Within the hull of the great cog Saduleon, Arya Stark lay on her own bed in her own cabin, thinking of home.
Each day that passed, each port they stopped in, each time she awoke and for a brief, quiet moment thought she was back in Winterfell, made her longing worsen.
Some days were easier than others, mostly those when there was something to do, something to tire herself out with. When Arya had time to think, all she ever thought of was home. A silly, angry part of her would curse the gods for putting her on this path, or Ser Barristan for his mistakes and his lies, or even herself for forgiving him.
None of it mattered. She was here, and home grew further with each passing day, no matter how much she wished it were not so.
Still, Arya knew there were worse places to be, and worse people to be with.
Once the three ships had set sail, she had not let her guard down until they were well past the Bay of Pentos, and out onto the Narrow Sea; always fearing that some galley was chasing them down to take her back to the magister's manse. But that galley had never come. Days turned to weeks turned to months, and they heard neither hide nor hair of Magister Illyrio Mopatis.
Arya would see him sometimes, when she dreamt, and it was always his beady eyes finding her that shook her awake, most times in a cold sweat. Pentos was far away, but the magister's presence lingered on like some foul smell. The ships they sailed on were his, the crews that manned them were his, the cargo in their holds were his.
The only two men not on the crew were both hired by the magister, and Strong Belwas was bought for his use like a suit of armour. The great bald pit fighter was a slave who had travelled all across Essos, greatly prized for his ability to spill a man's blood. Belwas had been sold from Qohor to Pentos, and was now on his way to Qarth to serve the dragon queen. Daenerys Targaryen had not paid for the man, however, and Arya could not help but wonder which side he would be on if she and the magister turned against one another.
Slavery was outlawed in Westeros, so Arya did not know what bonds and oaths Belwas would fall back on when faced with such a choice. The man was, admittedly, rather simple, so there was every chance he would merely follow the one who asked him nicest, or promised him the most liver and onions once the fighting was over. Belwas really liked liver and onions.
Ser Barristan had introduced her to the pit fighter when they first boarded Saduleon, telling the man that Arya was to be his page. After explaining what a page was to the big-bellied eunuch, Belwas had let out a deep chortle, and said, in his Ghiscari drawl, "Mi-car will make good serving boy for Belwas."
"I'm not a serving boy!" she had yelled back. "I'm a page."
He had just laughed again, and slapped his great belly with all its pale scars. "Mi-car page will get Belwas wine then, like good little page."
His common tongue was as ugly as he was, and Arya had wanted to hit him then, but Whitebeard gave her a sharp glance and she'd relented, heading below deck to fill a flagon for the big man.
She decided she liked the great bald pit fighter after spending a few days in his service. He was blunt and crude, but never cruel - Arya thought he might be too stupid to be cruel, but she didn't mind that. He was Ghiscari, from the city of Meereen in Slaver's Bay, so he spoke little of the common tongue. What he did speak was drenched in a thick drawl that ranged from difficult to outright impossible to understand.
Half the time his instructions had to be translated from High Valyrian via his squire Whitebeard whenever he forgot Mycah could not understand the language, or when he grew too frustrated at his page's inability to understand his accent. But where others might curse or hit her, Belwas only bellowed out a laugh, slapped his belly, and told her she needed to learn a proper tongue if she wanted to stay in Essos. She didn't need Belwas to remind her of that, it was clear whenever they pulled into port.
Whitebeard - the nickname given to Ser Barristan by Belwas, which had been quickly adopted by the crew (and Arya) - had been teaching her bits and pieces, but it was slow going. After months of travel and teaching Arya had little more of the language than she had started with. She wanted to learn, but it was deathly dull, and whenever Whitebeard came to her with quill and paper instead of sword and shield, Arya could not help but feel disappointed. She half-suspected the old man agreed with her. He was no maester, of that there could be no doubt.
It was those lessons that helped pass time aboard the Saduleon best. Arya always felt better with a sword in her hand, either her practice one or Needle, it made no matter. It gave her purpose, it gave her power. So long as she held a weapon no one could hurt her, at least not before she hurt them first.
The old knight had kept his promise, and the two had trained every other day, dancing up and down the deck of the Saduleon, swords twirling. Sometimes, Strong Belwas would watch, and sometimes the pit fighter would take up arms himself and show Arya how the dance was done in the red sands of the Meereenese fighting pits. Seeing how different the styles of water dancer, knight, and pit fighter were made Arya want nothing more than to travel across Essos learning as many variations as she could. Later, she told herself. Once we've found the dragon queen and I know my family are safe.
Talk of Daenerys Targaryen had grown and grown the further east they went. What had started as whispers in Tyrosh had become excited mutterings in Lys. Arya half expected them to be shouting the queen's name from the rooftops when they eventually reached Qarth.
It was odd that a claimant to the throne of a foreign kingdom had gotten such interest so far from their own realm, and Arya wondered what it was about the queen that had caused it. Mayhaps it was something she would learn upon meeting her. They say she is beautiful, but Lys was full of beautiful people. Arya had been most unnerved by it when they pulled into the island's port. Everywhere she looked, the people were pale-skinned, silver-haired, and lovely. Their eyes were purple, lilac, and pale blue, their dresses fine, made of bright silks that glittered with gemstones.
She had walked the paved streets by Whitebeard's side with eyes wide and mouth agape. Lys seemed like some mystical place from Old Nan's stories, where the sun always shone and the waters were bright and blue and filled with fish. Palm and fruit trees grew big and bold, and lined the paths of cream-coloured stone that snaked across the island. Flower-dappled gardens were abundant, with colours bright and bountiful.
Lys was as beautiful as its people. Mayhaps that was why it was so beautiful. Does beauty beget beauty? It was a different world to the one Arya lived in. She wondered what life was like for someone that pretty, that perfect. Easier, she imagined. The sight of the Lysene noblewomen had left a queer feeling in her belly, and Arya was grateful to have Mycah to fall back on. To all who saw her, she was a boy, and there had been a comfort to that when faced with a wall of feminine beauty she so sorely lacked. No one cared that Mycah's hair was brown and messy, or that his face was long, or even that he was too skinny. He was a boy, and all that mattered was that he could swing his sword well, and the page got better at that with every day that passed.
While on the island, they had taken on food and water, done some trading using the coin provided by the magister, and were on their way east again, bound for Volantis. Lys had dwindled beyond the horizon some weeks ago, and the waters they sailed on had darkened and swallowed the whole world.
For the past weeks, her whole life was blue.
It was in this great vastness that Arya's thoughts turned to home.
Watching the waves crashing against Saduleon's hull, she had first thought of the dark green waters of the North, then the churning icy sheets of the White Knife, which became the chilly blues of Winterfell's moat (where she first learned to swim), and eventually the inky black pools of her home's godswood, smoking in the cold Northern air. Arya would have given everything to dip her toes in those waters, to breathe in the scent of pine and oak and ash, feel the crunch of leaves beneath her feet, and hear the laughter of her brothers at play.
Arya had wept bitter tears that night, and when Whitebeard was busy with Captain Groleo the following day, her sadness had nowhere to go, so it settled over her heart, where it hung still. Some days were easier than others, but this one had been hard. The news they had gotten from a passing trader familiar to Groleo had kept him and the old man locked in the cabin all day, and when Arya had gone to check on them and ask about a lesson she had been sent away sharply.
She still did not understand why the two were so stressed. So her horsey husband's dead, who cares? Queen Daenerys is the only one that matters. Arya sighed, and sat up in her bunk, fringe falling over her eyes as she hunched over, angry. She slid off the bed, padded barefoot over to her boots and slipped them both on. Fetching her sword belt from where it hung on the bedpost, Arya quickly buckled it about her skinny waist and left her cabin, grabbing one of the practice posts they had bought in Tyrosh and dragging the thing with her above deck. It was made to resemble a man, with soft padding for arms, chest, and head, to better absorb the blows of a practice sword.
The overwhelming desire to hit something had taken hold, and the post would serve ably. Arya slid her practice sword from its sheath (also bought in Tyrosh), and had made ready to strike when a low voice rumbled out from behind her.
"Mi-car fetch good wine for Belwas. Night is good. Good for wine."
She turned to see the pit fighter lounging on a bench, a big stupid smile on his big stupid face. For a man of his size, he could be deceptively quiet; Arya had no clue he was even up here. She scowled at him. "Get your own wine."
"Mi-car get wine," he insisted. "That Mi-car job. Page job."
"I never asked to be your stupid page! I just wanted to learn how to fight."
Belwas grunted. "Whitebeard teach fight."
"Whitebeard's not here," she snapped.
The pit fighter tilted his bald head. "Whitebeard here. Whitebeard look for Mi-car. Want talk to Mi-car."
Arya tensed. "What? When?"
He waved a hand. "Before. Small before. Gone down to cabin now."
Her anger lifted, and she felt sorry for shouting at the big man. "Thank you, Belwas. I'll … I'll get your wine once I've talked to him, okay?"
At the promise of wine, he smiled again. "Be quick, Mi-car page."
She was, racing down the steps and over to Whitebeard's cabin. Once outside his door, Arya hesitated, unsure what she wanted to say to the old man. Do I yell at him? Cry to him? Curse him? Thank him? What do I say, and what does he want to say to me? She was no closer to an answer when the cabin door swung open and Whitebeard appeared behind it, starting back slightly.
"Ar- Mycah," he corrected quickly. "I was just coming to find you."
"Oh … Belwas said you were looking for me earlier, so I thought I'd come find you, too."
"Yes," he said. "Why don't you come in, child?"
She did, sitting across from the old man's bed. Whitebeard sat on the bunk, grunting as he did. He looked tired. The ship rose and fell against the waves, the oil lantern that hung on the ceiling swung this way and that, sending its light dancing across the small room.
A moment's silence passed before Whitebeard sighed, and said, "I am sorry for sending you away this morning. I took my frustration out on you, and that wasn't fair." He took a breath. "The news is grave indeed, and Groleo and I have discussed much and more regarding how best to respond to it, but the truth is we are powerless at the moment."
Whitebeard's tone was morose, and it confused her. "You sound like Daenerys is the one who died."
His mouth tightened. "She very well could have, for all we know."
Arya was lost. "You said she is pregnant with the khal's son, Why would they want to kill her?"
"The Dothraki are not like the men of Westeros, or even most of Essos; they only respect strength. When Khal Drogo sickened and died, they will have abandoned him, and Daenerys too." The old man stroked his beard. "Groleo says she is dead, that the Dothraki would not have allowed Drogo's son to live and would have cut him from the queen's belly to make certain. I pray to the gods that he is wrong, and that the girl has survived the ordeal, but we do not know."
She can't be dead, thought Arya. She can't . Arya chewed her lip. "What are we going to do?"
"Our course has not changed, and as soon as we set anchor in Volantis, Groleo and I will seek the latest news."
"What if …" She's dead? We've come all this way for nothing? I left my family behind in vain? "the news is bad?" Arya asked eventually.
Whitebeard frowned. "That is much of what the captain and I have been discussing." He leant closer. "If the news is bad, we will return to Pentos-"
"But-"
He cut off her protest. "But I will not let the magister lay a finger on you, Arya. We will go to your brother, and I will offer him my sword." Ser Barristan put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed it gently. "You spoke well of him before, my lady, so I am sure he will make a fine king, presuming the worst, which I hope to death is not the case."
Arya nodded. Just the mention of Robb had brought tears to the corners of her eyes. "I miss him," she said underneath her breath. The ship, thousands of leagues from home, creaked and groaned. "I miss all of them." The tears rolled down her cheeks in fat little droplets. "I wish I could see them just once, just to tell them I'm okay." She sniffed. "They … They probably think I'm dead , don't they?"
Barristan pulled her into a hug, fierce and strong. "Then imagine the look in their eyes when you come back to them safe and sound. Picture it, Arya, hold it close to your heart, and never, ever let it go."
She looked up at the old knight through blurry eyes. "I'll try," she whispered, "I will."
That night, as she lay asleep in her own bed in her own cabin within the hull of the great cog Saduleon, Arya Stark dreamt she was a direwolf, strong and brave and fearless, who could rip out a fat man's throat like it was nothing.
It was a good dream.