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Chapter Text

It’s a sticky-crawly feeling, like a million spiders are running across her body. Arya wonders if it’s the Red Woman’s doing – if she cursed her when she tried to stop her taking Gendry away. The night feels ominous now and it isn’t safe, not like darkness should be. Arya stumbles away from where the Hound sleeps, past Stranger and her vision twists.

Eight places, eight hells. Arya sees them and wonders why people say there are seven. Then, she forgets and her body plunges into icy water. The shock to her system jolts her awake and she looks around frantically, the water burning her hot eyes but finding the light above her. Swim! She orders herself, terrified and confused with stabbing pins and needles all across her body, but not willing to die at the bottom of some hidden pool in the woods.

Arya breaches the surface and the cloudy sky above shows her a walled city – dark and gloomy, with snow twisting its way through the howling wind. Her head dips back under as she feels more confusion and only some clarity; I’m not in the woods any longer.

“Oi! Oi, there’s a child!” she hears a rough voice shout, before she dips back under, feeling a coldness seep into her bones. Her clothes are more of a hindrance than a help, now and Needle is a weight she doesn’t need. “Fjolti, get that rope!”

She dips under and floats up, over and over, the waves crashing over her head and not all of it is just water. Sleet and chunks of ice scratch against her cheeks and then there’s a rope.

“Child, put your arm through the loop,” a voice says, a shadow rising past her. Arya struggles, but somehow manages to raise her numbing arm through the hole, happy to feel it already around her neck. It tightens, pulling under her left arm and around the right of her neck, then she’s being pulled through, up and out of the water, into a boat. She’s rested in between someones legs, quick hands tugging at her shirt and jerkin, pulling them off without abandon.

“My name’s Fjolti,” the person in front of her says, as Arya begins to regain sense of her surroundings. There’s a girl there, with straw-coloured hair and a long face, a sea-shell necklace on a chain of gold resting on top of her fur coat. Arya feels movement behind her, before her bare back meets a warm, hairy chest. “My father is going to help warm you up.”

The girl – Fjolti – reaches under her bench for a bundle, unwrapping it from twine as a man – her father? – barks at her, “Get the blanket, Fjolti, no time for chatter.”

“I’ve got it, give me but a moment,” Fjolti replies in an irritated voice and Arya shivers as a freezing wind blows across her already-numb skin.

“We’re going to be in the rocks in a moment,” he replies urgently, before she practically throws the unwrapped blanket at them. The man wraps the blanket around Arya and himself and she’s closed off from the wind. Arya sinks into the warmth the man emits, ignoring her cold feet as she tucks her hands loosely in her armpits. “Get us into harbour, Fjolti.”

“Yes, father,” Fjolti says, before unshipping her oars, rowing them across icy water, getting closer and closer to the walled-off city Arya had glimpsed beforehand. “Be my eyes?”

“Aye, Fjolti,” the man says, “gentle on the port-side…aye, there we go, straight onwards.”

Arya slips into sleep at some point, listening to the father-daughter pair navigate rocky waters to harbour. She wakes in front of a fire, wrapped up in furs. The warmth is comforting, but eventually she feels an ache from sleeping on her side so long and she moves, trying to sit up and realising quickly that she’s only in her underwear under all the furs.

“Awake, are we?” comes an unfamiliar voice from a surprisingly close distance. Arya looks around sharply, eyes wide as she sees a common woman sitting at a chair by her head, sewing mittens out of what looks like rabbit hide. “My girl Fjolti didn’t trust you’d live, but she’s not versed in ways of the sea. Torsten knew you’d be well once you started to warm. What’s your name, girl?”

“Not a girl,” Arya immediately replies. “My name’s Arry.”

The woman wrinkles her nose. “Girl, you were dunked in the sea and stripped. You’re lucky enough to be alive. Don’t lie to me. What’s your name?”

“…Arya,” Arya grumbles, sitting up and pulling the furs around her. “Who’re you?”

“Hillevi, Lady of Clan Cruel-Sea. My husband, Torsten, was the one to save your life. My daughter, Fjolti, rowed you all back on her own, something she’s never done before. It deserves praise, too.” Hillevi states, almost lecturing her. “There’s a bowl of potato soup sitting there by the fire for you.”

Arya looks, stomach gurgling at the reminder of food. It sits there: a bowl of thick, steaming soup and Arya salivates at the sight, used to the Hound’s meagre rations and over-cooked hare. She lunges for it, only slowing when she goes to pick it up, uncaring of the loosening blankets as she carefully sips.

“There are spoons, whelp,” Hillevi then mutters, reaching out to a small tabletop, hand digging into a woven basket. The spoon nearly goes flying into the fire when Arya struggles to catch it, barely keeping a grip on it. She eats her soup in silence, looking around the Cruel-Sea’s home.

It’s made of stone, clearly and there aren’t any windows. They’re situated in some kind of kitchen and dining room, a rectangular table on one side with six chairs and an open larder on the other, with a few benches for food preparation. A door is open and if Arya squints, she can see a staircase.

“Good soup,” Arya mutters in appreciation, once she’s finished. “Where do I put my bowl?”

“You can wash it up in that cauldron, there,” Hillevi says, pointing at where it sits by the fireplace and making no move to get up. Arya feels slightly uncomfortable, then, but she nods and goes over to scrub her bowl in what turns out to be gently warm water. Probably why they keep it by the fire, she thinks. “Fjolti has some things you can wear, for the time being. You’re a little small, but it’s nothing some sewing on your part can’t fix.”

My part, Arya thinks, brain going in all different directions. She’s not taking responsibility for me.

“Lady Hillevi,” she addresses carefully, “What’s going to happen to me?”

“Where are your parents?” Hillevi bluntly questions, in turn.

Arya swallows, remembering the noise of the axe that swung down to take off Ned Stark’s head, the roar of the crowds at a good beheading.

“My father is dead,” she says, wondering where she is – if she can make it to the Twins for her brother’s wedding. “I don’t know where I am.”

“You’re in Windhelm,” Hillevi says, gruff and far from kind. “Jarl Ulfric rules here and we are his loyal subjects. Are you a commoner?”

“No,” Arya says, the word feeling strange in her mouth. For the past year, almost, she’d been calling herself Arry, Weasel, Nan and pretending to be one of the smallfolk. “My father was Ned Stark, Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North.”

Hillevi eyes her sceptically. “There is no warden of the North, here, girl.”

“Yes, there is,” Arya frowns, brow furrowing. “I don’t even know how I got here. One minute, I was running away from the Hound and then, I was in the water.”

“Hound? You’re speaking in riddles. The cold must have got you,” Hillevi finally stands, discarding her mittens on the nearby table, reaching to take Arya’s shoulder, tugging her to her feet. Arya grabs one of the falling furs as she does, wrapping it around her body. “Come. We’ll get you dressed, then take you to see the Jarl. He’ll decide your fate.”

“What’s a jarl?” Arya asks, wondering if it is like a Lord.

Hillevi purses her lips. “The Jarl rules a Hold and there are nine Holds in Skyrim.”

“What’s Skyrim?” Arya then asks, swallowing nervously. “I hail from Westeros!”

The Lady of Clan Cruel-Sea looks at her with pity, then, shaking her head and leading her out of the kitchen.

“Young Arya, my husband has sailed the seas of Tamriel for his entire life and in all his stories, in all his maps and journals,” Hillevi states, “not once, have I ever, ever heard of a land named Westeros.”

Chapter Text

There are callouses on her hands, now – worse than what she got before, during her long trip North. Arya doesn’t know how Tulver does it every day, tending Hollyfrost Farm in the cold or worse, in freezing cold with a blizzard at his back. In Windhelm, there is always snow and there is always ice; farming is near damn impossible, but it can be done, if only you’re patient enough. Tulver is patient enough.

Personally, Arya likes working in the glass houses the best. It’s warm in the glass houses and sometimes, she can sneak a tomato to munch on if there are so many on a vine – the past year and a half of working for the Cruel-Sea’s has taught her when it’s appropriate to take something for herself. When she takes a break, she looks up through the frosted, condensed glass that drips cool water down onto the produce – sometimes, she can even see the stars, if the clouds aren’t in the way. The sky of Skyrim is bright, so very, very bright and the moon is always beautiful.

Rubbing her hardened hands together, creating a friction to warm them up, Arya tugs on her mittens, pulling her satchel over her shoulders.

“Here,” Tulver chucks her the cloak she’d worked so hard so make. It’s wolf-pelt, something that both made her skin crawl at first and annoys her, now, for wolves are a commodity and a pest, at that. More than once, Arya has had to slay the few that venture too close to the farm for comfort, Needle always at her side. “You’d do better trying for a bear.”

Arya scoffs, “I’m not even twelve. I’m not able to kill a bear.”

Tulver grins, “But it would get you off my hands without you having to go halfway across Skyrim. I could have a gravestone to visit, at least.” He ruffles her hair and she rolls her eyes, before pulling her cloak on, diving down to join Tiber and Ysgramor on the floor. Tiber and Ysgramor are Sir Torsten’s hounds and Arya loves them both very much, always rolling around with them when she has the chance. “You’ll get your cloak dirty.”

“You should clean the floor, then,” Arya snipes back, lying on top of Ysgramor as Tiber licks her face. “Have I got everything?”

“You do,” Tulver leans back against the door, even resisting the idea now, that Arya is leaving. “When you get to Solitude, send me a courier.”

“A courier?” Arya raises an eyebrow, “You really think I’ll be able to afford that?”

Tulver shrugs. “The Blue Palace pays well.”

“High King Torygg pays well, you mean,” Arya strokes Tiber’s long head, pressing a kiss to his wet nose. “I’m going to miss you.”

“You as well, Arya.”

“I meant the dogs,” Arya jokes, Tulver putting a hand to his chest in faux-hurt.

“I’m mortally wounded by your words, whelp. Don’t make me hug you in revenge.”

Arya looks up at Tulver; Tulver, who taught her the geography of Skyrim; Tulver, who showed her where to fish for salmon along the shoreline and dive for Nordic barnacles; Tulver, who guided her hands when she was learning to pull up roots and stones in the potato fields; Tulver, her mentor in this strange, strange land. Getting to her feet – with one last pat for Ysgramor – Arya lunges for the man, who doesn’t hesitate before wrapping his arms around her.

“I wish I could come with you,” he whispers fiercely. “But this will be good for you. Solitude is a great place, far richer than this frozen city. You will grow tall and wise with knowledge and perhaps you shall join the Legion, protecting Tamriel with your Needle-sword.”

“I’d prefer the Stormcloaks,” Arya mumbles, wondering if Solitude will be like Kings Landing, if it will be terrible and crowded. “I’ll come back. I’ll visit you.”

“Not too often. Don’t get caught up in the past, even if yours is lost to you,” Tulver advises, before ending their hug, putting a hand on her shoulder and leaning down to press their foreheads together. “Good luck. May the Divines bless your travels.”

“I pray the Old Gods guide you,” Arya says in return, before he straightens and takes a bag from behind the door, holding it out to her. Arya frowns, taking it and opening it up, eyes widening at the haul of tomatoes. “Really?”

Tulver’s eyes sparkle. “Really. Now, go, before the ship leaves without you.”

Arya attack-hugs him, holding on tightly for a few seconds before opening the door and shouting, “Goodbye, Tulver! Bye Tiber! By Ysgramor!”

Tulver stands in the doorway, waving as she rushes through the farmland to the road. “May we meet again!”

Arya doesn’t stop running, feeling her eyes burn with unshed tears as she flees, knowing she won’t ever want to leave if she looks back. But she can’t help but look across, when she’s on the bridge leading into the city of Windhelm. Tulver is still there, the hounds at his feet, eyes watching the city – watching the doors, which he’ll be able to see open for her. Arya rubs at her eyes, slowing to a walk as a Stormcloak guard looks in her direction.

“Don’t slip on the ice,” they advise her as she passes. Arya ducks her head and when she gets to the gates, the guards barely even glance at her, used to her comings and goings every week, taking goods to market for the Cruel-Sea stall.

Tulver will see the gate shut and he will go back in to sit by the fire. Will he cry? Will he be sad? Arya walks through the town square, avoiding Candlehearth Hall to go through the Grey Quarter, instead. When she hears shouting, she hurries her pace, hearing a commotion.

Turning a corner, she finds a crowd, gathered around two Nords and a Dark Elf – a Dunmer Arya recognised as a local herbalist. The Dunmer is on the ground, getting the shit kicked out of her and no-one is doing anything. Arya grabs the nearest person’s arm, glaring as they turn to her.

“Get the guards!” she barks, using what meagre strength she owns to tug them out of their revelry. Luckily for her, they have some sense about them and rush off as she slips through the crowd, taking out Needle to swipe along the back of one of the Nords. “Leave them alone!”

The Nord yowls at the contact, but there’s no blood on her blade and their leather jerkin is intact. They straighten, twisting to face her, hands reaching out to grab her – but another Nord steps up, pushing her out of the way.

“She’s right, enough of this,” he says, looming over the mugger. Arya watches two other Dunmer step up to contain the second of them, the man spitting and hissing vitriol.

“They stole from me! My purse is on her belt, my purse!”

“It’s full of dragontongue flower, you- you ingrate,” the downed herbalist coughs, spitting up blood. “Just because you spent all your coin at Candlehearth doesn’t give you the right to beat me up.”

Arya moves, going to help the grey-skinned woman up. The Dunmer gives Arya a tired smile, red eyes matching the splatters around her mouth, before the guards show up, taking the still-shouting Nord into custody. His friend argues with the guards, ending up getting taken away too, the crowd dispersing.

“We’ll take her,” the Dunmer men who secured the second Nord man help the herbalist stand, giving Arya a chance to get out of the way, “Thank-you.”

“It’s nothing,” Arya shakes her head, seeing a fallen purple flower on the ground. It’s a bit crushed, but when she picks it up, Arya realises it’s nightshade. Still useable. She holds it out to the herbalist, to give it back, but the Dunmer shakes her head.

“I don’t need it. That girl at the docks- the little flower girl, I gave her a few coins for it. It’s not something I use for my concoctions. Keep it.”

“…okay,” Arya says, clutching the flower stem tightly. The herbalist gives her a stern glare, coughing slightly.

“It’s nightshade. Don’t eat it. It’ll make you ill, maybe even kill you.”

“I know,” Arya replies, before tucking it behind her ear, hat keeping it in place. Needle is returned to her belt. “You should go get healed up.”

“Yes, she should,” one of her Dunmer friends says, before they begin walking away. Arya is left alone on the street, the only sign there was trouble the bloody splatters in the snow. Racist cunts, she thinks, rolling her eyes. The walk to the harbour is quick, after that and a sailor points at a space by some boxes, when she gets onto the ship.

“Stay there. A trip to Solitude takes two weeks. Once we’re past the ice caps around Winterhold, it’s free sailing. We’ll teach you the ropes of the ship once we’re by Dawnstar.”

“I’m not stupid,” Arya mutters, “I’ve been on a ship before.”

“Don’t care,” the sailor says, “You’re a kid. Unless you’ve spent a year in the crows nest already, I’m not doing shit with you. Ice caps are dangerous.”

The Stark rolls her eyes, but she sits by the boxes, munching on one of her tomatoes as they leave port. One of the crew gets her a blanket when night falls, advising her gently to sleep. Arya does so and when she does, Arya and Nymeria hunt together.

A campfire lets off sweet smoke in the distance and her wolves circle the men from a distance, keeping far away from their scouts. Nymeria creeps up, closer than her pack, far larger yet more silent than any of them could be. The direwolf bypasses the scout, finding her way to the camp, ears twitching with every sound the noisy men make.

“Why can’t we hole up in Moat Cailin, anyway?” one man grumbles. Nymeria doesn’t understand them, but Arya is with Nymeria, tonight and their words are clear to Nymeria’s direwolf senses, making sense to Arya’s man mind. “The rest of the army gets to.”

“Would you rather be camping out as scouts, or rebuilding that ruin?” another questions. “Queen Jeyne and Prince Ned journey North, as well, mind. Want to be their retinue?”

The first man grunts, “If I was in that retinue, at least I’d have a pretty face to look at. All the women and children went to Winterfell. All we’ve got to look at here are Frey’s.”

“The Frey girls ain’t that bad,” another man says, “my brother got in with a Frey girl. Their little girl is a scullery maid in Riverrun, now. The Fish Lord might be wary of Frey’s, but he lets the women into his house.”

“Aye, that’s not too bad, I suppose, but we aren’t you, are we, Calig?”

Nymeria moves, even as Arya pleads with her to stay, so she can learn more. But there are people moving, the change of guard Nymeria’s prison. The direwolf moves, uncaring of the prints she leaves behind – it gives the wolf a thrill to scare the men, anyway. When she’s past the scout patrol, she howls, summoning her pack, the howling of three hundred wolves ringing through the night and turning the wind ripe with the smell of fear.

Nymeria howls again and to the North, her pack call out to her, crying about a herd of deer fleeing onto a half-frozen lake. A storm thunders in the distance-

The storm is not part of her dream.

Chapter Text

Dying of cold was never something Arya was afraid of. A Stark of the North, she was used to cold – even if she hadn’t ever seen a true Westerosi winter. In Skyrim, the seasons change regularly, a cycle that Arya both loves and despises. The storm that sinks the boat bringing her to Solitude is harsh but quick, a summer storm. It could have been a lot worse, according to Skald, Jarl of Dawnstar, who takes her in after she washes up east of his town.

“It is always snowing in Dawnstar,” he says to her over a small feast. Arya sits at his table, wary but far from hungry, stuffed full of food. Skald is an old man where Ulfric Stormcloak was young, loud where Ulfric was silent, understanding where Ulfric was brisk. Arya compares their meetings in her mind, remembering how Jarl Ulfric’s gaze slipped over her without a care, before he ordered the Cruel-Sea’s to care for her, to take her in as a serf until other lodgings could be found.

“It was mostly sleet, in Windhelm,” Arya offers tentatively.

“Aye, sleet and soft blizzard, bah,” Skald rolls his eyes. “In the height of summer, Windhelm has flooded inside its own walls before, you know. It happened not once, but twice when I was a lad. The graveyard was the worst off – bodies rose from the soil inside their coffins. They had to rebury every last one of them.”

Arya grimaces, imagining the same happening to the Crypts of Winterfell, her mind conjuring the picture of bones floating along the corridors, abandoning their stone casings.

“You’re not scared, are you?” Skald queries, but his words are also a statement, an acknowledgement. “What kind of child isn’t afraid by an old man’s ghost stories?”

“A housekeeper of my father’s told us stories,” Arya says, almost without thinking. After she speaks, she hesitates briefly, before continuing. “Old Nan. She told us of grumpkins, wildlings and white walkers. What I know of magic, I know from her.”

Skald grimaces. “Magic. Stay away from that craft, young one. Strange things happen to practitioners of every art – just look at my court wizard! Traumatised by her own gifts, by the use of them in the war she fought.” Skald shakes his head, “What do you think of war, child?”

“It’s stupid. People get killed over nothing and it’s always the worst people in power, who people always fight back against,” Arya says. My brother led an army for us, she wants to say, for me and Sansa, to avenge Father and get us back from the Lannister’s. He became King in the North, for us. Glimpses of her world through Nymeria’s eyes tell her few things, but sometimes, few things are enough.

I am an aunt and my nephew is named for our father.

Robb holds Moat Cailin against the South.

Uncle Edmure is Lord of Riverrun, probably with a Frey wife.

My family lives.

“War is sometimes necessary, I believe,” Skald replies, leaning back in his chair. “What about when you fight for freedom from oppression?”

Arya eyes him, “I don’t care for the Empire, but the Stormcloak Cause is rife with prejudice and hate. The Grey Quarter in Windhelm is proof enough of that.”

“Ulfric is a Nord’s Nord,” Skald agrees. “But our culture and beliefs are being stomped out in the face of the Empire’s doctrine and those damn Thalmor aren’t helping. I hate those Talos-forsaken elves.”

Arya’s mind drifts through what she learnt about the races of Tamriel from Tulver. Thalmor. High elves? The Dunmer – dark elves – were another species of elf, just as Nords, Bretons and Redguards were species of men. Arya doesn’t think she’s ever met a Thalmor, before.

“I’ve made up my mind,” Skald then says, clearly speaking of something else, now. “You’ll stay in Dawnstar as my ward. You’ll have a Hall to come home to every night, a warm hearth and a comfortable bed. My servants shall treat you well and all your wishes met.”

“I- I beg your pardon, sire?” Arya stiffens, confused. “Why?”

“Because I’m without an heir,” Skald grumbles, “Never married. No children of my own. Dawnstar isn’t the friendliest to families, either. My most likely successor will be a former member of the Legion, an Imperial. An Empire spy, really. Her loyal dog still wears his Legion uniform even, damn traitor. You’ll stay here and be treated well. In return, you shall take this burden from me upon my death or banishment.”

“You’re mad, you barely know me,” Arya protests, standing. “You can’t just name me your heir! What if I don’t want to be Jarl?”

“Don’t you? What other life awaits you?” Skald questions her, “Does life as a scullery maid in Solitude appeal to you so much that you would deny yourself this gift?”

“I…” Arya doesn’t know ow to answer. Truly, Jarl Skald’s proposal is preposterous and mad. I was never going to be a leader, she thinks with a slight feeling of horror, that was going to be Robb, Jon – Sansa, even. Sansa was going to be Queen. Robb is King in the North and Jon is part of the honourable Nights Watch. “I don’t know how to be a Jarl,” she says, crumbling under the pressure that suddenly weighs down on her shoulders.

Skald reaches across the table, settling a gnarled hand on her shoulder, gripping it tight. Blue eyes meet grey and Skald gives her a grim smile.

“You will learn. I will teach you everything I know. Dawnstar will be yours, by right and by conquest, if necessary. We won’t let the Empire take yet another province of Skyrim for their own. You will be the people’s leader, their first defence against the evils of this world. In times of trouble, the people of the Pale will enter your Hall and kneel at your throne, begging for your guidance; you will be their Jarl and you will help them, rule them and protect them.”

“Dawnstar will be mine,” Arya repeats, hardly able to believe the words escaping her own mouth. “I will- I will be Jarl of a Hold.”

“Yes,” Skald says and it is nothing like the moment where her father sat her down in the Red Keep and told her she would be married to a Lord and rule his keep. Her father promised her imprisonment of a different kind. Skald offers her… “Arya, Jarl of Dawnstar. Jarl Arya. Oh, this will be good. I can feel it. Will you make me proud, child?”

“I- I will. I will try,” Arya says, hesitating. “But…”

“But?”

“But, if I have a chance to go home, to my family,” Arya clenches her fists, “I’m going. I won’t stay here when I could see my brothers and sisters again, when I could be held in my mother’s arms and when I could meet my baby nephew.”

Skald nods shortly. “Aye, I understand. While I have no family of my own, when your heart lies far from where your stand, I know that it pulls you back to them. But until that day comes, I will endeavour to make Dawnstar have such a grip on you. You will grow to love the land and the future I have envisaged for you.”

“You can try,” Arya retorts, getting a laugh out of the old Jarl.

“That I will! But now, to bed with you – there’s a room up those stairs you may claim as your own,” Skald points to it and Arya looks, glancing across to the other side where a hooded woman sits beside an alchemists table. They meet eyes, briefly, Arya surprised at the depth she sees, before Skald hauls Arya away. “Sleep,” he orders. “Tomorrow, you will be woken before the crack of dawn and I shall test your mettle in matters of swords and politics, both.”

Arya’s hand comes to rest at Needle’s hilt on her belt. “I can fight,” she mutters.

“We’ll see how you fare against that Legion fighter-dog I mentioned, before,” Skald replies, slightly downtrodden. “He might be an Empire spy, but he’s also one of the best fighters in the Pale. You’ll face him in the morning.”

“Okay,” Arya says, before shuffling forwards, Skald’s hand slipping from her shoulder. She moves up the first few steps, pausing to turn to face him. “Thank-you. For the food and the bed.”

Skald grins, teeth crooked and yellow, firelight glancing off the silver decoration of his furs. “The pleasure is all mine, young one. Sleep well.”

Chapter Text

“Oomph!”

Horik Half-Hand grunts as she spits snow and blood out of her mouth, pushing up from the ground and turning to face him again, wrapped fists curling up again the way her brothers taught her.

“You’ve got spirit, I’ll give you that,” Horik says, glancing at Brina Merilis, who stands off to the side, watching them with crossed arms. “Who taught you that footwork, though? It’s not suited to hand-to-hand.”

“It’s for water-dancing,” Arya says, wiping her mouth again. One of her teeth feels loose. “The type of sword-fighting I know. It’s more about movement than hacking and slashing.”

“Right, well,” Horik says, “forget that footwork when it comes to face-to-face brawling. When you’ve got Spindle out-”

“Needle,” Arya corrects.

“-then you can do your fancy footwork. It’s good, just not the right style when you need to hold your ground.” Horik motions her closer, “Again.”

Eyes brightening, Arya grins with bloody teeth before getting back down to business, listening to every word he says as he continues to teach her physical combat. At one point, that loose tooth goes flying and she honestly doesn’t care, so long as she gets told how to fix her mistake, to make sure she can never do it again.

When midday comes, Horik takes her to get patched up by Skald’s court wizard – a herbalist and healer, among other things. She gives Arya a mild healing potion, before using healing magic to repair Arya’s abused face. Despite the victory she feels after the gruelling and painful session, Arya isn’t sad to feel those already-blue knocks disappear.

“Had ale before?” Brina questions smoothly, when they sit down for bread and ham. Arya shrugs.

“Have. Don’t like it.” Arya shakes her head at the offered tankard, accepting the ice water given to her instead by one of the servants. Brina keeps watching her and Arya slowly begins to feel more and more wary, back tensing as the meal goes by and Brina refuses to take her eyes off of Arya.

Eventually, she snaps nervously. “What do you want?”

“Information,” Brina says. “You claim to be from a land beyond Tamriel.”

“What of it?” Arya questions, “That’s none of your business.”

“No-one comes to Skald with their problems,” Brina tells her, leaning in slightly. “They come to me. Skald can talk all he wants about being the person that the people come to, but there’s been a steady decline of people lining up in front of him in search of help. They either solve their own problems, or ask me to help.”

Arya frowns. “Why?”

“Skald is…unstable,” Brina says flatly, after only a moments pause. “He’s a Stormcloak supporter to the extreme. Believes everything bad in the world is the Empire’s fault or the Thalmor’s. There’s having a belief and then there’s believing to the point of ignorance.”

“What do you believe in?” Arya asks her.

“I believe in the Legion. I believe that they protect the inhabitants of Skyrim,” Brina says. “The history of Skyrim’s first settlers are muddled. Nords will say they were the first, but they were in conflict with the previous inhabitants. Every race except the Ra Gada will claim Skyrim as their species’ first home.”

Her history lesson is interesting, something Arya’s never heard before. “Really?” she asks, wondering if her claim is true.

“Yes. Would you like to know more about Skyrim’s history?” Brina questions.

“Please,” Arya says, eager.

That afternoon is spent learning of Tamriel. The ex-Legionnaire says things simply, but she says a lot and by the end, Arya is sure she knows more of Skyrim’s beginnings than she does of Westeros. Except, when she thinks of Westeros, her mind becomes crowded with stories and folk tales, of House rivalries and Dragon Kings.

“You look deep in thought,” Thoring, the owner of Windpeak Inn, says to her. Arya, staring into space, playing with her cup, looks up to find him sitting down opposite her in the space Brina had departed. “What troubles you, lass?”

Arya struggles to answer him. “Home. This situation. Why should I learn the history of Tamriel if I’m going to go back to Westeros?”

“All history is a lesson,” Thoring says. “My daughter, Karita, she was so full of stories that she made them into song. It is her trade, now. Perhaps you can learn something from them.”

“I learnt something from my histories, too,” Arya says, frustrated. “Everything is different here. Even the animals.”

“Well,” Thoring chuckles, “that’s to be expected. You think that Morrowind has wolves and sabretooth tigers?”

“In Westeros, we have wolves and wild dogs,” Arya mutters. “Direwolves, in the far north.”

“Direwolves?” Thoring raises an eyebrow, reaching to tuck a strand of blonde hair behind his ear. “What, pray tell are direwolves?”

Arya grins, “The sigil of my house – House Stark. Direwolves are vicious and deadly, that grow higher than war steeds and a third longer. My father found a dead mother with cubs and each of my siblings were given one. I had Nymeria, fiercest of them all; my brother Robb had Greywind, the largest and fastest; my half-brother Jon had the runt, Ghost, with red eyes and white fur; Sansa had the most beautiful, whom she called Lady.”

She rolls her eyes in memory, even as a pang aches through her chest, for Lady is dead because Sansa thought she loved Joffrey more than Arya.

“Rickon had Shaggydog – or Shaggy, Rickon was only very small,” Arya continues, “and Bran had Summer. Summer saved him from assassins, when Bran was asleep.”

Thoring frowns lightly. “Why did someone want to kill your little brother, young Arya?”

“Don’t know,” Arya shrugs, finishing the last of her water.

“We can find you a dog, if it makes you feel closer to home,” Thoring offers kindly, when his frown has faded. But Arya shakes her head.

“Nymeria is alive. I dream with her, in my sleep,” Arya shares, not seeing the harm in telling the innkeep of her wolf-dreams. Skyrim is full of magic, she thinks, he won’t think much of it, probably. “We’re bonded. Direwolves are special.”

“Oh,” Thoring blinks, slightly taken aback. Arya pauses suddenly, wondering if she’d made a mistake. “That’s…disheartening,” he says, pausing between words.

“What is?” she questions, eyes locked on the Nord.

“It’s just…” Thoring crosses his arms on the table, obviously deep in thought. “Wolves here are pack animals and I doubt your direwolves are much different. You must miss your brothers and sister dearly, milady.”

Arya sits back as if she’d been scalded. “Miss them? I- of course I miss them! I haven’t seen them in years, Thoring.”

“What do you miss about them?” he asks.

“I miss…I miss how stupid Sansa is,” Arya starts, swallowing, “I miss how she always snuck lemon cakes from the kitchens. I miss seeing Bran climb the outside of the tower and hearing him complain to Maester Luwin. I miss Rickon’s face and Robb’s stupid beard. It wasn’t even growing in right, proper. He was a King and he didn’t even have a proper beard.”

Thoring’s lip twitches, “How old was he?”

“He’d be nineteen, now,” Arya says, “Nymeria listened to some of his soldiers talking, in one of my dreams. He married a girl and they have a son named after our late father, Ned Stark.”

“Congratulations.”

Arya smiles properly, then, grinning with full teeth. “Thank-you. I don’t know how old he is, but he should only be a baby; Prince Ned, they called him.”

“And what of your other brother?” Thoring questions, “The one with the albino wolf? What do you miss about him?”

Her smile fades. “Jon. Jon Snow – our father’s bastard son. He grew up with us. My mother never liked him. Jon used to pick me up and twirl me around so my feet couldn’t touch the ground – it was the best feeling in the world. I miss him the most, after my mother. I want to see my mother again, desperately. I haven’t seen her since…” since we left Winterfell, since before King Robert died.

Thoring reaches across the table, hand resting on her shoulder. “You will see them all again, that I swear on Talos and the Divines. Even if I have to make a deal with the Daedric Prince of Wishes, I promise you will.”

Arya’s eyes sting and she reaches to hold onto his wrist, clutching it tightly, begging for contact. Thoring leans closer, over the table, pressing their foreheads together. Arya bites her tongue sharply, willing tears not to form. Her heart beats like a drum inside her chest and all she wants to do is see her family, be encased in her father’s arms as Robb and Theon bicker in the background, Sansa cooing over baby Rickon. She can imagine it all in her head – Bran and Jon playing cyvasse at the great table, while Maester Luwin does his reports, occasionally whispering to Bran where to move his pieces. Her father would be wearing his warm jerkin with grey fox-fur edges and his beard would brush across her forehead as he kissed her.

“I want to go back to how it was before,” Arya whispers, teary. “Why was I brought here?”

“I have no knowledge of these things, lass,” Thoring says, pulling back and bringing a thumb up to wipe away her tears. “Would you like some advice from this lowly barkeep?”

“Please,” Arya nods, rubbing her face with her sleeve.

“Focus on the here and now,” Thoring says, “for your journey home may not be until years to come. While the Jarl is…well, while he’s taken you in, he’s not wrong in his reasons. You have faced deep loss and uncertainty in your short life. I would be happy to have you as my Jarl, Arya.”

Arya’s nose scrunches up as she sniffs, confused, “You would?”

“You’re here, with the people,” Thoring says, “which is more than any Jarl I’ve seen. You’re clever, willing to learn and you can fight well for your age. There’s a war coming, Arya – a war that will split Skyrim in two. I fear Dawnstar will be stuck in the middle of it. If you survive to see the other side, I’ll look upon you once more and decide whether or not to change my mind.”

Thoring gets up from the bench, grabbing a nearby abandoned plate and tankard, “But for now, aye – Skald has made a good decision for the first time in thirty years. Great tidings upon you, Arya of the Pale.”

Chapter Text

The door is shadowy and gives Arya the shivers that have nothing to do with the temperature.

Cold wind blows through her hair, tickling her neck, the rest of her bundled up in thick fabrics lined with fur, that keep her warm and toasty. Her bulky boots are strapped to her legs – they’re a pain to get off, late at night when she wants to drop into her bed, but Arya has to get her daily routine finished before sundown. Said daily routine involves trudging through waist-deep snow and she is far from interested in losing one of her feet later by wearing thin leather shoes.

Arya reflects on the past few months – months which have been busier and more hectic than Arya ever expected from quiet little Dawnstar. The High King is dead, now and Arya is turning thirteen sometime soon. It has been over a year since her arrival here. Arya expects another drastic change any moment – it has been a theme of her life, after all, starting from when she was nine and leaving the North for the first time. Arya wonders when her next move will be, if it will come with the turning of the year.

Skyrim is falling into disarray. The Stormcloaks fight the Imperials and more than once, Skald has ordered her to help his men scout out the Imperial camp south of the wreck of The Brinehammer. Arya doesn’t know what to think. This isn’t her land or her war – her war is the North versus the South, Stark against Lannister. Arya doesn’t want to assassinate Imperials in the dark while they sleep, not for Skald, not for the Stormcloaks or Jarl Ulfric – not for anyone. No-one tells her what to do or who to fight.

Well – except when we fight the dragon that is terrorising us. But it doesn’t give me choice.

Dropping her backpack down on a nearby rock, Arya steps closer to the infamous Whispering Door, waving her arm widely when she sees Harlaug out on the water in his sailboat, coming back from Windhelm with two passengers. One of the passengers waves back and Arya squints when she sees a familiar yellow shape on their lap.

Is that cheese? The passenger, as if hearing her question, takes out a dagger from their belt and slices a section, completely demolishing it with a practiced ease that makes Arya slightly uneasy. Eyebrows creeping upwards in disbelief, she turns back to the door with a shake of her head.

It whispers. The sound is like someone breathing, or the final stuttering inhales one takes before their heart stops. Arya reaches, laying a palm up against the red hand that is carved and painted on the large skull. Her own hand is far smaller, nearly only half as large. When she pulls it away, red flakes follow and Arya frowns, sniffing them. Bringing her palm close, Arya’s tongue darts out to taste it.

The flakes take mere moments to dissolve, the familiar taste of copper – blood – causing Arya to step back sharply.

“Who paints a door in blood?” she asks aloud, before trying the handle, only to freeze as a voice emanates from the empty sockets.

“What is life’s greatest illusion?”

Paralysed, Arya remains silent, letting go of the handle carefully. It’s a riddle, she thinks, even as she acknowledges what the door really wants. A password. Peddling back, the Stark girl swiftly decides to make her way back to Dawnstar, grabbing the mane of her nearby horse and hauling herself up onto her flank.

Lemoncake was a present from Skald. Arya couldn’t ask for a better mount, according to the old owner. A destrier over seventeen hands high, the female horse gives Arya free reign to roam the Pale, as well as Hjaalmarch and even Whiterun Hold, when Skald sends her off on emissary work. Arya has met two more Jarls since her original settling in Dawnstar, feasting with Balgruuf of Whiterun twice and entertaining Idgrod Ravencrone the Elder of Morthal – Idgrod is particularly fond of Arya, though less that can be said of Balgruuf, the better.

“Let’s go back, now, Lemoncake,” Arya leads her horse away from the Whispering Door, around the rocky crags back into Dawnstar. To her left, Harlaug is leaning out his boat, so far back his head brushes the water, fighting against the tough winds – but almost immediately after passing the crags, the wind lets up and she hears him laugh loudly as he straightens up.

His passengers are acting far less calmly. Language, Arya thinks, even as she assimilates the new insults into her repertoire as they echo through the bay. By the time she makes it all the way to Iron-Breaker Mine to tie Lemoncake to a post in the stable, a construct newly built on the end of the small Iron-Breaker blacksmiths close to the heat, Haulaug has already lowered his sails and weighed anchor.

Through the wind and the snow, Arya hears the roar of that damn dragon. Her fists bunch and she grabs her hunters bow from Lemoncake’s back, quiver already tied to her lower back and packed with what at first-glance looks to be about twenty arrows, at the most. Needle is on her waist as per usual, but if the dragon acts as it usually does, it won’t set foot on the ground to give her a chance to use it.

“Dragon!” she hears one of the guardswomen call as it roars again, louder and closer than before. As Arya steps out of the stable, its shadow passes overhead and her eyes follow it as it flies over the harbour, frost-fire freezing the bay. Already, people are fruitlessly shooting, but a miracle happens, as it lands on the roof of Windpeak Inn

“For the Pale!” Horik bellows as he lands a shot in its gullet. The dragon roars, but once again another shot lands on it – again and again, bolts of purple lightning rippling across its flank. Arya doesn’t stop to watch, instead drawing her bow and aiming fast and free. The dragon eventually begins to bat its wings again, signalling its take-off from the building roof and Arya looks to her comrades.

The newcomers, Arya thinks with a slight frown, eyeing Harlaug’s passengers, both wielding bows of their own. The one with the cheese wheels is dressed in Stormcloak armour, but they wear a strange curved helm that glows green in the moonlight. Arya thinks it’s a trick of the light, until she sees their bow – a hunters one like hers, except rather than being plain wood, it shimmers with magical power in the same vibrant purple as the lightning that arced across the dragon when it was shot.

There’s not much time to admire the stranger’s helm, however, as the dragon decides to land on the west side of town, right next to the khajit traders’ camp. Arya runs up towards the site, bow still in hand, but before she can get within thirty yards of even the dragon’s frost breath, a guard grabs her by her collar.

“Milady, no!” the guardswoman denies her the privilege of fighting the great beast. Arya squirms, trying to get out of her grip, but guards in the Pale aren’t recruited solely for their wits; and so Arya is held back as the dragon is fought by over a dozen guards and the two newcomers – the stranger of which actually decides to ride its neck and stab it multiple times in the head. “They’re insane,” the guardswoman mutters as the sounds of battle die down, only a strange whooshing filling the already windy town.

“What in the Seven Hells…” Arya breathes in wonder as the dragon begins to burn up, scales, flesh and blood all burning up into nothingness, leaving a pale skeleton while a ghostly wind rushes towards the cheese-bearing stranger. They almost consume the magical wind and the guard’s arms go slack enough that Arya can go forth, barging past Borgny, Ravam the Shipman and Lond to address the otherworldly warrior.

“Who are you, stranger? What was that?” she questions, demanding an answer. The stranger turns to face her as soon as she begins speaking, their companion sighing almost sadly to themselves.

“I am the Dragonborn, who are you?” the stranger says. Arya narrows her eyes.

“I am Arya Stark and I demand you see the Jarl, Dragonborn. No ordinary man could…” Arya swallows nervously, trying to infuse her voice with strength, if not courage, “…could do that.”

“Good thing I’m no man, then,” the Dragonborn says and Arya can see them smiling behind their helm. They take it off, moonlight shining off the almost-silver surface. Underneath, there’s a plain Nord face, a woman’s face, red war-paint in the shape of a hand distracting Arya from anything else distinctive about them. “I am Tiffany Stormborn. Take me to your Jarl, Arya Stark and pray for me that I find favour. I did help rid Dawnstar of a pest, did I not?”

“Wearing that armour, you’ll surely make Skald happy,” Arya replies, trying to ignore every piece of information she is collecting as she turns to take the warrior to the White Hall. Dragonborn. Stormborn. Everything in her mind is screaming Targaryen.

The Dragonborn follows her along the road, companion at her heels. “This is Lydia,” the Dragonborn introduces, passing her helm to said companion. “She’s my Housecarl.”

Housecarl? Arya frowns, even as Lydia tiredly says, as if by rote, “I am sworn to carry your burdens.”

“You always sound so sour, Lydia, how about some cheer?” Tiffany addresses her.

“As you wish, my Thane.”

Thane, Arya thinks, slightly dumbstruck. This Dragonborn is a Thane. But of where? Arya glances at Lydia and wonders if it just her mind, or if the woman is suddenly familiar. They pass by a guard holding a torch and her face is illuminated, dark hair framing a pale face, the yellow of the cheese-wheels she carries on her back so vivid, even in the nighttime. Arya swallows, looking back towards the White Hall. The sun has truly set, now.

For what feels like the millionth time, she asks herself why Westeros only has Brienne of Tarth – why Westeros doesn’t endorse female fighters, when it is so obvious in every other land Arya has lived in that the strongest are not necessarily men?

I know you, the young woman thinks to Lydia, remembering her pretty face illuminated by fire in Balgruuf’s court, accepted as a female warrior in a country full of men. Whiterun feels so far away, now. Why would you follow this Dragonborn?

Arya finds her answers inside the White Hall, when Tiffany Stormborn talks to Skald of Dawnstar and dragons.

“Housecarl,” Arya addresses Lydia under the beams, by the doors to Skald’s chambers. Lydia shifts only ever so slightly, inclining her head. “How fares Whiterun Hold?”

“My lady. I have not seen Whiterun much in recent days. My Thane wanders Skyrim and I follow her, gladly.”

“You don’t look glad,” Arya replies.

Lydia purses her lips, “I might be Nord, but I hold no fondness for the cold.”

“Winter is coming,” Arya recites her House words by rote, voice sombre. “It always is.”

“My Thane did Jarl Balgruuf a great service,” Lydia says, unprompted, “and was rewarded kindly. My Thane has done much for Skyrim in the short time she has wandered. Whiterun and Falkreath are under her protection.”

Arya frowns, but then the Dragonborn finishes speaking to Skald and turns to face Arya.

“How did you end up in Dawnstar?”

Folding her arms over her chest, Arya decides to entertain the woman’s curiosity. “My ship to Solitude crashed and I washed up here. Skald took me in and now I am to be Jarl after he’s dead in the ground.”

“Washed up?” Tiffany queries, frowning.

“Yes. My ship crashed, you see. Anything else?” Arya scowls.

“Why were you going to Solitude?” Tiffany asks, after a moment of thought.

“To work as a scullery maid. I was in the care of the Cruel-Seas of Windhelm, until Tulver, their farmer, arranged for me to take a job in the Blue Palace. I’m glad I didn’t, now,” Arya says, remembering a tale she’d heard from someone in Morthal. “One of the wings is haunted, did you know? I wouldn’t want to work there.”

“Huh,” Tiffany listens, glancing at Lydia with raised eyebrows. “I should check that out.”

Lydia sighs. Arya recognises the acute exasperation there, now the wind isn’t whistling in her ears. “I am your sword and your shield.”

Tiffany grins at her companion. “That’s the spirit.”

Chapter Text

The Dragonborn leaves Dawnstar without much fanfare. From Thoring, Arya hears Captain Wayfinder had managed to get her pledge to retrieve fine-cut void salts for him. It makes Arya’s mind spin, wondering if perhaps she could ask someone to do things for her. Like, find out the password for the Whispering Door.

Arya has coin, saved up from Skald’s allowances. What kind of payment would the Dragonborn accept if Arya asked her? Captain Wayfinder intends to pay her in coin, she finds out after a little conversation with the busy man. Of course, Arya doesn’t have to pay another – she could always go out herself, explore the world and scour it for answers.

“Skald,” Arya addresses the old man some few weeks after the Dragonborn has left, “Could I venture out into the world?”

“Hmm?” Skald looks up from the map full of blue and red flags, marking Stormcloak and Imperial camps and capitals. “Why would you want to do that? Skyrim is in the middle of a civil war. It’s not safe for young ones like you to go out. Leave making your mark until the war is over.”

Arya rankles at the order. “What if I just left in the night? What if I took my horse and rode for- for Riften?”

“Riften is pledged to Ulfric, so go on ahead with your plan – it’s the least likely place to be attacked, as well,” Skald straightens, narrowing his eyes. “I don’t want you leaving, though. You’ll keep put here in Dawnstar. You’re not to go out visiting the people. Loreius’ Estate might be our most profitable taxing, but it can be done by the guards. It’s too close to Whiterun for my liking. You could be kidnapped, held for ransom. No more patrols.”

“What?” Arya glares, “You can’t tell me what to do.”

“Oh?” Skald steps up in front of her, looming threateningly. “I am Jarl of the Pale. You are my heir. You agreed to that, girl.”

“I’m Westerosi,” Arya argues.

“You’re still my heir,” Skald replies, before grabbing her collar. “You’re to be locked in your room until you learn the meaning of respect.”

“Hey! Let me go!” Arya tugs and kicks at him, but Skald is quick to call the guards over and it’s only Arya’s restraint which stops her from eviscerating them. Glaring daggers at the Jarl, Arya watches him turn back to the war table, the guards muttering their apologies as they lead her out of the room.

Up the stairs into her room she goes. The door shuts and she sees the guards’ shadows underneath the gap. Arya immediately starts packing the most important of her belongings away into a leather knapsack. Her gold – all three hundred and twenty-four coins of it – is hidden, bundled up inside the only dress she owns, a blue, embroidered thing with ice wolf pelt across the shoulders. Beside it, she stuffs as many healing potions as she can and then food.

Surprisingly, she has a lot of food in her room – bread, cheese and even a sweet-roll. Arya eats her long taffy treat, rather than pack it away, angry and not knowing what else to pack. Lemoncake has all her other things that she might need, like an emergency tent and fire-starters. She even has a lamp with glass windows tied to her saddle, for darker afternoons in the winter-time and Arya needs to look at her map.

Now to leave. Arya doesn’t know many spells – she knows only three, actually and none of them are useful in this situation, unless she’s wants to burn the longhouse down, heal the burns caused by the fire and electrocute the guards that will come after her. There are no other potions left in her room, with the healing potions all packed away, so they can’t help, either. Needle is of no service to her either, here.

Climbing up onto her bed, bag across her shoulder, she reaches up, testing the square panes of glass that edge the tallest part of the outside wall. To their credit, they hold up pretty well. However, Arya intends to break them, which could be noisy and – if they’re too strong – useless in the long run if the noise gets her caught. But it’s the only chance I’ve got to get out. I want to see the world – not just the inside of the White Hall.

A knock comes from the door. “Milady?”

Arya pauses, turning where she stands on her bed. “Madena? Is that you?”

“Aye, Arya. Let me in?”

“I’m locked in,” Arya replies, voice full of spite aimed at Skald and the guards out on the balcony.

Madena enters soon after, tugging at her dark blue hood. There are faint scars on her face from fire and Arya desperately wants to hear her war-stories, but knows it will never happen. The court’s wizard shuts the door behind her, hands pressing up against the wood as she listens to the guards shuffle around outside.

What is she up to?

“…milady,” Madena murmurs, taking a vial from her pocket. It shimmers with magic and Arya’s eyes widen. “This is a potion of invisibility. Take it. We must pretend to argue. I will storm out and you will follow, under cover of this magic.”

“Madena, truly?” Arya whispers, stomach flip-flopping. “Why?”

“Skald is chasing you away. He is…his mind…”

“Unstable.”

Madena grimaces under her hood. “Yes.” She holds out the potion and Arya takes it, mind churning as she uncorks the bottle. She tries to seem apologetic before swallowing it whole, breathing in deep before yelling.

“You’re an outcast! A stupid, horrible witch who can’t even do proper magic! Go away! Leave me alone, you hag! Can’t even fight a war right!”

The wizard flinches and Arya steps forwards as she turns, opening the door with shaking her hands. She rubs her back in comfort, following close behind her as she rushes out the room, slamming the door behind her – the guards none the wiser to Arya’s sneaking.

Skald on his throne frowns at the sight of Madena’s rushing about, calling out, “What did the girl say to you, my court wizard? Being disrespectful?”

“Worse,” Madena gasps, stuttering, “I- I must go. Please excuse me, my- my Jarl.” Madena doesn’t even bow, Arya on her heels as they escape out into the Pale, the winter winds nipping at their bare skin. Madena doesn’t stop running, going all the way to the empty blacksmiths where Lemoncake is stabled nextdoor.

A trickle runs down her back and Arya feels the magic dissipate, the potion dispersing.

“You must go, Lady Arya,” Madena says as she reappears – but the wizard refuses to look at her.

“Madena, I didn’t mean any of that,” Arya tries, reaching for Madena’s wrist. “Please, believe me. I know you are true and kind, and what you did in the war is none of my business.”

“No. It’s not. Go, Arya,” Madena says flatly, pushing her away. “Go. You haven’t much time. The guards are coming.”

She’s right, is the problem. Guilt swirling away inside her stomach, Arya goes, not looking back. She dodges the patrols, hiding in the shadows of the White Hall and sneaking in to saddle her horse. Lemoncake snorts against her hair as she feeds her an apple, stealing the bag of horse grain on her way out. Guards shout for her – but they run and run and run.

Arya doesn’t look back.