The sky was dark, dawn would soon break. Arya yawned as she made her way to the Godswood. She had been up late into the night in discussions with father, Jon, Sansa, and Varys, regarding a letter received from Pyke. It told of Euron's Kingsmoot victory. There was no word of Asha's fate.

A small council meeting was called, but Arya would not attend. She had other tasks to attend to, skin-changing with Bran being the most important.

Since his return a week ago, Bran had been helping her hone her skin-change abilities, specifically into animals at a distance. Thus, they were working with a raven in Oldtown. It wasn't for nought, for they were awaiting Sam's arrival and uncovering what the maesters were up to.

In their last life, Arya had learned that the maesters were meddling in affairs beyond their station. Some were fascinated by magic, or more specifically dragons. Many feared it and sought to destroy dragons altogether.

The Book of Dragons had been highly sought after. She heard whispers the Faceless Men searched for it, though never confirmed. In the end, to Arya's knowledge, the book was never found.

That wasn't her only concern. Arya was spying on Varys, as was Bran. She had uncovered troubling news, but she didn't want to bring it to Jon and Sansa until after they had spoken with the council. First, she needed to discuss it with Bran.

He knew as much about their past life as she did, though, at times, his memories seemed… off. Some he claimed to recall didn't align with her experiences, as if false memories had woven themselves into the truth.

It unsettled her, but Arya set it aside for now.

This morning, tracking the ravens from the Godswood was her priority. The heart tree wasn't necessary, but Bran insisted it strengthened their magic, making the process less draining.

As usual, they would warg in the Godswood. Later, returning to their chambers, taking turns watching over each other, pausing only to eat or relieve themselves. This had been their routine for days, as Sam had yet to reach Oldtown—but he would be there soon.

Arya arrived in the Godswood to find Bran seated on the large root, the same one their father used to clean his sword. She remembered Jon doing the same when he was King in the North—at least before he bent the knee to Daenerys.

She settled beside Bran, whose eyes had turned white. They turned blue before she was able to close her own.

"Who are we following?"

"Pate, again. Remember the alchemist who promised him gold? He is due to meet him shortly."

"I thought it was last night." Arya wrapped her cloak around her shoulders.

"It was, but the alchemist is late. Pate is still waiting at the Quill and Tankard with the Sphynx, Mollander, Roone and Armen."

"Did he get the keys?"

Bran offered her a quick nod. "They were under Walgrave's bed, in the old chest."

"I suppose we should watch." Arya closed her eyes, and in an instant, she was in the body of her raven, perched outside the Quill and Tankard in Oldtown.

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Oldtown was unlike any city she had ever seen.

It was a city made of stone. The city itself was surrounded by massive, thick, high stone walls. Its cobbled streets were often slick with rain, while the towering walls stood strong against the sea. Bridges of both stone and wood crossed the Honeywine River. There small isles dotted its path. The Quill and Tankard was an old inn, that sat on one such island.

The river road wound through the city's heart. To the west, guildhalls clustered along the riverbanks, while beneath the beautiful facade, parts of the city hid rat pits and brothels.

The city was a maze of alleys, crooked streets, and bustling markets like Ragpicker's Wynd and the Thieves' Market. In summer, Oldtown sweltered by day. Come nightfall it was filled with the scent of peaches, pomegranates, and moonbloom. The scent was oft described as smelling as flowery as a perfumed dowager.

The Citadel, which was the greatest seat of learning in Westeros, spanned both sides of the river, linked by stone bridges lined with halls. Here, boys and men came to study and forge their maester's chains.

Downriver, the Starry Sept once ruled as the centre of the Faith, its influence now waning with the rise of King's Landing. Temples enshrined to foreign gods lined the wharves, but the city's true beacon was the mighty Hightower. It was the tallest tower in the world, taller even than the Wall. It guided ships safely into port.

Bran was waiting beside her on the branch of the tree outside the Quill and Tankard. Below them sat Pate, Mollander, Alleras, Roone and Armen. They were drinking and japing around as if nothing could ever destroy their peace. Yet Arya knew, in a few short moons, Euron Greyjoy would bring an end to Oldtown. Her heart bled at the thought. It was with some fortune, that Sam was aware of the upcoming battle and would be prepared to leave at a moment's notice.

Arya turned her mind to the four men (and one woman pretending to be a man) below her, to listen to their chatter for anything of interest.

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"Dragons," Mollander snatched an apple off the ground and tossed it in the air.

"Throw the apple," Alleras the Sphinx took an arrow from his quiver and nocked it to his bowstring.

"I should like to see a dragon," said Roone, the young chunky boy. "I should like that very much."

"You were born too late for dragons, lad. The last one perished during the reign of King Aegon the Third." Armen the Acolyte told Roone.

"The last dragon in Westeros," repeated Mollander.

"Throw the apple," Alleras pushed again.

"The last dragon in Westeros was the last dragon," Armen repeated. "That is well known."

"Do you mean to eat the apple, or will you throw it?" Alleras pressed Mollander.

Arya knew they were discussing the rumours of Daenerys and her dragons. Right now, they were little more than that, just rumours. But Arya and Bran knew better. The most recent dragon upon the shores of Westeros was Blizzard, who belonged to Aegon VI.

The chat moved on to discussing apples and worms. Arya became disinterested in the conversation and was wondering if she could stop warging and if Bran could give her a nudge if the Alchemist returned. However, that changed when Alleras threw a leg across the bench reached for his wine cup and uttered the words, "The dragon has three heads."

"Is this a riddle?" Roone wanted to know. "Sphinxes always speak in riddles in the tales."

"No riddle." Alleras sipped his wine.

"No dragon has ever had three heads except on shields and banners," Armen the Acolyte's voice was firm. "That was a heraldic charge, no more. It matters not, the Targaryens are all dead."

"Not all," said Alleras. "The Beggar King had a sister."

"I thought her head was smashed against a wall," said Roone.

"No," said Alleras. "It was Prince Rhaegar's young son Aegon whose head was dashed against the wall by the Lion of Lannister's brave men. We speak of Rhaegar's sister, born on Dragonstone before its fall. The one they called Daenerys."

Arya hoped Alleras would give them more, but it seemed the acolyte was not too forthcoming in her pronouncements. She wondered why Sarella was following Daenerys. What were Oberyn and Doran up to? Was Sarella going rogue? Too many questions without a single answer.

The arrival of Leo Tyrell broke Arya's chain of thought. This prompted everyone except Pate to leave. He wasn't a popular man. As arrogant as the rest of the Tyrells with none of the charm to allow him to get away with it.

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About a quarter of an hour had passed since the others left. Pate must have had enough of Leo Tyrell and of waiting for the alchemist. He turned away and crossed the terrace to leave. By the time he reached the other side, the eastern sky was turning pink.

Pate knelt on one knee, trying to wipe the mud off his robes, when the man who called himself the Alchemist approached. "Good morrow, Pate."

The Alchemist wore a hooded traveller's cloak, brown and nondescript, and Arya didn't like it one bit. Something about the man felt… off. She couldn't quite see his face, for the rising sun was behind him and blinding, but the man sounded familiar.

Pate stood firm. "The third day … you said you would be at the Quill and Tankard."

"You were with your friends. It was not my wish to intrude upon your fellowship. Have you decided what you are?"

"I suppose I am a thief." Pate looked unhappy about the confession. Arya wondered what he had stolen.

"I thought you might be."

"Do you have my dragon?" Pate asked.

"If you have what I require."

"Give it here, I want to see."

"The river road is not the place. Come."

Arya knew that voice for she had spoken with the man a matter of only a few moons ago. Her mouth turned dry as a desert, and despite the heat, she felt the cold seeping into her bones. She was helpless knowing what was coming as she watched the alchemist walk away. Pate followed.

As they walked, Pate slipped his hand up into his sleeve and retrieved the keys he stole. They were kept safe inside one of the many hidden pockets concealed within Maesters' robes. He hurried to keep pace with Jaqen's long strides.

Bran and Arya followed, flying roof to roof as Pate and Jaqen went down an alley, around a corner, through the old Thieves Market, along Ragpicker's Wynd. The man turned into another alley, narrower than the first.

"This is far enough," said Pate. "There's no one about. We'll do it here."

"As you wish."

"I want my gold dragon."

"To be sure."

The coin appeared. The alchemist made it walk across his knuckles. In the morning light, the dragon glittered as it moved and gave the alchemist's fingers a golden glow. Pate grabbed it from his hand. He brought it to his mouth and bit down on it. Arya felt sick, for she knew Pate was already dying, even if he did not yet know himself.

"The key?" the alchemist inquired. Something made Pate stall.

"Is it some book you want?"

Some of the old Valyrian scrolls down in the locked vaults were said to be the only surviving copies in the world. "What I want is none of your concern."

Pate hesitated. "Show me your face."

"As you wish." The alchemist pulled his hood down.

To anyone else, this was just a man, and his face was just a face. A young man's face, ordinary, with full cheeks and the shadow of a beard. A scar showed faintly on his right cheek. He had a hooked nose and a mat of dense black hair that curled tightly around his ears. He was nothing exceptional, unless, like Arya, you knew the man behind the face.

"I do not know you," Pate said.

"Nor I you."

"Who are you?"

"A stranger. No one. Truly."

"Oh." Pate had run out of words. He drew out the key and placed it in Jaqen's hand. "We're done then."

Jaqen nodded his head in return. Arya knew it was just a matter of time. The insurance seller in Braavos, Arya remembered him well. He would bite coins to ensure they were truly gold. While donning the face of an ugly girl, she slipped a poisoned coin into the pouch of one of the man's customers. When the customer came to pay, he bit down on the coin and his heart gave way and he died. After that, Arya was promoted to an acolyte.

Pate was halfway down the alley when he became unsteady, as though the stones were slick and wet, but Arya knew that was not it.

"What's happening?" he said. "I don't understand."

"And never will," Jaqen said sadly.

As Pate fell, he tried to cry for help, but his voice was failing. All too soon, he was gone and Arya was back in Winterfell, her breathing almost as ragged as Pate's was as he neared his end. Moments later, Bran joined her.

"What happened?" Bran was startled by Jaqen's actions.

"I… I don't know." Arya replied. "But we must speak with Jon and Sansa."

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Arya racked her brains, trying to recall what Jaqen H'ghar was doing in Oldtown. She had no recollection of any dealings with anyone from there, no time when the Faceless Men had prepared her for this. Whatever they were after, it was beyond her knowledge. The only thing she could think of was the magic said to be hidden inside the Citadel.

Jaqen H'ghar wanted it—but was it tied to the Long Night, or was it something to do with dragons? She knew the history of the Faceless Men, their hatred of slavery, their loathing of the Valyrians in particular. Were they here as a prelude to something greater? To strike against Daenerys? She did not know.

All of this was going around her mind as she sat in the small council meeting room. She and Bran had asked to meet with Jon and Sansa in private, for there was only one way in and one way out. The door was solid, and no one would overhear their conversation.

While they waited, Arya remembered her last assignment with the Faceless Men. She had not seen Jaqen for some time. Instead, she wore the face of Mercy, her last mission for the House of Black and White.

When she donned the face of Littlefinger, she remembered everything. However, her memories from her previous life in faces were sketchy. Mercy was a mummer, and she remembered killing a guard before her rape scene. Everything else was foggy, like the weather of her last night in Braavos.

Arya had heard Oldtown was attacked by Euron Greyjoy but thought nothing of it. Sam knew to escape before Euron arrived. Had Jaqen survived the attack? Or did he return to the House of Black and White after Arya had run away? Whatever it was, she never saw him again, until the time on the ship in Kings Landing.

The door opened and Sansa swept in looking graceful as ever in a grey woollen gown with her leather armour and her necklace which held a poison needle, just in case she was accosted. Jon followed. He looked like the King he was. His hair was long, his black curls tied back in a bun. Arya knew Jon was a handsome man. If one glanced at him, all they would see was Ned Stark. But up close, his features were all Valyrian, like Daenerys. Jon and Sansa made an elegant, royal couple.

Arya and Bran stood as protocol dictated, but Jon waved them off and they sat. If this had been a true small council meeting, this would not have been the case, for Jon had to keep up the image of a King. In private meetings, like this one which was for family, his status was that of a brother and not a King.

Once they were all seated, Jon addressed them. "What news?"

Arya looked to Bran, who nodded his head, signalling this was her story to tell, apart from the bits she had not witnessed.

"Pate was murdered by the Faceless Men," she told him.

"Are you certain?" Sansa placed her hand above her heart, a sign she was shocked by the turn of events. "You never disclosed this during our last life."

"I didn't know," Arya admitted. "I was wearing my last face at the time. Jaqen had been missing. I thought he was on a mission. I left before he returned… that is if he returned."

"Do you think he could have died during Euron's Oldtown attack?" Jon asked. "Bran, do you know anything about what the Faceless Men are doing in Oldtown?"

Bran shook his head. "All I've found is Euron giving him a dragon egg, which was sent back to the House of Black and White."

Arya was stunned by this news. Bran never mentioned this to her in either life. "Why would Euron give Jaqen H'ghar something as valuable as a dragon egg?" Sansa asked before Arya had a chance to speak.

"Euron paid Jaqen to kill Balon Greyjoy."

There was a stunned silence at this revelation. Why Bran had never mentioned this before was perplexing. However, it was not as shocking as the coincidence of Jaqen being in Oldtown when Euron attacked.

"Mayhaps he is helping Euron," Jon suggested. "What did he want in Oldtown?"

"A key," Bran replied. "He had one of the novices, Pate, steal it for him from one of the Maesters."

"Once Jaqen received the key, he gave Pate a gold dragon. He bit it to check it was real, but it was coated in poison. Pate is dead, and I presume Jaqen will wear his face," Arya told them.

"If he is using a face, doesn't that mean the key was just a ruse?" Sansa asked.

"If he wants access to certain areas of the Citadel, he needs the key. Pate proved he was a person who had access to the key as well as more general parts of the Citadel," Bran said.

Arya knew her next words would not be well received, but they were left with little choice. Jaqen needed to either be stopped, helped, or killed, and Arya was the only person with the skills to do it.

"I'm going to Oldtown," she declared.

Bran said nothing, she knew he'd already suspected her future path. He'd have known even if he weren't a greenseer. Jon and Sansa were protesting, to the point where she knew Jon would resort to his role as King if he thought it would stop her. Which it wouldn't. She held her hand up to them, to stop their protests. Once they quieted, she told them her reasons.

"We need to know what Jaqen is doing. Who is he working for? Is it to help Euron or to fight him? Is he trying to steal something valuable?"

"You can spy on him and find out," Jon stated.

"I can," Arya agreed. "But I cannot intervene if need be. We know Sam is not his target as they were in Oldtown together in our previous lives."

"Sam spent half his time treating Ser Jorah," Jon reminded her.

"Even more reason for me to go. This time he is alone in Oldtown and will not be treating greyscale. Gilly isn't with him, therefore he will be amongst the other novices and acolytes, including Pate. I need to protect Sam and possibly Jaqen." Arya crossed her arms in defiance.

Sansa shook her head. "I don't like it. Mother and…."

Arya stood. "I don't want them to know until they notice I'm gone. But they can't know where I am going, nor why I am going."

Jon closed his eyes and sighed. It was clear he was unhappy with the situation, but she knew him and could tell he was reluctantly agreeing with her. "I don't like it, but I can't stop you."

"So you won't talk her out of this?" Sansa's eyes blazed at her husband.

"Arya will be fine," Bran assured them.

"But what about Euron's attack on Oldtown?" Sansa protested.

"It isn't for three moons. I will leave before it happens. I promise."

"I'll watch her," Bran offered.

"I'm outnumbered," Sansa sighed. "Alright, I suppose we should make plans for your departure."

Arya took Sansa's hand in hers. "I promise you, I will be fine."