CHAPTER EIGHT: THE BLOODY WOLF II

A girl is given a name, and encounters a Black Brother. A girl runs from her mistakes, and finally finds the strength to go home.


When she first sees the play, it hurts.

She doesn't even know where the hurt begins. Is it how her father is made a joke of, how his Northern sternness and his own sense of justice and pride are made out to be jokes? Is it how Sansa, who was just a girl, younger than she is now, is made out to either be a whore or a fool? Her father and her sister, two regrets in her heart, two people she'd do anything to get back, to make things better with, are their jokes. Westeros and their wars are so far away to these people.

She supposes she does not fully blame them all. What are the politics of Westeros to the people of Braavos and The Free Cities, to the people who live untouched by it? They must look at all that has happened to Westeros and The Seven Kingdoms and find it funny in a grim kind of way, but Arya wishes they could understand it's never been funny to the people who play a part in it. This is her blood they're making fools of. She doesn't want to know what they'd conjure up for Robb.

The actress playing Cersei does it well enough, she supposes, though. She doesn't think she's quite as dramatic as she should be, but Arya is no actress, not really, and if she does her job, Lady Crane will have no chance to improve on her lessons. She thumbs the bottle in her pocket, frowning as the play continues on. She cannot linger much longer here, she knows, and yet…

"Sam!" A voice hisses from her right. Arya turns towards the sound to see a woman and a man, coming through the crowd to stand right next to her. The woman is not very remarkable, pretty in a simpler and almost Northern way, a toddler in her arms, but something about the man next to her makes her frown. He is a larger man, with dark hair, and a very Southern look to him, but it's really the all-black clothing that draws her attention.

"It's alright," he tells her, and Arya tries to pretend that she's not listening in, sparing a glance at his face just long enough to see the way his expression darkens as they continue to make a mockery of the North. He sighs heavily, and says, in a low voice, "I'm glad Jon isn't here to see this. He'd probably tear through the whole of them for portraying them like this."

The woman nods, but Arya's heart is hammering in her chest. They cannot possibly be talking about her Jon, could they? In a world this large, it should be impossible for her to run into someone who might know her brother, miles from home, but yet…fate has led her to stranger places, has it not? What's to say that there's no chance she could meet someone who knows Jon out here too?

They keep talking softly, but she tunes them out, rolling her shoulders as the play continues. But then her father loses his head, and she wonders if any of them know that he had six children, or that the youngest was barely a child. He was a person, a man who left behind a shattered family, whose children are now scattered to the Winds, when all he tried to do was keep them together.

Yoren made sure she didn't see it, all those years ago. But she can still remember the sound of Sansa's screams, she can still remember Joffrey's voice. They don't add that to this play, they don't add the little girl who was held back and hidden by the last loyal man left to the North in King's Landing. How could they know? None of them were there.

At the very same time, the man to her right, Sam, inhales sharply. She glances at him and pauses as he meets her eyes, smiling with a bit of a flush to his cheeks. "Sorry," he whispers, and she nods, plastering a smile to her own face. His gaze lingers on her, and for a moment, he looks like he almost recognises her, and she feels fear strike through her heart. He glances back at the play, at the actress playing Sansa, then at her again. "I'm sorry, do I know you?"

"Probably not," she says with a flinty grin that makes him laugh hesitantly. She offers up a hand, which he takes after a moment of hesitation. "My name is Cat. You're from Westeros, aren't you? Southern, The Reach, maybe?"

He looks at her like she's grown two heads, laughing nervously. "Well, yes. But how did you know that?" The confusion is warranted, she supposes. She's largely lost her Northern Accent, and here in Braavos, she has done her best to disguise it from unwanted ears. They see so many people, and many people here can pick out accents like an archer can find a target. To him, she is just another Braavosi girl whose never seen Westeros, so she plays off of that.

"I have an ear for accents," she tells him, glancing at the actors again. The play is wrapping up, and she does not have much time left. He smiles a little easier at the explanation, and she folds her arms behind her back. "None of their accents are right, I'll tell you that. Especially the Northmen. They all have very distinct voices, you know?"

"I do," he says with a nod, wringing his hands in front of him. "I'm a black brother of The Wall, actually, headed to Old Town to become their next Maester. I've spent my time surrounded by dour men in black, with the occasional Northern Bastard or son of a Northern Lord. You hear all sorts of voices atop The Wall. I'm from the Reach, but two of my best friends are from The Vale and The North, and those places couldn't be any more different from one another."

She smiles at him and tries to pretend she doesn't think she knows who he's talking about. He'd mentioned a Jon who would have blood for this play, and she remembers a brother with a hidden edge of temper behind easy smiles and laughter. He'd spoken of Northern Bastards and sons of Northern Lords, never mind a friend from The North. Could he be speaking of her brother, of the person she misses more than words can ever tell?

Again, he looks at her a little oddly. She and Jon always had the most Northern Looks about them, always looked the most like their Father. Does he see the traces of Jon Snow in her? Even if he does not speak of her Jon, surely he has seen the Bastard with his great white wolf dogging his steps at least once? Does she have enough of the North left in her that it can still be found by those who know what to look for?

The actors are almost done, and she's running out of time. Smiling apologetically, she makes up an excuse and slips away before he can ask anything too dangerous for the both of them. By the time she gets to the actors' carriage, they're already all there and talking, and she does her best to stay out of sight, and to look like she's right where she needs to be to anyone who does see her.

The man playing Tyrion, Bobono, she thinks, starts talking about one thing or another to Lady Crane, but what really catches her attention is the rum. She risks a glance in to see Lady Crane swirling her rum around in a cup, the only one of the troupe to be drinking it. She runs a finger over the poison in her pocket, an idea beginning to form in her head.

The girl who played Sansa starts talking, sounding petty enough that Arya is suddenly reminded of who her sister used to be, all the old wounds that still ache when pressed a little too hard in the wrong direction. She grits her teeth and tries to remember her father's words from a lifetime ago, right after she let the wolves go, but the frustration is slow to leave. She misses Sansa, truly, and yet…

Sometimes she just wishes her sister had not been such a fool. She loves her sister, she really does, in some part of her, and she knows that the moment she sees her again will feel like summer after a long winter, but that doesn't erase the things that are now between them. They both made mistakes. They both failed each other. Arya doesn't know if she can face her sister and know how she failed her, how she failed Robb, how they both failed each other and their family.

When she returns to The House of Black and White and is denied a face, she feels frustration rolling in her stomach. She leaves with a nod towards The Kindly Man, the poison still weighing heavy in her pocket. Lady Crane had not seemed to be that terrible of a woman, really. Her death is going to be at the hand of a jealous actress, and while Arya cannot deny the poetic justice of it all, given their roles, it still troubles her.

She was not raised to be cruel, not raised to demand blood from everyone who dares stand against her, be better. There isn't a real slight here, nothing that would demand death. What crime has Lady Crane committed, save for being older and better than the other actress? Our way is an older way, she heard her father telling one of her brothers once, a lifetime and a half ago. In The North, blood is not shed for every petty disagreement or slight. It is spilt when justice demands it to be spilt.

She glances back towards the harbour, towards where she once hid Needle. She remembers The Black Brother and his friend, remembers how he'd spoken of a Jon, how he'd looked at her like he was seeing traces of Arya Stark. It will be another full day before she gets a chance to kill Lady Crane, and she has nowhere she is currently expected to be.

So she decides to hunt a black brother through the streets of Braavos.

It takes a while to start with any leads, but once she gets the first good hint, it takes only twenty minutes for her to find where he's staying. She watches the inn from the shadows of the other side of the street, looking at the window with a light in it, the shadows that move inside. Someone opens the window, and for just a moment, she hears his voice drifting through the street.

She closes her eyes, and breathes deeply, leaning against the wall. The oddest thing about Braavos, and really the South as well, had been the warmth, the long days, the lack of even a summer snow. She was born in the Long Summer, yes, but Winter is Coming, and her youth was spent in the seat of Winter. She knows snow as well as any Northern child, knows the cold well enough. None of that is here.

She wonders, distantly, what a black brother is doing with a woman and a child, so far from The Wall. He said he was headed to Old Town to become a Maester, but that could have been a lie, could it not have? Perhaps he is a deserter. Arya would be the only person probably in the whole of Braavos who would feel the need to punish a deserter, to dispense the king's justice. But what king? Robb's? She still remembers how Grey Wind had looked at her before she'd let him lose. She still doesn't fully know if Robb still lives or if he's been executed by now, if there still is a king whose justice she would be willing to dispense.

She goes back to the play the next day. There are no stray black brothers to meet her, and she can't say she's not grateful for it, watching Lady Crane act. The woman notices her and frowns, ever so slightly, before continuing on like nothing has happened. Arya frowns herself, turning on her heel and disappearing into the crowd before the woman can get another look at her.

But it's really no matter, as the woman sees her anyway, when she's skulking around the back. "Girl," she says, and all eyes are suddenly on her, the attention making her skin prickle. Arya glances at the rum she's already poisoned, and does her best to not look at the other actress, only getting a glimpse of a slightly smug smile. "What are you doing back here?"

"Nothing," she says on instinct, and Arya is suddenly thrown into the past when Lady Crane perfectly arches an eyebrow at her, much like her own mother used to do. Her mother, who they killed at the Twins. Her mother, whose neck was cut to the bone. She swallows around the lump in her throat as Lady Crane's gaze rakes over her. She glances at her fellow actors, and they disperse without a word, the other actress lingering for only a moment.

"I saw you the other day in the audience," she says, leaning back in her chair and analysing Arya with a critical eye, a slightly pleased look coming over her face. The woman, of course, has no way of knowing this, but Arya finds it eerily reminiscent of the queen she plays. "How many times have you seen this stupid play?" Her voice cuts off into a barked-out laugh at the end, and Arya finds herself surprised.

Clearing her throat slightly, she says, "Three times."

Lady Crane looks at her with a knowing look. "Did you pay?" Arya shakes her head, and she laughs, a twirling noise that is nothing like Cersei Lannister. Arya feels some part of her settle as the woman looks at her with a kind look that Cersei never had for the younger of the two Stark girls, the one whose wolf's blood ran hotter.

"I remember when the players came to my village. I didn't have any money, so I snuck in. Just like you," she nods towards Arya, a distant look on her face. She looks like she's reliving a dream, Arya thinks as she continues, a note of longing in her voice, "Saw the painted faces, the costumes, listened to the songs, cried when the young lovers died in each other's arms. I ran off and joined them the next day, and never looked back."

Arya smiles at her. She reminds her of Sansa, in an odd sense of the idea. She's probably not the type to be swayed by stories of heroes and lonely maidens, fooled by them, but she has the same love of the good stories that her older sister always did. It's odd to think Arya is now older than Sansa was, when they last saw one another. She thinks she understands her sister a little more, now. "You're very good."

Lady Crane snorts. "My final speech is shit," she says, crossing her arms over her chest and looking at Arya with an even expression. "But to be fair to myself, which I always like to be, the writing's no good." Arya can't quite disagree with that argument, but on second viewing, she'd seen more of what role Lady Crane truly plays in the story. She remembers, for good or for ill, how Cersei had looked after the wolves ran away.

"So change it," she says with a shrug. Lady Crane raises her brow again, looking at Arya with a little more interest. "It would all just be farting, belching, and slapping without you." It would all be a farce without you, she doesn't say. A mummer's reenactment of the truth, a shade of truth and reason. All people would remember is the foolish traitor Ned Stark and his whore wolf daughter.

"How would you change it?"

Arya thinks for a long moment, glancing out the window. Cersei had seemed like something plucked from a different world, that first day in Winterfell. Sansa had been bewitched, and Arya repelled. But there was a strength to the woman, an edge that Arya thinks she can understand. Everyone is trying to protect their families, and the people they love, are they not? Cersei just has the bad luck that it's put her on her list.

"The queen loves her son more than anything," she says, her stomach twisting as she remembers the wolves. She hopes Lady and Nymeria still have one another, even though she and Sansa don't. "And he was taken from her before she could say goodbye." She remembers the sound of her father's blade swinging through the air. Could he bring back a man with no head? "She wouldn't just cry. She would be angry. She would want to kill the person who did this to her."

Lady Crane looks at her in interest. Arya keeps her expression neutral, but she knows that too betrays something. The older woman tilts her head at her and asks, "What's your name?"

"Mercy," she says. Lady Crane grins at that, tilting her head at Arya, who can't help but smile ever so slightly as well.

"You have very expressive eyes, Mercy. Wonderful eyebrows. Do you like pretending to be other people?" Arya feels her heart skip a beat, feels her face settle back into an expressionless mask. Lady Crane's eyes narrow ever so slightly, and for a moment, they stay like that, eye to eye, saying nothing.

"I have to go," she says, voice a little rougher, betraying a little more of a Northern Accent. "My father is waiting for me." She turns on her heel without another word, but something keeps her close, something stops her from walking away as she should and letting time pass. Lady Crane is not Cersei and she's not Sansa. One woman deserves death, and the other deserves so much better than Arya thinks she ever got. She should just walk away, fill the contract.

But then she hears their voices. One of them complains that they didn't laugh at Ned's death, and she grits her teeth. Who are they to call Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, Warden of The North, her father, a man of noble blood, by his familiar name? Who are they to call him Ned like they ever even knew him, like they haven't made a joke of the death that split her home in two?

An argument begins, and Arya closes her eyes, taking a deep breath. She knows what her father would say, what he would think of this all. But she also knows that he would just be saddened by what she has become, and suddenly, she wishes she didn't have to become this. She wishes she never walked this path. She wishes she died with her mother, wishes the cold swallowed her whole. Just so she'd never have to live knowing that her choices would make her father sad.

But maybe she can still rectify her mistakes. Swallowing tightly, she marches back into the actors' quarters, slapping the cup out of Lady's Crane hand just as she's about to take a sip. For a moment, the room is deathly silent, all of them looking at her with wide eyes. The girl who played Sansa looks frozen. Arya tilts her head at the woman, and with a smile that makes her feel like a wolf, tells Lady Crane, "Careful of that one. She wants you dead."

She thinks The Hound would call her petty or foolish for using his stolen money to book passage back to Westeros, but Arya doesn't really actually care. He's dead, and that means it's not her job to worry about him and how he feels about her using the stolen money she stole from him. It's a cycle, really. Although, she does think she'd be somewhat grateful for his company right now. More than she used to be.

Then, she goes to The Play again. She can't go to the House of Black and White, not with her not having failed to take a name for the Many-Faced God. She takes care this time to stay out of Lady Crane's sight, tucked away in the shadows, and when the fake Ned loses his head, she thinks of the statue she climbed, all those years ago. Yoren found her, in the press of bodies. He saved her life.

She's wondered a lot, in the years since, why Yoren really saved her. Was it because he still had his loyalty to The North, to The Starks, or just because he knew her uncle and didn't want to let a child see her father killed? Whatever the reason, she'll never stop wishing she could go back and thank him for what he did, thank him for all the choices and sacrifices he made, in the end. He died so she could live. She's avenged his death. Those names are gone from her list, the list that comes from his influence.

She's looking out over the canals when The Waif finds her.

She barely has time to think before the knife is in her stomach, and her mind is screeching to a halt. For a long, terrible moment, she thinks this must be what it was like for her mother and for Robb, to be betrayed so suddenly and horribly. She bites her tongue so hard it bleeds, using what strength she has to slam her elbow into The Waif's nose, before jumping off the side of the bridge and into the canal.

The cold slams into her, and her body erupts in pain, but she forces herself to move, remembering her lessons from Winterfell. They all used to swim in the canal when weather permitted, the older boys racing as Sansa dipped her feet in, Rickon sometimes laughing happily in her lap. Arya and Bran would splash at each other in the shallows until one of the older boys got the bright idea to throw them deeper in, resulting in a fight that they had no hope of winning.

Theon taught her how to swim. She can almost hear his dry remarks as she clamps her mouth shut and forces herself to move, dragging herself out of the water and onto the steps next to it as she coughs. She presses her hand weakly to her wounds, her vision swimming and doubling with pain. She knows she cannot linger long, but every time she tries to gather her strength, she finds none.

She bends over, coughing. She remembers her brother's eyes on her, how they all used to laugh and play. Robb would pick her up and swing her around in the snow, his face bright with breathless joy. It was Theon who first caught her shooting arrows, and when she demanded he not tell anyone, he'd mimed sealing his lips shut with a smug grin. Jon used to ruffle her hair and call her little sister, and he was the one who first ever put a weapon that was solely her own in her hand.

What do you want with this? Her father's voice echoes in her ear, and she grits her teeth. She knows what she's become would sadden him, but she knows he'd also be happy to know she made it out. She has to survive, for him. She is a Stark, she cannot die far from home, in a land that doesn't know the meaning of winter or cold. She will not die here, so far from home, away from her family, with her list lying unfinished.

Gritting her teeth, she slowly gets to her feet, sagging heavily against the wall with a gasping breath. She presses her hand against her wound and thinks of everyone who died for her, all the people who gave their lives for her, for her family. Yoren. Her father. Jory. Syrio. The Hound, in a way. She cannot make their sacrifices and their blood be forgotten. She has to live, if but for them, for the lives they gave up.

No one pays her any real mind as she limps through the bazaar that she bought her passage in, glancing down at her bloody hands before turning away with guilty expressions. No one helps anyone here, she thinks, suddenly reminded of everything she saw in King's Landing, reminded of all the ways the common folk were forgotten by the Lords and one another. No one offers a hand.

The Lone Wolf dies… the words echo in her mind, and she is forced to take a moment in a dark alleyway, breathing heavily. It's one wound, but it hurts, and she knows it's bad. She may very well die if she doesn't get any help, and it's already getting dark. But she does not know where to go. There is the Black Brother, but he's halfway across town, now…

Footsteps behind her. She knows who it is even before a knife comes flying towards her. She dodges it just in time, grabbing it and slashing out just in time to counteract The Waif. She backs up slowly as she keeps approaching, the knife held in her bloody hands, The Waif's dull eyes digging into her. Her voice is as monotone as ever when she tells Arya, "There is no need to fight. You will be dead soon."

If I die, she thinks, I will die in the lands of my father. I will die as a Stark, not another nameless girl on foreign streets. She does not say that to The Waif, knowing the sentiment will be lost on her. Instead, she grits her teeth, and gathers every inch of strength she has, just to force the words out from between her teeth, "I won't lay down my life to die for nothing. That is not my way." Nor is it the way of my House, or my people.

Her Father. Yoren. Jory. Syrio. The Hound. All of them died so others might live. They gave their lives over for other people. They knew when it was time to go, and then, and only then, did they greet death like an old friend. What do we say to the God of Death? Syrio, a Braavosi himself, asked her. She wonders if he knew of the Faceless Men. He must have. She'd replied in turn: Not Today.

"Fine, then," The Waif says, but Arya is already running.

She feels like a wolf, the ground a blur under her feet, the wind in her hair making her feel wild and free, utterly unrestrained by the world. Nymeria is out there, somewhere, she hopes. Somewhere safe and happy, hopefully, with Lady at her side. She will find Nymeria when she gets home, and she will go home, her wolf and her sister's wolf at her side, hopefully. Nymeria is a part of her pack, just as much as any of her brothers and their wolves, as much as Sansa and Lady have always been.

And Arya means to survive, no matter what it takes from her. The Waif chases her through the streets, but she does not let up, does not let herself feel fear. She is a wolf, the wolf blood runs hot in her. The Waif is nothing, she is no one to her. Wolves rule the North, and while this might not be The North, Arya finds strength in that.

She catches a glimpse of someone familiar, crossing the street, heading into a house. Arya feels her heart soar, and for a moment, pauses. But she pays for her temporary distraction as The Waif reaches her, slashing her arm deeply. Arya swears and snarls, adrenaline making her pain fade for just a moment. The knife The Waif threw at her is still in her hand, the hilt covered in blood, but that does not make it any less usable.

The Waif looks surprised as Arya lunges at her, slashing her across the arm before she can react. The Waif is the better fighter, yes, but Arya is faster than her. Syrio's teachings come to her mind, and those days in that airy room feel as distant as summer in the depths of Winter, but Arya has not forgotten what he taught her. She gets a few good nicks in before The Waif turns and disappears, but not before turning to look back at her for a moment.

Arya stays there for a long moment, bloody knife still in hand. She won this round, yes. The Waif is now going to no doubt lick her wounds, but Arya, they both know, is far more injured. She will come hunting again sooner than Arya, and she needs to be ready for that moment. So, with one last deep breath, Arya turns towards the house she saw the familiar face disappear into. It's a long shot, a streak of hope, but she likes to think that the Gods led her to this street for some reason.

She climbs into the window, which is certainly not proper or painless, but it's far easier and more reliable than knocking on her door would be. Arya does take a moment to commit the house to memory, because even if she doesn't know the street, she would like to be able to find Lady Crane again, should life lead how she wants it to. If she ever returns to Braavos and finds herself in need of an actress.

Lady Crane freezes when she sees Arya, her eyes widening as she takes in the sight of Arya, bloody and bleeding out slowly onto the floor. Glancing back, she wastes no time helping Arya to her feet and bringing to her the bed in the corner of the room, her eyes roving over her with barely concealed confusion and fear. But once Arya is down, she seems to gather herself again, squaring her shoulders and disappearing into another room, with a look on her face that reminds Arya so much of Sansa and her mother.

She is gentle as she tends to Arya's wounds, worry etched into her face. But she thinks that the woman knows there is more to the girl who called herself Mercy than meets the eye. No one just gets nearly stabbed to death on a whim, not really. When Arya starts swearing, she just nods in sympathy and keeps stitching her wounds closed.

"You're good at that," Arya says, her voice weak and strained, but appreciation bleeding through her every word. She tilts her head at the woman, who meets her eyes with a look that makes Arya's skin prickle. "Where'd you learn?"

Lady Crane laughs without humour. I'm a jealous woman. I've always liked bad men and they've always liked me." Her mouth twists into a grim mockery of a smile. "They'd come home, wherever home was that night, stinking of some whore's perfume. So we'd fight and I'd put a hole in them. And then I'd feel terrible, so I'd patch them up. I got good at patching them up." She shakes her head.

"And good at putting holes in them," Arya says with a knowing look.

Lady Crane just bows her head briefly, "And that."

Arya forces herself to stay up, knowing that at any moment, The Waif could find her, knowing that she could not have Lady Crane die for her mistakes. "What happened to the actress? The one who wanted you dead?"

Lady Crane smiles grimly. "Bianca. She'll have a hard time finding work as an actress after what I did to her face," she says, glancing at Arya. She doesn't know if the older woman is surprised to not see any disgust or revulsion on her face, but she thinks that the woman appreciates it. She narrows her eyes at Arya. "You know, I reckon you're a lot like me."

"You remind me of my sister, actually," Arya says, and the woman looks openly curious, now. "She was always a dreamer. When we went South, all she could think about was the Knights and the Tourneys. I used to hate her for it. I hated that she didn't see what we had at home, that she didn't understand. She was always hoping for something more, I think. I left her behind. I never should have left her in that city. I should have stolen her away. Two little girls, a single sword between us." She laughs softly. "What a sight that would have been."

Lady Crane looks at her with an intense expression, her eyes digging into Arya's face, her real face. She must have seen so many people in her life, seen people from so many corners of the world. Certainly, she knows what a Westerosi person looks like, what makes Northmen look Northern. Does she see traces of The North in Arya's grey eyes and dark hair? In her long face, in the solemn cold that etches its way into the cracks of her façade.

"Your name is not Mercy, is it?" She asks, and Arya shakes her head. The woman's jaw twitches, her gaze once more roving over her. "What is your name, then?"

Arya's face pinches, and she looks away with a shake of her head. "I can't tell you that. People have been thinking I'm dead since my father died, and I want to keep it that way for as long as I can, until I make the choice to have people know I've returned. I ran from them all. There are people who would kill me if they know who I am. I don't plan to let that happen. I plan to kill them first."

Lady Crane smiles at that, a look in her eyes telling Arya she gets it as much as she possibly can. "Your father…" she says, though, and Arya tilts her head challengingly at the woman as she rakes her gaze over Arya. Her eyes harden, and she takes Arya's hand and squeezes gently. "Do I know him?"

"You know a part of him," she says. "You know a story of him. You know a joke. You know the punchline, the fool, the man who is an enemy with a whore daughter who is part wolf, part lustful demons of strange gods." Lady Crane's face freezes. "You know a man who your character's son killed. I can never tell you my name, Lady Crane, and you should never ask. But you know who I am. You understand?"

The woman nods, a cool mask coming over her face. But then she seems to realise something, looking at Arya with a sadder expression. "You…you knew what you were speaking of, didn't you? When you spoke about the Queen and her son?" Arya nods, and despite it all, Lady Crane laughs. "You are a clever girl, Mercy. I hope that whoever you plan to kill does not see it until it is too late."

Arya smiles at her, opening her mouth to say something, but before she can, she feels a low sense of dread settle over her. Lady Crane pauses, glancing around and slowly reaching into her pocket and handing Arya a vial. When she speaks, her voice is soft. "Milk of the Poppy. Take it when you can. Do you need to leave?" Arya nods, and the woman squares her jaw. "Go. I will be fine. Go."

Arya scrambles to her feet, just in time for the first knife to come whistling through the air, embedding itself into Lady Crane's shoulder. The woman howls, and Arya feels her heart leap into her throat, panic settling in before she can do anything against it. The Waif comes out of the shadows, drawing closer to Arya, and in a split-second decision, she turns to the window and jumps, ripping her wound open all the while.

She lands on the street, just in time to see The Waif following. Tucking the milk of the poppy into her pants, she starts running.

She presses her hand to the wound, vision spinning as she turns the corner. Hissing sharply, she leans against the wall for a brief moment, letting herself breathe for just a second, but not much longer. Lady Crane is hurt, and as much as Arya doesn't want to get one more person involved in her own mistakes, she knows that her ties to who she hopes to find are a little stronger than they were to that actress. And The Waif will find her eventually, yes, but Arya would like to be a little more healed first.

She hears the Black Brother–Sam, the woman he was with had called him, she remembers–from around the corner, probably coming down from his room in the inn. Sam, she thinks, remembering what she'd first overheard from the two of them, remembering why she'd so very accidentally made herself run into them. Sam had mentioned someone named Jon, and while she knows there's a high chance it's not her Jon, there does exist the chance that it is. And at any rate, they're both Black Brothers, and she's Jon's sister. That has to count for something, right?

She clings to the shadows as she slips in, pressing against her wound as every step up to the upper floor sends pain through her body. She bites her tongue to keep from shouting, following the sound of his voice. It's quieter than it was outside, with no open window and slight breeze to carry it in the hallway, but she finds his room quickly enough, pounding her fist against it as she sags against the wall.

"Yes?" He asks as he opens the door, eyes widening to the size of golden dragons when he sees her. She meets his eyes, and again, she sees that flash of vague recognition cross his face and be dismissed quickly, but it doesn't leave completely. They have met before, after all. "Oh. You're the girl from the play. Cat, was it? Er…are you alright?"

No, she thinks, but she just presses harder against the wound, gritting her teeth together as she pulls herself off the wall, heedless of the noises of protest he makes. "My name," she hisses out from between her clenched teeth, her grey eyes (her Stark eyes, the eyes she shares with Jon) digging into him as she forces herself to continue, "Is Arya Stark. Jon Snow is my older brother, and a man of the Night's Watch, like you. I…I need your help. Please."

Sam gapes at her. She looks at him desperately, and when she realises he doesn't fully believe her, her slight appreciation for him being careful is mainly overshadowed by a desperate annoyance. "Please. I know this seems like a lot, but I'm telling the truth, I swear. His wolf's name is Ghost. The sword he gave me is Needle. My wolf was named Nymeria. He loves sweet food, but he'll never say it–"

She's cut off by him bustling forward and all but dragging her inside. Her vision swims as the door closes behind them, black spots dancing across it as she's dragged to the bed. Voices surround her, and she forces herself to take deep breaths, closing her eyes until it no longer feels like the whole of the world has been shoved entirely off its axis. She peels her eyes open and sees Sam and the woman he'd been with earlier smiling gently at her.

"Any sister of Jon is my sister too," he says kindly, and she very nearly sobs. "I won't ask how you got here, not yet, but I need to know what gave you this wound." His face is very serious, the dark look in his eyes speaking to his worry well enough that no words are needed to tell her that he is worried about what he's seeing. She thinks of Lady Crane's careful stitching, and hopes she is okay.

"Dagger. Slashed and stabbed me," she tells him, snarling as he pulls her shirt up and begins applying something. Her fingers curl into a fist, but gentle hands take it and lay it flat, holding it tight. She glances over and sees the woman from before smiling at her, and she somehow finds a way to smile back at her, squeezing her hand back. For a moment, she even thinks it's her own mother holding her hand, but she knows her mother is dead. "Jumped into the Canal and out a window."

Sam makes a noise at that one, and she smiles sheepishly up at the ceiling, letting her eyes close. "Please. Tell me about…about Westeros. I haven't been back since a little after…after The Twins." Sam goes very still, and she squeezes her eyes tight. "Is Jon alive? Has there been any word of my sister, of my brothers? Please."

"Jon was alive last I saw him," Sam tells her, voice trembling a bit. "But…The Others are coming. The Wall is in need of men. When I left, Stannis Baratheon was riding to Winterfell to reclaim it from House Bolton, but I don't know how that went. No word of your sister or your brother, Robb. But…I did see your brother, Bran. He lives, along with your youngest brother."

Her eyes fly open, "Why wouldn't–why wouldn't they?" She croaks out, heart pounding. She thinks she remembers hearing that The Boltons held Winterfell, but some part of her had assumed that Bran and Rickon had been shepherded away before the Boltons could get their hands on him. No one had spoken of them, really, and she'd barely let herself think of them, for fear of what she might hear if she did.

Sam stares at her with sad eyes. "Theon Greyjoy betrayed your brother Robb, and took Winterfell from him. He said that he killed the two boys, but he didn't. They escaped. I encountered Bran at The Wall, and he said that Rickon was being kept safe by a Wildling woman." He smiles wanly at her. "I am sorry. Jon was…not very happy when he learned of what happened."

Arya grits her teeth and says nothing, and after a moment, Sam gets back to work. She can barely feel the pain in her stomach over the overwhelming rush of emotions that's boxing her in from nearly every side. Theon betrayed Robb? She thinks, only somewhat able to even wrap her head around the concept. It both makes so much sense and none at all, and the more she tries to dissect it, the more her head starts to hurt.

"Your wolf was at The Wall when I left, though," Sam continues after the silence stretches on for a few minutes. Her eyes fly to him again, and when he smiles at her this time, it's kind and almost pleased. "You and your sister's. Knocked Jon flat into the snow when they arrived. I hadn't seen him that happy in months."

She laughs, ever so slightly, at that, thinking about how happy she would be to see Nymeria if she ever got the chance. But now it seems almost like a distant dream, like something that is doomed to lie forever out of her reach. Her stomach hurts more than she ever thought anything could hurt, and she bites her tongue to keep from cursing.

She does not know how long the agony lasts, or even if she manages to stay conscious through it all. Probably not, she thinks as she peels her eyes open and sees the woman smiling at her from her bedside, a cup of water already in her hand. Slowly, she helps Arya sit up and sip at the drink, and when Arya asks what her name is in a rough voice, she says, "Gilly."

"Gilly," Arya echoes, nodding as she does. The toddler from before sits on the edge of the bed, she now notices, staring up at her with wide eyes. She must be quite the sight to the little one, who she gathers is Gilly's, but she can't be sure that it's Sam's. She does remember her uncle mentioning something about fathering no children being a quite important part of the Night's Watch oath.

Speaking of Sam, he comes in a few moments later, smiling at her when he sees her. In his arms are some bandages, and he hands a roll to her saying, "I presume you cannot stay long, but you'll need to change those bandages out eventually. Use this when you can, and wash it out with water, if you can. But not salt water." She takes it with thanks, and slowly starts to get out of bed, biting her tongue as her belly flares up in pain.

Breathing through the pain, she stands up slowly, rolling her shoulders out. Sam is looking at her with an intense expression, like he's searching her face for something, and she pauses when she sees it, raising a brow at her. "You look a lot like him," he tells her, wringing his hands in front of him. "Jon, I mean. Your brother saved me when I came to The Wall. He's one of the best men I know and a terrific Lord Commander."

She smiles widely at that, "They made Jon Lord Commander?"

"It was my idea!"

She laughs slightly, thinking about her brother and his dark stares and the way he used to melt into the shadows when he was supposed to. He always understood me in a way no one else could, she thinks, her heart panging with longing for home. "Well, I salute you, and thank you for being a friend to him. He's never really had to have friends besides our brothers and me and my sister…" she shakes her head, dispelling the memories as they come.

"It's not always easy," Sam says with a sad smile and a sigh, and Arya nods in agreement, her lips pursed. She can imagine. Jon was never hard for her to love, because she knew the Jon that existed past the walls and the jealously guarded heart. Her brother was forced to grow up before them all, and the older she gets, the more she understands why Jon used to look at the world like it was somehow twisted to only him.

But someone like Sam here, he would have seen the guarded Jon before he saw the man behind the walls of ice and stone. The Jon that clashed with Theon, the Jon in the training yard that she'd watch with wide eyes as he powered his blows with viciousness. She thinks her brothers may have not been the perfect men she used to think, and sometimes she catches herself wondering just how much of them she never was able to know because they never had to hide themselves from her.

"No, it's not," she agrees, nodding at the man. She cannot linger here much longer, with The Waif still out there. But she has just enough time to look them both in the eyes and tell them, "I plan to return to Westeros, and to what remains of my family there. When I see Jon again, I will tell him that you saved me, I will tell him what you did for me. The North Remembers, and you have proven yourself a true friend of House Stark."

She smiles, and thinks of her brother. "Thank you."

"But," she says, and he pauses. "Before I go…there is a woman. She helped me before you. Her name is Lady Crane. She is an actress in the play, and lives on a street near the Bazaar in an orange house with a red roof and door. If you can find her, please help her, and tell her what I told you about The North and House Stark. She saved my life, and paid for it. I don't know if she lives, but if she does…"

Sam seems to get it well enough, nodding, a firm look settling over him. Arya nods too, taking one last deep breath in to steady herself.

She only looks back once at the inn, and feels a rush of affection for this man she'll likely never know but in passing. Even if their paths all converge again, she does not know what that will mean for either of them. Glancing around for a sign of The Waif, she sets off to her next destination, her heart hammering in her chest the longer The Waif's absence stretches on.

She'd given her a good wound at Lady Crane's House, but she did not think it would buy her this much time. Then again, The Waif will have to be picking up her trail all over again, from wherever she went to lick her own wounds. Arya will not have much time left, and she needs to find a way to level the playing field before The Waif tips it even more off the scales.

There's only really one answer, then.

The rocks come away easily, and then there it is, in her hand again, glimmering in the moonlight. Needle is just as she saw it last, Mikken's mark gleaming proudly on the hilt, the thin little blade as wickedly sharp as ever. Holding it tight, she lets the memories wash over her one last time, memories of Winterfell, of the home she might have lost, if Sam's words are to be believed.

Jon's smile. Robb's laugh. Sansa's voice. Bran's shoulder pressed against hers. Rickon smiling up at her, his wolf completely dwarfing him. The first time she'd ever held Nymeria, her little girl staring up at her with her golden eyes, and the feeling of rightness that had settled over her. Her father kissing her head, her mother brushing the hair from her eyes and smiling at her. Grey Wind, staring at her from inside his cage. Lady and Nymeria going away, that day in the woods.

All pieces of her home. She takes a deep breath, and under her breath, for only the ghosts to hear, she says, "Cersei Lannister, Walder Frey, The Red Woman, Beric Dondarrion, Thoros of Myr, The Mountain." And with that, and with a sword of her home in hand, Arya of The House Stark begins searching for The Waif.

The Waif does indeed find her. Arya lets some of her trepidation show, because as much as the feeling of Needle being in her hand again strengthens her and gives her courage, she still knows that she is at a disadvantage here, at least combat-wise. But, at least, she knows she has something to fight for, something that is larger than gods and death and debts that have gone unpaid. She's not a Lannister. Her debts are her own.

"It will all be over soon," The Waif tells her, that normal blank countenance to her voice slightly pierced by a smugness that reminds Arya, inexplicably, of Cersei. She jerks her chin at Arya, crouched down on one knee, her wounds smarting and also not helping. "On your knees, or on your feet?"

You are a Stark of Winterfell, her father's voice rings through her head. She grits her teeth and gets to her feet, grip flexing on Needle. The Waif barely glances at her wicked little blade, and suddenly, Arya remembers that she's never fought The Waif like this, blade to blade. It was only ever the training sticks, never real steel that can bite just as much as a wolf. She feels the corner of her lip twitch.

"Haven't we been through this already?" The Waif asks with a tilt on her head. "That won't help you."

Arya takes a deep breath, closing her eyes as The Waif approaches her. She does not know how long this woman has been a Faceless Man, or if she ever fought blind like Arya was forced to. She is taking a gamble, throwing her dice to the Gods. The Gods of her Home, not the god of death that The Waif follows. What do we say to the God of Death? Not today.

She cuts the lights.

It's something she'll think about later, the nature of the dark when it comes to Starks. She, like every Stark in history, was raised on the same words and phrases, reminders that they were not small, that the blood that runs through them is the blood of Winter, the blood of wolves. She knows their history, their stories, knows how their house came about in the first place, long before the Andals and the Targaryens and The Faceless Men.

Brandon The Builder founded House Stark in the aftermath of the Long Night, in the grave of The Age of Heroes. He, and House Stark, rose from the dark, came forth with light and knowledge and magic that has held The North for generations. The Night's Watch was his making. The Wall and Winterfell were built by his hands. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell.

The dark is the kingdom of The Starks, their first foe, the first thing they banished. And Northmen have long memories. They have not forgotten their history, they have not forgotten what and where they came from, they have not forgotten the Dark they beat, the dark they first conquered. Perhaps the Waif did train in the dark, once. But not recently. And she is not a Stark of Winterfell. The Blood of the First Men, The Wolf's Blood, The Blood of The Kings of Winter is not her blood.

She dies easily enough, in the end. Arya looks down at her corpse, after relighting the candles, and wonders what normally happens to Faceless Men when they die. She does truly wonder who The Waif once was, where she came from, and what led her to The House of Black and White. But she doesn't wonder for long, knowing those are questions she will never get an answer to.

Arya does not steal her face cleanly. She feels really no need of it, because she has a point she wants to make. The House of Black and White has taught her much, indeed, but she knows it's now time to complete her list. She is a creature of the Dark, she is a Stark of Winterfell, and she is going to cash in on her debts, on the blood tax that was demanded of her family. And then, who knows?

She waits in the Hall of Faces, but she does not wait for long before The Kindly Man, the man she once knew as Jaqen H'gar, the man who demanded three names for three lives saved, finds her. He pauses as he sees The Waif's face, and she wonders, for just a moment, if he knew who she once was. Who he once was.

"You told her to kill me," She says after a moment, turning towards him, Needle outstretched. When they met, she did not have it. When she came to The House of Black and White, she did. He must be curious about it, he must know it is one of the things that will always tie her to Winterfell, to home. Something that cannot make her No One.

Even then, he says, "Yes. But here you are. And there she is," he glances again at the bloody and dripping face. "Finally, a girl is No One."

She is not, though, is she? She never really could be, not with her list, not when she could never let Needle go in the first place. Needle is all of her family, Needle is what remains of Winterfell, of the life she once knew, the life she will never get back. Needle is her mother and father, Needle is Robb and Jon and Sansa and Bran and Rickon and the Wolves. Needle is summer snows. Needle is a smile and a hug.

Needle is The North. She is The North. It was only when she got her blade back, got that piece of her home back, that piece of Jon back, did she ever truly start to feel like herself again. She began, once again, to remember who Arya Stark was, who she was beyond names and fragmented ties to a family she has not seen in so very long. It was only then she remembered what it means to be a Stark.

She lifts her chin, trying to imagine that she is a King of Winter in one of their stony tombs with their ancient swords forever in hand, doomed to look out on the world with cold eyes until all comes to an end. They came before her, they are all dead now. She will not just be another forgotten name, she will not let her name pass out of memory. "A girl is Arya Stark of Winterfell, and I'm going home."

The faceless man, Jaqen H'ghar, The Kindly Man, whoever he once was smirks, ever so slightly. Arya nods at him, and turns from him slowly, her footsteps echoing in the hall as she leaves, Needle still poised in her hand, still glimmering like a beacon. Every step takes her closer to home, but she does not rush, she just moves slowly, pausing for a moment outside the House of Black and White.

This was the furthest she could run, after The Twins, after she left The Hound to die, after she found there was nowhere left for her to go in Westeros. She knew she could not make it to The Wall alone, she knew that The North was not what it once was. She ran and with two words and a single coin, bought her passage here. But now, her path leads away from this place, finally. Westeros, The North, the land in her blood, is on the horizon..

I'm going home. She does not know what awaits her. The Wolf Dreams in the Dark of The House of Black and White make little sense, but she knows one thing, knows what all Starks have known. Winter is Coming. And she thinks that there are some who deserve to have it come early, some who deserve to be swallowed by The Winds of Winter. She thinks that when she returns home, it will be high time to remind the forgetful fools of the South just what lies to the North of them.

"Cersei Lannister, Walder Frey, The Red Woman, Beric Dondarrion, Thoros of Myr, The Mountain," she whispers softly into the night air, Needle held tight in her hand. It is a piece of Winterfell, a piece of Jon, a piece of everything the world has taken from her. She can't bring any of it back, no, but she can settle the score with a blade from her home.

She misses her father.

The thought comes suddenly, like a cold wind. She feels tears come to her eyes, all the grief running back to her in a single, awful moment. She tilts her head up to look at the moon that hangs above, and hopes, for just a moment, that her siblings are looking up at that moon too. She can sense them, in some piece, or the wolves at least. She thinks they live, but she doesn't know where they are. She doesn't know what is waiting for her when she gets home.

But her father's words from all those years ago, from after she let Lady and Nymeria go ring in the back of her head. Your sister, your brothers, your home, they are what will guide you through the Winter. That is how it has been, since before The Andals, before the Iron Throne. Starks, and the North, surviving against the cold. And of course, the words passed down from generation to generation of Starks. The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.

She takes a fortifying breath. I am Arya Stark of Winterfell, and I'm going home.

It's quite simple, when one puts it like that, is it not?


Notes:
-this chapter was...not easy to write. it fought me a lot, probably because there's both so much and so little that really has to happen? i struggled a lot with this one, but it's fine.
-sam being the guy who keeps running into starks in the books is the funniest thing ever, esp if you run with the whole coldhands is benjen stuff. its just like. which stark will he encounter next?! he could meet lady stoneheart and i wouldn't even be surprised. what a man. singlehandedly confirming the survival of these kids and he only half knows it.
-one of the most interesting thing about the stark girls, at least to me, is how many people give up their lives for their safety, in one way or another. I mean, we've got the ones Arya mentions here, plus Septa Mordane and many Knights of the Vale (at least) for Sansa. The people around them truly just do love them and care about them. it makes me soft.
-the arya and lady crane one was really interesting. i know its not entirely show accurate to how LC acts, but i did have a lot of fun drawing the parallels between cersei and sansa and the women who portray them. arya sees her big sister in a woman who plays the first name on her list. there's so much to unpack there, lmao.
-you know arya laughs about jon being lord commander later. you know it.
-and now arya is heading back to Westeros, with her list incomplete and her wolf running around with her siblings. god, i wonder who she might just end up encountering...

Next up, the North Remembers and House Stark fights for their home.