Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/3881440.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Game_of_Thrones_(TV), A_Song_of_Ice_and_Fire_-_George_R._R._Martin, A
      Song_of_Ice_and_Fire_&_Related_Fandoms
  Relationship:
      Jaqen_H'ghar/Arya_Stark
  Character:
      Arya_Stark, Daenerys_Targaryen, Tyrion_Lannister, Jon_Snow, Sansa_Stark,
      Gendry_Waters, Jaqen_H'ghar, Sandor_Clegane
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-05-05 Updated: 2016-12-15 Chapters: 11/? Words: 72349
****** A Truth ******
by LadyEpoch
Summary
     In which Arya Stark regains her self and seeks out the one person who
     can give her justice for the pack she lost- Daenerys Targaryen.
Notes
     I've taken certain liberties with the timeline, giving Arya over
     three years of training in The House of Black and White. I've also
     changed some of the Faceless Man's ways to fit in with what I have in
     mind for this. But that's the point of fanfiction, I suppose. I have
     this all planned out, so there will be much, much more to come.
     Reviews and constructive criticism are always welcome and might make
     me write faster.
***** In Dreams. *****
The wolf-dreams didn't come as often as they once did, though the tree still
visited her sleep from time to time. It spoke to her, calling her by her first
name, her true name. Sometimes it was her father's voice, but mostly it was
Bran who called for her the loudest. It hurt her ears, the desperation in his
voice ripping her apart.
One night, she had woken up with her hands over her ears and tears running down
her face, Jaqen H'ghar sitting on the edge of her bed.
"A girl calls out in her sleep for a boy named Bran," he had murmured in the
voice she'd grown to love. "Who are you?"
"No one."
"Liar," he'd said with a sad, small smile before fading into the darkness of
her chambers.
She wanted the dreams to stop. She wanted her past to burn away, leaving her a
blank slate. She wanted only to serve the Many-Faced God for death was the only
thing she knew. But the dreams... The voice was growing more insistent, more
desperate. She could feel the power of it building up inside of her, but she
denied it by pushing it away.
Every day the same question would be asked. (Who are you?) Every day the same
answer would be given. (No one.) And everyday the sad, small smile would grace
Jaqen H'ghar's lips and his eyes would catch her's as he shook his head.
(Liar.)
Then the night came when the power that built up inside her could not be
denied. It burst through the wall she built around it. screaming her name,
calling for her so loud she thought she might break. But instead of
breaking...she sank her teeth into the throat of a man. The warm blood sprayed
everywhere as she shook her head, tearing the soft flesh off and swallowing it
in one bite. The taste of blood made her hungry for more, but the man was dead
and she wanted to feel the life go out of her prey as she ate. She didn't even
give the corpse meat a second thought as she lunged at another man who had
dropped his sword as he cried out for his mother.
All around her, her brothers and sisters gorged on the other men that had dared
to hunt them. For three nights, she and her pack had roamed these woods,
circling around the place she once called home. Any man who ventured too close
was hunted down and killed, just as any man who tried to leave. Her pack had
never eaten so well. There were close to three hundred now. All of her brothers
and sisters in the north had sought her out to follow wherever she went.
Though she knew where she was, she didn't know why she brought them here or why
she stopped anyone from entering or leaving. There was a scent in the air that
beckoned to her. A phantom of a memory. Her sister, her true-sister from her
original pack, called for her. It was a ghostly pull from the one they lost and
she couldn't ignore it. But she didn't know what her lost sister wanted from
her.
If the other was here, the one who trained her, nursed her, if she was here,
then she would know, She would know and she would obey because they were one
and together no man could stop them.
"You are in darkness, sister. Come back to us." Bran's voice echoed in the
wolf-dream, pulling her out of it and giving her the parts of herself she
thought she forgot back. She struggled against it. "Find the Mother of Dragons.
She will be your path home."
"No, no, I am no one, no one, no one..." she whispered to the dark, still
stubbornly fighting the memories. But it was useless. Her eyes snapped open and
she sat up, the weight of who she was settling over her once again.
Jaqen H'ghar sat at the edge of her bed again, but there was no small smile on
his face this time. Only a sadness she couldn't understand yet.
"Who are you?" he asked, his voice husky.
She met his eyes boldly. "Arya Stark."
"A truth."
He held his hands out to her, giving her the one thing she could never let go
of, even when she thought she was no one. Needle.
***** In Darkness. *****
Chapter Summary
     Arya makes her way to Meereen to find her path home. But nothing ever
     comes easy for her.
Chapter Notes
     This is long and maybe incoherent. I can never tell when I try to
     read what I just wrote. I'm in dire need of a beta, so if anyone is
     interested, let me know! And thank you for the kudos and comments!
The journey to Meereen was surprisingly uneventful. Arya was almost
disappointed. The bloody trail she usually left behind her in her journeys
would've at least offered her some distraction from the dreams that still
plagued her. Now that she accepted them, they stopped hurting her, but the
closer she came to her destination, the more clear Bran's voice became. And
what he said made her want to turn back and give the Many-Faced God all of her
former self.
If she only could... It was hard to be someone when all you wanted was to be no
one.
Sometimes, in the space between wake and sleep, Arya could almost see her
brother. He watched her as the roots of some great tree wrapped around him. It
frightened her, but just when the fear threatened to be unbearable, the wolf-
dream would take her in. There in Nymeria she was fearless. There she had a
pack that no man could rip away.
In the dreams, Bran would tell her that she needed to call the pack away from
Winterfell, to have them lie in wait in the Wolfswood because a time would soon
come when they could eat their fill of the hunters and men, but that was near
impossible. The scent of danger to one of her true-pack was in the air and the
taste of hot, fresh meat was sending Nymeria and the others into a frenzy. The
best Arya could do was convince her to let people leave and enter Winterfell
without being hunted. Well, most of the people coming and going made it. There
were some relapses.
Soon, Arya would tell her. Soon you will feast on all the men behind the wall.
Soon you will answer the one who was lost's call.
The promise of retribution was the only thing Nymeria would listen to. Even
that, however, was a tenuous hold on the direwolf. Night after night, Arya
repeated the soothing melody, cooling the bloodlust for just a little longer.
She wasn't sure how long it would work. The direwolf and the girl were one and
the same, but Arya had learned the art of patience in her travels and patience
was a hard thing to teach to a wild animal.
(She wondered if Jaqen H'ghar ever felt as she did when Nymeria defied her.
Arya lost count of the times she had been punished for her defiance.)
She found no solace in the light of the day either. The man and memories of him
plagued her every moment of the day. The more she tried to ignore them, the
more they haunted her. Finally, she gave in, losing herself in them as she made
her way to Meereen. The last one was the one that replayed in her mind the
most. It was the last time she would ever see him again. She was sure of it.
*
"A girl will leave, then?" Jaqen H'ghar asked that night in the dark. His
fingers lingered on her's as he placed the sword in her hands. "A girl will
leave and will never be able to come back. Do you understand this?"
Arya was watching his fingers move lightly over her's, wondering what it meant.
She wondered what everything he did meant. Sometimes she felt as if there was
something there she wasn't getting and would never understand.
His question caught her off guard and she raised her eyes to meet his.
Something blossomed inside of her, spreading an odd, discomforting warmth
throughout her body. The man in front of her had showed her many faces and
carried many names, but it was only when he was Jaqen H'ghar that made her feel
this way.
What does it mean? she wanted to ask. And why are you so sad?
But she held her tongue and forced herself to ignore the ache inside of her and
the sadness in his eyes. Jaqen had taken her in, shared his secrets, and gave
her the gift of death. She would remember it always, but she couldn't forget
that he was no one. And no one cared about nothing but serving the Many-Faced
God. The man she found comfort in didn't truly exist.
"Yes. I understand," Arya whispered, pulling her hands away from him. "But my
pack calls for me. I came here only to learn how to avenge them, only I'd
forgotten that. They won't let me do that anymore."
Jaqen H'ghar studied her a moment longer. The sadness in his eyes deepened. "My
lovely girl," he murmured as he leaned in close to her until his lips brushed
against her ear. She shivered at the touch. "The one you seek is in Meereen. A
man listens. A man knows. Tread carefully, lovely girl, for she is heavily
guarded."
Arya didn't even bother to ask how he knew where she needed to go. Jaqen always
knew everything, even the impossible. She accepted it years ago.
He pulled back and looked into her eyes once more before he stood and left the
room.
*
The look in the man's eyes had burned into her soul and followed her all the
way to Meereen. She feared she'd never understand it.
 
--
 
The streets were crowded, just the way Arya Stark liked it. It made gathering
information all the more easier. She could eavesdrop on any conversation
without being suspicious and quickly get lost in the crowd if she was caught.
To her surprise, the majority of the population loved their Khaleesi. They
revered her, calling her 'mother' and worshiping her as a goddess. They would
even fall to their knees and sing her praises whenever she was mentioned.
They're sheep, Arya thought to herself in disgust when she saw a small group of
people fall to their knees. No one is as just and kind as they say. She must be
truly terrible if she can force her people to worship her like this.
It meant nothing to Arya either way. This was where Bran told her to go and
this is where she would stay until he said otherwise. The Mother of Dragons was
only going to be a step to find her way home.
However, finding a way to get to that step was harder than she thought. The
Unsullied that guarded the pyramid were the obstacle. Nothing got by them. Arya
was impressed, but annoyed. She tried many different faces to fool them to no
avail and finally decided that more unconventional methods would have to be
used.
A group of cats had taken up residence in the pyramid. They came and went
whenever they felt like it, as cats are known to do. They were the only ones
who had the freedom to move around the pyramid without suspicion. It had been a
long time since Arya used her gift on anyone other than Nymeria, but it was
like dancing. You never forgot how.
She slipped into the mind of an orange tomcat and went on the prowl. The
Unsullied were everywhere, but they were more relaxed than the ones outside.
There were even hallways left unguarded for hours at a time. When she mapped it
out, she realized that the path they held would take her straight to the
Khaleesi's rooms. Arya caught only a glimpse of the fabled woman once before a
tiny man shooed the tom cat away. She was always surrounded by what looked to
be members of a council, not true soldiers like the Unsullied. Two of the
voices sounded familiar but, with the cat's hearing, Arya couldn't be
completely sure.
For three days, she spent most of her waking hours inside the cat, learning
every nook and cranny of the pyramid and plotting out her route to the
Khaleesi. When she came back to herself, she'd collapse and fall into a deep
sleep. Most nights she'd be too exhausted to beg for food. A kind, old beggar
that shared the dark alley by the pyramid she hid in would share his findings
with her from time to time. Without him, she would've starved to death. Her
only thoughts were of finding how the Khaleesi could take her home.
(If Arya paid more attention to the old man, she would notice the way he
watched her carefully, trying not to be obvious with his concern. He hid the
lengths he went to to protect her when she was looking through a cat's eyes. A
man should scold a girl for being so careless, but he would wait until she knew
him for who he was. He had a feeling that a certain lovely girl wouldn't be as
grateful as she should be when the truth was known.)
On the fourth day, Arya's chance came unexpectedly. It was in the night when
mostly everyone but the Unsullied was asleep. The skies had opened up and let
loose a heavy rain that served only to deepen the darkness of the night, but
Arya was oblivious to it. She didn't notice the odd taste of the rain or the
oily slickness it left on the skin.
*
The kind, old beggar noticed, though, and when he stood up, he wasn't the kind,
old beggar anymore. He was Jaqen H'ghar. The rain was unnatural but familiar. A
man had seen its like before many, many years ago. If caught unaware by it, the
rain had the power to dull the senses and lure weaker men to sleep. The last
time he encountered it, luck had been on his side. Jaqen had had prior warning
that the man whose life he'd been sent to end would have a Warlock in his
employ as protection and the Warlocks of Qarth used this kind of weather magic
whenever they could. This was different, though. More powerful. The magic was
coming back with the dragons, he'd been told. He didn't believe it truly until
now.
Oh, what a mistake this was, following the lovely girl across the world just
because a man was worried. A man should be back where he belonged, serving the
Many-Faced God as he had for so many years, but he feared that he wasn't
welcome there anymore. Not after what was said when the others found him
packing. But time enough for second thoughts later. Now a man had to get the
lovely girl out of the rain.
Jaqen shook Arya to wake her, but found, to his disgust, that she wasn't
sleeping. She had slipped away into the cat again. His knowledge of her ability
was the one secret he let her keep. Not even his brothers and sisters in the
guild knew what she was capable of. At first, a man had been impressed, but now
he was annoyed. He would have to carry the girl.
*
The rain wasn't just falling outside, it was falling inside as well. It seeped
through the walls and fell through the cracks in the ceiling. The orange tomcat
wasn't affected the way the humans around him were. He was only dismayed at the
thought of having to lick himself clean of the strange water later. Arya made
the cat step over the unconscious body of one of the Khaleesi's handmaidens.
What was happening? The cat's senses sharpened the nauseating smell of the
water and it took all she had not to flee back to her own body. She had to see
what if there was any danger to the Khaleesi. If anything happened to her, it
would take Arya all the more longer to get home.
The hall that led to the Khaleesi's rooms was dry. No water fell from the
ceiling or seeped from the walls. Arya spied a man in a dark robe at the other
end, walking slowly to the Khalessi's door. In his hands he carried a wicked
looking blade that obviously had only one purpose- death. As a cat, she could
do nothing, but as a girl?
Arya rushed back to her body. Her eyes snapped open and locked onto Jaqen's.
She didn't pause, didn't stop to wonder what the man was doing there in the
alley with his arms around her as if to pick her up. She pushed away from him
and drew Needle.
"Jaqen, the Khaleesi," she cried breathlessly as she ran past him to the
pyramid. "Please." A man needed nothing more to get him to follow. He ran after
her, drawing his own blades.
The Unsullied on guard weren't asleep, but they hardly reacted as the two ran
past them. Later, they would say the only thing they saw were shadows moving
faster than anything they'd ever seen before. Down the hallways they flew, so
fast their feet barely touched the floor. Arya led the way through the route
she memorized from the tomcat, never once stopping. Up the stairs, through the
slick hallways, and then, finally, through the doors of the Khaleesi's
chambers.
The Mother of Dragons held a knife that was better suited for cutting cheese
maybe, but it was all she had. The only fear she showed was betrayed by the
slight tremor of her hand.
Arya acted as the man in the robe raised his own blade. She sunk Needle into
the man's back, twisting the blade to make it a death wound, but the man was
gone. She heard a sound at the open balcony and turned. The man was there, his
dark blue lips drawn back in a hiss. His arm drew back and he let something
loose. Something shiny and sharp. She could only watch stupefied as it flew end
over end toward her.
Jaqen lunged at her, pushing her out of the way of the blade, but he was too
late. Arya felt it hit her shoulder and a wave of agony tore through her.
Poison. It had to be if it hurt this much. In the distance, she heard the
Khaleesi call for help. The only thing she could focus on at the moment,
though, was Jaqen's worried face above her's. Why was he worried? If he wasn't
worried, he was sad. She wanted to ask him what it meant, but her world faded
into darkness.
***** In Meaning. *****
Chapter Summary
     Arya finally admits a secret she's hidden for years.
Chapter Notes
     So...the slightly graphic steamy scene was unplanned, but I'm not
     going to apologize for it. It just happened.
     And thank you all so much for the kudos and reviews! They keep me
     writing.
Arya drifted in the deep dark as time passed her by. She had no idea how long
she'd been there. Have I always been in the dark? Have I always been filled
with this nothingness? Every breath she took drew more of it in and the
darkness pulled her in to its unimaginable depths. Her new found awareness of
Nymeria was cut off. Even Bran's voice faded with each slow beat of her heart.
Silence now. No breaths, no heartbeat. Finally, she was going to meet the Many-
Faced God. She thought she had accepted death a long time ago, but she was
wrong. Sharp fear struck Arya to her core. What if there actually was something
after death and she was reunited with her family? Then they would know what
she'd done with her life. Her father, the great and noble Lord Stark, would
hate her if he knew of all the blood she spilled and all the deadly poisons she
dealt. The thought of his disgust with her when he would learn that she liked
it made her want to retch. I didn't just like it, father, I loved it. Killing
was the only thing that made me feel alive.
Live. She had to live, even if only to delay any reunion in the afterlife. Her
grip on life was slipping, though. Her iron will and stubbornness wasn't going
to help her this time. She was too weak and too afraid.
Arya heard a faint whisper of wings coming toward her from very far away,
growing louder the closer it got. With it came other sounds as well: the
chilling howl of a wolf, a terrible screeching noise, the sound of a great horn
blowing as if to herald something great and terrible, and the cold sound of
growing, cracking ice. She heard two voices amid the cacophony, both calling
out to her. One was Bran's, but it was muffled and the words couldn't quite
find her. The other was clear as day and close, so close she could feel lips
brushing against her ear.
"No, sweet girl," Jaqen murmured. "Come back. I will not let the god have you
just yet."
Arya grabbed hold of the strength in his voice and pulled herself up out of the
darkness, but she was shocked that Jaqen H'ghar of all people wanted to deny
the Many-Faced God his due. Blindly, she reached out for him, not expecting to
find him, but she did. Arya opened her eyes enough to see him and only him. He
watched her with an intensity that made her quake inside. She'd seen it only
once before and, after that, thought she'd never see it again.
*
It had been an assignment like all the others, but the difference this time was
that after this one, Arya would be able to work alone. Jaqen only came along to
make sure she was ready. She did her job beautifully with no mistakes. (As a
man knew she would. A girl was an artist when it came to service for their god.
A man could watch her every time and not be disappointed.) The only problem
they ran into was when they tried to leave Asshai. The gates were closed to
anyone leaving or entering due to the Shadow and Moon Festival.
But an unexpected holiday was always welcome, so Jaqen insisted they enjoy it.
The faces they wore loved to laugh and drink and they let themselves fall into
it. They wandered the streets for hours arm-in-arm, the Dornish merchant and
his lovely assistant. The wine flowed freely as did their inhibitions.
Somehow, Arya never could quite remember how, they ended up back in their room
at the small inn. The Dornish merchant couldn't keep his hands off his
assistant, who played coy but egged him on all the same. The merchant
practically ripped the dress off her before laying her down on the bed.
Although Arya herself was only fifteen and still a maiden, the assistant knew
what was going to happen and she wanted it more than anything.
The merchant stepped back to take his shirt off and unlace his pants, a wicked
glint that could only belong to her Jaqen H'ghar flashed in his eyes as he
looked down at her. And then their bodies were pressed together, moving against
each other in sinful ways. His cock was unbelievably hard as it rubbed against
her clit, making her ache deep inside. The man's fingers slipped between them
to dip into her wet folds.
It was the first time she ever had anythinginside of her and the sensation
caused her to dig her nails into his back and open her eyes. Arya expected to
see the Dornish merchant above her with his fingers inside of her, but it was
Jaqen H'ghar. When she stiffened in surprise, Jaqen's eyes opened as well and
she saw her own face reflected back at her, not the lovely assistant's face.
They stared at each other in stunned silence before he pulled away, averting
his eyes as Arya gathered the blankets over her nakedness.
Jaqen stayed like that, unmoving as he took deep breaths to steady the tremors
in his hands. Arya herself had been near tears. Not because she was scared or
ashamed of what just happened, but because she hadn't wanted to stop and she
didn't know how to tell him that. She didn't know- couldn't know- what it meant
and she wanted to shake him until he told her.
"A girl is blameless," Jaqen had whispered, still not looking at her. "This is
a man's fault. And a man begs forgiveness from the girl."
Arya had reddened at that. "I'm a woman, not a girl. You don't have to-"
Jaqen looked at her then with the intense look that made her quake. "A girl
must stay a girl to me for both of our sakes. No more of this." He left no room
for argument, which rankled Arya to no end, but the next morning, they both
acted as if nothing happened.
*
Arya felt as if she should say something to Jaqen, to thank him for pushing her
to the side when the poison dagger would've hit her head, but she didn't want
to break the moment. Underneath that gaze, for the first time, she began to
have an inkling of an idea of what the thing between them she kept missing
meant.
The moment passed and Jaqen gave her a fleeting smile as he cupped her face
with his hand, his thumb caressing her cheek. "The girl lives," he sighed. "Now
you are where you need to be, lovely girl. A man can rest easier." He leaned
down and kissed her softly on her forehead, his lips lingering against her
skin.
The act had an air of finality that made Arya suspicious, but her eyelids grew
heavy and she fell into a dreamless sleep.
 
--
Two days passed before Arya awoke again. She felt stronger and much more rested
than she had felt in a long time. It took her a moment to get her bearings,
though. The room she was in had no windows, but it still felt airy. She looked
down and noticed that someone had dressed her in a white, loose shift. Her
heart started to pound when she realized that she was missing Needle.
Frantically, she tried to get out of the bed, but only ended up crying out in
pain as she wrenched her shoulder.
"Peace, child, you are safe here." An elderly woman stood in the open doorway,
smiling joyfully at Arya before turning back to someone just out of her vision.
"Tell the Khaleesi that her savior is awake. She will want to see her at once."
Arya heard a mumbled reply and hurried footsteps leading away from the room.
The woman entered the room, still beaming that joyful smile at her. It made
Arya uneasy only for the simple fact that she hadn't been around anyone who was
that happy in a very long time.
"Child, it is a miracle that you're alive. The knife we pulled out of you was
coated in wolfsbane. I've never seen anyone survive it." The woman paused to
give Arya a chance to speak, but she only gave a wary half-shrug. Pain in her
shoulder made her gasp and she held a hand up to stop the woman from rushing to
her side. She was familiar with the effects of wolfsbane. Too familiar. It was
one of the many poisons that she purposely dosed herself with to build up a
tolerance.
"I'm fine," Arya spat out. "Just... Jaqen. Where's Jaqen?" The moment she asked
the question, she knew. She knew the answer, but didn't want to hear it.
The woman looked confused and shook her head. "I'm sorry. Jaqen? I don't know
who you're talking about."
"Jaqen H'ghar, that's who I'm talking about!" she snapped, surprising both
herself and the woman. "The man who was with me. Tall? Long red hair with a
ridiculous white streak? Has a permanent smirk on his face you just want to
smack off?" Oh, dear. Stop. Arya took a deep breath to calm herself. So what if
he left her? It was just as well. She hadn't wanted him to come in the first
place. She didn't need him. He wasn't her pack. She was going to find her pack
and not think a second thought about the man. But why would he leave her all
alone after following her all this way?
"You are distraught," the woman fretted, rushing forward. She stopped when Arya
shot her a dangerous look and decided to keep a respectful distance between
them. "There is no man here by that name. Only the Khaleesi, myself, and my
assistants have been in this room. You might've imagined him in a fever-dream."
"No, he wasn't a fever-dream," a voice from the doorway sounded. It was
commanding and confident and Arya didn't need to see the elder woman kneel with
a reverent 'Khaleesi' on her lips to know who had just entered the room. "There
was a man with her that night, but he was gone by the time Grey Worm and his
men arrived."
Arya's breath caught in her throat at the sight of the Khaleesi. She was in the
same room as the Mother of Dragons. A walking legend. Usually legends
disappoint, but this time... The great queen certainly didn't disappoint.
Beautiful couldn't begin to describe the vision in front of her, No wonder her
people worshiped the ground she walked on. There had to be a catch, though.
There always was when it came to royalty.
The Khaleesi remained unmoving as Arya gathered her wits back together. She
must be used to being stared at with awe because she continued on as if nothing
happened when she saw that Arya had recovered.
"You may stay where you are," she said graciously, cocking an eyebrow at her.
"I don't expect you to knell with a wound as grievous as yours."
"I wasn't planning on it anyway," Arya blurted out without thinking. Well. That
was a way to let the Khaleesi see that she wasn't a sheep. At least it was out
there. A poorly smothered laugh drew her attention away from the Khaleesi and
Arya noticed her companions for the first time. She broke out into a cold
sweat.
The Imp. The Imp was standing to the right of the Khaleesi as if she held the
man in high regard. A Lannister in the Mother of Dragon's court. That had to be
in interesting story. She'd always been fascinated by him, especially when she
saw him talking to her half-brother Jon Snow in Winterfell. That seemed like
lifetimes ago. How surreal.
There were two others standing behind the Khaleesi. One an Unsullied and the
other an old man Arya would know from anywhere. Her father had talked highly
about him often enough for her to recognize him. Ser Barristan Selmy. She
narrowed her eyes at the old knight. He was the one who arrested her father.
She learned that much. She didn't care if it was under orders from the King. He
was the one who threw her father into the Black Cells.
The room grew noticeably colder as Arya threw the sheets back and stood,
ignoring the pain in her shoulder. The Unsullied soldier stepped forward,
placing himself between Arya and the Khaleesi, but he needn't have worried. She
just didn't want to look weak in front of someone who betrayed her family.
The Khaleesi raised an eyebrow, but said nothing about Arya's sudden change of
demeanor. "I like that," she said, laughing. "You have spirit. And you also
have my thanks for your timely arrival the other night. I'll have the story of
how that happened soon, I'm sure. For now, child, all I want to know is your
name so I can thank you properly."
Arya bit her tongue this time. Having to say that you weren't a child only made
you a child. They would learn how wrong they were soon. "A girl has had many
names, Your Grace." She hadn't meant to slip into the way she used to talk in
the House of Black and White, but it felt natural and fitting for what she was
about to say. "Names are only a label for this girl. They do not speak of who a
girl is or why she is here."
The Khaleesi smiled, bemused as the others bristled at the tone the girl used.
She would play the child's game. There was no harm in it that she could see.
"Is it just a matter of phrasing, then? How is this for your liking? Pray tell,
child, who are you and why are you here?"
Arya let the moment draw out until all was silent. The Imp looked at her
expectantly, mirth dancing in his eyes as if he saw everything as a joke. The
old knight watched her with a suspicious glare, his lips pressed together in
distaste.
"I am Arya of House Stark and I am here to help you take back the throne,
Khaleesi."
She realized that that was the first time she'd been able to say who she truly
was and not worry about anyone overhearing. It felt odd to say it like that.
The secret had been her's for so long that giving it up like that made her feel
empty. The gasp from Ser Barristan Selmy was quite satisfying, though.
***** In Doubt. *****
Chapter Notes
     As always, thank you for kudos and reviews! The more I get, the more
     I want to write. Constructive criticism is even welcome. I love all
     types of feedback.
It certainly was a dramatic moment by the expressions on Tyrion Lannister and
Ser Barristan Selmy's faces, but the Khaleesi was less than impressed. Arya
expected that, though. She loved showing the people who underestimated her just
how wrong they were. What she didn't expect was the change in the Khaleesi's
demeanor. The warm smile abruptly dropped and she looked at Arya shrewdly.
Belatedly, Arya remembered it was her family, more than any other, that started
the rebellion. Her family that brought about the near end of the Targaryens.
She glanced at the Unsullied soldier and noticed he had a tight grip on the
hilt of his sword, ready to strike at the first sign of a threat. She was
finally humble enough to know that she wouldn't win in a fight with that one.
She'd have to remember to hold her tongue and think before speaking. (Tread
carefully.)
Doubt crept into her mind. Arya hoped she hadn't just imagined Bran's voice.
She hoped that she hadn't made a mistake by leaving the House of Black and
White. Where would she go if this didn't work out?
Tyrion sniggered and bit his lip, trying to hold it in. Arya reddened, not sure
what his source of amusement was, but she had an idea that it might be her.
That was rich coming from a dwarf. She'd thought he of all people would've
learned by now that nobody was ever what they seemed.
"Impossible," Ser Barristan insisted, stepping forward to get a better look at
her. "Arya Stark is dead. She died in King's Landing the day Lord Stark was
arrested."
The day youarrested him, Arya thought to herself, fixing the old knight with a
cold glare.
Did she really look that different? During her training, she had stayed away
from mirrors and most reflective surfaces. To convince herself that she was no
one, she had to forget what Arya Stark looked like. She knew she was taller and
more lean with the hidden muscles of a bravo. She also knew she didn't look
like a child anymore, even if the Khaleesi called her one. Arya had curves now
and an ample chest that only got in the way when she fought. She wanted to run
to the nearest mirror to see how different her face looked.
"Then I am a ghost," she said, raising an eyebrow. "My father took you for a
sensible man. Do you believe everything you hear?" Suddenly, Arya longed for
Needle in her hand. Every second that passed by without it made her feel more
like a mouse than the wolf she was. "I was faster than the men they sent after
me. It must've been quite embarrassing for them."
Syrio Forel... Arya closed her eyes, overcome with emotion for a moment. She
hadn't thought of that name in a very long time. When she opened them, Ser
Barristan was looking at her in a different way, his distrust slowly
disappearing.
"And so another one of my family's enemies comes to my side," the Khaleesi
mused. "Assuming you are who you say you are, that is. But, even if you are, I
don't see what use I have for you. I suppose I could marry you off to a family
in Westros that could help us in the war."
Arya's blood turned to ice and she clenched her fists. The thought of being
caught in a trap like that filled her with rage. But she didn't notice the
twinkle in the Khaleesi's eyes. The Mother of Dragons had learned early on that
the more you push someone's buttons, the more you'll get to know them.
"I'm not to be sold off," Arya snapped, forgetting her earlier worries about
holding her tongue. "My family name is nothing compared to what I can do for
you. I've learned more than you can imagine while I was dead."
Her sleeve felt wet and when she looked at her shoulder, she saw a growing spot
of blood. Her bandages needed changing. The Khaleesi noticed as well and gave
Arya a curt nod.
"I'll send someone in to tend to you," the woman said, turning to go. "Later,
you will join us in my chambers for dinner. While we eat, I'll have your story.
I'm sure it'll prove interesting."
Tyrion paused in the doorway as the others left. "Jon Snow's direwolf, the
name, quick."
"Ghost," Arya answered automatically. "And he's the only one that doesn't make
a sound."
Tyrion flashed her a smile and nodded. "Well, Lady Arya, I can't wait to hear
your story."
"And I can't wait to hear yours, Imp."
"Don't call me 'Imp'."
"Then don't call me 'Lady Arya'."
--
 
As Arya submitted herself to the tender hands of one of the elderly woman's
assistants, a young man, she tried to reach out to Nymeria in her mind. The
connection had come back, but it was faint. Even Bran's voice felt muted. She
could only feel what he was saying, not hear it. He reassured her that she was
where she was supposed to be, but something was wrong with Nymeria.
The direwolf had felt the poisoned dagger as if it hit her as well. The packs
went wild when their alpha collapsed. Over three hundred wolves turned against
each other and every other living thing that had the bad luck to cross their
paths.
That was all Arya could gather from Bran and Nymeria was in too much pain for
Arya to enter her mind. It was all the direwolf focused on. Arya felt helpless
in the face of it, she could do nothing for her. It was worse than knowing her
father was beheaded just a few feet away from her. It was worse than being only
a castle wall away as her mother and Robb were murdered. At least there pain
was over. Nymeria, the only tangible connection she had to her past, had to
suffer with no help at all.
A tear ran down her cheek and the young man paused. She closed her eyes so she
wouldn't have to look at him, but she felt a light touch on her cheek that
brushed the tear away.
Arya's eyes snapped open and narrowed at the young man who suddenly wasn't a
young man anymore. "You," she hissed, jerking away from him.
"Me," Jaqen agreed with a solemn nod, but had to duck when Arya tried to hit
him. She used her injured arm which hurt her more than it did him. "A girl will
ruin her bandages! Sweet girl, be reasonable." She would've stopped if he
hadn't laughed, but he did, the low chuckle he always did when she amused him.
As she swung wildly at him, he caught her hands in his and held onto them
tightly.
"Evil girl," he murmured, trying to calm her down. "That is what you are. This
man watches over you when you are careless, he saves your life and bandages
your wound and this is how you repay him?"
"I thought you left." Arya snapped. The pain from her shoulder finally
registered and her knees went weak. Jaqen caught her effortlessly and, despite
her struggle to break free of him, helped her back to the bed. "For good this
time. I'm tired of never being sure about you anymore."
Jaqen began to apply fresh bandages while Arya took deep breaths to calm down.
"I don't need your help. I'm not your problem anymore," she continued. With her
eyes focused on the floor, she didn't notice the amusement that was in his eyes
fade. He became dark and brooding. "I am Arya Stark and you are no one. Not
Jaqen H'ghar, not the Dornish merchant." They colored as the memory came back
to both of them at the same time. "You are only no one and it's not fair that
you keep coming back into my life as a man who doesn't exist."
Jaqen stayed silent until he finished the bandage, a war silently raging inside
of him. How could he tell the girl that even though Jaqen H'ghar might not be
his true face or name, she made it feel like it was? He had been faceless for a
very long time, long enough to forget who he was before and what he had looked
like. Sometimes, because of how much the man had come to care for her, he
feared that if he stayed with her any longer then Jaqen H'ghar would become his
only face and name. What would he be with only one face?
"A girl should not flatter herself," he said, breaking the silence. "Before,
this man was here because he worried about an evil girl. A foolish task, I
know, but now, a message has arrived, calling him to service. A name has been
whispered and a man must pay the Many-Faced God his due." It was true, but he
hoped the girl would leave it at that. If he said anything more, she would
guess the name that had been whispered. He didn't know what she would do if she
found out.
Of course Arya couldn't leave it at that, but she didn't need him to say
anything more for her to guess what he feared she would. She turned toward him,
her eyes suspicious. "What was the name?" He only shook his head, the small sad
smile on his face. "Jaqen, if you're not here for me, then why are you in the
pyramid at all?"
Jaqen kissed her forehead and stood up. "Valar dohaeris, lovely girl. Valar
dohaeris."
There was only one person that would be important enough for someone to buy the
services of a Faceless Man. The Mother of Dragons.
"No, no, you can't," Arya pleaded, grabbing the back of Jaqen's robe as he
walked away. "She's my only way home. Jaqen, you can't."
The person that turned to face her wasn't Jaqen anymore, only the young man. He
bowed to her, showing no sign of recognition when he straightened. "Clean
clothes will be brought to you before you dine with the Khaleesi, my lady." He
turned and walked away, leaving Arya feeling more wretched than she ever had
before.
***** In Silent Oaths. *****
Chapter Summary
     Arya finally tells her story.
Chapter Notes
     Holy frell, this is long. I couldn't stop writing. I'm worried it's a
     TL;DR chapter, to be honest, so, if it is, I apologize and ask that
     you at least stick around for the next one because that one's going
     to be full of action and oh so sinfully delightful scenes. That's
     certainly a promise.
     Also, I love you all for reading/reviewing/kudo-ing. I hope I don't
     disappoint.
It infuriated Arya that a small part of her believed Jaqen wouldn't do it, that
he would let her have this chance to get home. She knew there were other ways
home. A few coins and a ship would do just as well, but Bran felt that this was
the only way they could take Winterfell back. Arya didn't know why and, to be
honest, she didn't question it, which was unusual for her, but there was
something different about Bran now. In the dreams, she felt something ancient
was working through her brother, something that reached out to her blood and
commanded her to trust. It reminded her of her father's godswood, of the face
in the weirwood, and she couldn't deny it anymore than she could deny Nymeria.
This was the only chance Winterfell had and Arya wanted to believe Jaqen
wouldn't take it from her.
A foolish fancy, Arya knew it to be. She needed to be sensible, not
sentimental. Jaqen- or, rather, the man that wore his face would do his duty
without a second thought. He only cared for the Many-Faced God, not her.
(Nevermind the memory of him calling her back from death's embrace; nevermind
the fact that he wanted to deny the god's due just for her.) She was alone.
Again.
But if she told the Khaleesi about the man, then he would surely die. The
thought left a horrible taste in her mouth. Arya couldn't do that. She couldn't
condemn a man who saved her more times than she could count. No matter that
Jaqen H'ghar didn't really exist, Arya still held onto the thought of him. No,
she couldn't tell the Khaleesi, but she could do everything in her power to
protect the woman.
Arya made a face as a small woman entered the room, carrying the promised clean
clothes. She thought it would be a dress fit for a Lady of Westeros, but it
seemed the Khaleesi had thought Arya would be more comfortable in a simple
tunic and leggings. For that she was grateful, especially when the small woman
handed Arya her sword. The feeling of Needle at her side ready to be drawn in
case of danger was a relief that lifted some of the weight on her shoulders.
Then she remembered what lay ahead for her and the weight came back. Trying to
counter everything Jaqen would do in his service to the god wasn't going to be
easy, especially since he was the one who trained her. The only thing that was
on her side was time. She knew he wouldn't strike until he had a sure way out.
Getting caught in King's Landing had taught him the value of a good escape
plan.
 
--
 
Two Unsullied soldiers accompanied the girl who introduced herself as
Missandei. While they stayed a respectful distance away as Missandei led Arya
to the Khaleesi's rooms, she could feel their wary eyes on her. Flattered as
she was, Arya wished they would underestimate her like so many others. It was
going to be hard to keep the Mother of Dragons safe without letting anyone know
of Jaqen if they kept that up.
"What you did...," Missandei began, stopping before the chamber's doors. She
placed a hand on Arya's arm. "I don't know if you realize what the Khaleesi
means to us. To me. If she had been killed, her death would've broken the
hearts and hopes of all of us. I thank you." For the first time, Arya looked
into Missandei's eyes and saw that she was genuine.
It was disconcerting, all of this devotion. She nodded at her, trying to remind
herself of King Robert and the vile boy that followed him. They had been
rulers, too, and look at what they did to their people. And then there was King
Aerys, the Mad King, the one who forced her grandfather to watch his own son be
strangled to death before he burned him alive. He had been a Targaryen like the
Khaleesi. There were no just and kind rulers. There couldn't be.
Arya looked away from Missandei, suddenly uncomfortable. Her shoulder began to
throb and she rubbed it. She should say something, but nothing came to mind.
She only nodded again and forced a small, awkward smile. Missandei returned it,
but without the awkwardness, and opened the doors.
"The Khaleesi will join you when she is finished in the throne room," Missandei
said with a bow as Arya walked into the room. The girl didn't follow her.
Instead the door right after her and Arya found herself in a light, airy room
with an open balcony. Two more Unsullied stood on either side of the doors.
They had increased their guard after the latest assassination attempt to her
relief. Jaqen's job wasn't going to be easy.
A long table in the center of the room held a large bowl of fruit and a jug of
what she assumed to be wine. Seated at one end was Tyrion Lannister, the Imp
himself. Arya raised an eyebrow at him and he raised his goblet at her, a smile
on his face. He looked as if he'd had one too many drinks, but from what she
heard, that wasn't unusual for him.
"The Lady Arya Stark," Tyrion said, his tone bitter. "How lovely to see you
again. You look very well for a dead person." He tilted his goblet back,
emptying it before reaching for the jug to pour some more. Arya had been
worried about the wine. Poisoning the drinks was always a fail safe for
Faceless Men, but since Tyrion was still alive, maybe Jaqen wasn't going to do
it the easy way.
"The Lord Imp," Arya greeted him with a curtsy that was unmistakably mocking.
She walked around the room, looking for anything that might give Jaqen an
advantage. There was a door that led to the Khaleesi's sleeping chambers and
when she glanced in, another Unsullied stepped out of the shadows, blocking her
view. So the Khaleesi was much better protected than she thought. At least
Jaqen wouldn't have it too easy.
"I told you not to call me that," Tyrion chided, his eyes following her as she
made her way around the room.
"And I told you not to call me 'Lady Arya'," she shot back absentmindedly as
she settled into a seat. She angled the chair so she could look at him better.
"If you can remember that, then I can remember not to call you Imp." Now she
focused her attention on the dwarf. Her curiosity was almost too much to
contain, but years in the House of Black and White had taught her that silence
was better than any question one could ask.
He grimaced and looked down into his cup. "My apologies, then. You'll have to
excuse me. I've a lot on my plate at the moment." Even though his tone was
bitter, there was still mirth in his eyes as he met hers. But, Arya realized,
it wasn't a kind of mirth that she would find funny. It had a jaded light to
it. "I imagine you understand. Let's not talk of it. I want to hear your story.
I bet it's much more interesting than mine."
Arya shook her head, a smirk dancing on her lips. "No, you'll hear mine soon
enough and I hate repeating myself. Besides, a Lannister in the court of the
last Targaryen? That was surprising to see. And not much surprises me." She
spied a blood orange in the bowl of fruit and picked it up, struck by a memory
of Sansa. She had thrown one just like this at her sister once when she made
her angry and ruined her stupid silk gown The smirk deepened as she lifted her
eyes to Tyrion's. She wondered what kind of marriage the dwarf and her sister
had and the smirk faded. Unexpectedly the thought saddened her. Sansa. What
happened to Sansa? She wanted to ask the question, but wasn't sure she wanted
the answer. She forced the smirk back onto her face, trying to push the thought
away and hoping Tyrion hadn't noticed.
But he had. He saw everything. His bitterness softened and he smiled genuinely.
"Surprising, yes, but the only thing that could top a Lannister in the court of
the last Targaryen is a dead Stark." His smile faltered when he realized what
he just said. There were a lot of dead Starks these days. To Arya's credit, she
didn't even blink at it, only continued to gaze at him with an expectant look
on her face. He let out a loud sigh, giving in.
"Fine, I'll go first." Tyrion took a long drink from his goblet and settled
back in his seat to get more comfortable. "To begin with, you're wrong about
one thing. I'm not a Lannister. At least, I don't consider myself as one
anymore. I trust you've heard of a certain king's untimely demise?" Arya
nodded, motioning with her hand for him to just get on with it. "All right,
fine, fine. Well, I was blamed while your..."
He trailed off, wondering if he should mention Sansa. Arya hadn't asked about
her and he remembered from his time at Winterfell that they weren't close at
all. Before he could broach the subject, though, Arya gave him a dangerous look
and he decided to just skip past her sister for now. He cleared his throat.
"In short, I was sentenced to death, but, to my surprise, there were some
people who didn't want that to happen. They helped me escape. There were some
hitches, of course. Me killing my father during the escape wasn't part of the
plan." Tyrion stopped when he saw Arya's stricken face and bristled a little at
that. He reached for his goblet, bringing it to his lips. "Well, I know
kinslaying isn't an honorable act," he shrugged. "But I think you of all people
could understand-"
"No, it's not that," Arya interrupted, shaking her head. "It's just that I was
really hoping I'd have a chance to tell him that I was his cupbearer when he
was at Harrenhal."
Tyrion's eyes bulged at that and he sat his goblet down. She... His father...
His father had Arya Stark in his hands and he hadn't known it? He began to
chuckle. It built up inside of him until he was roaring with laughter, his head
thrown back and tears running down his face. Arya couldn't help but join him.
When they finally calmed down, Arya felt better than she had in years, lighter
and more free. Tyrion still chuckled a little as he wiped the tears from his
eyes.
"Oh, I needed that," he grinned. "I'm almost sorry that I killed him before he
found that out." He took a drink and cleared his throat, getting back to the
story. "I was smuggled out of King's Landing by my brother and a friend. That
friend brought me here to help the Khaleesi take back the throne. I'm good at
playing the game. Very good." Now Tyrion turned bitter again. "But try telling
that to an old knight who should've put his sword away decades ago. 'Kinslayers
have no honor.' Well, this kinslayer just dealt a blow to the enemy. You'd
think that would be the only thing that matters." He glanced over at Arya, a
little embarrassed. He hadn't meant to say that, especially to someone he
wasn't sure he could trust.
Arya met his eyes, her expression giving away nothing. Finally, she looked
away, glancing at the Unsullied on guard. "Honor does not win wars," she said
softly. "I don't much care for it myself. Look at what honor did to my father."
Tyrion was at a loss for words. He looked down at the goblet in his hand,
wondering if he should take another drink, wondering if he was drunk, wondering
if he wanted to be drunk anymore. "Lady Arya, your sister..."
Arya's eyes snapped back to Tyrion and they were cold. Cold enough to take his
breath away. "I did not ask you about her, did I, Imp? If I wanted to know
about her, I would've asked."
She was going to say more, no doubt more that would make Tyrion wither, but he
was saved by the sound of the door opening. He jumped out of his seat as the
Khaleesi entered the room. After what seemed like a long moment, Arya decided
to stand as well. The hesitation was noticed by all, but since the Khaleesi
gave no sign of being offended, nothing was said.
"Lady Arya, Lord Tyrion, forgive me for making you wait, but there were matters
that needed our attention," the Khaleesi said as she took her seat. Ser
Barristan sat to the right of her and the Unsullied that Arya had learned was
named Grey Worm sat down to her left. "The servants are bringing up food for
you, but I'll hear your story now. It's been a long day for everyone, I think."
Tyrion snorted as he poured another cup of wine, ignoring the disapproving look
Ser Barristan gave him. Arya caught it and had to hide her grin. Before, she
had just been fascinated by the dwarf, not sure what to think of him. But now
she decided she liked him.
"If it pleases you, Your Grace," Arya said, her tone dangerously close to
mocking. Even she realized she needed to rein it in.
"It does." The Khaleesi's voice was sharp and Arya lowered her eyes. "I'm aware
that you saved my life, but you broke into a heavily guarded building and your
companion seems to have disappeared in thin air. Convince me I can trust you
and I'll forget about those two things."
There. Now the Khaleesi sounded more like the rulers she knew. It was almost a
relief.
"Start the day of your father's arrest," Ser Barristan suggested gently. Arya's
eyes shot up and narrowed at the old knight. He thought he was helping her but
he was doing the exact opposite. Sitting just a few feet away from her was one
of her father's betrayers. It took everything she had not to draw Needle and
cut the bastard's throat right then and there.
But then she caught Tyrion's eyes. He had a small smile on his face, a
comforting one. That was what gave her strength to speak. The strength to
finally tell her story.
"I was with my dancing master," Arya began, closing her eyes. "They came for
me, but he stopped them. He told me to run and I ran. I ran to the stables and
all my father's men were dead. The old and the young butchered by knights." She
sneered, spitting out the word. She thought of the stable boy and how it felt
when Needle went through his stomach. She thought of the blood that bubbled out
of his mouth. She wouldn't tell them about him. That was a secret she'd keep
for herself.
"I grabbed my sword. The one my brother gave me and I left the castle. I went
to Flea Bottom." With her eyes closed, Arya didn't see the grimaces from Ser
Barristan and Tyrion. "And I stayed there until the day I saw a crowd and
decided to follow it. They were talking about the Hand. My father. I couldn't
see anything so I climbed a statue and I saw my father as they led him through
the crowd and he saw me."
The food came, but Arya didn't notice. A plate was set in front of her, but she
didn't notice. One of the kitchen boys who stayed in case more was needed stood
behind the Khaleesi, but she didn't notice. She didn't notice the look of
compassion he gave her before remembering himself and looking away. She didn't
notice anything. She was back in that day.
She did feel, however, Bran through their connection. She felt her brother
giving her strength and telling her that she wasn't supposed to hold anything
back. That the truth would make the Khaleesi trust her more. A tear ran down
her cheek.
"He saw me and, for a moment, he was only a few inches away from me. I could've
touched him he was that close. But I didn't. I only watched as they dragged him
up the steps. He said what they told him to. It was a lie, but he said it and
Sansa smiled as if everything was going to be okay. But it wasn't. Joffery
called him a traitor and I knew what was going to happen. I saw Ser Ilyn Payne
and he had Ice. He had my father's sword. Nobody was doing anything. I tried to
help him. I drew Needle and I jumped down. I heard Joffrey say 'bring me his
head'. I couldn't get there in time and I saw the look on his face.... Then
someone grabbed me and told me not to look. He held me until it was over and I
didn't see it. I didn't see my father lose his head, but I think about it every
night. Sometimes I wish I did see it because I imagine it happening and each
time is worse than the last."
Arya fell silent, her eyes still closed. More tears ran down her cheeks but
they were silent and slow, the only tears she was able to shed. She jumped when
she felt a hand on her's and her eyes opened to Tyrion. He held a goblet of
wine out to her. Arya preferred the taste of beer, but she took the wine
gratefully, tilting her head back and emptying it quickly. Tyrion took it from
her and filled it again before handing it back. This time she sipped more
slowly.
"Lady Arya, Westeros lost one of the most honorable men that ever lived that
day," Ser Barristan said. Arya's blood turned cold at the sound of his voice
and she started to shake with rage.
Calm as still water. Syrio Forel's voice came to her, echoing one of the
sayings a Water Dancer lived by. Calm as still water. It wasn't working. She
reached for Needle, but then she caught the eye of the serving boy that stood
behind the Khaleesi. He held her gaze unflinchingly. Even though he wore a
different face, she knew who it was. She had a feeling she'd know Jaqen H'ghar
no matter what he face he wore. She should've been worried that he was here at
all, but she wasn't. She found a different kind of strength in his eyes. One
that made her quake inside. The strength stemmed from that something she was
just now beginning to understand. She lowered her hand and forced herself to
look at Ser Barristan.
"Do not talk to me of him," she said in a low, dangerous tone. She once made
the Hound blanch at the sound of that tone. She was quite proud of it.
Ser Barristan looked baffled and opened his mouth to question her, but the
Khaleesi shook her head at him. She saw Arya reach for the sword and didn't
want to have Grey Worm do the girl any harm. She would have to ask her about
her reaction without Ser Barristan around.
"How did you get out of King's Landing?" Tyrion asked, noticing as well and
wanting to move on from it. "They must've had guards at every gate."
Arya couldn't help but smirk at that, the wine suddenly taking effect. Now it
just felt like a story she heard once, not something that happened to her long
ago. "The Night's Watch."
Tyrion laughed, remembering the man he traveled with until that whole
embarrassing debacle at the Eyrie. "Yoren. Good man," he nodded, but then his
smile faded. If Arya never made it to Winterfell, that meant the Night's
Watchman was dead. Arya nodded at the realization plainly written on his face.
"They killed him. Men sent by the Lannister's killed him because he tried to
protect us." Arya took a sip of her wine, pushing more memories away. The more
she remembered, the more she wanted to forget it all again and be no one. She
glanced up at Jaqen, but he wouldn't meet her eyes. "We were taken to
Harrenhal, but some of us escaped." She wouldn't go into the details about that
place. Meeting Jaqen there was a secret she wanted to keep for herself.
"Wait, wait," Tyrion interrupted. The Khaleesi and Ser Barristan shot him
disapproving looks, but he ignored it. "You forgot the best part. Listen to
this."
"While I was there, I was Lord Tywin's cupbearer," she sighed and then grinned
as Tyrion laughed again. Even Ser Barristan guffawed at it. "And he had no
idea." The Khaleesi let the two men laugh a while longer before motioning to
Arya to continue. "After that it was a series of being caught and escaping. The
Brotherhood without Banners found me next and wanted to ransom me to my mother,
but I escaped. I don't like to be a thing for others to use like that."
Here the Khaleesi could relate. She looked at Arya, her features softening as
she reevaluated her opinion of her. It was hard to be cold and distant at all
times, but that was what a queen did.
"Then the Hound found me. He wanted the ransom-"
"Wait, did you say the Hound? What was he do-"
"Look, do you want me to finish the story or not? I can't if you keep
interrupting me."
Tyrion looked abashed and sat back, crossing his arms as Arya continued. She
told them about the Hound, but when she reached the part about that night in
the Twins, her throat closed up.
With a sinking feeling, Tyrion knew what was going to happen next. He glanced
at the Khaleesi, wanting to ask her to let Arya skip this part, but the woman
was watching Arya. "Arya," he said softly. "You don't have to-"
"I was there. Just outside the gates. Only a wall away from them. I saw them
kill Grey Wind, Robb's direwolf." There were no tears left anymore. She
couldn't cry if she wanted to. The wine had blissfully dulled all her emotions.
"And I saw them put Grey Wind's head on his body and parade him around the
grounds. I tried to run inside and look for my mother, but the Hound stopped
me."
Silence fell over them. Even the Khaleesi was overcome with emotion. It was the
first time Tyrion had seen her show anything other than the cool royal airs she
used to intimidate others. It was the best thing Arya could've done, telling
her story like this. Nothing made the Khaleesi more angry than useless violence
and injustice. She was on Arya's side now, for better or worse.
Arya started to speak again, her voice monotone. She talked of the Eyrie and of
finding her aunt had died. She talked of the Hound being injured and of how she
left him to die. As she talked, she pulled a coin out of her pocket and rolled
it over her knuckles.
"At Harrenhal, I met a man." She felt Jaqen's eyes on her, but she didn't look
up at him. "The most dangerous man I'd ever met. Probably will ever meet. I
wanted him to teach me, but he said he'd have to take me with him then. I told
him I had to find my family." Arya gave a bitter laugh. What family? "So he
gave me this coin and told me that when I was ready, all I had to do was find a
Braavos ship and say 'valar morghulis'. Simple as that. When I left the Hound,
I was ready. I went to the House of Black and White and that man," now she
looked at Jaqen "that man took me in and taught me many things."
Ser Barristan sat up straight, disbelief on his face. Tyrion was shocked into
silence again. The Khaleesi began to smile. It started out slow but grew the
more Arya talked. Now her opinion of the girl had changed completely.
"He taught me how to change my face," Arya whispered, her fingers tracing the
scars on her face. "He taught me how to kill in ways no one could ever imagine.
He taught me the art of death and that, Khaleesi, that is what I bring to you.
All of my skills are yours to use in your bid for the throne."
The others were still too shocked to speak, but the Khaleesi was more composed.
A former Faceless Man by her side would be a weapon no one else had. She looked
at Arya with new-found understanding. Respect couldn't begin to describe what
she felt for the girl. To go through so much and come out like this. For the
first time in a long time, the Khaleesi felt as if she met someone who could be
her equal in this.
"Will you swear your loyalty to me?" the Khaleesi asked even though she knew
the answer.
"No," Arya said honestly. "I'll give no oaths. I want to watch the Lannisters
burn for what they did to my family and I'll stay with you until both our
vengeance is done."
"You will swear, in time. I won't force your loyalty, Arya Stark," she said
softly. "I'll earn it."
--
That night, after the table had been cleared, after Jaqen brushed by her with
the lightest of touches, after they moved Arya to a larger room with an open
balcony, after the Khaleesi dismissed them all, she laid in bed, her thoughts
racing.
Retelling her story like that was almost like reliving it. She felt more like
Arya Stark than she had in a long time. Just before sleep took her, she
whispered the names she stopped saying over a year ago.
"Queen Cersei, Ser Ilyn Payne, Ser Meryn, the Mountain." More would be added
before she was done, but tonight was a big step to clearing it.
***** In Desire. *****
Chapter Summary
     Arya finds that some things are better left alone.
Chapter Notes
     Believe it or not, I meant for a lot more to happen in this chapter,
     but if I kept going, it would've taken a couple more days to finish
     and I didn't want to make anyone wait that long.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Before Arya knew it, three weeks passed by. She spent almost every waking
moment with the Khaleesi, watching and waiting for Jaqen to make a move. Grey
Worm and the others were suspicious of Arya, especially after learning she was
training to be one of the most feared assassins in the world, but the Khaleesi
would hear none of their concerns and only allowed them to increase the guards
around her at all time, nothing more. They didn't understand why the Khaleesi
trusted her and neither did Arya.
But Tyrion did. He saw the similarities between them and their past. Only one
rose to be a queen and the other trained to strike from the shadows. Different,
yet the same. In the end, both would make sure the ones who destroyed their
families burned or at least wished they did. He found much more amusement in it
than he should, but he wisely kept it all to himself. He even kept it from
Varys, who had slipped back to King's Landing to keep close to all his birdies,
and he told that man everything.
They had taken to spending their evenings in the Khaleesi's chamber after
everyone else had been dismissed. Those who were invited to join them on rare
occasion were shocked to find that the Khaleesi almost treated Arya as an
equal. It was odd, this budding friendship of their's. The only person she ever
considered as a true friend was Gendry and she hadn't been able to save him
when the Brotherhood sold him to the red witch. She never wanted another friend
again, but the Khaleesi was making it hard not to have one.
One night, the Khaleesi talked Arya into letting her braid her hair. She
remembered hating it when her mother made her stay still for that long, and she
still did. Yet she suffered through it because the Khaleesi enjoyed doing it..
Her hair had grown long in the past three years and it was darker than from
when she was a child, almost black. Even though she hated having her hair
braided, for the first time in a long time, Arya felt like she had a sister.
She was surprisingly comfortable with the other woman. She wondered if her and
Sansa would've ever been like this. Given time, anything was possible.
That night, the Khaleesi told her about Drogo, her sun and stars, and asked
Arya if she had ever loved someone. The question took her by surprise. Love?
She never thought about love, not like Sansa. She never wanted it like her
older sister did. In her childhood fancies, there had been adventures and
fighting, dragons to discover and outlaws to slay, but never love. She tried to
picture what kind of man she'd love, but the face that came to her unsettled
her. In the silence, the Khaleesi must've guessed something.
"Who was that man who was with you that night?" she asked, tying Arya's hair
up. "Is there a reason you haven't told me his name? He looked so worried about
you."
Arya had closed her eyes, not wanting to answer, but knowing a response was
expected. She knew she had to say something about him. "He was no one. Once, I
thought he was someone, but now I know better," she answered carefully. "He's
gone, though. For better or worse, he's gone." It wasn't much of an answer, but
it was all she could give her.
Later, the Khaleesi asked Arya to call her Dany when they were alone. No one
had been given that privilege before.
Arya had to keep reminding herself that this was just a step to home. Home. But
Bran pulling away from her made her wonder if it would ever feel like home
again in Winterfell. She hadn't ached for it until she let her brother into her
mind. And now that he was gone, the ache was fading.
--
There were plenty of distractions, though. When the Khaleesi held an audience
in the throne room, Arya would go to the training grounds to practice with
Needle, holding back her deadly skills with the blade when the Unsullied
watched her. They didn't want the news of Arya Stark returning from the dead to
make it back to Westeros just yet. She was to be a hidden weapon until the time
was right. No matter how impatient all this waiting made her.
Arya saw the wisdom in that, but it still made her nervous with Jaqen still
laying in wait for the right moment. So, when the Khaleesi was busy in the
throne room, Arya would take the time to search for him. Sometimes as herself,
but mostly as a cat. The orange tomcat she used before. She'd taken a liking to
him and he to her. When she found him, she would watch from a distance, just to
make sure he didn't make a mistake and alert the Unsullied of his presence.
Arya knew he was good at what he did, one of the best actually, but she worried
all the same. He'd gotten caught once before, it was likely to happen again if
he wasn't careful.
Sometimes, late at night in the dark, she would wonder why she cared and why
every glance from him made her quiver. What does it mean?
When the Khaleesi went to bed, Arya would come back to her chambers and really
practice with Needle. With no eyes on her, the pain from her shoulder wound
disappear and she would dance. She leapt and flew, dodged and rolled. She felt
like water. It was the grace she never had as a child. She wondered if Syrio
would be proud of what she mastered or if he would be angry about what she used
the Water Dance for.
But soon the motions became monotonous and she grew bored with it. She didn't
dare stop, though. It was something to keep her out of her bed and free of
dreams.
Every night, after saying the names, she closed her eyes and opened them as
Nymeria. The direwolf was still in excruciating pain and all the wolves she
called to her were scattered. Anarchy ruled the Wolfswoods. Only a few loyal
wolves remained by her side and kept her alive. They brought her their fresh
kills, eating only when she had her fill (which wasn't much).
During the day, they would lead Nymeria out to a small spring by their den so
she could have a drink whenever she needed one without moving too much. Two
would stand guard over her while the others hunted. At night, they would bring
the direwolf back into the den and sleep next to her, sharing their warmth.
But despite what the wolves were doing for Nymeria, she was getting worse. A
wound had opened up in the exact same spot Arya had been stabbed and it was
getting infected. Arya tried to call out to Bran to help her, but her brother
had pulled away from her, leaving her alone. Again.
Arya was beginning to think she would have to prepare herself for another
devastating loss. When she tried, though, the mere thought of it made her
violently sick. Or maybe it was a remnant of Nymeria's sickness. It wasn't
unusual for her to wake up and run to the new toilet they installed in one of
her new rooms. She'd spend the better part of an hour staring down into the
hole that was cut into the floor, watching the little river that ran underneath
the pyramid grounds carry her vomit away.
Despite the promise of vengeance and a new-found place in this world, despair
was beginning to eat away at Arya. Every morning reminded her of why she wanted
to be no one.
And this particular day was one of her worst ones yet.
--
She'd woken up with the violent nausea again, watched the river wash away her
evidence of a weakness, and somehow managed to vomit again on the clean tunic
she had just put on. Arya was already running late to break her fast with the
Khaleesi when she realized she'd forgotten Needle and part of her wanted to beg
the day off. She wanted nothing more than to curl up in her bed and pretend the
day wasn't happening.
But she knew she couldn't. With her luck, Jaqen would decide that today was the
day to finish the job.
By the time Arya made it to the Khaleesi's rooms, breakfast was already being
cleared from the table and Ser Barristan sat in her usual seat, his voice low
as he held a paper for the Khaleesi to look at. Tyrion sat at the other side of
the Khaleesi, looking at the paper with an unhappy expression. They glanced up
when Arya sat down at the table, slightly out of breath.
"There was no need for you to rush, Arya," the Khaleesi said with the rare
genuine smile she reserved for those closest to her. "I was going to let you
sleep. You looked like you needed it."
Arya shook her head, reaching for a bowl of grapes before it could be taken
away. "I'll rest when I'm dead, your grace." She forced a smile and popped a
grape in her mouth, talking as she chewed. (A habit her mother and Jaqen tried
countless times to break before throwing their hands up in the air and giving
up.) "Bad news?" She gestured to the paper in Ser Barristan's hands. "Looks
like it from the look on your faces."
Ser Barristan grimaced while she talked, probably wondering how the great Lord
Eddard Stark could produce such an ill-mannered child. Ever since Arya told
them about her past as a Faceless Man, he'd been cold and often times ignored
her. While she still wanted to cut his throat and couldn't stand the sight of
him, it irked her. He had no right to judge her. If anything, she should be the
one to treat him like that, but she didn't. The old knight was smart and wise,
even if he was honorable. The Khaleesi respected his opinions and Arya needed
her to get home. It was hard, but, this time, she swallowed the hate and bided
her time. Once she didn't need the Khaleesi anymore, then she would take care
of him.
The look Ser Barristan shot at her after she asked the question darkened her
mood even more and her smile dropped. Calm as still water.
"It's from Astapor," the Khaleesi sighed. "It's always bad news. There's a
grain shortage and a sickness that's spreading through the population. I don't
think we can spare anymore healers. But we have grain..."
For once, the Khaleesi didn't notice the tension between the two. Tyrion did
and his wide eyes went from Arya to the knight, wondering if this was going to
be the day it came to blades. He hoped so. It was getting boring around here.
No, not yet. The Khaleesi stood, dismissing any possibility of something
interesting happening. Tyrion let out a disappointed sigh as they all stood
with her.
"We'll discuss it when the envoys from Astapor arrive. Now, though, I must
dress for them. They should be here soon." Missandei followed her out, leaving
the three of them alone together.
"Are there other healers that Yunkai could send?" Arya surprised herself with
the question. She wasn't supposed to be worried about what the Khaleesi did
here, she was only supposed to worry about Westeros and Winterfell.
Tyrion opened his mouth to answer, but Ser Barristan beat him to it.
"Nothing for you to worry about, Lady Arya," he said testily, gathering up the
other papers. "There'll be no need of your services in this matter."
Arya's eyes turned cold and Tyrion sat back down in his seat, waiting to be
either entertained or a witness to a murder. "And what is that supposed to
mean?"
"What it means is that we won't need to resort to the most vile of killings,"
Ser Barristan said evenly. He wasn't afraid of the girl even though he saw what
she could do with a blade. She was just a child and he was a seasoned warrior.
"Poison. Attacking in the night. Changing your face just to commit a murder you
get paid for. Where's the honor in that? What would your father think? He -"
Before he could comprehend what had just happened, he felt cold steel at his
throat. Arya had moved so fast that he didn't even see it.
Tyrion's chair was on the ground and so was the dwarf, who was struggling to
get up so he wouldn't miss a moment. He hadn't even seen the girl move either,
much less feel her push the chair our of the way. He wondered if he should call
for someone, but decided to give it a minute just to see what was going to
happen.
"Never speak of him again," Arya whispered, pressing the blade of her hidden
wrist-sheathed dagger harder into the old knight's skin. A drop of blood
appeared.
Now it wasn't just her eyes that were cold, the whole room was cold. It felt as
if winter had come to Meereen. Tyrion could almost imagine seeing his breath in
the air. He saw the drop of blood and stood up. "Arya?" Either she didn't hear
him or she was ignoring him. He wasn't about to touch her to get her attention.
She was bound to take it as a hostile action. "Lady Arya?" That had been a
gamble, too, but she still hadn't heard him. With a glance at the old knight,
he turned and rushed off to find someone braver than him to handle Arya.
"You keep telling me how honorable my father was, how good and noble. Do you
know he spoke of you in the same way? Oh, he'd tell us grand stories about you,
Ser. All of your honor." The dagger was trembling in her hand as she tried not
to push it in more. All she wanted to do was finish the bastard then and there,
to feel his blood on her hands. Oh, it had been a long time since she felt
pleasure like this in violence. "But what did you do to him? You were the one
that threw him in the black cells. You were the one that put him in the dark
all alone. He thought you a friend and you put him there. I want you to imagine
what that was like for him. Imagine the fear, the pain, the despair, and the
hopelessness. You did that to him all on the orders of an illegitimate bastard
boy king. You took those orders and you didn't question them and you threw him
in the black cells and you left my honorable father all alone. In the dark! You
left him..."
Strong arms pulled at Arya, dragging her off Ser Barristan. Tears were running
down her face as she fought against Grey Worm, trying to reach the bastard so
she could kill him. She wanted him dead. He deserved to die. She wanted to
plunge her dagger over and over into him until she stopped thinking about her
father.
Now she was sobbing. When Arya realized that, she stopped. The dagger dropped
to the floor and she collapsed into Grey Worm's hold. How embarrassing.
Everyone was looking at her. Tyrion averted his eyes, knowing she wouldn't like
to be seen like that. Ser Barristan clutched at his throat, his eyes wide in an
almost comical mixture of bewilderment and fear. She wanted to laugh at it.
The Khaleesi... Dany, though... That was the one that embarrassed her the most.
The Khaleesi looked at Arya, furious but concerned. Mostly furious. Arya had
just attacked a member of her council and that could not go unpunished, no
matter how much she cared for Arya. Her fists clenched tightly.
"Take her to her room and bar the door. She isn't to leave," the Khaleesi said
in her coldest royal voice. "We will deal with the matter later. The envoys
from Astapor are here now and we can't keep them waiting."
--
 
Grey Worm took Arya to her rooms himself, his grip tightening on her arm every
time she tried to walk by herself. He said nothing and nothing showed on his
face as he closed the doors and locked them. That was fine. Arya didn't have
much to say to him either. She welcomed this separation from everyone else. She
was alone. She was always alone.
As soon as she heard the lock, Arya grabbed Needle and began to dance. This
time it was a furious, consuming dance. She gave all of herself to each step.
Tears still streamed down her face and she knew why she reacted like that. She
knew why but didn't want to think about it.
When she stumbled during a simple move, Arya put down the sword and collapsed
onto her bed. The sun was already setting. Soon, it would be dark. Soon, it
would be a new day. She could only hope the emotional emptiness she felt would
give her a deep, dreamless sleep.
It didn't.
--
Pain. It was all she felt. And death. It was all she could smell. Her death.
Nymeria could feel something oozing out of the wound and she knew it wasn't
blood. No matter how much the other wolves licked it, they couldn't get it
clean. Nymeria felt their worry as strongly as she felt her pain. She wanted to
get up and walk around to soothe their fears, but she couldn't. She couldn't
even stand to relieve herself. She just went where she laid.
Her few, truly loyal, adopted pack howled mournfully at night. The end was
coming for the direwolf and they could do nothing to stop it. They hadn't
always been this intuitive, but after running with Nymeria they began to
change. These were the ones that she first ran into; they'd been together since
the beginning of her reign. She was almost sorry for making them a little more
like her and her true pack. Once she died, they could do nothing but suffer
with this new intelligence. She wondered if it would pass onto their pups. She
wondered why she was the way she was, but it was okay. She could feel the other
in her mind right now and that was good. She missed feeling this complete.
Please, please, please,thought Arya. Please don't die. Don't leave me.The
direwolf wanted to give the other a lick to comfort her, but she was passed
that. They would never run together again.
One of them whined and crawled on its belly to Nymeria, nuzzling her before
trying to clean the wound again. She let out a low growl to stop it. There was
no point in it. It would only make the wolf sick. It whined and nuzzled her
again. It only wanted to help, to give her comfort in her last days. The others
settled around her, too, wishing and hoping like no other wolf south of the
Wall ever had before.
Arya and Nymeria floated in pain together, each trying to comfort the other,
until they heard a noise at the mouth of their little den. All the other wolves
jumped up, their hackles raised. What fool would walk into a wolf den? What
fool wouldn't see the danger? Prey, that's what fool.
They stalked toward the entrance as a cool breeze blew in, bringing in the
scent. Nymeria's heart almost stopped. How had she not felt him when he was
this close? She growled at the others, warning them to back off. They crouched
down obediently as another direwolf came into view. Now, for the first time
since she'd been hurt, Nymeria whined, her tail thumping the ground. She wanted
to jump up and bark excitedly; she wanted to lick him and smell him and wrestle
with him just as they did when they were pups.
It was Summer. Summer had come to her. He sniffed his sister's wound and gave
it a gentle lick, whining softly. He nuzzled Nymeria in greeting, licking her
face, trying to reassure her. Two more figures came into view, but they weren't
wolves. One was a girl neither Arya or Nymeria ever met before and the other
was...
"Hodor," Hodor greeted. At that moment, Arya thought the ever-present odd small
smile on the gentle giant's face was the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen
and his eyes shone like sunshine after a storm, but then something about them
changed. An intelligence entered the normally vacant gaze. Hodor knelt and
placed a hand on the direwolf's head, stroking it softly and glancing at the
girl.
The girl was silent as she inspected Nymeria's wound. The only thing that
stopped her from snapping at the human was Summer's reassuring presence. Even
though Arya wasn't physically there, she could feel the tension in Hodor and
Summer.
Finally, the girl sat up and nodded. "She'll live as long as we get a poultice
on it."
Hodor smiled and looked down at Nymeria. "Arya, sister. It's okay. We'll take
care of her now."
The joy and shock of hearing Bran's voice coming from Hodor was too much for
her to contain. Nymeria closed her eyes and-
Arya opened her own. She sat straight up, laughing out loud, and came face-to-
face with Jaqen H'ghar.
 
--
 
The man smiled that slow, easy smile at her. He sat on the edge of Arya's bed,
just like she used to find him almost every night when they were at the House
of Black and White. He smelled of cloves and his hair looked soft and clean. He
always was a bit vain about his appearance when he wore this face. She used to
tease him about it.
"The girl is happy to see this man, then?" Jaqen asked, cocking an eyebrow. "It
has been a while since these eyes have seen you, lovely girl. They miss you."
Arya wanted to be happy to see him, she wanted the laughter to be for him, but
his presence worried her. Why was he here at all? He should be trailing the
Khaleesi unless... He shook his head, seeing her distress.
"No, no," he murmured, placing a finger under her chin and tilting her head up.
"Your Mother of Dragons is safe for now. You don't need to worry. It is not a
day for you to worry about anything. A girl should be celebrating, she should
not be locked up like this. Lovely girl, you should watch your temper. It gets
you into trouble. Hasn't this man taught you better than that?"
Arya colored and looked away. He had the right of it, he always had the right
of it. "It hasn't been a good day," she said softly. "Why are you here?" She
thought she might know, but didn't want to presume too much about how close
they actually were.
Jaqen laughed. "A name day is to be celebrated, is it not? This man saw you
here all alone and had to come help you realize that."
Her name day. So he had known. Suddenly Arya was too overcome with emotion to
speak. She hadn't celebrated her name day since she left Winterfell and now,
here this man was, wanting her to be happy, wanting to help her, and it was
almost too much to take. She looked away, but he reached up and cupped her
face, wiping away the lone tear that fell. He kept his hand there, locking his
eyes on her's..
"No more tears, lovely girl," Jaqen murmured. "You've indulged in your self-
pity long enough." Though his tone was stern, there was a kind of understanding
in his eyes. "You forget your training and let your emotions control you. The
vengeance you seek will not come to pass if you continue on like this."
The old Arya Stark would've been indignant and immediately insist that he was
wrong, that she was in absolute control of her emotions. But she had changed.
She'd seen and done too much, all with Jaqen by her side almost every step of
the way. She knew he was right. He'd be the only person she'd admit that to.
She had acted the child earlier.
She leaned into his touch, savoring the feel of his callused hands. It had been
a long time since Jaqen touched her. She missed it. She didn't know why, but
she truly missed it. Her quick eyes notice the pulse in his neck speed up.
Her's did, too. What does this mean? She wanted to ask him, but, as always, the
question stuck in her throat.
Abruptly, Jaqen pulled away and the moment was over. Arya was relieved and also
a little bit disappointed. He didn't give her time to think about it. He stood
and went over to her chest. A long wooden box she hadn't notice before was on
top of it.
"A girl deserves a special present on her seventeenth name day," Jaqen said in
a husky voice, handing her the gift. "Especially since a man knows she hasn't
celebrated her name day in a very long time."
Arya took it, too shocked to thank him just yet. It was beautiful; smooth and
carved with a highly detailed scene of six direwolves surrounding a weirtree.
She ran her fingers over it and slowly traced the face in the tree. There was a
loud click and a hidden compartment slid out. Inside was Needle, looking brand
new on a lining of blue velvet. But... Arya glanced at her bedside table.
Needle was right there where she left it before falling asleep. She looked at
the box again, noticing it was just the right width for two swords to lay side
by side. Two identical swords.
Arya looked up at Jaqen, wondering what he meant for her to do with them, but
she didn't have to wonder for very long. The man held two of his own swords in
his hands.
"A girl has mastered the Water Dance already. She cannot get any better," Jaqen
grinned, adopting a defensive stance. "Now it is time to learn a new dance. A
much more deadly dance. Arm yourself, lovely girl. We'll begin right now."
She didn't need to be told twice. Arya jumped up, swords in hands. He gave her
a moment to check the balance of her new sword. It was a perfect copy of
Needle, even in the balance. Grinning, she lifted the blades up and... stopped.
"Hold on." She narrowed her eyes at him and pointed the blades to the ground.
"How did you know I mastered the Water Dance already? I've only been doing it
in here."
"A man has his ways." There was a suspiciously mischievous glint in his eye.
"Have you been watching me through the balcony?"
"A man can only say that is a possibility. Now, put your blades up."
"This whole time, you've been watching me? Every night? What about when I
change? Have you seen me naked?"
The grin that Jaqen flashed her was outright wicked, sending an unnervingly
exciting thrill through her whole body. "A man sees many things, lovely girl.
Now, attack with the flat of your blades or I will."
Gladly, Arya thought to herself as she lunged. He deflected it, knocking her
new sword out of her hands.
"Again," he ordered when she retrieved it. He taught the way Syrio had taught,
which made it easier. By the time he put his own swords down, she lost count of
how many times he barked 'again' at her. Never once had she been able to hit
him. It was different from Water Dancing, although the same skills were
required. Quickness, balance, and the ability to see more than what your eyes
could. She loved it. She also loved the promise of how dangerous she would be
when she learned it.
"Enough," he announced after she stumbled for the first time. "Tired girls are
dangerous with sharp blades. We'll pick up where we left off tomorrow night."
As Arya laid her swords in her new case, a thought occurred to her. It was
something she should've picked up before. She turned back to Jaqen, waiting
until he noticed her looking at him before asking the question.
"Earlier, you said you watched me through the balcony," she began slowly. Jaqen
sat down on her bed, an apologetic expression on his face, though it was offset
by the small smile he always wore around her. "Why are you watching me at all?
Shouldn't you be watching the Khaleesi instead of me?"
The smile dropped and his expression became guarded. Just like when she
whispered his own name to him. For a long time, he just looked at her. "And
here I thought you didn't want her death," he finally said, forcing a light
tone. Arya caught that at least. "Why are you worried about how a man works?"
"That's not an answer." Arya stepped closer to him, her eyes studying his
expression for a hidden clue. She didn't stop until she was a few inches in
front of him. Taking a page from his book, she placed a finger underneath his
chin and tilted his head up. Still, she didn't talk, only continued to search
for an answer with her eyes. Then she saw it. "You've had dozen of chances,
haven't you? You have, don't lie."
Jaqen answered with his silence. This time, as she looked down at him, she
noticed something different in his eyes. Desire. Or maybe it had been there all
the time before and she was only just now seeing it because she finally
understood. She leaned down, closing the distance between their lips, but she
didn't kiss him yet.
"Is that what this is?" Arya whispered, her lips brushing against his.
Jaqen held onto her hips as if he couldn't decide to pull her closer or push
her away. His voice sounded strained when he spoke. "If you have to ask, then
you are not ready." But he still didn't push her away. In fact, he held onto
her tighter.
"Oh, no, I'm ready now." She didn't wait for a response. Her lips met his as
she pushed him back onto the bed and straddled him. Having never even had the
urge to kiss anyone before, she didn't really know what she was doing, but
instinct kicked in when Jaqen began to kiss her back. He wrapped his arms
around her and rolled so he was on top. She almost hated herself for liking
that even more, him taking control. She was a wolf and wolves submitted to no
one. Then he deepened the kiss and pressed himself against her. All thought
went out the window when she felt him hardening. That she could cause a
reaction like this from the calm and always collected Jaqen H'ghar was
unbelievable.
He pulled his lips away from her's, but stayed close, his breath hitching as he
very slowly moved his hips against her just once more before stopping. "No,
evil girl, no, this man cannot do this," he breathed. Despite his protests, he
still held her. "You don't understand. Even though a man wants, it does not
mean he can have."
Arya ran her tongue along his bottom lip, tasting him as she tried not to hear
his protests. "Just once," she whispered. "Stay with me. You want to, I know
you do."
"No." The word came out in such an anguished voice that Arya opened her eyes
and saw an equally anguished expression. She let him pull away from her this
time, an emptiness filling her as he stood. "This man should not have let that
happen. He is weak and forgets himself. You cannot understand what you ask of
him."
Arya said nothing. What could she say? Nothing was going to make Jaqen fall
back into her arms again and that was all she wanted, all she longed for. She
looked away from him and rolled onto her side, curling up into herself. The
empty feeling was still there and she hated herself for it. Nothing would be
the same between them anymore. If she hadn't been so impulsive, none of this
would've happened. No, if she had just stayed no one, this wouldn't have even
begun. If she had stayed no one, Nymeria wouldn't have been hurt. If she had
stayed no one, nothing would ever make her feel again and that would've been
fine. She wished they were back at the House of Black and White.
When Arya lifted her head again, she saw Jaqen had left without making a single
noise. Almost as if he'd never been there at all.
Chapter End Notes
     If you stuck with this to the end, you have no idea how much I love
     you for it.
     Thank you all for the kudos and reviews! It makes my poor tired
     typing fingers feel like it's worth it all.
***** In Lessons. *****
Chapter Summary
     There are certain truths Arya must accept.
Chapter Notes
     Here's where the graphic violence warning comes into play. And the
     explicit rating.
     I don't know why, but I agonized over every single word this time.
     That's what took me so long. And you'd better get used to the length.
     I have a feeling these chapters are gonna get even more longer before
     it's over.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Morning came slowly for Arya. She laid in the same position Jaqen left her in
and watched the sun raise shadows across the floor. Sleep wouldn't come, no
matter how hard she reached for it. She had thought that losing herself in
Nymeria would make the emptiness go away, but even that simple escape was
denied to her. Her whole life almost everything she wanted was denied to her.
Home. Family. Revenge. Freedom. Jaqen. She had learned to make due in the past.
She'd suffer through this silently just as she did with the others until a new
disappointment appeared on the horizon. Because they never stopped. It never
ever stops.
Except for Nymeria. Nymeria lived and so did Bran in his own way. But when she
tried to remind herself of that, more questions and worries and fears would
come to her. What of Rickon? What of Sansa? And Jon... What of Jon?
Arya focused on the shadows to keep her mind clear of those runaway thoughts.
She wondered if it was possible to just fade away into them, to travel through
the darkness and literally strike from the shadows at anyone she wanted to
kill. There were a lot of people she wanted to kill, which wasn't unusual, but
Tyrion had helped her expand it by telling her the names of the ones who
betrayed her mother and brother. They were the worst offenders.
Roose Bolton.
Walder Frey
Those were the ones she'd kill first if she could fly through the shadows. It'd
be slow deaths, too. She'd flay Bolton very carefully to keep him alive as long
as she could for turning over to the Lannister's side. For killing guests under
his roof after feeding them, she'd probably cut Frey's manhood off and stuff it
down his throat so he choked on it. It was the worst possible thing she could
think of. And if they begged for mercy, she'd only make it hurt more.
The violent fantasies comforted her because she knew that if she was face to
face with any of the people on her list, she could do it. She could kill them
in excruciating, horrible ways and not give it a second thought. She could
watch the light in their eyes fade to nothing and keep it as a cherished
memory. Just like Polliver. Just like Rorge. Dreaming of their deaths were the
only good dreams she ever had.
Arya was just beginning to think of a special way to torture Queen Cersei when
she heard the lock click and her door open a few inches. She sat up, hoping it
was the Khaleesi coming to tell her she could get out.
"Are you decent?"
Not the Khaleesi, only Tyrion. Arya sighed. No freedom just yet, then. There
were worse things. Although if she was forced to stay here any longer, she'd
start to get angry. She wasn't a child. (Nevermind that a childish emotional
outburst was what got her sent to her room in the first place.) She almost
rather be in a cell.
Still, she liked Tyrion enough not to snap at him because she was frustrated.
She always looked forward to their conversations.
"No," she answered honestly, standing up and stretching. "I'm never decent."
The door opened more and Tyrion stepped in, followed by a maid and a kitchen
girl carrying food trays. The smell of the eggs made Arya's stomach growl. She
was famished.
"Good, I hate decency," Tyrion shuddered. "Ruins all the fun things." He
gestured to the table that was being set for them. "I thought you might like my
company. And food, but I'm sure that's just an afterthought."
Arya actually cracked a smile. A wobbly one, but it was a start. She sat down
in the chair Tyrion pulled out for her. The kitchen girl left when they were
done, but the maid stayed behind in case anything else was needed. Arya eyed
her, positive she'd seen her from somewhere else before.
"Feeling homicidal today?" Tyrion asked nonchalantly, drawing her attention
away from the girl. "There's a stable boy that owes me money. I was wondering
if I could bring him up for a little chat."
Arya practically shoveled in bite after bite of her eggs and decided to ignore
that. She was too hungry to think of a comeback at the moment.
Tyrion stopped buttering his toast and watched her in astonishment. The girl
was absolutely nothing like her sister. No wonder Sansa had treated Arya like
an embarrassment. But, he loved it. One can only take so much properness before
going crazy. This was refreshing.
"Seven hells, woman! Slow down," he laughed. "You're going to choke. I've seen
Stone Crows with more manners than you." He took a sip of freshly squeezed
orange juice. "Actually, don't stop. It's too entertaining."
By then, Arya had managed to inhale enough to be able to slow down and enjoy
it.. She grinned through a mouthful of food. "You should see me at dinner
parties." She made a face. "I never got invited to much of those, now that I
think about it. Don't know why."
"Yes, well, your reputation certainly precedes you, Lady Arya," he said with an
innocent smile, thinking about all the tales Sansa told him about her rude
sister when they had been friendly with each other for a few weeks.
"So does yours," Arya pointed out, swallowing her food. "I seem to recall a
drunken Imp waking up in our pig pen once or twice."
"Once. And in my defense, I was convinced the pig was a morbidly obese old
woman that was forced to sleep outside in the mud. I couldn't let her sleep
alone. Bad manners."
Finally, Arya let out a real laugh and sat back in her seat. In the past three
weeks, Tyrion had made her laugh more times than she could count. She always
felt some of the weight on her shoulders lessen when he was around.
They sat in silence for a moment, eating and enjoying the morning breeze coming
in from the balcony.
"So...," Arya began, not really wanting to. Best to get it over with. "The
Khaleesi. Is it a bad sign that she's not here?"
Tyrion grimaced. He'd been dreading this bit, too. "Yes and no is the simple
answer, I guess. No, because the Astapor situation has gone quite critical. As
it turns out, there wasn't a grain shortage. The rich were just hoarding it all
to themselves. You know, the usual atrocities that the rich rain down on the
poor. Now it's riots that are erupting on the streets. Riots and sickness.
They're meeting right now with the envoys to discuss whether military action
needs to be employed."
Arya studied his face carefully, noticing that he was becoming bitter again
about something. "And why aren't you at the meeting, too?" For a quick second,
Tyrion looked angry. Ah, there it was.
"Our friend thinks that if word gets out that the Khaleesi has Tyrion
Lannister, the kinslaying Imp, on her council, then the people of Westeros
won't accept her," he spat out, looking disgusted by it all. "I'm not well
liked in our homeland." Now he was really bitter. Arya hated it when he got
like that, but she understood it all too well. "You know, I saved that damned
city. All of King's Landing. And they still blame me for everything Joffrey
did."
"Sheep," Arya said in a low voice so they wouldn't be overheard. "That's all
they are. They believe everything they're told. I can't stand them, but the
biggest one of all is Selmy." She hated calling the old knight Ser anymore. "He
has too much sway over the Khaleesi. His ways are the old ways and look at how
that always ends."
She glanced over at the maid who stood off to their side, eyes staring off into
the distance and being quiet as a mouse. Tyrion caught her glance and nodded.
"You know, we're quite fine here," he called out to the girl, flashing her his
best charming smile. She looked at him, but there was something off about the
way she did it. Arya couldn't put her finger on it. "You don't have to wait
around."
"I- I was told to stay, my lord," the girl said in a trembling voice.
Tyrion looked pained for a moment, but Arya didn't have his charm or patience.
She snapped at her. "And now you're being told to leave, so leave."
Tyrion gave Arya an exasperated look as the girl stammered some nonsense and
gave them an awkward bow before leaving. Arya watched her go, still finding
something odd about her eyes.
When she turned back to him, she caught the dwarf's look and shrugged. "What?
She's gone, isn't she?"
"That's not the- Oh, nevermind," Tyrion said, waving it off. "Let's just..." He
sighed and rubbed his eyes before speaking again. "I agree completely about the
old goat knight, but there's nothing I can do about it. And there's definitely
nothing you can do about it. Especially after yesterday."
Arya groaned and leaned back into her chair. "He won't let me get away with
that, will he? I'll never live it down. I was such an idiot."
"No, not an idiot," he reassured her. "You had absolutely every right to be
angry with him. I can't begrudge you that, Arya. But, a word of advice, try not
to draw anymore blood, okay? He's been trying to convince the Khaleesi that you
can't be controlled and the only use you have to her is as a Stark to marry
off." Arya's nostrils flared, but Tyrion bravely continued talking, knowing
that what she was going to hear would make her even more enraged. "He's already
received an offer. From the Greyjoys."
Calm as still water.
"And the Khaleesi let him offer me up as a sacrifice? I thought I was supposed
to be kept a secret." Arya said, her voice dangerously calm and quiet. And she
had thought of her as a sister once. "If she thinks-"
"No. The Khaleesi doesn't know yet and you weren't mentioned by name," Tyrion
interrupted. "He just mentioned an alliance that would give them the Iron
Islands and Winterfell. I only found out because I'm nosy and like to read
other people's mail." He paused, noticing the look of betrayal in Arya's eyes.
"She's a queen, you know. Queens can't have friends while still being
impartial. This is hard on her, too. Keeping you in here like this."
Arya shook her head, wanting to move on. She knew that. The Khaleesi had a
better handle on her own emotions than Arya did on her's. "I didn't come here
to be sold. If it comes to that, I'm leaving. And the gods help whoever stands
in my way. I won't play the game, Tyrion."
He studied her eyes, seeing the resolve. "If you leave, you might make it.
You're not under heavy guard, which you should take as a good sign that the
Khaleesi still trusts you, but why risk it?" He leaned back in his chair and
sighed. "You know this is the only way you can get your revenge. She will win,
we both know that, too. She'll win it quicker if we're by her side. So, let me
ask you a question. Do you trust me?"
The question surprised her. Did she trust him? If the question had been asked
the first week they were here, then the answer would've been 'no' without a
second thought. But now? "Do I have a choice?"
"No," he said, smiling. "I have a plan that will help both of us. But I can't
tell you yet. And it's going to take a couple days for me to get back to you on
whether or not it's going to work. I think it will. Well, I hope it will or
we're both screwed. All I ask is that you trust me and wait before doing
anything rash."
It sounded like another game to Arya and she didn't want the details. She only
cared about the end result. It wasn't like there was anything else she could do
except leave, but Bran's insistence about staying with the Khaleesi had been
strong enough to let her give Tyrion a chance at his plan. All she could do was
wait like a quiet little mouse. It left a horrid taste in her mouth.
 
--
After the table was cleared and Tyrion took his leave of her, Arya went into
the bathing room and drew a hot bath. The water was pumped from some hidden
warm spring deep in the ground, just like Winterfell. The tub she stepped into
was large and carved out of limestone. It was so grand that when she first saw
it, she didn't know what it was used for until Tyrion told her she stunk one
night when he was drunk and opinionated. She'd slapped him and only apologized
when he showed her how to pump the water into the tub. Now she took a bath
every chance she got. All of her swordplay usually left her with aching muscles
that only the foul-smelling hot water could ease.
Arya refused to use the oils the Khaleesi gave her to cover the smell. Mostly
because she teased Jaqen about it every time she caught him smelling like
roses. This time, however, she used the lavender oil because she remembered Old
Nan used to sniff it to keep away bad dreams. It worked.
She fell asleep in the tub, expecting to find Nymeria with Summer, but her
direwolf must've been asleep as well. She dreamed she was hunting with all the
members of her true-pack, even the one that was lost was there. They stalked a
creature that was so very old and so very deadly. But they were confident. With
the six of them together, nothing could hurt them.
It was a good dream.
With a jolt, Arya woke up in rapidly cooling water. Her feet were wrinkly and
soft, but not her hands, thankfully. She'd kept those out of the water. She
slipped the silk robe the Khaleesi had given her on, tying it as she walked
over to her chest. Her cheeks grew red when she remembered Jaqen's confession
last night about watching her through the balcony.
She wondered if he was watching tonight. She wondered if he would still come to
teach her his deadly dance. Jaqen wasn't the type to let anything get in the
way of training. Not even something as embarrassing as what happened last night
would stop him.
And it didn't. Jaqen came back that night and Arya was ready with her swords.
He wouldn't smile at her, though, or engage in any small talk. He only told her
to attack. Again. Again. Again. It was a brutal lesson, not at all like the
night before. With nothing else to distract her, she focused on the dance,
falling into the rhythm like never before.
He called it to a stop when she struck him. It had been an accident, but Arya
couldn't deny that the blood welling up from the shallow cut on his arm made
her feel a little better. Jaqen ignored it, only told her to be ready again
tomorrow night. Then they would work on stances now that she was used to
holding a sword in both hands. He didn't even bid her good night when he left,
silently leaving through the balcony.
Arya put her swords away and hoped the cut would sting later when he cleaned
it.
Calm as still water.
 
--
She dreamt of Nymeria and Summer laying together in front of a warm fire as
snow fell outside the den. The girl sat on the other side of the fire, staring
into it, her brow furrowed. Arya thought of Thoros and wondered if the girl
could see pictures in the flames like he claimed he could do.
The other wolves slept all around them, resting easier than they had been. One
of them shifted and she saw Hodor among them, the gentle giant lay curled up
with a smile on his face. She almost couldn't believe it until she remembered
that, as pups, the direwolves loved Hodor more than anyone else outside their
pack, save for the Starks and Snow. Maybe these wolves loved him just like the
direwolves had.
Nymeria felt no more pain. She was weak, but that had been expected. Once she
built her strength back up, she meant to go out into the Wolfswood and take
back control of the wild packs. Sleep called to her now, though. The healing
kind that couldn't be ignored. Nymeria closed her eyes and took Arya with her
as she slipped into a dream.
It was the same one as before. The true-pack still stalked the creature and
they were getting closer. Grey Wind led them on as Ghost, silent as always,
scouted ahead. The scent of death was in the air, not the natural death that
every living thing came to know. This smell came from something unnatural that
needed to be put down and it was all around them now.
Shadows grew, taking the shape of creatures men hadn't seen since the Long
Night....
The sound of her door unlocking brought Arya out of Nymeria's dream. She opened
her eyes, confused until she remembered where she was. For a moment, the
shadows the morning light created in her room looked like the ones from
Nymeria's dream. Nymeria hadn't been afraid of them, but Arya had been
terrified. She remembered Old Nan's stories of the White Walkers and shivered.
Even in Meereen she couldn't escape those ancient childhood nightmares.
A knock at her door made her jump. She'd been expecting Tyrion to just barge in
with an 'are you decent', it wasn't like him to knock. Arya went to the door
and opened it just enough to see who was there. It was the maid with the odd
eyes.
"Lord Tyrion bid me to tell you that he's sorry, but he won't be able to join
you for breakfast. Ser Barristan has taken ill so he's to attend the Khaleesi
in the talks with the envoys from Astapor," the maid said quickly, the words
tumbling out of her mouth. "He's sent you breakfast. Would you like us to set
it out for you?"
Arya nodded and opened the door the rest the way. "The knight's taken ill?" she
smirked, stepping back to let them in. "How unfortunate."
The table was set and, thankfully, the maid didn't try to stay behind this
time. The woman's eyes still unsettled her.
The rest of the day was left open and Arya began to feel stir crazy. She
practiced with Needle and its twin, stopping only when lunch and dinner came.
When the empty plates were picked up, she was told the doors would remain
unlocked, but she was still forbidden to leave her chambers.
Knowing that the doors would remain unlocked made Arya feel better than before.
Now she didn't feel like a caged animal. Tyrion's plan seemed to be working
because she knew the old knight wouldn't've let that happen.
It felt like an eternity passed before Jaqen came that night. This time he
brought her two training swords. Maybe he realized it wasn't a good idea to
give Arya a blade after the hit she scored last night. She didn't blame him.
He was much the same as the night before, but grew worse as the lesson went on.
He found fault with everything she did. Her grip was too tight or too loose.
The move wasn't executed with precision. She leapt when she should've blocked.
He took to forcibly positioning her body when she wasn't exact with the stance.
She was too angry to notice the slight tremor in his hands whenever he touched
her.
Before the end of the lesson, they sparred. It was obvious Jaqen was holding
back his anger in the way he moved, but Arya did no such thing. She scored a
hit in the same place she had the night before and didn't even bother to hide
her satisfaction when the cut reopened. He left without saying good night
again.
Calm as still water.
--
The next day began the same, with Tyrion sending her breakfast and his
apologies. The old knight was still sick and he had to attend the Khaleesi in
the talks with Astapor again. Arya laughed at that, earning startled glances
from the maid and kitchen girl. She practiced all day again, pausing only for
meals. After dinner, the maid told her the Khaleesi would see her in the
morning. Finally. She hoped it was because Tyrion was successful in his plan.
Arya took a hot bath that night as she waited for Jaqen. Her muscles were too
sore to go through another lesson without it. It also helped her to relax. This
whole thing between them needed to end. They had too much history between them
to let something like the other night ruin it. She'd just swallow her pride and
apologize. She didn't want to lose him like she'd lost everyone else. When they
finally parted, she wanted it to be on semi-friendly terms.
The water was cool when she finally stepped out, feeling much better. Her robe
hung on a hook by the door and she slipped it on before hurrying to get her
clean clothes from her chest. The bath had taken longer than she thought it
would. Jaqen would be there any second.
Arya began to open her chest, but something on her bedside table caught her
eye. Bright green leaves from a plant she'd seen somewhere once before but
couldn't place. She went to pick them up, but stopped. Underneath the leaves
was a coin that looked exactly like the one Jaqen gave her so long ago, only
this one was broken in half.
She rushed back to her chest and threw all her clothes out. At the bottom was a
loose board where she hid her coin three weeks ago. No one else could've known
because she was the one who made it loose in the first place. Arya ripped it up
and found nothing. Her coin. That was her coin. How? How?
The leaves. Now Arya remembered.where she'd seen them at. The House of Black
and White. They grew it in a special nursery and used the leaves to make the
rarest of poisons. The Strangler. Arya's knees felt a bit weak as she stumbled
back to the bedside table. She didn't dare touch the leaves because they could
be just as deadly alone if one wasn't careful. She sat down on the floor
heavily, gathering her robe around her as she shivered.
Why would Jaqen do that? It had to be him. Only three other people knew about
it, and they didn't have access to that plant like he did. But it didn't make
sense. Was it a warning? Maybe a message, like his way of saying goodbye.
Ice filled her veins and winter took her heart. It felt more like a warning
more than a goodbye. Why else use poisonous leaves? Arya must've done more harm
to their relationship than she realized. She was wondering if she should be
worried for her own safety when she heard something behind her. A soft whisper
of someone breathing.
She turned, thinking it was Jaqen and readied herself to slap him, but
something hit her hard in the stomach, knocking the air out of her, and she
fell to her hands and knees. A staff?
It all became clear to Arya. The maid with the eyes that seemed off, the poison
leaves, and that staff. The Waif. The blind woman with her icy, dead eyes. She
was the one who handled all the poisons for their jobs. Arya had even trained
under her for awhile, learning how to mix her own deadly concoctions. But what
in seven hells was The Waif doing here in Meereen?
Before she could ask, another blow hit Arya across the back, knocking her to
the floor. The bitch may be blind, but she was the only other one beside Jaqen
who could best her in a fight. The Waif was quick in ways that Arya could only
dream of. If she didn't find a weapon fast, this would be over embarrassingly
quickly.
Arya rolled, dodging another blow, and jumped to her feet. Needle and its twin
were locked away in their box, but the daggers she wore were out of their
sheaths and waiting to be sharpened on the table. The staff caught her feet and
she went sprawling. Her robe fell open and her skin scraped across the rough
floor.
Before she could scramble back up, the woman was on top of her, turning Arya
over on her back and straddling her. The staff was across her windpipe, cutting
off her air, and all she could do was flail like a weak little girl. Her
humiliation was worse than her fear. She looked up at The Waif, but her face
held no expression.
"You were given a coin," the woman said in a monotone voice. "You were given a
coin that you didn't earn and now you think you can stop a man from doing his
duty. The Many-Faced God will have your death for this."
Arya's vision was beginning to go dark and her struggles were growing weaker.
How humiliating. Death by a blind girl. Arya really wanted to laugh, but she
was so tired... She heard the wings again and all the other sounds that came
with it. It was a lullaby now that she really listened to it.
Suddenly, the pressure was gone and she could breathe. Arya coughed and retched
as she sucked in beautiful air. Her vision came back with startling clarity and
she saw The Waif trying to struggle out of Jaqen H'ghar's grasp. He had snuck
up behind her and grabbed her before she could finish killing Arya. The Waif
bucked and kicked, trying to throw him off or, at the least, grab the dagger he
held in one hand.
Arya grabbed the staff the woman had dropped and slammed the end of it into her
stomach. It was enough to give Jaqen the upper hand. He tightened his grip on
her, bringing the tip of the dagger to the pulse in the woman's neck.
"What do you think you're doing?" Jaqen hissed. Arya paled. She'd never heard
the man so angry. It reminded her just how dangerous he was. "Her name has not
been whispered and she is free to go."
"Valar dohaeris," The Waif spat, trying to pull the dagger away from her neck,
but Jaqen was like stone. "A man must serve. He cannot let a little child stop
him. If she is dead, then a man can do his duty and forget about her."
"If you wanted her dead, you could've poisoned her," he said, his brow furrowed
in confusion. "This isn't the way we serve."
"A man must remember that death comes to all," she said, her voice chilling
Arya to the bone. "And it comes in many forms."
Jaqen looked at Arya, but she couldn't read his expression. What if he decided
she was right? Years of betrayals made her wary. He had served the Many-Face
God for decades, maybe longer than Arya had been alive. He was devout, the most
dedicated of them all in fact. What could possibly stop the man from doing his
duty? It couldn't be her. It couldn't.
Could it?
Jaqen's eyes locked on Arya's as he tightened his hold on The Waif. It seemed
he had come to a decision. Arya subtly took a defensive stance, slightly
raising the staff in case they attacked. But his eyes... They burned into Arya,
straight to her heart. Now she saw that he was right when he told her she
didn't understand. Something great and terrible hid behind the desire.
Something she could never escape from even if she wanted to. The staff fell
from her fingers, clattering to the floor.
"Do you remember the boy from the streets of Braavos?" His quiet voice cut
through the tense silence that followed. With his eyes still on her's, it took
Arya a bewildered moment before she realized he wasn't talking to her.
"Yes," whispered The Waif. "A woman found the boy slowly dying of starvation
and took him in to train for service of the god."
"You fed the boy. You taught the boy. And then you turned the boy into no one
and gave him a coin."
"The man the boy is now should feel privileged," she hissed. "There is nothing
holier than the gift of death."
"Did the other's send you to make a man serve?" The knife at her throat
trembled very slightly.
The Waif closed her eyes and took a deep breath, knowing what her fate would
be. "No."
"Are you alone?"
"Yes."
"Does anyone know where you are?"
She hesitated. "No."
"Good." Never taking his eyes from Arya's, Jaqen slid the blade into The Waif's
neck in one smooth move and twisted the blade. Blood poured from the death
wound, covering his hands, falling to the floor, and staining the rug. It was a
messy death. The Waif jerked once, then stilled. She was dead.
Arya felt that she should be horrified. Even after all the deaths she'd
witnessed and caused, this was one of the worst, if only because it was the
death of a fellow Faceless Man. One who had helped train her. But she wasn't.
She wasn't even looking at the body or the blood.
She was looking only at Jaqen, and he at her. He had killed for her. It was far
different from killing the names she whispered or the guards at Harrenhal. He
had killed because, if not, it would've been Arya's death. He chose to kill the
woman who trained him so she could live. A thrill ran through her body just at
the thought of it and she pulled her robe close around her.
Finally, Jaqen broke eye contact and pulled the knife out of The Waif's throat.
He loosened his grip on the body so he could gently pick her up. When he looked
down at her, Arya thought she saw a flash of sadness, but it was gone when he
glanced at her, motioning with a jerk of his head for her to follow him to the
bathing chamber.
Arya didn't need for him to tell her what he intended to do, They always worked
together like that. But this was a different kind of silence between them. The
moment felt important, as if talking would ruin it. Something had happened;
something that would change everything.
She grabbed the blood-stained rug and stepped ahead of Jaqen to push the stone
lid off the hole in the floor. The sound of a rushing river grew louder when it
was uncovered. The hole was narrow, but The Waif was tiny enough to fit through
it. He hesitated, only for a moment, but Arya saw the sadness again. Then, with
an expression of stony resolve, he dropped the body through the hole along with
the knife he used to kill her. The rug followed after them.
After the lid was replaced, Arya left the room to give Jaqen a moment to
himself. And also to think about everything that had just occurred. Arya
couldn't admit to what she saw in his eyes as he made sure she knew who he was
killing for her. She should. Only sheep hid from plain truths like that one.
She just didn't think she was worthy of what he felt.
Arya was looking down at the blood that didn't fall on the rug when Jaqen came
up behind her, stopping by her side. She glanced at him discreetly, wondering
if she should say anything, but his head was bowed and his eyes were closed.
The Waif's blood still covered his clothes and hands. She should thank him. At
the least, she could acknowledge the sacrifice he had just made; killing the
woman who had saved and trained him instead of the ungrateful girl who never
would've earned the coin he gave her.
She opened her mouth, knowing she would probably regret whatever came out, but
Jaqen lifted his head and looked at her just then. He was so angry with her.
Angrier than he had been with The Waif. Arya closed her mouth. No, it wasn't a
good idea to talk yet. She'd only set him off. She'd seen what he did with that
anger and she didn't want it to be on the receiving end of it.
But he didn't wait for her to speak. Jaqen moved, cupping her face in his
bloody hands as he backed her up against a wall.
"You deserve to be bloody, too," he whispered harshly when her back met stone.
"This is your work."
Arya felt cornered, but couldn't stop the pleasant shiver that coursed through
her when his fingers trailed down her neck. She didn't mind the blood or the
anger, if she was honest. In fact, it excited her more than anything: the blood
of someone he killed to protect her on his hands marking her as guilty as he
was. It had been awhile since she'd seen violence that close up, and, oh gods
old and new help her, she remembered how much she liked it.
Later, Arya would wonder what kind of person gets turned on by those things.
Later, she would worry about how depraved that was and how did it make her any
better than the Mountain? Later. But not now. Now she could care less because
his lips crashed against her's and he picked her up, carrying her to the bed.
When they both fell down to the mattress, the kiss became more passionate and
Arya bit Jaqen's lip hard enough to taste blood. His hands went to the sash on
her robe and, before she could process it, she lay naked underneath the man.
He pulled away from her lips when Arya tried to unlace his pants. The look in
his eyes made her ache deep inside. He was still angry, she could tell, but she
also saw the desire had turned into a need that scared her. She wanted to push
pass the fear to give him the only innocence that she had left and be done with
it.
But Jaqen wasn't going to let her do that just yet. He grabbed her hands and
held onto them.
"This man would have you understand what just happened," he murmured. He met
her eyes with more intensity than she'd ever seen before. It was enough to
still her protests of stopping.
"You killed the woman who trained you," Arya whispered. "You killed her to
protect me."
Jaqen shook his head and let go of her hands. He traced the outline of her neck
with a finger, moving slowly along her collarbone. Arya shivered as the finger
trailed even farther down her chest to her breast. He teasingly stroked her
nipple. She wanted to slap him , to yell at him to just get on with it.
Finally, he did.
"Yes, I did. But that's not all." Jaqen stopped and glanced up at her. She
should've understood the moment he said 'I', but she was too stupid with desire
to catch on. "How I wish you let Jaqen H'ghar go all those years ago. But you
didn't. You held onto his name and never let a man forget it."
Was he blaming something on her? Arya didn't like the sound of it. She pushed
Jaqen's hand away (reluctantly) and propped herself up on her elbows to get a
better look at him. She didn't like the sadness she saw just then. The remorse.
"I've forgotten many names and many faces. All except for this one."
Arya shook her head, not wanting to hear what he was about to say because she
knew. She finally, truly understood. And she didn't want to.
"I'm not faceless anymore. This is who I am until death now. I am Jaqen H'ghar
forever and always, all because you couldn't let me go."
No. No, that couldn't be true. He was faceless. Faceless and no one. He served
the Many-Faced God and that was all he did. He couldn't... No, she didn't
deserve that kind of sacrifice. And she didn't deserve what she thought she saw
in his eyes.
If only he hadn't said that. It was easy to give him her maidenhead when she
didn't know exactly what it meant, if she didn't know he gave up everything he
had and lived for just for her. She didn't deserve that.
Arya pushed him off her and wrapped the robe tightly around her body. She had
wanted him. More than anything, she had wanted Jaqen H'ghar, but she hadn't
expected how real and raw it would feel. She looked at him, knowing she was
supposed to say something. She even opened her mouth, but nothing came out.
What made it worse was that he didn't look surprised, only sad. And angry, too.
She could see it starting and that made her feel a little better. Anger she
understood. Sadness, too, but she despised that emotion. She just couldn't come
to grips with the other emotion. Not yet. Not after all these emotional highs
and lows she'd just been through.
But, before either of them could say anything, there was a knock at the door.
Arya looked out the window and saw that morning had arrived without them
noticing. Jaqen began to reach for the staff that had been left behind, but she
stopped him.
"The Khaleesi," she mouthed at him. "I'm supposed to go see the Khaleesi
today."
Jaqen gave her an exasperated look that plainly said Why didn't you tell me?
She gave him a look that plainly said something very rude in reply.
"Lady Arya?" It was Missandei. "The Khaleesi requests your presence in her
chambers. I'm to escort you when you're ready."
Arya flew off the bed, gathering up some of the clothes she tossed out of her
chest earlier as she stammered a reply. "Uh, yeah. Sounds great. Can you, um,
hold on? I just have to... I have to, uh, make water. And get dressed. In.
Some. Clothes?"
"Of course. Whenever you are ready." But it is best not to keep the Khaleesi
waiting, the tone in Missandei's voice implied.
Arya tore her robe off and managed to get dressed quicker than she ever had
before. Only when she turned around did she notice that Jaqen didn't have the
common decency to turn away. He shrugged at the look she gave him, the familiar
mischievous glint in his eyes. It seemed their own problems were on hold for
the time being and now they had slipped into something that resembled their
friendship before. Though it did feel forced. Nothing would be the same again.
She was just about to open the door when Jaqen grabbed her hand and dragged her
to the bathing chamber. "I think going as you are would bring up a few
questions," he murmured.
The blood. How could she have forgotten that? Arya nodded, letting him wipe her
face and neck off as she washed her hands. When she was presentable, she took a
moment to look in his eyes. "Will you be here when I get back?" She wanted him
to be. She thought she did. Yes, she did. Maybe.
Jaqen smiled softly and brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "I'll
clean up, but I think not, lovely girl. Is there any reason for me to stay? You
have a place here and I do not."
Arya's heart sank. "If you're not here when I get back, I will hunt you down
and kill you myself," she threatened in a low voice. She didn't wait for a
response, only turned on her heel and went to Missandei. If she looked back at
him, he might see her fear and she couldn't bear that just then.
 
--
The Khaleesi was standing in front of a window overlooking the city when
Missandei closed the doors behind her and left the two of them alone. Arya
looked around for Tyrion, expecting to find him as well, but the dwarf was
nowhere to be found. She wondered if that was a good sign. At least the old
knight wasn't there.
"I told Lord Tyrion to get some sleep," the Khaleesi said as if she read Arya's
mind. "He's been by my side day and night since Ser Barristan fell ill. Some
sort of stomach virus, they say."
Now the woman turned to her and Arya was struck by how exhausted she looked;
both mentally and physically. She still looked lovely as she smiled at Arya,
who couldn't help but smile back. Arya thought she'd be angry at her, but she
wasn't. She had actually missed being with her.
"I'm sorry to hear that, your grace," Arya said politely, somehow managing to
keep a straight face.
"Liar," the Khaleesi laughed. She came to Arya, then, and embraced her as a
sister would, taking her by surprise. "And I told you to call me Dany when
we're alone. I know you thought me angry with you..." She trailed off and shook
her head. "I'm sorry you were left alone for so long. Matters I could not
ignore kept me away."
Arya led Dany over to one of the over-stuffed chairs and sat her down. The
woman was more tired than she looked. "I'm not unfamiliar with matters like
those. My father would often go for days without sleeping to take care of
them," Arya said, sitting down next to her. "But I suspect telling you that
it's not healthy wouldn't help anything at all. So, tell me, is all well in
Astapor? Or would you rather pretend for the morning that you don't have the
fate of millions on your shoulders and you are just a girl talking to her
friend because she can?"
Dany laughed, looking for the moment the girl she should be and not the tired
monarch she was. "Would that I could, Arya," she sighed wistfully. "Would that
I could. But I didn't ask you here to talk of Astapor or, sadly, to spend the
morning with my friend." Dany looked at Arya, the girl left and the monarch
returned. Suddenly, Arya wished that they had met under different
circumstances. Even Sansa would love Dany. But if wishes were horses, only
fools would ride.
"Then why did you ask me here if not to enjoy my wit?" She learned much from
Tyrion, especially the art of deflecting seriousness with humor.
"Because Lord Tyrion has made a recommendation that I find wise," Dany said. It
puzzled Arya that she sounded terribly saddened by the wise recommendation.
"Ser Barristan won't, but I haven't spoken with him yet. I needed to speak with
you first."
Dany studied Arya, drawing out a long pause that only served to get on Arya's
nerves. She just wish people would spit out what they meant instead of this.
She had enough of that with Jaqen.
"Do you still keep your loyalty to yourself, Arya Stark?"
The question caught her off guard and made her suspicious. What in the seven
hells did Tyrion suggest? "Yes," Arya answered honestly. "I bend the knee to no
one. But I would never betray you. I thought you knew that."
Dany ignored the hurt look on Arya's face. "If I gave you an order, would you
follow it?"
"No. I don't take orders."
"Not even if the order would help you in your vengeance?"
Arya took a deep breath. It wouldn't do to snap at the Khaleesi. Not even if
they were alone. "I don't take orders. I am not a sheep. If you ask nicely, I
might consider it."
Dany stood up and walked back to the window. With her straight, stiff posture,
it was obvious she was annoyed with Arya as well. Finally, she spoke in a crisp
tone and what she said was the last thing Arya ever expected to hear. "Your
sister, Sansa Stark, is in Winterfell and she is betrothed to Roose Bolten's
son and heir."
Arya stared at Dany's back, wanting it to be a sick joke. Sansa... Arya knew
her sister was alive, knew she escaped King's Landing and that she had to be
somewhere. But Winterfell? Betrothed to the son of the man that killed their
mother and brother? She had to be a prisoner. She couldn't see Sweet Sansa
agreeing to that willingly.
But, then, they both had changed, hadn't they? Would Sansa guess that Arya had
been in Braavos all this time training to be a Faceless Man? Well... she might,
to be honest. Or if she heard it, she'd most likely believe it. But she
wouldn't guess that Arya was with the Mother of Dragons now, would she?
"H-how do you know that?" The shock made her voice come out as a squeak. "You
can't possibly..."
"Lord Tyrion and Ser Barristan still have friends in Westeros that keep them
well informed," Dany said. Her voice was softer than before, more apologetic.
"The Lannister's plan to march on Winterfell when the weather permits. Even
Stannis Baratheon plans on taking it. That will be a mistake for both of them
and I want to take advantage of it."
Arya heard Dany's voice continue on, but it sounded muffled. There was too much
going on in her mind to listen. Sansa was home in Winterfell, a prisoner in her
own childhood home. She would be the first to admit that she never liked her
sister, but she couldn't leave her to that. That was the call that Nymeria
heard. The call that came from the one that was lost. And it's what Bran had
been trying to say. She shivered as the realization gave her goosebumps all
over her body.
"I'm going to Winterfell," Arya announced, standing up.
Dany looked over her shoulder at her, an amused half smile on her face. "Yes,
that's what I just asked you. Weren't you listening?"
"No. Not really," Arya grinned.
"I thought not. I knew you would go. That wasn't what I was worried about
earlier. We can't take Winterfell yet. We don't have enough information." Now
Dany turned to Arya, her voice as regal as the day they met. She wasn't the
girl she had become friends with, she was the Khaleesi, Mother of Dragons.
"That is what I want to ask of you. Will you go to Winterfell and gather up all
the intelligence you can? If you do, I swear to you, there will be a Stark in
Winterfell again. Your sister will be rescued and it will be the first step to
the Iron Throne."
Arya almost wanted to knell at the strength in those eyes, but her pride
wouldn't let her. She stood straighter and met the Khaleesi's eyes. "I'm
leaving tonight."
 
--
No matter how much the Khaleesi tried to talk her out of it, nothing she said
dissuaded Arya from leaving that night. She didn't need to be equipped with
expensive armor and weapons, she didn't need to sleep on it, and no, she didn't
want to have a farewell dinner. That one had been ridiculous, especially since
only Tyrion and the Khaleesi would be there, but she suspected it had been a
suggestion to get her to stay one more night.
It seemed she'd always been trying to get to Winterfell ever since she left.
And Arya wasn't going to waste any time now that she was so close to getting
there. She knew it wouldn't be like the home she remembered, she just grew sick
at the thought of Ramsey Bolton having control of it.
For eight thousand years, Winterfell belonged to the Starks and Arya was going
to make damn sure it stayed the Starks. Sansa deserved it more than her. And
Rickon. They needed to find Rickon. It was legally his since Bran was... She
wasn't sure what he was, but he wasn't coming back to claim it, that was for
sure. Arya herself had no real desire to be in charge of it. She wondered if
Sansa would give it to the Khaleesi or if she meant to keep the North for
herself. The little girl that she remembered had an empty head full of stupid
stories. Was Sansa still that girl?
Arya ran back to her rooms, ignoring the scandalized faces of the maids and
guards as she rushed past them. She'd only been with the Khaleesi for an hour,
surely Jaqen was still there. He had to be.
But he wasn't. Arya closed her door heavily behind her as she took in the
scene. It was clean just like he promised. There was even a new rug in place of
the one that they threw out. In fact, it was so clean that it looked like
nothing had ever happened there. No blood, no clothes all over the place. No
messed up bed where she almost gave him all of her. Nothing.
"Jaqen?" she called out, knowing there would be no answer.
And there was none. The exhilaration of going back to Winterfell evaporated
completely, leaving Arya with that damned empty feeling again. She was getting
tired of that. It didn't matter anyway.
Arya Stark was going home with or without Jaqen H'ghar. Nevermind the aching
feeling inside as she realized it looked like it was going to have to be
without. She didn't have the time to hunt him down and kill him. Afterwards,
though, then she'd make sure to keep her word.
Calm as still water.
Chapter End Notes
     You made it! My thanks and love to you for that, lovely people.
     And, thank you for the kudos/reviews/whatnots. They're the only
     things that keep me writing. :)
***** In Travels. *****
Chapter Summary
     Winterfell looms on the horizon for Arya.
Chapter Notes
     I'm already at work on the next chapter, so you won't have to wait as
     long, promise. That's when the real fun starts.
     It's also when a huge spoiler from the books has to come up. If you
     just watch the show, I apologize for it, but it must be revealed for
     the story. Granted, they're going away from the books even more this
     season, so who knows? Maybe they'll skip the bit altogether. It's
     your choice to go on with it.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Four months. It took Arya Stark four months before she set foot on her
homeland. That was nine weeks of travel on foot to Pentos and then eight weeks
of travel by sea to White Harbor before she finally saw Westeros, a land she
thought she saw the last of when she left for Braavos. There were quicker ways
to Pentos, but she'd been cautious in her travels and stayed away from main
roads. Again, her journey had been without big problems. And again, she was
disappointed. She needed distractions to keep her mind from... him. But she had
a feeling that even if there'd been problems, she'd still think of him. She'd
always think of him.
In Pentos, she saw him everywhere. A flash of red hair in the crowd. A low,
husky laugh from a vendor stall. Sweet murmurs to lovers overheard in darkened
doorsteps. Each time Arya's heart would stop. Each time she would look for him.
And each time she would be wrong. She hated herself for wanting him back so
much. He's gone, he's gone, he's gone.
She'd received a message in Pentos, just before she left, from Tyrion. He urged
her to hurry on because the information about the Lannisters marching had been
wrong. Whether the informer had been caught and it was a deliberate leak or a
misunderstanding was yet to be determined. The only thing that mattered to Arya
was the new information. The Lannisters were sending people, but it was only a
small militia led by someone Tyrion had seen killed not so long ago. The
Mountain. The Mountain rode for Winterfell. It made no sense to her to send
just a few men against Winterfell, but she didn't care either way. She just
cared that it was The Mountain.
Knowing that she'd have a chance to kill another name on her list was the only
thing that made the ache his absence left inside of her fade away to the back
of her mind. She practically leapt off the boat when it docked. The cold of
oncoming winter didn't touch her as she weaved through the crowd, dodging and
leaping away if anyone tried to catch a girl that seemed all alone. It wasn't
as big as Braavos and Meereen, but it was crowded. She couldn't leave the town
fast enough.
An ugly, mean horse was bought, supplies procured, and a special set of
throwing knives caught her eye. Arya was going in dangerous territory all alone
and needed all the carefully hidden weapons she could find. She wasn't going to
get caught and made a mouse again.
She rode a day and night away from the town, keeping the White Knife to her
right before making camp. Shelter was easy to find. The war was rampant here
and burned out shells of houses weren't unusual to come across. The walls still
left standing shielded them from the wind and occasional snow fall.
Arya loved the snow. She had missed it in Meereen. The hot air there stifled
her and being quick in dancing was hard with sweat in your eyes. The cold here
went deep to her bones as the snow fell on her and cleared her mind. When she
tipped her head back and opened her mouth, it tasted of a memory of home. She
laid on the ground that first night and watched it fall, trying very hard not
to pretend that she was in Winterfell watching the sky with Jon, and that
everything was okay, and that her father was alive, and that her mother and
Robb lived, and that Bran could walk, and that they were all together again,
and that everything was okay.
Painful nostalgia kept her up that whole night.
She decided she hated the snow. It tasted of ashes.
After that night, Arya would take out the silk blue winter rose she found in
her chest in Meereen and hold on to it as she said her names and fell asleep.
She wasn't much of a flower girl, but the winter rose that grew in Winterfell
was the only flower that she saw true beauty in. She knew Jaqen left it for her
and she wasn't sure if she wanted to treasure it or rip the fabric apart. She'd
kept it close to her in the event of a final decision.
She wondered if the roses bloomed now in that glass garden. Did they cover the
walls like before? Did they open slowly into that frost blue? Did they still
smell pure and sweet? Did Sansa admire them like she used to?
Or were they dead just like everyone else?
She was going to rip it apart.
No, maybe she'd keep it a while longer.
--
The pace she set for the horse was exhausting, but she couldn't linger in one
place for too long knowing that The Mountain was somewhere close by. Snow still
fell, not every day, but enough to make the going hard. Her ugly, mean horse
had taken to biting her every chance it got, as if angry he had to do Arya's
bidding. No wonder the old man cackled when he handed her the reins.
In truth, though, she liked the spirit. The docile horse she had growing up had
been useless. (A fact sorely learned when she tried to run away to join Uncle
Benjen on the Wall after a fight with Sansa. She only made it to the gates.)
She thought to name the beast, but didn't want to get too attached to it. She'd
have to get rid of it someday soon. Besides, Ugly Mean Horse described the
beast perfectly.
The days went on and so did the nights. She was getting close, so very close to
Winterfell. She thought she'd be happy about that. Actually, no, she only
wanted to think she'd be happy. Just to fool herself into thinking it was still
home. It wasn't; it only served to remind her of all the losses that had tore
her heart apart. Each step closer grew heavier and heavier. The painful
nostalgia invaded even her wolf-dreams.
Despite the call of Bran and Nymeria, Arya wanted to keep riding. She wanted to
bypass Winterfell and head straight for the Wall. She'd find Jon Snow and she'd
never be left alone again. She imagined the two of them beyond the Wall,
killing anyone who got in their way as they discovered one new adventure after
another. They'd hunt together, laugh together, finish each other's sentences
like they used to, and never let anyone separate them. Not ever again.
...But what if Jon Snow was dead like everyone else? She didn't want to know,
didn't want to lose hope, but she couldn't ignore the large part of her that
told her he was most likely dead.
Death was death and no one escaped it. That was the only thing Arya found that
she could be sure of.
So, she rode and she rode and when she saw anyone, she stayed out of sight. The
snow and war had driven most people into hiding, the only ones out had to be
desperate or eager to take advantage of lone riders. She wondered who everyone
else was hiding from; the North or the South? She wondered if it mattered. The
people suffered no matter who they were loyal to. War was a game and all the
peasants were discardable pieces. The Khaleesi would treat them better. She
hoped the Khaleesi would treat them better. If not her, then who?
It didn't matter. It didn't matter because the game was still going and once
she helped her pack, she was gone. Arya didn't care what the Khaleesi did when
she sat on her precious Iron Throne. The Seven Kingdoms could rot in the seven
hells for all she cared.
The great Eddard Stark would be ashamed of who she had become. Ser Barristan
Selmy had the right of it that day even though she didn't want him to be. Being
in the North again so close to Winterfell made her see the truth of it. In the
dark of the night, the thought of her father would come to her, haunting her
with his face and those eyes so full of disappointment.
That was when she missed Jaqen the most, when she longed for him. Jaqen never
made her feel like a monster. With just one look, he made her feel whole and
right. How could she be a source of shame and disappointment when someone
looked at her like that?
 
--
She'd been 12 days traveling when she came across the inn. That was a surprise.
The road Arya had been walking was more of a trail than anything. She'd seen a
few farmhouses scattered around the area, but the people were wary and stayed
out of sight. She couldn't see a use for an inn so out of the way like this,
but there it was, showing signs of life. Smoke came out of a chimney, she heard
the whinny of a horse from what looked like stables.
Arya wanted to pass it by. The Brotherhood without Banners used inns out of the
way like this as places of refuge. She didn't want to deal with them alone.
They may preach about acting for the common people, but they were just as bad
as the rest. They'd do anything for a bit a gold and a horse. Poor Gendry found
that out the hard way and she couldn't help him. Just the thought of the
bastards now made her angry.
But the inn couldn't be avoided. Supplies were running low and the horse
deserved a night in a stable, even if he had bit her shoulder earlier. With a
heavy sigh, Arya headed toward the inn and tied the beast to a hitching post
before entering.
It was warm, blissfully so, but that's all it was. Obviously, the owner had
fallen on hard times. The floor was filthy and dark stains told ominous
stories. The tables were splintered and cracked while only two of the chairs
looked safe enough to sit in and one was occupied by a drunk sleeping off his
wine facedown on the table. Arya grimaced. She didn't want to know what was on
the surface of any of the tables. It was warm. That was all that mattered.
The innkeeper sat at the counter, an unused rag in one hand and a cup of wine
in the other, and looked up at her, ecstatic at the thought of another paying
customer, but he looked disappointed when he saw only a girl. Traveling as a
boy was out of the question now that she had an obvious chest. She tried to
hide them in the heavy fur-lined cloak and thick clothes to no avail.
Arya thought to take offense to that, but let it slide. She still loved it when
people underestimated her. Most saw Needle and its twin as just a decoration in
their scabbards. One man in Pentos found that that was not the case. His body
was found in the street the next morning. She'd been in a hurry.
"What d'ya want?" the innkeeper wheezed, sneering to show his rotted teeth.
Arya stopped herself from showing any disgust.
"A room for the night and a stable for my horse," she replied. She took her
money bag out of her belt pocket, making sure the man saw the two swords in
case he got any ideas about a girl all alone in the world. "I can pay. My horse
needs tending to if you have a stable boy"
The innkeeper eyed her, then her swords, and then her money bag before nodding.
"Got both for good coin. And the stable boy. I don't want any trouble, now,
hear? Got me a sellsword as 'cause of the brigands runnin' round." He gestured
to the man passed out in the corner before yelling over his shoulder for the
'stupid boy' to earn his keep. She heard a door in the back open and close.
Arya looked over at the man. "Looks terrifying. I can see why you don't get
much trouble here."
The innkeeper smirked when Arya looked back at him. "Yeah, that bloody
bastard's useless. Came limpin' in one night and never left. Only good for
drinkin' my wine and pissin' hisself. Brought with him a damn mean horse. That
one guards the barn, won't let anyone near it. Not even us most the time."
Arya smirked as she took the coins out of her bag and glanced over at the drunk
again. He shifted in his sleep, his hair parting to reveal a ruined face. She
stopped, unable to believe her eyes. The face, that scar. What are the odds?
The innkeeper noticed the change in Arya and narrowed his eyes at her, guessing
she knew exactly who that was. "Don't ya go gettin' ideas, bitch," he hissed,
trying to sound threatening. Arya wanted to laugh in his face, but acted afraid
like a little mouse. "Ya forget ya saw 'im. Once the road's clear, I'm takin'
'im to Kings Landing for the 'ward."
Complications. Of course it had to happen in a warm place she was most likely
going to have to flee from, but she left the man before and regretted it. He
was here and she was here, that had to mean something. Or it didn't. The fact
that he showed back up in her life now just stunk of Bran playing a game with
her. Bran or the gods. Either way, she didn't care. She wasn't going to play
along.
Arya put her purse back. The Hound wasn't her problem and she wasn't his. He
lived from his wounds obviously so she had nothing to feel bad about anymore.
"You know, I think I'll keep on," she said, forcing a laid-back smile. "It's
not so bad out there." She turned to leave, but the innkeeper grabbed her arm.
Seven hells. A rush of adrenaline ran through her at the promise of a fight.
Now she was looking forward to the complication.
"No, don't think so, girlie," he growled, twisting her arm painfully. "Ya jus'
make yourself at home, hear? What kind a man would I be if I let ya wander out
on a night like this? I'm bettin' those knives ya got ain't nothin' but a fib."
Now he leered at her and leaned in close. The smell of stale alcohol and sweat
that rolled off him made Arya sick, but she held her ground, acting the mouse
and waiting for the right moment. She wanted to strike when he thought he was
safe. The look of shock on his face would be priceless.
"Please, sir," she whispered, trying very, very hard not to laugh. She imagined
Jaqen by her side, his eyes dancing with amusement as he scolded her for
playing with the poor man. (But he's not here.) Right. "I don't want trouble."
"An' ya won't have it if you play nice, girlie," the innkeeper grinned. The
drunk stirred in his sleep, and for a moment, Arya thought he would wake, but
then he stilled and let out a loud snore. "Ya know, I gotta nice bed myself.
Need a wench to keep it warm. You and those tits could do me good."
He grabbed one of her breasts and Arya acted without thinking. She'd been in
situations like this before and each time ended with another body she had to
dispose of. She hated it. She hated the thought of anyone thinking they could
touch her and get away with it. She only wanted the memory of one man's hands
on her and it wasn't this disgusting pig.
With a flick of her wrist, a dagger appeared in her hand from the sheath she
kept hidden and it found its way to underneath the man's chin. She thrust the
blade all the way up to the hilt. When he let go of her arm, another blade
appeared, That one went into his heart. It was messy and bloody and not at all
what she intended to do when she tried to leave. But to be touched like that
without permission made Arya blind with a rage she couldn't control.
"You shouldn't've done that," she whispered, not even sickened in the slightest
at the pleasure she found in the horror in the innkeeper's eyes. He tried to
talk, but only blood fell from his lips. He died. "I only wanted to leave. Very
stupid of you not to let me. That will be the last mistake you'll make."
As soon as she let the corpse fall to the ground, the stable boy walked in. He
looked to be about thirteen years old, but he was so thin and sickly looking,
he could've been older. Arya raised her bloody daggers and pointed them at the
boy. "Is there anyone else here?" she asked quietly.
The boy shook his head, his eyes glued to the dead man on the floor. At first,
Arya thought the look on his face was fear, but now she saw that it wasn't that
at all. Judging by the smile that grew on his lips, he was actually happy. She
understood when she realized the dark circles under his eyes were actually
bruises.
"Then we won't have a problem, will we?" Arya raised her eyebrow at the boy as
she wiped her blades clean on the inside of her cloak.
"N-no," he stuttered, still staring at the body. "Does this... Does this mean
he's not the innkeeper anymore?"
Arya gave him a blank stare. For a moment, she was struck by a memory of Hot
Pie, that idiot boy she grew fond of. She laughed as she grabbed the ex-
innkeeper's arms and dragged him to the back room. The boy helped her open the
back door and dumped the corpse in the snow.
"Yes, that means he isn't the innkeeper anymore," she said, brushing off her
hands and giving him a small smile. "That makes you the innkeeper now."
"My own inn?" The boy's eyes were wide open with wonder. It looked like his
dreams had come true. He dashed to one of the barrels that were already tapped
and grabbed a mug, filling it to the brim before dashing back to Arya. "Here.
On the house! I get to say that now, don't I? Wow. My own inn... I'm Clayton,
by the way. And I can't thank you enough."
Arya couldn't help but grin as she took the mug and glanced at it. It looked to
be wine. "Hello, Clayton, I'm..." She hesitated. Even though she'd only just
recently claimed her name again, she was going to have to use another.
"Nymeria. And I don't want thanks. I just don't like old bullies." She took a
drink of the wine and nearly spat it out.
"Oh! That's the strong one," Clayton said in dismay. "I'm only suppose to give
that one to the guy in the common room. Ol' Ben, the one you just killed, said
to make sure he kept drinking it. Don't know why, but I did after he hit me.
Said once the roads clear we can get gold for bringing him in. Just keep him
drunk, he said, and I did. Do you want something else?"
Arya handed the cup back to Clayton and shook her head, going back into the
common room to see the drunken mess the Hound had become. Pathetic, she thought
to herself as she looked down at him. His armor was gone. That's why she didn't
give him a second glance before. Now he just dressed like a farmer down on his
luck. She wrinkled her nose at the smell that came off of him. A bath was
sorely needed. She couldn't believe how far he'd fallen, to be caught like this
in a piss-poor trap, oblivious of the danger he'd been in. She wondered if this
was what she'd be like if she indulged in her self-pity.
And it was that thought that made her change her mind about leaving the poor
bastard behind.
"Can I get a pitcher of cold water?" Arya called out to Clayton. He was only
happy to help and he brought her the pitcher with a huge smile. "Thanks. You
might want to step back. This isn't going to be pleasant. And I promise to pay
for whatever damage occurs."
Clayton gave her a puzzled look as she poured the contents of the pitcher on
the Hound's head. He ran back to the kitchen as the Hound jumped up with a
roar, yelling utter nonsense. Something about birds and dogs. His soaked hair
streamed over his eyes and he lashed out blindly at her.
"Oi! Hold on," Arya yelled, nimbly dodging every wild strike. "Calm down, it's
all right!" He still raged at her. Damn. She was going to have to do this the
hard way. Quick as a snake. She leapt and struck a spot on his neck that
knocked him out again. A move Jaqen taught her by first-hand experience more
than once in the early days when she acted up.
The Hound crumbled heavily to the ground and Clayton's head popped up from
behind the counter, his eyes wide with fear. "Did you kill him?"
"No, but he'll wish I did when he wakes up," she sighed, grabbing the Hound by
the arms and dragging him to the stairs. She hadn't done this much body
dragging in awhile. "Give me a hand?"
Clayton shook his head, still frightened. Arya rolled her eyes. "Fine, what
room is he in?"
"First on the right," he pointed, then looked at the table the Hound had
overturned. "You're gonna pay for that, right?"
"Yeah," Arya grunted as she started to pull him up the steps. "Just." Grunt.
"Give." Grunt. "Me." Another grunt followed by a muffled curse as the Hound's
head hit the edge of a stair. "A minute."
Bugger all, he was heavy. She grunted again and pulled with all her might, only
managing to get him up one more step before quitting. He'd just have to sleep
off his wine right there. Arya took her cloak off and sat down a couple steps
above him, drawing both of her swords.
The Hound wasn't going to be in the best of moods when he woke up.
 
--
The sun was just beginning to rise when the Hound began to stir. That sent
Clayton running back to the kitchen, terrified. Arya was glad to see him go. He
kept her awake most of to make sure she was going to pay him. She'd tossed him
a few coins, but he wanted more. If the Hound slept any longer, he'd wake up to
just Arya and two dead bodies. She remembered all the times she had to bite her
tongue with Hot Pie and wondered how she hadn't killed the boy in the time
they'd been together.
The Hound groaned and lifted a hand to his head, gingerly feeling the bump on
his head from the stair edge. Arya had to hold back her laughter at the utterly
confused expression on his face. He hadn't noticed her yet.
"Bloody hell," he growled, trying to sit up. He only managed to slide down a
step. "What.... fuck?" He looked around, his brow furrowing even more. "Fuck is
this shit?" He grabbed the railing to pull himself up, but it was as rotten as
everything else and splintered as soon as he put his weight on it. He stared
dumbly at the broken piece in his hand.
Arya heard Clayton running to see what the sound was. His head popped around
the corner. "Are you going to pay for that, too?" he asked her, fear forgotten
at the thought of damage to his new inn.
The Hound looked at Clayton. "Fuck you talking about? No, I'm not going to
fucking pay for that. Fuck off," he snarled. Clayton ran, remembering the fear
again.
"I forgot how pleasant you can be in the mornings," Arya smirked, leaning back
with a tight grip on the swords.
The Hound swiveled toward her and stared with no sign of recognition. Arya let
him look as long as needed. She knew she didn't look the same as she did when
she left him. His brow furrowed for a long moment and then it came to him.
"You," he growled, pointing the broken railing at her. "Fuck you doing here?
Fuck off, I need a drink. Wine!" He raised his voice to the kitchen.
Clayton came running with the wine, but stopped at the foot of the stairs when
Arya shook her head at him.
"No, not the strong wine. Water it down first. In fact, just add a couple drops
of wine to a pitcher of water. I don't want to deal with him going through
withdrawal on the road."
"Shut your mouth," the Hound snapped at her. "Give me the wine, now." Clayton
took a step forward, but stopped again, this time his eyes were wide with even
more fear. "Don't just stand there, boy, give it!"
Arya tsked at the Hound. He turned and found himself face to face with the
point of Needle.
"What in seven hells is wrong with you?!" he roared at her. "You won't kill me
when I'm dying, but you'll kill me just for drinking wine?"
"You should be thanking me," Arya sang, tapping the point of her blade against
his shoulder. "I just saved your ungrateful ass from a trip to King's Landing.
Ask the boy." She gestured to Clayton, who nodded so enthusiastically that he
spilled most of the wine on the floor. The Hound made a pained face as he
watched it hit the floor.
"'S true. Ol' Ben, the one she just killed, he told me to give you the strong
stuff and keep you drunk so you wouldn't leave. He said you'd make him rich
when the roads cleared. I ask why, but he hit me so I gave you the strong stuff
and you kept drinking it." He shrugged. "So I kept giving it to you."
The Hound stared at the boy and shook his head. "No," he growled, putting his
head in his hands. "No, this is too early. Get me a fucking drink."
Arya took pity on the man and nodded to Clayton. "Fine, but water it down." The
boy nodded and ran back to the kitchen. She watched him leave before looking
back to the Hound. So this is what the feared man had become. She believed in
him once, had even taken him off the list. She thought there was a safe place
at his side, that no one could touch them. She'd been so angry at him when she
found out she was wrong. She wondered if she should apologize, then thought
better of it. He never apologized to anyone, so she couldn't see him accepting
it. He'd only scorn her.
Making him come along with her, though, that could be her apology. Arya knew
how much he hated his brother. What better way to say 'I'm sorry for not
killing you' than to help him kill The Mountain?
"You should get your things together. We'll leave after we get something to
eat," Arya said, her tone leaving no room for argument. (As if he'd let that
slide.) "We'll have to wean you off the wine, but I think you'll be good once-"
"What the fuck are you talking about?" the Hound interrupted, his head shooting
up to glare at her. "What makes you think I'd go anywhere with you? I'm fine
where I'm at." Arya laughed, but he went on. "You left me to die. You think
I'll just forget that? Get the fuck out of my sight and leave me be."
"Nope. Can't do that."
Clayton came up with the watered down wine and the Hound grabbed it, emptied
it, and demanded more. Arya nodded when the boy shot her a questioning look.
"Fuck off, I said leave me be."
"No, I won't," she sighed, suddenly feeling exhausted. "Aren't you going to ask
where we're going? You'll change your mind, I'm sure."
"How many times do I have to say fuck off?" He stood up on shaky legs and
limped down the stairs, only giving the blood puddle from Ol' Ben a glance
before stepping over it and sitting down heavily in the chair he'd been in
before. Arya followed, but stopped at the foot of the steps and leaned against
the wall, crossing her arms.
Clayton gave him another mug full of watered down wine, but when he asked for
more, Arya shook her head. "For fuck's sake! Fine, where do you think you're
gonna drag me off to?"
Arya grinned at the Hound. "I'm going back to Winterfell to save Sansa, and
then I'm going to kill Roose Bolton and your brother."
The Hound had a good long laugh at that.
 
--
When the Hound finally calmed down enough to breathe, Arya let him have another
drink. He kept laughing to himself as he gulped it down. Finally, his head
stopped hurting enough for him to hold a conversation. "You've got nerve. I'll
give you that, girl," he said somewhat amicably. "But I still ain't going with
you. Not after you left me penniless and dying. Should've killed me then."
Arya rolled her eyes. He wasn't going to get over that, was he? After three
years, she thought he'd find some peace with it. "Listen, dog," she began as
she sat down on the bottom step. She took a knife out to clean the dried blood
from underneath her fingernails."There's things-"
"Don't call me 'dog'," he interrupted in a steely voice. Arya glanced up and
saw that he was serious. She put the knife down. "Or the 'Hound'. That man died
a long time ago." He looked down at the wine-flavored water with a grimace.
"I'm no good to anyone anymore."
"Not if you talk like that," she shrugged, going back to her fingernails.
"You're just annoying when you talk like that. What do I call you then?"
He glared at her a long time before he answered. "Sandor. That's all I am
anymore." Sandor emptied his cup and slammed it on the table that Clayton
picked back up, falling into a long tense silence. Arya finally broke it when
she was done with her fingernails.
"Fine, I'll bite, Sandor. What happened? I could've sworn you were dying when I
left you."
"Me, too," he grunted, rubbing his leg as if it ached. It'd been so bashed up
before that she was surprised he could still walk. "There was a septon that
came along that night. The Elder Brother, himself. Middle of no where, what
were the odds of that?" He laughed bitterly and shook his head, staring off
into the distance. "I wanted the bastard to kill me, but he wouldn't. He just
fixed me up as best he could and sat with me that whole night. I begged for
death. Me. Begging for death. I just wanted it to end. Especially when he
started to pray for me. Out loud. Then I wanted to kill him to shut him up. But
I couldn't."
Arya shifted uncomfortably as Sandor fell into silence. She didn't want to hear
the story, not really. It made the reality of what she did all too real. When
it came to killing, that was the one she regretted most. She wanted to close
her ears when he began again, but forced herself to listen.
"Three fucking days of that. Can you imagine three fucking days of listening to
a septon pray for your sins as you're dying?" Sandor smirked when Arya
shuddered. "On the fourth day I gave up and he told me a story. I didn't wanna
fucking hear no story, but I didn't have a choice." She could relate to that.
"He said he was like me. Loved to kill and he was good at it. Like me. But then
something made him put away the sword and he found his way to the 'Cobbler
Above'. Whether I liked it or not, he took me with him to the Quiet Isle. Fuck,
get me a drink, boy."
"Same as before," Arya told Clayton and was utterly shocked when Sandor agreed
with her. She took it as a good sign. Or maybe he remembered how stubborn she
could be.
"Wasn't as bad as I thought it would be," he continued after downing another
cup. "My leg healed, I got better, and I stopped drinking. Stopped killing.
Know what I did? I dug graves and I liked the work. Two years of it. I didn't
think about spilling blood, whores, or drink for two damned years. Then I left
to get some supplies, and when I came back, somebody had took a torch to the
damned place and put the poor bastards to the sword. Every single one of them
except for Stranger. Fucking horse took a lot of them down. So, I left. And I
came here, I guess. I don't remember much of those days. I had a lot to drink.
Too much."
Silence fell again and Arya wished for a drink. Beer, not wine. She needed it
after seeing the look in Sandor's eyes. He was devastated by that loss. And she
knew that feeling well. She looked down at her blood stained hands and felt
ashamed by the thought of leaving him long ago. But there was nothing to say to
that. Nothing to say to anything. So she stayed silent and wondered if she
could ever clean her hands. Wondered if she'd ever want to like Sandor did.
She didn't think so. She actually liked the look of blood on her hands. She
liked the look of horror in Ol' Ben's eyes as she stabbed him in the heart, She
liked the way the blood felt when it ran over her hands. She once thought of
Sandor, the Hound, as the monster.
Who was the monster now? She was. And she didn't care. That was what bothered
her and only a little bit at that.
She glanced up at Sandor and saw that he was staring at her, at her hands. It
was a long considering look, but she could see him coming to a decision and
kept quiet. Finally, he shook his head and laughed bitterly.
"Does it look like I'd be useful to anyone?" Sandor sneered. "I can barely walk
with this gimp leg. I haven't picked up a sword in almost three years and I
don't even care. Fuck off, wolf-girl. I'm done with killing." He banged his cup
on the table for even more wine. "And none of that watered-down shit. The wolf-
girl's leaving now."
Arya eyed him with disgust. She should've known he'd turn craven. She ewas
practically giving him his brother's head on a plate and he refused it? All
because he didn't like to kill anymore? The disappointment ran deep to her
bones. She'd hoped to talk him into being her second pair of eyes in
Winterfell, but now the sun was rising and she was just wasting time. Arya
stood up, giving Sandor a look of utter disgust.
"Sansa's most likely married to Roose Bolton's son and heir by now," she said
coldly, looking into his eyes. "You know how the Boltons like to celebrate
their weddings. We've both seen that first hand."
Sandor closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Then the little bird is most
likely dead by now." His hands shook at the thought.
But Arya didn't see that. She was already gone. The only thing she left behind
was her money bag. It wasn't like she'd be needing it where she was going
anyway.
"Is this my money?" Clayton asked eagerly as he picked it up.
"Fuck off," Sandor growled automatically. "Just fucking fuck off."
 
--
Now that Ugly Mean Horse was rested, Arya rode hard and fast to the Wolfswood,
realizing that the main reason she wanted Sandor to go with her was so she
wouldn't be alone anymore. That realization led her to another stop just before
she'd go to Winterfell. She'd been looking forward to doing this for a long
time. Oddly enough, it hadn't snowed here as much as it did around White
Harbor. The forest floor was relatively clear. There was no discernible trail
to follow, but she didn't need one. She knew exactly where she was going. She
just had to trust herself.
The wolves were everywhere, silently watching her. All of the ones she could
see, all silently watching her. It made the horse skittish, so she slid down
and took the lead. Her breath caught in her throat when she noticed the vast
number of wolves around her. The Wolfswood went on for miles, and she knew,
somehow, that all throughout it, were many more wolves. All angry. All hungry.
And all Nymeria's.
Here she was invincible. Here she was unstoppable. Here she would never be
alone.
They were close, so very close. How big had she grown? Did she still hate Arya
for chasing her away? Wolf-dreams were one thing, but reality? She didn't care.
She needed to see her.
The den loomed ahead and Arya stopped to prepare herself. She took deep
breaths, but it didn't work. She was still scared and excited and overwhelmed
and- There she was. A massive gray wolf stepped out of the den, its golden eyes
on Arya. She took one step forward just as Arya did, then they both broke into
a run toward each other.
Nymeria knocked Arya to the ground and stood over her, tail wagging violently
as she licked Arya's face clean; first the dirt and then the tears that
wouldn't stop. For once in her life, Arya had arrived to find a member of her
family alive. Alive.
When the direwolf let her up, Arya was able to see how big she was. And big
didn't even begin to cover it. Nymeria's head came up to Arya's shoulder and
her body was lean and dangerous looking. She was the most beautiful thing she'd
ever seen. She checked the wound that had almost killed her. Only a slight
discoloration that barely showed was the only evidence she'd been in danger.
A girl stepped out of the den, but a huge figure accidentally shoved her aside
in his excitement. "Hodor," grinned Hodor. He stopped a few feet in front of
her, suddenly bashful as he kept his eyes down with that smile on his face.
"Hodor."
Arya took his hands in her's and squeezed them comfortingly. "Yes, Hodor. It's
so good to see you again..." She stopped, knowing she'd only embarrass herself
if she kept talking. The girl came up, studying Arya with careful attention to
detail before she smiled. An awkward smile, but Arya wasn't any good at those
either so forgave her. "You saved her, didn't you? I can't... Thank you."
"I don't need thanks. I wanted to," the girl said, patting Nymeria's head. "I'm
Meera Reed. And you're Arya Stark. Bran's told me a lot about you. Let's get
inside, there's a cold wind coming in. And we have much to talk about." She
turned back to the den, but stopped and nodded to the horse. "He's safe here.
The wolves won't attack anything or anyone that's with you."
Meera wouldn't talk until Arya sat down in front of the fire pit and ate the
bowl of hot stew she'd made earlier. That was fine with her. Questions could
always wait if there was food involved for her. She was starving. The bowl was
halfway gone when Meera settled down to Arya's left. Nymeria claimed the right
side and laid her head in Arya's lap, eyes half-closed as she was being
absentmindedly petted.
"What's happening to Bran?" she asked when she was finished. Now she needed
answers to her questions.
Meera looked at Arya, her face solemn. "He's a greenseer. The last of them."
Arya didn't know how to react to that. She knew something was happening to
Bran, but that? "It's the tree, isn't it? It's growing into him." A vague
memory of a dream came back to her. Bran wrapped in tree roots that grew around
and into him.
"He's a part of the weirwoods now. He sees everything." Meera glanced at Hodor,
who sat happily across from them. "Sometimes he can see the future. That's why
you're here now. He saw the possibilities and made them happen." Arya thought
Meera didn't sound too thrilled about it. There was an old sadness about her.
"It hurts him. Doing all that work. That's why he hasn't been talking to you.
To me, either."
"Hodor."
"Yes, Hodor, too." Meera cracked a small smile at the man.
Arya closed her eyes. It was too much for her. She had wanted so badly to see
Bran, to touch and feel, just to know for sure that he was still alive. "Where
is he?"
"Beyond the Wall," came the quiet reply. "He sent us here when he saw Nymeria
and heard your pleas. He's safe where he is. A great weirwood cradles him in
the darkness."
Summer crept into the den, softly and slowly. For a moment, Arya felt Bran when
she looked into her brother's direwolf's eyes, but then he was gone. She held a
hand out to Summer, who nosed it and gave her a lick before laying next to
Nymeria.
Old Nan tales. Arya thought of Nymeria's dreams, the ones she'd only seen
twice. She wondered if they were really just dreams or something else entirely.
This was too much for her. She shouldn't be here. She should be in Braavos,
completely oblivious. She wanted to be back in the House, back in her rooms,
and back to wondering what it was she saw in Jaqen's eyes.
"He's in the dark?" Arya found that thought more distressing than anything
else. It reminded her of their father. No one should be in the dark, all alone.
A tear fell. Just one. That's all that would come. Her brothers and sister had
been separated, scattered across distances too far to imagine. She wanted them
back. Her pack. But she only had a distressingly vague connection to them. And
all she could do was cry one tear and accept it.
She was struck with a certainty that this wasn't supposed to happen. They were
supposed to be together in Winterfell when true winter came, not like this.
Meera hesitatingly reached out to Arya, but when she touched her, Arya snatched
her hand away and glared at her. She'd shown enough weakness to last a lifetime
these past few months. If she let go now, she'd succumb to fear.
Fear cuts deeper than swords.
Arya woke Nymeria up and stood. She didn't care about what should've been. She
didn't care about the Hound or Sandor. She didn't care about the things she
couldn't change, the past or the future. Let Bran worry himself about that.
Arya only needed to focus on one thing and that was getting into Winterfell.
Everything else would be taken care of as it came along. She survived this long
by living like that. She'd keep on surviving as long as she continued to do so.
"There's more," Meera said as Arya emptied out her saddle bags.
"If it's not going to help me in Winterfell, then I don't care," she snapped,
getting out what she needed. A plain, brown homespun dress she stole in White
Harbor. The special set of throwing knives she forked out good money for. Every
night when she made camp, she'd painstakingly sewn hiding spots into the dress
for the flat blades. In the sleeves, in the bodice, and in the skirt. She
wasn't going to be a mouse here.
"Bran told me to tell you that when this-" Meera tried again, getting angry.
"Will it help me in Winterfell?" Arya interrupted again. She'd thought about
cutting her hair, but since she couldn't pass off as a boy anymore, that would
just invite questions and attention to her. She wanted to blend in to the
background, so she decided to keep it long and tied back. The faces she'd worn
before and carried inside of her were gone now that she had reclaimed her name,
but she'd been through so much and acquired so many scars that it didn't
matter. No one would recognize feisty Arya Underfoot from a meek kitchen girl.
"Listen to me," Meera snapped, grabbing Arya's arm and breaking her
concentration.
When Arya lifted her eyes to the girl, Nymeria sensed Arya's irritation and
crouched down, growling at Meera. Arya cocked her head, her eyes frightfully
cold as she met Meera's eyes. "Don't touch me," she said softly.
She almost let Nymeria attack. She almost let go of her tentative control on
the direwolf's wildness. But Hodor moaned in fear, rocking back and forth
muttering 'Hodor' over and over. That was the only thing that brought Arya back
to her senses. She looked away from Meera and closed her eyes to steady her
anger, Nymeria calming down as she did.
The power she felt just then when her direwolf was so close and connected was
immense. She could've killed Meera with just one lunge. To anyone else, it
would've been a terrifying thought, but to Arya, it was beautiful. She was a
wolf. A direwolf. Nothing could scare her now. Not even being in Winterfell
alone and surrounded by enemies.
She opened her eyes. Meera looked at her with wide, angry eyes. Only a little
bit of fear showed. She could respect that.
"What did Bran say?" she asked as if nothing happened.
Meera stared at her a little longer before answering. "When you're done here,
you need to go to the Wall. You're needed. You can't stay with the Mother of
Dragons."
"Why?" Arya scoffed. She didn't like being told what to do in terms like that,
as if she didn't have a choice. When she was done in Winterfell, she was done
being a pawn for Bran to move around. She wasn't going to play any longer.
"I don't know," Meera said, looking back to the fire. Her voice grew distant.
"I only know what I've seen beyond the Wall. White Walkers. My brother was
killed by one. They're coming. When winter truly comes, Arya Stark, I don't
think wars and thrones are going to matter."
More Old Nan tales. The dream came back to her and she looked at Nymeria, who
met her eyes. There was much she didn't know or understand. Bran's power. Her
own power. The connection she shared with Nymeria. She didn't want to know. She
didn't want to understand. The only thing that mattered was the list. She
needed to clear the list. Then she'd go to the Wall. Maybe. If she felt like
it.
Arya didn't know. She was wasting more time.
She shook her head and went back to her things, checking over all she gathered
for Winterfell. The swords would have to stay. There was no way to sneak them
in... And the horse. She couldn't explain how a peasant came to own one as
decent as Ugly Mean Horse.
"Are you listening?" Meera snapped at her.
"No," she answered honestly. "I have things to do. If you talk to Bran, tell
him I'm doing what he wanted. But that's all. After that, I'm doing what I
want."
Meera opened her mouth to argue, but she saw the look in Arya's eyes and knew
it was hopeless. In the end, they'll find out who has the right of it.
 
--
Later, after she changed into the dress and made sure her hair was covered with
a scarf, after she said goodbye to the sad Hodor and angry Meera, she walked
through the woods on foot, Nymeria and Summer escorting her. She'd be close
enough to Winterfell to slip into a cat by daybreak. Then she'd find the best
way in. Just like Meereen.
When she rested, the direwolves would scout ahead into the thinning forest.
Through Nymeria, Arya could smell how close Winterfell was. Men and horses
smelled even closer. There was a patrol just over the hills. Nymeria could see
them in the distance. They looked familiar, smelled familiar to Arya.
It reminded her of Harrenhal. The sellsword company that worked for the
Lannisters. That Jaqen H'ghar worked for. Quiet as a shadow, Arya told Nymeria
needlessly. They weren't even looking in her direction.
Arya wasn't sure if that changed things. She wondered if they were with The
Mountain, but they smelled of Winterfell. Their loyalty could be bought, so
maybe the Boltons employed them. She couldn't be sure and she couldn't wait to
find out. She was wasting time.
Arya pressed on quick as a snake, but quiet as a shadow. Daylight was beginning
to dance on the horizon and the trees grew thin. Now was the time to say
goodbyes again. Summer was easy, a quick lick and a wag of the tail and the
direwolf retreated. But Nymeria...
She wrapped her arms around Nymeria, burying her face in the soft gray fur.
Both of them hated to part, but they knew it was only a matter of time before
they saw each other again. Arya had to believe that. She had to.
Soon, she whispered to the direwolf. Soon you will feast.
And then she was gone.
Arya turned away from the trees, grateful for her dry eyes and walked on. She
crested a hill and there. There it was. Finally, there it was.
Winterfell.
Chapter End Notes
     You read it all! Thank you so very, very much for the reviews/kudos/
     whatnots.
     Just knowing people are reading this makes my day a lot brighter. :)
***** In Returns. *****
Chapter Summary
     Arya finds that going home is hard.
Chapter Notes
     So, here it is finally. Seriously, whenever I set a deadline, just
     ignore it. I'm always late. But, this wasn't a case of writer's
     block. I could not stop writing. And I meant for so much more to
     happen. I did get a very nice scene in here that I hope makes up for
     the wait. Yeah, smut. Enjoy!
See the end of the chapter for more notes
It was nightfall when Arya arrived at the ruins of winter town, just outside of
Winterfell. Another orange tomcat had been helpful again. He showed her
refugees squatting in some of the few houses that remained. Mostly, the Boltons
ignored them, but every morning they would open the main gate to look for
workers. Cooks, seamstresses, blacksmiths, serving girls. Anyone they needed,
they took. Arya was going to be someone they needed, no matter what.
As she walked through the town, she tried not to look at the devastation. It
didn't mean anything to her, she told herself. Not that it was a real town to
begin with. Most of the houses had stood empty for as long as she could
remember. There'd been a few vagabonds here and there and her father let them
stay until they moved on again, but it was meant to be a refuge for the poor
when the true winters arrived. Jory had told her that it was a sight to see;
all the market stalls open for business and the crowd that bustled through the
streets during the day while the night brought music, dancing, and laughter
that you could hear as far as the Great Hall.
There'd be no more laughter in this town anymore. She wondered if there was
laughter in Winterfell. She wondered if Sansa still laughed. She used to hate
that laugh. Now Arya wanted to hear it at least once more.
Arya heard the refugees before she saw them. It wasn't laughter. It was
wailing. A loud, uncontrollable cry of grief. She stopped, not wanting to go
on. She knew that sound; she'd felt it, too, but never had she been able to
give it voice. She tried once. When she was with Yoren and the others. She
tried so hard to scream and shout, but she'd been too afraid to let it out. She
internalized that wail and it hardened inside of her. She wondered if it would
ever break free.
Feeling something in her hand, Arya glanced down and saw the silk blue winter
rose. She didn't even remember getting it out. She held onto it tightly and
walked on, gathering whatever comfort from the rose she could hold on to. She
needed it as she approached one of the houses that hadn't burned and opened the
door.
Only a handful of people turned to look at her with empty eyes. The rest laid
on the floor, some sleeping, some awake, and some dead. A lot dead from
starvation. Arya closed the door quickly and went to the house next to it. It
wasn't any better off. There were more dead and they'd been there a long time.
Arya stepped back, fighting the urge to throw up. She'd seen worse, but not for
a long time and not since she left Westeros. It was only here that she found
this kind of horror.
Arya took her waterskin out of her bag and swallowed the last of it down. From
the look of things, there weren't that many refugees that could work. They'd
take her inside the walls to work. She walked over to the last house standing
and took a deep breath before opening the door. This was better, there was
space on the floor and no dead that she could see. The ones who were awake
looked at her with life in their eyes instead of that horrid emptiness from the
first house. One girl even tentatively smiled at her. Arya didn't smile back.
Because this was the house the wailing was coming from. A woman sobbed in the
corner, rocking back and forth uttering nonsense in between the wails.
That sound... No, Arya couldn't stay here. She couldn't stay anywhere near that
noise. She quickly shut the door and stumbled back, her hands shaking. She
could sleep on the ground with her cloak. It'd be worth the cold as long as she
couldn't hear the woman.
The door opened and shut behind Arya. It was the girl that smiled. Arya glanced
at her over her shoulder, discretely palming one of her knives. The girl wasn't
smiling anymore. She looked as sick as Arya felt.
"It was her son," the girl explained softly. "He-"
"I don't want to know," Arya interrupted, holding a hand up. "I just want to
find a place to sleep before morning."
The girl looked away from her. "I didn't want to know either. But she told me
anyway. Over and over she told me anyway." She pursed her lips and shook her
head. Arya noticed she wasn't smiling, she was trying not to cry.
She didn't have the patience for the girl at the moment. She never had the
patience for anyone, though. Arya just turned away from her, continuing her
quest for a place to sleep.
"I know a place," the girl called out. "I just didn't want to stay there alone.
If you want, I could show you. We could stay there, if you want."
"No, I'd rather be alone."
"Please?"
Oddly enough, the plaintive tone stopped Arya. "Fine. Show me, then." But if
she kept talking, Arya would have to take care of that.
The girl smiled and led her to a house right by the main gate. It wasn't
completely demolished, just the first floor stood intact. She chattered the
whole way there, making Arya regret ever saying yes.
"It's been awhile since I've talked to someone my age, I'm sorry if I go on. I
just got here earlier and the only one who's talked to me is the woman who
can't stop crying. I thought I was going to end up like her until you arrived.
I'm Landa, by the way. What's your name?"
She didn't have to think one up on the spot. It came to her after she opened
the door of the second house. "Mercy," she replied with a small smile to
herself. "Mercy Snow." She thought of Jon.
Thankfully, Landa shut up when they opened the door to a relatively clean room.
Maybe she didn't like bastards. Good, now she could get some sleep.
"My name's Snow, too," Landa whispered when they were settled down on the
floor.
Seven hells.
"Never knew my dad," she continued, growing tearful. Arya tuned her out. "Never
wanted to. My mother was good enough for me, even if she was a whore. She sent
me out one day to get some things from my aunt. I stayed the night and the
whole way back I smelled smoke. It got stronger as I got closer... and I knew,
you know? I just knew."
Arya still tuned her out. She had enough tragedies of her own. She didn't need
anyone else's.
"Then I saw them. Everyone was dead. Everyone in the whole town was dead and
the bodies were in this big pile. All of them. These men... The ones who killed
everyone, they didn't look like men. I couldn't really see them, but there was
something... They were chopping up the bodies and taking them into the inn. I
heard awful screams from inside. I saw my mother's- I saw my mother's head in
the hands of something in armor. It couldn't've been a man. He was too big.
Bigger than a mountain."
Mountain. The word registered in Arya's mind and she shot up, ignoring Landa's
tears and grabbing her by the shoulders. "This man, he was as big as a
mountain?"
Landa nodded, crying harder. "He swung her head around by her hair."
Arya shook her. Tears didn't help anything. Especially now. "Listen to me.
Landa, listen. What did he look like? The man, what did he look like?"
"I don't know!" she sobbed, trying to push Arya away. "He wore a helm. The
whole time he wore a helm." She sobbed anew when Arya let go and sat back on
her heels.
The Mountain. It had to be. But what was he doing? "Where was this?"
"It was just a village. Bonway. Just a small town that never bothered anyone at
all. Why would they do that? Why would they kill almost everyone and torture
the rest? We're not important. It's the Barrowlands. There's nothing important
there!"
"It's war," Arya said, not unkindly. So The Mountain was close. But if Landa
arrived today on foot, why wasn't The Mountain already here? It didn't make
sense. She hated not knowing.
As Landa sobbed harder, Arya awkwardly patted her hand.
 
--
Nymeria dreamed...
The shadow creatures lashed out at the six direwolves, but no blow was landed.
They were only shadows. Distant memories of a past they were never a part of,
of a time when gods and heroes walked the earth. The true-pack pushed on,
delving deeper into the Lands of Always Winter.
A horn sounded, ice cracked, and the Children and men fought against foes they
had no hope against. All ghosts. All images and sounds echoing through time.
The true-pack ignored them like they ignored the shadows. They pushed on,
stalking the creature throughout the ages. It roared a terrible roar. Mountains
fell, cities died, and the creature flew...
 
The sound of the main gate opening brought Arya back to herself, the dream
disappearing in a slow haze. The gate. Arya shot up, gave Landa a nudge with
her boot, and grabbed her things. Landa sat up, her eyes swollen from the tears
she shed.
"They're here," Arya said, opening the door. "Come on, they'll put us to work."
She stepped out just as three people entered winter town, Landa following after
her.
There were two men and one woman, all frowning at the prospects that came out
to the road. The woman's frown lessened, though, when she saw Arya and Landa.
They were the only two that looked able to work. She stopped in front of them
and studied them. The men came behind her, stopping to stare as well. Arya
didn't like their stares. She didn't like when any man looked at her as prey.
"What can you do, girl?" the woman asked Landa, her voice harsh and raspy. She
was ugly, too, with three moles on her face and barely any teeth, but the men
seemed to respect her enough with the way they looked to her for cues.
"I- I can clean," Landa stammered. She looked terrified. "I can embroider. I
can cook, but I'm not good. I mean, I can make soup, but it always-"
"It was a simple question," the woman sighed impatiently. "I asked you what
you're good at, not what you're not good at." Landa face reddened as the
woman's attention turned to Arya. "And you?"
"I can clean, m'lady," Arya said earnestly. "And I worked in my uncle's tavern
for most of my life, so I can serve. But I'm a quick learner. I can do whatever
is needed of me, m'lady."
The woman laughed. It wasn't pretty. "Roger, she thinks I'm a lady." She
laughed again and shook her head. "No, girl, I'm not a lady. You can call me
Goodwife Jene. I've been charged with finding able-bodied servants. Those who
can take orders and carry them out without too much trouble is what we need.
You're not much, but you'll do."
Arya almost let out a sigh of relief. She thought it'd be harder than this.
Something was bound to happen. Something bad. It always did when it came to
getting back to Winterfell.
"Then follow me. Lord Bolton will return within the week and we're already
behind schedule."
But as they approached the gates, nothing happened. She wasn't struck by
lightening, no one pointed at her and screamed 'look, Arya Stark!'. Nothing
happened. Arya's chest tightened as she passed underneath the gates and her
eyes grew watery. She wanted to fall to the ground and cry for everything she
lost. But she didn't.
She was in.
She was in Winterfell.
 
--
Things moved so fast after that that Arya didn't have a chance to look around.
Which she considered a good thing, to be honest. It was easier to pretend she
was Mercy Snow if she wasn't lost in the memories of Arya Stark. She kept her
eyes down, too. That helped. That helped a lot. Especially when they passed the
training grounds she used to watch her brother's in. The sound of steel against
steel reminded her how much she'd changed since then.
But that was Arya Stark. Not Mercy Snow.
The goodwife led them to a small building beside the Great Hall. It was a
flurry of activity as servants came in and out, preparing to break their fast
before starting their shifts. A tall, thin man sat at the end of a long table
with a guard wearing the Bolton standard. They looked to be in a heated
discussion over something. They didn't even notice Goodwife Jene approach.
"And I'm telling you, no one knows what happened," the guard was saying. "My
men are not responsible for this."
"You're telling me she just slipped and fell onto a knife six times?" the man
sneered. "You tell you're men that if I have another girl turn up dead, they're
banned from the bathhouse. Do you understand?"
Goodwife Jene cut in. "What's this then? We've lost another one? That's the
third one this week, Acton. Better keep a handle on it or it's your head."
The man named Acton ran a hand over his grey hair, glancing up at the goodwife.
For a split second he looked at her with hatred. If Arya hadn't been looking at
him, she wouldn't've seen it. (Interesting.) He ignored her interruption and
gestured to Arya and Landa. "This all that was there?"
"I know, my thoughts exactly," the goodwife grimaced. "I think they'll only be
good for minimal chores. They're not that bright." This time, it was Arya who
shot the hateful glance, but she was paid no mind. It was like they weren't
even there.
"Well, one of them'll have to go to the bathhouse," Acton grumbled. "We're low
enough on serving girls as it is. What with the way they all keep mysteriously
disappearing." His mouth twisted bitterly as he looked at the guard, who
shrugged.
Goodwife Jene shrugged with him. "It's to be expected. They're sellswords after
all. They tend to get bored."
Right then, Arya decided to kill her when all of this was over. She'd kill them
all. The reality of the Boltons in Winterfell and not the Starks hit her hard.
It wasn't right. They shouldn't be here. Her father would never let anyone harm
a serving girl. And he'd behead the man who killed one.
But he wasn't here. No one was here except for Arya and Sansa. (Sansa. What of
Sansa?) How could it have come to this?
"Maybe you shouldn't assign so many pretties to the bathhouse, then," the guard
put in. He pointed to Landa. "Not her. She's a beaut, but the other one..." He
pointed to Arya. "With those scars, she might not be messed around with too
much."
Arya's blood went cold. For once in her life, she wished she'd been born
beautiful like Sansa. She knew what happened in bathhouses to the serving
girls. She'd walked in on it happening once. The girl had been screaming so
loudly that the man didn't hear Arya come up behind him and cut his throat.
No, not the bathhouse. Please, not the bathhouse. She'd have to do whatever
needed to be done to make sure the Boltons paid dearly for what they'd done.
She'd have to. That wouldn't be possible if she killed someone on the first day
and got caught. She'd have to.
Acton gave Arya a considering look. "What's your name, girl?"
"Mercy, if it pleases you m'lord," Arya replied, sounding shy and scared.
The goodwife snorted at that. "She thinks everyone's a lady and lord."
He ignored her again. "I'm not a lord, Mercy. Just an understeward and your
superior." Now Acton looked at the goodwife with that flash of hatred. "You
answer to me only. Goodwife Jene will take you to the bathhouse. There's a
place for you to sleep in the back and it's warm. If anything happens to you,
you're to come to me at once. Do you understand?"
Arya nodded, too numb to speak.
"Good. Now, go." He waved his hand, dismissing her.
Landa looked at Arya with a helpless expression. Very discreetly, Arya winked
at the girl as Goodwife Jene took her by the arm and dragged her away. She
didn't know why. She just didn't want the girl to worry.
 
--
The bathhouse was a fairly new addition to Winterfell. The Boltons added it on
after taking the castle from the Ironborn. They connected it to the hot springs
that kept the Great Keep warm, making it a popular place for guards just
getting off patrol or watch. The men that served Roose Bolton that night in the
Twins committed atrocities that still haunted Arya to this day. She shuddered
to think what they were allowed to get away with here to unimportant serving
girls.
The goodwife shoved Arya through the door, the noise bringing the other girls
running to the front. There were five of them, all very pretty and all very
young.
"Here's a new one for you whores. Try not to let her get killed like you did
with the other one." With that, Goodwife Jene left, her nose in the air as if
she were better than everyone around her. Arya was going to kill her. She was
going to kill her and make it hurt.
"Don't bother with her," one of the girls said kindly. "She just thinks she's
miss high and mighty all because her husband's the steward. I'd love to shove
her head underwater for awhile. Just to scare her."
"Ona!" the youngest gasped, then giggled when Ona shrugged.
"What's your name?"
Arya looked at the speaker, a girl who looked the oldest. She hadn't cracked a
smile like the others. "Mercy. Mercy Snow."
"Have you done this before?" Even though she didn't smile, she looked kind when
Arya shook her head. "Don't worry. It's okay when you get used to it. You won't
have to do anything today. Just watch and learn what'll be expected of you. If
you play along, you'll be fine. Nora didn't play along, that's why she's dead.
I'm Sari."
The others introduced themselves, but Arya paid them no mind. All she could
think about was that night and how she pushed Jaqen away from her. She
should've pulled him closer instead of that. She should've given him all when
she had the chance.
Men came in and the day began. It didn't seem as bad as she thought. Sometimes
there were woman who came to soak in the large stone tubs. It was only when the
sky began to grow dark when she learned what was expected of her.
A little tug and pull here and there while being fondled was the main thing.
Only one man bent Ona over a tub to take her, but she acted like she enjoyed
it. Arya couldn't. She couldn't. But she had to. It was odd that the thought
didn't bring any tears. She just felt cold and numb. She wouldn't be a mouse if
she let it happen, if she chose to do it and killed them when this was over,
but she would be if she fought it and it happened anyway.
But Jaqen. He was the only one she ever wanted. She knew that now that he was
gone from her life. If only she was no one in a different face and not Arya
Stark. She'd be able to do it without thinking about it. But now she was Arya,
truly Arya, and she hated it. The only consolation she could think of was that
men talked before and after their satisfaction, saying things they shouldn't.
She would have to find a safe place to report everything she found.
The last man left after the moon was well into the sky and the girls retired to
the back to sleep, letting Arya sit in silence by herself. When they all
started to snore, she slipped out quietly. It wasn't a good idea to be out
alone, but she needed to see the grounds. She needed to see if there was any
place left that felt like home.
Arya walked along the wall that bordered the Godswood, taking care to stay in
the shadows. Her father's gods lived behind that wall. The old ones who
abandoned him long ago. She wanted to set it on fire. She wanted it to be ashes
like her childhood. The only thing that stopped her was the weirwood. Bran.
Arya heard footsteps when she came up behind the armory. She hid in the shadows
as they passed by and receded. Again, she wished could fade into the shadows.
She wanted to kill them all. She wanted to make them pay. She didn't want to be
a ghost anymore. She wanted to be a monster.
When she was sure all was clear, she crossed the path to the other inner wall.
Quick as a snake. Quiet as a shadow. Arya knew where she was going now. She'd
been heading there in the first place, only she hadn't noticed. The crypt. It
called to her, invited her in and she went willingly.
The moment her foot hit the first step down, Arya felt it. Home. Here it was.
The only place she knew as home. While Bran always climbed, Arya always went
down deeper to the heart of Winterfell. She used to explore the underground for
hours when she wanted to hide from all the things her mother wanted her to do.
It was always warm here, being so close to the hot springs.
She remembered staying underground for a whole night after getting in trouble
when her mother overheard her saying Jon Snow was her favorite brother. Jon was
the one who found her crying in a dark corner. She remembered the knife they
used to cut the palms of their hands. They'd pressed them together as the blood
welled up and mixed together.
("See? Now we're true brother and sister. You have my noble blood and I have
your bastard blood," she'd said.)
She wondered if Jon still had the scar on his palm like she did.
Her eyes ran over the faces of all the Starks that came before her. Everything
was familiar here. This was still home. When she reached the end and saw the
empty space where her father should rest, she wanted to cry. She tried. She
really tried. But the tears didn't come. She thought that seeing this would be
enough to break the grief free and she could finally give her sorrow voice.
But it wasn't. Arya still felt empty.
She bowed her head and closed her eyes, trying to feel something, anything.
Nothing. Maybe when she found Sansa. She hadn't asked about her sister yet. She
didn't know why. She knew the wedding had already taken place. She knew her
sister was here. But she couldn't bring herself to look for her yet. She didn't
want to know the horrors Sansa went through on the wedding night. She heard the
talk of the Stark girl's screams of pain. She didn't want to know if she was
broken and weak. A wolf could face down monsters and men without breaking a
sweat, but when it came to emotional damage?
She was craven.
When she opened her eyes, Jaqen H'ghar was there, leaning against a pillar just
outside of the candlelight..
 
--
At first, Arya felt as if she'd been transported back in time to when she was a
mouse in Harrenhal. The man in front of her looked exactly like the man who
gave her three deaths. The guard uniform wasn't the same, but it was close
enough. He looked at her with the same expression, though, his eyes dancing
with amusement over a secret only they knew.
"It took you long enough, lovely girl," Jaqen murmured softly. "This man feared
you'd never make it."
Now, Arya felt something. Anger. It raged through her. She'd had enough of
this. The leaving and coming back. The uncertainty. She wanted it to stop.
Before she could think about it, Arya rushed forward and smacked him hard. It
was his own damn fault for not ducking. Really, he should've expected it. His
eyes flashed in anger, giving her some satisfaction.
"Do not do that again," he said in a low voice. The anger was there, too, she
could hear it. "Sound carries in the underground."
"How many names do I get this time?" Arya spat out, clenching her fist. She
wanted to hit him again despite his warning. She wanted to hurt him like he
hurt her. She drew her hand back again, but he caught it in a tight grip and
pushed her against a wall when she struggled against his hold.
Jaqen's brow furrowed. "I thought you a clever girl. You get all the names. All
the names of the ones you want dead," he whispered harshly. "I will kill them
all for you. Don't you see that? How can you not after what I did for you?"
Disbelief slowly began to replace the anger. Arya shook her head at him. "No.
No, you left. You left me alone."
Jaqen was the one getting angrier now. She felt it in the way his body tensed
against hers and saw the heat of it in his eyes. He let go of her hands and
slid his fingers around the nape of her neck, grabbing a fistful of hair and
tugging it so she looked up at him. "You have no faith in me? In this man?
Everything, Arya Stark, everything I do is for you. I followed you to Meereen.
I kept you safe. I ignored the whisper of a name." His voice grew more
dangerous with each word and Arya felt that now familiar thrill run through her
body. "I killed for you. I became your Jaqen H'ghar and when you would not have
him, when you would not have me, I came here because this was the only place I
could be of use to you. While you've been taking your time, lovely girl, I went
to old friends I knew were under the employ of the Bolton. I've been here this
whole time waiting for you because I knew you would come and I knew you would
need someone on the inside. Everything I do is for you. Never doubt me."
Arya stared at him, unblinking. Her mouth tried to work, tried to speak, but
nothing came out. Weakly, she shook her head, trying to deny his words. No. It
didn't make sense. She didn't deserve this. She didn't deserve all those
sacrifices.
But he'd done them. He thought she did. Jaqen H'ghar thought she was someone
who was worth all of that and more. It didn't matter that he was wrong, he did
it all for her. Sooner or later, he would see his mistake and then he would
leave. She tried to push him away, but he held on to her, refusing to let go.
She struggled harder and still he held her.
And then, somehow, she was kissing him and there were tears on her face and the
taste of blood on her tongue and she didn't care who was crying or who was
bleeding she only wanted more and so did he because she could feel how hard he
was..
They fell to the ground hard, down to the dirt and the stone and the dust of
ages past. Jaqen's hands were up her skirt, ripping her smallclothes off while
Arya unlaced his pants. Without hesitating, she wrapped her fingers around his
cock. He groaned as she stroked it. Even after the things she'd seen in the
bathhouse, she didn't know what she was doing, but she knew where she wanted
him, where she needed him. Arya urgently guided him to her entrance.
Jaqen took her hand in his and entwined their fingers together. He held her
tightly as he entered her fully with one sharp thrust. She cried out, her
senses afire as he ripped her apart so painfully, so beautifully.
"Shh," he whispered, pressing his forehead against her's. "A girl must stay
quiet. She does not know what her cries do to this man. And sound carries. We
must stay quiet."
Arya whimpered, nodding her head as he kissed her to muffle any other noise she
couldn't stop. He started to move with long, slow, deep thrusts. It hurt. It
hurt more than anything, even more than when he gave her the scars on her face,
but she treasured the pain. It anchored her to him, and in that pain, she found
the purest form of pleasure.
There was no going back from this, she was his and he was hers. She'd given to
him the innocence that was his the moment he gave her a coin, but it was far
more fitting for it to happen here in the last place that was home to her; here
in the dark among the dead.
The pain was blossoming into something else, a warmth that built up inside of
her, slowly spreading through her body. She felt Jaqen let out a low rumble
when her muscles started to clench down around his cock. She didn't know what
was happening, it was nothing like she'd ever experienced before. And then she
felt him hit a spot deep inside of her that made her back arch as she broke the
kiss. She gasped loudly when he hit the spot again.
"Please," she whispered, not sure what she was asking for, but Jaqen knew. He
let go of her hand and wrapped his arms around her, angling his thrusts to hit
that spot over and over again. She slipped her hands underneath his shirt and
held onto him, unable to do anything else but gasp.
"Lovely girl, sweet girl, evil girl," Jaqen breathed against her neck, his
teeth nipping at the tender skin in between the words. She clawed at his back
hard enough to draw blood. With each gash she made, he thrust harder, pushing
into her as deep as he could.
Arya cried out his name, not caring about being quiet. There was only the dead
around to hear them anyway.
His lips moved to her ear. "I am yours," he whispered. And that was all she
needed to hear. All she wanted. The pleasure that had been building up inside
of her exploded and she found a release she never knew possible. Everything
faded but the feeling of him inside of her, filling her, making her his. She
held on tight as her body shook and tears fell from her eyes.
Jaqen whispered her name over and over as he buried himself deep inside of her
and came. She felt his seed spill, but she was too far gone to worry about it.
She only wanted the feeling never to stop. She wanted this to be all that
existed and all that ever existed.
The high lasted for what felt like an eternity, but ended too soon. Jaqen
kissed her tenderly as her body still quaked with aftershocks. When he made to
pull out, Arya wrapped her legs tightly around him, keeping him there.
"Stay," she pleaded, struck by a sudden terror she couldn't explain.
Jaqen cupped her face, his eyes burning into hers with an intensity that took
her breath away. "Always," he said as if she should know. To her embarrassment,
Arya began to cry, but he held her tight and kissed her tears away as they
fell.
 
--
Later, they lay entwined, her head against his chest, listening to his steady
heartbeat. It would be close to morning soon, but Arya didn't feel the need to
hurry just yet. Neither did Jaqen. He ran his fingers over the blades she'd
sewn into her dress, both of them content with letting the moment pass by
slowly.
"A girl's first time shouldn't be like this," he murmured. "It should be gentle
and slow. On a bed instead of here."
"Since when have we ever been gentle to each other?" Arya asked, lifting her
head up to look at him.
Jaqen laughed softly at that. "I will give you that. But humor a man next time
and let me show you how good being gentle feels, okay?"
Next time. Arya grinned as the thought warmed her down to her core. Until she
remembered where they were and what they were facing, which brought to mind
questions. "How did you know where I was going?"
"You don't know?" Jaqen sighed. "And here I thought you were paying attention
all these years. You will figure it out eventually."
Ever the teacher. Arya rolled her eyes. "Fine, don't tell me then," she
grumbled, laying her head back down. She felt more than heard his low chuckle.
It only served to further her annoyance.
"A man's watch begins soon," he murmured. "And there is much to talk about."
At least there had been a peaceful moment for us, she thought as she sat up.
Before it begins. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, nodding at
Jaqen. She was ready.
Jaqen's brow furrowed when he met her eyes. "What you have seen so far is only
the surface of Winterfell. There are more horrors here than you could possibly
imagine."
Dread hit her hard in the stomach, right there in the place her grief had made
a home. Not for the first time, Arya wished she could forget who was. Nobody
wouldn't feel anything as horrible as this. Nobody would feel nothing.
Fear cuts deeper than swords.
"I can imagine lots of things," she whispered softly. "The cruelty of men and
women ceased to surprise me a long time ago."
"For now, this is the kind of cruelty we are familiar with. This is fueled just
by ale and lust. But when the Bolton boy is here... " He grimaced as he
remembered and then his expression changed, smoothing out into the blank slate
he once wore in the House of Black and White, distancing himself from the
memory he was about to share. "This man was called to his workshop once. The
boy needed someone to remove a body he'd just finished with. It is a daily
occurrence, apparently, when he's here. A man needed to see who we were up
against so a man volunteered.
"This man has seen much in his life, sweet girl. He has seen death in all of
its forms, from bone to skin. He has seen the ruin we all must become in the
end. He has accepted it, grown immune to the horror. He has even seen the
beauty in it. But the death he saw in that room was different. It was wrong. So
pointless and needless. If a man did not know better, he would say it was the
work of demons, not a single boy."
Ice flooded Arya's veins. For Jaqen to admit that... It was much worse than she
feared. She had convinced herself that the rumors she'd heard were exaggerated,
but from the haunted look in his eyes, the look he tried so hard to hide but
couldn't, not from her, she wondered if the rumors were tamer than the truth.
(Sansa? What of Sansa?)
She didn't want to voice the question. She couldn't, though, even if she tried.
"What did you see?" The only question she could speak.
Jaqen looked away from her as he answered. "Skin. Human skin. It covered the
walls from the floor to the ceiling. Every single one was from a child. There
were some so small that they could've only come from an infant.
"And the whole time the man stood there, the Bolton boy watched with a smile on
his face. He was proud of it. He wanted to show it off. He told this man they
were his trophies. Children he hunted down whenever he was bored. The smallest
ones, he said, were what he practiced his technique on when it was too cold to
go out."
Jaqen lapsed into silence. Arya opened her mouth, but there was nothing to say.
Nothing would be able to soften the disgust and horror. Oh, gods old and new,
what has Sansa been left to? She wondered if she would find a broken shell of a
woman instead of her sister.
Jaqen met her eyes again, the haunted look now locked tightly away. He made it
look so easy that Arya was a little jealous. She could wear the same mask, the
one he taught her, but it was getting harder to keep it on. It'd be much easier
to pretend that all of this didn't concern her. But there was only so much
pretending she could do before reality demanded to be faced in all its soul-
crushing truth. Soon the mask would break. She just hoped she wouldn't break
with it.
"However, the boy is the least of our worries at this moment. There are other
matters to focus on. Stannis Baratheon was overtaken by the Boltons while he
was trying to get the mountain clans to join him. His army is at the Wall and
leaderless for the time being."
Arya closed her eyes. If any of the houses that supported Stannis joined with
the Boltons, then they'd have more men than the Khaleesi could deal with unless
she brought most of her army to Westeros. "Is Stannis dead then?"
"Yes," he said simply. "It would seem the mountain clans want no part in this
war. They left Stannis to the Boltons and went into hiding. The Boltons let
them go. With an army at the Wall waiting to be claimed, there is no need of
them. Not yet, at least."
"Are they going there now?" Arya swallowed heavily, suddenly feeling nauseous.
"To the Wall?"
"This man is uncertain. But, it would be the logical thing to do."
Even though Master Luwin endlessly lectured the Stark children on the subject
of politics, Arya never could wrap her head around it. It was too boring. The
lessons on military tactics had caught her attention, but, of course, those
were just for the boys.
("Proper Ladies have no need of those things," Septa Mordane would say as she
hurried her along to the torture of needlepoint.)
Arya almost laughed. She was finding irony more and more funny each time she
encountered it. The urge to laugh faded quickly. She needed to talk to the
Khaleesi, to tell her to set sail immediately. Even she could see they may be
too late. If Bolton wins over the Houses at the Wall and brings them to
Winterfell, then the Khaleesi would be attacking the very people she meant to
save.
But, maybe doing just that wouldn't be so bad. Destroy the Houses who sought
out war and start afresh.
All of this gave Arya a headache and she wasn't sure if she even cared what
happened outside of Winterfell. Vengeance on the Boltons and freeing Sansa were
the only two things she knew she cared about. Revenge and family.
"There is more," Jaqen said, interrupting her thoughts.
"Of course there's more, " she snapped, taking her frustration out on the
nearest target. Jaqen ignored it, having gotten used to it years before.
"There have been reports of an army coming in from the south, but it's
confusing. No one can get an accurate number of the men. There's more
everyday."
"The Mountain," Arya said grimly. "How far out is he?"
"Seven, maybe eight days ride, but they're moving slow. We don't know why.
There are less refugees coming in from the south than there used to be and all
our scouts go missing." Jaqen stood and helped her up, brushing the dirt off
the back of her dress before lacing his pants back up.
"I met a girl in winter town. Her whole village had been razed to the ground by
them." Arya pulled her smallclothes back on. "She said they took the time to
chop the bodies up. They were doing something with them."
Jaqen looked thoughtful as he led the way back to the surface. Abruptly, he
stopped at the steps and turned to her.
"Have you felt it, sweet girl?" His eyes searched her face carefully for the
answer. "In the air we breathe? In the way the way the sun feels on your skin?"
Arya looked at him, obviously confused. "Um, what?"
He slipped back into the teacher she had little patience for. "Close your eyes
and listen to my voice."
"Why? Can't you just tell me?"
"It is better for you to feel it yourself," he promised solemnly. "Close your
eyes and list-"
Arya didn't close them. She rolled them instead. "We don't have time for this,
just tel-"
"If you did as I asked the first time, we would be done already," he snapped,
losing his patience quicker than usual, a testament to the strain they both
were under. "Close your eyes and listen to my voice."
The teacher was gone. Now he was the exasperated Jaqen that Arya knew so well.
She liked him better this way. She closed her eyes, making a big show of it.
When he spoke, he sounded much calmer.
"In the House of Black and White, there is a room. It is dark and quiet. No
light has shone and no voice has spoken in the chamber since its construction.
Only the most devoted may enter. It is where one can sit and listen to the
dark. Our God moves in the dark. If you listen long and hard enough, you will
hear him. Once heard, it can never be unheard. It is the song of every living
creatures death. It cannot be sung by voices such as ours and it does not
stop."
Arya felt him touch her softly. The palm of his hand rested over her heart.
"It is here where it is heard and felt. Reach out to him, sweet girl. Listen
for the Many-Faced God. He will come to you. He will always come to those who
know death as intimately as we do."
Feeling a little silly, she tried, unsure of exactly how to do it. She was just
about to open her eyes and tell him he was full of dung when she heard
something. It rose up inside of her, drowning out everything else. Even Nymeria
was silent. It wasn't a song... No, wait, it was. But... Every time she thought
she caught the melody, it changed into something else.
It was so beautiful and so overwhelming that tears fell from her closed eyes.
She knew then, knew absolutely for sure, that death was a gift, a way to become
a part of the song, to live on in the Red God's will. If Jaqen had showed this
to her before, she would've never left the House of Black and White. Her pack
would've lost her to this.
"There," he murmured. "That is the song we both dance to, lovely girl. From the
moment you saved a man from the fire, we've danced to this. Now and until the
end, we will dance."
Arya nodded. Lost in the song, she wanted nothing else than to do that. Until
the end.
And he had turned his back on it. All for her.
"Now, listen deeper." He pressed his hand harder against her and she heard it.
She didn't want to, tried to shut it out. Something was wrong. Her stomach
twisted.
Oh, gods, what was that?
The melody broke, it screamed and faded, moaned and cried out. Not death. It
wasn't death, what was it?
Jaqen pulled his hand away and, suddenly, it stopped. Not completely, just
enough to be able to ignore it. Everything else came rushing back, Nymeria's
presence dulling the new discord in the back of her mind.
"How... What was..." Arya took a deep breath, trying to calm down. "How did you
show me that?"
If he tried to make that question into another lesson, she would fucking stab
him.
"There is old magic here in Winterfell. Old magic like the kind in the House of
Black and White. One only needs to know how to use it," Jaqen answered wisely
before starting up the steps.
Arya watched him ascend, realizing for the first time that he might have
secrets of his own. Secrets like the ones she kept about Nymeria and the cats.
Resigning herself to the fact that it would most likely be a long time before
she uncovered them, she followed after him.
The air blew cold on the surface, but they were in darkness, meaning night
still reigned. Arya could hardly believe it. It felt like years had passed
while they were down there.
"But what does that have to do with the Mountain?" she blurted out when she
caught up to him. A few guards walked towards them, raucous and stumbling
around. One called out to them a drunken challenge, but the other men grabbed
him and shook him quiet. They kept their eyes to the ground as they passed.
Arya couldn't help but grin.
Ignoring them, Jaqen pulled her into the shadows between the buildings and the
wall of the weirwood, talking softly.
"It is well known that the Mountain died, is it not? So what is he doing
leading an army? One that started small, but somehow keeps growing?" He glanced
at her and she realized he actually wanted an answer.
Given that they were in somewhat of a hurry, Arya decided to humor him. "Maybe
he didn't die..." She trailed off, knowing that wasn't right. Tyrion had seen
it with his own eyes and she was inclined to believe him. Unless he was drunk
when he saw it. He had a habit of embellishments when he talked of his drunken
escapades.
She stopped, a memory rising unbidden to her mind. Shadows dancing on a cave
wall. The look of awe and horror on the Hound's face. Beric Dondarrion rising
from the floor, alive despite the blow that nearly took his head off. What had
Thoros called it?
"Have you heard of the kiss of life?" She didn't know why she asked. Of course
he had.
He looked over his shoulder at her, grabbing her hand to keep her moving. He
was running late enough as it was. "R'hllor is something else altogether, sweet
girl. The followers of the Lord of Light do not mix well with the likes of us.
And the discord he causes is different. This is something else. Something
unnatural."
In her mind, she saw Thoros, felt the power flow through him, out of him, and
into Dondarrion. Even then, before she served her God, before she heard the
song, she'd felt the wrongness of it. The memory itself left her nauseous. But
Jaqen was right. This was different.
She pulled her hand away from him, angry for some reason she couldn't quite
place. This was supposed to be simple, this vengeance for her family. But here
she was talking about magic and Gods with Jaqen, a man who shouldn't even be
there. Much less exist.
Jaqen H'ghar always complicated things.
Then, again, he probably thought the same of her. She wouldn't blame him.
He stopped and turned to her, his eyes softening as he took her face in his
hands. "This is talk for another night, sweet girl. We must focus on
Winterfell." He kissed her softly.
Arya's knees went weak, and for one impossible moment, she understood Sansa's
ridiculous obsession with romance. It went away when she felt him grin against
her lips. Even after what he'd done for her, she hated not being able to hide
anything from him.
She pulled away, breathless, her face burning, unable to speak. Would she ever
get use to the way he made her feel?
Arya hoped not.
"One more thing before this man leaves," he murmured.
"Jaqen, I swear if it's more bad news, I will stab you, " Arya growled. "And I
won't apologize for doing it."
Jaqen laughed, a real laugh, not a chuckle. Those were rare. She liked the
sound of them.
"Ungrateful child. It is only a curiosity."
"And how is a curiosity going to help us?"
"It may or may not, " he shrugged. "This man has been studying the people of
this place. They live in fear, but there is one man who is different. He does
not have fear like the others. He is separate, neither for or against the
Boltons."
"Lots of people don't care about them. How is he any different?"
"He is different because he knows you, sweet girl. From the moment he sent you
to work in the bathhouse, he has been watching you."
Arya furrowed her brows, confused. "Acton?" That didn't make any sense.
"I do not have to ask you to be careful, do I?" Jaqen sighed, knowing full well
that he had to. "At least until we know more about him?"
Arya nodded, not really hearing him, though she got the jist of it. Was it too
much to ask for just one thing to be straight forward? Just for one thing she
could handle by killing someone?
Which reminded her...
"I hid my swords in the woods to get into here. Can you grab them for me while
you're out on patrol? They'll be at the edge of the trees."
"Of course," he said, backing away from her as the sounds of boots marching
grew closer. The shift change. "We can continue with your training, then."
He had a mischievous glint in his eyes as he turned away, pausing only to call
out over his shoulder: "When they ask who gave you those marks, tell them the
Lorathi did."
"What marks?" Arya asked, but he had already melted into the shadows. She
wished she could make an exit as smooth as he could.
Seriously, though. What marks?
__
The other girls were still sleeping when Arya slipped back into the bathhouse.
All except for one. The oldest, Sari. She ignored the empty pallet and went
straight to her own. There was much to report to the Khaleesi. It'd be a
miracle if she could get an hour of sleep. She closed her eyes and reached out
to the orange cat.
It had been hard to tell the Khaleesi about this particular talent. She coveted
her secrets, kept them locked deep down inside her, always fighting to make
sure they stay in the dark. But some secrets needed to be let out, no matter
how she felt about it. After swearing her to secrecy (something that made Dany
amused and the Khaleesi exasperated), Arya showed her what she could do with
the orange tomcat she bonded with in the pyramid.
It took a few times before the Khaleesi believed her. Which Arya thought odd
since she was the Mother of Dragons. Having seen magic firsthand, she thought
an ability like hers would be easily accepted. In the end, after the fifth time
she proved she could tell what was happening on the other side of the pyramid,
they developed a code so Arya could report in to her directly through the cat.
Reaching out across that distance with her mind was hard and it left her with a
headache, but the cat and her had bonded and it was the only way.
Arya hadn't told her about Nymeria and the wolves, though. That was a secret
for herself. And maybe Jaqen since he knew everything. She wouldn't be
surprised.
Completely in the cat's mind, Arya didn't notice Sari return, didn't notice the
older girl standing over her, studying Arya as if she were a puzzle to solve.
And she also didn't notice Sari reaching into the folds of her shift and
pulling a small knife out. But whatever the older girl intended to use it for,
she seemed to have second thoughts. She put it away and went to her own pallet
to sleep.
__
The cat was not where he was supposed to be. Arya looked around the dark room,
trying to find the Khaleesi. But it was empty save for the soft bed the cat had
been sleeping on. The plan had been for the cat to be with her at all times,
just in case Arya had urgent news. She tried to call out for her, forgetting
that the cat had limitations when it came to talking. 'Khaleesi' came out as
some sort of demonic rumble that startled the cat itself. She felt a flash of
panic and the urge to run away hissing.
Arya made the cat jump down and went to the closed door. If she listened hard
enough, she could make out faint voices. Arguing? She was only able to make out
a few words at a time.
"...but can we trust ..." Tyrion, she knew that voice.
"It's not a matter..." Selmy.
"... you saw the dragons. And don't... "
"Enough! We... faith the Khaleesi lives..."
"...can't think...sober. Wait, has an... seen the cat?"
What little of the conversation Arya heard shocked her and she lost her hold on
the cat's mind, sitting straight up in her own pallet and gasping. The
Khaleesi... Dany, what had happened to Dany? She laid back down, trembling. No,
no, she was fine. She had to be.
But the name Jaqen was given. Could it have been given to someone else? Not
likely. A name can only be whispered once, even if the gift could not be given.
Arya felt sick. So much would be lost if the Khaleesi was dead. Not to mention
the emptiness Dany would leave behind in Arya. She wanted to cry at the
thought, but she didn't. She put the grief away for another day, when she was
absolutely sure of the truth and closed her eyes.
Despite the turmoil inside her, Arya fell easily into sleep and another wolf-
dream that welcomed her with open arms.
__
There was something in the air that disturbed the wolves. It smelled of rotting
corpses and something else. Something that made their hackles rise when they
caught themselves downwind from it.
It was unfamiliar to all except Nymeria and Summer. They'd encountered
something like it in their own dreams. It smelled of ice and never ending
death. Underneath it, though, was another scent, one that confused the
direwolves. It was new mixed with old, the burning smell of magic and human
flesh. And it came from the South. Not the North.
Everyday it came closer. Slowly but surely, it crept to Winterfell. The wolves
grew skittish with fear, and Nymeria wasn't sure her hold on them would be
strong enough if they came face to face with the source of the smell.
Her worries lessened, though, when she felt the other enter her mind. She
basked in the presence, each lightening the other's load of problems. Together
they were good. Together they were whole.
She turned around, leaving the other wolves to themselves as she went back to
her den. The other needed the box that smelled of steel and distant lands. For
this very purpose, a strap of thick leather had been attached to it, making it
easier for Nymeria to carry.
Or, rather, drag, which is what the direwolf ended up doing. She stopped only
when she reached the shadows at the edge of the treeline. The smell of man was
strong here, and it made her uneasy, but she waited, thinking about running,
about prey, and about that smell from the South.
The wind shifted, bringing a tantalizing scent to her. Human, man, yes, but
more. A branch snapped behind her and Nymeria jumped up, turning and snarling.
A man stood there, holding his hands up in a soothing manner. He was unafraid,
foolishly unafraid. The other smiled in Nymeria's mind and an alien emotion
filled her.
This man was safe. This man was important.
Nymeria approached him calmly, even when he crouched down to look in her eyes.
They looked at each other for a moment, and then he smiled, wonder in his own
eyes.
"Impossible girl," the man whispered, speaking to the other in Nymeria. "A man
knew, a man suspected, but not this."
Nymeria felt surprise from the other, surprise and satisfaction. The only thing
Nymeria could compare it to was the thrill of coming across a difficult prey
and feasting while the body was still warm.
She did not think the other wanted to eat this man. It was a shame. He looked
like good meat.
The man took a cautious step forward, but Nymeria didn't like that. Snarling,
she lunged at him. The other screamed in her mind to stop, and she did, just
inches from his face. A very hard thing to do. Now she felt wired, full of
energy she needed to spend. She turned away from him, leaving the box behind as
she headed back to her pack.
The other wanted her to go back to the man so she could see the look on his
face, but Nymeria had already grown bored with him. She fought for total
control of her body, winning it easily.
There was prey to stalk, to bite, to kill. And if she couldn't find prey, she'd
just run as fast as she could through the forest for no reason at all.
Nymeria liked doing that very much.
__
The first thing Arya saw when she woke up was Sari. The girl loomed over her
looking pensive, as if she were sizing her up. The almost hostile way she
stood, the calculating expression on her face made Arya confused. This wasn't
the same girl as yesterday. Something had happened.
When Sari noticed that Arya was awake, her whole demeanor changed. She relaxed,
softening the harsh light in her eyes. The girl from yesterday was back, but
Arya knew better now. That look she saw made her uneasy. It'd been like looking
in a mirror. She wondered how mad Jaqen would be if she just killed the girl so
she didn't have to worry about it. Just in case.
"All the other girls are already working," Sari said. "But you're going to need
a bath before you go out there." She gestured over to a tub in the corner of
the room before going back to the front.
The bath was heaven. The warm water from the springs soothed her aching
muscles, even the ache between her legs. Not that she was complaining about it.
It reminded her of the way Jaqen filled her, how he fit perfectly inside her.
Sari came back as Arya was dressing. They eyed each other and Arya wondered if
Sari knew that she knew that Sari knew...
Arya's head began to hurt. Why couldn't she solve all of this with violence?
This was Winterfell. None of this should be happening here. She wanted to stop
it now. And with the Khaleesi dead or missing... No. One thing at a time. She
can't be dead.
"Your hair is a mess," Sari said with a sigh, grabbing a comb and advancing on
Arya.
Arya palmed one of her throwing knives, her face giving nothing away. Sure, if
worst came to worse, she could kill her, but with the guards and girls in the
next room, escape would be impossible.
She was slightly disappointed that Sari didn't have any nefarious intentions
with the comb, the girl actually meant to use it on her hair. An awkward
silence fell between them. Arya opened her mouth more than once to make some
inane comment, but decided to stay quiet. (A technique that took Jaqen years to
teach her.)
She studied Sari, trying to figure out where she was from. Well, no, actually,
that was obvious. Sari's dark skin, exotic looks, and soft accent could only
come from Dorne. But what in seven hells would a girl from Dorne be doing in
the North?
When Sari finished, Arya ran her fingers through her hair, shocked that all the
tangles were gone. She wondered if Jaqen would like to run his fingers through
her hair as well, but then she felt stupid for that thought.
"What brings a girl like you to Winterfell?" Sari asked, interrupting Arya's
imaginings.
"What do you think?" Arya shrugged. She kept careful control over her face,
giving nothing away. "War, devastation out there or relative safety here. Ask
anyone else and you'd probably get the same story." She caught a glimpse of
herself in the mirror behind Sari. She was really nailing the innocent act. "I
imagine a woman from Dorne would have a much more interesting story to tell."
"It is not as interesting as you think." Now it was her turn to shrug. "You
could say my curiosity brought me here."
They stared each other down openly. Sari had the body of a dancer with the same
calluses on the palm of her hands just like Arya did. She knew she was getting
the same evaluation from the other girl. She could see they were alike. They
both had secrets to protect.
Ona walked in, ending their staring contest. Good thing, too. That could've
gone on for hours. She never backed down from anyone's eyes.
"Whoa, someone had a fun time last night," Ona squealed, pointing at Arya's
neck. "Who did that?"
Arya's hands flew up to her neck, remembering the feel of Jaqen's teeth on her
skin and his parting words. She went to the mirror even though she already knew
what she would find. He had made sure they could be seen, all right. "The
Lorathi," she smirked as Ona's jaw dropped.
"You? You bedded the Lorathi? How?! I've been trying ever since he came here.
He wouldn't even let me wash his back." Ona looked Arya up and down in
disbelief. Clearly she didn't see what the Lorathi saw, which was fine by Arya.
"He came to me, actually. You know, he really is the perfect gentleman."
Arya smiled innocently while she laughed hysterically on the inside. Sari
rolled her eyes, but she looked amused by the expression on Ona's face.
___
The morning was full of rowdy guards. Most of them drunk on ale. With neither
of the Boltons in residence, it was harder to keep the sellswords in line. The
sun was barely in the sky, and already the men had to line up to get a turn. To
Arya's relief, Ona had spread the word of the Lorathi and the new girl. Most of
the men wanted nothing to do with her.
She was helping Ona ready a bath when the ruckus suddenly quieted. Arya looked
up to see Jaqen coming toward her. Interestingly enough, some of the guards
gave him a wide berth as he passed by. Most simply left. He paid no mind to
them. He only looked at her, a sly smile on his face.
"Lovely girl," he murmured, his smile growing. She was a bit annoyed Nymeria
didn't let her see the look on Jaqen's face. It had to have been priceless. No
one could be calm and collected with a direwolf in their face. That'd probably
been her only chance to see him caught off-guard.
Ona looked from Arya to Jaqen, clearly confused. He glanced at Ona and raised
an eyebrow. She didn't like the obvious dismissal, but she left them alone.
A memory of Harrenhal came to her then. She remembered the way the other guards
treated him there, as if they were terrified of him. He still terrified them.
It sent another thrill through her, knowing how deadly he could be. She only
wished she could be like that.
The looks from the other girls were completely different from the men. In
Harrenhal, the serving girls would giggle when he passed by, but he only had
eyes for her even back then. Arya wondered what made her so special, but she
wasn't going to dwell on it. (Of course she was.) There were more important
things to think of now. By showing the guards that she was his, he gave her
more freedom than she ever thought possible. Although, it angered her that it
had to be like that. She'd rather they looked at her in terror because of what
she could do, not because of what Jaqen could do.
"Did you like her?" Arya whispered, cocking an eyebrow at him. She didn't even
try to hide her amusement.
Jaqen's laugh startled a few of the guards around them, but he spoke so softly
that Arya could barely hear him. "She was beautiful and deadly. Just like you.
A man understands now how a girl can be so wild."
He cupped her face, ran his fingers through her hair (suddenly her earlier
thought didn't seem so stupid), and pulled her closer. "A man will need of a
wench later. You should take the day off and get rested."
Arya stepped back, indignant. Wench? Really? "Listen..." Oh, right. She
realized he'd said that much louder on purpose. They both had roles to play,
didn't they?
"Is that allowed?" Arya asked. She looked over at the other girls.
Ona, not caring how obvious is was that she was trying to eavesdrop, shrugged.
"It's not like you'll be able to work. They're terrified of you now."
Sari crossed her arms. She obviously wanted to keep a close eye on her, but she
wouldn't keep her here against her will. "Ona's right," she sighed. "You're bad
for business. Go, but stay out of trouble."
Despite her misgivings about the girl, Arya didn't think she meant her harm.
Not yet, at least. Arya saw something in Sari that reminded her of herself. Saw
a lot of things, actually. To be quite honest, though, she was pretty sure that
wasn't a good thing.
___
"The Khaleesi is missing," Arya blurted out the moment they were outside. "Or
dead."
Jaqen stopped in his tracks, wonder once again in his eyes. It made her
uncomfortable. "How do you know this? Can you truly reach that far?"
"Gives me a headache, but yeah. Tyrion and Selmy were arguing about it." Arya
suddenly had to take a deep breath. Just saying it out loud made it more real.
"But you are not certain," Jaqen said, taking her hands in his. "It does no
good to dwell on the worst case scenario, sweet girl. She is the Mother of
Dragons. Her story will not end so quickly."
"But if she is dead..." What would they do? Jaqen stopped that line of thinking
with his lips. Soft and gentle, but by no means chaste. When he pulled away,
everything felt just a little bit better.
"You need to find out for sure," he whispered. "But first, we eat."
After breakfast and some vile tea Jaqen made her drink, he led her to the
crypts and down the stairs. They went farther in than they'd been last night
and had to use a torch. In one of the forgotten passageways, a small, dusty
room with a few candles and a neat pallet awaited them. On top of which sat her
swords. Arya laughed, picking them up and holding them close. She realized too
late that she was actually hugging them. She glanced at Jaqen, embarrassed. "I
missed them," she said defensively.
Jaqen raised an eyebrow at her. "Apparently," he murmured. "What is a girl
without her swords?"
"A mouse." But never again.
"She has always been much more than that. Perhaps someday she will realize
that."
The look in his eyes was so serious that Arya couldn't think of anything to say
to that. After all he had done for her, all that he'd given up... She dreaded
the day when he would find out she wasn't worth it. Because that day was out
there somewhere in the future. She knew it was.
"Lessons can wait, sweet girl," he sighed, changing the subject. "Go to your
little spy. Find the truth. This man will watch over you."
She didn't want to. The truth made everything so final.
Fear cuts deeper than swords.
Arya settled down on the pallet, her optimism nonexistent.
"No matter what you find out," Jaqen said, settling next to her as she closed
her eyes. "We will finish what we started here."
__
The cat was in a cage and being very vocal about its displeasure. The cage
rattled back and forth, side to side. At first, she thought it was an
earthquake, but then, when the cat stopped yowling long enough, to take a
breath she could hear horses and the muffled sound of voices. There were so
many.
A cart? Where were they? It sounded like she was in the middle of a marching
army.
The cat only grumbled in response, obviously upset over whatever sort of
adventure it had been forced into. It didn't give a damn about armies. All it
gave a damn about was freedom. Arya felt a little sorry for it. The cat yowled
again, but she put a stop to that, cutting it off mid-yowl.
"For the love of all the gods in all the lands, can you please just be quiet?
Just for a little bit?"
Arya knew that voice very well. She turned, looking for the source. Tyrion sat
beside the cage, his hands covered in bandages. He looked like hell. So,
really, she supposed, he looked normal.
"This isn't my fault, you know," he continued. "It's... Well, I'm not sure
who's to blame here, honestly. This time, though, without a doubt, it isn't me.
Maybe the Khaleesi. No, actually, I'm going with the dragon. Definitely the
dragon."
He pressed his bandaged hands to his eyes and groaned.
"And this was uncalled for, too, you know," he suddenly snapped, holding his
hands out in front of the cat. "I was just trying to comfort you, you
ungrateful..."
Tyrion looked at the cat, realizing it had fallen silent and was now staring
him down. "Oh, um. A-Arya?" He obviously felt ridiculous. "That you in there?"
How did he know? Better yet, why did he know? Dany wouldn't have broken her
promise. Not without a good reason.
"Arya? You have no idea how many times I thought you were in there," Tyrion
said, leaning in closer to the cage. "So, meow once for yes and two for no.
Wait, the other way. Once for no and twice for yes."
She meowed twice, making Tyrion jump back. Her patience was running thin (it
always was). If Tyrion didn't tell her what was happening, she'd add more cat
scratches to the ones on his face and arms.
"Fascinating," Tyrion breathed. "First dragons and now skinchangers. You Starks
are talented, I'll give you that. And the direwolves? Are you a warg also? All
the manuscripts I've read about them are vague. ....Is that you making that
noise?"
Arya was rumbling deep in her chest, ready to take a swipe at him. Tyrion got
the hint and decided to get down to business.
"Right. You're probably confused. I'm even confused. The old goat-knight, Grey
Worm, Missandei, they're all confused, too. Except the Khaleesi, of course. She
knew what was going to happen somehow. Just not the exact details because,
honestly, we were all shocked that day, even her. I saw the look on her face.
That's why she left this for me." He pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket.
"Instructions on how to handle this whole thing you can do.
"The first thing I'm to tell you is that she apologizes for breaking her
promise, but it had to be done. She knew I would never break your trust. And I
won't, but everyone thinks I've gone quite mad, hauling around a cat that
violently attacks me every chance it gets, so you owe me. I am very serious
about that.
"Now the second thing is... You know what? I'm just going to read what she
wrote because this is where I get confused. I think, though, that it'll make
more sense to you." Tyrion cleared his throat.
"Arya, do you ever have the feeling that the things you do are guided by
something else? That you have only the illusion of choice? Lately, that is all
I feel. I've been having uneasy dreams as of late. I never remember the
details, though, just the message. And that's what they feel like. Messages. I
know something is going to happen, something that will take me from Meereen.
There is nothing I can do about this and I do not know what will happen. But I
do know that this was meant to happen.
"I am not afraid, and neither should you be. I will still free Winterfell and I
will still put the Starks back in their rightful seat. I feel that what we are
destined for is close and we are being prepared. Because you see, dear Arya, in
my dreams, you were there beside me. You were my shadow.
"We will find each other soon. When we do, we can finally begin to bring
justice to those who sought to destroy our families."
Tyrion put the letter down. "Cryptic, isn't it?" He looked at the cat
expectantly, as if waiting for an answer.
What did he expect? For her to explain it? In her own words? She was a damned
cat at the moment.
But if she could talk, Arya would just profess the same confusion as the
others, and it would be a lie. She knew exactly what the Khaleesi was talking
about. Bran and his greensight. No matter how much she wanted to forget, he
wouldn't let her. He led her to right where he wanted her.
"Oh, right, " Tyrion said, belatedly remembering that cats weren't great
conversationalist. He slid a piece of paper and ink into the cage.
She looked at him for a moment and dipped a claw into the ink. It was hard and
messy, but she managed to write a barely readable question.
"What happened?" Tyrion read out loud. "Oh, right, that. Well it's a really
long story, so I'll just summarize. We were watching some gladiators fighting
to the death, very gruesome stuff. You'd like it. Rebels came in, tried to kill
the Khaleesi, blah, blah. Then, Drogon flew in, saved her by setting everything
on fire, she jumped on him to make him stop setting everything on fire, and off
they flew into the sunset. Quite exciting. You should've been there. I mean, at
first, it was horrible. We thought she was dead. But then a summons from the
Khaleesi herself came. She's in Vaes Dothrak, and we're to meet her there. So,
now, I can say how exciting it all was without being judged." He paused,
staring off into the distance with a grin on his face. "The times we live in
now, Arya, are going to be the legends of tomorrow. Just like the Age of
Heroes. And we both have front row seats. I'm already working on my memoirs.
You should consider writing one, too."
Gods, he loved hearing himself talk. Arya was insanely jealous. She used to bug
Dany about the dragons all the time. She loved watching them eat. But seeing
someone actually riding one? She just had to go and miss that, didn't she?
Tyrion knew Arya well enough by now to guess how she felt. (After all, Arya
wasn't the only one that drove the Khaleesi crazy with questions about the
dragons.)
"If it makes you feel better, I missed seeing Viserion and Rhaegal literally
break out of their pyramid and fly off. Presumably to the Khaleesi. With
dragons, who knows? Whole thing's just rubble now, I hear."
It did. A little bit.
"Sooo," he leaned back. "How goes it on your end? Can you top dragons?"
Nobody can top dragons.
She wished she had the time to trade witty comebacks with him. Arya actually
missed him more than she thought she would. But time was short and her head
hurt.
She wrote her own report, keeping it brief and to the point as she tried to
ignore Tyrion's little quips.
Stanis dead.
"Stan is dead? Who's Stan? That's an odd name. Oh, you mean Stannis. You
spelled his name wrong, you know."
Army at Wall.
"All of his army? What in seven hells was Stannis doing without them? It's his
own damn fault he was killed. At least we don't have to worry about him
anymore, I suppose."
Boltons on way to talk Houses join with him.
"Good gods. That's almost all of the North, not counting the Houses he got from
his brother. An army that big could easily take whatever ever the Lannisters
throw at them."
Mountain close weird things. Think deadandnotdead.
"What is that even suppose to mean? I'm serious, Arya, because I really want to
think you've misspelled something here. I can't... "
Arya paused and looked into Tyrion's eyes to show him she was serious.
words right.
Tyrion swallowed heavily, trying to absorb the information. "Dragons,
skinchangers, and now... Well, whatever the hell he is." He paused, drumming
his fingers on the paper, then smiled weakly. "As atrocious as this writing is,
I do believe it's much better than your normal writing." Always the one to
bring some form of levity to any serious situations. Although that was a
rubbish attempt and they both knew it. Still, she'd learned to appreciate it.
She wrote one more thing, hating to dump it on him, to add to his obvious
concern for the Khaleesi and herself. Even if he didn't say anything about it,
she could tell. He had dark circles under his eyes, and he was much thinner
than the last time she saw him.
No wait. Move now. Have plan might work. A little white lie, of course, but
she'd made it this far and she had no intention of just waiting.
Tyrion read the last part and looked her in the eyes. "Stay alive, Arya Stark.
After we win this war, I'm going to need you to keep me entertained at all the
dinner parties we'll be forced to attend." He placed his hand on the cage and
she batted at it, touched by the gesture (but also more than a little
uncomfortable with it).
Arya slowly let go of the cat's mind, staying long enough to hear Tyrion's
startled yelp as the cat regained control of his body. He started to curse at
her, but she was already gone.
__
She opened her eyes, but didn't say anything yet. Arya just watched Jaqen as he
sharpened one of his daggers. She liked watching him do ordinary things like
that. It calmed her. And she needed that right now. She was nervous, afraid of
what she knew they would have to do.
Fear cuts deeper than swords.
"She is alive," Jaqen said, setting the blade aside. A statement, not a
question.
"Alive and well, I think," she whispered. "With the Dothraki."
"But a girl is not happy." Another statement.
Was she happy? Of course she was. Dany was alive. All was right. Wasn't it? The
words from the note came back to her.
I feel that what we are destined for is close...
Arya wasn't sure how she felt about it. Angry, mostly. She didn't want a
destiny. She wanted blood and vengeance. She wanted it on her own terms. Nobody
else's. But it seemed like every step she took led her farther away from the
list and closer to something she didn't want.
"I am," she tried to insist.
"A lie."
"No. Maybe. I don't know." Arya groaned, burying her face in her hands. "I
think... I think we're going to have to do this by ourselves."
Jaqen shrugged. "It was always a possibility, sweet girl. It will not be easy,
but it can be done. This man plans for everything."
Feeling frustrated, Arya lashed out at him. "So you planned to get caught in
King's Landing?"
Jaqen merely raised his eyebrows at that. "How do you know that that wasn't
exactly what this man intended?"
"Was it?"
"No," he smiled. "But this man learns from his mistakes. Now he plans for
everything."
"So what's your plan for this scenario?" But, the answer came to her as soon as
she asked it. It was exactly what they would do if this was just service to the
Many-Faced God. She didn't like it. "We wait."
"In a way. But we will be busy," he said softly, his small, wicked smile
dancing on his lips. "I have men who will stand with us. You have your wolves.
We work from the inside, and wait for the right moment to release the wolves."
Her breath caught in her chest and her face flushed red. Gods, she loved that
grin, even if she didn't like what he was saying. "It's the same thing. I'm
tired of waiting. We take Winterfell while those fuckers are gone. This place
was built to withstand sieges. Then when the Mountain comes, they both fight it
out. It doesn't matter who wins. By then, the Khaleesi will be here with
dragons to take care of the rest."
"Impatient girl," Jaqen sighed. "A girl should not put too much faith in
others. Do not let your emotions cloud your judgment. It can only lead to
mistakes. This man thought he taught a girl better than that." He looked over
at her, still wearing that damn smile. "How many times must we go over this?"
Well, it certainly wasn't the first time and she knew it wasn't going to be the
last. She felt Nymeria at the back of her mind, the direwolf's wildness
spilling into her. Their connection made Arya more than a little erratic, more
so now than ever.
Sansa was right there, dammit, she was right there. If she could, she'd take
her sister and run to the Wall, to Jon. (Because he was still there. He was
still alive. He had to be.) He'd keep Sansa safe while Arya took care of the
Boltons.
Out of everything the Stark children have had to endure, Sansa had had it worse
from the very beginning. She lost her wolf. She'd been in enemy hands for
years. She needed to be set free.
But there were too many things that could go wrong. Seven hells, she hated it
when Jaqen was right. At least she could see the look on the Boltons faces when
they realize they were never safe in Winterfell. She just needed to find a way
to get a position in the Great Keep.
"We wait, then," Arya grumbled. "But I can't promise there won't be any dead
bodies in between now and when we strike."
"Like always, this man will help a girl hide the bodies. It is to be expected."
To Arya's dismay, Jaqen moved away from her and stood up. Being that close to
him and his wicked smile made her want him again, but she didn't know how to
tell him that. It was all so new and confusing. She felt like she'd only
embarrass herself if she tried.
Arya looked down at her hands, feeling awkward, and forever wondering why Jaqen
wanted her and only her.
"Sweet girl," he called out. Arya looked up just in time to see him toss her
her swords. She caught them. "Attack."
"Finally. I was getting bored with the old exercises you taught me." She stood,
grinning excitedly, and did a couple of stretches before dropping into stance.
It was a hard lesson. Four months without a dancing partner had made her rusty.
But she lost herself in it. All the awkwardness, all the second guessing melted
away. With Needle and its twin in her hands, she knew exactly what she was.
Dangerous and deadly. A living weapon. She was truly Arya Stark.
Time passed quickly, or maybe it was slowly, neither of them could tell for
sure. They danced and the outside world faded to the background. She would
attack and Jaqen would block, showing her how to slip through ordinary
swordsmen's techniques. He showed her where to strike to cause the most pain,
then showed her how to kill quickly. Water dancing with two swords instead of
one required more concentration. She had to be lighter on her toes so she could
dance around her opponent, dodging their swords and attacking at the same time.
Her desire for him grew as the lesson went on and so did her confidence. When
he finally said enough, she didn't hesitate. She dropped her swords, ignoring
his look of disapproval about her treatment of them, and kissed him.
He dropped his swords, too.
It was a wild, passionate kiss that sent them to the floor, much like the first
time. Except this time, they weren't going to end it so fast. Arya pulled at
his shirt, lifting it up, pulling away from his lips long enough to take it
off. Now her hands were on his bare skin, she felt his muscles, felt them flex
under her touch as he unbuttoned her dress. Her fingers ran over the many scars
he'd acquired in his life. She wanted to see them all, make a map of them in
her mind, learn their stories. Arya felt the deep scratches she made the day
before on his back and wondered (hoped) if they would scar, too. She wanted to
leave her own mark on him.
They undressed each other quickly, her dress torn in the process, but she
didn't care. She didn't care about anything but this.
Arya wanted him deep inside of her again. Now. She wrapped her fingers around
him, marveling at how hard it was, how soft the skin felt. Jaqen groaned, his
hips pressing into her grip. She stroked it as she guided him to her entrance.
But he stopped her, pulled her hand away from him.
Oh, gods. Did she do something wrong?
"There is no rush, sweet girl. Lovely girl," Jaqen murmured, looming over her.
His eyes roamed over her body, his fingers slowly tracing her curves. He cupped
her breast and brushed his thumb over her nipple, making it hard and sensitive.
Arya bit her lip, letting out a soft moan. No rush? What were they going to do
then? Her knowledge of all things sexual was woefully inadequate. She'd seen
people doing it, but never paid much attention. She never even thought
seriously about sex until Meereen.
Jaqen saw her hesitation and worry, and he pulled her close for a slow, deep
kiss. "Does a girl trust this man?" he whispered against her lips. "Do you
trust me?"
She nodded, unable to speak. He was the only one she trusted. The only one she
would let see her like this- vulnerable, nervous, and scared.
"We can take our time. Learn each other's bodies. Find the places that make us
feel good." To emphasize his point, he slowly rolled her nipple between his
thumb and index finger.
Arya arched her back, gasping loudly. Apparently, there was much more to this
sex thing than she was led to believe.
"Keep doing that," she ordered. "That feels good."
He laughed and shook his head, let go of her breast. "But there is so much more
to try, sweet girl." He kissed her neck, traveling down to her collarbone.
"I said, don't stop!" Arya protested, but Jaqen batted her hand away when she
tried to make him do it again. He just kept slowly trailing kisses down her
chest, each brush of his lips against her skin sending a pleasant buzz
throughout her body.
Jaqen stopped when he reached her breast. He looked up at her, making sure she
was watching him.
"I can use more than just hands to learn what you like, my lovely girl," he
breathed, lowering his head.
Arya knew what he was going to do just before he did it. Still took her by
surprise, though. His mouth closed around her sensitive nipple and she moaned
loudly, unable to stop it. She grabbed his head, her fingers entangled in his
hair. She didn't... She couldn't... Oh, seven hells, who knew this could feel
so good?
"I changed my mind," she gasped. "Don't stop doing this." In response, he drew
a circle around her nipple with his tongue. She let her head fall back, her
eyes closing, her grip on his head loosening as she reveled in the sensation.
After paying the same attention on her other breast, he pulled away from her
and set back on his knees. Arya opened her eyes, looked at him with
frustration.
"Why are you stopping?"
"We have barely begun, my lovely girl, and I have many things I want to show
you." Jaqen grinned, the look in his eyes promising that she was going to enjoy
every second of it.
Arya believed him. She could feel how wet he'd already made her. There was a
pleasant ache inside of her that throbbed every time he touched her. He'd
awoken parts of her she never knew existed. She didn't want it to end.
Now that he had sat up, Arya could see him better. She propped herself up on
her elbows as her eyes took every detail of him in, Jaqen watching her face all
the while. She refused to blush or look away when her eyes reached his manhood.
It was hard, harder than when they started.
A sudden urge to touch him came over her. He'd made her feel good so she wanted
to make him feel good, too. She reached out to stroke it, but he stopped her.
"Not yet, sweet girl," he murmured. "This is about you."
Arya looked up at him. The playfulness he had before was gone, replaced with a
seriousness that made her quake inside. There. It was that look that made her
feel right and whole.
"Lay back," Jaqen ordered, his voice low and husky. She did without hesitation
(surprising both of them), quietly watching him move between her legs. "I want
to taste you."
Suddenly, she found it hard to breathe. What did that mean? He kissed her
stomach, his hands on her inner thighs, spreading her legs open more as he slid
further down her body.
"What are you doing..." She found out the answer without having to finish the
question. His tongue dipped into her folds, flicked her clit, making her cry
out. "Oh. Oh, gods."
This was a thing?
It had to be because obviously Jaqen had done it before. He knew all the places
to touch, to lick, and (ohgods) to suck. Arya wanted to tell him that she
changed her mind again and wanted him to keep doing this. Forget all the other
things. They didn't make her feel as if she was on fire, as if her whole body
was on the verge of something beautiful.
Arya wanted to tell him all of that, but words failed her.
She lifted her head up, the effort almost too much for her given the state of
her body and mind. But she wanted to watch him. She reached out, running her
fingers through his hair, and their eyes met.
A tear ran down her cheek. The sensations and the emotion in Jaqen's eyes (the
emotion she didn't want to name, to give voice to) was overwhelming, to say the
least. Her head fell back again, not having the strength to keep it up any
longer.
She felt him shift, his mouth moving lower. He rubbed her clit with his thumb
slowly, his free hand finding Arya's. He entwined their fingers, and she held
on tight, her breathing coming out in short gasps. That beautiful, wonderful
thing was coming soon, she could feel its warmth spreading out from her core.
His tongue went deeper into her folds, slipped inside her. Oh, inside her.
That was all it took. Waves of pleasure took her under. Her back arched, her
mouth opened, but made no sound, her grip on his hand tightened painfully. It
wasn't like the first time. The first time was fast, hard, and unexpected, just
like the pleasure that followed.
Now, knowing that Jaqen found this safe place for them, just to be alone
together, made her body shake. The first time wasn't a fluke, not like she
secretly feared. He wanted her, it was as simple as that. Maybe the only simple
thing in her life.
The peak began to slowly subside, and her voice returned. Arya wasn't sure what
she said, though. The only coherent word she uttered was 'Jaqen'.
While her body still shook with the occasional aftershock, Jaqen moved back
over hee, saying nothing. He cupped Arya's face, his thumb caressing her cheek
as he waited for her to come back down.
Arya took a deep, shuddering breath and opened her eyes, meeting his again. He
still looked serious, still showed that great and terrible emotion.
(Don't say it. Don't say it.)
To stop herself from saying it, Arya kissed him deeply, tasting herself on his
lips.
"Sweet girl," Jaqen murmured when he pulled away. "Lovely girl. Beautiful girl.
I need you. Do you not see this? I am yours always. From the moment you saved
me, I have been yours."
He'd noticed. Of course, he did. He noticed that she felt she didn't deserve
him. Maybe she'd believe it completely someday. Maybe not. Right now, though,
she thought she did, and that was enough.
There were tears in her eyes, but they didn't fall. Instead, she laughed and
kissed him again, smiling against his lips. So did he. When she felt his
hardness press against her entrance, she opened her legs wider, moaning softly
as he slid into her. The ache inside her faded now that he was fully inside
her.
Finally.
They stayed like that while she adjusted to his size. She was still sore from
the first time, but it only added to her pleasure. When she was ready, Jaqen
took her by surprise by rolling so she was on top.
Looking down at him, Arya decided she liked this position very much. He fit
deeper into her, and she had more control. From this vantage point, she could
watch his face, see how she made him feel. She ran her hands down his chest,
fingers tracing over the scars as he held her hips, guiding her up and down his
cock.
Deciding its was her turn to set the pace, Arya took his hands off her, holding
on to them to steady herself. She rode him slowly at first, but she felt a now
familiar warmth begin in her core, and she rode him harder, faster. Jaqen
matched her speed, groaned when he felt her muscles spasm around his cock. She
couldn't concentrate on the rhythm, not like this. She fell forward onto his
chest, whimpering as she came for the second time.
He wrapped his arms around her and held on just a little bit longer.
"Arya, say my name," he whispered, sounding, for the first time ever, unsure of
himself. "Tell me who I am."
"Jaqen H'ghar. You're my Jaqen H'ghar. Always my Jaqen H'ghar."
He let go then, let his seed spill into her as she bit down on his shoulder to
muffle her cries. They gradually fell still, each too drained to talk.
Yeah, this sex thing was way better than she thought it would be. She told him
so, too. He laughed.
__
The candles burned down past three marks before Jaqen had to leave. They'd
spent the time in each other's arms, making plans. As they talked, Arya noticed
the gradual change in Jaqen's speech.
He stopped using 'I' and started calling himself 'this man' again. The man from
the House of Black and White wasn't completely gone, not yet, at least. It was
actually comforting, the two of them were familiar. And she needed something
familiar in Winterfell.
"In the scheme of things, sweet girl," he was saying as he laced his pants up.
"The bathhouse girl is not as worrisome as the man who knows you. This man has
many eyes that report to him. None have seen the girl where she should not be."
Arya rolled her eyes. "That doesn't mean she isn't up to something. Maybe she's
here for a reason. Maybe we can use her." She shrugged. "Or we might have to
kill her if she gets in the way."
Jaqen didn't answer. Glancing up, she saw him leaning against the doorway,
smiling wickedly again. "What?"
"A girl is distracting," he murmured.
"What?" Oh, she was still naked. She rolled her eyes again, trying to ignore
the thrill that ran through her. "Is that all you think about?"
"At the moment, how can this man not?" His smile widened when she didn't move
to cover herself. She liked it when he looked at her, especially like this.
"And now this man must leave for patrol. If you think the bathhouse girl is up
to something, then follow her. It would be useless to tell a girl to stay out
of trouble, would it not?"
Arya snorted. That didn't even deserve a response.
After he left, Arya finally got up, every single muscle in her body screaming
at her to stop, but she ignored them as she gathered her clothes. The rip in
her dress was bigger than she thought it was. It was almost unwearable. Sadly,
the dress had seen its last day. She'd have to find another. For now, it'd have
to do. Arya had no intention of staying there. It was night and she needed to
explore more than the crypt of her old home.
Outside, the air was cold. She welcomed it gladly. It cleared her mind. If she
closed her eyes, she could imagine that nothing had changed. That it was just a
night like any other from her childhood.
She indulged in that fantasy for a moment. She looked up at the stars, a
fleeting memory of Robb and Theon came to her. Part of their studies involved
astronomy, and one night, they'd been tasked with staying awake to chart
something or whatever. She didn't care what it was then and she still didn't
care now. All she cared about was the fact they both allowed her to sit with
them. It was the only time her and Theon ever got along. Usually he'd open his
mouth to spew some nonsense and one of them would end up bloody.
But not that night. That had been a good night.
She thought of him, remembered that even though she didn't like him much back
then, she called him brother. She also remembered what he did. If she didn't
know Bran and Rickon lived, nothing would stop her from giving him an agonizing
death. The rumors she'd heard about how broken he was now gave her a kind of
sadistic satisfaction, even if it was the Boltons who did it to him.
No mercy. Not for the betrayers.
The memory still cut deeply. All the memories cut deeply, some more than
others. After last night with Jaqen, Arya realized she didn't want to be no one
anymore. But she desperately wanted to be someone else, someone without these
haunting memories.
Determined to not lose herself to them, Arya stepped into the shadows, nimbly
dodging to each one. She knew how to move around Winterfell without being seen.
She'd done it enough as a child whenever her mother took it to herself to try
and make Arya a lady.
She stayed away from the godswood, still giving Bran the silent treatment. Not
like he'd notice. He hadn't tried to speak with her for quite some time. She
wasn't worried, though. (A lie.)
Only a handful of guards walked the yards. Arya couldn't understand why. With
reports of the Mountain getting closer, why leave Winterfell barely guarded?
Even she knew that wasn't a smart move.
It didn't matter to Arya either way. Those questions would be worried about
later. Now she wanted to focus on at least one of the uncertainties. Acton.
Knowing she would find it anyway, Jaqen had told her where the man's room was.
Tonight she intended to start keeping her own eye on Acton. Sari could wait for
just one night.
She slipped silently into the Great Hall, trying and failing to ignore more
memories. They played in the back of her mind as she kept to the shadows.
("Do you think they'll notice?" Jon asked her as they looked down at lopsided
leg of Father's chair at the high table.
"How can they not?" Arya looked at her brother. He looked very worried. He
always looked worried. "I'll say I did it."
"You did do it."
"Only cause you pushed me!"
"I have a better idea. We make for the Wall."
"Or we could say Hodor did it. He never gets in trouble."
"All right. Still kinda wanna go to the Wall."
"Yeah, me, too.")
But they never had the chance to implicate poor Hodor. Their father came in and
sat down before they could stop him. The look on his face when the chair
collapsed underneath him made Arya and Jon laugh for days during their
punishment.
Jon was alive. She couldn't accept anything else. Not when she was this close
to him.
Footsteps sounded from further down the hall and Arya stepped into a darkened
doorway, keeping still as the footsteps came closer. Her heart jumped when she
saw who it was.
Acton. He slowly walked down the hall, keeping his eyes on the floor. His
stooped shoulders and gray hair gave him the look of an old man, but Jaqen
taught her to look past the surface. She saw hidden muscles in his arms that
flexed when he shifted the papers he held in his hands. He was a swordsman
once. Maybe still was. And then the man was gone, his footsteps receding out
into the night.
He didn't look familiar to her at all. So, why did he watch her as if he knew
her? It drove her crazy, all this not knowing. The answer might be found in his
room. It was empty now, and just down the hall. She'd be an idiot not to search
it. Right? There weren't any other bedrooms in this hall, so the chance of
getting caught was slim.
The room was a disappointment, though. It only held a small bed, a barren desk,
and a little table pushed off to the side. Of course he wouldn't leave anything
obvious out in the open. She was about to call the whole thing a bust, but
something about the table caught her eye. There was a piece of paper sticking
out of one side.
Arya ran her hands all over it, trying to find a latch or secret button.
Anything, dammit, maybe it'd be easier to smash it. She could make it look as
if someone broke- Oh, there it was. A small switch was hidden expertly in the
design carved on the legs.
In her excitement, Arya failed to hear the footsteps, didn't even hear the door
as it swung open. She was too engrossed in the letters she found. Most of it
was code, but two words jumped out at her. 'Targaryen' was one. The other...
"You know, you look just like her. It's astonishing. Almost like seeing a
ghost."
Acton. Seven hells, Jaqen was going to kill her.
She turned around, her face calm and composed while she yelled at herself on
the inside. Jaqen was right. She was too damned impatient. She should've
watched him more to get his schedule down.
Acton leaned against the doorway, his arms crossed. He wasn't threatening, not
at all. In fact he looked bemused. He obviously knew she was more than what she
seemed, but he had decided to talk instead of attack.
Was this a situation that called for truth? No. Not yet. She'd see what his
game was first. So she kept quiet, palming one of her throwing knives.
"I honestly thought you'd end up here sooner." He straightened and started
walking toward her. "Everything I heard about Arya Underfoot-"
Arya lunged at him, moving faster than she ever had before. The knife was at
his throat before he could blink. He looked impressed. She didn't care. The man
knew too much. How?
"We can work together," he said, holding his hands up, not trying to push her
away. "We want the same thing."
She snarled, pressing the blade hard enough to break skin. "All I hear is a man
trying not to be killed. Who are you? Tell me why I shouldn't bleed you dry
right now."
"Because he actually wants to help you," a voice from the doorway sighed. Sari
stepped into the light, looking murderous. But the girl's anger was directed at
the man. "I told you to get rid of her before. I knew this would happen."
"Contrary to what you may think, love, we need all the help we can get," Acton
said, sounding for all the world as if he didn't have a knife at his throat.
"And killing a Stark just cause you wanted to keep it simple is most definitely
not the way we do things. We talked about this."
This wasn't going at all the way Arya thought it would. She almost wanted to
laugh. The patient way he was speaking to Sari reminded her of Jaqen.
But, seriously, if things didn't get explained soon, she was going to cut
someone. Or stab. It was just one of those days.
"I swear on all the gods, if one of you don't start talking, I will kill both
of you," Arya snapped.
Sari snorted. Arya had to fight the urge to just kill her anyway.
"All right, it's okay," Acton said soothingly. "I'll tell you anything you want
to know. Just, do you think I can sit down or something?" A bead of blood ran
down the edge of the knife, Arya's answer to the stupid question. "Very well,
then. My name is Ser Richard Lonmouth and I am here to take Winterfell out of
the hands of the Boltons."
He said his name as if she should know it, but, really, it just made Arya more
confused. Sari laughed at the look on her face. Ser Richard Lonmouth looked
insulted.
"Really? Nothing? For the love of... The Knight of Skull and Kisses?" Arya
shook her head. Sari laughed even more. "All right, I get it, love, you don't
have to be so obnoxious about it."
They all waited for the girl to calm down before he continued. By then, Arya
had already decided not to kill them, but she kept her knife at his throat all
the same. Just in case.
"I've been away from Westeros for a long time, so I can understand the
confusion. The one I serve isn't welcome here, even though everyone thinks he's
dead."
"Who do you serve?" Arya demanded through clenched teeth. She'd read the name
on the papers, but she couldn't believe it. It needed to be said out loud.
"The rightful king, of course. Prince Aegon Targaryen," he said with a smile.
Well. Hearing it out loud didn't help believing it like she thought it did. She
lowered the knife, feeling incredulous with all this damn shit that kept
popping up.
"You've got to be kid- oof!"
Taking advantage of Arya's shock, Sari took it upon herself to neutralize Arya
by tackling her to the ground. Seven hells, the girl was fast.
"Is that necessary?" Richard asked Sari calmly as she began to relieve a dazed
Arya of her weapons. It was going to take awhile.
"Get off," Arya growled, struggling to get away. It was a waste of effort,
though. The way Sari pinned her down made it close to impossible. It was the
exact way Arya would've done it. "You're going to regret this."
"Keep telling yourself that," Sari smirked as she found another blade.
"We could've done this with a bit more diplomacy, Sarella." Richard sighed,
pinching the bridge of his nose and grimacing.
"She was ready to kill you. Forgive me if I'm not going to trust her that
easily," she snapped, turning to look at him.
Arya felt the girl's hold on her loosen and she broke free. She grabbed Sari
(Sarella?) by the hair, pulling as hard as she could. What followed was a
vicious cat fight until Richard ended it by pulling the older girl off Arya and
tossing her aside.
"Enough," he ordered. "We don't have time for you two to behave like children."
Arya picked herself up and brushed herself off. "Will someone please tell me
what the fuck is going on? You can't be working for Aegon. He's dead."
Everyone thinks you're dead, too, she reminded herself.
"That's exactly what we wanted everyone to believe. The child that died that
night was just a decoy. It gave us the opportunity to sneak the prince out of
Westeros," Richard explained. "We just waited for the right moment to return."
Arya stared at him, blinked, then shook her head. "Then what the hell are you
doing here? King's Landing is a bit further south from here."
"They have people in almost every House," said Sarella, ignoring Richard's look
of 'shut the hell up'. "They've been planning this for a long time."
"They?" Arya glanced at Richard, who looked angry because Sarella said too
much, then she glanced back to Sarella, who looked like she didn't care one way
or the other. "You're not with them?"
"Absolutely not. I told you my curiosity brought me here. That was true. I only
lend him a hand every now and then. I met the prince in Oldtown and thought
this could be exciting." Sarella shrugged and Arya could tell she was lying
through her teeth.
Richard let out a resigned sigh. "She's here for revenge. Just like us. She's
only sticking around until she gets it. Her father was killed by the Mountain,
so was her aunt. She's one of Prince Oberon's bastard daughters."
Sarella didn't deny it or even look offended. "But my father isn't the only
reason I'm here. I used to study at the Citadel in Oldtown. I've come across
Winterfell more than once in the old manuscripts. I wanted to see it for
myself."
Arya decided she liked her.
Richard was another story. She eyed the man, wondering how he knew to call her
Arya Underfoot. That was too personal. How far did their infiltration go?
"Earlier you said I looked like someone. Who?"
Richard smiled a little sadly. "Your aunt. You look exactly like Lyanna."
No, Lyanna had been beautiful. Arya was just a horseface. But she wouldn't
correct him.
"The Lyanna that your Prince Rhaegar kidnapped and raped, you mean?" she
sneered.
The change over Richard was immediate. He grew angry and stalked forward,
pointing his finger in Arya's face as he yelled. "That is a pack of lies. They
loved each other. She ran away to be with him. Don't you dare-"
"For a man who is not what he seems, you are far too loud," the smooth voice of
Jaqen H'ghar cut in. Arya smirked at Richard, who looked over his shoulder. His
face blanched when Jaqen walked in, closing the door behind him.
Jaqen ignored him, focusing on Arya. "This, sweet girl, is the opposite of
staying out of trouble."
"Who says I'm in trouble?" she shot back. "I had this handled."
Sarella snorted. Arya glared and gestured at the girl. "Oh, and, Jaqen? Told
you so."
The corner of his mouth lifted slightly as he studied Sarella. "So you did."
But then he glanced down at the pile of Arya's confiscated blades. He looked
back to her, raising an eyebrow. "What was your plan, sweet girl? Were you
going to try and kill them with your glare?"
Arya colored, her skill in lying failing her. She couldn't think of an excuse
about that. Sarella snorted even louder.
Arya decided she didn't like her. "Fuck off," she muttered.
"Such language from my sweet girl."
She liked that 'my', but she still rolled her eyes.
Richard finally composed himself. "I'm sorry about that. Truly. Rhaegar was my
friend. My best friend. To hear him accused of something like that with the
woman he loved..." He trailed off. "Rhaegar would've been one of the greatest
kings in the history of Westeros. The rumors. They sully his memory. But when
Prince Aegon sits on the Iron Throne, everyone will know the truth."
Arya couldn't care less. Talking about the past didn't help them. And the truth
about her aunt and Rhaegar wasn't important. (Right?) That was ancient history.
"We've been honest with you. It's only fair for you to be honest with us,"
Richard said.
Fair? Arya wanted to laugh. She never played fair. And she never played it
honest, either.
"Unless you think the two of you are going to win back Winterfell all by
yourselves, you have to be working with someone."
Arya glanced at Jaqen, knowing they were both thinking the same thing. If they
told the truth, that they were working with a different Targaryen, that they
meant to put that Targaryen on the Iron Throne, how would they react?
Targaryens were tricky. What if Aegon suffered the same madness as his
grandfather?
Yeah, they were going to go with a lie. Jaqen came to the same conclusion that
she did. He nodded slightly.
"I don't need to work with someone to take my home back. It belongs to the
Starks," Arya said defiantly. "And I'm going to make the Boltons pay. I just...
I'll figure out how on my own."
It was obvious Richard was trying not to look condescending. He smirked,
glancing at Sarella, who wasn't even trying to hide her own condescending look.
"You don't have a plan?" Richard looked at Jaqen. "What about you?"
"This man goes wherever Arya of House Stark goes," Jaqen replied, his eyes on
Arya as if she were the only person in the room. "He will do anything to give
her what she wants."
Sarella looked a little jealous of the passion in his tone. Arya grinned at
her. This was going to be fun, letting them think they were just a pair of
idiots.
"Right." Richard nodded. "It's all very romantic, I'm sure. But you'll get
yourselves killed if you keep going on like that." He sucked his teeth before
nodding again to himself. "I can get you in the keep. It just so happens
there's a position that just opened up."
"This man wonders why you think you will fare better than us," Jaqen mused.
Richard looked them both over. "I suppose it can't hurt to tell you."
"We can always kill them if they talk," Sarella piped in.
Richard gave her an exasperated look, but then nodded as he thought it over.
"We can. So, it goes without saying that you're not to repeat what I'm about to
say." He took a deep breath. "Aegon's already made land with his army and taken
back Dragonstone. He's on his way to the North and we're going to open the
doors for him when he gets here."
So, basically their plan was the exact same as hers and Jaqen's. Arya had to
hold back her excitement. She had to tell the Khaleesi about this. Even if she
was late, there was another army that Arya could use until she showed up. And
Aegon didn't have dragons. If he had a problem with the Khaleesi, it'd be a
moot point.
"Now, the position. The, uh, girl you came in with?" Arya's excitement died a
little. There was something in his tone that said she wasn't going to like
this. "She passed away."
"What." It wasn't even a question. "Passed away? What does that fucking mean?"
Richard looked tired, just worn out and sick. Sick of it all. "She wasn't going
down the steps fast enough, I suppose. That bitch, Goodwife Jene, pushed her
and that poor girl fell all the way to the ground floor. Every bone in her body
was broken. All because that bitch was in a hurry."
Arya closed her eyes, felt the slight pressure of Jaqen's hand at the small of
her back. She took a deep breath. She didn't care if there were consequences,
as soon as she could, she was going to make the Goodwife suffer before killing
her.
"What's the position? Was it hers?"
Now Richard perked up and smiled, a twinkle in his eye. "Yes, she was Lady
Sansa's maid."
Arya stepped back, shocked. Sansa? Oh, gods, Sansa.
"Is that going to be all right? You can start in the morning."
She looked at him, not at all sure if it was all right or not. What would she
find? Her sister? Or a broken girl?
"I'm going to need a new dress then," Arya said, gesturing to her own, trying
not to show her emotions out of habit.
It obviously wasn't the reaction Richard was looking for.
Chapter End Notes
     If you've been with me since the very beginning and you're still
     here, then I seriously love you for that. All of your comments are
     what kept me coming back to this when I thought I couldn't do it
     anymore. Thank you so much for everything.
     And I am so sorry I took so long to come back.
     If might take a little bit of time (not as long as before) for the
     next one, but that's only because it's going to be long and action
     packed. I promise. Here's a few people to look forward to:
     The Hound!
     The Mountain!
     Sansa!
     The Boltons!
     And if I can squeeze it all in one chapter:
     Dragons!
     The brotherhood without banners!
     Lady Stoneheart!
***** More Interludes *****
So this is just a heads up for my lovely subscribers that chapter nine is
finally finished. Again....
I'll delete this later and then we can get back on track so I can reply to
comments on the actual chapters.
***** In Wait. *****
Chapter Summary
     A wolf lacks patience. A Lady finds forgotten strength. A man looks
     back. A Hound stops running.
Chapter Notes
     According to the writing app I use, this is gonna take you guys about
     two and a half hours to read. The chapter I planned on posting
     would've been over six hours long. I wanted to make it that long
     because everything that's about to happen takes place over the course
     of just one day. But, since it's taking me too long to finalize it, I
     decided to just go ahead and break it into smaller chapters. I wasn't
     being fair to you guys. Apologies.
     I'm trying to do something different here as well. Getting an idea of
     what was happening couldn't be done just through Arya's POV, so this
     has multiple POVs.
     And, I should probably warn you, we're starting to veer way off from
     the books/show. Since I started writing this before the last season,
     there's lots of things I'm doing differently. I've had this in my
     head for a long time and I'm not going to change it. I hope you guys
     will stick with me once the major AUness begins.
     There's probably going to be spelling/grammar errors galore, so if
     it's too much, point it out and I'll correct it.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
                                    .Sansa.
 
I am ivory and steel.
The covers were on the floor again. Her bed was soaked with sweat even though
it was cold enough to see her breath. What did she dream? She tried to hold on
to it, but it slipped away, leaving behind only a faint shadow she couldn't
make out. It made her want to weep. She closed her eyes, pushing the tears
away. She felt something inside of her harden, thought she saw eyes looking at
her from the darkened corner of her room as she sat up.
Wolf eyes. They were so familiar even after all these years. They haunted her.
I am ivory and steel.
It was early. The morning bell hadn't even rung yet, but Sansa couldn't go back
to sleep. What was that dream? Sansa rolled off the bed and sat at her vanity.
She stared into the mirrior, making sure the ivory mask she wore was in place.
Nothing can show, not even a crack. She considered waking her maid to brush her
hair, then remembered she had no maid anymore. The poor girl only lasted two
days. Usually, they lasted longer than that, a month, at most. Whenever she
started to trust them, they would disappear. Some found murdered, others never
seen again.
Ramsay liked to play with her, giving and taking anything she found comfort in.
There was Theon, but she found no comfort in him, only pity. She hated to admit
it, but it was easier when Lord Bolton was here. Ramsay mostly hid his sadistic
depravity from his father. It wasn't much, but it was something at least. She
took what she could get these days.
There was no respite even when he was gone. Ramsay made sure to leave behind a
memento of him. Myranda visited her everyday. Her abuse was mostly emotional,
though, and there'd been times when she preferred the abuse from Ramsay.
Myranda liked to cut into her slowly, all the while looking into her eyes.
Ramsay just laughed.
It didn't hurt anymore. She stopped feeling anything a long time ago.
Sansa wondered if she'd become like her foster brother in the years to come.
Petyr left her here to rot. After giving her a taste of how to play the game,
he left her all alone. There was no way to be a player here, no way to be
anything more than a pawn. Not after the wedding.
(Everyone knows what happens when Ramsay visits her chambers. They hear her
screams, they see the marks he leaves on her. They think Sansa Stark is weak
and broken like a little bird stuck in a cage.)
She thought of the Hound, wondered what truths he would tell her now. She
should've said yes.
The ivory mask began to crack. I am steel I am steel I am steel. There. She was
ivory and steel again. They were wrong. They didn't know what she was capable
of, they didn't know how easily she could manipulate them.
If she only had the chance.
To take her mind off of it, Sansa fetched the dress she'd been secretly working
on. If Myranda knew about it, she'd probably burn it. It was the dress she made
in the Eyrie. The black feathers were still neat and tidy, but Theon collected
some white feathers from the rookery and gave them to her. An odd gesture, but
also a touching one. If he'd been caught, the punishment would've been
horrendous, so she felt she had to use them in something. The white and black
feathers together was striking. She wondered if she'd ever get the chance to
wear it.
They made a plan to escape once, her and Theon, after she finally broke through
to him. With the absence of the Boltons, the timing was perfect. She'd been
giddy on the day they were to leave. Her heart thundered as the hour grew near,
adrenaline rushing through her. She wanted to flee with Theon to the only safe
place left to her. The Wall. Jon would keep her safe. The Night's Watch was
neutral, no one would dare touch her then.
But, Sansa should've known better. A raven came and crushed her hopes. Jon Snow
was dead, killed by his own men. She wept for him, but not for her own selfish
reasons.
When they were very young, she followed him around with Arya. She stopped when
she found out why he was a Snow and not a Stark. She didn't speak to him
directly for months after that, foolishly angry at him for her mother's sake.
It hurt him, she could tell, but he was just a Snow, so she forgot about him
over the years. When they parted ways for the last time, Sansa hadn't even
noticed he was gone until they made camp the next day. She also didn't notice
Arya running off into the trees to cry until her father asked where she was. 
Sansa learned many hard truths over the years. She learned that all of her
notions and beliefs were wrong. She learned that life was no fairy tale, not by
a long shot. She learned that anyone can be killed, even the ones you love
dearly, no matter how much you want them to live. 
One by one, those she loved died. How many were left? Bran and Rickon? Have
they survived? And Arya? What of her? Where has she gone? She hoped they lived,
that they were safe. Joffrey's betrayal made Sansa realize how much she loved
them, made her realize how much she took for granted.
Sansa wept because Jon Snow died without knowing she considered him her true
brother. He was the best of them, the one most like their father. He died
before she could apologize for what she did. 
She should be used to that by now. The extermination of her family started
because of her. Because she was a stupid girl. Because-
Sansa lost her concentration and jammed the needle tip deep into her thumb. It
didn't hurt. Nothing hurt anymore. She pulled it out, watching the blood that
followed in a slow and steady stream down her arm. If she wasn't careful, it'd
get infected. She laughed, realized she sounded mad, and laughed again. Maybe
going mad wasn't a bad idea. 
Ivory and steel.
No. She was Stark. She couldn't give up so easily. She only needed to wait for
an opportunity to turn the tables. She could endure the pain and humiliation
until then. But it grew harder everyday.
She wished she was like Arya. The girl used to drive her crazy, but she was the
bravest of them all. 
(Arya, what of Arya?) 
A fragment of her dream came back to her. Arya was in it. They were climbing a
tree... Was that a memory or a dream? With all that's happened, Sansa couldn't
tell the difference sometimes. Winterfell before seemed like a dream. Even Lady
sometimes felt like she'd been just a dream.
The morning bell rang. Sansa used to love that sound, but now she dreaded it.
With a sigh, she put the dress away in her chest, grabbing a strip of linen to
wrap around her thumb. Goodwife Jene would be by soon. The woman loved lording
over her. She was probably going to laugh about her maid's death. Maybe she'll
bring a new girl, too. She hoped not. She didn't want to get close to any of
them again. She resolved to ignore the next one. There was also a growing
suspicion in her mind that Ramsay had nothing to do with the missing maids,
that it was all the doing of the Goodwife. 
Sansa couldn't understand why an old woman like her could be so cruel until she
learned that, not only had she been Ramsay's wet nurse, she was also Myranda's
aunt. They must've learned most of their depravity at her knee.
After lunch, Myranda would stop by. Maybe, if Sansa was quick enough, she could
go to the godswood before the girl came. That's where she spent the rest of her
day. Theon would join her for a while, when they remembered to let him out of
the kennels, that is. They mostly sat in silence, but sometimes, he'd bring her
scraps of news of the world outside Winterfell. She filed them all away until
she could use them.
She didn't pray to any gods anymore. They never listened. She only went because
the weirwood was comforting. 
If Ramsay were here, she'd be confined to her chambers mostly. He liked
stripping her of her freedom. She still pretended it made her sad. He'd only
find some other way to torment her if he thought she didn't care. 
The truth was that she didn't care about what he did to her anymore. It was all
the same to her. 
Sansa heard Goodwife Jene's shrill voice berating someone as the lock turned. A
new maid. Of course.
"If you drop that, so help me, I'll send you to the kennels myself. They like
to use little whores like you when they teach the dogs to hunt."
There was a mumbled reply. Sansa shivered at the threat. Was that what happened
to the other girls? She grabbed the needlework she kept just to look busy and
sat in her chair by the fireplace, pretending to concentrate on her stitches as
Goodwife Jene barged in.
"Well, look who's up bright and early!" Gods, Sansa hated that voice. "I've
brought a new girl to wait on you, my Lady." Sansa almost snorted. Could she be
more condescending? "She's a bit slow in the head, but let's hope that's the
only way she's slow."
The Goodwife roared with laughter. Sansa was ivory and steel. She calmly
finished a particularly hard stitch. It didn't bother the Goodwife. She was
fine with laughing at her own jokes. No one else thought they were funny, but
she didn't notice.
Sansa didn't have to wonder where Ramsay's loud, mad sounding laugh came from.
Goodwife Jene sounded exactly him.
There was a rattle from the breakfast tray when the new girl sat it on the
table. Sansa imagined a look of fear on the girl's face, then stopped herself.
She wasn't going to care about this one. Not at all.
"Look at this place!" the Goodwife exclaimed when she finally stopped laughing.
"My Lady, if I were you, I'd put your maid to work right away. We've received a
raven this morning. Your Lordship will be home in three days. Just think of
what he would say if he saw this mess."
Sansa knew the woman wanted a reaction from that comment. Every morning it was
the same. The Goodwife would innocently bring up something that should frighten
her and Sansa would pretend she was terrified, further solidifying everyone's
belief that she was beaten down by the Boltens. It was easier to go unnoticed
and collect information that way. She learned that from Theon. They already
thought it of her, and she couldn't change it. Why not use it?
But she was tired of playing that angle. Sansa worried that there might be a
day when it wasn't an act. There didn't seem to be a point to anything anymore.
The Goodwife waited. Sansa finished another stitch. Silence fell. She wondered
if the woman was staring at her, angry over the script being ignored. She
wouldn't look, though.
(I am ivory and steel.)
"Have you forgotten about the Lord of Winterfell, girl?" the Goodwife asked.
She seemed to have dropped the act as well as she towered over Sansa.
Sansa smirked to herself. She wished she could look the woman in the face and
do that, but maybe she was still a little worried about what that would bring
upon her. Something horrible, no doubt. Myranda might even be called up. She
only just now realized that possibility.
She was still just a scared little bird when it came down to it, wasn't she?
The smirk dropped as she looked up at the Goodwife with wide, terrified eyes.
She was so good at that. "Y-You're right," she whispered. "I should... I should
be more careful about my chambers."
The Goodwife stood in front of the maid, blocking Sansa's view of her. She
didn't see her slip something shiny and sharp out of her sleeve, didn't see the
eagerness as she slowly stepped closer. And when Sansa gave in, she didn't see
the look of disappointment that flashed over the maid's face before she slid
the knife back into its hiding place.
Goodwife Jene studied Sansa for a moment, then smirked. "Yes, my lady, you had
better be. My Ramsay cares for you so much. Try not to disappoint him."
"Of course, Goodwife Jene," Sansa mumbled, playing her part once again. She
felt like vomiting. "I want only to please him."
"There, now, that wasn't so bad, was it?" The Goodwife patted Sansa's head and
turned to bark at the maid. "Strip the bed and put fresh linens on it. That
shouldn't be too hard for you."
The Goodwife left, wondering if the Stark girl needed to be taught her place
again. The maid watched, telling herself that she was calm as still waters.
Sansa stiched, telling herself that she was ivory and steel.
(What was that dream?)
 
                                    .Jaqen.
 
There were many times a man wondered why he gave a girl a coin. It hadn't been
a rash decision, though, not at all. A man had thought about it from the very
first night he saw the girl who tried to be a boy. She thought she was quiet
enough, but he heard the names she whispered before sleep, heard the certainty
of those names' deaths. Such a sad, brave girl forced to play the part of a
boy.
A man watched, a man saw, and a man knew.
Then, though he tried not to, Jaqen H'ghar began to watch and see as well, and
he began to know something a man could not imagine. His downfall started the
night three names were stolen from the Many-Faced God, the night Jaqen H'ghar
learned what a man could not.
In Harrenhal, he saw her in the shadows and watched as she danced through her
clever lies and secrets. A girl was special, more so than he first thought.
Arya of House Stark.
Others thought of her as just a child, but a man knew that was far from the
truth. A girl was young, but her eyes told him that she was an old soul,
someone who, with the proper training, could become something rare.
Jaqen H'ghar desperately wanted to help her, and a man did not understand it.
For the first time ever, a face influenced a man, steering him away from his
service. He might've been able to fight against it if it weren't for the girl.
She didn't know it, but he listened to the names she spoke every night. The
list grew, and a man's will weakened, allowing Jaqen H'ghar more control.
The whisper of his name was what broke him. A man realized he did not want
Jaqen H'ghar to die while Arya of House Stark was around. A man realized what
Jaqen H'ghar learned that night of the fire. In the silence that followed his
name, a war raged inside a man. He wanted to seize her and kiss the lips that
doomed him.
Sweet girl, evil girl. So clever, so beautiful and dangerous in that moment.
But he didn't. Instead, he let her take what she wanted from him, wishing she
wanted more. A man was relieved she didn't. If she had, he would've left with
her then and there, his service forgotten.
The gift of the coin was the only way a man could keep Jaqen H'ghar subdued. He
would see her again, he knew he would. A man went back to the House of Black
and White and as time passed, he began to hope she wouldn't come. Even after
their parting, Jaqen H'ghar was still inside him, keeping the memory of her
alive and vivid. A man did not want that.
But Arya of House Stark came, and Jaqen H'ghar inwardly rejoiced. The feelings
were stronger than before, but a man hid them well from the others. He was the
most pious of their order, the one who served with a devotion none could match.
Except for the Waif. She had passed that devotion to him when the others did
not want to take him in. It was unheard of, a child training to be Faceless. At
that time, he was the first, and the girl became the second.
While he trained the girl, the Waif saw what the others did not. She reminded
him of his service countless times, but a man could not stop himself from
giving in to Jaqen H'ghar. Every night, when he asked the questions, he dreaded
the day her answers would be a truth. A man did not want Arya of House Stark to
become no one. He wanted her to be the girl he saw in the shadows, the
beautiful girl with secrets and courage.
The night she remembered her name was bittersweet. The night of her nameday was
devastating. The night he sacrificed the Waif was agonizing. That was the night
a man realized he made his decision a long time ago.
His lovely, sweet girl caused him great pain, but it was a sweet pain. Jaqen
was caught in her dance, and a man could only follow. He wanted more from her,
but would never push her to give it. The night in the crypts took him
pleasantly by surprise.
After Jaqen watched Arya carry a tray of food into the keep, he grew worried
for her safety. Winterfell had brought out the wildness in her, as did the
direwolf. A girl was forgetting her training, letting her rage and bloodlust
guide her. He wanted to take her away until she could look at the situation the
way he taught her. A girl needed to separate herself from it all, to be
patient. There was still one piece of news he had yet to share with her,
something he had a feeling would cut deep, make her more erratic. Acting on her
emotions would only make everything all the more difficult.
But a man knew that would be asking a girl too much. It was easier to be
vigilant for the both of them. Easier, but taxing. His patience grew thin
whenever a girl didn't want to listen to him. And a man was finding it harder
and harder to maintain control of Jaqen H'ghar. With a sigh, a man turned his
attention back to the lands outside of Winterfell, watching for threats of any
kind. He traded his shift to be close to the girl, just in case.
From his vantage point on top of the wall, he could see for miles. An ominous
black cloud rose in the distance. Something was burning and someone was
approaching, had been for quite awhile. A man's eyesight was better than the
others on duty, no one else had noticed yet.
He could make out four figures, two men on horseback. One was small, a child
maybe, and from the looks of it, poorly riding a most unattractive horse. It
looked like it was trying to throw its rider off. The other figure was big, a
man, and much older than the one beside him. He rode a giant black steed.
When they grew close enough for a man to see them more clearly, he almost
laughed. There was no mistaking it with that scar. The Hound was coming. A girl
was going to love this.
Shouts rang out along the wall as the others finally spotted the arrivals. A
man gave the gatekeepers a subtle nod to let them in.
As the gate opened, he went down to greet the new arrivals himself. The captain
was passed out drunk again in the guard shack behind the kitchens. Jaqen H'ghar
was considered to be the unofficial second-in-command. They did not know that
it was he who poisoned the captain every night, keeping him sedated and
oblivious.
"You lot better have good wine here," the Hound growled in way of greeting.
The other rider, a boy, tugged at the Hound's arm. "Ask them if they need an
innkeeper," he whispered. The Hound ignored him.
A man stepped back, letting Jaqen H'ghar take control. He still spoke like a
man, but that habit of speech would never go away completely. Besides, it was
unnerving to most. It gave him an upper hand.
"The wine is good enough," he greeted back. "But, this man wonders why we
should share it with you."
The Hound blinked. "'Cuz I'm fucking thirsty. Are you gonna let me in or what?"
Jaqen studied the man, taking his time in answering. What possible purpose
would the Hound have to be here? By his sweet girl's account, the Hound was
craven, just washed up and broken. She told him of the Hound's refusal to help.
The man seemed to have changed his mind.
"Do you need an innkeeper?" the boy asked, leaning forward.
"For fuck's sake..." the Hound muttered under his breath. He looked like he was
in pain.
Jaqen glanced at the boy. Had he suffered a brain injury? He turned his
attention back to the Hound, keeping his eyes on him and speaking softly. "What
use would a Hound be to Winterfell?"
"My brother's on his way, isn't he?" The Hound laughed bitterly. "I want to be
here when he shows up. And then I want to kill him."
The corner of Jaqen's lips lifted, a fleeting smile. The Hound could be of use.
He didn't think his sweet girl would agree, though.
"Come in, then," he said, stepping aside as the Hound dismounted. He caught the
man's arm when he walked by. "And this man recommends a visit to the godswood
during lunch. It is quite enlightening."
The Hound looked confused for a moment, then wary. He searched Jaqen's face for
a hint of what he wanted from him but found nothing. Finally, he gave a curt
nod. Jaqen let go of his arm.
The boy tried to dismount so he could follow, but the horse reared up,
depositing him on the ground heavily. It took off into the courtyard at full
speed. There were more than a few screams at its rampage. The loudest of all
was the Hound's voice. He cursed at the beast while he tried to hold onto his
own black steed. It wanted to join in.
Jaqen watched the scene over his shoulder with amusement, hoping a girl was
near a window to see it. She would be laughing. He liked it when she laughed.
He turned back to the boy, who was still on the ground.
"Is a boy all right?"
The boy picked himself up and nodded. "Yeah, that's not the first time. Found
it while we were coming here, thought why not take him? You know? I think it
used to belong to the girl that killed Ol' Ben, but she wasn't around. So..."
The boy scratched his head, shrugged. "You never answered. About needing an
innkeeper."
"This man does not know, but he can take you to one who does." Jaqen hid his
smirk. Richard was going to have his hands full with this one.
"Good, cuz I'm a really good innkeeper. I mean, I know the last one burned
down, but that wasn't my fault. It was the stove that did that. I'm Clayton, by
the way."
Jaqen couldn't help it anymore. He laughed. Oh, yes, Richard was going to be
busy with Clayton. Hopefully busy enough to distract him from his and the sweet
girl's own business.
 
                                    .Arya.
 
The only emotion Arya could name and understand was anger, but that one was an
old, dear friend to her by now. The Goodwife patting Sansa on the head like a
dog made it rise up in full force. She slipped her hand into the pocket of her
new apron (courtesy of Sarella) and fingered the ring that Jaqen gave her after
they left Richard and Sarella. He didn't say what it was for, and he didn't
need to. It was her favorite weapon of his, a hidden one not most would expect.
The ring itself wasn't pretty, but if the sides were squeezed just right, a
small needle pops out, ready to deliver any poison needed.
Jaqen knew she wanted Goodwife Jene dead, and he promised the poison was slow
acting and painful. It needed repeated doses for it to be fatal, but Arya was
more than okay with that. She was going to enjoy watching the hag die slowly
and not knowing why. The thought made her feel all warm inside. With her hands
full, she didn't have a chance to use it, but it was early. There'd be plenty
opportunities later on.
Pleased, she turned her attention back to her sister once they were alone.
Sansa concentrated on her needlework, ignoring Arya. She hadn't even spared her
a glance when she walked in. Was she still the same old stuck up Sansa? Her
sister never paid much attention to the help. She'd always scolded Arya when
she ran around with them. 
At least something was the same with her. It gave Arya a chance to study her
sister. She was pale and thin, but she still sat with the posture their mother
praised. Just like a proper lady. Arya took that as a good sign. The little act
of defiance was a good sign, too, even though it didn't end the way she wanted.
(Sansa looks at Arya, her lips white with anger. "You did that on purpose!"
"Did not!" Arya shouts as the thread her sister so carefully spun unravels on
the floor around them. 
"You did! I saw it. You deliberately knocked it out of my hand."
"It was an accident. You're the one that hit me. I was just standing here."
"Arya Stark, you are nothing but a clumsy liar!" Sansa's sits up straight,
nostrils flaring, unaware of how much she looks like their mother.
"Is that the best you can do?" Arya stands, her hands on her hips, unaware of
how much she looks like their father's sister.
"No." A pause, then a smirk graces Sansa's lips. "Arya Horseface!" 
Arya grabs the needlework from Sansa's lap and throws it in the fireplace,
running away to find a place to hide as her sister shouts for their mother.)
There were faint brusies around her neck. A scar on her cheek jumped out at
Arya. That hadn't been there before. She noticed more scars. One at the corner
of her mouth as if someone backhanded her with all their might, another on the
back of her hand, and one more, the worst one, running down her jaw. It was
neat and straight. Too neat and straight. Someone had purposely done that to
her. 
("You're going to tell father about this, aren't you?" Arya asks, looking down
at the shattered plates and bowls on the floor. 
Sansa stands back, curious, but weary. Arya's ideas of fun lately are becoming
increasingly worrisome. And she's always caught up in them whether she likes it
or not. "I don't think I have to. He'll find out either way. How are you going
to clean this up? What were you even doing?" 
"Well. See..."
"You don't even know, do you?"
"If you must know, I was trying to find Meraxes. I thought I saw him on top of
the cabinets."
"Meraxes?"
"Yes, Meraxes. My pet rat."
"What?" Sansa stares at Arya in disbelief. "You're lying, right?" 
"Course not. I saved him from the rat tr- Oh, there you are!"
A black rat scurries across the floor, running over Sansa's feet. She screams,
kicks out at it, then faints dramatically.
When Septa Mordane finds Sansa in a heap on the floor and Arya trying to coax a
rat down from a shelf with pilfered cheese, the punishment is severe.
Sansa doesn't speak to her for a week. It's the beginning of the end for them
and their comradery.)
Arya clenched her fists. She was going to kill them all. Everyone who let this
happen. She hadn't known how she was going to feel when she saw Sansa. She
thought maybe the grief she kept inside her would finally break free, but no.
No, all she felt was rage. Seeing Sansa, seeing what they did to her, brought
it all back with a vengeance. It was worse than what she felt when she first
stepped through the gates of Winterfell. She could feel Nymeria in her, begging
to be let loose. Not yet.
(Arya sits in front of the weirwood, glaring at the face. Boys are stupid. Why
can't she use a bow like them?
"What's wrong?" Sansa's voice from behind her. It makes Arya angrier. She
ignores her sister as she sits beside her. "Is it-" 
Arya cuts her off. "What do you care? Shouldn't you be inside learning how to
be a proper lady?" 
There's a flash of sadness in Sansa's eyes, but it's gone before Arya sees it.
She straightens up, noticing that she's slouching. It doesn't matter if it's
uncomfortable. She heard the most wonderful song the other night, one about a
fair lady (a proper lady) and her devoted knight. It was romantic. The more she
hears songs like those, the more Sansa wants to live it. 
"Septa Mord-"
Arya cuts in again, this time shouting as the anger boils over. "I don't care
about Septa Mordane! You never used to be like this. Now the boys get to learn
how to shoot a bow and arrow, and you're always locked away in some room being
boring. Everything's changing and I hate it!" She sniffles, tries to wipe the
tears away. 
Sansa is quiet. A sudden wind blows through the leaves of the weirwood. Neither
sister notices that the other tree's leaves are still. 
"Do you want to climb the tree?" The question surprises Sansa even as she asks
it. Where had that come from? 
Arya stops crying and looks at her sister, bewildered. She is the one who
suggests things like that. Not Sansa. Father would kill them if they were
caught. Okay, it'd just be a lecture, but Arya prefers death over those.
That's not stopping Arya, though. "Race you to the top?" 
They climb, higher than they'd ever climbed, laughing and breathless by the
time they reach the top of the weirwood. There is a presence with them that
shares their laughter and makes them feel safe. The sky seems close enough to
touch, and Arya feels like they are giants amid all the trees around them.)
"Well? Are you just going to stand there all day or are you going to make my
bed?" Sansa sounded annoyed, as if she couldn't be bothered with any sort of
help at all.
Yeah, that was classic Sansa.
Arya looked over at the bed. It looked fine to her. Who cared if the sheets and
blankets were wrinkled? And on the floor? It'd only look the same in the
morning. 
"I don't think I've ever voluntarily made a bed before. I'm just gonna stand
here. Maybe all day. You can make it if you want." Arya shrugged, then winced
and wondered if she should've picked something more profound than that to be
the first thing she said. 
Sansa's hands went still. She closed her eyes, telling herself it was just her
imagination. That couldn't be...
"But I'm willing to bet you've never made a bed in your life, so I don't think
it's gonna be made any time soon." Seven hells, that was even worse, wasn't it?
At least there wasn't any sappy tears yet. She couldn't handle that. 
The needlework fell to the floor. Sansa opened her eyes, looked up, and saw.
Her eyes widened, a trembling hand raised to her mouth. She shook her head,
trying to deny what was standing in front of her. 
Arya watched the emotions play over Sansa's face- shock, sorrow, happiness,
even fear. She waited for those emotions to hit her, to be consumed by them
like Sansa was, but nothing came. She kept calm, her own face blank. She knew
she was glad, happy, even. And she also knew without a doubt that she was
relieved to see that Sansa was fine, that she was alive.
It was the hard grief and anger that consumed her the moment she stepped foot
in Winterfell. It dulled her emotions, made everything but rage almost
impossible to feel. Later, in the dark just before sleep, she'd worry about it
and hope she wouldn't be like this forever.
"So, are you okay with this whole bed thing? I can go get someone else to do it
if you want." Arya forced a smile, found that she actually meant it, then
smiled wider when Sansa launched herself at her and held on to her. 
Her sister sobbed quietly into her neck, trying to speak. Arya stroked her
hair, comforted her as they sank to the floor. Her hair... Oh, it was the same
as their mother's. The exact same color. It was so beautiful. It made Arya's
heart hurt.
"It's okay," she whispered, holding her tightly. "It's going to be okay now.
I'm here. We'll make them pay, Sansa. We'll make them all pay." 
Sansa sobbed harder and Arya wondered if she was finally letting it all out,
finally taking the mask she had to have worn for so long. How else could she
survive all these years among all those snakes? 
When Arya thought she couldn't take much more of it, Sansa calmed down enough
to pull away, the tears were gone, now she smiled. Arya wished she could be
more comforting and patient with her. Sansa deserved better than that, but that
display of raw emotion reminded Arya of all the things she couldn't feel. Her
sister didn't seem to mind, though. She just laughed as quietly as she could .
They studied each other, seeing what distance and time had done to them both. 
Sansa traced the scars on Arya's face, the ones she wore proudly because Jaqen
gave them to her, looking concerned. Arya said nothing about them yet. She was
too focused on Sansa and how much she looked like their mother. The heartache
it caused wouldn't come out. It just sat there inside her along with everything
else. 
(She struggled to get her out of the river, pulled her up the shore, holding
onto her as gently as she could with her teeth. The smell of her was all wrong.
The woman was important, something from her past when she was small and weak.
The woman should be warm and alive. Not dead and cold, not naked and broken.
Oh, Mother, she was once Mother.)
"Arya," Sansa croaked, her chin quivering. "In all my dreams, I never thought
I'd see you again. I thought... I thought you died that day. Everyone thinks
you died that day."
"And that is what they must think. No one can know about this. I've been
through too much for it all to end here." Arya grabbed Sansa's shoulders. She
needed her to understand. "Absolutely no one can know."
Sansa pushed Arya's hands away. (She was so tired of being treated like a
simpleton.) "Don't do that. Don't act like we're still children," she hissed.
"You have no idea what I've been through. I learned how to keep secrets a long
time ago."
Not broken, Arya thought. Good for her. Maybe she never gave Sansa enough
credit. She was a Stark after all. 
"I had to make sure. There's too much at stake." She was being deliberately
vague. Telling her about dragons and assassins might be too much to handle all
at once. Especially if she told her sister that the assassins were actually her
and a man she picked up in Braavos. 
"What are you talking about? Arya, if they find you, they will kill you. You
need to get out of here," Sansa pleaded. Her eyes were wide with fear. It was
quite touching. "Forget everything about this place and become someone else.
It's too late for me, but you can live and be safe. Just go."
If she could cry, Arya would be trying to hide her tears from Sansa. Well,
probably not. She grew angry while Sansa went on with her self-sacrifice thing.
How could Sansa ask her to leave and abandon her family?
But hadn't she done just that? She was Faceless for a long time before Bran
found her. She forgot about Winterfell, her mother and father, and her
siblings. Her pack. It made Arya feel ashamed. 
"Tried that, honestly," said Arya, smiling ruefully. "You won't believe what
I've done to forget everything. I was no one, just a girl, until Bran found me.
I had to come back. He wouldn't leave me be until I did."
"Bran?" Sansa furrowed her brow. "How?"
Arya froze. Seven hells, Bran. He could've at least prepared their sister for
this. "Any weird dreams lately?"
The look on Sansa's face told Arya that she had more than her fair share of
weird dreams, only Bran hadn't talked to her in them. 
Whatever. Bran was playing a game where only he knew the rules. Arya hated
those kind of games. 
"What does that matter? If you think you can do anything to the Boltons by
yourself, then you're wrong." Sansa scoffed. "This isn't one of your tales, you
know. There will be no legends to share, no heroes to sing about, no dragons to
save the day. Monsters always win."
Arya tried to hold back a laugh, but it escaped. Sansa narrowed her eyes at
her, her cheeks turning red. They always managed to make each other angry, even
when they tried not to. 
"They always win?" Arya smirked, shrugged as if she couldn't care less. "I
suppose it's a good thing that I'm a bigger monster than all of them
combined." 
Sansa had nothing to say to that. (If she thought about it, though, she could
believe it. Arya could be frightening when they were children.)
"And I really hate to burst your bubble," Arya said, leaning close to her
sister. "But this is exactly like one of my tales, sister. A legend is being
born right now all around us, right here in Winterfell. There will be heroes to
sing about. What's coming is nothing like anything anyone's seen before.
Westeros will tremble and the smallfolk will break their chains. What's coming
is justice, Sansa, and she's already on her way."
Arya took a deep breath. She didn't know how passionate she was about the
Khaleesi. She wasn't even embarrassed by it. That was odd. She was only in this
to clear the list, right?
"Oh, and the dragons are also what's coming." She tried to make it sound
casual, as if it wasn't a big deal, but Sansa knew Arya's childhood obsession
with them, her excitement couldn't be contained. She grinned, her eyes dancing
. "I've seen them, Sansa. They're beautiful and terrifying, and nothing can
stand against them. Not the Lannisters, not anything. They will all burn."
(Suddenly, Sansa's whole world changed. Maybe, just maybe, this could be the
opportunity she'd been waiting for.)
"I think you better start at the beginning," she said softly.
Arya did, gladly. It came out in a rush, not like the first time she told her
tale. She told her almost everything. That night at the Twins was one of the
things she held back. She wanted to spare her sister from that, knowing that
her first hand account of it would only sit in her sister's mind forever, each
imagining of it worse than the last. The killing she liked to do was toned down
quite a bit. She only told her about the killings she had no choice in doing.
She didn't want to scare her off right away.
She also didn't mention the nature of the relationship between herself and
Jaqen. It was none of her business. Keeping secrets from Sansa was just habit.
Sansa took it all better than Arya thought she would. She didn't interrupt, not
even when Arya spoke of Braavos and what she did there. Well, the abridged
version of it anyway.
When she finished, there was a calculating look in Sansa's eyes that surprised
Arya. The empty-headed girl she remembered wouldn't have looked like that.
She'd only seen that look in the eyes of the Khaleesi, Lord Tywin, and everyone
else who played that game.
There is no old Sansa anymore, is there? She's someone new altogether.
Arya wanted to be proud of her. She never thought Sansa could be anything other
than that stupid, little girl. She just couldn't wrap her mind around the fact
that her sister might be like them.
"The Hound?" Sansa asked after a very long period of digesting what Arya told
her. "He's here?"
Arya stared blankly at her. Really? All of that and that's what she takes from
it?
(But, she didn't know, couldn't know, that Sansa clung to the memory of the
Hound even after all these years. The kiss from the last time she saw him still
burned on her lips. It was gentle and slow, something she thought the Hound
could never be capable of. Was it a memory? Or just a dream?)
"Were you even listening? I just said I left him at the inn," Arya snapped. Why
would Sansa care? Wasn't she terrified of him in King's Landing?
"No, I heard you. I just..." Sansa shrugged, not wanting to let on what he
meant to her. It was none of her business. "It's just odd, don't you think? For
him to show up so close after being gone for so long."
"Seriously, do not get me started on that." Arya rolled her eyes. There was
only so much she was able to take. She could handle dragons and the strange
magic of death, even the cats and Nymeria were easy to accept, but it was hard
to believe that Bran could pull so many strings. And what in seven hells would
the Hound be good for in the grand scheme of things? Drinking all the wine and
cursing?
They fell silent, still looking at each other. Arya was afraid to look away
from Sansa, irrationally fearing she would disappear once she did. It was too
surreal, being in Winterfell together. And not fighting. The day was young,
though. She kind of hoped they would. Just a little one for old time's sake.
"How did you end up here, Sansa?" Arya asked.
Sansa's story was shorter, and Arya could tell she left a lot out. She wasn't
sure if that was a good thing. Was it too painful to relive? She could believe
that. She just didn't want to believe her sister held back because she had
ulterior motives.
Arya was suspicious of everything these days. Sansa seemed to be, too. How
could they not be?
But what her sister did share was hard to hear. Joffrey's public humiliation
and abuse. Their aunt trying to throw her out the moon door. And then the
wedding night. In a flat voice with no expression, Sansa told her what Ramsay
did, and she told her of the nights that followed.
The Boltons suddenly became number one and two on the list. They would not die
quickly.
Screams and raised voices came from outside the window, interrupting Sansa's
account of Myranda and what she liked to do to her. (Though Arya got the idea.
Another name to the list.) They ran to the window and looked out. A horse was
running through the courtyard at full speed, knocking down anyone in its path.
It looked familiar. Ugly Mean Horse? It couldn't be. Another horse, a big black
one, was barely being contained. It reared up, trying to break free from its
leash. The man who held it cursed. She knew that horse, and she knew that voice
even more...
So did Sansa. Her sister gasped and stepped back while Arya laughed. The Hound
dragged Stranger to the stables, each curse more imaginative than the last.
Arya had learned all her best curses from the man, but it sounded like he still
had a few more up his sleeve. She turned to Sansa, the laughter dying when she
saw the look on her sister's face. She looked as if she couldn't breathe. Her
hands were curled into tight fists, but they still shook.
When Sansa noticed Arya looking at her with puzzlement, she tried to smile, but
it was too shaky. "He came," was all she could say.
Arya glanced out the window. The Hound was out of sight in the stables and a
group of brave men tried to herd the beast that looked like Ugly Mean Horse in
the same direction. "Yeah," Arya said, looking at her sister again, watching
her face carefully. "I suppose he did."
She wondered what it was that made her sister look like that, then remembered
the way the Hound reacted in the inn when she mentioned her. Maybe it was
better that she didn't know.
"What?" Sansa snapped, finally sounding like the girl Arya remembered. She
straightened, her face turning red. "Don't look at me like that."
"Like what?" Arya smirked before she could stop herself. It was always easy to
goad Sansa.
Sansa's cheeks turned redder. "If it wasn't for the Hound, I would have died in
King's Landing. He saved me more times than I can remember."
Arya was shocked speechless. The Hound? Really?
"He was the only one who cared about me." Sansa got a faraway look in her eyes
as she raised her fingers to her lips.
Yeah, Arya was positive she didn't want to know anything else about that. If
her sister thought the man was any kind of protector, then she was wrong. Arya
knew that from first-hand experience. The Hound must've taken advantage of her
sister when she was vulnerable.
"Your breakfast is getting cold," said Arya, changing the subject. "I carried
that all the way up here by myself so don't waste it."
Sansa seemed relieved to move on from the subject. She looked at the still
covered tray and raised an eyebrow. "You're supposed to set it out for me, not
just leave it like that."
Haha. "You're a big girl, do it yourself." Arya crossed her arms.
(Standing like that, she strongly reminded Sansa of their childhood, of happy
days long gone by. Sansa's anger and annoyance melted away into nostalgia. She
never thought it possible, but she had missed their little spats.)
"You're supposed to be my maid, aren't you?" Sansa smirked as she sat down at
the table. "If you don't want to get caught, you'll have to actually be my
maid."
For the second time in less than an hour, Arya was shocked speechless. She'd
better be joking. There were more important things she could be doing instead
of tending to her sister's 'needs'. But Sansa's jaw was set stubbornly.
Seven hells, her sister was right, though. That didn't mean she had to like it.
"You have got to be... " Arya stalked over to the table without finishing her
sentence. She took the cover of the tray off and tossed it to the other side of
the table. It clattered loudly, but Sansa didn't even wince at the noise. She
just sat there with the perfect posture Arya could never achieve. "Happy?"
"Yes, thank you," Sansa said graciously. She picked up a fork and began to eat
her eggs, each bite neat and ladylike.
Arya had forgotten how much she couldn't stand Sansa when she acted like that.
She was just so fucking perfect, wasn't she?
She went back to the window, fuming as she watched the bustle of the courtyard
below her. She knew it wasn't something to be this angry about. Almost all of
their fights were like this. It hadn't been uncommon for a little incident
between sisters to lead to all out war.
"If you would be so kind, my bed does need to be stripped."
Arya whirled around, looked at Sansa, who ignored her, still eating. She wanted
to say no in a way she learned from her sister's precious Hound. She hated fake
politeness. But she kept her mouth shut as she tore the sheets off the bed.
They'd only just reunited. It wouldn't do to make Sansa cry so soon.
"And I'll need you to help me dress when you're done."
That was just too much. Arya dropped the sheets and opened her mouth, ready to
tell Sansa exactly what she could do with herself, but she stopped, utterly
confused.
Sansa was silently laughing so hard that tears were running down her face. She
clutched at her sides, trying not to let out the laughter. It'd be too loud;
someone would definitely hear it.
For the third time, Arya was shocked speechless. (Jaqen would be amazed.) Then
she started to smile, laughter bubbling up inside her until she couldn't
contain it any longer. She laughed out loud. Very loudly. She put a hand over
her mouth to muffle it, but Sansa started to laugh out loud as well.
It echoed throughout Sansa's chambers. They tried to reel it in, but that only
left them gasping for air. How long had it been since these walls heard
laughter? How long had it been since Sansa had laughed like a little girl?
At least Arya had Jaqen. Sansa had no one. No one to trust or lean on. She was
the one who always wanted what Arya had discovered with Jaqen, but all Sansa
got was one forced marriage after another. The thought was sobering, drying up
her laughter. She looked at her sister who still giggled to herself. What was
coming was going to be hard. Arya wanted to shield her from it.
"Let me take you away from here," she said suddenly. She went over to Sansa and
took her hand. "We can sneak out and get to the Wall." Sansa stopped laughing,
her eyes filling with sorrow, but Arya kept talking, not wanting to see it. "We
can find Jon, he'll keep you safe. You wouldn't need to worry about anything."
Sansa shook her head. The tears that fell from her eyes wasn't from laughter
anymore. She tried to speak, but the words wouldn't come, only a single, dry
sob.
Arya let go of her hand and stepped back. Something cold took root in her.
Winter. It numbed her even more. Sansa didn't have to say anything, Arya knew.
She knew.
("Don't let them change you," Jon says, his breath visible in the cold air
between them.
The night is dark and they should both be in bed, but the stars shine so
bright, beckoning them to stay out just a little bit longer.
"What do you mean?" Arya looks at her brother, her best friend. She doesn't
want to think about leaving him behind when they travel to stupid King's
Landing. But, in a few days, they'll be forced to go their separate ways. She
hates when things change.
Jon looks at her with an unsteady gaze. He drank too much ale at the feast
earlier. It's making him emotional, but Arya is the only one he feels
comfortable enough with not to be embarrassed by it. "When you go to King's
Landing. They'll try to change you, make you like them. Don't let them." Jon
pauses. "You're perfect just the way you are."
Arya wants to cry, but she hides it. He's the only one who doesn't want to
change her. Their father, her mother, Sansa, and even their brothers... All of
them want her to be someone else. Not Jon. Never Jon.
"I wish I was Snow," she whispers, not for the first time.
Jon's reaction is the same every time she says it. "No, you don't. You're
Stark. That's something to be proud of." This time, though, he sounds bitter,
and Arya takes his hand. They watch the stars.
"I'm coming back." Another whisper, this one a promise.
"I know." He doesn't sound like he believes it.
"I won't even stop here. I'll go straight to the Wall." She will. Nothing wlll
stop her.
Jon says nothing.
"Let's run away." She's serious and Jon knows it. "We can be whatever we want.
We could find our own adventures. They'll tell stories about us."
Jon smiles sadly. He knows it would never be that simple. He knows their lives
are already planned out and that they have no say in it. He knows these things,
but says nothing. He only holds onto Arya's hand tightly, the knowledge that
this might be their last days as brother and sister weighing him down.
It's not until after they arrive in King's Landing that Arya figures out all
those things Jon already knew.)
Jon Snow was dead. Oh, gods old and new, Jon was dead.
Arya sat down heavily on the bed, shaking. She tried to cry because, dammit, if
there ever was a time to do it, now would be it. Jon was dead, but the tears
wouldn't come. Jon is dead. Why couldn't she cry? She felt like ice, like true
winter grew inside her.
Was this what it felt like to be no one with a name? To be void of emotions but
still carry the memories?
No, that wasn't right. She did feel something. An ice cold rage filled with
silence. And that was worse than feeling nothing at all. It ate at her. Nymeria
wanted her to embrace it, let it colonize in her heart until it was all she
was. She thought of blood and broken bones, tasted them on her tongue. She
tried to push it away because, oh, gods, a part of her wanted to give in to it.
She desperately wanted a new face with new memories to claim as her own.
Anything but this. Jon is dead.
Arya stood, picked the sheets back up. What was she supposed to do with them?
She should burn them. She wanted to do something destructive. Burn the sheets.
Burn everything. Burn the damn godswood, too, because Bran... Why didn't he
tell her? Why didn't he warn her? Just let it burn. Let the Khaleesi's dragons
make quick work of the North.
She should've known he was dead, though. Everyone else was. Gods, it really was
just her and Sansa, wasn't it? Rickon was gone, hidden and hopefully safe. And
Bran was a fucking tree. It was just them now.
Jon is dead.
Arya looked at Sansa and took a deep breath. She met her eyes. "How?"
"They made him commander, and when they didn't like what he was doing, they
killed him," Sansa answered, her mask already back in place. She was good at
that. "They stabbed him to death."
Names. Arya wanted their names. Every single one of them was going on the list.
It looked like she was going to the Wall after all. Bran was getting what he
wanted.
"I had the same idea, you know." Sansa pushed away from the table and took the
sheets from Arya. She rolled them up, leaving them by the door. "We would've
made it, too, but the day we were going to leave, the raven came."
"We?" Arya focused on the present, trying to separate herself from the death of
Jon, from the deaths of them all. She grew colder, tried to pass the ice inside
of her to Nymeria. The direwolf fought her, but accepted it in the end. The ice
was growing dangerously thin.
Sansa paused, bit her lip as if she said too much. She'd left out any mention
of Theon, knowing Arya was never quick to forgive. She didn't want Theon hurt,
not anymore, but she knew Arya would find him eventually. "Me and Theon. He was
helping me to escape."
"Theon." Surprisingly, Arya wasn't shocked. Her sister had the weirdest
protectors. Still didn't change the fact that she was going to kill him someday
soon. Just not yet. If he truly tried to help Sansa before, then maybe she
could use him. That is if she could stand the sight of him. "Is he here now?"
It wasn't the reaction Sansa expected. "Yes, he's here. They keep him locked in
the kennels, mostly. They let him out for a few hours everyday. He's..." Sansa
looked down at the floor, distressed. (Poor Theon.) "He's suffered enough,
Arya. He isn't the boy we knew, not after Ramsay was done with him."
Arya snorted. "I don't care if he didn't really kill Bran and Rickon. He
deserved what's happened to him."
"He made a mistake," Sansa whispered. "We all make mistakes."
"A mistake? Look at what his mistake brought about." Arya pointed out the
window. "He destroyed Winterfell and practically gave it to the Boltons. He
made this happen. He betrayed us."
Sansa's mask broke again, but not for the reason Arya thought.
(What would she do if she knew what happened that day in King's Landing? If she
knew that you're the one who went to the queen? The one who betrayed them all?
Your crime is much worse than Theon's. You started all of this. You caused us
to be separated.)
"You should grab fresh sheets from the washing women," Sansa said. She didn't
want to talk about it anymore. "Myranda will be here after lunch. It needs to
look like you're actually working."
Right. She still had to do maid stuff, didn't she? Arya slipped into Mercy and
ducked her head, acting the part of a mouse perfectly as she left. She was calm
as still waters. Her face hid everything.
Sansa watched her go, shocked by the sudden change in Arya. The way she carried
herself and the fearful look on her face made her unrecognizable. Her sister
was born for this kind of life, wasn't she?
--
Arya crossed the courtyard, still feeling numb. Now she knew the fates of all
her siblings, her pack. The hope of Jon being alive was gone, and it made
everything easier. There was no more doubt, no more aching curiosity. Death was
something she knew intimately and understood. She may not like it, but Jon was
at peace, just like her father, like Robb, and like her mother. (Do think of
her in the river.) She needn't worry about them anymore. Nothing could harm
them in the Many-Faced God's arms.
The only thing she needed to worry about now was making them all pay. That was
easy enough. She'd been doing it ever since that day in King's Landing.
Calm as still waters.
And she was. For now. Until she heard the sound of steel meeting steel. She
stopped in her tracks, her eyes drawn to the training grounds. A large group of
guards surrounded two men in the middle of a bout of swordplay.
The jeers and cheers from the group piqued Arya's interest and she went over to
watch. It was an hour or so before lunch. Sansa said Myranda showed up like
clockwork, never early or late, she'd be alright for the moment. The men let
her pass. In fact, they gave her a wide berth. They knew who she was, who she
belonged to. They'd know soon enough that they should fear her, too.
Calm as still waters.
She was surprised to see that one of the men in the ring was the Hound. She was
even more surprised to see that he was doing pretty good, might even be
winning. His technique was the same- savage and unrelenting. He chopped and
hacked with violent precision, roared and laughed at every blow. He showed no
sign of a gimp leg at all.
His opponent was weakening, but it didn't stop him from yelling insults in
between blows. She couldn't make them out. His taunting left him winded, and he
was getting desperate. His attacks grew more and more wild. With the way he was
swinging his sword around, Arya saw more openings to finish it than she could
count. The Hound had to have seen them, too, but he ignored them, prolonging
his punishing assault. This wasn't a simple duel.
"What's going on?" Arya asked the nearest bystander.
"The boy said something about the Lady Bolton." He'd answered easily and
without hesitation. She glanced at him. She'd never seen him before, but he
smiled at her. He had to be one of Jaqen's men. He was different from the other
guards.
She didn't smile back, wondering how Jaqen knew him, if he paid or threatened
him. "What'd he say?"
"Oh, only that he thinks Lord Bolton should let them have a go with her since
it's all she's good for." He gestured to the fight. "It went downhill from
there."
Obviously, she thought, watching the fight. The Hound was never the type to
defend anyone's honor. It only solidified her belief that she didn't want to
know anything more about Sansa and the Hound. It was weird. He failed Arya
once, though, and she couldn't forget it.
If he failed her or Sansa again, she'd put his name back on the list, right
between Walder Frey and Queen Cersi.
But, with each taunt, the Hound grew more and more angrier. There was the Hound
she remembered. There was no mercy in his eyes, no quarter given. He was still
a brutal savage, and there was no hiding it. Not anymore. Maybe he wasn't so
useless after all.
"What if he kills him?" She'd seen that look in his eyes before. He was a
berserker, liable to kill anyone in his path while he was in that state.
"He asked for it," the guard shrugged. "No one can stand him anyway. It's more
like the Hound is doing us a favor."
The man stumbled and fell backwards. His sword was knocked out of his hand,
landing too far away to reach. The Hound raised his sword high, ready to
deliver the killing blow.
Arya leaned forward, gripping the railing as hard as she could, her knuckles
white. Do it. Kill him. Show them what happens when they talk about Sansa like
that. Make them bleed.
The sword fell. Arya watched with hidden satisfaction. She hoped they were al-.
The Hound stopped at the very last second, his blade a hair's breath away from
his throat.
Arya deflated. The coward. The craven idiot. To think that she was about to
give him a third chance. A third. It was disgusting.
"Next time, keep your fucking mouth shut," the Hound growled to the man, who
nodded enthusiastically. "Now, can I have some damn wine?" He looked at his
audience, which was slowly dispersing. They'd been hoping for blood, too.
Arya tried to slip away, but she heard him call out to her. "Wench!"
Oh, no, he did not just say that. Jaqen she could handle, but the Hound? Arya
turned to him, considering wasting a dose of her poison on him. She stood her
ground, eyebrows raised at him. "No," was all she said.
He limped over to her. (Oh, so, now it hurts.) "Either get me wine or show me
where it is, I don't fucking care."
She wanted to keep saying no, but she sneered. "I thought you wanted to be
useless in that inn. Now what? You decided to come be useless here?"
"Yeah, something like that," the Hound grumbled, rubbing his leg. "You wanna
point me in the right direction of that wine? I know you're not gonna get it
for me."
Damn right she wasn't. "What are you even doing here? Are you here for Sansa?
To help her? Save her?" Arya narrowed her eyes and leaned closer, lowering her
voice. "You tried to protect me once, don't you remember? You failed, dog.
Miserably."
The Hound looked away from her. Arya didn't see his hurt or his regret. He had
a lot of those things inside him, but it didn't matter. He was the Hound. He
couldn't deny that any longer, seeing the wolf-girl made him realize that
running from the past was useless. And the Hound had a lot of things to make up
for. He wouldn't tell her that, though.
"Fucking idiot boy burned the fucking inn to the fucking ground," he finally
growled. "That's why I'm here. You can fuck off."
Arya blinked, trying to stay angry. She imagined the look of disbelief he had
to have had while he watched it burn. That was too much. He didn't want to
come, but now he had no choice. She snorted in his face. Literally. He got
angry. It felt like old times for a moment.
"Did you kill him?"
The Hound looked taken aback. "Fuck, no, I didn't. He's just a fucking boy.
He's here somewhere. Probably driving someone else mad."
Arya hated him. Hated the shock in his eyes, the obvious disgust he looked at
her with. As if he never mowed down a child before. As if he never enjoyed
killing like she did.
She squeezed the ring, then changed her mind. He wasn't worth the effort. She
pointed to the Library Tower. "Get your wine up there. Right at the very top."
She left him, hoping he believed her. Climbing all those steps was going to
wreak havoc on his leg.
"You're fucking kidding me," the Hound yelled after her. "Tell me you're
kidding."
Arya didn't turn around, only smiled to herself.
--
The laundry was in chaos when Arya walked in. One of the tubs was overflowing
with bubbles. Red bubbles. There was a group in the corner having a heated
discussion.
"So I thought, if those were my clothes, I'd want them to be red, you know.
It's a pretty good color. It's not green, but I couldn't find that, just the
red. I probably overdid it with the soap, though. Sorry about the bubbles."
Seven Hells. Clayton. They'd only just got there and already the boy caused a
disaster. Arya wanted to laugh. The Arya from before breakfast would be rolling
on the floor, but after learning about Jon, laughing seemed wrong. She only
smiled faintly as she gathered fresh sheets and listened.
Richard was speaking. They must've dragged him over to take care of it. She
kept her head down so he couldn't see her. She didn't want to talk to him more
than necessary. "Earlier, when I asked you what you could do-"
"And I said 'innkeeper'."
Silence.
"Yes. You said that," Richard continued. She had to give him credit. He was
very patient. "You said that many times. But w-"
"Cuz I'm good at it. That's why I keep saying it."
She could hear Richard take a deep breath. "But we don't need an innkeeper. W-"
"But who takes the money for the rooms?"
Richard's voice rose as he talked over Clayton's interruptions. "We need people
who can do more than just that. Now, maybe this just isn't for you. I can put
you somewhere else, but you have to work. If you want a warm bed and food, then
you need to help me help you."
Arya realized Richard was actually one of the good guys in this. He cared about
the people underneath him. He wanted to help them. Pity they weren't on the
exact same side. The Khaleesi would've loved him.
"I can cook. I'm really good. Ask anyone."
"Actually, let's stick with something that doesn't involve fire."
"That was the stove's fault."
More silence.
And then: "You need a stove to cook on, Clayton." Richard sounded tired.
"Well, yeah, but maybe this stove is nicer than my old one."
Arya couldn't listen anymore. She knew it was funny, hilarious, but she
couldn't laugh. It sat inside her with everything else she couldn't feel.
Jon would laugh if he was here. But he's not. He'd want you to laugh. The dead
want nothing. They don't feel.
Arya stopped behind the bathhouse to compose herself. She took deep breaths and
let them out slowly. Jon would've... She stood up straight, realizing something
that made her forget about laughing.
Jaqen knew. He knew Jon Snow was dead and he didn't tell her. He let her find
out on her own.
And that pissed her off. Anger. That was the only thing that registered
strongly. So much for being calm as still waters. She could feel Nymeria urging
her to hunt, to find the man and... Well, she didn't know what, but that didn't
matter. The only thing that mattered was finding the source of her anger.
Jaqen.
She stomped off in search of him, but it was a quick search. The first guard
she asked pointed at the shack behind him. The door was open, which
disappointed her. She had wanted to kick it in.
Jaqen was leaning against a table when she stepped in, watching the captain of
the guards shout for a door knob as he tried to open a wall. His antics drew an
audience, the shack was nearly full with off-duty guards. They were laughing,
egging him on while Jaqen wore a satisfied expression. No one but Arya could
have seen it for what it was.
Arya ignored them, strode right up to Jaqen, and shoved him hard enough to make
him stumble a few feet. His reaction was immediate. He grabbed her by the
throat. The captain's audience went quiet.
He was angry. It'd been a long time since she'd seen him this angry. Arya
didn't care. She grabbed at his wrist, trying to pull away, glaring into his
eyes. His eyes were cold, devoid of everything but rage. He held onto her
throat tight enough to just keep her in place, only adding pressure when she
struggled.
Seven hells. Arya had to fight the thrill that ran through her body. Even
though she was mad at him, and even though he had his fingers around her neck,
she loved it when he showed this side of himself. He could be charming one
minute, then deadly the next. She had issues, she knew it, but gods, she wanted
to kiss him hard and taste blood. Damn him.
"Leave," Jaqen said calmly. That was part of what made him so frightening to
the other men, Arya gathered. He was always calm, even if he was holding a
bloody sword he just used to massacre an entire room. She'd seen that before.
(She started that fight. It was when she cut the throat of a man raping a girl
in another bathhouse, in another time. His friends had, unfortunately for them,
objected.)
They didn't need to be told twice. The captain told Jaqen he was trying to, and
two men had to drag him out, closing the door behind them. It was just Arya and
him now.
"This man never took you for such a fool," he hissed, letting go of her with a
shove. "What is the meaning of this?"
She stumbled backwards, still glaring as she rubbed her neck. She understood
why he grabbed her like that. She probably shouldn't have pushed him in front
of all those men. (The thrill she got out of it didn't make her feel too sorry
about it, though.) "You didn't tell me. Why didn't you tell me?"
Jaqen knew exactly what she was talking about. He leaned in close to her. The
rage was gone, now he looked at her with a blank expression, reminding her of
who he once was in the House of Black and White. No One.
"Look at yourself. Does a man need to answer?"
Arya felt her cheeks warm, turn red. She knew he was right, but he was so calm.
How could he be that calm? It didn't scare her like almost everyone else, she
just found it maddening. She didn't care what he thought. He should've told
her.
"You had no right to keep that from me. You don't choose what I need to know. I
can do that myself."
"What does it matter if he is dead or not? It does not help us here," he
snapped, losing some of his calmness. It felt good, knowing that she could
still get to him even when he tried to be No One. "To clear the list, a girl
must focus on one thing at a time. A bastard dying-"
Arya couldn't stop herself, didn't want to stop herself. She punched him, hard,
but he turned his head, avoiding the full force of the blow. She ended up
hitting just the side of his mouth, though. That wasn't so bad. He grabbed her
wrist, holding onto it tightly in case she attacked again. She didn't. She was
quite satisfied with the first one. The corner of his lip was busted, blood was
starting to trickle down his chin. She thought about apologizing, then decided
against it. She wasn't sorry.
He was angrier than the night he killed the Waif. Fleetingly, she wondered what
kind of man Jaqen H'ghar used to be before he ended up as a face on a wall.
Someone cruel, maybe. Someone cruel and vicious. She liked that idea, liked
making him angry to see if she was right. It was like playing with fire. She
was in a dangerous mood.
"Stupid girl," Jaqen growled. (If he wasn't so overtaken with rage, he would've
seen and understood, but a girl was maddening. He would've never called her
brother a bastard if she wasn't.) "If you leave any more marks on me, I will be
forced to give you some of your own. They cannot see me like this."
"That 'bastard' gave me Needle," she whispered. "That 'bastard' was my true
brother. More than Robb. More than Sansa. More than any of them. He was the one
I wanted most to find alive." She meant that, too. It wasn't so shocking, was
it?
Jaqen's eyes softened, his anger lessening just a little bit. In all the years
they'd been together, Arya never once spoke her brother's name. (For that
reason alone, a man had guessed how important the unnamed brother was to a
girl. But that still did not excuse what she had done.)
"And that is why this man could not tell you. A girl must forget her anger, or
else it will consume her." He cupped her face, looking at her with a solemn
expression. "A girl is winter. Remember this. A girl is ice. Arya of House
Stark's anger has no place here. Not yet."
Calm as still waters. Arya closed her eyes, saying it over and over to herself.
She compartmentalized the death of Jon, broke it down until it matched the ache
of all the other deaths inside her.
"You have only been here two days and already you are unhinged." His eyes
weren't soft anymore. His tone changed, becoming empty and flat. He was No One
again, the No One who taught her how to hide her secrets where nothing could
find them, the No One who took her name from her and shared the gift of death
with her. "Too much a girl forgets her training. Too much she lets the wolf
have control over her emotions. Arya Stark cannot be hidden while the
connection runs deep. A girl must push the wolf away. Giving into the wildness
will only lead to ruin. And a man, this man, could not bear it."
Arya shook her head, not wanting to accept it, but knowing the truth of it. It
felt good being in Nymeria, too good. She liked the power and freedom. In her,
Arya felt like an unstoppable force. Prey, blood, broken bones. It would taste
so good. The sheep, the betrayers, all of them. She wanted to taste them all.
Arya suddenly felt sick. She knew she was a monster, but was she that much of
one? Was she just as sick and twisted as everyone else? Or more? But how could
she give up that power she found in Nymeria? They were one and the same, an
extension of each other. It couldn't be stopped now.
"I don't know if I can."
Jaqen's brow furrowed. "Try, sweet girl, lovely girl, maddening girl." No One
was gone, now he was her Jaqen H'ghar. "For me. For all the days and nights
we'll share when this is over."
When it's over? Arya couldn't imagine life after this, didn't want to. She'd
been caught in the winds of fate for a very long time, never having a chance to
make solid plans for the future. Her life had a habit of changing too quickly
and too unexpectedly. But, for the first time, she realized that Jaqen had been
with her every step of the way. From King's Landing to Winterfell and
everywhere in between. Even when he left her the first time thoughts of him
plagued her mind until she found him again.
Jaqen H'ghar was her only constant, the only simple thing in her life.
Okay. For him, then. For him, she would try. She didn't know how, but she would
try. Arya reached up, traced his bottom lip with a finger, wiping the blood
away. He caught her hand in his when she pulled away. He had that look in his
eyes again, the one that used to make her feel so confused. It still did, but
not as much as before.
"If a girl pulls another stunt like this in the future, in front of those men,
then a man must teach her a lesson. Does she understand this?" Jaqen asked, his
voice low and full of heat.
Arya liked the sound of that and all the things it implied. Her heart raced,
her face flushed red. She parted her lips, trying to think of a retort, but she
couldn't think of anything except how close he was. Anger wasn't the only thing
she could feel, it seemed. But only Jaqen could make her feel it. She was
caught up in it no matter how much she didn't want to be.
"What kind of lesson?" She didn't mean to sound as eager as she did.
Jaqen merely raised an eyebrow at her, seeing the effect his 'threat' had on
her. He laughed, then, and grabbed the back of her neck and roughly pulled her
closer. "A girl does not know what she would be getting herself into," he
whispered, his lips brushing against her ear. She shivered. "But if she wants
to play that game, then this man will happily oblige her."
Arya didn't know what that meant. Did she? No... Yes, she did. Gods, this
wasn't the time. She wanted to give his game a try, though. It sounded much
better than the other games.
Oh, Jaqen was too distracting. With him, she could forget all about the list,
forget about Winterfell and all the crimes against her family. That almost
happened in Braavos.
"I should get back to Sansa," she whispered. "I gotta..." She stepped back. Not
the time. She kept telling herself that. Later. Tonight? No, she needed sleep
and his eyes were promising that she wouldn't get any. Jaqen H'ghar, the man
born with his face, must've spent most of his time in the company of many
women. He was very... Okay, that wasn't helping. "Go. I gotta go."
He let go of her, smiling at her sudden awkwardness, his eyes following her as
she fumbled with the door. "Lovely girl, one thing before you go."
Arya turned to him as he crossed the room swiftly. He kissed her hard, exactly
like she wanted to kiss him earlier. When he pulled away, she felt a sharp pain
and tasted blood. "It's only fair."
Arya held on to him, her knees feeling weak for some stupid, lovely reason.
"Okay."
Jaqen chuckled. "After lunch, a girl should go with her sister to the
godswood."
That broke through the haze the kiss left her in. She didn't want to go to the
godswood. She wanted to argue with him for even suggesting it. If he asked her
when she barged in, she would've argued. She would've argued violently, but
Jaqen had calmed her down. He was the only thing that could calm her down.
"Why?"
"Did you not see the new arrivals? We all have much to discuss." Jaqen lifted
an eyebrow at her, the corner of his lips lifting in a half smile.
"He's worthless," Arya said, rolling her eyes.
"This man thinks not."
Arya scoffed, opening the door. "Yeah, well, just wait until you get to know
him."
His only response was a sigh as she left. She ignored the looks of the guards,
wearing her bloody lip proudly. It was almost lunch. She'd better hurry if...
Seven hells.
Where were the sheets?
 
                                    .Sansa.
 
Arya was alive.
That was something Sansa never thought she'd be able to say to herself. That
day in King's Landing... She remembered it vividly. She remembered running to
the queen and breathlessly condemning her family. She remembered being locked
away in her room and feeling so happy she could stay with Joffrey, unaware of
the bloodbath happening just outside her door.
She also remembered that she didn't ask or even think about Arya for days after
that. How selfish. How stupid.
When she found out the truth of the world she made herself a prisoner of, Sansa
was sure that Arya had been the first Stark to die. She never would have gone
peacefully with the Lannister's guards.
But Arya survived. Arya actually thrived.
Sansa couldn't imagine her sister doing the things she claimed she did. She
knew they were true, knew her sister was capable of anything she put her mind
to, but to picture her with a bloody knife? Wearing a different face? She
couldn't see it.
What would their father think? What would their mother?
No, the question Sansa should be asking herself, the one she should be worried
about: what would Arya do if she found out what Sansa did?
The look in her eyes when she talked about her 'list' and how much she loved
thinking about clearing it was scary. When she talked of Theon, the boy they
once called brother, she'd been void of mercy and empathy. Sansa knew Arya
would speak of her worse than that if she knew.
She wondered if things would be different if Lady was by her side. As petty as
it was, Sansa was jealous of Arya and her wolf. They shared a strength she
could only dream of. Lady wouldn't have let Joffrey touch her. She wouldn't
have let any of it happen.
No, it was stupid thinking of that. The past couldn't be changed and thinking
of what ifs only drove her mad. Sansa used to think the future couldn't be
changed either, but now? It was looking brighter. Not just because Arya was
back, bringing with her an opportunity Sansa longed for, but also because the
Hound. He was here.
A part of her believed she didn't need Lady while the Hound was around. He
tried his best to protect her.
("No one would hurt you again, or I’d kill them.")
She should've went with him. She should've said yes. At least he was here now.
Arya could make her promises of retribution and protection, but Sansa couldn't
stop thinking of the little girl she once teased. The Hound was the one she
believed. He was the only one who never lied.
Sansa watched Arya cross the courtyard until she couldn't see her anymore
before turning back to the mess in her room. She sighed. Her sister was going
to be a terrible maid. She hadn't even known how to strip a bed properly. The
mattress was all askew, practically on the floor. She went about cleaning up
Arya's mess, sighing again when she noticed the dirty sheets Arya left behind.
Remembering the look on Arya's face when she ripped them off the bed made Sansa
laugh again. It'd been a long time since she'd done that, let loose with real
laughter. She felt lighter because of it and glided around the room as she put
everything back in its place.
She even giggled while she got dressed. Sansa was a little bit serious when she
said she needed Arya's help with it, though. The buttons on the back of her
dress were too hard to reach. Some of them had to be left until Arya came back.
Her hair needed to be brushed and braided again, too, since her last maid
didn't have a chance to get to it.
Sansa imagined Arya with a brush in hand and decided to leave it for now. Maybe
the girl from the bathhouse could spare a moment for her. Sari? That had been
her name, right? She knew how to get knots out painlessly.
She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. She was smiling. It looked odd
on her face. When was the last time she had reason to smile? That day in the
Errie? She remembered sculpting Winterfell in the snow. She smiled then, hadn't
she? There must have been laughter. She laughed then, had laughed until Petyr
kissed her. She didn't like his kiss. It wasn't gentle like the Hound. Petyr's
kiss had been possessive.
Sansa couldn't remember laughing or smiling much after that. But now... She
looked in the mirror again, her smile fading. It wouldn't do to get used to it.
She had to keep this newfound hope a secret. If Ramsay saw even a hint of it,
he'd crush it.
She must be ivory. She must be steel. And when the day came for her to be able
to wear her smile in public, she would do it while she watched his world fall
apart.
The mask smoothed back into place easily. It would be gone soon. Not because of
what Arya said was coming, but because she unknowingly gave Sansa a plan, a
means to get Winterfell back to the Starks without any help from a far-off
Targaryen.
The wolves.
Arya wouldn't like it. She obviously belonged to the Khaleesi. There was too
much passion in her voice when she spoke of her. It seemed the cynical Arya had
finally found something to believe in.
But her sister had a one track mind when it came to revenge. Arya didn't think
beyond her list, she didn't think about the future of the Stark name. Sansa,
however, looked at the bigger picture. If the Starks were to rise from their
near extinction, then first they needed to show strength without help. They
needed to remind the North that they were still the Wardens of the North. Not
the Boltons.
And that couldn't be done with the amount of bloodshed Arya wanted. The wolves
needed to be used as the reminder. They would be the perfect display of power.
Especially if it looked like a Stark could control them. She liked to think her
father would approve of her plan. The death toll would be far lower than
anything Arya wanted to do.
Nymeria might be a problem. The direwolf was bound to be as strong willed as
Arya. And yet...
...A memory? Or just a dream? It came to her suddenly. A memory of a dream. Or
a dream of a memory? It had felt so real.
Sansa was lost in the pure white snow. She felt the cold, but it was pleasant.
Her breath fogged the air as she turned around in a circle, trying to get her
bearings. She saw a tree, a great weirwood bigger than any she'd ever seen.
Whispers drifted in the wind as she stepped closer. They overlapped, grew
louder, softer, then louder. It was deafening.
Sansa fell to her knees, covering her ears. The whispers still echoed in her
mind, her heart. She was scared, crying, pleading for them to stop. Please
stop, please, it hurts.
And then it did. The whispers were cut off abruptly. Sansa looked up and found
herself in a dark place somewhere underground. Roots of trees had grown through
the ceiling. Weirwoods. They coiled around each other.
"Sister."
Sansa gasped, her hands flying to her mouth. No no not real. Not real. That
couldn't be Bran.
"Don't be afraid."
She was. How could she not be? Maybe she finally gone mad.
"Sansa, sister. Look up."
She didn't want to, but couldn't stop herself. She looked up. What was she
seeing? She couldn't comprehend it. Roots, yes, but something else.
Something...
Sansa let out a strangled cry, rising to her feet and stumbling forward. Bran,
it was Bran. She cupped his face, looking at him in wonder. Until she saw the
roots growing into him. She stepped back, horrified.
"It's okay," Bran smiled. "It doesn't hurt."
That didn't reassure Sansa. Nothing could reassure her in a place like this.
"Oh, Bran. What happened to you? Where are we?"
He looked so tired, so frail and sickly that she wanted to weep.
"Where are we? You're in Winterfell, and I'm beyond the Wall. We're both where
we need to be. Don't worry about me. I like it. I can see everything now. The
weirwoods are my eyes. It's not as bad as it looks."
Nothing of what he said made sense to Sansa. She looked at him, then decided
that this must be madness at last. It didn't feel like a dream.
"We don't have long. I can barely hold on, but I need to tell you something."
Bran smiled weakly at her. She fought the urge to weep. How could this frail
child be the brother she used to watch climb so high? "Listen to me. You will
have your opportunity, sister. You only need to seize it and make it your own.
You will know what to do when the time comes."
Did she truly want to believe this? It was impossible. Just a dream. That's all
it was. But, Sansa felt something inside her stirring as he spoke. It was
familiar, like a piece of herself she lost so long ago. Oh, Lady.
Yes, she believed. She believed everything.
"But there is a price. You must not tell Arya."
Sansa looked up. No, Arya was dead. She'd been dead for a long time. There.
This was a dream, then.
Sansa didn't voice the conviction, but Bran heard it anyway. "She lives, but
already you're beginning to wake. You will forget. Do you remember when we
climbed the weirwood together? That's my favorite sight to visit..."
The weirwood roots faded, Bran faded, and so did the dream as soon as she
opened her eyes.
Sansa stared at her reflection, not really seeing it. She was lost in the
dream, the memory. He'd been right. She had known exactly what to do, exactly
what must be done.
Oh, her sister was going to hate Bran for what was coming, for the trick he was
going to pull. There was more than one direwolf south of the Wall.
Sansa hoped Arya wouldn't hate her, too. For that, at least. The other thing,
the betrayal, was enough.
Sansa came back to herself, notably less happier than before. She wished the
world was like her pretty stories and songs, but it was like Arya's stories,
like Old Nan's stories. She wanted to talk to the Hound, to hear from him once
again about the truth of the world.
She glanced out the window, surprised to find that it was almost lunch. Maybe
if Arya hurried, they could go to the Great Hall and eat there. That would be a
nice change of scenery.
A knock on her door made her jump. She stared at it, making no move to stand.
Arya wouldn't knock, she'd barge in just like she used to. It wasn't her. That
knock sounded like the one she had grown to dread.
But it was too early.
Sansa stood as the door opened, her heart skipped a beat. Myranda sauntered in,
smiling at her.
"My dear aunt tells me you're not quite yourself today," she said, her voice
full of false concern. "I've come to see if you need any help remembering."
Sansa closed her eyes. Her going off script this morning hadn't gone unnoticed
like she feared. She hoped Arya took her time in coming back. She didn't want
her sister to see what she's had to endure.
With new hope on the horizon, Sansa needed to be extra careful. She needed to
be the pathetic girl Myranda liked to use for fun. Anything else would only
raise suspicions.
Besides, nothing they did hurt her anymore. She was good at making them believe
it did.
I am ivory and steel.
Sansa opened her eyes. Myranda stood in front of her, the smile gone now that
she had a knife in hand.
 
                                    .Arya.
The sheets were behind the bathhouse where she must have dropped them. Arya
picked them up and inspected them. Just some dirt and grass she brushed off
easily, that was all. Good. She was running too late. Oh. And a bit of mud.
Arya stopped, studied it, and shrugged. She'd slept on worse. Sansa was just
going to have to deal.
If Arya was going to have to be her maid, then Sansa was going to learn how to
deal with a lot of things.
She hurried across the courtyard, not quite as numb as before. Nymeria wanted
her to run with her, to join the pack in a hunt. It was hard, so hard, to not
give in and feel the power again.
(But you promised.)
To her delight, Goodwife was at the door of the Keep, engaged in a one-sided
conversation with a harried looking Maester. Arya ducked her head, squeezing
the ring as she slipped back into Mercy. She faked a stumble when she got close
enough and grabbed the Goodwife for balance. The woman jerked away with a hiss,
rubbing the place on her arm that Arya just pricked.
Contact.
Arya smiled secretly, Mercy looked frightened.
"Stupid bitch," Goodwife spat. "Watch yourself. Next time, I'll send you to the
kennels."
Arya fought the urge to roll her eyes. The hag wasn't very imaginative with
threats, was she? Arya had better ones.
Blah, blah, blah. Kennels, hunting, dogs, whatever. But you wanna know what I'd
do to you? I'll carve into your body and take my time, show you what your
insides look like. The liver, the kidneys, and your guts. I'll slowly pull them
out like an unraveling thread while you watch.
Now that was a threat. She had more threats like that. Some of them had turned
into promises, too. Arya loved it when that happened.
"I'm sorry, oh, m'lady, I'm so sorry," Mercy cried. Her whole body trembled
with fear. "Please, please, don't. I- I'll be more careful , honest, please not
the kennels."
The Goodwife was enjoying the fear she struck in Mercy's heart. Arya couldn't
wait for the poison to take effect. The Goodwife's smirk faded. She looked pale
and shaky. She mumbled another threat, but Arya couldn't make it out. Most
likely it was something about the kennels and dogs and blah blah blah.
Goodwife Jene walked away, clutching at her stomach, each step growing more and
more shaky. What poison did Jaqen give her? Arya was going to enjoy this.
Nymeria growled in approval and she felt that power so close to her. She
reached out, stopped.
(But you promised.)
She drew away from the direwolf, left the relieved Maester, and went to go make
her sister's bed.
--
Sansa's door was open a crack. Arya stopped before walking in. She'd closed it
when she left, and Sansa told her she didn't leave her chambers until she went
to the godswood. She cursed to herself as she listened for voices. She
shouldn't have took her time. She should have came right back once she got the
sheets.
There was a low murmur, but she couldn't hear any words. It wasn't Sansa's
voice. A girl... Arya felt a rush of adrenaline. There was only one other
person that visited her sister. Myranda.
Quiet as a shadow. She slipped through the door silently, closing it behind
her.
A girl had Sansa backed into a corner. Fear was on her sister's face. She
trembled every time the girl spoke. So, that was Myranda, one of Sansa's
tormentors. Her back was to Arya, so engrossed in her work that she didn't hear
Arya approach. Then again, even if she had been listening for someone, she
still wouldn't have heard her. A water dancer knew how to move like a breeze.
No one paid attention to a breeze.
Myranda held Sansa's wrist tightly, pulling her arm straight. She'd made quick
work of her sleeve. All of Sansa's neat stitches had been cut through. Arya saw
the scars of past visitations. Each mark precise in its application. She was
making more wounds, more neat, straight cuts. Sansa winced every time yhe knife
dragged through her skin. She sobbed, begged her to stop in a whisper, as if
she knew Myranda wasn't listening anyway. All part of the script.
Arya didn't know that, though. All she saw was her sister's fear, all she heard
was those pathetic sobs Myranda drew out with each slice. Nymeria roared inside
her, wanting blood. For once, Arya ignored her. She was filled with silence. It
didn't need Nymeria to fuel it. This was all Arya. This was her natural state.
She was the one that wanted blood, not the direwolf.
It felt good, like an old friend, this bloodlust of her's. And she wasn't
breaking the promise, not really.
"You remember your place, now?" Myranda murmured, still cutting, still spilling
her sister's blood.
Sansa nodded, her head bobbing up and down so fast that Arya thought she might
break her neck. "Please, yes. Yes, I do, please, stop."
"Please?" Myranda laughed. It was a musical sort of laugh. Quite pretty, to be
honest. It was disconcerting to Arya. The voice and the actions didn't match
well together. "You can beg all you want, my lady. It doesn't matter. Do you
want to know what Ramsay promised me? He told me that once you give him a son,
you're mine. I can use your whole body as my canvas and not hide my art away
anymore."
Arya had heard enough. She slipped her dagger out of her sleeve, wishing she
had Needle and its twin. (Thread. She decided on naming it Thread. She found
the irony amusing.) But the dagger would have to do. She hadn't had the chance
to sew hiding places for all her throwing knives.
She closed the distance between them (swift as a fox). Myranda heard her at the
last minute and tried to turn around, but it was too late. Arya grabbed a
fistful of Myranda's hair and roughly pulled her head back, exposing her
throat. The girl stopped struggling when she felt cold steel pressing against
her jugular.
"You like to cut, do you?" Arya whispered. Sansa tried to grab at her, saying
something, but she ignored her. Her sister's words couldn't reach her right
now. Nothing could. "I've heard a lot about you. I've heard about your little
hunts. I've heard how much you like causing pain."
"If you know so much about me, then you know what will happen if you don't let
me go right now," Myranda sneered, showing no fear.
Arya liked that. She remembered Ol' Ben and the fear in his eyes when he
realized the mistake he made. She laughed. "Oh, really?"
With a quickness only a cat could match, she let go of her hair and leapt to
the right, kicking Myranda's knee as hard as she could. There was a satisfying
pop and the girl crumbled to the floor. The pain was so severe that she
couldn't make a sound. Her mouth was wide open, silently screaming in agony.
"Don't," Sansa gasped. Blood dripped from the cuts on her arm to the floor,
forming a little puddle. "I'm fine, I'm okay. You don't need to do this!"
To Arya, her voice sounded as if it came from the distance, the words muffled.
She didn't spare her sister a glance as she deliberately stepped on Myranda's
hand, the one not holding the knife, breaking more bones. She kept her foot on
the hand, watching the pain on the girl's face. She waited patiently for her to
regain her senses. It wouldn't be any fun if Myranda couldn't fully appreciate
the vengeance Arya was about to dish out.
Finally, Myranda made a noise, just a low groan. She blindly lashed out with
her free hand, but Arya grabbed it as she knelt beside her, all in one smooth
move.
Sansa stepped forward to... She didn't know what. Stop Arya? Or help her? Then
Arya looked up at her and she stepped right back. Such cold, dead eyes. It was
frightening. She was afraid. Afraid of her own sister.
"No matter what you do to me, Ramsay will do a thousand times worse," Myranda
hissed. She tried to pull free, tried to ignore the pain, but Arya twisted her
hand close to the breaking point. The knife fell to the floor. Myranda let out
a short, involuntary scream as Arya knocked the knife out of reach.
Arya tilted her head, her face blank. She watched, waiting again for Myranda's
full attention. It wasn't a long wait. The girl could handle pain. Arya liked
that, too. Liked it even more when Myranda started to struggle away in spite of
the pain. She still just watched. Her silence made Myranda's struggles frantic.
Sansa slid down the wall to the floor, stayed there, watching it all. Arya was
unaware that her sister was wondering what she would do to her when she found
out her betrayal.
"No, he won't," Arya intoned. "He will die. Just like you. Did you think there
wouldn't be any consequences for what you've done? You thought you could make a
Stark your little plaything. You thought you could torture her in her own
home."
"She is nothing. Just a pretty, little ornament. The Starks are finished.
Winterfell belongs to the Boltons." It must've been hard to say that without
crying out in pain. She was brave. Brave, but very stupid.
"Finished?" Arya raised her eyebrows. "For eight thousand years, the Starks
have held Winterfell. They've put their blood, sweat and tears into this very
ground. Do you think they would be so easily vanquished?"
"Please, don't," Sansa whispered from her corner. Arya ignored her.
"Eight thousand years led to that weak, pathetic bitch." Myranda grinned,
laughed like she was mad. "The last Stark. Look at her. After I finally get to
kill her, the Stark name will be forgotten."
Gods, was she really that stupid? Myranda should've stopped talking awhile ago.
Maybe she'd grown up thinking nothing could hurt her. Idiot. This was way
better than killing Ol' Ben.
"No, it is the Boltons who will be forgotten." Raising her dagger to Myranda's
face, Arya traced the tip of it around her lips, her eyes, her forehead,
considering each spot as if she couldn't decide where to start. (She couldn't.)
"Sansa is not the last. Nor pathetic. Weak, maybe. But no one ever taught her
how to defend herself. No one ever thought she'd need it."
Arya shifted, moving to straddle Myranda, pinning the girl's arms against her
body with her knees. The jostle of her broken fingers and dislocated knee made
her too weak to fight back. Arya continued tracing Myranda's face with her
dagger, gradually adding more and more pressure until it broke the skin.
Myranda opened her mouth to scream for help, finally accepting that she
couldn't get out of this alone. Arya covered her mouth with her hand. Now, now,
let's not ruin this little party with uninvited guests. The tip of the dagger
began to leave behind thin cuts and a little blood.
"She doesn't like getting her hands dirty. And she never was one for the sight
of blood." Arya carried on like it was just a normal conversation. Myranda was
bewildered, beginning to doubt her survival. "Me, on the other hand, well, I am
nothing like my sister."
Myranda's eyes widened. Sister?
Arya didn't give her time to process it. The dagger's sharp point stopped at
her jaw, in the exact same place Sansa had a scar. There. That's where she
wanted to start. Without warning, she stabbed it deep, then dragged it down
slowly, taking her time as she made sure to make the wound look like her
sister's. Arya's hand muffled Myranda's screams.
Sansa watched, quiet and still. She realized that Arya was more wolf than
human. (What would she do to you?) Their father would be so disappointed in
Arya. In both of them, actually. Because there was a part of her that wanted
Arya to keep going, to make Myranda hurt even more. That part of her made her
feel sick.
"See, I like getting my hands dirty," Arya continued on. She was calm, and that
was what made Myranda scared. Her fear showed now. It was a little
disappointing for Arya. She'd wanted to break her slowly. "And I like blood.
Love it, to be honest. There's nothing more satisfying than feeling it run over
my hands, especially when it's warm, especially when it's the blood of someone
who thought they couldn't be hurt. That's what you thought, didn't you? You
thought nothing could hurt you."
Blood poured out of the cut, making the grip of the dagger slippery. Arya
pulled it away, finished. She studied it for a moment, then smiled. It was a
terrible smile. "Guess what? You were wrong."
"Stop," Sansa finally croaked out. She stood, walked over to Arya, and placed a
hand on her shoulder. "I think she gets it, Arya."
Arya's eyes snapped up to look at Sansa. "No, she doesn't. And neither do you,
it seems." She gestured to Myranda, who just laid there sobbing. "All of them
will pay. They don't get a lecture and a slap on the hand. They get death. All
of them."
Sansa studied Arya's face, knowing that nothing she said would put an end to
this. So she said nothing, only turned away and went to the window, refusing to
watch. If she did, she probably would've given in to the dark place inside and
enjoy it. Maybe all the Starks were more wolf than human.
No. She wasn't. Sansa knew there were more ways to make them pay, less violent
ways. Oh, father... Behind her, Myranda's muffled screams continued as Arya
ruthlessly carved into the girl's skin.
Arya felt good. She missed killing like this. In the House of Black and White,
poison was the preferred method of service, but Arya liked to be more hands-on.
She was only a product of her childhood, after all. Seeing all that blood and
death and murder made her who she was. It was all she knew, all she cared to
know at that moment. Everything else be damned.
By the time Arya finished the fourth cut, Myranda was dead. She bled out when
Arya went a bit too deep when she cut into her neck. She straightened, brushed
some hair out of her eyes, and admired her handiwork. It always surprised her
how much blood was inside a person. This had been a messy death, but she didn't
care. She felt much better.
(What kind of monster are you?)
So did Nymeria. Arya had kept the direwolf at bay, but she slipped through
enough to feel a little of what Arya felt. It was obvious now that Arya had
made the direwolf into what she was today. All that rage and death... She
hadn't been able to let it out, but Nymeria had been able to. They fed off each
other.
She looked over at Sansa, wondering what she was thinking. Was she disgusted
with her? Ashamed of her? Scared? She had to hand it to her, though. Arya had
expected her to cry, faint, or get sick once the blood started spilling out.
They had traveled so very far from their former selves.
Arya stood, and walked over to her. Sansa didn't look at her, and when she
spoke, it was through clenched teeth. "Weak? You think I'm weak."
Did she? Well, yeah, or else Sansa would've fought back. Arya didn't say that
out loud.
"Believe it or not, Arya, I've learned how to be steel. Nothing they do hurts
me anymore. I let them have their fun because I know that one day I will
outplay them," Sansa said, . She looked at Arya. She was furious at her. "In
the end, I will be the one to break them. Not through this." She gestured to
Myranda's body. "But through their game. I am not weak. There is strength in my
patience. There are ways to win without killing everyone."
Once upon a time, Arya used to see that furious expression fixed on her at
least once a day. It was different now, more mature with an intelligence the
empty headed Sansa never had. They stared at each other, Sansa's lips white
with anger, her chest heaving as she tried to reign in her emotions.
Arya felt the silence inside her acutely. It hurt. She didn't like it. It made
her feel like nothing. She didn't want to be nothing anymore, she just wanted
to be someone else. "You weren't there the night of the Red Wedding. You didn't
see them slaughter Grey Wind. You didn't see what they did to our brother. Did
you know they cut off Grey Wind's head and put it on Robb's body? They put him
on a horse and paraded him around their camp. There was a lot of dying that
night, sister. But the worst of it is that, after all that dying, there was
laughter. All of them laughed. I could hear it echo in the forest while the
Hound rode away from it all."
That was cruel. Gods, she hadn't meant to tell her that. That memory was a
secret, one that kept her going. Sansa turned her back to Arya, hiding her
sorrow.
(What kind of monster are you?)
She should apologize, tell her it never happened, that she just made it up. But
she didn't want to. Arya saw the judgment in Sansa's eyes. It reminded her of
their father.
"You can keep playing your game, Sansa. Me? I'm going to do all I can to make
sure that everyone who laughed with the Boltons die a slow, horrible death,"
Arya whispered. She turned away, too, suddenly finding that looking at a dead
body was easier than looking at her sister.
Myranda's once beautiful face was a mess. Her expression was frozen in utter
fear, a wide eyed look that pleaded for mercy. Even in death, it still
beseeched her. Arya wondered how many bodies Myranda left behind with the exact
same expression. How was it wrong to give all those forgotten souls justice?
How could she not?
"There should be a dress in my wardrobe that should fit you," Sansa said, her
voice now calm and under control. "It might be tight, but it's better than
that."
So they were just going to skip over this moment? Okay, that sounded good to
Arya. She glanced down at the dressed Sarella loaned her. It was soaked through
with blood. Yeah, that wasn't coming out. It'd have to be burned. Arya sighed
to herself. Every damn dress she wore got ruined. She couldn't wait until she
was able to wear leggings without raising suspicion.
"I can't promise that you'll get it back." Arya mustered up enough energy to
crack a smile.
Sansa didn't return it. She was still a little mad. "And what exactly do you
plan to do with her body?"
Hmm. Good question. Arya's heart sank. Seven hells. She was going to have to
get help. Help meant Jaqen. And Jaqen wasn't going to be happy about it one
bit. Myranda was an important part of Winterfell, someone was bound to miss
her.
Not to mention the fact that carrying a body out of the Keep without being seen
was going to be near impossible.
He wasn't going to be happy at all.
Still, though, if given the choice, Arya would kill Myranda again. She'd kill
her over and over in different ways each time, too, remembering every detail so
she could play it again and again in her mind.
(What kind of monster are you?)
The worst kind.
Chapter End Notes
     I feel like a certain George R. R. Martin when I take too long to get
     this out.
     As always, comments, constructive criticism, and questions are
     welcomed and encouraged! They keep me going whenever I want to
     ragequit because I can't tell if what I write is readable or not. I'm
     too critical about it. I need a beta. Seriously. Please?
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