Robb refused to do. Guest right protected them, and he was no Frey, to turn on those who thought themselves safe within his hall.

Ravens flew to and fro, and Lord Willas quickly agreed to the terms proposed by King Robb. With that settled, an annulment had to be obtained for Lady Margaery, to end her marriage to Tommen Falseborn. King Robb sent a raven to Paul, the High Septon of Harrenhal, whom the Three Kingdoms held to be the true High Septon, but Lady Margaery insisted that one also be sent to Torbert, the High Septon of Oldtown. No one sent a raven to the pretender Luceon Frey in King's Landing.

Whilst awaiting the annulments, there was much to do. With the Stepstones closed by pirates, and storms wracking the Narrow Sea, the grain from Highgarden could not be sent to White Harbor, nor was Bear Island capable of receiving so much shipping. Instead, Robb gave orders that the abandoned harbor at Sea Dragon Point be reopened.

There were plenty of idle men in Wintertown, and plenty of timber to be had at Sea Dragon Point. It lay between the Stony Shore and Deepwood Motte, with two long coastlines jutting to the west. There were lakes full of otters, rivers full of salmon, forests of tall pines. A perfect spot for a bustling fief, were it not for the stupid ironborn who kept raiding it every few decades. Many houses had tried and failed to hold the Dragon's Lair, the port growing smaller and sadder after every raid forced them to rebuild from the ashes. House Saltpine was the last, destroyed by Dagon Greyjoy when he sacked the town and burned its wooden houses to the ground back in the day of King Aegon the Fifth.

Given how displeased Robb was with the Tyrells outflanking him, he seemed amiable enough during the wedding, which took place at the beginning of ninth moon.

Perhaps it was thanks to all the ravens Margaery and Lord Willas sent out after the annulments were finalized. The Tyrells declared that Margaery and Ser Loras yet lived, accused Queen Cersei Lannister and her Lord Confessor Qyburn of orchestrating the death of Lord Mace Tyrell, and withdrew all support from Tommen Falseborn, whose bastardy had just come to light. With any luck the queen's last allies would abandon her; Arya could not wait for news from the south.

Nor could Arya wait to see the guests coming from White Harbor. Months without word from Sansa, and now Robett Glover and Ser Deziel Dalt were riding for Winterfell, having barely survived crossing the narrow sea. Granted, she was angry that her sister was not with them, but at least they would bring fresh news.

Things were so much better now that Margaery was queen. Entertaining the ladies-in-waiting fell to her, and she took to the task like a duck to water, charming and laughing and smiling all the livelong day. With all eyes upon Queen Margaery, people were less apt to notice if Arya fidgeted, or ignored her needlework to daydream, or read books about foreign lands instead of books about running a household.

Soon she grew bold enough to excuse herself to pray in the godswood, Alys Karstark keeping watch while she sparred with faithful Ser Perwyn or with wild Rickon. Arya could almost forget that Hoarfrost Umber was due any day, that Jeyne Poole and Meri were back in her chambers packing away her clothes for the journey to Last Hearth.

She had just sent Rickon sprawling into the dirt when a deep voice boomed across the godswood.

"Princess Arya!"

Arya froze, Needle still in her hand. Rickon's face fell; Shaggydog and Nymeria bared their fangs; Ser Perwyn went white.

Hoarfrost Umber stood beneath the door to the godswood. Though only twenty, he was near seven feet tall, and towered over Alys Karstark, who gave Arya a sheepish look. Her betrothed's dark beard bristled over his long fur cloak, his hands balled into fists beneath his gloves.

"I was told the princess was praying," Hoarfrost rumbled, his face twisted by fury. "What prayer is this, for a maiden flowered to bear a sword?"

"I'm not flowered," Arya snapped, forgetting herself. She tightened her grip on Needle, as if somehow that would stop Hoarfrost from striding toward her while everyone else backed away.

"A lie," Hoarfrost growled. "You should have remained at Last Hearth, not returned south. King Robb was too indulgent, and my father overlooked it, knowing the losses he has suffered. The king forgets he is not the only one who weeps. Your hand should have gone to Smalljon, yet here I stand in my brother's stead. You swore the same sacred oaths, my lady, do not dishonor yourself by breaking your word."

"I'm not lying!" Arya shouted, stamping her foot as angry tears welled in her eyes. "I haven't flowered, and I don't want to!"

Hoarfrost had almost reached her, but he paused as though she'd struck him. "Don't want to?" He said, looking hurt. "Am I so loathsome, that you would say such a thing? I have shown you naught but courtesy, turning a blind eye to your childish pursuits."

He frowned at Needle, then looked at Arya, slowly examining her from head to toe. With the godswood so warm, she wore only tunic and breeches. Her arms were strong from wielding Needle and from drawing her bow; her legs were muscled from riding, not slim or plump like those of the older women she'd seen in the baths.

"Perhaps that is why you have not flowered," Hoarfrost said. "You've a woman's hips, aye, but not a woman's softness."

His arm darted out, and he wrenched Needle from her. Arya screamed in terror, afraid that he meant to break it. The sword looked like a toy in Hoarfrost's massive hand, the slim blade fragile. Shaggydog and Nymeria were snarling, she heard Ser Perwyn cry out—

Hoarfrost dropped Needle to the ground.

"The King in the North will hear of this," he said.

When he was gone, Arya crumpled to the ground, her hand and wrist throbbing with pain. No bones were broken; the humiliation hurt worse than the force with which he'd taken Needle. A part of her wished she'd stabbed Hoarfrost, just a little, but how could she? Defending herself from Ramsay Snow was one thing, attacking her betrothed another.

She stared numbly at Needle's hilt as Alys wrapped her arms about her shoulders. Ser Perwyn was trying to calm Rickon, who was yelling curses in the Old Tongue while Shaggydog snarled agreement. Nymeria was quiet. The she-wolf's head drooped, as though she felt as ashamed as Arya did.

When Robb came, Arya was still on the ground, her breeches soaked with mud. Robb didn't kneel beside her, but lifted her to her feet, pulling her toward the rock beside the black pool, beneath the heart tree. Dimly Arya could hear Osha chivvying Rickon away, speaking to him in the Old Tongue, her voice sad and stern. Alys left too, as did Ser Perwyn. They were alone, save for the trees, and the mist of the hot springs, and for a little while they sat in silence. Robb was gentle when he took her left hand in his, turning it this way and that, eyeing how it already swelled.

"Hoarfrost should not have treated you so roughly," Robb said when he let go. "Arya, what I am to do with you?"

"Marry me to someone else?" Arya grumbled, staring at the black pool. She could not bear to look at Robb, to see how disappointed he must be. "An unhappy match breeds a weak alliance, you said so when you decided not to wed Rhea Royce."

"It is far too late for that, and you know it."

Robb sighed; she could almost feel him slumping, his kingly posture for once forgotten.

"I suppose this is my fault. Lady Edythe said you were settling in with the ladies; I thought you'd have lost interest in water dancing by now. Ignoring your little sparring sessions seemed harmless enough; the visits to Wintertown had done no harm. But this ends now, Arya."

She shrank away from him, frightened. "No," Arya pleaded. "Don't break Needle, don't, Jon had it made for me."

Robb gave her a strange look. "I'm not going to break it," he said. "But you cannot escape your duties to play at swords. You are a princess of House Stark, not a spearwife."

"Dacey Mormont is part of your guard," she protested. "And, and Brienne of Tarth is Sansa's sworn sword, and Jonquil Darke defended Good Queen Alysanne—"

"Dacey is a widow," Robb said firmly. "Brienne of Tarth is unlikely to ever wed, and Jonquil Darke has been in her grave for two centuries. And they were not Starks, with the safety of three kingdoms resting upon their marriages. Greatjon Umber is one of my staunchest bannermen; I must show him the same fealty with which he has served me. You will marry Hoarfrost Umber, and that is the end of it."

"I still haven't flowered," Arya protested weakly. "Please, Robb, don't send me away, at least until after Robett Glover comes."

Robb heaved another sigh. "Fine, little sister. Come on, let's have Luwin take a look at your wrist."

Arya didn't see the need to have the maester look at her wrist, and she was quickly proven right. When Luwin came to her chambers, he needed only a cursory look before he said there was nothing wrong with it. Arya was less pleased when Robb asked Luwin about her lack of flowering, including Hoarfrost's concern that it was caused by water dancing.

"I doubt it," Luwin said, stroking the chain about his neck. "Spearwives have been bearing babes for thousands of years, and Maege Mormont bore five babes with no trouble at all. But I can examine Princess Arya, if you wish."

Robb hesitated, giving Arya an awkward glance.

"Yes," Arya insisted, crossing her arms. "Hoarfrost called me a liar." She might be a terrible princess, but she wasn't a liar, and the maester could help her prove it.

What followed was rather more awkward. Robb and Maester Luwin left the room so she might change into a loose shift. When they returned, Robb took up a place next to the head of the bed, holding her hand with his eyes closed tight while Maester Luwin gently poked and prodded at Arya with careful fingers. To her relief, it felt no different than when he tended her cuts and sprains, though she felt very uncomfortable during the last part of the exam. Maester Luwin said nothing except that he was done, and rinsed his hands in vinegar while Arya pulled her shift back down.

"Well?" Arya asked. "I'm not a liar, am I?" She looked up at Robb, gripping his hand. "Tell him, maester, tell him."

"I'm so sorry, princess," the maester said, his grey eyes soft. "You are not a liar, no. Your flowering has not come because—" he swallowed. "Because you have no womb."

Arya stared at him, barely aware that she had let go of Robb's hand. Dimly she heard Robb question the maester, asking how he could tell, whether there could be some mistake, how such a thing could even happen. She didn't realize she was crying until she tasted salt and snot, her chest heaving as she began to pant, her breaths quick and short and not nearly enough to fill her lungs with air. Maester Luwin gave her water, Robb put an arm around her, but it didn't help. She was a freak, there was something wrong with her, something that could not be fixed or learned.

Eventually Robb and Maester Luwin went away, replaced by Alys Karstark, Jeyne, and Meri. All of them were quiet as they helped her into a steaming tub, as if a bath would somehow help. Meri scrubbed her back, Alys sang a funny song about a sailor while Jeyne played her harp, and still Arya said nothing, her voice hoarse from weeping.

"I want my mother," Arya finally sobbed as they were tucking her into bed.

With mother she could have poured her heart out, all her confusion and anger and shame. She hadn't wanted to marry Hoarfrost, or bear his children, so why did she feel so upset? The old gods had heard her prayers, had rescued her when Robb's hands were tied; shouldn't she be grateful? The betrothal would be dissolved; Hoarfrost needed a wife who could give him sons.

"I know," said Alys, wrapping Arya in a warm embrace. It was a loss they shared; Alys' mother had died of a bad belly when she was six.

Jeyne said nothing, just climbed under the covers and curled against Arya's side. Jeyne had never known her mother; she'd died giving her birth. A woman's battle was in the birthing bed, men liked to say, but it was a battle Arya could never lose. She wasn't sure whether she wanted to laugh or start crying again.

"I miss my mother too," Meri whispered.

The maid took a damp cloth and dabbed gently at Arya's face, wiping away the dried snot and streaks of salt. When that was done, Meri and Alys crawled into the bed, pressing against Arya like they were a litter of pups in the kennels. Glad though she was of their company, Arya felt no peace. Her sleep was fitful; when the demon who wore Bran's face came, she yielded to it without a fight, and woke sore and weary, barely able to lift a spoon.

Maester Luwin examined her again, and declared she had suffered a terrible shock and must rest. At least that gave Arya an excuse to hide in her rooms. Meri heard all the servants' gossip, and Jeyne all that of the ladies, and all of it made Arya want to start crying again.

Robb could hardly keep her broken betrothal a secret. Hoarfrost had wanted his great-uncle Hother to examine her too, just to make sure Luwin had not erred. To her relief, Robb had said no, and when Hoarfrost tried to insist, Hother flatly refused to conduct such an exam. Thus chastened, Hoarfrost returned to Last Hearth, after giving her a stiff apology for his rough behavior in the godswood, and agreeing the old gods had shown their wisdom in preventing an ill-suited match.

Queen Margaery was doing her best to set an example of soft pity for the court. Jeyne said she kept reminding everyone how common it was for maids to be found barren, though usually not until after they were wed. How lucky Princess Arya was, to be spared the indignity of trying to conceive for years before she learned the truth. Why, plenty of noble lords had sired children born blind, or deaf, or with clubfeet, or missing limbs; a missing womb was nothing compared to that. Not that that stopped Lady Edythe from wondering if the water dancing was to blame, a blow that cut deeper than any sword. Thankfully the gossip moved on when both Wynafryd Manderly and Mya Stone went into labor in the same week, both babes born small but healthy.

Meri said the servants were even less interested in the princess proving barren. She was Arya Underfoot, after all, and the Beautiful Bane of the Boltons, at least according to the idiot singer who had saddled her with such a terrible song. Warrior maids never wed in the tales. They always died in battle, or fell in love with a lost prince, enjoyed a single night of romance, and then died in battle. Either way, they never had children. That made Arya feel a bit better, until Robb started musing whether he should find her a young widower who already had children.

Robb was not handling her broken betrothal very well. He looked almost as bad as she felt; even Rickon looked a bit weak when he came to visit, even though he was delighted by her broken betrothal. When Rickon visited, it was mostly to cuddle and make her read to him. Robb's visits were less calm. Every time he came to Arya's rooms, he paced, muttered to himself about what Lord Eddard would do, and then left. Thankfully, when she protested the notion of wedding a widower, he'd dropped it right away.

Of course, then Robb started muttering to himself about wedding his heir to an Umber girl, as if planning the marriage of two babes not yet conceived could save him. Greatjon Umber was understanding in the raven he sent from Last Hearth, but he was clearly disappointed. How could Robb expect the Greatjon to tolerate armed wildlings at the Wall if his king did not uphold his promises? Arya hoped Margaery conceived quickly, for Robb's sake; gods knew the servants said they were trying their best.

At least court gossip said Queen Cersei was having to deal with far worse concerns. Peasants were revolting all over the Westerlands, and some Lord Lydden had joined their side with a host of knights and freeriders. The Stormlords were all fighting each other; in Dorne the smallfolk were demanding to fight the Lannisters to avenge not only Lord Gargalen, a hero of the War of the Ninepenny Kings, but the deaths of Elia of Dorne's babes so long ago. In the Reach there was fighting between those who supported the Tyrells and those who supported Lord Tarly; in the crownlands Duskendale was overrun with riots which Lord Tarly had to put down. The High Septon of Oldtown was calling for an end to all the fighting; the High Septon of Harrenhal was encouraging the commons to demand justice from their lords, and to overthrow the blasphemous Cersei Lannister, the brutal Randyll Tarly, and their bastard puppet king.

So when Robett Glover and Ser Deziel Dalt arrived on the last day of ninth moon, it was no surprise that Robb should wish to hear their tidings straight away. Arya felt well enough to walk down all the stairs of the northwest tower, but Ser Perwyn insisted that Hodor carry her, like he used to carry Bran. Once they reached the Great Keep, she was allowed to walk on her own two feet, much to her relief.

Robb received the envoys in the Great Hall, sitting upon his throne. The hall was empty, save for Queen Margaery, who sat beside Robb, and for Arya, who sat to his other side. All of them wore their crowns, their garb made of velvet rather than wool. Why such pageantry was necessary, Arya had no idea; Robb seemed oddly tense, as though expecting something to happen.

Ser Deziel Dalt proved to be a handsome Dornishman in his late twenties. His skin was a glossy deep brown, his hair dark and tightly curled, his beard neatly trimmed. His purple surcoat was of a fine heavy wool, embroidered with bright yellow lemons and green leaves. Robett Glover looked rather plain beside him, his brown beard heavily salted, his red surcoat blazoned with only a silver mailed fist. But when Robb told him that his lady wife and children were already at Winterfell, eager to see him, Robett's smile could have lit the entire hall.

"It has been a long hard journey, Your Grace," Robett said. "We barely made it through the Stepstones, and storms forced us to stop in Tyrosh to make repairs."

"Queen Sansa and the rest of our fleet follows behind, Your Grace," said Ser Deziel. That was odd, Sansa was a princess. "Your sister was in good health when we left, I promise you. They should have left Meereen at the end of eighth moon, and arrive on the shores of Westeros at the beginning of twelfth."

"We shall pray that our sister's ship reaches Westeros unharmed," said Robb, all kingly grace. "Yet I am confused, Ser Deziel. You speak of a fleet, and say nothing of who leads it. Not Daenerys Targaryen, I imagine; you know I would not support her claim."

Ser Deziel inclined his head, and opened his mouth to speak.

"Tell me, ser," Robb said, cutting him off. "Why should I support Rhaegar's son, when I would not support his sister?"

Robett Glover snorted, Margaery tensed, and Arya whipped her head to stare at Robb so fast she almost hurt her neck. What? Rhaegar Targaryen's son was dead, everyone knew that, the Mountain had dashed his head against a wall.

"How long have you known, Your Grace?" Ser Deziel's voice was mild, his smile slightly strained.

"Princess Sansa wrote that Viserion preferred her lord husband, no doubt thanks to his blood." Robb raised an eyebrow. "I thought nothing of that, at first. Why should I? All men knew the Martells had a drop of Targaryen blood. That a dragon should bend to one of them was not so strange, or so I thought, until Robett Glover informed me otherwise."

Deziel turned to Robett, glaring.

"When did you tell him? How long has he known?" He demanded, as if forgetting Robb was there. "A year? Two? For Seven's sake—" Ser Deziel caught himself. "My apologies, Your Grace. Queen Sansa was convinced you did not know."

"Know what?" Arya demanded.

"Sansa is not wed to Ser Olyvar Sand, bastard son of Oberyn Martell," Robb said, baring his teeth in a wolfish smile. "Sansa is wed to Aegon Targaryen, the Sixth of His Name, the trueborn son of Elia of Dorne and Rhaegar Targaryen. I wondered if he would survive Daenerys long enough to come west."

"Empress Daenerys remains in Meereen. It is Aegon who is the rightful heir to the Iron Throne, and comes to claim it," Ser Deziel said proudly. "But Your Grace, why did you never say you knew?"

Robb shrugged. "If he died in Essos, his true name would not matter. Robett's orders were to keep Princess Sansa safe at any cost, and bring her home if he should perish." Robb gave Robett a stern look. "I should like to know why she did not accompany you to White Harbor."

"I tried, Your Grace," said Robett. "The princess would not have it."

"For what it is worth," Ser Deziel said sharply. "Olyvar- King Aegon also urged her to sail with us, and Queen Sansa flatly refused."

Arya resisted the urge to laugh. She wondered if Sansa had refused while in wolf shape. First the gods spared her Hoarfrost, now the gods meant to make her sister a queen. Sansa must be overjoyed; why did Robb look so displeased?

"It is done, then?" Robb asked. "The marriage is consummated; is she already with child?"

"Neither, Your Grace," said Ser Deziel, with the look of a man who dearly wanted to punch something. "Queen Sansa is yet a maiden, the gods only know why. She loves the king as dearly as he loves her."

Robb scoffed, unimpressed. To her surprise, it was not Ser Deziel who took umbrage, but Robett Glover.

"Ser Deziel tells it true," said Robett. "Stubborn young fools."

Robb waved a hand dismissively. "Not stubborn, wise, may the old gods bless their restraint. After all, I never gave my blessing, nor was it asked. If she is yet a maid, the marriage can be annulled."

Arya gaped at him, both bewildered and perplexed. "Why would you do that?"

"Why wouldn't I?" Robb said. "I was resigned to this marriage, but now we can set Sansa free. I could not protect Sansa before; I will not make that mistake again. She could come home, Arya, and wed Hoarfrost in your place. Sansa would never have to leave the North again, never set foot in the mire of King's Landing, where they slew our father before her eyes. To be a queen in the south is to live in peril; ask Margaery, if you don't believe me."

"I believe you," Arya said, grudgingly. "But—"

"Your Grace?" Ser Deziel said, with a smile that did not reach his eyes. "Regardless of the marriage, we have other terms. King Aegon acknowledges that you were acclaimed King in the North, and is content that so you should remain. But the Riverlands and the Vale are not the North; faith and custom them bind them to the Iron Throne. When the Others are defeated and winter ends, he proposes that the Riverlands and Vale choose whether to kneel to House Stark or House Targaryen."

"Agreed," Robb said easily. "The Riverlands are bound to the North by blood and battle. As for the Vale..." he allowed himself a grim smile. "I wish him well with them. The details can be arranged later."

"Of course, Your Grace," Deziel said. "King Aegon has entrusted me to treat with you on his behalf. But I would prefer not to remain here long; it is a hard journey south down the kingsroad. His Grace means to land on Dragonstone; I am to meet him in the crownlands."

"Very well," said Robb. "And you shall not go alone. You shall have an escort of winter wolves, eager to quench their thirst with Lannister blood. Randyll Tarly is not a man to let King's Landing fall into King Aegon's hand like a ripe plum—"

Arya ignored him, her thoughts racing. How could her brother be so foolish? Sansa was stronger than he knew, and she was meant to wear a crown, just as Arya was meant to wield a blade. Hadn't that old crone said so, that night atop High Heart? The queen and her sworn sword, she said, her eyes red as weirwood sap. The old gods meant for it to happen, she must make Robb see sense.

Or maybe not. It would be easier to get Robb to let her go south if he thought it was to bring Sansa back. All Arya had to do was convince Sansa to stop being stupid, at least for however long it took to bed her husband. Then it would be too late. But first, she had to convince Robb.

It was the tenth day of tenth moon when the raven arrived from Sunspear, with letters from Elia of Dorne and from Nymeria Sand. A few days after that, Arya finally persuaded Robb to let her go south.

It was much easier to sort out the rest. Jeyne Poole and Meri said yes before she even asked, and Gendry had already planned to go south, though he was less pleased when she explained why she also wanted Mya Stone to join them. Mya readily agreed, entrusting her babe to Wynafryd Manderly and a wet nurse despite Ser Mychel's fretting. Even Rickon calmed down once Arya swore before the heart tree that she would come back to Winterfell as soon as she could.

Yes, Arya thought when the day came for them to depart.

The wide world lay before her, covered in ice and drifts of snow. And it was flurrying again, the snowflakes melting in her hair. Arya might not be much of a princess, but she still had her sword, her direwolf, her friends. What more did she need? With a glad cry she kicked her horse to a trot, her heart soaring. At last, for the first time in years, she felt free.


Gahhhh!! So much just happened; sound off in the comments!

Next Up

147: Sansa VI

148: Bran V

149: Jon VII

150: Epilogue (Theon)

NOTES

1) Yes, all wolves can swim; there's even a type of wolf, the coastal or sea wolf, that swims frequently.

2) Swimming in cold water is very dangerous. It takes very little time for the body's core temperature to drop; many people drown before they even reach true hypothermia.

3) GRRM doesn't really mention public floggings, but they were popular in medieval times for a wide range of offenses.

4) Travel times, the bane of my life. Margaery left King's Landing at the end of May. It is ~20 days to White Harbor, but there were storms, and stops in isolated coves. Aurane was too paranoid to stop in a port, and rightly so! They paid him, and he dropped them at White Harbor. Winterfell is almost 500 miles west through the snow, a journey of 33 days minimum.

5) Patriarchy and feudalism suck, and even with the best of intentions, Robb was raised believing in that system. He wants to do right by his people and by Arya, but that means he has to make a lot of hard choices. Even Ned, who let Arya have Syrio Forel, expected she would leave her tomboy phase behind.

Arya cocked her head to one side. "Can I be a king's councillor and build castles and become the High Septon?"

"You," Ned said, kissing her lightly on the brow, "will marry a king and rule his castle, and your sons will be knights and princes and lords and, yes, perhaps even a High Septon."

I love Ned. But. Her lessons with Syrio were a treat; Ned wasn't gonna let her defy feudal patriarchy long term.

6) Making Arya barren was an idea that came to me early on. It's one of the few ways for her to escape the default expectation of marrying and bearing children, and while few novels cover menstruation, even fewer (if any?) mention the reality that some girls never menstruate.

Arya's condition is called MRKH. It's a birth defect where the reproductive system doesn't develop completely. It affects 1 in roughly 4,500 women worldwide, or over 850,000 women, including myself. It is so, so weird sometimes, missing out on an experience that is taken for granted as part of "womanhood."

I repeatedly foreshadowed the existence of barren women in earlier chapters; funnily enough, Jaime suspects Pia is barren in canon.

Chapter 86: Gilly II

Barren Freltha slept with her chisel and hammer, the tools as precious to her as if they were her babes.

Chapter 132: Edythe II

It was a miracle Pia had survived months of torment without getting with child; the girl must surely be barren.

Chapter 141: Edythe III

"Sorry," Sister Pia shrugged when the sister turned to her. "I never got my blood." She frowned, then dug in her pockets. "Would a kerchief work?"