Early February 305


Somehow, she had not expected the scent of a dragon to be so bad.

Arya Stark wrinkled her nose, trying not to gag. Instead, she focused upon the sight before her eyes, that of a wonder both strange and terrible.

The light of the afternoon sun shone down on the dragon's scales. They were deep green, yet somehow faded, like a jade carving dimmed by a coat of dust. Each tooth was a long black dagger, each claw sharp as a sword. One eye socket lay empty and shriveled; the other eye stared, the pool of molten bronze turned cold and lifeless. His horns and spinal crest were bronze too, and the bones of his one remaining wing. The other was gone, snapped off at the root, leaving a wound crawling with hungry maggots.

"Rhaegal," Arya breathed.

Nymeria was less impressed with the beast lying upon the shore. Annoyed by the dragonstink, she loped toward the God's Eye, her paws kicking up snow. While the direwolf jumped into the water with a splash, Arya kept on staring, fascinated. How did a live dragon compare to a dead one? She could hardly wait to find out.

Arya bit her lip. In only a few weeks, they would reach King's Landing. In only a few weeks, she would see her sister. It was a reunion she had looked forward to for months, yet as it drew near, she felt a pang of dread. Sansa was a queen now, and Arya was just Arya, a poor excuse for a princess. Would Sansa even have time for her? She must have proper ladies, dozens of them. Arya imagined them looking up at their queen adoringly, then turning with looks of well bred disapproval when her scapegrace sister dared to intrude upon their circle.

Since they left Winterfell, Arya had grown used to looks of polite dismay. She saw them at each castle where they stopped to spend the night. The lords and ladies tried to hide them, of course, wary of offending the Princess of Winterfell.

But a water dancer was no fool. Arya caught the way their lips tightened when they saw her brown hair fluttering about her shoulders, short as a boy's. She marked how their eyes darted as they pretended not to notice Arya wore tunic and breeches on the road. As a courtesy, she always changed into a gown for supper, but dagged sleeves could not hide her well-muscled arms, nor a silk bodice create the curves she lacked.

"So, child," a gruff voice said, interrupting her thoughts. "Have you looked your fill?"

"Not yet, great-uncle," Arya replied.

Her eyes flickered to the lake, where Nymeria swam in circles. When she glanced over her shoulder, it was to see Ser Brynden Tully, raising a bushy grey eyebrow. His hair was grey too, his face weathered, his eyes a deep blue that reminded Arya of her mother, his beloved niece. His cloak was the blue-and-red of Riverrun, pinned with a shiny black fish made of obsidian.

"Ugly creature," Brynden Blackfish said. "Though proof, at least, that whatever else he may be, your sister's husband is no craven."

"We knew that already," Arya grumbled under her breath. Her great-uncle might be here as Robb's envoy, but must he always think the worst?

When her retinue of winter wolves rode into the Twins just after the new year, Arya had expected to be greeted by a castellan. Instead, her uncle Lord Edmure Tully had awaited them, along with his wife Lady Roslin and their young sons. Little Hoster was three, and the even littler Perwyn was only one. When Lady Roslin handed him to her brother, Ser Perwyn Truefaith, Arya's sworn sword had almost cried.

Roslin was less overcome by the meeting; she fairly beamed as she rubbed the swell of her belly. "Our third babe should come in fifth moon, princess," she said, seeing Arya glance at her curiously. Then Roslin remembered herself. Arya wished she hadn't; the crestfallen look of pity cut deeper than a sword.

Thankfully, then Brynden Blackfish had come forward to introduce himself, and the moment passed. Arya took to her great-uncle like a fish to water, and the appearance of Lady Ravella Smallwood raised her spirits further, as did the news she brought. Little Nan was seven now, and thriving. The orphaned babe she and Sansa had found during their wanderings in the Riverlands now belonged to Lady Smallwood's master of horse and his wife, whose own children had died of measles.

Ser Brynden and Lady Smallwood accompanied Arya and her retinue when they left a few days later, leading their horses onto a fleet of barges. Down the Green Fork they had floated, the miles passing by as Ser Brynden filled her ears with tales of battles and hunting bandits. When at last they reached the Ruby Ford, they disembarked, returning to the kingsroad.

Arya would have ridden straight for King's Landing, but she had been overruled. Ser Brynden Blackfish and Ser Deziel Dalt insisted on paying their respects to the High Septon of Harrenhal and obtaining his blessing. It was a desire shared by many of the winter wolves, those who came from White Harbor and followed the Seven.

With a sigh Arya looked away from the corpse of the dragon, up at the looming, slagged towers of Harrenhal. It was only a few days since they arrived at the end of first moon, but it felt like an eternity. Could dragons really have fought over the God's Eye a mere fortnight ago? She would not have believed it, if not for the ripe stench of rotting dragon, and the babbling of the folk of Harrenhal and Harrentown.

No one would shut up about the dragon battle, or about Strongspear the Squire turning out to be Aegon Targaryen. Ser Brynden's mouth tightened every time he heard the name. Her great-uncle had not shared her satisfaction that the letters declaring Aegon's claim to the throne also declared Sansa Stark to be his queen.

"King Robb did not give his blessing," Brynden Blackfish had glowered just this morning. Ser Deziel Dalt had blithely ignored him, adding honey to his porridge and stirring it in with a smile.

Somehow, Arya thought Robb had other things on his mind as he marched north. The Wall is cracked. The knowledge should frighten her, but she obstinately refused to be afraid. It was Lord Commander Jon Snow who held the Wall, and her brother had killed a dragon. What was an Other compared to that? Robb and Jon would beat them, just like Bran had beaten that awful demon with the thousand red eyes. And now Bran was coming home, she knew it...

Arya wondered how Bran would feel when he saw Winterfell again. To her surprise, she missed it less than she had expected. Perhaps it was because she had brought so much of home with her. Jeyne Poole and Merissa of Sherrer stood not ten yards away, pinching their noses and whispering in horror as they looked at the dragon. Gendry did not share their squeamishness; he stood closer to the dragon than anyone else, silent and wide-eyed as he examined every inch from snout to tail.

Well, he might not be talking to her, but at least he was finally out of the forge. A journeyman armorer needed to learn, she knew that, but did Gendry have to disappear every time they stopped somewhere with a master armorer? And when they made camp, he was always working, repairing old armor or forging new pieces to replace what could not be repaired. For Gendry's sake, Arya hoped the old master armorer Tobho Mott was still around, but she doubted she'd ever see hide nor hair of Gendry if he was.

"How long must we look at the cursed thing?" Dacey Mormont said in a low voice.

Dacey stood further back. She guarded the approach to the lake, her morningstar at the ready. Too far away for Arya to hear, but not for Nymeria, who had trotted over to say hello, soaking wet from her swim.

"Knowing the princess, she'll get bored soon," said Ser Perwyn, sounding resigned. "Thank the Seven. Were she a few years younger, no doubt she'd be trying to climb it, and I'd have to get her down before she broke her neck somersaulting off its back."

Arya grinned. It was a pity her favorite sworn swords were rarely on duty together. She had ten in all, warriors chosen by Robb for their skill and loyalty. Two of them guarded her at all times, along with six men-at-arms. Ondrew smirked as Porther tossed him a copper star, having lost some bet over the dragon, whilst Harwood, Therry, Byam, and Gaven stood at attention, halberds in their hands.

The guards barely twitched when Nymeria raced past them, but Arya frowned, confused. Nymeria, come back here. The she-wolf ignored her. A puff of wind had wafted new scents to her nose, ones she much preferred to the stink of rotting dragon. Nymeria ran toward the smell, toward a gaggle of smallfolk approaching from Harrentown.

To Arya's surprise, there were no shouts of alarm when the direwolf loped among them. If anything, the smallfolk walked faster. By the time they drew near the fallen dragon, Arya's guards had formed up, their halberds pointing at the smallfolk. Jeyne Poole and Meri stood behind her, one to either side; Ser Perwyn, Ser Brynden, Dacey Mormont, and Gendry were arrayed in a crescent between her and the smallfolk.

When all of the smallfolk dropped to their knees, Arya could not help but stare. Her great-uncle was staring too, his sharp eyes narrowed as he examined the little crowd. There were perhaps a score of them, men and women, old and young. All of them were unarmed, and all of them looked vaguely familiar. At their head knelt a plump man in a leather apron, who looked up at her as if she were not real. Arya knew him, she did, he was a stonemason, bound for the Wall until Yoren's death sent him to the hollow hill...

"Cutjack?" Arya said, bewildered.

Jeyne blinked, Meri exhaled, and Gendry relaxed. None of her other guards did. If anything, Ser Brynden drew a little closer. When Nymeria sat on her haunches beside the smallfolk, he raised an eyebrow, as if doubting the direwolf's judgment.

"Princess Arya," Cutjack replied. "Well met." He glanced nervously at the halberds.

"Put those down," Arya commanded.

The men-at-arms hesitated, eyeing her great-uncle's tense shoulders and stern expression. Only after Nymeria snarled did her guards obey, returning to standing at attention. Dacey Mormont was less cooperative. Rather than put up her morningstar, she smiled and gave it an idle toss.

"The gods are good," Cutjack said, when Arya gestured for him and everyone else to rise to their feet. "We were that relieved, when word came o' Queen Sansa's return—"

"We never thought to see you here, m'lady," interrupted a gangly young man, grinning. Arya recalled his face, but not his name. Tom? Torbert? "And—"

"I believe an explanation is in order," Ser Brynden said, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

The question was put to Cutjack, but it was Arya who answered, eager to make her great-uncle understand. He listened patiently as she spoke of the hollow hill, of outlaws and smallfolk. When she was done, Ser Brynden crossed his arms, a deep frown on his lined face.

"We owe you thanks, m'lord," the gangly youth said when Arya was done. Tarber, that was it, and the girl beside him was Shirei. "Everyone knows 'twas Brynden Blackfish who hunted down all the bandits and made the Riverlands safe again." Tarber ducked his head as he bowed, first to the Blackfish, then to Arya. "The princess has your blood, m'lord, even when she were only a girl."

"She does, at that," Shirei chimed in. "Her and her sister both."

"Oh?" Ser Brynden gave Arya a look, as if he had known all along how much she had left out of the tale. "Pray, continue, I should like to hear of their deeds."

Horrified, Arya could only listen as the smallfolk leapt to follow the Blackfish's command. For every deed or kindness laid at Sansa's feet, there were just as many for which they praised Arya. They spoke of the wolf packs who guarded the hollow hill, silent sentinels who served Princess Arya as faithfully as hounds. They spoke of Nymeria attacking Lannister soldiers and gelding rapers, of Princess Arya teaching the little ones to defend themselves.

Arya could feel her face turning redder and redder with every word. It was one thing for the northmen to praise her for slaying Ramsay Snow, even if most of the songs were terrible. This was something very different, and it made her uneasy.

"So, m'lord," Cutjack finally said, when everyone else had finished. "That's why we had to come pay our respects, when we heard the princess were out by the lake."

"And now you've paid them," Ser Brynden said briskly. "I believe it is time the princess returned to Harrenhal, and you to your work."

So soon? Arya had barely had a chance to talk to them, and her friends hadn't gotten to say anything at all.

"But first, they shall walk with us back to the castle," Arya said, raising her voice so it carried. She didn't bother trying a pleading look on her great-uncle. Instead she glared, and Nymeria growled low in her throat.

"Come along, you heard me," Arya said.

And with that, she strode toward Harrenhal. Jeyne, Meri, and Gendry came too, their pattens leaving a trail in the wet snow. After a moment, Ser Perwyn, Dacey, and her men-at-arms followed, leaving the Blackfish behind, his face inscrutable.

Thankfully, her guards did not hover over Arya as she asked after the folk she had once known and protected. Tarber and Shirei were now wed, to the disapproval of gruff Damina and several of the old grandfathers and grandmothers. Liane and her son little Pate were in good health, though the widow lamented the lack of unmarried men in Harrentown. The cousins Bethany and Tansy were widows too, though much older than Liane, who was not yet thirty. Once Bethany and Tansy had taken Meri off in search of cows to milk; now they scraped by by spinning thread, and Patrek and Theo and a dozen other boys and girls found work where they could.

Almost all of the folk of the hollow hill had come to Harrentown, it seemed. Not all, though. Gendry was disappointed to hear that Ronnel the smith had gone back to his old village, along with the only one of his sons who had survived the fighting. And Meri went very pale when she heard that Celia had passed away, the ancient grandmother having never returned to the holdfast from which both of them hailed.

"What of Sherrer?" Jeyne Poole asked hopefully. "Has it been rebuilt?"

"No, m'lady," said Cutjack.

It seemed Lord Karyl Vance of Wayfarer's Rest lacked the means to rebuild all the villages and holdfasts burned when the westermen swept over his lands. Sherrer was a ruin now, her people scattered. Celia did not lie there, in the lichyard where all her family were buried. Instead they had buried her atop the hollow hill, within the ring of weirwood saplings Sansa had planted.

"She couldn't ask for a finer grave," said Tansy. "Less she were a noble, fit for a tomb in some holy sept. Now t' Mother, Maiden, and Crone watch over her, and wrap their arms around her bones."

Ser Perwyn sputtered, leaving Arya to ask what Tansy meant. Everyone agreed that the weirwoods belonged to the old gods, not the new. Everyone, except the folk of the hollow hill. Arya listened, bewildered, as they talked of white sprouts and bloody sap and sacred visions.

When they reached the gates of Harrenhal, they pleaded to follow her in. They wanted to pray in the godswood, and His High Holiness would not give them leave. Arya scowled. She had prayed beneath the heart tree each night since they arrived. Why shouldn't they join her?

As Arya suspected, the holy brothers manning the gatehouse didn't dare argue with the Princess of Winterfell. Brynden Blackfish didn't gainsay her either, though he stalked off to Kingspyre Tower. Everyone else followed Arya to the godswood.

As they knelt in the snow before the massive weirwood, some of the smallfolk gave the tree uneasy looks. Unlike Arya, they were not used to the twisted mouth, the narrowed eyes, the pale trunk scarred with thirteen dark wounds. One of the youngest boys cried and hid behind his kneeling mother, while a maid a few years older than Arya kept looking at Gendry's blue eyes rather than the weirwood's red ones. When the maid saw Arya's scowl, she blushed, and bowed her head in prayer.

Really, Arya should have bowed her head and closed her eyes too, like Jeyne Poole, who knelt beside her. Gendry and Meri did not kneel, but stood close by. They belonged to the Seven, not the old gods. They said their prayers in the sept, one at the Hour of the Smith, the other at the Hour of the Maiden.

The bells were tolling five when Brynden Blackfish appeared. Behind him was the High Septon, Paul the Pious, followed by seven lay brothers and lay sisters. The dwarf carried a golden staff that overtopped him by a foot, its seven-sided crystal shining. His garb was less impressive. There was no crown to cover his brown tonsure and bald pink head, and his brown roughspun robes were as homely as his broad face.

Quietly, Arya stood, so as not to disturb the silence. The smallfolk did not notice the High Septon until their prayers were done. Then they turned toward him, still on their knees. They waited for Paul the Pious to speak, most of them looking nervous, a few hopeful. But the High Septon said nothing, only stood, thoughtful.

It was Brynden Blackfish who bade the smallfolk rise. A glance from Arya, and her friends left the godswood with them. When they were gone, Arya and the High Septon were alone, save for her guards and his tail, who stood at a distance so they might speak privily. Yet the High Septon still said nothing, his brown eyes contemplative as he gazed at her.

"Your High Holiness," Arya said, when she could stand it no longer.

"Princess Arya." The dwarf inclined his head. "I had not expected guests in my godswood."

Arya stared back at him. Did he want an apology?

"Septs are open to everyone," she said bluntly. "Aren't they?"

"They are."

Arya kept staring, waiting for the High Septon to turn away, or to start yelling. He did neither. Instead he gestured toward an older lay sister of perhaps fifty, who wore the yellow robes of the Crone.

"Sister Edythe will gladly show you back to your chambers."

"Thank you, Your High Holiness," Arya said, biting back the urge to tell him she knew the way. "But I had not finished my prayers."

"Then I shall leave you to them, princess."

And with that, the High Septon left. He was followed by all of his tail save Sister Edythe, who seemed rather cranky. She stood, thin lips pursed, staring not at Arya, but in her general direction.

Annoyed at having trapped herself, Arya got back on her knees. For a little while she did naught but breathe, and let herself slip through the underbrush with Nymeria. The godswood sprawled over twenty acres, perfect for a restless wolf to ramble. Frost clung to bushes and trees, their branches bare. They would only sprout buds and leaves when spring returned to wake life from the barren world.

Arya felt a pang of anger. She would always be barren, no matter the season. Glad as she was to be spared wedding Hoarfrost and bearing his children, why had the gods chosen to curse her so? She would turn sixteen in only a few moons, but everyone said the true mark of womanhood was moonblood. True, getting it sounded miserable, but it felt so strange, hearing other girls and women talk of an experience she would never share.

"What does The Seven-Pointed Star say about barren women?"

Sister Edythe was the only one within earshot; she must have known the question was for her. Yet long minutes dragged by, with no sound but the wind in the trees. Perhaps the sister was hard of hearing? Arya was about to repeat herself when she heard the sister clear her throat.

"And as he walked the hills of Andalos, Hugor of the Hill came upon a weeping woman. Her clothes were torn to show her shame, for she was barren, and her husband had cast her out. Yet as Hugor told her of the Seven, her tears did cease, and a look of wonder came upon her, and she fell to her knees before the gods' chosen."

The sister cleared her throat again; her voice was raspy, as if from disuse.

"And Hugor said to her, child, do not weep. Pray to the Mother, and she shall show you the way to serve Her will, for it was she who denied you children. And the barren woman prayed, yet knew not the Mother's will, and begged to follow Hugor to the next village, for she could not return to her husband's house."

"Days and days they walked, until they came upon a village. All were in mourning, for the headman's beloved wife had died in childbed, leaving behind six sons and daughters and a new babe like to die for want of milk. And as the babe wailed, the barren woman felt her breasts grow heavy, and knew the Mother's will, and nursed the babe as if it were her own, and the headman took her in honor as his wife. So says the Book of the Mother, chapter two, verse twenty-three."

Arya wrinkled her nose, confused."Shouldn't the barren woman have asked the Maiden for help?" Arya might have ignored Septa Mordane's sermons, but even she knew it was the Maiden who protected women.

Sister Edythe frowned. "The barren woman prayed to the Mother because she wanted children."

"What if she didn't?"

Sister Edythe blinked. "I… don't know, princess. Some barren women become septas, or find some other way to serve the gods."

Arya snorted. She would make an awful septa. Leaving Sister Edythe in peace, she looked back at the weirwood. How could she serve the old gods? Somehow Arya could not help thinking of another weirwood, a mere sapling. She was so young then, only a girl, but she had meant the oath which she had sworn in the godswood of the Red Keep…

Arya's thoughts were still a muddle that evening. A half moon shone silver outside her window, and Arya itched to run beneath it like Nymeria did. Instead, she must ready herself for bed, and rise early for a long day of riding. Jeyne Poole was busy packing the last of Arya's clothes, which left Meri to help her into a clean sleeping shift.

"Sherrer might be gone, but why didn't the rest of them go home?" Arya could not understand it. Most of the folk of the hollow hill had never gone beyond their lord's lands, not until they fled the fighting as the Lannisters burned and pillaged.

Meri hesitated, holding the sleeping shift up so Arya could slide her head and arms in.

"Princess…"

"Maybe they wanted to live by a lake?" Jeyne interrupted. "It's very pretty, and the air smells so sweet."

Meri's eyes flashed as she tugged the sleeping shift down and smoothed it out. "No," she said. "They didn't go back because they couldn't."

"Why not?" Jeyne asked. She bent over an open chest, oblivious to the scathing look Meri was giving her. "They have legs, don't they? Surely their old villages were closer to the hollow hill than Harrenhal."

"If they even knew the way back." Meri's face was flushed. "Most of them came from villages smaller than Sherrer. Would you go back, knowing you'd find only ash and bones?"

"No, but their lords would have sent them to rebuild other villages," Jeyne said, dismissive.

"Villages full of strangers," Meri snapped. Usually at this point she would be fetching things for Arya to clean her teeth, but she had forgotten the princess. "Or they could stay together, find a new home together. We lost everything and everyone we ever knew, of course they clung to each other!"

Tears welled in her eyes; Jeyne looked startled.

"Winterfell isn't Sherrer," she said in a soothing tone. "But it's a great castle, not a pitiful little holdfast."

"So? Gendry still misses the Street of Steel, why can't I miss Sherrer?" Meri sniffled. "I liked working with the cows. And all the other servants, they don't know the tales my mother told me, or the songs we sang, or if they do, the words or the tune are wrong!"

Meri's eyes darted to Arya, finally remembering where she was.

"Beg pardon, princess, I… I…"

Arya pretended to yawn, and beat a hasty retreat to her featherbed. Once there, she closed the drapes, the better to ignore the angry whispers and sniffling. She could clean her teeth in the morning. She was already dozing off when Jeyne crawled into the other side of the bed.

That night, Arya dreamed of the day she left Winterfell. The heart tree loomed above her, its solemn face as familiar as her own. Silently she prayed for herself, for her sister, for her brothers, for an end to the winter. There was no answer, save for whispers of song fluttering upon the wind, and the sudden warmth of a summer sun.

When Arya awoke, the bed was empty, and her mouth tasted vile. Thankfully, Meri had already set out a flagon of fresh water on the table beside the bed, along with a rough linen cloth and a small jar of ground salt and sage. After Arya had scrubbed her teeth vigorously, Meri helped her dress in her riding clothes, a leather jerkin, tunic and breeches, all in grey trimmed and embroidered with white.

Jeyne Poole was already dressed, a jerkin laced up over her blue and grey gown. Almost as soon as Arya finished dressing, a lay sister appeared bearing a tray. Jeyne thanked her, and bade her summon porters to carry down the princess's things.

Arya presided over an awkward breakfast as the porters came and went. Mercifully, one of her sworn swords, Ser Joseth Woolfield, appeared just as they finished eating. Everything was in order; the host was ready to depart Harrenhal at the princess's leisure.

The skies might be cloudy, the ground ankle deep in snow, but none of that mattered. There was nothing like being on horseback, the waters of the God's Eye gleaming as they followed the lake road south along the shore.

Winter it might be, yet they had made good time on their journey thus far. Heading south was always easier than heading north. All the roads looked worse from a distance than they proved when the host drew near. Drifts of snow and sheets of ice melted into pools from which the horses drank, yet the ground was still firm and frozen beneath their hooves. Arya rarely felt cold; she wore only a scant few layers of heavy wool, and didn't bother with her furs unless there was snow or frigid winds.

"Good morrow, niece."

"Good morrow, uncle," Arya said, biting back a sigh as Brynden Blackfish reined up beside her. He couldn't scold her at dinner last night, not in front of their guests, but she'd hoped that meant he would leave her be.

"Ser Patrek Mallister has the outriders well in hand, or so he claims," the Blackfish said. "Bad winds, today."

Brynden Blackfish scowled, one hand resting on his stiff leg. He had broken it descending from the Eyrie, and though healed, it pained him in the cold. Riding with the column was warmer than riding with the outriders, or so her great-uncle claimed. An excuse to keep a close eye on Arya, more likely.

Fortunately, the scolding never came. Instead, Brynden filled the hours telling her stories about his youth at Riverrun. In those days he was a household knight, already renowned for his service in the War of the Ninepenny Kings. Yet for every story about chasing bandits, there was another about his beloved nieces, Catelyn and Lysa, and his nephew Edmure. It was strange, thinking of Lady Catelyn as a little girl who made mud pies.

"That ended when Minisa died." Her great-uncle's shoulders drooped, just a little. "Cat was only eleven, Lysa nine, Edmure a babe of two. With her lady mother gone, Hoster insisted that Cat take up her duties and begin running the household. She took to it like a fish to water, but..."

He shook his head.

"I told Hoster that children should be children. I meant for him to ask less of Cat; instead he asked nothing of Lysa and Edmure, save their obedience. Edmure became a man long after he came of age, but Lysa is a child still, governed by whim rather than reason. Soon she and her son will pay for her folly with their lives. Think of that, child, when the next idle whim seizes you. His High Holiness might have made things very difficult, had he taken offense to your antics."

"I will," Arya said grudgingly. Then she remembered something.

"Did Lord Hoster make things very difficult, when you refused to wed?"

Brynden Blackfish snorted.

"Sometimes I wish you were a little less like your mother. Yes, he did. Why, do you fancy following my example?"

"Maybe," Arya admitted. She chewed on her lip.

"Hmph."

For the rest of the day, Arya alternated between watching the road, the lake, and her great-uncle. She knew why she didn't want to marry, but what about him? No quiet rumors followed Brynden Blackfish the way they followed Ser Loras Tyrell. Nor had she heard of some woman he loved and lost. His refusal to wed was odd, but no one cast it in his face.

Perhaps, if her great-uncle could be a blackfish, Arya could be a blackwolf. Wait, no, that was silly. Rickon was the one with a black direwolf, not her. Or maybe the blackwolf was Jon. Back at Winterfell, Ondrew and Porther had argued over whether Jon Snow should be called the Black Wolf, for the Night's Watch, or the White Wolf, for Ghost's pale fur. Arya didn't care, she just wanted to see him again, and every league took her further from the Wall.

But closer to Sansa, Arya reminded herself when they stopped for the night. The closest inn was tiny, and they had passed it with several hours of good daylight left. Arya was glad; that meant they must make camp.

A bustling camp was glorious, almost as good as the Wintertown. Whilst men raised tents and set up horselines, Arya wandered, drinking in the sights and sounds. She saw bakers at their ovens, and wondered how flour became bread. She saw outriders come in to make reports, saw men dig latrine trenches and set up the perimeter stakes, even though the odds of attack were slim. She heard men argue over dice and gambling debts, over whose lord was the most fearsome or valiant, over which camp followers were the prettiest or most skilled.

Of course, Arya was not allowed to prowl alone. Her sworn swords and men-at-arms trailed her, as did Nymeria when she was not exploring. Jeyne Poole never did; she was busy overseeing the princess's household.

Arya had not realized she would require so many servants. At Robb's insistence, she was always guarded by two knights and six men-at-arms. As they served in shifts, and required days off, that meant she must have ten knights, and thirty men-at-arms. Arya found that absurd, but Robb declared he would not be moved. And then there was the cook, the washerwomen, the master of horses and the farrier, the scribes who assisted Jeyne with her work.

At Jeyne's request, her uncle Torrhen Poole had given her lessons on what a steward must know. All Arya had to do was supervise, the way Lady Edythe Cerwyn had taught her. Each week she reviewed the ledgers, checking the tidy rows of numbers and doing the sums again herself. She listened to Jeyne's reports on any problems which had arisen, and settled any quarrels among the servants which required Arya's attention.

Lady Smallwood could not find fault with their arrangement, though she did make a few changes which Arya disliked. Apparently it was not acceptable for Arya to have a quick dinner before practicing with Needle. Nevermind that Arya sometimes agreed to dine with her highest bannermen in their pavilions; no, she must host them herself, at least once every sennight.

Alas, tonight was one of those nights. While Jeyne saw to the cook, Meri helped Arya dress. Her tangled hair was brushed, her riding clothes changed for a gown. Bronze wolf heads hung at her ears; her bronze direwolf circlet sat atop her head.

The bannermen invited to join her this evening dressed just as well as she did. Ser Marlon Manderly's violet doublet was of plush velvet, blazoned with three mermaids in silver thread. His chain was silver too, set with mother-of-pearl seashells and jade tridents. Cousin to Lord Wyman Manderly, Ser Marlon led the largest part of her host, which came from White Harbor and its neighboring fiefs.

Lord Artos Woolfield wore a velvet doublet too. A rich deep plum color, it was covered in embroidered scrollwork, white as his beard and the woolsacks of his sigil. Ser Lew Locke, the elderly brother of the even older Lord Ondrew Locke, also wore purple velvet, patterned with their crossed bronze keys.

Then there were the Flints. So, so many Flints, all in heavy wool. Those in yellow blazoned with blue eyes and waves came from Widow's Watch. Greybeards or youth alike, all were distant cousins of Lady Lyessa Flint, whose eldest son Robin had died at the Red Wedding taking crossbow bolts meant for Robb.

The Flints of Widow's Watch were extremely proud of this, much to the resentment of the Flints of Flint's Finger. They wore tunics, striped black and white, with silver hand brooches upon their chests. All of them were youths, just barely too young to fight in the War of Five Kings, and only allowed to fight now because they were younger sons. The oldest of them, Beron Flint, was the same age as Gendry, only twenty. Despite sharing Arya's middling height of only five and a half feet, he was as burly as a bear, and just as ill-tempered. His cousins all called him the Fist, ever since he killed a man in Wintertown with a single blow.

No one seemed to know why Beron killed the man, though. Arya had heard countless rumors. Some said it was over an insult to his mother. Some said the man had called him craven. Some said the man had dragged a sheep into a tavern, and bade him fuck it because all mountain clansmen preferred sheep to women.

That didn't make any sense. Beron wasn't a mountain Flint. That was the First Flints. Their tunics might be green, but all of them were greybeards, like their leader, Torghen Flint. The Old Flint was not impressed with Beron's fists, an insult which the Flints of Flint's Finger took with ill grace.

Last of Arya's guests was Lord Hugo Wull, better known as Big Bucket. Brown buckets were patterned across his blue tunic, the wool stretched tight over his massive belly. His sons and best fighters had remained with Robb, to help lead him to the Wall, but Big Bucket had insisted on taking every greybeard and callow youth south to quench their blades with Lannister blood.

"Bolton blood would have been just as sweet," declared Big Bucket. "But Ned's girl didn't leave any for us."

Arya took a vicious bite of salted beef, ignoring the roar of laughter from the Flints of Flint's Finger. Lady Smallwood, who sat beside her, frowned, eyebrows raised.

"Surely the songs exaggerate."

Big Bucket grinned as he launched into the tale. By the end, almost everyone was slamming their empty tankards on the table as Lord Woolfield attempted to sing part of The She-Wolf in a Bloody Gown. At least it wasn't The Beautiful Bane of the Boltons.

Thankfully, once dinner ended, Arya could dismiss her guests. One by one they obeyed, the men bowing deeply before taking their leave, while Lady Smallwood dipped a curtsy. It was too early for bed, but too late to practice her water dancing. Annoyed, Arya sat and sulked while Jeyne played her harp.

If Alys Karstark had come with her, there'd be a pretty voice singing over the harp. But Alys couldn't ride with her all day and sing every night. No, her brother Lord Harrion Karstark had decided that since King Robb was no longer available, Alys should wed someone else, as soon as possible.

Alys might have wed Hoarfrost Umber, had she accepted the quiet offer he made before leaving Winterfell. No one had known about that, not even Arya, until Alys told her shortly before she left. Alys had rejected him before he could even finish his proposal, and quickly persuaded Cley Cerwyn to ask for her hand. Now they were wed, and Alys was one of Queen Margaery's ladies-in-waiting, rather than one of Arya's.

Arya also wished she could have brought Wynafryd Manderly. Alas, she was busy with her children. Wyman was almost two; the new babe, Bethany, was only four moons old. It seemed cruel to part Ser Perwyn from his wife and children, but he refused to let her go south without him.

Mya Stone didn't seem to mind leaving her husband and babe behind. Little Myranda Redfort was also four moons old, but unlike Bethany, she screamed all the time. Desperate for sleep, Mya had handed her over to a wet nurse and never took her back. By the time her milk dried up a few weeks later, she was back in the saddle, against her midwife's advice.

"You should be grateful," Mya had told her, one day when they were riding down a clear stretch of the kingsroad. "Not all women are meant to be mothers."

Arya had no chance to reply; Mya had already kicked her horse to a gallop. Arya had not seen her again until they made camp, and then only briefly. Mya had berated her men to raise her tent faster, then hidden inside it, weeping so loud that everyone could hear. The next day, it was if nothing had happened.

Whatever Mya's thoughts on motherhood, Arya had to admit it was nice not to bleed every month. Meri had been wincing all day; Nymeria could smell the heavy flow of blood that seeped into the moon cloth she wore inside her smallclothes. Losing that much blood couldn't be pleasant, and cramps sounded even worse.

"Meri gets a foul temper, during her moonblood," Jeyne said later, as she helped Arya take off her gown. Her voice was lofty and superior, as if she were seventy, not seventeen. "That's why she forgot herself last night."

"No, it isn't!" Meri snapped from across the tent, where she was mending a torn hem. "I lost my temper because you refuse to understand! The folk of the hollow hill are our people, they should have come with us, and you wouldn't even let me ask!"

"The Blackfish wouldn't have let me, anyway," Arya said bitterly. She already had a household; she didn't need dozens of new servants. "He'd have said it was a silly whim."

"The princess is right," Jeyne agreed, her face turning a splotchy red.

"If the Blackfish said no, that would be one thing." Meri stabbed the needle into the cloth. "But he might have listened, if you let me ask Princess Arya, instead of giving up without even trying."

There was nothing to be said after that. Nor the next morning, when all of them rose, sullen and silent. Brynden Blackfish was with the outriders today, leaving Arya to ride with Ser Perwyn Truefaith and Ser Deziel Dalt. To her annoyance, both were in good humor. They took turns singing songs, most of them ballads about knights who missed their lady loves.

"Sing something more cheerful," Arya finally said. It was late afternoon, and if she had to hear one more ballad, she might have Nymeria bite someone.

Ser Perwyn obliged, singing Wolf in the Night, a song about Robb's victory at Oxcross. Ser Deziel responded with Flowers of Spring. There were far more verses than Arya remembered, about all the lovely flowers found only in Dorne.

The song had just ended when an enormous inn appeared in the distance. It was three stories tall, with a bell tower atop the roof, a long stable to one side of the inn, and sty full of squealing pigs to the other.

"Pay up," Ondrew yelled. "It's the same size as the Crossroads Inn."

Porther and Byam groaned. They didn't know Ondrew had cheated; she'd heard him asking about the nearby inns back at Harrenhal. It wasn't fair to let him win when he kept placing bets he already knew the answer to.

"What's in the courtyard?" Arya called.

"A block of marble, princess, veined with gold," Ondrew answered.

Then he realized they couldn't see the courtyard yet. Arya smiled for the first time all day as she listened to the other men-at-arms yell at Ondrew and demand their money back. Then Byam threatened to stab him, and Arya hastily intervened, ordering Ondrew to pay back every coin he'd won in the past fortnight.

"If he doesn't, he'll answer to Nymeria," Arya promised as they rode into the stableyard.

Normally, Nymeria would growl at that point. When she didn't, Arya looked over at her, confused. The direwolf's entire body was rigid, her ears pricked, her nose pointing at the sky. The horses sensed something amiss too; all of them stared the same direction as the wolf, ears held back, the whites of their eyes showing. There was a speck of white against the grey clouds, wheeling like a bird—

Arya's eyes widened in disbelief. Not a bird. A dragon.

Viserion descended slowly, oh so slowly. By the time she landed, Arya and those who had ridden with her were afoot, their anxious horses given over to the stable boys. Nymeria crouched at her feet, teeth bared; in the distance she could see Brynden Blackfish galloping toward the inn.

Princesses were not supposed to stare with their mouths open, but Arya had never been very good at being a princess. Everyone else was gaping, why shouldn't she? The dragon was huge, bigger than the corpse they had seen beside the lake. Her scales were the color of cream; her spinal crest and horns shone like gold. When she opened her mouth, it was like looking into a furnace filled with pale golden flames.

Arya barely noticed the rider until he slid down from his saddle. A few pats of the dragon's flank, and then he was striding toward her. His surcoat was halved blue and black, blazoned with an orange phoenix and a crimson three-headed dragon rising above golden flames. His crown was a circlet of Valyrian steel, set with massive rubies; the hilt of a greatsword poked over his shoulder, the pommel a great sapphire. And his face... Arya's belly swooped.

Sansa had always wanted a handsome husband, and now she had one. Her goodbrother's skin was a rich golden brown. His hair fell to his shoulders in waves the color of steel; his eyes were brilliant purple, ringed with amber. Behind her, Jeyne Poole made a little whimpering sound. For her sake, Arya hoped Meri hadn't heard it. Before Arya could say anything, Ser Deziel stepped forward.

"If I may, princess." Ser Deziel's smile was blinding. "Before you stands Aegon Targaryen, Sixth of His Name."

"I noticed," Arya said to a ripple of laughter. Was she supposed to curtsy? She wasn't sure, and it was too late to ask Lady Smallwood.

"Princess Arya." King Aegon held out his hand. "May I?"

Arya offered her hand. When he kissed it, Jeyne sighed, and Ser Deziel snorted. A frown tugged at King Aegon's lips; he let go.

"An embrace seemed inappropriate," he muttered. There were lines at the corners of his eyes; they were a little red, as if he had not slept. "I had hoped to find you still at Harrenhal, princess."

"Harrenhal?"

King Aegon nodded. "Queen Sansa and I arrived there this morning. I have come to take you to her, if you are willing to ride with me upon Viserion."

Arya glanced at Jeyne and Meri, at Ser Perwyn and her other guards. They didn't need her to lead them to King's Landing; Lady Smallwood could keep an eye on them. The only trouble would be the old knight dismounting before stalking toward her.

"I would be glad to see my sister, Your Grace," Arya said, pitching her voice so it carried. "I accept your generous offer. But first, I must acquaint you with my companions."

"My great-uncle, Ser Brynden Tully, the Blackfish." Her uncle nodded as he came to stand beside her, his craggy face unamused. "Ser Perwyn Truefaith and Ser Joseth Woolfield, my sworn swords." Both men bowed. "Lady Jeyne Poole, my lady in waiting, and Merissa, my maid." They curtsied. "Oh, and Ser Deziel Dalt, the Knight of Lemonwood, but you already know him."

Ser Brynden's lips twitched, just a little. "Thank you, niece."

"Sansa is at Harrenhal," Arya told her great-uncle. "King Aegon is going to take me to her." She turned back to Aegon. "When do we leave?"

"Not so fast, princess," said King Aegon, eyeing the Blackfish. "There are matters to discuss first."

"Tarly's lost, then?" The Blackfish did not wait for an answer. "You would not be here if his host were still a threat, not unless you were an utter fool."

"We destroyed his host six days ago," King Aegon said calmly. "But these are matters best discussed privily."

Soon enough they were all crammed in the Goldstone Inn's largest room. A featherbed took up much of it, forcing everyone to stand. At the Blackfish's insistence, Arya had asked several northern lords to join them. She had chosen Ser Marlon Manderly, Lord Woolfield, and Big Bucket Wull; there was not enough room for all the Flints, and the rest of her highest bannermen were at the tail end of the column.

King Aegon spoke clearly and quickly, eager to depart before the sunset. On the last day of first moon, he had defeated Lord Randyll Tarly in a battle outside Duskendale.

Lord Randyll was among the dead. He had fallen beneath his horse and been trampled by his own men. Ser Loras Tyrell found the lord of Horn Hill dying in agony, and gave him the gift of mercy with his own sword, Heartsbane, which Ser Loras now bore. Upon seeing their lord slain, Tarly's infantry had routed, as had his archers. The cavalry, on the other hand, had continued their desperate charge toward the dragon, a decision which they had soon regretted.

"Why wasn't the dragon in the air?" Brynden Blackfish demanded.

King Aegon smiled grimly. "She could not fly. Tarly knew his only chance was to attack during a storm, though the gusts were far worse than the snow. The Battle of Bitter Winds, the men are calling it."

It had certainly been a bitter battle for Cersei Lannister and Tommen Falseborn. King Aegon had lost only four hundred men. Tarly had lost over a thousand, with thousands more wounded or taken prisoner. There would have been even more prisoners, had King Aegon possessed enough cavalry to pursue them.

Instead, his men had set out to capture all the highest lords and knights amongst Tarly's host. Conveniently, most of them had charged with the cavalry, eager to claim the honor of slaying a dragon. Only those with the reserve had managed to escape, like old Lord Wendwater, and his squire, his great-nephew Simon Errol.

"Lord Errol now, I suppose," King Aegon said. "Viserion roasted his father, Lord Sebastion Errol, when he charged at her."

Lord Sebastion Errol wasn't the only one. Lord Buckler, Lord Blount, Lord Rambton and his brothers, all had died in an inferno of dragonflame. Lord Graceford was dead, slain as he gave a mortal wound to Ser Symon Wyl. Lord Cockshaw was dead too, having made the mistake of trying to stand between Ser Loras and Lord Tarly.

Then there were the captives, the ones lucky enough to flee the dragon's wrath, or wise enough to give up the charge when they saw Tarly's horse wallowing in the mud. Lords Trant and Rykker, Gaunt and Byrch, Sunglass and Fell, all had been offered the choice between execution or the Wall.

"Still no new word from the Wall?" Brynden Blackfish asked. When King Aegon shook his head, the whole room seemed colder.

Lords Trant and Rykker had chosen death. King Aegon had beheaded them himself, with his Valyrian steel greatsword Ash. The other four lords had chosen the Wall, and would be escorted there soon, along with any of their knights who chose to go with them.

In the meantime, ravens were flying to the seats of dead and captured high lords, who were all attainted. Their widows and heirs were instructed to choose a minor estate to which they would retire in obscurity. Or, if they preferred, the widows could return to the families of their birth, or request a dowry to remarry or join the Faith. As for the lesser knights, whether landed, household or hedge, they might keep what they had, though only after paying steep ransoms to obtain their release.

"We captured all of Tarly's siege engines, and his caches of wildfire." King Aegon grimaced. "And I fear there may be trouble with outlaws, with so many men fled."

"What of Your Grace's host?" Ser Marlon Manderly asked.

"Marching on King's Landing," said King Aegon. "I'm to rejoin them, once Princess Arya is safely reunited with Queen Sansa at Harrenhal. Rosby is ours, but Stokeworth is not. I intend to demand Lady Stokeworth's surrender myself, since she ignored the raven informing her that she is attainted."

"Lady Tanda, that vapid old woman?" Brynden Blackfish raised an eyebrow. "She is no Cersei Lannister, to warrant being made an example of."

"Tanda Stokeworth is a grasping lickspittle." King Aegon said in a low, cold voice, his face murderous. "But she is not Lady Hayford, a babe of six, forced to rely on a castellan too fearful to risk angering the Queen Regent. Lady Stokeworth is a woman grown, free to rule as she wished. She might have remained on her lands, and sought to avoid being noticed. Instead, she dedicated herself to seeking Cersei Lannister's favor. When Cersei required grain, Lady Tanda gladly sold it to her. She filled her coffers with Lannister gold, and thanked Lord Tarly when he slaughtered her starving smallfolk for daring to seek succor from their liege."

For a moment, all was quiet.

"But she is no Cersei," King Aegon admitted. Suddenly, his face was drawn and full of sorrow. "I hope no woman in the realm is as monstrous as Cersei Lannister. Her daughter Myrcella is dead, and the blood is on her mother's hands."

The whole room listened in silent horror as King Aegon recounted the events which transpired on Dragonstone whilst he was away fighting Tarly. Prince Trystane Nymeros Martell loved his former betrothed, even after he learned the truth of Myrcella's birth. Desperate to avoid being separated, the young lovers had tried to run away together. When the guards found them, Myrcella had thrown a golden veil over herself and her love, as if it were a shield. Then there was a flash of green flame, and the lovers were gone, turned to ash by an inferno of wildfire which erupted from the veil.

"The veil was a gift from Queen Cersei, sent before the fall of Dragonstone. So swore Maester Pylos, Ser Daemon Sand of the Kingsguard, Queen Sansa, and Myrcella's own cousins who served as her ladies. She was meant to don it when she knelt before me. But Cersei did not tell her daughter what the veil would do, only that it would protect her."

Ser Marlon and Ser Deziel made the sign of the Seven. Big Bucket Wull swore, Brynden Blackfish spat, and Jeyne Poole ran to the chamberpot and retched. As for Arya, she gripped Needle's hilt so hard her hand hurt.

His voice heavy, King Aegon finished the tale. Myrcella's septa was being sent to the silent sisters. Sister Eglantine had abandoned her charge when Dragonstone fell; had she done her duty, Myrcella would have never managed to escape her rooms. Myrcella's cousins had aided her escape; they had been given the choice of marrying loyal household knights or joining the Faith. Both had chosen the Faith; they would be sent to a remote motherhouse to dedicate their lives to the Maiden.

"Together?" Brynden Blackfish frowned. "They should be separated."

"I hear you have given the King in the North wise counsel, ser," said King Aegon, inclining his head. "But I am not the King in the North. Nor I was seeking counsel on matters already decided."

Arya snorted.

"Now," King Aegon said, as if he had not heard her. "I require a privy word with Ser Deziel, and then we must depart, if we are to reach Harrenhal before dark."

Arya was the last to leave the room; as she shut the door behind her, she saw the men embrace, and heard the word Brienne. That was no surprise. Ser Deziel often talked of the Maid of Tarth, though not as often as he talked about plants. But this was not the time to wonder about the woman who had taken her place with Sansa; she had other concerns.

Brynden Blackfish could not overrule her decision, but he still gave Arya an earful about the dangers of entrusting her person to a man they barely knew, and returning to Harrenhal without any guards of her own. Lady Smallwood did not approve either, but she helped Arya make the necessary arrangements with Jeyne Poole. Nymeria was even less happy; a direwolf could not ride dragonback.

"Keep Jeyne and Meri safe, hmm?" Arya scratched the direwolf's rump just above her tail. "And try to distract Ser Perwyn if he frets too much."

Nymeria growled low in her throat. She enjoyed teasing the weasel-man, but she did not like the idea of her girl going away. Jeyne and Meri hadn't been very happy either, truth be told. Ever since the new year, one or both of them insisted on sharing Arya's bed every night, no matter what she said about the red-eyed demon being dead.

"I still think this is a bad idea," Ser Perwyn said as they waited for King Aegon to check that the saddle's pillion seat was secure. The dragon did not seem to notice; she was asleep, her immense golden eyes shut.

"What, riding a dragon, or going anywhere without you to guard me?"

"Both. The King in the North told me not to let you out of my sight—"

Arya made a disgusted noise. Why must her brother be so ridiculous?

"And yet you sleep, and go to the privy, and share your shifts with my other sworn swords."

A screech cut through the air; the dragon had awoken. Viserion yawned and stretched her neck as King Aegon helped Arya into the saddle, checking the chains thrice before he was content that she was secure. Only then did he tend to his own chains. While he checked them, the dragon unfolded her wings, their bones golden, the sunlight shining through thin membranes the color of cream.

"How do you tell the dragon to go?" Arya asked, curious. "Do youAHHHHHHHHH!"

The wind swallowed her scream as the ground fell away beneath the dragon. Her belly swooped; her heartbeat thudded in her ears, just as it did during the thrill of a spar. Arya laughed, her fear forgotten, and drank in the view of the world below. Almost everything was white, from snowy fields to the snow-covered roofs of a fishing village beside the blue-black waters of the God's Eye.

How King Aegon was steering, Arya could not say. There were no reins, no bit. Yet he must have guided the dragon somehow, directing her north along the lakeshore. All too soon, Arya glimpsed the towers of Harrenhal, rising like five fingers of black stone. Snow clung to the battlements; icicles dangled from roofs and gutters.

When Viserion landed, it was at least a mile from Harrenhal. That didn't make any sense; she had landed much closer to the Goldstone Inn. When Arya said so, King Aegon gave a weak chuckle.

"I wished to speak with you, before we reach the castle. There are too many ears there, and there is much I must say before I take you to Sansa."

"What?" Arya stopped in her tracks, eyeing Aegon's tense shoulders, the redness in his eyes which she had thought came from lack of sleep. "What's wrong with Sansa?"

"I wanted to bring her to you on the road," Aegon said, gesturing for her to start walking. He was almost a foot taller than Arya, but when he saw her struggle to keep up, he shortened his stride.

"Why didn't you?" Arya asked.

"I dared not. She was weak and weary, and I did not trust the saddle chains."

Myrcella and Trystane had died on the same day as the Battle of Bitter Winds. Once his commanders had matters well in hand, King Aegon had meant to fly to the Eyrie. Instead, he had been blown toward Dragonstone. When he landed, it was to find Sansa had not slept since she watched Myrcella and Trystane die through the eyes of a gull; she had not even opened the ravens telling of his victory.

"Sansa finally drifted to sleep against her will, but she woke screaming and refused to sleep again." Aegon shook his head. "She blames herself for their deaths, for I left them in her care."

Nothing Aegon said seemed to lessen her guilt. Nor did long baths, nor resting in her chamber. When King Aegon tried taking her to sit in Aegon's Garden, where she had planted a weirwood seed, Sansa started panicking and gasping for air, babbling frantically about bloodmagic and the fates of sorceresses.

Sansa refused to slip her skin, or use the keen senses of a wolf. She trusted her sworn sword Lady Brienne and her maid Gilly, who knew of her secret, yet even so she lived in terror. What if some other servant marked her as a beastling, a sorceress? What if they learned of the blood she gave to the weirwoods, and despised her as they despised Queen Cersei and Melisandre of Asshai?

Worse, Sansa had begun to fear Aegon would someday turn against her.

On the way to Dragonstone, King Aegon had fallen into the sea, and Sansa had slipped into her wolfskin to rescue him. Unfortunately, many sailors on the Feathered Kiss had borne witness. As sailors were infamous gossips, after the fall of Dragonstone, Aegon had sent the ship to the Summer Isles, rather than risk all those wagging tongues.

"Sansa asked if I sent them away because I was ashamed of her," King Aegon said, his voice breaking. "She asked if I thought she slept with demons, or plotted to slay me as Cersei slew Robert. Nevermind that she's saved my life at least thrice, and the only blood she sheds is her own. There is no evil in it, I told her. Wolf or no, she is still Sansa. But I could not reach her."

Aegon looked at her helplessly. "I cannot mourn Trystane with my sisters. But I can give Sansa hers."

Arya stared at him, resisting the urge to repeat every oath she'd ever overheard from soldiers. "How am I supposed to help her, if you couldn't? You're her husband!"

"I don't know!" He threw up his hands. "The High Septon offered to speak with her, but that scared her even more. Sansa is terrified that he will look at her, know her for a sorceress, and command that she be given to the flames. But you, you already know her secrets, and she missed you every day you've been apart. If you can't reach her..."

He swallowed.

"You're her sister. If you can't reach her, I fear no one can."

When they reached Sansa's chamber, it was to find several lay sisters standing guard. Some wore white, some blue, some yellow, but all wore identical looks of worry when they rose from their curtsies.

Soon after His Grace left, Queen Sansa had begun speaking to her father Lord Eddard as if he were in the room, pleading for forgiveness. Concerned by the queen's delusions, and aware she had not slept in days, they had tricked her into drinking a cup of dreamwine.

"Her Grace slept half the day, then woke sobbing," Sister Alys said. "And she refuses to take even a spoonful of porridge, even though her stomach growls. Sister Edythe has gone to ask His High Holiness to come pray over the queen."

"A kind gesture, but I wish to speak to His High Holiness most urgently." King Aegon gestured at Arya. "Princess Arya shall watch over her sister."

They entered the chamber alone, the heavy wooden door shutting with a creak behind them. Rushlights glimmered from lanterns; a fire crackled in the hearth. Otherwise, the room was silent, save for the muffled sound of weeping. Sansa lay upon the featherbed, her face half-buried in the pillows.

"My love?" King Aegon said in a soft voice.

There was no reply, save for a pitiful whimper amongst the weeping.

"Hey, stupid!" Arya yelled.

Sansa sat up, her eyes wide and white as she turned to look over her shoulder.

"Arya?"

"You should go now," Arya muttered.

Aegon obliged, though not before clasping her by the hand, his grip firm.

When he was gone, Arya walked to the featherbed, and stood at her sister's right hand. Sansa stared at her, mouth agape. Then, to Arya's surprise, she fell back against the pillows.

"You're not really here," Sansa sniffled. Her sleeping shift was white, her nose was almost as red as her eyes. "Father wasn't here either, the sisters said. It was a delusion."

"Would a delusion do this?" Arya pinched her arm.

"I could pinch myself," Sansa said, shaking her head.

Arya frowned. Slapping Sansa wouldn't do any good; she could slap herself. Arya glanced around the room. When her gaze fell on the window, she smirked. It was the work of a moment to throw open the shutters. As she hoped, the window sill was covered in a thick coat of wet snow. Arya gathered it in her hands, shaping it, smoothing it, pressing it together until it was a hard ball. Then, she turned, and flung it straight at Sansa.

"OW!"

Sansa yelped, clutching her hand to her breast. Arya's aim was good; the snowball had struck dead center. Granted, it was an easy target, Sansa's bosom was much larger than Arya's.

"That hurt," Sansa snapped.

Arya rolled her eyes. "Don't be a baby, I didn't throw it that hard."

"Yes you did, you-" Sansa's eyes widened. "You're really here?"

"If you start crying again, I'm leaving," Arya lied. "Move over."

Sansa scooted to make room on the bed, and Arya plopped down beside her. There was much more of Sansa than she was used to. Her sister was still slender, but she was also six feet tall, or near enough. Her face reminded Arya of their mother, with her high cheekbones and dimpled cheeks. But Lady Catelyn would have never let her long auburn braid get so snarled and tangled.

Sansa had started babbling, something about her fault, and disappointing Robb. Arya let her babble while she hunted for a brush. When she found one, she started undoing Sansa's braid.

"Who are all the major houses of the Crownlands?" Arya asked, interrupting. "House Mooton, right?"

Sansa paused, thrown. "House Mooton is from the Riverlands," she corrected indignantly. "Really, Arya, you should know that."

And then she was off. While Sansa listed houses and lords and their sigils, Arya brushed her sister's hair, doing her best not to yank. It took a while; her hair was very thick and very tangled. Once the tangles were gone, Arya plaited it into a braid, undid the braid, and then plaited it again. She was not sure how many braids she had done before Sansa finally asked what she was doing.

"Keeping you distracted," Arya said, finishing the braid. "Are you ready to talk, or are you going to start gibbering again?"

Sansa glared at her. It might have been intimidating, if not for Sansa's stomach suddenly growling. The lay sisters had left the bowl of porridge on the table beside the bed. Arya picked it up, and shoved it in Sansa's hands.

"I don't want it," Sansa mumbled.

"You need to eat, stupid," Arya told her. "So either feed yourself, or I'm going to feed you, like mother used to feed Rickon, and porridge is going to get everywhere."

Sansa stared at her, appalled. But when Arya reached for the spoon, Sansa grabbed it first, lifting a small spoonful of porridge to her mouth.

While Sansa ate, tiny bite by tiny bite, Arya talked. She told Sansa about Castle Darry, and the weirwood growing in its godswood. Lord Lyman Darry was a boy around Arya's age, easily persuaded to let her give the tree a face. She told her about Lady's weirwood too. There was no sign of the direwolf's grave, but the tree was much, much bigger than she recalled.

By the time the bowl was almost empty, Arya somehow found herself talking about her broken betrothal, about the womb she did not have. Sansa said nothing, but she winced in sympathy, and clasped Arya by the hand, and a knot in Arya's stomach seemed to loosen.

"I'm glad you won't have to marry Hoarfrost Umber," Arya said. "Robb was thinking about it, if you hadn't consummated your marriage with Aegon."

Sansa waved a hand dismissively.

"Robb mentioned it in his letter. He wasn't sure about it though. Robb didn't expect the Greatjon to be almost as angry as he was about how Hoarfrost treated you."

Arya blinked at her, noticed the porridge was gone, and sent for more food.

While Sansa devoured an impressive amount of mashed neeps drowned in butter, Arya continued telling her about the North. Sansa was very pleased to learn that Jeyne Poole and Meri were with Arya's host, and she almost smirked when she learned Arya had brought Gendry and Mya Stone.

Her smile fell when Arya shared the dream she had of the Wintertown a fortnight ago. Queen Margaery had gone to welcome a new shipment of grain from Sea Dragon Point, accompanied by knights and guards and Prince Rickon and Shaggydog. All was going well, until a merchant from the Reach tried to offer Margaery a cup of Arbor gold. Before Margaery could say yea or nay, Rickon had set Shaggydog on the merchant, and the black direwolf had ripped the man to bloody shreds. Only afterward had the guards found an empty vial in the merchant's pocket.

Arya still felt uneasy about the look of glee on Rickon's face, the satisfaction that he had defended his pack. It did not help that Sansa was currently tearing into a venison steak, her usual manners forgotten. How long was it since she had properly eaten?

To cover the noise of Sansa's chewing, Arya returned to talking. She told Sansa about Alys Karstark, who would have been an even better goodsister than Margaery. She told her about Robett Glover, who was still at Winterfell when she left, doting over his children. She told her about Ser Perwyn's adorable babes, and her surprise that he would leave them to guard Arya.

"I look forward to meeting Ser Perwyn," Sansa said. She dabbed her mouth with a napkin, as if she had not just inhaled a second venison steak with a relish that would make Nymeria blush.

"Lady Jynessa Blackmont and Lady Brienne are lovely, and Gilly is irreplaceable, but a queen requires a very large household." Sansa smiled sadly. "Truth be told, I worry about finding retainers as faithful as the ones you are blessed with."

That gave Arya an idea. Or, rather, Meri had given her the idea; Arya would have to thank her later. With the help of Sister Maude and a small cup of dreamwine, she put Sansa back to bed. Once her sister was napping, she slipped from the room. Harrentown was not so far; the stables would not deny a princess a horse.

The moon gleamed silver overhead as Arya led Sansa down to the godswood. Sansa started crying again when she saw the folk of the hollow hill standing beneath the heart tree, rushlights in their hands and smiles on their faces. Thankfully, she managed to stop sniffling long enough to take them all into her service. One by one they gave their oaths of fealty before the heart tree, some of them weeping almost as much as Sansa.

When the last oath was said, it was Arya's turn to kneel. She laid Needle at her sister's feet, just as she had so long ago.

"I am yours, my lady," Arya said. Sansa covered her mouth with her hands, tears streaming down her face. "I will shield your back and keep your counsel and give my life for yours, if need be. I swear it by the old gods and the new."

"And I vow," Sansa said, her voice thick, "that you shall always have a place by my hearth and meat and mead at my table, and pledge to ask no service of you that might bring you into dishonor. I swear it by the old gods and the new."

And with that, her sister hugged her, so tight she could barely breathe.

"You need your own sigil," Sansa said. "I'll make you one. Nymeria, maybe, rampant, with Needle in her paws."

"Sure," Arya gasped. "Now please let go."

After, they had a late dinner in Sansa's solar. King Aegon returned shortly after they did, though to Arya's confusion, Sansa called him Olyvar as she rose from her seat to embrace him. For a moment they seemed to forget she was there. Olyvar kissed her sister's cheek, her eyelids, her brow, her lips. Only after that did he escort Sansa back to her chair, murmuring to her in a low voice, one hand stroking her hair.

Arya rolled her eyes, then closed them, reaching for Nymeria. The room in the Goldstone Inn was dark, save for the coals in the hearth. The direwolf lay on the floor, ignoring Jeyne Poole and Meri as they undressed each other, pausing to argue and trade kisses as Jeyne slid a hand under Meri's shift.

Arya opened her eyes. Did people never think of anything else?

"— if you could ask His High Holiness about me taking them?" Sansa was saying.

"You need to ask him yourself, my love," Olyvar said. He rubbed her sister's hand with his thumb. "You cannot avoid the High Septon until we leave, you know that."

Sansa hesitated, fear creeping back into her eyes.

Best to lance the boil.

"The High Septon is not going to burn you for a witch, witless," Arya said. "Unless he wants to be fed to a dragon."

"It's not—"

"I'm not saying you should slip your skin in front of him," Arya said, barreling over her sister. "But it's in his best interest to ignore the rumors."

"That was what I said," Olyvar grumbled. "More than once."

"She wasn't listening," Arya told him. "No one listens when they're panicking. You made it worse by trying to have Sansa rest so much, she didn't have anything to do except panic."

Olyvar gave her a thoughtful look. "Really?"

"She's right," Sansa said slowly. "I... I need to be busy, to be useful."

"Besides," Arya said, taking a drink of cider, "even if the High Septon did want to burn you, he'd have to fight almost the entire Riverlands. Do you know how many smallfolk I've heard going on and on about Strongspear the Squire and the Weirwood Maid? Let alone all the songs about the red wolf, the brave maiden who succored the smallfolk and defied Tywin Lannister. Oh, and all of Harrentown lost their wits about Olyvar Sand and Aegon Targaryen being one and the same; there's already a puppet show about it."

"So much for Cersei not catching wind of that." Olyvar groaned, burying his face in his hands. "If there are any Dornish left in the city... at least Trystane's death was quick."

Sansa flinched guiltily. "I know, it's my fault—"

"No, it's not," Arya interrupted.

"She's right." Olyvar said gloomily. "If I had only sent Trystane home earlier, or had Myrcella's possessions taken away... the responsibility is mine."

"You're both idiots." Arya slapped the table. "How could either of you have known Cersei would try to kill her own daughter with a- a- magic death veil made of wildfire? Cersei chose to do that, not you."

Her point made, Arya dug into her rapidly cooling beef and barley stew. It was good, plain fare, though there was not as much beef or barley as she would like. And the loaves of bread were a bit stingy on the raisins, though there was plenty of cheese and butter and honey. That made sense; Harrenhal had long leagues of pasture where cows dug in the snow for grass, and the faithful were obsessed with keeping bees.

Neither Sansa nor Olyvar said anything else during the meal. They were too busy sharing the same cup, trading choice morsels, and giving each other tentative, apologetic looks. As soon as she was done eating, Arya folded her arms and huffed.

"If you're going to swive each other, could you wait until someone finds me a guest chamber?"

"Arya!" Sansa said, blushing.

"What?" Arya shrugged. "You'd both feel better; people are usually in a good humor after they've—"

"ARYA!" Sansa's face was almost the same color as her hair. "You shouldn't know that!"

"So I'm right?"

Sansa spluttered. Olyvar's eyebrows were in his hair, his shoulders shaking as he tried not to laugh.

"Don't worry, I haven't swived anyone, I'm not stupid." Arya shrugged again. "Nymeria wanders the camp. There's always people sneaking off and coming back smiling and smelling different."

Sansa's face fell; she hugged herself.

"For days, I could smell nothing but ash," she said quietly. "Even when I dabbed perfume under my nose."

Olyvar tugged Sansa close, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. Sansa leaned against him, pressing her cheek to his chest. Suddenly, Arya felt as if she were intruding.

There were papers scattered at the other end of the table. As they were not quite within arm's reach, Arya got up to take a better look. Almost all of them were letters and notes written in Sansa's elegant hand, along with a few blocks of wax and some seals.

"Those are from Dragonstone," Sansa said. "Olyvar brought them, so I could resume my work."

Arya frowned. One letter was not in Sansa's writing. The hand was that of a younger girl, full of extra loops and flourishes. The signature was even more ornate, and done in rich golden ink. All my love, your sister Cella.

"Sansa," Arya said slowly, picking up the letter. "I think you need to send this."


Hell yeah, our first Starkling reunion! It's so good to be back. Can't wait to see what y'all think in the comments!

Sorry for the accidental week off; I had a crappy few days at work that spiraled into a bout of writer's block. Ugh. Reminder, if you're curious about my progress, I provide updates on my tumblr, RedWolf17. Hopefully we're back on track; I'm proud of my consistency.

NOTES

1) Yes, people in the medieval era practiced good dental hygiene. Rough linen clothes were used to scrub the teeth, and powders and pastes were made from various ingredients, usually a crushed abrasive to help scrub and an herb or spice to freshen the breath.

2) Mya Stone is suffering from post partum depression, which affects many new mothers. While plenty of women suffer mild depression after childbirth, post partum is much more severe, with intense symptoms that can include mood swings, withdrawal from friends and family, difficulty bonding with the baby, insomnia, anxiety, panic attacks, and thoughts of self harm.

3) Sansa's terror and panic is mostly the result of sleep deprivation ratcheting up her anxiety. She saw two innocent young people die, freaked the hell out, and then got stuck in a guilt/panic spiral. Sleep deprivation has been classified as torture; severe sleep deprivation can cause hallucinations, among other nasty side effects.

4) Some people find quiet relaxation helps with anxiety. Other people, like Sansa and myself, do better when we can keep busy, rather than hyperfocusing on a source of stress.