Two moons had passed since her return to Winterfell, Arya readied herself to journey back to Queenscrown. Sansa's letter had finally arrived, a courteous welcome for Ser Barristan into their fold, expressing anticipation for Jon's gratitude toward his service.
Time had also heralded the return of her mother, Lady Stark, whose feelings towards the marriage between Jon and Sansa, had apparently deteriorated during her stay at Queenscrown. Therefore, Sansa had sent her back to Winterfell, although Arya suspected her mother would go straight back to Queenscrown as soon as she heard of Jon's return.
Arya's journey had been put on hold for the time being. She had intended to join Robb on his Lord's Progress, however she was to escort Ser Barristan to Queenscrown, or at least most of the way there, before changing course and meeting up with Robb at Clan Wull. Theon would meet her on the kings Road, as he was currently in Queenscrown, and escort Arya to meet with Robb, while Ser Barristan continued to Queenscrown.
For the first time in her life, Arya was standing still at the crossroads of her desires. Winterfell's embrace calling her back with an irresistible pull. Home, where her heart felt anchored, where Nymeria padded silently by her side.
The living breathed around her—those she cherished were present, Gendry carving his place among them. Yet an urge to roam free still etched into the fragment of her very being. However, a new thread had woven itself into her life, the mystic threads of wolf dreams entangled themselves into her nightly slumber.
In the dark hours, Arya slipped into another skin, the fur of Nymeria embracing her senses. The wolfswood unfolded before her, a realm of moonlit shadows and primal instincts. Her legs moved effortlessly, chasing prey through the wild, and when her quarry succumbed, the metallic tang of blood lingered on her palate. She'd awaken with a phantom taste, hunger clinging to her waking moments.
At first, these nocturnal escapades seemed mere figments of slumber before she understood what was happening. She was in Nymeria's consciousness, seeing the world through her wolf's eyes. Longing for the wisdom of the Three-Eyed Raven, Arya found herself tethered to Bran, the echoes of his presence her only solace.
As curiosity whispered in her mind, she pondered a cosmic connection. Was she the sole voyager in this ethereal dance, or did Bran traverse the dreamscape with Summer?
The upcoming spar with Ser Barristan amidst the godswood's ancient sentinels loomed, yet this morning held a different purpose for Arya. She sought Bran.
Under the heart tree, Arya discovered Bran perched on a stump above her.
"Bran?" she called. "Caught climbing again?"
Bran's gaze lifted to meet Arya's. "No climbing this time," he replied, a whisper of melancholy colouring his words. "I don't want you and Ser Barristan to go to Queenscrown."
Bran climbed down from the tree and settled on the uneven ground beside Arya, drawing absent-minded etchings into the ground with a stick.
"I ain't keen on heading back, not truly," Arya admitted, her words carrying the weight of sincerity. Yet, nestled beneath that truth was another, one she harboured silently—Gendry. Daily visits to his forge had become her routine, a clandestine classroom where combat lessons mingled with stolen glances.
"Why leave, then?" Bran questioned, innocence painted across his gaze.
"I'm Sansa's handmaiden now. My place is by her side," Arya replied, the taste of the words bitter on her tongue. She felt a pang, akin to echoing Sansa's politeness. "But first I must assist with Robb's Lord's Progress. I must see the north and learn, for one day I may have to assist with matters of the north. But I will return with Robb before my journey back to Queenscrown."
Bran's plea disrupted the air, "Can I come with you?"
Arya shook her head, a silent denial. "Not yet. But the time will come. Jon might beckon you to his side, name you one of his knights, perhaps. How about becoming a squire to Ser Barristan. Isn't that what you've always wanted?"
Though Bran nodded, weariness clung to him like a second skin, purple shadows resting below his Tully blue eyes told the story. "Sleep evading you?" she asked, her concern edging her voice.
Bran shook his head, dark circles etched beneath his eyes. "Strange dreams haunt me, Arya."
"What's it about?" Arya probed, a flicker of concern weaving through her tone. The prospect of the Three-Eyed Raven seeking another pawn sent a shiver down her spine; perhaps taking Bran to Queenscrown was an unavoidable fate.
"Nothing," Bran sulked, his gaze fixated on the ground, a curtain of auburn hair shielding his face.
Suspecting Bran's venture into the realms of warging, Arya shifted her strategy. "Ever dream you're tearing through the wolfswood?" she inquired, her gaze fixed on Bran, trying to unravel the mystery beneath his furrowed brow. He turned to meet her eyes and nodded. "Like you're Summer, running, playing, hunting?" Another nod from Bran. "I dream of being Nymeria, just like Jon dreams he's Ghost, Sansa dreams she's Lady. Rickon's probably imagining himself as Shaggydog, and I bet Robb envisions Grey Wind in his dreams too," Arya mused.
"How do you know?" Bran inquired, a mix of curiosity and uncertainty lingering in his eyes.
"We're wargs, Bran, like in Old Nan's tales. Just don't spill the secret to Mother," Arya replied with a smirk, a conspiratorial glint in her eyes.
Bran's brow furrowed. "What about Father?" he pressed.
"Father's a Stark. Speak to him, he'll get it. But not Mother. It'll spook her. And tell Rickon to keep his mouth shut. Once I'm gone, you're the eldest, the responsible one," Arya explained, a sense of duty weaving through her words. She fought the urge to tousle Bran's hair, a habitual gesture now awkward with his towering height.
"I prefer to be with Jon and Sansa," Bran grumbled, a hint of frustration in his voice.
Arya frowned. "Why?" she probed, her curiosity matched with a tinge of concern.
"Mother and Father keep arguing about Jon and Sansa. They think Rickon and I are oblivious," he confessed, discomfort etched across his features.
"What have you heard, Bran?" Arya inquired, a sense of foreboding settling within her. She sensed Bran possessed a knowledge that surpassed what was openly shared.
"Ser Barristan's aiming to be the Lord Commander of King Aegon's Kingsguard. And by King Aegon, I mean Jon. Is that the truth? Lyanna's son?" Bran's question hung in the air, laden with the weight of family secrets.
Arya nodded, honesty colouring her response. No use dancing around the truth with Bran; he was growing into a man, and the world's realities were seeping into his awareness.
"How'd you figure it out?" Bran's sigh carried the weight of revelation. Odd, Arya pondered, realizing that the discussions had unfolded in her absence. "Mother and Father argue about it. They reckon we don't catch wind of it, but we do." Bran revealed.
"Does Rickon have any clue?" Arya questioned, a sudden worry knotting her stomach. Rickon, still in the bloom of youth, might sense trouble but be oblivious to its magnitude.
"He senses something's off, but the truth eludes him," Bran admitted, a furrow in his brow. "I warned him to stay silent."
Arya pressed for more details. "What's the talk between Mother and Father?"
"Mother's on about how being a Targaryen's worse than being a bastard. She's hell-bent on annulling their marriage once King Joffrey ties the knot with Lady Margaery, citing non-consummation as the grounds," Bran relayed.
"Seven fucking hells!" Arya spat.
Bran's laughter rang through the air. "No telling Mother," he pledged, the humour evaporating from his face. "But why's Mother against Sansa being married to Jon? He's not Father's bastard. He's done no wrong."
Arya shrugged, a ripple of frustration crossing her features. "Who can say? She seems to blame Jon for Father's lies. She had dreams of Sansa marrying Joffrey," Arya shuddered at the memory. "Even though she knows Joffrey's just Jaime Lannister's bastard, with no claim to the Iron Throne. If Aunt Lyanna hadn't run off with Prince Rhaegar, Mother would be wed to Uncle Brandon. You know how she hates when plans go awry. She probably blames Jon for that as well."
Bran frowned. "Did she love Uncle Brandon?" he asked.
Arya considered it, the reputation that clung to Brandon Stark. A handsome rogue, no better than King Robert. Her mother might have felt desire for him, but Arya doubted she'd tolerate his indiscretions, especially given her treatment of Jon. She suspected there were likely bastards of Brandon scattered across the Seven Kingdoms.
"Teenage infatuation, I reckon," Arya said.
"Like you've got for Gendry?" Bran teased, a mischievous glint in his eyes.
"Bran!" Arya exclaimed, aghast. "How bloody dare you?"
Their banter was interrupted by the rhythmic crunch of approaching footsteps. "Now, who needs rescuing? The damsel or the poor younger brother?" Ser Barristan's voice cut through the playful atmosphere.
"Are you two about to spar?" Bran's eyes widened with curiosity. "She won't show me her true skill. Theon says only Jon can outmatch her. Even Ser Rodrick was unable to do so. That's why she avoids practising with anyone else."
Ser Barristan's smile widened. "Is that so?" he inquired. "Should I brace myself for disappointment, whether in victory or defeat? I've heard you're quite the water dancer."
"Master Syrio was teaching me as well," Bran chimed in eagerly, a spark of excitement in his eyes, though it faded quickly. "But he had to go back to Braavos."
"A useful skill with smaller blades," Ser Barristan remarked, a knowing smile playing on his lips.
"Live steel?" Arya inquired, a glint of anticipation in her eyes.
"I wouldn't wish to harm you," Ser Barristan expressed sudden concern.
"You won't," Arya dismissed his worry with a casual shrug. "I promise not to hurt you." With a swift motion, she unsheathed Needle. "Well, not too much," she added with a sly grin, the steel catching the light, a silent promise of the dance to come.
Arya flattened herself against the training ground, a deferential nod to Ser Barristan as he drew his longsword. The glint of confidence sparked in her eyes; speed would be her ally, regardless of the old knight's skill or strength.
The dance began, the clash of steel ringing through the sacred grove. Arya moved with the fluid grace of the water dancer, her Needle a silver blur in the dappled sunlight. Ser Barristan, though aged, possessed a restrained elegance, a deadly precision forged through countless battles.
Their blades met in a symphony of strikes and parries. Arya's agility proved a formidable counterpart to Ser Barristan's seasoned technique. Each move was a dance, a choreography of steel and muscle.
A swift exchange left Arya momentarily disarmed, but she swiftly recovered, spinning away from Ser Barristan's next strike. The seasoned knight pressed the attack, but Arya, using the terrain to her advantage, danced around the ancient heart tree, evading with feline grace.
As the dance unfolded, both warriors found themselves locked in a brief stalemate, their blades engaged in a silent conversation. Arya determined, and Ser Barristan, the embodiment of a lifetime of martial skill and brute strength.
The match concluded with a mutual acknowledgment of respect. Arya, a defiant grin on her face, sheathed Needle. Ser Barristan lowered his blade, a nod of admiration for the fiery spirit he encountered.
Bran's admiration reached her ears. "That was amazing."
Arya couldn't help but smirk.
"Your sister's got something special. Pleased I kept her on her toes for so long. Very few could take her down easily," Ser Barristan acknowledged.
"I doubt it." Arya agreed, her confidence unyielding.
"Jon could best you. Easy," Bran boasted.
"That's Jon. Doubt even Ser Jaime or The Hound would stand a chance against him. Ser Gregor Clegane might," Arya mused, a casual shrug accompanying her words.
Ser Barristan's brow furrowed. "Is he truly as good as you say?"
Bran affirmed with a nod. "Father claims he's near Ser Arthur Dayne's skill."
"He'll be even deadlier with Longclaw now," Arya chimed in, a triumphant smirk adorning her face.
"Longclaw?" Bran questioned, confusion etched on his features.
"The Valyrian steel sword of House Mormont," Ser Barristan explained, turning to Arya. "How did he come by Longclaw?"
"Jon saved the life of the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. Mormont gave him the sword in gratitude," Arya explained. "It now boasts a white wolf pommel with garnet eyes, fashioned to resemble Ghost."
At the mere utterance of direwolves, the rustling woods birthed Summer and Nymeria, their fur brushing against the foliage as they playfully emerged. "Hard to fathom he's got a wolf of his own," Ser Barristan said, as Summer ambled toward the old knight, who greeted the direwolf with fond attention.
Arya observed the scene, a smirk dancing on her lips. Summer's affinity for Ser Barristan wasn't a revelation. After all, Bran had practically hero-worshipped the seasoned knight his entire life, and the direwolf mirrored Bran's sentiments towards the man.
A sennight slipped by, marking the close of Arya's fourteenth name-day celebration within the familiar walls of Winterfell. The time had come for her and Ser Barristan to embark on their departure. As she bid farewell, Arya harboured a silent promise to return swiftly to Gendry's side, perhaps even orchestrating his relocation to Queenscrown.
Her mother's disapproval, anchored in propriety, failed to dissuade her. Arya understood that, soon enough, Jon's ascendancy to the throne would eclipse her mother's influence, providing an avenue to legitimize Gendry and grant him a lordship. A prospect Arya, with her aversion to settling and marriage, deemed more of a nicety than a necessity.
Before their departure, her father summoned Arya and Ser Barristan to his solar. A large wooden chest, reminiscent of the one she had pilfered from Littlefinger, graced the table. The scrolls and ledgers within bore a weight of information, a trove of secrets waiting to be unveiled. Arya had so far resisted the urge to delve into its contents, opting to wait for Sansa's discerning eyes to pass judgment first. However, this chest was different.
"I wanted you to see this," Ned addressed Arya, nudging the chest toward Ser Barristan. "I need your approval."
Arya's brow furrowed in perplexity. "Mine?"
"I can't get Jon's nor Sansa's, so you'll have to do for the time being," Ned explained, turning to Ser Barristan. "It's yours."
The creak of the wooden chest opening heralded a reveal of gleaming silver and gold within. Ser Barristan, with a seasoned grace, began extracting the pieces of armour.
Each section, intricately polished, boasted golden pauldrons embossed with a three-headed dragon reminiscent of the Targaryen sigil. The decorative ensemble, adorned with white enamel and gold, mirrored the opulence of King Robert's kingsguard armour—only this one bore the mark of the dragon instead of the stag. Arya's eyes lingered on the fanciful craftsmanship, a departure from the stark practicality of typical Stark attire.
A subtle smile etched itself on the weathered face of the old knight. "Never thought I'd be donning a three-headed dragon again," he confessed. "Thank you for looking out for him. Prince Rhaegar would be grateful, and under your care, he'd grow with a sense of right and wrong, a rare thing in the cesspit of King's Landing."
"I approve. Although it will have to be kept secret until the time is right to reveal Jon's identity." Arya said.
Ned stared at Arya and nodded. "Ser Barristan is aware of your greensight. Enlighten him on what would befall Jon if we don't make the changes."
Arya met Ser Barristan's eyes. "Jon would be declared King in the North long before anyone knew his true identity. Despite living true-born Starks, the northerners would choose him. Jon's already been a king once," she told a surprised-looking Ser Barristan.
"I reckon we ought to leave," Arya proposed, her arms enveloping her father in a tight embrace. "We'll be back soon. Got a feeling Bran might fancy becoming Ser Barristan's squire. Figured I'd give you a head-up." She cast a glance at her father, who met her gaze with a nod.
"I'd be most honoured to have young Brandon as my squire. Though it might be prudent to wait until I've met His Grace," Ser Barristan remarked, his measured tone reflecting the seasoned wisdom of a knight.
"Robb and I can escort him north." Arya suggested. "We'll be returning to Winterfell before making his way back to Queenscrown. After all, Robb has yet to visit Lord Cerwyn. Jon might be back by then."
"Aye," Ned agreed. "Let's get you off then. Your mother will want her chance to bid you farewell." The room exhaled with a sense of imminent departure, and the clinking of armour echoed the decisions that unfolded within the walls of Winterfell.