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Chapter Text

She runs through the forest, fast and loose. She smells men, hungry men. But most importantly the scent of her.

Arya opened her eyes suddenly, quickly making sure no one was in the chambers. She took out Needle from beneath the pillow, and set it atop the mattress next to a knife. She wanted to be ready in case anyone came in.

The maid dress she had been wearing when she killed Walder Frey was useless now. The day before, she had sent the servants and made them bring her all Freys in the castle. She had barged the door to the northern castle, but the servants had little love for house Frey. Most Rivers men and women were eager to hand in the most powerful members of the Twins, the stain of being their bastards enough reason. They had almost gladly helped her take both castles.

Arya had known better than to trust anyone’s judgement on the other. So she had spent the entire day judging them, using the training from the Faceless Men to distinguish between the liars from the honest.

Roslin Frey had helped. Roslin Tully she was, and one look in her eyes had told Arya that she was an innocent mother. The woman had been fearful of Arya, she could tell. So she had offered her best smile.

“Do you mind if I call you aunt?” Arya had asked her in private, looking at the babe in her arms. Her cousin. Roslin had smiled.

“Not at all.” She shook the babe in her arms. “We would both be delighted. This is my son, Edmyn.”

“Hello Edmyn.” She had taken the boy’s hand, and his smile had reminded her so much of her mother she nearly cried. The boy gave her the unintelligible mumbling of a little babe, causing them both to smile. “I’m sorry for your loss, Roslin.”

“What?” Panic settled on her face and she clutched the babe to her chest. “What happened to Edmure.”

“I meant for your father and two brothers.” Roslin’s panic left her face, leaving nothing but an awkward grim. “They had no honor, but they were your family. My father and brother were traitors too when they died, and I mourned them all the same.”

Arya felt no guilt over the deaths of Walder and his sons, but she did not meant to offend Roslin, she seemed to have suffered enough.

“They were...not the only ones without honor, my lady.” Roslin admitted.

“Call me Arya.” She said immediately. “Would you help me… find the ones who need to face justice?”

Roslin agreed. And so Arya had sat for hours, doing a trial for every men: it was not easy, they accused each other of all crimes. In the end, the guilty ones were set apart.

Arya asked for a block and a sword. And she had taken the heads of all guilty ones well into the night. The dress had been completely stained in blood.

It was another day now, and Arya needed to do much more.

Someone had set a dress for her, and Arya debated whether or not just ask for breeches. She decided not to shock them too much yet. When she arrived to the great hall, Olyvar Frey awaited there.

“My lady Stark,” he said as she sat on the table, she chose to sit in the late lord Frey’s seat, to remind them. There were eggs, bacon and ale. She sniffed them all before even touching them with her lips. “May I have an audience?”

Roslin had spoken of his loyalty, as well as Perwyn’s. “Speak, Olyvar.”

“They told me you wished for one of us to speak of our men at arms.” Arya nodded for him to continue. “We have many men with the Boltons, my lady. We haven’t received news of them in some time. Most of the other men are at Riverrun.”

“Is the Frey banner hanging from Riverrun?” Arya’s blood ran cold at the idea. It was the seat of her uncle, the home of her mother. Arya was half a Tully too. Olyvar nodded silently, ashamed. Arya had thought of going home. Punishing house Frey and get to Winterfell. What abou Cersei? a voice asked in her head. What about justice for mother? Arya rose, determined. “Olyvar, are there anymore Freys like you?”

The man before her hesitated. “Not many.”

“Counting the women? What of the Rivers?” Arya asked, certain that not an entire family could be rotten, at least not a large one like this.

“I can think of 20 at best, my lady. And I’d only be certain of 15, if I had to bet my life.” Olyvar said plainly. Arya liked his honesty.

“It is enough. Girl,” Arya said to a servant who was cleaning the table, “please fetch me a quill, ink, paper and salt.” The girl nodded and hurried off the room. “Tell me Olyvar, if I only demanded a… payment from house Frey in exchange of forgiving them from complete annihilation, you reckon the rest of your family would accept?”

“Can’t speak for the lot of them, my lady.” He answered. “But I’d take our chances of survival are greater if we take a deal than opposing you. I have faith not all of my family would be stupid enough to choose certain death. May I ask what the payment would be?”

“Food, timber, resources. Anything other Riverland lords may need.” Arya told him. The girl came back with her paper and ink, and Arya bit her lip. She knew her letters of course, but she was never good at courtesies and proper talk. It doesn’t matter, she told herself. This is war not some silly dance invitation Sansa would write, I must gather a pack, not fancy dancers.

She set the paper before her on the table and stared at it like a foe. I am brave, she reminded herself, I am wolf with sharp teeth and deadly claws. Writing down felt as good as gripping Needle.

“To the lords of the Riverlands, I write this letter freely and willingly from the Twins. I am Arya Stark of Winterfell, trueborn daughter of Eddard Stark, lord of Winterfell and his wife lady Catelyn of House Tully. In my blood swims the trout of Tully and runs the wolf of Stark.

I have extracted justice on the butchery known as the Red Wedding. The Twins are mine by conquest and I call upon those who consider their ruling of Riverrun the aberration it is to join me. House Frey will pay for its betrayal in gold and blood, come join me in the Twins if you wish for justice in the Riverlands.

Winter is coming.

Arya Stark.”

She smiled to herself. It may not sound pretty, may not be the most polished wording, but she was confident of the content. “Gather this trusted men, send the letters. I am sure your treacherous lord did not burn all the Stark banners, and if he did, get someone who can paint our words.”

“What if they don’t believe the messengers?” Olyvar asked. Arya couldn'tt believe he had not seen it coming.

“Tell them they can come to the Twins to claim whatever they need. I’m sure most are desperate for food and you have plenty. Other will need men to fix so many burned fields, we have enough prisoners for a lifetime of labor sentences. You have plenty of gold too. The offer will be tempting, they will come. Distrusting and fully armed surely, but they will come. Now go do as I tell you.” He nodded silently and turned to leave, and she berated herself for being so harsh. “Olyvar.”

“Yes my lady?” he asked anxiously.

“I was told by Roslyn that you were quite loyal to my brother.” Arya had to stop, trying not to think of the image of Robb’s death, his corpse with the head replaced by Grey Wind. It took some effort to control her voice. “As was your brother Perwyn. And she has told me of other Freys, of some Rivers too and of loyal common men. I am willing to give you a chance.” She looked at him straight in the eye, and she saw a certain pride at being called loyal. “Prove yourself right, and I will make sure others know of your value.”

“Thank you, my lady Stark.” She noticed emotion in his voice as he dipped his head and left the room.

It felt strange being called Lady Stark, that was always her mother’s title. It is who I am, though. Reclaiming her identity had meant a high cost and she would not let it go again. I am Lady Stark. Her own kind of lady perhaps, but Stark nonetheless. Sitting in the high chair, she finished her meal with a small smile.

Her time had finally come.

Chapter Text

Arya sat uncomfortably on the seat. Roslin had pinned two strands of hair towards the back of her head and braided them, making her head hurt. She had laughed when Arya had complained, promising it would stop hurting. A few hours later, and Arya didn’t know if her head still hurts from the hair or listening to the lord’s endless request.

“Lord Tytos Blackwood, my lady.” Olyvar announced with a small bow. He had done a good job, and Arya wished she could call him her friend. Even if he is a Frey, but after all… Roslin is a Frey too. But she knew it would not happen, he was still scared of her.

“Lady Stark.” Lord Tytos bowed his head.

“Lord Tytos,” she started, and looked at Roslin who mouthed ‘loyal’, and Arya remembered. Roslin had been telling her all she knew of the river lords, and what had happened during the war, and after. “I know you maintained your loyalty for my family far longer than others, at great cost. Thank you for your sacrifice.”

"We’re loyal, my lady, unlike Bracken and others.” He said. “We may be beaten, but not yet treacherous.” Lord Tytos sneered, while giving Roslin and Olyvar a suspicious look.

“I appreciate your loyalty lord Tytos but,” Arya moved in the chair and wished she could be more poised and sit perfectly. “Even if you were one of the first to send back an answer, I should insist on no more of this talk in front of the other lords.”

“Where are they, my lady?”

“They were invited to see the supplies. Stockpiles, truly.”

“We will feast later,” Roslin said with a smile, trying to sit Edmyn in front of her. The Tully heir was her shield against the river lords nasty looks. It didn’t exactly work with lord Tytos. “And tomorrow, each lord can make their formal request to my niece.”

“Very well. My lady Arya, may I speak with you in privacy?” Lord Tytos asked. Arya gave one glance at Roslin and smiled apologetically.

“I have to make sure everything is settled for tonight’s feast.” Roslin announced as she rose with difficulty, Edmyn fussing around.

“What if I walk Edmyn across the bridge? Lord Tytos may accompany us.” Roslin pushed the boy until he took Arya’s hand, and lord Tytos nodded.

It was cold outside the walls, and if she looked towards the North up in the towers she could almost feel the snow she saw far ahead. There was no snow yet , but there had been some drizzle and gentle freezing rain. It must be snowing in Winterfell and the Wall. Arya hoped Jon was well clothed at the Wall. She knew he probably didn’t have luxuries, but perhaps a good cape would shield him from the cold.

“Winter is coming.” Arya heard herself say and lord Tyros nodded beside her.

“Winter is coming.” Edmyn repeated in the mispronounced slow way of little children. Rickon used to repeat everything Bran and I said just the same way. “Winter is coming?”

“Yes, winter is coming. Those are my house words. What are your house words?” Arya asked, walking slowly to the pace of his small steps. Lord Tytos was silently watching them as he walked beside them. It took some time for Edmyn to come up with an answer.

“Family and honor?” The boy asked looking up. He had the blue eyes of her siblings.

“Family, duty, honor. They were my mother’s house words.” Arya liked to remind him they shared blood. “And your father’s. House Tully’s words.” Her little cousin nodded, and looked around happily. This is his home.

“The boy is well taken care of.” Lord Tytos noted. “I don’t know what your plans are, my lady, but-”

“My plans were to get justice on my family’s murder.” Arya cut in. A sigh left her before she could speak again. “Then I realised any justice would not be enough unless Riverrun  and all the Riverlands were once again under the rule of House Tully.”

“House Tully.” Edmyn repeated. “Mother says she is a Tully and so am I.”

Next to her, lord Tytos scrunched his nose. “And some of House Frey too” he muttered.

“Yes you are, cousin.” She tried to ignore the lord’s comment, she truly tried, but could’t quite keep her mouth shut. “Roslin knew I killed her father and saw me execute other of her family members and swallowed her fear to help me call the other river lords. No matter her blood, I’m glad someone brave is now part of House Tully. Part of my family.”

She didn’t like the idea of anyone judging Edmyn because of his mother’s blood. Everyone talked about Jon behind his back. She still remembered running to him, scared of being a bastard, she remembered Jon being sad of Arya being scared of being a bastard. I won’t let them shame Edmyn because of who his mother is. All that mattered was that he was her blood, and Roslin was good too.

Lord Tytos stopped to look at her and at the boy. Arya tried not to shake under his evaluating look. “Bravery is something House Tully will surely need. Have they told you of Riverrun?”

“Yes,” she let out a sigh. When they had told her of her uncle she had wanted to kill the prisoner, but he was only the messenger of his brothers’ actions. “My uncle Edmure…”

“You have to understand, my lady. The Blackfish refusal to surrender the castle inspired us. But lord Edmure…” he shook his head in defeat. “The raiders and outlaws have taken over the lands. Roads are dangerous. We’re so desperate in need that we sack Frey’s reserves as it were a winning prize, when they still have Castle Darry and Riverrun.”

“And winter is coming.” Arya said, trying to give him an encouraging smile. She knew he was right of course, but she was not yet ready to say what she meant to say.

“In fact it’s already here.” Lord Tytos said. “White ravens have reached several castles. Has no one told you?”

“No,” Arya frowned and then smiled “My father always said...”

I wanted to go home, to Winterfell. Arya looked North, to the snows and the winter that she had been prepared for. Edmyn was running from one side of the bridge to the other, and she followed his movements. He should grow up in his real home, the seat of his house, Riverrun. He is just a little boy, she thought, someone needs to give him his home back.

“Lady Stark?” lord Tytos asked. Arya had forgotten she was speaking. She closed her eyes and almost felt like she was running, fierce and fast, leading her pack.

“We’re getting it back, my lord.” She said as she opened her eyes. He was listening to her attentively. “Castle Darry, order in the lands. Safety for the people, food for the winter. We’re getting Riverrun and we are never bowing to any Lannister ever again. Winter is here, you say, and so am I.”

Chapter Text

“We must focus on Riverrun!” lord Jonos insisted, fist colliding with the table. Lord Tytos responded by pointing Castle Darry in Arya’s leather map.

“We cannot allow the treacherous Freys to keep a castle as old and respectable as Darry!” Lord Tytos said. “It has gone from Frey to Lannister to Frey!”

“Getting it back would lead us too close to King’s Landing, use what little brains you have Blackwood!” Jonos shouted back, possibly driving Arya mad. She looked at poor Edmyn, sitting bored at the end of the table. She wanted him there, to see her the same way she had seen her father deal with men. But right now, she was fighting hard to avoid mirroring his bored expression.

“Just because you turn your cloak so easily for a bit of safety, Bracken, doesn’t mean we should let these people hold anymore power over our lands and keeps!”

“Enough!” Arya screamed. She drank some wine as she motioned for both lords to sit. “If you do not behave, I will have your five daughters married” — she pointed to lord Bracken — “with your five sons, my lords” she finished pointing to lord Blackwood. She wouldn’t though, she hated forced marriages. But she needed them to understand. I need them to respect me.

The other lords erupted in laughter, wine making everyone more light hearted. Even lord Tytos nodded along with a defeated smile, despite lord Bracken angry look.

“What shall we do then, my lady?” asked lord Piper. She opened her mouth to answer, but nearly all the other started berating him for his role in the siege of Riverrun, calling him turncloak for aiding the Kingslayer. Ashamed, lord Piper could only look at her, explaining how his family was hostage.

“I said enough!” Arya had finally had enough, and now her hands were the ones to clash with the table. She supported herself there to rise and look at them down. “We cannot keep fighting between us. Winter is here! It is no longer a threat, it is a real danger. And your liege lord, my uncle, remains a hostage of the Frey and Lannisters in Riverrun. If you are all here, it is because you seem fit to restore house Tully to its seat, that is all that matters for me.”

They were all looking at her, and Arya felt nervous under their gaze. I was never a perfect lady. I had no refinement in my words. She felt her body tremble and reminded herself she was a Stark. I’m not no one anymore, I have a duty to my family. My face must be the face of justice. The Starks were Kings in the North, Lords of Winterfell for centuries. Arya of House Stark could do this.

“I cannot do this without you, my lords. Without all of you. This are your lands, your liege lord. You’re right, my lord Bracken. House Darry is too close to the enemy, it is too dangerous… still.” She looked at both lords, hoping they will realise she needed unity. “But you are right too. We must get Castle Darry back, eventually. It is important. But first things first. We must freed lord Mallister from the Freys who hold him captive, we must secure Maidenpool and drive this outlaws away. We must expel every fake lord the Lannister imposed on us. We must reclaim Castle Darry and Riverrun.”

They all nodded along, cheers erupting in the hall. Arya nearly smiled, she wanted to smile. But she felt tired, dreadful. None of this would be easy, not from what she had seen during her journey to the Twins and what she had heard from the river lords. I am not a soldier, I am not a leader. ‘Winter is coming, winter is coming’ she repeated to herself. Family, duty, honor.

Arya was doing this for her family, for it was her duty to restore House Tully to its previous high honorable place.

“Now I ask all of you, my lords, the first of things to be done, I believe, is expel the false authorities imposed by the Lannisters. Besides the Twins, no more Freys have any right to any castle in the Riverlands!”

“Yes!” they all said, some of them screaming for the liberation of lord Mallister and his family, others shouting for Castle Darry. Arya didn’t have fond memories of the place, and she could not, for the life of her, understand why it was so important for them.

“My lady, what of Harrenhal?” lord Blackwood asked.

What of it? Let it sink in its ruin. Arya didn’t like thinking of Harrenhal. She was a mouse then, deprived of food, cold, an abused servant. She was no one in the House of Black and White but she was nothing in Harrenhal. I’m not hungry now. Neither cold nor a servant. I am a lady of houses Stark and Tully. Or as much as a lady as I can be.

“What of it, my lord?”

“Its men are a bunch of pious men lead by ser Bonifer Hasty, made castellan by the Kingslayer.” lord Bracken explained, clear disgust in his voice. “But it is held by lord Petyr Baelish, named Lord Paramount of the Trident by the boy bastard king Joffrey.”

He very nearly spits, Arya thouht. He made ‘bastard boy’ sound like an insult, and once again she thought of Jon. She guessed he once was referred as that too, probably by her mother. It made her sad. She tried to focus on Littlefinger, the previous Master of Coin. Septa Mordane said he was a friend of mother’s, Arya remembered. Still, everyone knew he served the Lannisters, and now he seemed to hold some sort of notorious power. Think Arya, think, she berated herself. How would he get such a rewards from the Lannisters? By serving them. He was not a friend of house Tully then, no matter his past friendship to her mother. If he was rewarded by them, its because he served them well. He must have helped them commit their atrocities.

“Is lord Baelish in Harrenhal or in the capital?” She asked.

“Neither, lady Stark. He has never come to reclaim the land. He is just interested in the title.” Lord Piper explained. Well it is a powerful one. “He is in the Eyre, he-” Lord Piper stopped mid sentence, looking away.

“What?” She asked perplexed. What else now?

“He married your aunt, the lady Lysa Arryn.” Lord Blackwood continued. Now she understood better why he was so saddened by what had become of House Tully. Oh maybe I shouldn’t have been so harsh on him for being wary of the name Frey, after all I am hardly different. Olyvar and Roslin are the only ones I care defending. The new information confused her, though.

“That’s impossible, my aunt is dead!” She blurted out.

“Before her death, my lady. He is now the lord Protector of the Vale. A manner of regent for the Arryn boy.” My cousin. A pawn for Littlefinger to rule. I supposed Lord Paramount of the Trident was not enough power.

“Then I will send a raven to the Eyre. Maester, please, could you write to them?” She asked not too kindly. The Frey’s maester, an old man who did not seem particularly fond of her own fondness of killing Freys, simply nodded. She’d have to check what he wrote and make sure he sent it later. “Let Lord Baelish know that from now on he is stripped of any of the lands given to him in the Riverlands. Any and all titles granted by the bastard Lannister kings or their allies are unrecognized by the river lords. Harrenhal belongs to house Whent, and by its last members being deceased with no heirs, it is rightfully my uncle’s. From now on, Edmure Tully is lord of Riverrun and Harrenhal and lord Paramount of the Trident.”

Although the lords seemed content, some of them had a certain glow in their eyes. “Is Harrenhal now exclusively of the Tullys, then, my lady?” a certain lord asked.

They’re no different to other lords from other lands. Arya realised, disappointed. They would want rewards for their efforts. Let them have the blasted ruin. She remembered the mummers acting, and puts on what she hopes is a calming smile. “Surely not, once my uncle is free, he will speak of the arrangements of disputed lands.” She saied, hoping the message was also clear for Blackwood and Bracken. “Now, we must cleanse the riverlands of so many usurpers. We must reclaim and help the closest keeps.”

“Very well then,” Olyvar said, despite all men looking at him with disdain. Arya tried to smile at him encouragingly. “I must face my family at Seagard.”

*/*

Whatever miracles Black Walder Frey did to yield Seagard, they died with him when Arya cut him to pieces. Getting Siegard back was easy, considering they did not make for a particularly menacing army. The lords had only a handful of particularly good men, and most of those were in their lands defending them and the little family they had left.

They’re as broken as I am,  Arya realised. Were they her pack? They didn’t feel that way. No matter how many jokes she shared with the men, they still looked at her funny for using breeches and carrying a sword. No matter how diligently Roslin helped her with the details of politics, Arya still catched her looking at her with a scared look. If only I was with Jon...  He was all the family she had left, and she longed for him to just muss her hair and hold her. I must be stronger than this, she reminded herself.

The men ran around imprisoning Freys and restoring order. She knew she would have to make sure they don’t get too vengeful, even if she had not ser a great example at the Twins. I fed him his own sons, she remembered as she looked around the great hall of Seagard. The God of Many Faces would not approve of such a butchering. Perhaps she was not a good person, but none of it mattered anymore.

“My Lady Stark!” Arya turned around to see a man with fierce blue-grey eyes wandering towards her. His clothes were tattered and he is thin. “I’m lord  Jason Mallister,” he knelt. “Seagard is yours, my lady.”

“Rise, please. Please.” Arya insisted. Soon enough all the other lords were in the hall. They were pushing tied Freys.

“They’re ready to await your justice, my lady.”

*/*

She runs to the forest, attracted by a human scent that is calling her. It’s a smell like her own, female, fearless and wild. A pack leader.

Men are tense all around, the evil men, the ones she cares little when she tears them apart. They are scared of her, of the things they say of her.

She's coming. And I am coming to her, too.

*/*

It took a fortnight to get the proper lords into their rightful seats. Or at least, most of them. The problem of Maidenpool and Darry’s nearness to the capital meant she could do little for them, despite the fact that she wanted the people in there to be safe. In the meantime, Arya realised that the idea of getting Riverrun back was nowhere near as easy as other smaller castles.

Walder Frey’s sons and grandsons had taken castles here and there, but they were badly kept and unguarded, because the Freys as a whole cared little for them. But Riverrun was their pride, their glory. Seven Hells, even the Lannisters still had part of their army there, keeping their trophy safe.

Lord Tytos proposed gaining the support of what remained of Darry and Maidenpool, securing the lands around Harrenhal, before reclaiming Riverrun. He means to choke them. Lord Bracken suggested taking Riverrun now, when the men were fresh and eager to fight instead of tired after a longer campaign. He means to surprise them.

What should I do?

“My lady?” the maid who accompanied her, a rather old woman who kept her things clean and hadn't tried to force her hair into anything more than a simple braid, was at the entrance of the tent with Olyvar next to her. They must have been expecting her to bid her away.

“Yes, you can leave us, Bea.” Arya said, the woman smiling at her. Arya was glad she finally got her out of the habit of bowing her head. “Yes Olyvar?”

“Two news have arrived, my lady.” He shifted between his feet and Arya read him like an open book. He does not want to be the bearer of this news. “As soon as some lords learnt of this they knew you’d have to be informed.”

“I am assuming they’re not pleasant news, since none of them are here and they sent you.” Clearly hoping you’d be at the end of my bad mood. Olyvar just looked at her apologetically.

“All the Baratheons product of the marriage of late King Robert and his wife Cersei are dead. Along with the Queen Margaery, death by—” Olyvar gulped down, “by the burning of the sept of Baelor.”

Where Father died. “The burning?”

“Yes my lady, wildfire. Many people died, nobles in the sept and people on the street.” Olyvar said.

Poor people, it’s what Olyvar didn’t say. Innocent poor commoners, once again suffering. She cared little for the faith of the Seven, or the nobles who died. I should feel bad, what if not all of them were bad? Oh but it was difficult for her, to think of nobles from King’s Landing as good. It was a challenge.

“Continue.” Arya beckoned.

“Cersei of house Lannister has declared herself Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Protector of the Seven Kingdoms.” Olyvar finished and Arya could not help but stare in disbelief. She had done what?

“She did what?” Arya couldn't contain the rage that boiled inside her. Mycah was dead because of her and Joffrey. They killed my father. The whole realm was torn apart by the war her family started. And now she was Queen?

“She has declared herself Queen of Westeros, my lady Stark.”

“Well, not of the Riverlands! She is not my Queen!” Arya shouted, and she should've worried about hiding her temper, she should've minded anyone hearing. This not a tantrum, she told herself, this is outrage, and I know they all feel the same.

“There is more, my lady.” Olyvar said. She threw him one look and he spoke quickly, voice shaking. “News of the North my lady!”

Suddenly, she felt nervous. The North, Winterfell, home. I want to go home, she thought. “Tell me.”

“It comes from lady Rhialta, one of the daughters of lord Vance who is a lady in waiting and ward in White Harbor. As you know, House Bolton held Winterfell and ruled the North as their lords.” Olyvar said. I knew that already, she thought bitterly. “The letter revealed that the legitimized bastard of Lord Roose married the lady Sansa Stark to make it seem more legit to the other Northern lords.”

“Sansa?” Arya asked in bewilderment. She felt sad for her sister. From Lannister to Bolton didn’t seem like a positive change. Gods please keep her safe, I swear to be a better person if you keep her safe. “Is she—”

“But it turns out she managed to secure the forces of the Vale into helping her reclaim Winterfell for House Stark.” Olyvar said with a timid smile. Arya could not contain her surprise.

“She did what?” she found herself asking again. “Did she succeed?”

“Yes my lady. The letter states that she joined her forces to those of your half brother, Jon Snow.” Olyvar said.

“That’s impossible, men of the Night’s Watch cannot take part in this sort of affairs.” Arya was worried now, what was Jon thinking? “And where did he get men to help him?”

“Apparently he was released from his vows my lady, the letter doesn’t specify. Something about letting wildlings to this side of the Wall, where he got an army to fight for your family. Nevertheless, they joined forces when it came to light that Lord Umber held Rickon Stark.”

“That’s impossible! Theon Greyjoy burned my brothers Bran and Rickon.” It could not be… could it be… This letter seemed a fantasy. Suddenly her heart raced. Rickon, beautiful small Rickon, running behind her and Bran trying to catch up and join in their playing.

“According to this, this was a lie, as the boy’s… uhm—” Olyvar cleared his throat. “The direwolf head of the boy was presented as proof of his identity.”

Shaggydog. "Oh no…” Arya heard herself say, and it was too much, it made her remember Grey Wind’s head on Robb’s body.

“I’m sorry, my lady, Ramsay Bolton killed the young Rickon Stark before the battle.” Olyvar said with sorrow. “I’m so sorry.”

I lost him all over again. Arya’s hand gripped Needle and she allowed herself a moment of weakness to close her eyes. I will not cry in front of Olyvar Frey. At least there was a chance Bran still remained alive. “What else? What of Jon? And Sansa?”

“They won the battle my lady. The direwolf of Stark once again hangs from Winterfell.” Olyvar said, and despite Arya’s pride, she saw his eyes were weary. “Your brother Jon Snow was proclaimed King in the North.”

Jon is a King. Arya could not understand. It was so confusing. Is he happy? “What?”

“It’s all it says in the letter, my lady.” Olyvar said, offering the piece of paper. Arya read the lines quickly, and indeed, all it says was that Jon Snow was now the King in the North, before the girl started to relate her father how different White Harbor was now that winter has settled.

“Thank you, Olyvar.” Arya said. He went to turn, but Arya caught him before he left. “Wait. Listen to me.” He looked at her attentively. “They will want to know my reaction. They will act slightly kinder to you, in order to get you to talk.” Olyvar nodded, understanding. “What will you say to them?”

“You’re a guarded girl— woman.” He quickly corrected himself. Good. “You are very in control of your emotions and I could not say what your reaction was.”

“Well said.” She smiled at him, signaled for him to go. “Take this back to lord Vance.”

 Jon, her dearest brother Jon was a king. Arya couldn’t quite believe it. Does it make me a princess? She hoped it didn’t, she had never been good at it. Jon wouldn’t mind.  That thought reassured her.

Of course I would never be a princess to the river lords. Jon was not Robb, a son of Catelyn of House Tully with Eddard Stark. Jon is father’s bastard. It never mattered to Arya, but it would matter to the river lords. Even to the lords of the North, he was chosen by his merit, no doubt, but also because Rickon was gone. She could not fathom them crowning Jon with Robb’s younger trueborn brother right there. Arya still found herself smiling. I am happy for Jon.

Arya went out of her tent, escaped her guards unnoticed and allowed herself to walk along the line of the trees, listening to the men exchanging jokes in their tents. She knew that mood won’t last much longer, and she needed to put them into action soon and then send them home. Besides, the longer they were here the less time they were spending working the land and preparing for winter. I want to go home, spend winter there with Jon. And Sansa too.

Riverrun first. Free her uncle Edmure, get justice for House Tully, and their home. But how? All her lords thought differently, and she wished it was as simple as sneaking into the Twins was. Arya stared into the deep dark woods, almost willing it to answer her.

And then, among the black of the night, she saw a pair of yellow eyes. Why am I not surprised? how am I not nervous or scared? Arya wondered. Pulled by some force inside of her she couldn't fight, almost as if it were a dream, Arya stepped into the woods.

Trees loomed tall beside her as she got closer and closer until the moon showed her the shape of a snout. The grey fur... a huge beast. Eyes yellow, fierce. Wild like me. Arya felt hot tears streaming down her face as she knelt in front of the majestic creature. She closed her eyes, overwhelmed, no longer feeling so alone, so desperate, so powerless. Soon, a humid gentle tongue was licking the tears off her face, and Arya couldn't help but throw her arms around the wolf, burying her face into her fur, smelling her wolf.

She smelt of wood and dirt and blood. She felt wild and fierce and brave. Nymeria.

Arya opened her eyes and a sound of delight escaped her lips as Nymeria howled to the moon, joined by hundreds of wolves answering from deep in the forest. This is the pack I dreamt of, Arya realised. And she knew now, what she could do.

Arya Stark was ready to surprise the Lannisters.

Chapter Text

He does not howl, he does not sing. He is silent, paws making no sounds as they walk across the snow. The night is dark and cold, and he feels the fear of the unnatural monsters it brings.

The black water of the Godswood pool is reflecting the full moon, and he looks up to see it. He hears it then. The singing of wolves. He cannot join then, he cannot sing. Another is making them sing. Another is leading.

An alpha.

And it settles his anxious heart.

*/*

Jon woke up suddenly, restless. Sleep didn’t come easy anymore, and when it did, it only made him more worried and tired. And yet, the sun rose everyday indifferent to the soreness of his body. He rised up from the bed and like every morning, he touched the wounds. They were not healed, but neither were they fresh. They were something in between, quite like himself.

Snow had settled on his window still during the night. He had forgotten to close the windows before laying in bed. Cold didn’t affect him as much anymore, he did felt it, it is just not nearly as cold as it used to feel on his skin.

The sun was not high in the sky yet, but with winter here that no longer counted as a way to determine the time of the day. During his childhood, when the summer had been at its peak, he remembered so much sunlight they went to sleep with light still coming through the window.

He dressed in a simple wool cape. He smiled thinking of the fur cape Sansa made for him, definitely too much for being indoors. Winterfell was always warm. Not that he could feel warmth anymore. That’s an exaggeration; he could feel it, just not as strongly as before. Jon let out a sigh before he left his chambers, wondering if the recent events had given him a poetic exaggerated speech.

He knew he will have to move out of them eventually, but he still couldn’t grasp the idea that the chambers of the Lord of Winterfell would be his. Father’s  chambers.

It made Jon shiver to think of lady Catelyn’s frown at him using the Lord’s chambers. Stannis offered, and I refused. This is different, I’m not usurping anything. It was the lords who had crowned him, giving him little chance to refuse.

He was not particularly hungry when the maid put the meal in front of him, but he knew he had to eat something. The meal was scarce, hardly something that would’ve filled him back when he was a boy eager to join the Night’s Watch, but more than enough for him now. He knew that if he asked for more they’d serve him more food, but he was a king, which means he knows what the North really needs. And it's not wasting supplies.

Jon remembered the real fight. He remembered the White Walkers, he remembered the butchery in Hardhome. But he ruled now, and some problems wee bigger right now. There was a lack of food across the North, winter having caught them short of men to work the field after the war. There was too much lords  dead, or with their heirs dead, and now there were several small disputes over lands. And he knew he couldn't fight the dead without keeping the North together.

“Your Grace,” Lord Baelish bowed in front of him before sitting on the far end of the table. Jon nodded and wondered what to do of the man. Sansa doesn’t trust him. He should trust Sansa’s judgement, she knew him better. If she didn't trust him, neither should Jon.

“Lord Baelish.” Jon acknowledged him and tried to avoid his staring. He wished his table was full, the way his father had been. He tried to repress a smile when thinking that it would mean a wife and five children. That’s not for me. He was free of his vows now, yet he could not see himself married with a woman. Though Sansa says it would be sensible to find an ally in  marriage.

“Jon.” Sansa said from behind him, and he turned to see her coming to the table, wrapped in some furs. It is cold, I just don’t feel it. “Lord Baelish.”

“Lady Sansa.” Baelish greeted, and Jon frowned at the use of the name. They all called her Lady Stark, a sign of respect and station. Baelish’s  familiarity was already upsetting before considering he was verbally taking away her rank. It is Sansa’s fight to challenge his influence on her, not mine.

“Lord Baelish.” Sansa said, and goes to sit beside Jon, offering a smile. It reminded him of Robb a little, and it made him sad. And even then, there was a certain peace in knowing Robb and Rickon were at peace, resting, whereas he didn’t know anything of Arya or Bran’s whereabouts. Where are you, little sister? He dreamt of her the night before, or at least it felt that way. “I received a raven,” Sansa said cheerfully, “from Brienne”.

“I hope it is not word that your uncle is on his way.” Jon murmured, and Sansa threw him a stern look. It didn’t surprise him much, they never shared a similar sense of humor. They never shared much of anything, really. As Sansa opened her letter, the hall filled with some lords. He saw lord Glover sit with some of his retainers far away, still ashamed. They all sat far away and ashamed, Manderly, Flint.

Only lady Lyanna Mormont walked over to them, laughing from some comment of ser Davos, and sat near them. Jon tried to smile. She reminded him so much of Arya, it hurt.

“Gods,” Sansa said surprised, mouth hanging open. Immediately Baelish, lady Mormont and ser Davos got quiet and  leaned closer to listen. “Jon, you… You must read this.”

Jon didn't want to read aloud in front of Lord Baelish, but he had little option, since it would make no sense to exclude him and not lady Lyanna and ser Davos. So he read loud enough for their three companions to listen, Sansa drinking some wine with a shocked expression.

“My lady Sansa, I write from the Twins. Fear not from my safety, as I initially did. We arrived to Riverrun to find it besieged by the Lannisters and Freys. I managed to sneak in to talk to your lord uncle the Blackfish, but he refused help on the rather understandable point of not being able to help anyone from a siege. I am sad to say the Freys and Lannisters took back the castle, and word has spread that the Blackfish died defending it.

I left Riverrun despondent I could not fulfill my oath, and no matter how careful we were, we were trapped and taken to the Twins. Imagine our surprise when I reached there and found out the news that lord Walder Frey was dead, as his sons Black Walder Rivers and Lothar Frey. The disturbing rumours I heard was that both sons were assassinated and cooked into a meat pie later served to lord Walder himself-”

At this, Jon stopped to lady Lyanna’s and ser Davos sounds of shock.

“I’d say he deserved it, if you ask me.” Sansa said, although she still looked quite disturbed by the idea.

“The Gods would still consider the act an abomination.” lady Lyanna said. “But if anything is certain, is that that treacherous lot won’t be missed.

“Jon, please, keep reading.” Sansa all but begged, and Jon sent her a look to silently question if she’s alright. She seemed agitated, but she just nodded.

“Served to lord Walder himself by what was initially believed to be a simple kitchen maid that Black Walder had dragged to him chambers. However this woman later revealed herself as—” Jon stopped mid sentence. I can’t believe it. He felt Sansa’s stare, he felt all of their eyes on him. His voice wavered when he finally found the words. “As Arya Stark.”

“What in seven hells—” ser Davos started. Jon felt much the same, he was confused. He should be happy, for a confirmation that she lived. But everything in the letter sounded confusing and not at all like the little girl he remembered.

“I do not understand, is that even possible?” Lady Mormont asked.Jon could only shake his head. Sansa, now apparently calmer, only signaled for him to keep reading.

“I did not trust the Freys at first, but they treated us not as prisoners and eventually I had to agree they indeed meant no harm. The castle was run by the lady Roslin Tully, wife of your uncle Edmure Tully and her brother Perwyn Frey. They both swore fealty to the lady Arya and by their descriptions it is the girl I came across near the Vale. They both mentioned the thin blade your half brother recognized.”

So it was her. Jon knew he was supposed to worry, and his duty as king was to start thinking of what this would mean for the North, but all he could think was that he was happy his little sister was alive and well and he could contact her, he could bring her home and keep her safe.

“That is as far as I could read,” Sansa said, shakingly. Her hand went for the wine, but she looked at him exasperated. “Well go on!”

Jon felt like a little child admonished by its mother, not that he knew any of that experience, yet hevwas quick to follow her order. “As I was there it is that news arrived of your victory in retaking Winterfell as well as the crowning of your half-brother Jon. The Lady Roslin was courteous enough to let us rest there for some time before we initiated the journey North. While we were there we were informed of news from the South. There was an accident in the trial of Queen Cersei by the Faith, a great fire of sorts, if reports are to be believed, during which the High Septon, the Queen Margaery and many others perished. The young King Tommen died as well. I feel is my duty to inform you that she has declared herself Queen of Westeros, protector of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“Under what right?” asked ser Davos, voicing Jon’s own questions. He couldn’t stop the hate that boiled inside him. This woman and her son had branded his father a traitor, taken off his head. He only saw the woman a couple of times, yet it surprised him how much he despised her.

“House Baratheon is all but extinguished,” explained lord Baelish, squinting his eyes. “Cersei must have something to hold over the other lords, to impose herself as Queen in this way.” He quickly looked at Sansa, which made Jon look at her. Her blue eyes seemed eager to escape Baelish gaze, so she just looked back at Jon and nodded at him to continue.

“I was also surprised to hear that your sister the lady Arya initiated a campaign to retake the Riverlands back from Lannister and Freys which has been a great success. Just as I was set to leave, we got word of her taking back Riverrun. The tales of the the battle are too confusing for me to write them down properly, but we did get some news I dread to tell you. I am sad to say your uncle Edmure died in the battle for the retaking of the castle. The lord of Riverrun is now your cousin, little lord Edmyn Tully. His mother, the lady Roslin was deemed untrustworthy to the other lord by the association to House Frey. Here is now the reason I deemed important to write to you before I arrived, for it reached word that the Lady Arya was chosen as the protector of your cousin, named Lady Protector of Riverrun.”

“Arya is what?!” Sansa asked in disbelief. Jon himself couldn't believe it. His little sister, all bones and messy hair, lady of Riverrun.

“Perhaps this Brienne has fallen victim to a scheme of the Freys.”

“She is much smarter than that.” Sansa said, surprise still clear on her face. “But how did Arya… last Brienne told me she was just-”

“Traveling. Safe from all this.” Jon finished in a whisper. It had been his only comfort. Brienne had insisted she was well taken care of. He reread the part about the battles again. Suddenly his grip on the spoon tightened when he imagined her in a battle or a siege.

“Perhaps it is not her, but an imposter?” lord Baelish said, an strange note in his voice that almost seems like irritation to Jon.

“You seem very eager for this to not be true, lord Baelish.” Lady Lyanna said, eyes squinting as she tried to read the letter from above Jon’s shoulder. He gave the letter to her and just smiled at Littlefinger’s lack of response.

“But- how?” Sansa still seemed lost of words. Suddenly, Jon felt very tired. They were all looking at him, looking for an answer when he couldn't give them one. He passed a hand through his hair, felt it tug at his skin. “What else does it say?”

“This lady Brienne finishes saying she is making her way back, and that is it, no more information.” Jon knew he should at least attempt to look more composed, but if Sansa had no problem showing her surprise then he won’t bother hiding it either. “You should write to her, the princess Arya, I mean.” Said lady Mormont. “Winter is here and even wartorn, the Riverlands are rich in resources.”

“I’m not sure they would accept Jon as king… “ Sansa started. She had a point, after all the Vale lords and knights had not chosen him. It had proven a complication. Jon needed the North to be strong so they could prepare for the war against the Others. But now Jon had guests who looked unkindly to his title, who would not agree to help the North be restored. It all felt like an immense weight, and he could only think of one good thing that could make him feel better.

“I want to see her.” He said. They all turned to look at him. Sansa wass giving him a particularly pitying look.

“I do too, but how?” She asked kindly. Jon felt a sudden frustration. Sansa had been content with Brienne just giving up on her search of Arya after one failure. Jon had not even bothered to be angry at Sansa because he understood Brienne had been a savior for her, but yet he could be angry at Brienne for not trying harder. And now listening to Sansa’s hesitation, he felt frustrated again. A sudden anger that he could not explain came to him, and nasty words run through his head. You never cared for Arya like I did.

Jon shaked his head to clear his thoughts. “You’re my council,” he looked at all of them, “think of something.”

“I would repeat my suggestion that we need food, we need timber, stonemasons, I could go on.” Lady Lyanna said in all seriousness. “That should be all the excuse you need to explain to the northern lords a trip to the south.”

“I agree we should ask her, our needs are indeed that great, but I repeat, why would the riverland lords accept Jon as king? I am sure Arya could not do anything without their approval.” Sansa asked again, apprehensive. Jon noticed lord Baelish smiling, and he just wanted to punch him for some reason. Instead, his hand reached for the wine.

“Excuse me my la— my princess, but even if they will not accept him as king, they could still  accept him as an ally.” Ser Davos proposed.

“What should the North offer to the Riverlands?” lord Baelish asked. Lady Lyanna and ser Davos looked at each other, and Jon just took another gulp of his wine. It did not relax him nor does it give him ideas.

“I don’t care how little we have to offer. I must see her. She’s my little sister and I will—” he ran a hand through his hair. “I will not write to ask for favors without seeing her first.” Without messing her hair and smiling at her smile and seeing her safe.

“Jon, I want to see her too, but there are so many urgent business in the North.” Sansa said harshly. Looking at her stern eyes was like looking at Lady Catelyn. “Tell her to come here. You’re a king, her brother. She can leave other lords protecting my baby cousin.”

“Of course I will tell her to come here, this is her home. But I mean to show some respect to the fact that she may want to keep her cousin safe and stay in Riverrun.” Jon admonished her. It did not surprise him much to see Sansa looking down on Arya and her position, but it was not nice to be reminded some attitudes never change.

There was an awkward silence, in which Jon felt the eyes of the others observing him and Sansa.

“Do what you think best,” Sansa said finally, “I trust your judgement.”

Nothing in her eyes or her voice showed that she trusted him at all, and as Davos and lady Lyanna helped him write the letter to Riverrun, Jon noticed Sansa and Littlefinger sharing a look.

Jon wouldn’t wish for Sansa to be anywhere but her home, but he cannot help but wish it was Arya who sat at his side.

Chapter Text

Beric Dondarrion, Thoros, The Red Woman, The Mountain, Cersei Lannister.

Arya opened her eyes to an empty room, but she immediately made for the knife she hides beneath her pillow. She sat up, ready for whatever produced the noise that woke her. Nymeria’s eyes were open, looking firmly at the door from her place near the window, but she did not seem agitated. Then a knock came from the door, and she relaxed. It was too early, still slightly dark,  but ever since she took Riverrun and became its lady she had been busy all day every day.

“Arya? It’s me, Roslin.” A voice came through, and Arya smiled despite her anxiousness. Tradition dictated that as mother of the young lord of Riverrun, Roslin became its lady and protector of her child’s ruling. Yet they had chosen Arya instead of her, citing her family as a reason of untrustworthiness.

“Come in.” Arya said, and soon enough her pretty face was visible in the darkness. “You’ve just arrived?”

“A couple hours ago, everyone was asleep but Edmyn was hungry, so we were fed and I put him to sleep and by then it was early enough that I knew you wouldn’t mind being woken.” She explained as she walked to the bed, sitting near her feet. “I was glad to know of your success.”

“I’m glad Edmyn will enjoy living in his rightful home.” Arya said, sitting against the headboard. Roslin smiled.

“I heard stories of your courage in battle, and all your wonderful achievements. I am so grateful it meant you little harm.” Roslin said kindly, eyeing her up and down. Arya had to frown at that.

“Hardly. It hurts like seven hells to move my left arm and I’m not sure why but I once again became victim of a dagger aimed at my stomach.” Arya told her as she lifted her shirt to show the slashing wound just beginning to heal. It was superficial but it did not meant it didnt’ hurt. Roslin gasped and made to touch it, but a growl stopped her.

“Seven-!” Roslin screamed. Nymeria stopped growling when Arya hushed her, though.

“It’s alright, she won’t hurt you, she is just overprotective. Nymeria, to me.” Arya extended her hand and the wolf rose lazily to meet her. Arya stroked her fur affectionately as she spoke. “This is Roslin,” she told the wolf, who simply looked calmly at Roslin. For her part, her friend is clutching the bed furs, frightened.

“So the stories are true.” She whispered shakily.

“Just let her smell you, she won’t hurt you, I promise.” Arya insisted, until finally Roslin extended her hand, and Nymeria made a show of smelling it before gently licking it. Roslin let out a giggle.

“I dare say that is the bravest thing I’ve done in my entire life.” She confided, making Arya smile. “I suppose Edmyn must do the same.”

“Please don’t worry, he will be fine. And it will just make it easier, if he’s used to the wolf from young age.”  Arya explained. Roslin did not seem overly worried, though.

“It is ok I guess. Besides, he will be possibly thrilled. He absolutely adores you. Since you left the Twins all he ever does is speak of you or whatever rumours he has heard.” Roslin said.

“What rumours has he heard?” Arya asked alarmed, she tried to keep her face free of emotions, but she hoped he has not heard anything bad. She was not deaf or blind to not see some people would question her methods of battle, even if it was pretty practical to let the pack of wolves attack men, some would consider it too savage.

“Only good things,” Roslin reassured her. Arya was not sure of that, but she let it drop. She knew wars were never good for the image of rulers, and she had to think ahead. I was supposed to go home. Arya opened the door and found a servant going about his business, she’s about to ask for her maid when she came in running, clothes in hand.

“Milady! I’ve put water to be warmed to your bath, I come bearing some dresses found here in trunks. I believe some may even be from your grandmother”. Her maid, Dally, said as she entered the room. “Oh!, I’m sorry I did not knew I interrupted”.

“It’s fine Dally, go on.” Arya told her as the maid put the clothes in the bed for her to check. “This is the lady Roslin Frey, mother to lord Edmyn and my aunt by marriage.”

“Milady,” Dally gave a small bow of her head before looking at Arya again. “I will bring the water for your bath, milady. Will you eat here in your chambers or at the table?”

“At the table, I believe, is the best option.” Arya answered, though she wished it could just be Roslin, Edmyn and her. “Thank you.”

The maid left and soon enough Roslin was going through the clothes. “Dresses?” She smiled, her soft voice turning even softer, somehow. “Quite different from what you wore at the Twins.”

“I hate them. They’re uncomfortable and I look stupid in them.” She said, feeling defeated, because she knew she would have to use them anyway. She tried not to show how much it bothered her, but she could not help the comment that left her lips. “I never wanted to be a lady.”

Roslin looked at her with pity, and Arya hated it, so she made a deal out of ordering the open letter by her desk. “You were always a lady, never mind if you were wearing dresses or not.”

It was an odd thing, to be reminded that through it all she was always a lady, even a princess. She never felt much like a princess when she was freezing under the rain in Harrenhal, or when serving lord Tywin or when she was hungry and scared in the Kingsroad. That was not even when thinking of her time in Braavos. I was definitely not a lady then,I was no one. She shaked her head. I must forget that, no more of that.

“I have to wear them now. It is one thing to wear breeches when I’m riding or marching, but I suppose they’ll expect me to wear one when in councils…” Arya told Roslin, who simply nodded in agreement. “Fuck.”

Roslin let out a laugh, but otherwise kept silent as Arya looked for the simplest dress possible. “A woman came to the Twins, claiming to know you.”

“What?” Arya frowned at that. There was no one who could claim to know her nowadays.

“Well, she was found near the river, so they captured her. However, she claimed to know you, and showed proof of her allegiance to House Stark. Her name was Lady Brienne. I suppose if you knew her you must remember her, she is quite…. different.”

“Oh yes,” Arya remembered the woman, tall and dressed as a knight. The thought of her both made her smile and made her upset. She did not want to remember the Hound. If I saw him now, I’ve given him the death he asked. A faceless men does not turn away from a mercy kill.

It was difficult sometimes to remember she was not a faceless men anymore. She was a lady again, even if she did not feel like one. A lady who must find a dress to wear to see the riverlords.

“Aren’t you interested in her proof?” Roslin asked, Arya nodded, so she continued. “She carried a letter signed by the Lady Sansa Stark, asking for your lord Brynden help in retaking Winterfell. Obviously, she did not succeed in her mission.”

“Poor woman, she didn’t achieve her goal to take me to safety either.” Arya confessed. Roslin was a curious person, Arya had noticed, but she knew very well not to press matters when Arya spoke of personal things. “What did she do afterwards?”

“She left back North, apparently she has sworn herself to service lady Sansa.” Roslin said as the maid entered, preparing a bath for Arya.  Arya herself could not escape the little laugh that left her lips.

“Well, she did always sing of ladies and knights.” Arya reflected as she took off her clothes to bathe. “Did she say anything of the North?” Did she say anything of Jon? She hoped her sister was well, but she could still not understand what had made her brother break his vows and leave the Night’s Watch, and how he was not executed and how he had been all this years.

“Only that it was cold, food was scarce, and the lords were not eager to help the lady Sansa and Jon Snow.” Roslin said, then turned to Dally.

“That is strange, my father always spoke so highly of the northern lords and their loyalty.” Arya was surprised and wondered how did they manage what they managed with no help. Surely some helped them. My father always said they were loyal. Perhaps this Brienne of Tarth was mistaken.

“Would you please tell our maid to wake lord Edmyn and serve him his food?”

“Yes, milady. Do you need anything else, milady?” Asked Dally.

“No thank you, Dally”. Arya said, sinking to the warm water. She’s not used to it, but like all the other burdens of being a lady, she must be clean and presentable. It was exhausting. “I don’t want to wear a dress.”

“So don’t.” Said Roslin nonchalantly. Arya snorted. “I mean it! You’re Lady Arya Stark, sister of two Kings in the North, by conquest you’re the rightful lady of the Twins and its lands, the richest lands of the region”.

“I doubt they would see it that way,” Arya muttered to herself. She washed herself, felt her body, all too thin to fill a dress. Her skin, not at all soft like a lady. She noticed Roslin looking out the window, and felt guilty for not asking earlier. “We haven’t buried him yet.” Roslin turned to look at her, tear welling in her eyes. “I wanted you to… see him. We found two septas to take care of the body, and one of his friends is watching over him. You should go, take Edmyn with you. Say goodbye.”

It is important to say goodbye. Arya never had the chance, and she couldn’t help but think of Rickon. Perhaps, if she had come home earlier, much earlier, she would have taken the armies of Riverrun and get her little brother. I still have Bran. I will find him and bring him home. Roslin looked at her with immense gratitude, and smiled. The saddest most beautiful smile.

“You’re a princess, Arya.” Told her Roslin from the door. “And they accepted your brother Robb as their king too, so they always saw you as a princess. Remember that.”

Arya lets her head lay back against the edge of the bathtub, arms hanging from the edge. It was only when Nymeria approached her and licked her hand that Arya felt better.

*/*

“This Cersei has already proven herself incapable, we cannot be bound to this woman’s wimps!” lord Piper said quickly enough, and all men agreed.

Men. How predictable. Still, Arya was no idiot, and she knew she would not win anything by correcting them. She just had to direct the criticisms elsewhere.

“My lords! I don’t presume to be the owner of truth nor do I consider myself to lack faults.” Arya started, trying to not sound scolding. “Should one of you ever consider a plan of mine to be unwise, I’d hope you would tell me so. But I certainly expect none of you consider Cersei unfit merely because she is a woman”

“Of course not, my lady.” They said, all smiles and japes. Arya tried to let it pass, but deep down she knew she wouldn’t forget. Deep down, they doubt me. They doubt me for being a woman too.

“She just isn’t right” lord Blackwood said. Arya nodded, and caressesed Nymeria, who sat next to her, much more solemn than Arya herself expected.

“I agree. Besides, I know many of you were brave enough to resist the Lannister campaign here, why submit?” Arya knew appealing to their ego will help, and hoped it would help matters when she asked what they thought of Jon.

“Should we declare ourselves an independent kingdom?” lord Ryger said, rousing some lords into agreeing, but Arya saw most of them were hesitant.

“I would consider it unwise. First because it is an statement  that would force us into a war, and if it comes to that, it's better if Cersei makes the first opposing moves. Second, because we’re still recovering. Should the Lannisters declare war, we would be in a bad position to defend ourselves.” Lord Bracken said.

Some men called him craven, others loudly screamed that they were not afraid of the Lannisters. Arya did not feel scared of the Lannisters, not anymore, but she dreaded war. I would like to kill lions, she thought, but I know what war means. Still, Arya knew any decision would not really be hers, but of the lords. She was not stupid enough to not see her position depended on keeping the people who chose her pleased. All she could do was give her opinion on the matters.

“Much as I respect my young cousin rightful lordship over this lands, it is very dangerous to crown a four year old boy, who is nowhere near having heirs or capable of proving his power.” Arya said. She saw many agree, but also noticed many whispering between them.

What have I done wrong this time? her hand reached for the ale, and it tasted good when she drank it. It relaxed her. She should drink wine, but it was too watered and sugared for her taste, she prefered ale or rum.

“You lack age, my lady, but not wisdom.” Lord Bricken said, nodding, and finally Arya got a compliment from this man. Perhaps it was time to raise her ideas to the men.

“Thank you, my lord. There is another subject, of course. As you all know, my brother Jon was declared king.” She started. She noticed some of them already knew where she was heading and they didn’t like it. “I understand… as he was not born of my mother you don’t consider him rightful to claim such title.”

“You have to understand, my lady. It is said your very sister, blood of House Stark and Tully was there, and he took power any way.”

Jon didn’t took power. He’d never. It was given to him. I know him. He wouldn't want to pass over Sansa anymore I wanted to pass over Rosin.

“I am sure my brother would not prove himself an enemy.” She tried to explain.

“My lady, he is the base born son of your father, and he is in power despite your sister’s higher claim to the seat of Winterfell.” lord  Pyper said, and Arya was already angry. She tried to drink again but there was a knot in her throat.

“That is only prove he lacks honor, as any baseborn-” lord William Mooton began, but Arya had had enough.

“Do not! Do not ever suggest my brother lacks honor. He is as dear to me as any of my trueborn siblings.” Nymeria sat up, and quickly enough began to growl menacingly. “And he has much more honor that what I’ve seen in many other men.”

Silence. I should not shout, that was a mistake. I will fix it. She took a deep breath to calm herself. “I apologize, my lords. But it felt like an insult to one of the few members of my family that I have left.”

“Pa- pardon me, my lady.” lord Mooton said quickly, even bowing, meek until Nymeria stopped growling. He is craven. Still, Arya knew neither him nor the others would accept Jon as king. She could force them, but they would not truly support the idea, and any power they gave her would quickly go to someone else.

“I understand the idea of accepting Jon as king is… out of the question. But as I said, he could prove a great ally. I am a member of House Stark. Even if you chose do doubt Jon’s honor, you should not underestimate the North respect to House Stark.”

“Allies then,” suggested lord Bracken. Good, let them think the idea comes from among themselves.  “Come winter, it would prove useful. They raise stronger animals, apt for surviving the winter. They have furs while we are lucky to stumble with a bear. And we can’t hunt wolves now.”

“But our King, he is not.” Said lord Blackwood. “He is not like you brother Robb, fighting in the Riverlands, helping us. He is up North, taking care of his kingdom.”

“Of course, I understand.” Arya smiled as them, remembering wise words. Use the expressive eyebrows, make them think your smile is truthful.  “And what of this… Lannister woman?” Arya asked through clenched teeth. I cannot forget my hatred for her, no matter how much I try.

“What does my lady propose?” lord Blackwood asked.

I say we kill her. I want to take the army and the wolves and show her what it is to lose everything. “We must act carefully if we don’t want to cause another war.” Arya heard herself say. Once again, she remembered what being the lady of Riverrun means. The common folk wanted no more war, and the Riverlands must get stronger.

“Perhaps, my lady,” started lord Bracken, “it would be wise to simply not answer. Let the Lannister woman become paranoid, she has little allies as it is, she cannot start a war barely a moon after she’s crowned.”

“A silent resistance, rather than a direct declaration.” lord Blackwood said.

“Is that approval to lord Bracken’s proposal what I hear in your voice, lord Blackwood?” Arya teased, a laugh escaping her. All the other men laughed too, and she saw more approval in their faces. A leader must be liked, she realized. I will never lead them if they do not like me.

If they don’t like me, they don’t approve of me. They don’t follow me, and they oppose me and eventually become my enemies. Then I would be like Cersei, burning the weed from my garden to be rid of threats.

“It is the wisest decision my lady,  never mind the turncloak it comes from.” Lord Blackwood admited. Lord Bracken took immediate offense, of course, and soon enough both lords were bickering and insulting at each other.

“My lords! My lords,” Arya raised her voice, standing up with a cup in her hand. “A toast then, to new alliances, to resist the Lannister rule and to lord Bricken and lord Blackwood’s agreement!”

A roar erupted in the hall.

*/*

Arya smiled when she reached her chambers, it was late and her head was buzzing lightly from the drink. There was a pack of clothing in her table, with a note from Roslin. Arya unfolded the clothing to find a pair of  breeches and riding pants and one simple frock and a few long shirts. They were not like the rags she used to wear, this were made of linen, wool and fine leather, some with small embroidery. It made Arya smile. They were not very warm, and she’d have to wear capes or fur when outdoors, but she did not mind. The note made Arya’s heart swell.

“They’re not dresses, but I hear Dornishwomen wear this sort of attire when they cannot use corsets and dresses. If you like them, we can make more in warmer material. Sewing was one of the few things my family ever complimented me about, so I would happily help. Thank you for letting me see Edmure one last time. Roslin.”

It made her a bit sad to realise the Freys were never truly a family, not like Arya’s used to be. Roslin was a Tully now, and Arya wants to make sure that she knew her and her child would be part of her pack.

“Nymeria, come.” Arya called the wolf, and they both climbed to bed. Arya knew it would startle poor Dally in the morning, but Arya missed her family. She missed Winterfell, and stealing Bran’s clothes and running with the direwolves. Sleeping with Nymeria snoring gently next to her was the best way of soothing her to sleep.

Arya dreamt of Braavos, the canals and the pain from all the stabs to her stomach. She dreamt of Winterfell, and her father smile when she used to bring him flowers, and she dreamt of Cersei and Joffrey standing there as her father lost his head.

Beric Dondarrion, Thoros, The Red Woman, The Mountain, Cersei Lannister.

When Arya woke up, it was morning. She dressed silently, Dally mercifully quiet. For all her simplicity, the maid was particularly empathetic. But just before she left, Dally handed her a letter. “The maester gave it to me just before I went in, my lady.”

“Thank you.” Arya said, and sat next to Nymeria on the ground. It had a direwolf sigil, and somehow she knew she would need her wolf next to her as she read it. Tears nearly fell when she recognized Jon’s handwriting. He didn’t ask a maester to write it, he did it himself.

“Little sister,

I cannot express with words how glad I am to know of your safety. When the news arrived of your presence in the Riverlands, I was immensely relieved. I know your have duties in Riverrun and I want you to know that I wish you could be with us, back home. By now you must have heard of how events have developed here. I wear a heavy cloak of duty, and I suppose now only you would understand me.

You must be confused, and I promise I will answer all your questions when we see each other, but we must be careful of what we put in letters. The North is ours, Winterfell is ours, that is all that matters. Sansa is safe as well, eager to see you, and we’re both decided to send lookout parties to find Bran. My advisors insist that an alliance between North and the Riverlands would be natural, and I agree we could help each other out. But above all else, I look forward to seeing you.

I must ride south, cleanse the North of the last Bolton men remaining in Moat Catlin. And then I will ride further south to see you. Please meet me at the Twins. I very much long to see you. Your brother,

Jon.”

Oh how much she missed him. A tear fell down and quickly Nymeria began to lick Arya’s cheek. I wish I were there with him, back in Winterfell. Arya read the letter two more times, before folding it and pressing it to her chest. She couldn’t bring herself to part with it, and instead carried it in her pocket when she went down.

Edmyn was playing in the gardens under the careful eye of his mother. There was a peace about Roslin now, a sort of purpose that was not quite there before. She will ask her about it later.

“My lady,” maester Vyman said as he approaches her. “There is an issue that has… arised.”

There are always issues arising. Arya took a deep breath. “Tell me, maester Vyman, aren’t we supposed to be at peace? Are there always so many problems during peace?”

The old man let out a breath and shook his head. “Lords must always face problems.”

“Should I ever…. when time comes… and I go North, you will help Edmyn with his problems, no?” Arya asked bluntly, looking him to his eyes with wrinkles around them. Looking for lies or deception, like the Faceless Men taught her, and finding none of it.

“I am vowed to serve House Tully, my lady.” Vyman said solemnly. Arya gave him a complicit smile.

“Ahh… so it is me who should be wary of you, then?” Arya joked, making the old man let out a laugh that all too soon left room for seriousness.

“The issue is serious, my lady. The Brotherhood without Banners.”

Not them. Arya masked her displeasement, but she felt the usual disgust that she felt whenever she thought of her friend being sold for two bags of gold. “What of them?”

“There are rumours of their activities, they’re moving more and more to the north of the Riverlands. Some even say they may attempt to go to your brother’s territory.” He said. They wouldn’t be my problem then, Arya thought, just Jon’s. It was a horrible thought, particularly because she didn’t want Jon to face problems. She reached for the letter in her pocket, holding it tightly. She knew it wouldn’t be easy for him, ruling with the surname Snow. She would not give him another problem.

“We must stop them.” Arya told Vyman, He nodded in agreement.

“Indeed, my lady. Your crusade for Riverrun impressed the lords, but if you want it secured you should capture the bandits. They will see you worry for them, and getting justice for the poaching and the stealing of their lands.”

“I guess we should gather the men then, offering rewards to whoever captures them.” Arya said, although it doesn’t sound like a particularly good plan. They had been evading capture for years. “Or you think sending armies would be smarter?”

“Yes, my lady. Besides, they’re rumoured to have a fierce warrior among them.” Maester Vyman starts. “The man they call the Hound.”

“Impossible.” Arya found herself saying. Impossible. She tried to hide her shock to the information. I took him off the list, didn’t I?  “They must be confusing some other large man with him.” The maester opened his mouth, but she cut him off.  “In any case, we must find them. Gather the men, write to every castle, let them know. Let them know Arya Stark wants the Brotherhood to face her justice.”

Chapter Text

In a matter of weeks, what was a rather breezy weather became cold. There was no snow yet, but it had begun to rain rather heavily and constantly. Arya knew this was only the beginning of winter. She remembered the summer snow back home, and it made her smile to think she’d get to see snow again. For all the problems she knew winter would bring, she was glad something could still make her smile. Mayhaps I will even get to play in the snow with Edmyn.

Mayhaps, she might even get to play in the snow with Jon. Is a lady supposed to play in the snow with her kingly brother?

Arya decided not to bother herself with that problem. She would worry about it later; right now she had more pressing matters. Significant part of the Riverlands lords had agreed with her that the construction of glasshouses was their most important preparation for winter, but some lords who lacked gold were difficult to get through as they did not like spending their relatively few money. She could be spiteful and let them suffer their stubbornness, but she did not want the people to starve during winter time.

Roslin had left Olyvar in charge of the Twins and was making a progress with the court of Riverrun. She had a natural grace and charm that Arya herself lacked, and it proved helpful. Arya could learn from her. If she already had a reputation for being wild and forward, the fact that she sat in the high chair with Nymeria by her side did not help.

In the weeks since her arrival to the Riverlands the recently found peace had meant more stable farming, and there was prosperity. Arya’s recent commitment to cleaning out the bands of bandits that prowled the region had proved useful, yet the fact remained that they needed gold. Arya remembered what she was taught regarding winter, it was a time when even the most basic needs of foods could be lacking. She knew that if this winter lasted long they would need gold to buy food, furs and perhaps even candles.

If only Jon was here already, she thought wistfully, I know he could help me plan this. After all, he managed to have more lessons with Maester Luwin than she ever did and he shared them with Robb, who was being prepared to be lord of Winterfell. In any case, she had Maester Vyman. He was an old man who still seemed at odds with the idea of Arya as any sort of military leader, but he nevertheless seemed devoted to work to house Tully and respect her as Lady of Riverrun. Arya had asked him what he knew of records of the Riverlands during winter. He was much immersed in his task, looking among piles of books how the lords of house Tully had previously dealt with wintertime.

Overall Arya was anxious for Jon’s arrival, and it caused great amusement to Roslin and many furrowed brows for little Edmyn.

“But why is he so important?” He asked timidly, but serious. As if the idea displeased him. Roslin had sworn to never speak a bad word about Arya’s brother to her son, and yet he seemed as concerned as the other riverlords.

“Because he is my brother and I miss him, very much.” Arya told him, smiling as Roslin fed him his broth. With many of the lords gone to their lands, Arya had gotten used to breaking her fast in Roslin’s quarters. Arya had naturally given her and Edmyn the proper rooms for the lord of Riverrun, and it proved a beautiful view of the Red Fork every morning.

“I missed you when you left home.” Edmyn said, but it didn't make Roslin or Arya smile. The boy’s mother was quick to correct him.

“Do not say that, remember what I told you?” Roslin made him look her in the eye. “This is our home now; this is your rightful place. You’re the lord of Riverrun, Edmyn of House Tully.”

“C’mon, repeat it.” Arya prodded him. The boy swallowed his food and sat straight.

“I am the lord of Riverrun, Edmyn of House Tully. This is my home.”

“Yes you are. And you know why I miss Jon? Because he reminds me of my home. Remember I told you about it?” Arya asked.

“Winterhell?” Edmyn asked back, making both Arya and Roslin laugh.

“Winterfell, my love.” Said Roslin. She laid back in her seat with a smile. “To think I could’ve been the lady of Winterfell.”

“You would’ve been a Queen in the North,” Arya muttered, trying not to think of Robb, the memory being very painful. “And I would’ve been a Frey I guess.”

“Elmar is a good boy. But when compared to you… he is truly just a boy.” Roslin said with a twisted smile, as if hesitant.

“What do you mean?” Arya asks, looking with her eyes and realizing Roslin meant more that what she said.

“Well… you see… I don’t know how old you truly are.” Roslin started.

“I’m five and ten.” Arya was quick to answer.

“I know. I can tell, Arya-” Roslin smiled as she said the next, “It’s just that you’re no ordinary five and ten woman. You don’t act like it at all. Elmar does. That’s all I meant.”

There was a knock on the door, and a boy in ragged clothes opened it to peek inside. “My lady,” he started, “maester Vyman is outside the apartments, waiting to deliver a letter that came.”

“Well then tell him to come in,” Arya laughed, amused by the maester’s bashfulness. She was curious about the boy, though. “Boy! Wait!”

“Milady,” the little lad looked like a street urchin, but he knew his manners well, perhaps too well. Look with your eyes, Arya.

“What is your name?”

“Willem, milady, they call me Will.”

“And you always tend these halls? Who are your parents?” Arya asked and she could tell the boy was nervous. He did not think to call attention for himself.

“They both dead, my lady. Killed in the war, I came here when the lord Edmure let us folk hide safe in the castle.” They boy said quickly, too quickly. Almost rehearsed.

“Very well then, Will. Go to the maester.” The boy bowed and took his leave quickly. Arya sipped her wine while Roslin looked at her confused.

“Why such an interest in the boy?” Roslin asked. Arya was suspicious. She has been a child who looked and founds secrets and weaknesses. She knew how deceit worked, yet she did not wish to worry Roslin for nothing.

“Just a feeling, don’t worry.” Arya said shaking her hand. She remembered something, and it made her smile. “Our maester… Maester Luwin, he would come and go as he pleased, he wasn’t so proper.”

“My septa did not allow our maester to enter our chambers without chaperone.” Roslin said with a smile, “which was sad because he was young and pleasing to the eyes and me and my half sisters liked to imagine what was under the robes.”

Maester Vyman entered as Arya and Roslin were in a fit of laughter, and Arya nearly kicked herself for the lack of property. The old maester however did not seem to mind, and as always, let a fascinated Edmyn touch his chains with curiosity.

“A letter, my lady. A raven arrived in the night.”

“What did it say?”

“I did not open it, my lady. It was not addressed to the Lady Protector or to the Lord of Riverrun, but rather simply to ‘Arya’ and nothing more.” He saids, extending it.

It’s Jon’s, a voice in her head rang, making her nearly jump out of her seat to receive the letter. She took it greedily and her hands shaked when she recognized the handwriting.

Little sister,

I hope this letter finds you well. I have successfully taken Moat Cailin from the last of the Bolton men. From here I must fulfill my duties and visit Flint lands as well as White Harbor. It is my plan to do this within a moon’s turn so I can leave for the Twins then.

I hope to meet you soon. I leave a garrison here, you can send letters here and they will forward them to my location. We will see each other soon.

Jon.

“Jon is in Moat Cailin,” Arya said, the information sinking in, her hand holding Needle’s hilt. I just need to go to The Twins and we’ll see each other in a moon turn. Suddenly she felt nervous, excited and eager to see him. … Do we still look like each other?

“So you’re still planning to leave on the morrow?” Roslin asked, and Arya can’t help but find Edmyn’s sudden grim so funny. Arya just nodded.

“My lady Stark, I did not come here just for the letter. A rider came from Pinkmaiden in the night, lord Piper writes that his son Marq has taken the Brotherhood without Banners captive, and they’re being held there. He is bringing them here, however. He should arrive tonight.”

“Excellent.” Arya was glad she could put an end to the whole affair. “We should-”

“Send men to meet him, yes, I took the liberty to tell some to prepare themselves in case you thought it a good idea, my lady.”

“Very well then, go confirm the orders. And, Maester Vyman,” Arya started, looking at him with an attempt of a smile, “thank you for all your hard work; you have been of real service.”

“I live to serve and help house Tully, my lady.” He bowed his head before leaving the room.

Arya threw herself on the bed. I wish I could be a girl again, play outside with Edmyn. But she could never be a girl again, she had seen war, she had trained with the Faceless Men. I am not the girl who played in the woods of Winterfell. Would Jon even recognize her? Could he love her?

Arya spent the day wondering what she would tell Jon. Should she be completely honest? Even when she thought she may just remain quiet she knew she herself wanted to know everything of the last few years of his life. It feels strange to be nervous about seeing someone who was once so easy to talk to. Arya simply felt like someone completely different from the girl of Winterfell, and having Jon so close made her all the more aware of the fact.

She was a second daughter, in all her life; she was never prepared to be a commander nor the regent of a little boy, managing a territory as large as the Riverlands. Septa Mordane would’ve found it a success if any great lord of the North accepted her as a suitable bride for their son. It felt strange to suddenly think of her septa. For some reason, it made her think of how to address Jon now. He won’t mind if I say his name in private, but perhaps he will prefer to be called ‘his grace’ in front of others?

Many of the Riverlords went back to their castles, and although Arya was glad she did not have to keep worrying over how she looked and her graces and manners, it did not mean there was nothing to worry for. Lord Bracken remained as a military advisor, and so long as he stayed it meant lord Blackwood would be making plans to return to Riverrun to oppose him at every turn and confuse Arya. Maester Vyman constantly approaching her with problems only managed to make the burden even heavier.

Arya enjoyed distraction by means of playing with Edmyn, but her little cousin had lessons too. He was hardly three, but already he reminded Arya of Bran, sitting impatiently as the maester taught him. When she went to check on him, however, she found the master-at-arms teaching the boy of sieges and battles. Apparently, teaching the future lord of Riverrun how to withstand sieges had become a priority now that Arya managed to take the castle with an army of wolves.

“Riders! Riders approaching!” Came the shouts from the guards. Arya found herself running to the gates, hand clutching her sword’s hilt, Nymeria following in haste.

“Is it Piper?” she asked out of breath, “is it the Brotherhood?”

“No my lady, they carry white banners.” A guard said. “And a cart with chests in them.”

“Messengers from Cersei, surely.” Arya deduced. Calm as still water, she repeated to herself, there are only nine of them, our sentries have not seen any hostile movement in the region, and everything will be alright.

“A tenth rider my lady, with a banner!” The guard told her as the riders approached, closer and closer. Arya did not recognize the coat of arms. She had been trying to study all Riverland houses, but she could know if this is from the Crownlands or the Westerlands. Damnit, Sansa would know.

“Maester Vyman?” Arya looked around, finding him running to her side. “That banner…”

“House Lefford, my lady.” He told her short of breath. “This Lannister woman is not stupid.”

Of course she is not. Arya thought, frustrated. “Of course she sends a messenger from the one Westerlands house that we have more contact with.”

“They are here”

Later, Arya would realise that she should’ve called for Edmyn to join them, but at that moment all she could do was wonder what Cersei’s intentions were. In her nervousness, she dug her fingers in Nymeria’s fur, trying to drag strength from the she-wolf. Arya stood in the yard, she didn’t have a cloak or gloves but she did not feel cold. The riders entered and dismounted, approaching slowly, scared. They carried no visible swords or arches, so they let them take out the chests from the cart and display them in front of them.

“I am ser Theomore Lefford,” the rider bearing his banner let it drive into the ground before he took off his helm and stood in front of his little group. He was very young, perhaps hardly a year or two older than Arya herself. “I bring a message from her grace the Queen Cersei. We bear no weapons.”

“So you say.” Arya was quick to point out. Words can be weapons too. “Let us hear this message, then.”

“I am to read it to the lady Arya Stark, Protector of lord Edmyn of House Tully.” The knight explained.

“You speak with her.” Arya said. I thought the wolf would be enough proof. Ser Theomore looked at her with a queer expression, and Arya realised something about her appearance didn’t sit right with him, as if he expected someone different.

Still, the lad took out a piece of paper, and swallowed nervously, hands shaking as he extended the paper and helds it in front of him to read.

“To the lord of Riverrun Edmyn Tully and his protector the alleged lady Arya of House Stark,” the boy started, causing an indignant commotion among the men. Arya herself was not surprised. Ser Theomore waited for the noise to stop before he continues. “By refusing to come here and recognize my reign you have shown yourselves as traitors to the Iron Throne and enemies to the crown. I deem it unnecessary to remind you that house Lannister overpowered you once and it will do so again, instead I encourage you to kneel and accept me as your Queen.”

At the knight’s break, several men started shouting insults and Arya dreaded the overall atmosphere. Cersei is mad, and this letter will only end in more madness. “Continue, please.”

“Should you still refuse to bend the knee, I vow to you that I will do to house Tully what my father lord Tywin Lannister did to house Reyne. Your name will become past history and I will burn Riverrun to the ground until only ashes are left of your memory. Gone are the Baratheon rulers, my time has come. I will allow you one moon to arrive to the capital and swear allegiance, else-” the lad stopped mid sentence, looking around nervously.

“What?” Arya barked, fighting her anger. She had not forgotten her list and she had not forgotten why she wished Cersei’s death in the first place, but taking care of the Riverlands had made her forget how loathsome the woman was.

“Else, you will be seeing more of the gifts I send you today.” Ser Theodore ended, folding the paper and looking at Arya anywhere but in her eyes. “Signed, Cersei of the House Lannister, the First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Protector of the Seven Kingdoms.”

There was an eerie silence among the yard. Besides her, Arya felt the maester shift from one foot to the other. She did not need to look at Nymeria to feel her uneasiness, her anxiousness. All men were looking at her, so Arya made sure she was standing straight and that her voice did not waver when she spoke. “Open them.”

The men opened the chests, and kicked them over, their contents rolling out unceremoniously. Heads, Arya thought, almost not believing her own eyes. This woman sent me fucking heads.

“Ryam!” a woman’s cries come from somewhere, and soon enough, a lady that Arya has seen among the court befriending Roslin is running to one of the heads, crouching to touch it and cry in despair. Soon enough others join her, not all of them family of the bodies, but some recognizing them as ladies in waiting or squires in service of minor houses.

Arya remembered to keep her face like the calm still pool of the House of Black and White, but she was sure everyone could see the rage in her eyes. Without her noticing, Nymeria started growl. Soon enough, the wolves prowling the woods, her fierce pack, started howling. They’re my voice, my call to arms. I hope Cersei hears them, and trembles with fear.

“Ser Themore.” Arya said above the noise, everyone instantly stopping to listen to her words. “I was thinking of sending you back with my reply. But I see now that that won’t be possible.” The knight was scared; she could nearly smell it in him. “This offense I will not let pass.”

“My lady, I am merely a messenger, I brought no weapons. Surely the Seven would never approve of any action against us-”

“Sadly for you, I don’t follow the Seven.” Arya let him know, nodding to her guards. “There is only one God and his name is death, and I will make sure Cersei meets him.” Her guards easily took the men, made them yield and wait for her orders. “Take them to the dungeons, feed them, and get their names.”

They took them away, and Arya looked around for a moment, at people recognizing some of the heads, others whispering. All of them, angry. Arya herself was seething, and she felt a certain pull too growl. In a moment too brief for her to notice, it is almost as if she was the wolf, snarling at the captured men as they pass them. Fresh prey, meat of scared men.

The people in the yard wre looking at her, waiting for something. They’re my people now, they want justice, and they want me to reassure them they will get it. “I will show them what it feels like to lose what they love.” Arya swore and she saw hope in their eyes. War hurt them, winter scared them, but they trusted her now.

Roslin arrived then, recognizing the poor woman crying and holding the severed head, rushing to console her. She immediately ordered the men to put the heads back in the chests, and called for the septa to clean them and prepare them to send them to their respective families. Arya joined Roslin, and helped men put the heads back in. They were cold and rigid and ugly, but Arya had patience for ugly things. She reassured people that this won’t stay like this, that she would not let anything forestall Cersei’s reckoning. Let me show Cersei what a she-wolf can do to a lioness.

When Arya was done helping her people, she stood up straight and breathed in before looking at the maester. He looked at her with a solemn expression, a silent acknowledgement that they both needed to talk. Before she left to her quarters, she noticed the servant boy from earlier listening attentively.

“Nymeria!” The wolf stopped her strut to look at Arya, and she knelt next to her to look in her yellow eyes and command her. “Stay here, look after Edmyn and Roslin.” The she wolf simply turned into the direction of their chambers and stayed put, looking around, probably putting all maids on their nerves. Good, good girl.

When Arya entered her own chambers, she sat behind her desk, practically throwing herself on the chair. There was wine there already in the flagon, and the maester made for it to serve her cup. Arya stopped him with one hand motion.

“I’ll ask the servants for a new one.” Arya said as she went to the door and asked precisely for that to Dally. The Maester sat in front of her chair, and Arya knew this meant they would have an honest, direct conversation.

Arya sat in silence, waiting for the wine, pretending to be distracted by her desk’s surface. Her thoughts drifted to something she could never quite evade. Beric Dondarrion, Thoros, The Red Woman, The Mountain, Cersei Lannister. The names always came back to her.

Dally entered, set the flagon and served the wine. The maester quickly reached for his cup and took a sip. Arya waited until Dally was gone to gulp down half of it. It was not as tasty as the rum she enjoyed in Braavos and aboard the ships, but it certainly relaxed her, made her blood run in a much calmer pace.

“My lady,” the old man started, speaking with trepidation, “may I speak with-”

“Just be on with it,” Arya told him, in no mood for hesitant polite statements. She just wanted the man to tell her whatever he needed to say.

“I am quite older than you, my lady. I have lived wars and I encourage you not to start one.” He took a deep breath, “Wars are-”

“Wars killed half of my family,” she started, allowing irritation to take over her tone. Arya knew she should be more patient, speak with more kindness, but a part of her refused to be scolded. “War burned my home; war kept me starving and lost in the Riverlands, war made me exile myself across the Narrow Sea. Do not tell me what war is, maester.”

“My lady, I apologize.” The maester said immediately. In her eyes, Arya could see he meant no offense, just wished to give advice. So she just nodded at him to continue. “Must you…Must the Riverlands go to war with this woman?”

“See the way I see it, the lords chose me because despite being a woman and a northerner, it was because I expulsed the Lannisters away from here. Would they approve of me being pushed into submitting to Cersei?”

“With all due respect, my lady, even as your achievements were incredible they were all of the same kind.” The maester explained and Arya knew it was true. It had been a simple formula, to infiltrate the keeps with her best men and lower the bridge to let the wolves pass first as a sacrifice before the armed men. “War means battles which will need more tactics. You will need gold to maintain any army. You need a strong cause to keep men inspired. You will need leaders who respect your leadership.”

“You certainly seem to know enough.” Arya quipped with a smile.

“Not at all, lady Stark.” He smiled. “I wanted to be a knight before my injury got in the way. Once my family decided to send me to Citadel I… well I immersed myself in the books and accounts of old battles and legendary commanders.”

“Doesn’t it make you bitter? Or sad?” Arya found herself asking, looking at the maester’s dark eyes and trying to imagine a hopeful young man. “To think of what could’ve been.”

“It is foolish to think of these things yes, but…” The maester looked at her with a sad smile. “Look at me, at my old age, planning how to carry a rebellion with you, my lady.”

“I must envy you then” Arya allowed her voice to sound sad. I can’t keep it all in at all times. “In a fashion, your dreams can come true. Mine will never be. There is no bringing back a father, a mother and two siblings.”

“But you get to live on your mother’s home, take heart from that. And you gained a little cousin. And your remaining siblings will always welcome you in your home.” He made to stand, but remained in his seat, his smile turning into a small laugh. “I was about to get up and leave with a phrase about you carrying your father with you in your name but then I remembered we’ve solved nothing.”

Arya barked out a laugh at that, and then looked at him serious. “So… I guess our first course of action should be to send the remains to each house, then call them to meet here.”

“If I may suggest, we should send message to meet in Harrenhal instead, it is a much more centric location, so everyone will arrive in shorter time.” He explained, before taking a sip of wine. “Besides, since it is unoccupied, each lord will have to bring its own household and care for their own food and tending, so it will not be concern for the arcs of Riverrun.”

“Oh there is that as well.” Arya nodded in approval. Wars cost money. “We need more gold.”

“Armies and campaigns mean a great cost, my lady.” Maester Vyman agreed, leaning forwards to set his cup on the table. “I have an idea regarding that my lady. Saltpans and Maidenpool.”

“They’re burned and sacked and poor.” Arya frowned at that. “What gold can come from there?”

“Maidenpool was slightly restored by Randyll Tarly before he left for King’s Landing and you released Lord Mooton.” The Maester explained. “My lady if we can get these harbors to become large ports, we will see an increase in the gold because of taxes.”

“Interesting… I remember lord Mooton.” Arya’s memories of the man left her disappointed. Lord Mooton was a coward and when she had arrived to free him of the men Randyll Tarly left behind he had not inspired much respect. “Not a person who I would trust.”

“In understand that, but-”

“I don’t need trust; just that he manages Maidenpool properly.” Arya finished, and the maester nodded in approval. “I would still need to bind him in loyalty to me, though.”

Of that, Arya was certain. Lord Mooton was a coward, and his only offspring was married to Randyll Tarly’s son, who would inherit Horn Hill from the Reach. Besides, she did not know yet how could they possibly make Maidenpool and even Saltpans into larger, richer ports.

“Marriage, my lady.” The maester said plainly. Arya was startled at the proposal. Not me, I cannot be married. I have to go back to Winterfell, see Jon. I want to be with Jon back home and not with some lordly husband. “Or at the very least, a betrothal.”

“No. Not me.” Arya did not allow despair to be shown in her voice. She told herself to be firm, for her tone to be final.

“Not you, my lady. You’re a lady of House Stark.” The Maester said. “Dickon Tarly and Eleanor Mooton were wed ten moons ago. A moon ago she gave birth to a daughter.”

It took a few moments for the meaning to sink in, and then Arya was torn. He is just a boy. But what else could she do? She needed the gold, and the rebuilding of Maidenpool into a successful port city would bring in many riches. Arya knew nothing of the Reach, and whether Randyll Tarly was a rich man, but at the very least she knew that if House Mooton and House Tully joined in efforts and investment, they could rebuild the harbor.

“Roslin will…” Arya started, but stopped herself to drink some wine. She, who once raged at the prospect of being a proper lady and the ways of the nobility, promising her own cousin for gold to finance a war.

“Lady Roslin was married for an alliance. She did her duty. As did your mother, your uncle and your aunt Lysa in their time.” The man said as if that should be consolation. “She will understand.”

If I think it too long, I will regret it. Arya did not want to do it, but her rage at Cersei was pulsing through her veins, motivating her to do it. “Once the harbor is renovated, why would sailors and merchants would wish to move their products through a land in war?”

“You spoke of Lord Mooton’s cowardice and that would understandably mean he would not be a great asset during a war.”

He would not inspire men to fight nor be of great council. Arya smiled at the maester’s cunning. “We will task him with the protection of the roads and the defense of our eastern southern frontiers with the Crownlands.”

“That way you will give him a chance to stay away from battles and watch over the kingsroad.” The master said, “that way he would only need to fight if it was necessary, meaning he would need to maintain a lesser army and focus his resources on Maidenpool.”

“His granddaughter will be lady of Riverrun, his sons would be safe from battle.”

“That would certainly leave him in debt to be loyal to House Tully.” The maester said as he made to stand. “I shall write to Dickon Tarly.”

Arya bid him goodbye and smiled to herself. She felt sleepy and she remembered her mother and father only allowing her small sips of wine as a child. Well now I know why. Arya stared at her reflection in the looking glass and wondered what it must be like to be married. It was never a life I wanted, she thought. And yet a part of her wondereds if it would be so bad. I wouldn’t mind a husband if he wouldn’t try to make a lady of me. But then again, probably any husband would like to change her.

Arya threws herself on the bed and closed her eyes. Jon is the only one who truly loves me as I am.

She dreams of snow and her brothers playing in the snow. Even her sister is there, the one they lost long ago. But as much as she howls and runs, she cannot reach them, they do not turn to her. It seems she never gets to the place where they are, where she is running to. As she runs she is gradually engulfed by flames, but they do not burn her. They’re almost like a caress, a soft warm feeling invading her. It certainly feels like a gentle invasion, the fire entering her body but not hurting her, rather joining her.

Suddenly, the dream changes. She is warm, yes, but because she is by the fire. She misses a part of her, but does not fear because they’re not separated like before. The little boy is curious about her, but not a part of her like the girl. The woman is simply scared of her proximity, though she does nothing to send her away.

The smell of suspicious fear and anxiety reaches her nose, and it fills her like a foul disease. It becomes intense when the a boy enters the chambers to set the food and wine on the table, and Nymeria is up, running, her jaws opening and jumping, aiming for his arm-

Arya woke up with a jolt. The sun was setting and there was a fire running. I fell asleep, no one woke me. Roslin is eating without me. Roslin was with Edmyn and Nymeria, without her.

It took her the bat of an eyelash to reach for her letter opener, her grip strong as she ran across the halls to the lord’s chambers. She arrived to the room along with several other guards, clutching the letter opener like a knife while the screams of a child fill the halls.

When Arya entered, Edmyn was in Roslin’s arm on the other side of the room. She ran to them immediately, while keeping an eye on Nymeria. The wolf was snarling to the servant boy Will in the corner and Will was holding his arm to keep the bleeding at bay. The guards entered behind her, quickly drawing swords.

“Keep him in there! Nymeria, To me! Give her space to pass” Arya shouted, her wolf angry and feral. She could feel her agitation as if her own bones were trembling, so she let go of Roslin and crouched in front of the wolf. “There,” she told her, petting her and letting Nymeria smell and lick her, “good girl.” Nymeria sat, and Arya knew she would be calm now, so she rose and turned to Roslin. “Are you ok?”

“I, I- I don’t understand.” Roslin said agitated, her voice trembled but her lock on Edmyn seemed strong enough, so Arya doesn’t worry she might faint. “She just.. attacked the boy out of nowhere.”

“Certainly not out of nowhere.” Arya was seething. She turned and saw the boy trapped in the corner by guards. “What were you doing when she bit you?”

“Just serving the wine, milady!” The boy shook his head as Arya walked towards him. He’s lying. “Please, my arm.”

“She didn’t hurt you…. much.” Arya knew this, she didnn't know how, but she knew Nymeria did not bite to maim the boy, just to stop him. She went to the table and found the untouched dinner. “Come here, Will.” Arya ordered, the guards confused. “It’s ok, let him pass. Come, sit.”

The boy did as she told him, clutching his arm but sitting. Arya took the arm and examined it. Blood is oozing from where Nymeria sank her teeth, so she took a cloth and put pressure to it. “My arm...”

“Eat.” She ordered, and the boy picked up a spoon with his good hand, taking a sip of the broth and a spoonful of the meat Roslin had chopped for her son. Arya watched as he shifted in his seat, glancing at the cup after every spoonful of meat.  Slowly, she pushed the cup closer to him. “Drink.” The boy finally looked at her, guilt and fear in his eyes.

He truly did want to poison Edmyn. The rage filled her, and dark part of her wanted him dead. Another part of her knew he’s a pawn, that there was more behind him. Her grip on his arms tightened and he let out a scream. “Please!”

“Just tell me who gave you the order and the poison and I will let go.” Arya whispered at him threateningly, but it only made him shake harder, eyes big and watery. I am scaring him too much, she realised, and she knew she had to change her strategy. “Just tell me, and it will be over, I promise.”

“I- I don’t know his name milady.” Will whispered. “He came with the lords, a little boy, and gave me these shoes! Told me his master would cut off me tongue if I didn’t do it!”

And they would know who you are because of the shoes. Arya let go of his arm, looking up to see the Maester at the door, all the guards standing around, looking at her.

“Was it, Cersei?” Roslin asked, shaken but trying to calm a trembling Edmyn. Arya let out a breath but shaked her head slowly, letting her know she does not wish to speak of this in front of all the guards.

“Maester, tend to the boy’s wound.” Arya examined all the guards, trying to find the quietest, most reserved one. “Ser Roland, accompany them, keep a close eye. When it’s done, take the boy to the cells, keep him fed and warm. I don’t want to find him bruised, hungry or cold on the morrow.”

“Yes, my lady.” ser Roland nodded, and began to order the other men on guard duty and rounds.

“Maester-” Arya started, but the man held up his hand and she stayed silent.

“I will tend his wounds, then I will wait so we can talk, my lady.”

They all left, until it’s just Roslin, Edmyn and her. They stood there, Nymeria sitting calmly between them. Roslin finally set her son on the ground, and the boy ran to Arya, clutching her legs. Arya almost felt like crying, and just pet the boy’s auburn curls as he looked up to her. His blue eyes were bright from the tears, fear written all over his face. He reminds me of Rickon. Suddenly, she remembered that her little brother was dead and that she could’ve lost her little cousin that night.

Arya did not try to fight the tears that fell as she crutched and hugged Edmyn close to her. He was small and skinny and so vulnerable. She felt Roslin patting her back, but Arya didn’t want her comfort. I want Jon.

She didn’t have him now, though. She had a scared cousin and the responsibility of the future of House Tully and the Riverlands was on her shoulders. Arya dried her tears with her hand, and stood up. She caressed Edmyn’s face, made him look at her.

“Who are you?” she asked him, asking it to herself in her mind. I am a wolf. A Stark of Winterfell.

“Edmyn” The boys said, brow furrowed in confusion. Arya simply shaked her head, subtly trying to get him to take courage from his family’s name. “Edmyn of House Tully.”

“What are your words?”

“Family, duty, honor.” Edmyn said almost singing, like a rehearsed poem. But he stood up straighter when he said it, and it was enough to calm Arya.

“Hey, you want to hold my Needle?” Arya asked him, making him smile. Roslin of course, was looking at Arya menacingly. “Scabbard on! Just for you to hold and test while I speak with the maester.”

“Please mother?” Edmyn turned to his mother, excitedly jumping up and down. Roslin nodded. Arya let out a laugh at Edmyn’s happiness as Arya handed him the sword.

“It is no toy! So don’t take out the scabbard.” Edmyn went to the far side of the room and swing it around, standing and poking forward. Nymeria let out an indignant sound and went to sit next to Roslin. “Don’t take out Nymeria’s eyes.” Arya warned him as she went to Roslin then. “I will go to the Maester, I’m sure the guards will be very much alert tonight. I leave Nymeria with you, please, for my own peace of mind.”

“Of course,” Roslin said, petting the she-wolf. “I’m very fond of her now.”

“I’ll let you rest.” Arya left them.

Worry was still flowing through her and so was the sadness of remembering Rickon, and the fear of imagining Edmyn as one of the lifeless bodies in the House of Black and White. Instead of all that, Arya focused on her anger. She was marching to Maester Vyman’s chambers when a guard came running to her in haste.

“My lady!” He called for her, urgency written all over his face.

What now? she thought exasperated. The day could not end soon enough for Arya. “Yes?”

“Marq Piper has arrived with a more than a dozen men and seven members of the Brotherhood Without Banners, my lady.”

And I have made no arrangements. Arya panicked. She grabbed the arm of a passing maid who very nearly jumps in fear. “Seven-milady!” The woman composed herself quickly. “What can I do for you?”

“Please, prepare the best room for Marq Piper and make arrangements for his men to sleep in.” Arya ordered her quickly.

“Should I order the cooks to make a meal for them?” The maid asked. Arya thanked the old gods one of the two of them knew what they were doing.

“Yes, of course And bring up some wine.” Arya smiled at her, “and if you stumble on my maid please let her know I will eat with them in the main hall. Tell any other servant to tell lady Roslin.”

“Yes milady.” The woman quickly went away to do her chores, and Arya found herself running to the yard for the second time in that day.

Dally found her near the entrance, running to meet her with a furred cloak, a silver brooch with a trout figure and black gloves. Arya felt uncomfortable displaying riches, but she was silenced by Dally telling her she was the Lady of Riverrun and should dress as such in front of the bannermen.

When Arya finally went out to the yard, the light was limited, coming only from the torches. It was cold and snowing. I am Arya Stark, Lady of Riverrun, Princess of Winterfell. I am a wolf. She repeated this to herself until she was face to face with Marq Piper, his men dismounting as soldiers were forcing men out of a wagon. After a couple of unknown faces were dragged out, soon came ser Beric Dondarrion, Thoros of Myr and him. It is true then. He is alive.

“Lady Stark!” Marq Piper approached her, proud smile on his face. He had accomplished what Tywin Lannister himself could not do and he knew it. He was at the Red Wedding, she remembered, he was captive.

“Lord Piper, welcome to Riverrun.” Arya greeted him warmly, trying to remember what her mother would’ve said in an occasion like this. She failed to remember, berating herself for never paying attention to this sort of things before, but tried to mask her nervousness. “I must thank you, and congratulate you, on your great achievement.”

“Thank you, my lady.” He said. “It was not easy…” Marq Piper began his tale of his catch, but Arya couldn't concentrate on his voice.

I had forgotten how ugly he was. His burned scars were still hideous, but somehow, to Arya they almost felt familiar. He had spotted her, and was looking at her with a smile she couldn't understand. It didn't seem contempt or mocking. Rather he seemed to be laughing at the irony of their lives.

“My lord Piper, you must be tired.” Arya interrupted Marq with what she hoped was a generous smile. “You men must be exhausted, I have made arrangements for you and your companions. A meal will be served soon and I was hoping you will give me the pleasure of your company unless you are too tired.”

“Not at all my lady, but if it is the case,” Marq said looking around. “We have been travelling for days, we must wash ourselves before we’re to entertain any respectable lady.”

I care little for that, I just want to talk to them, Arya thought. She just smiled and signaled to the steward. “Utherydes will show you your rooms.”

“My lady.” Marq Piper entered the castle along with his men, and soon enough it was just Arya, her soldiers and what remained of the Brotherhood.

“Lady Stark,” ser Beric Dondarrion started. “I was six years old when I saw your aunt Lyanna at the Tourney  of Harrenhal, and the image of  Prince Rhaegar crowning her remains in my mind. I must say you’re the very image of her.”

“Ser Beric.” Arya started but found she didn’t know how to continue. She remembered her anger at him for selling her friend, her indignation at being held a prisoner by people who pretended to be honorable. Yet she knew, they were not the worst monsters she had encountered. “Flattery was a poor choice to begin with if softening my judgment is your goal “

Both Thoros and the Hound let out a laugh, and it made Arya frown. “I had to try, my lady.” Ser Beric said serious.

“You find it amusing then? That I have no desire of granting you a bland easy punishment?”

“Still the same wild bitch, aye.” The Hound said, making Arya roll her eyes as the soldiers unsheathed their swords.

“How is vermin like you still alive?” Arya wondered out loud. She looked at his ugly smirk one more time before turning around. “Take them inside.”

Arya entered and went to sit in the high seat of the Tullys. The great hall was empty except for the seven men and the soldiers.

“My lady-” Ser Beric was stopped by Arya raising her hand.

“I want you to know you are not to be punished only by my particular quarrel with you. The lords could no longer stand their people being robbed. You have poached and stolen too much, winter is ahead, this type of actions cannot continue any longer.  There are reports of your people killing and burning villages in their search for gold.” Arya said, finding shame in the eyes of most of them.

“Men lose their way,” ser Beric started. “War makes men lose their way. Then they cannot leave in peace time. Those men… we judged them for it, we hanged them.”

“But it was not for you to bring them to justice.”  Arya emphasized. “Give me one reason to keep your heads attached to your shoulders.”

“We still fight for the realm.” Ser Beric said, and Arya had to scoff at that. She had heard the reports of what happened in the village of that wandering septon.

“What of you, Thoros?” Arya asked the priest. “Still selling boys for bags of gold? Saying it’s for the good of the realm?”

The red priest had the decency to look down, ashamed. “Ser Beric means well, so I drink and follow him.”

“Still doing a lot more than the lords of Westeros?” Arya asked him, and he just shrugged his shoulders. Suddenly, a door opens behind the seat and Arya turns to see Roslin at the doorway, nodding at her. Nymeria stepped in from the shadows, circling her seat and walking down until she was in front of the men.

One look at the Hound, and Nymeria started snarling, baring her teeth so menacingly many of them took a step back.

“You wanna kill us so badly little girl? Then go along with it.” The Hound spat. “If anyone is gonna be the death of me, it may as well be you.”

“Be that as it may, you better start talking, now, before I deliver you to the lords that so eagerly want your heads.” Arya threatened. I wanted them to pay for Gendry, but I also know they’re not monsters. Arya wanted to believe a part of her could still show mercy. My father would send them to the wall. “If you can justify becoming bandits, I can send you to the Wall.”

“There a dangers up North, dark undead forces.” Thoros proclaimed with an extremely somber tone. It did not help Arya’s indecision.

“Serving in the Wall is the most honorable end for us.” Ser Beric said, though some of his companions complained. “But some of my men might rebel at that. Wouldn’t it be better to exile us? We would fight for the realm still, just not in your lands.”

As if the lords would ever allow it. I would just be getting rid of a problem to hand it to Jon. “You speak as if the lords would ever let me let you go.”

“I am sure the mighty lady Arya Stark could make it work.” Thoros spoke up, then looked at her. “I have seen in the fires that you will not be challenged”.

“You know perfectly well that by conquering the Twins I put it under the lordship of a loyal man, that I could tell them to  let you pass.” Arya finally realized. “You chose to get caught instead of dying in a skirmish because you wanted to bargain your punishment.”

“It is why we got caught. Did you really think we could not avoid Piper’s men?” the Red Priest asked.

“I cannot possibly allow you to pass the Twins so easily, do you take me for some kind of tyrant? The lords of the Riverlands have absolutely no intention of letting you leave the Riverlands with no punishment, you think I can so easily ignore their wishes?” Arya was surprised at their assumption that it would be so easy.

“Fuck that, you don’t care what they want, you just want to punish the whole lot of us.” The Hound spoke up, looking at her with irritation. “And me, you probably still want to kill me.”

“Have you any idea of how many of them asked for your head? Yours specifically?” Arya let him know.

“I already told you, child, I-”

“Shut up!” Arya shouted rising up. She took a deep breath and managed to control herself, but Nymeria lept forward, scaring both the Brotherhood and the guards. “Nymeria! To me!”

The wolf retreated instantly, coming back to her side. Ser Beric looks defeated at the sour direction their negotiations were leading them, so he just spoke quietly. “Your father was an honorable man, my lady. Even when he had to do his duty and pass judgment, he knew better than to rush to any sort of punishment.”

This is where he is betting his life, Arya realized. He meant to explain something, and that it would be enough reason for the daughter of Ned Stark to wait before any manner of execution or imprisonment. Arya wished she could so easily repeat the attitude of her father, but she was told plenty of Robb’s ruling by maester Vyman, and she knew better than to disappoint the men who elected her as their leader.

“I will not repeat the mistakes of my brother, you think I’m powerful enough to keep the liege lords unhappy?” Arya asked them. “They want your head, and when I ask for one reason to keep it attached to your shoulder you start talking of some nonsense of an undead threat.”

“Would you rather we spoke of defending the people against unfit rulers?” Thoros piped up, angering her. I have done as much as I can for the smallfolk they preach about protecting.

“Careful now-” Arya began, holding Nymeria by her fur, keeping her indignation at bay.

“It’s the ale speaking, my lady Stark.” Ser Beric said, making Arya raise an eyebrow at Thoros, who just shrugged apologetically. “You know the respect I had for your father. In his name, take my word, I speak the truth. The lord of light has shown Thoros the truth in his fires. Let him explain.”

“It is because you speak of dangers in the North that I will listen.” Arya let him know, hoping he got the hint to get to the point. “Speak now, priest.”

“The fire has shown me visions, the dead rising in the North.” Thoros said, and shifted uncomfortable. He clearly realized what he was saying sounds stupid. “Creatures made of ice, destroying men. Only fire can fight them, only fire can save the realms of men.”

“Are you sure the ale is not showing you visions?”

“We may be outlaws, but we are not liars.” Ser Beric said.

“I beg to differ, you lied to me about getting me to Riverrun and you lied to Gendry about accepting him in the Brotherhood.” Arya pointed out.

“I agree, they lie.” The Hounds said. “The buggers lied to me and stole my gold, but they mean this.”

It made no sense for them to surrender unless they had a good reason. And is that reason truly honorable? As much as her training and experience led her to be cynical, she couldn’t for the life of her understand why follow the stupid plan to surrender and beg to go a country further into the winter unless they truly were inspired to fight this enemy.

“So you want to go North, to fight?” Arya’s eyes found the Hound’s own grey eyes. “To… protect the realm?”

“Plain as that.” Thoros said.

“It is only because once my father saw well on you, ser Beric, that I will let you live. And because I am a Northerner, and this dangers you speak of will affect my home.” Arya looked at ser Beric, hoping he understood this was a one time option, and he better not be lying about his plans. “By your actions alone, those I witnessed and what I’ve heard I have no proof of the goodness of your intentions, and your explanation is based solely in the visions only this drunk priest can see.”

“My lady-”

“As it is, it seem your Red God is helping you. My brother Jon is on his way to the Twins, where I will meet him after I visit Harrenhal. He has been at the Wall and he will be able to tell me if you speak truths. Ser Hollis,” Arya addressed to the captain of the guards, who stepped forward, ever diligent. “These men are prisoners, but keep them fed and well looked after. Make them bath, else their stench will kill everyone in this castle, and make sure they don’t get anywhere near any of our drink.”

“You’re taking them with you then, my lady?” Ser Hollis asked as the guards rounded up the prisoners and led them out. Arya watched as The Hound was taken away from her sight.

“Unfortunately.”  Is all she said for an answer as Hollis nodded and went away, surely to make arrangements. The dead rising in the North, what could it possibly mean?  “Come along Nymeria, you must go keep an eye on Edmyn and I must speak with the maester about war.”

The direwolf followed her closely, while Arya took one last look at the Riverrun great hall before she closed the door. Outside, Arya could hear the hundreds of wolves howling to the moon, her own call to banners. Cersei is wrong, she thought, the time for wolves has come.

Chapter Text

This is where Robb died.

It was the first thing that came to Jon’s mind when he arrived at the northern part of the Twins. In ignorance, he had expected the weather to be warm. And while not nearly as cold as the days he spent beyond the Wall, Jon was surprised to find his nose and ears freezing. Next to him, ser Davos was frowning at the unsympathetic weather.

“Bloody winter,” he grumbled under his breath, making Jon smile. Silent as ever, Ghost walked around checking on their surroundings.

“And you have been at the Wall,” Jon told him. “Imagine how it will be for anyone south of here.”

“Aye, I reckon it will be difficult. Only the lords of the North prepare their people for winter.” ser Davos admited. “I lived smuggling things from the sea, I know nothing of it.”

By the sea, Jon thought of correcting him, but refrained. Ser Davos had been a source of disagreement among the lords of the North staying in court in Winterfell. Many, like Sansa, looked down on his lowborn and foreign status. Jon reckoned they could’ve forgiven him one of those two, but both together was unacceptable.

“It was something they prepared Robb for during his whole life.” Jon said, and he couldn’t stop the insecurity. He had been there for every lesson, but suddenly finding himself with the burden was still heavy.

“The little lady Mormont seemed to have her priorities clear, food and protection.” Ser Davos said smiling fondly at the memory of the girl. Lady Lyanna reminded Jon of Arya, and he had missed her fierceness during their travels through the Northern keeps. Yet, Jon was happy someone so loyal had stayed with Sansa in Winterfell.

“They will be necessary. We will be fighting a bigger threat,” Jon warned and the usual uneasiness whenever he thought of the White Walkers settled in him. I will have to tell Arya everything. “And during winter the land freezes and it's difficult to grow food and to keep men in fighting condition.”

“And you think your sister will help you?” Ser Davos asked with doubtful voice, earning a frown from Jon.

“Of course she will. Why wouldn’t she?”

“Forgive me Jo- ehr, your Grace.” Ser Davos stuttered, earning a wave off from Jon. He didnn’t care for titles, and he felt uncomfortable when they came from someone who knew him as a simple man from the Night’s Watch. “The only high born siblings I’ve ever known are the Baratheons.”

“Arya is nothing like that.” Jon told him immediately. I miss her. “She’s nothing like any high born you’ve ever known.”

Ser Davos smiled a rather melancholic smile, as if thinking of someone fond of him, but before he could say anything a soldier bearing the Frey banner approached them on horseback. Jon instantly felt on edge, and he could tell many of his companions looked apprehensive. Ghost however, did not seem to find him a threat.

“Lord Snow,” was the first thing that came out of the mouth of the messenger, earning hateful looks from all of Jon’s companions. “Welcome to the Twins.”

“You speak to the King in the North, ser…” one of Jon’s man started, Larence has contemp clear in his voice, but the rider quickly answered.

“I am no knight. Any knights my house ever had were slain under accusations of treachery.” He said in a queer tone of voice Jon couldn’t understand. “I meant no offense, but in case you are not aware, the lords of the Riverlands have not declared Jon Snow as their king. And you have to understand,” he looked at Jon there, apologetic. “We rather be in their good graces than risk their anger by recognizing your title here.”

Jon had to acknowledge he made a good point. “Who are you?” What role did you play in your family’s treachery?

“Alesander Frey, my lord.” He answered. “As I said,  welcome to the Twins. The lady Arya has yet to arrive, but a week ago we received word she was leaving Harrenhal and beginning her journey here. She should arrive in a couple days unless it starts snowing.”

Alesander looked up to the sky as if the weather was his nastiest foe.

“So? Will you have us camp outside boy?” Barked Robett Glover. To his credit, Alesander remained stoic to the tone.

“Certainly not. I came to welcome and guide you to the Twins, but I need to ask something before.” He said, clearly uncomfortable.

Jon frowned at that. A part of him wanted to feel indignation, but refrained from saying  because he knew his companions would say enough.

“Ask something?”

“If you think we’re leaving our weapons behind boy-”

“With what right you Freys ask  for anything?”

“I only ask that you respect the women in the castle.” Alesander said. Jon simply raised an eyebrow at that. “The lady Arya made widows of a lot of them. Some of them want to go back to their houses, others want to marry into another family. Your sister ordered us to make sure their honor be respected.”

“You take us for wildlings?” Robett asked.

“The lady Arya gave us this task. She took you for men at arms entering a castle that is now mostly inhabited by unmarried women.” Alesander answered simply, then looked at Jon pointedly. “She traveled through the Riverlands during the war. She knows not only lions ravaged these lands.”

Jon was losing patience to this bickering, the cold weather chilling him and Ghost standing around giving him an impatient look. Mostly it bothered him that this Frey man seems to know more of his sister than Jon himself. Gods, please don’t tell me she was raped too. The mere idea of it made him grip the reins.  “You heard him,” Jon said, “show us in.” And then, remembering Robb again, he told him sharply “and be sure to get us some bread and salt.”

Alesander had the audacity to look offended before he turned his horse towards the Twins.

If Jon was still the boy of fifteen leaving Winterfell for the Wall, he would find the Twins impressive. If only Castle Black was this formidable, he couldn’t help but thinking. The castle was ugly. It had little warmth in it, unlike Winterfell. It wass large enough that they could pass in their horses with ease through the main corridor. They go through the eastern keep in complete silence and Jon noticed Alesander picking up the pace of his horse when they passed next to two wooden doors.

“This was it, wasn’t it?” Jon was amazed at the hate in his voice. “You killed them here.”

“I didn’t kill any northerner.” Alesander snapped from ahead of them, earning many snorts from his companions.

“Held the door closed then?” Robett asked. It seems like the wrong thing to say, as Alesander stopped altogether and turned his horse around so he could see them.

“I understand your anger, I understand the big dishonor my family did.” He was seething. “But Lady Arya made sure to behead every last member of my house involved in this treachery. Even with her youth she knew better than to think of us as all the same kind. Did you know my own father considered me traitor because I was good friends with the northerners? I was sent to Seagard to defend it from the Ironborn because my own family considered me too loyal to the Young Wolf.”

Arya knew better than us, Jon thoght. “I believe my men owe you an apology.”

“Save your apologies, my lord. I know very well they will come from your orders, and not from any real feeling of repent of their rudeness.” He gave them all one last hard look. “You have judged me, the second son of the seventh son with a foreigner from Braavos, for the crimes planned in a room between the most powerful members of my family and committed by the lowest soldiers. I did not judge your sister for the harsh justice she imposed on my family, and I did not threw in her face the fact that her brother went back on his word and slighted all my sisters.”

I have to admit he is right. Yet, Jon knew he has to treat him a certain way. “Be that as it may, I apologize. Care to continue?”

“Of course my lord.”

There were reaching the tower in the middle of the bridge when ser Davos talked. “Are you the head of your house now, Alesander?”

Ser Davos’ tone indicated sympathy, but Jon knew there is a hidden question there. Why were they being received with such a humble reception? Once again, Alesander answered in his controlled  way of speaking.

“There is currently no lord of the Crossing, ser.” He explained. “By the time of your sister’s arrival, many of the members in close line to succession had been fighting among themselves. Growing up in the Twins, one learns only to trust those whom you share mother and father. She made certain to clear out many members as well and threw a whole lot of others to the cells.”

“And how was she certain you would not help your chained brothers?” ser Davos asked. Laurence was quite somber when he answered.

“Even those who do not agree on the justice were scared of retribution for disobeying her.”

It was odd for Jon to think of his little sister, all elbows and knees, imposing any kind of justice on men. She could not even remain angry at Sansa for longer than a couple hours. She was always stubborn, but she had a delightful temper, which always seemed to brighten Jon’s own mood.

 “The lady Arya seems a force to be reckoned with.” Laurence commented, making Jon smile at the memory of his sister, swinging her doll like a morningstar when faced with her vegetable foes.

“She always has been.” Jon had never met anyone as stubborn, perhaps Ygritte or King Stannis and even then he could still remember Arya pressuring him that she was ready to learn to use a bow before she was even strong enough to lift one.

“Your dark sister has a thirst for blood.” Laurence proclaimed with a somber tone. “No one in the Riverlands will ever forget how she took back the Tully lands.”

So it’s true. Jon had hoped that all the rumours they had heard of her had been vague exaggerations of bards and washerwomen. Lady Brienne, who he had crossed in Moat Cailin, had arrived after hearing all sorts of rumours that she had wasted no time in telling Jon. She blamed herself. Jon remembered all too well how it felt when he ran from the Wall, Pyp and Gren and Sam dragging him back. He felt like he should’ve been with Robb, fighting. And then again when he died. Lady Brienne was a woman with honor, but mostly she was a good woman. He was glad she was on her way to Sansa.

“Water Tower, we uh- I’ll be honest and admit we prepared our best chamber for the Lady Arya, but I can assure you yours is just as comfortable.” Alesander admited. “And of course room for all your companions.”

“That won’t be a problem.”

The rooms were spacious and comfortable enough for Jon, who didn’t really care for it besides the water and towels to clean himself. He wanted to see Arya, make sure she is alright, ask her if she wanted to go home and take her back to Winterfell immediately should it be her wish. Think like Robb,Jon told himself. He would be worried with the request for food during winter, request for everything during winter.

His chamber had a view of the western castle, which meant he saw the host that must be Arya’s arriving at the Twins. He could not properly see her, but Jon could tell the rider ahead of the march  is his little sister.  The direwolf banner accompanying her - among banners of Tully and other houses - made him smile. Still a wolf.

She’s here. He ran down the stairs to the main hall of the Water Tower, Ghost following closely. Midway through the stairs there was a window to the bridge, but she was not there yet. The only one in the hall was ser Davos, who liftws an eyebrow at his eagerness. Little sister.

“What is it?” ser Davos asked.

“My sister. She arrived.” Jon said and he was surprised at the nervousness in his own voice. He can’t remember the last time he felt like this. Sansa’s arrival at the wall had been a pleasant sweet surprise but Arya…she was different. They were different.  I’ve waited too long for this.

He was distracted by several set of feet coming down their stairs, and Jon saw his companions dressed in their best clothing. They’re meeting their princess, he realised. He was suddenly uncomfortable with the idea that they have other intentions for such an improvement in their garments. Perhaps they hope Arya would find in them a future husband. His distaste at the idea of men preying on Arya was changed with humor at the idea of Arya’s reaction to any suitor.

“My king, you can see the princess from this window.” Larence said, signaling outside. Jon found himself running up the stairs again, looking out and oh, his heart ached.

Arya was galloping along the bridge, riding with a vibrant smile on his face that madd Jon’s eyes fill with tears and truly, really smile again for the first time in years. She was older, beautiful and dressed like a boy still. She looked like him, pale and dark haired and long faced. His heart skipped a beat when she looked up the window and their eyes finally met. Still grey, still like mine. She arrived faster than the wind to the gates, jumped down from her horse and Jon turnsed as the door opened and suddenly she was there, right there.

They don’t stand there looking at each other, there was no hesitation, no pause. Jon practically jumped down the stairs as a joy he could never remember filled him, because she was right there, she was jumping to his arms, filling the space between them. He held her up, so she was at his height and she could properly fling her arms around his neck as she showered him with kisses.

“Jon…” Arya let out a whisper as she hid her face in his neck and oh, her voice was deeper, less childish. She felt so small and close in his arms, and he hardly saw her face so he couldn’t really see how much she had changed. I don’t care, it’s her, it’s really her.

Jon closed his eyes as Arya clutched him so hard she might break his bones. She was safe and healthy and crying. He could tell she was crying quietly even if he could’t see her face. They were surrounded by men though, so he let his hand pet her head to keep her face hidden in his neck. He ran his hands down her head a couple times as his one arm bears her weight. The he messed it up, for the sake of old times and he heard her laugh. It’s the same laughter from all those years ago.

“Little sister,” his voice was shaking, and he would be ashamed of the tears in his eyes if he wasn’t so eager to see her. “Let me see you.”

Arya let out another laugh as she separated - only as necessary for him to see her face- and looked at him with shining grey eyes. His hands went to her face, and even when she’s older, she was still her. Her eyes were glistening from the tears, but she looked happy, and if she was happy he could be happy too.

“Oh, what is this?” Arya ran her fingers along the scars on his eyes and he closed them at her touch. It soothed him enough to put her down, although he did not let her step away just yet.

“I have much to tell you.” He said as he thought of how he would explain the many things he knew she would ask.

“As do I.” She said, a sudden nervousness in her eyes. He wanted to soothe her, so he lets her go and simply held her little - and calloused - hand in his. She smiled at him and he hang his head down until their foreheads touch.

“Little sister.” He found himself saying, still not quite believing it. They had much to talk, and introductions need to be made, but for just this moment, he would enjoy having her back.

Chapter Text

“We were told we might have to wait a week to see you.” Jon said amazed, as if he still couldn’t believe it. Seven hells, Arya herself still couldn’t believe he was here.

“Not one lord had gone to Harrenhal with ravens! And so a messenger ran to the closest keep to send it from there, but it seemed I’ve beaten the bird.” Arya felt such an excitement she forgot herself and jumped to give him another kiss in his cheek. Jon had a well kept short beard that looked awful on him, but she didn’t care how it itched her lips.

She had been scared of how to tell him everything, if he still loved her so after many years apart, but all insecurity seemed forgotten. It was as before, no barrier between them, Arya wanted to know all of what had been of his life and she hoped to tell him everything. Even the bad things, I know he would love me still.

“Jon, Alesander here told me you took offense of the title of lord. I am ever so sorry,” Arya’s words stumbled out of her mouth quickly. “He was just being cautious—”

“Little sister, I took no offense.” Jon said, in his usual placid way of speaking. “I understood.”

Arya nodded and finally took a look around at the men surrounding them and stepped away from Jon. Then her eyes fell on the silent beast quietly sitting near them, tail wagging in excitement. “Ghost!”

Arya crouched next to the wolf and he licked her hands before she pet him and he proceeded to lick all of her. His fur, his smell and his affections reminded Arya so much of Nymeria she nearly cried. “C’mon boy! Let her be!” Jon ordered, Ghost half ignoring him and half calming down.

“Oh let him, please, I had to leave Nymeria behind at Riverrun.” She begged him, scratching Ghost and letting him run his wet nose on her clothes. She turned to give Jon a sad smile and found him frowning.

“Wouldn’t it be safer for you to have her with you?” Something in his voice made Arya anxious, as if he spoke of experience. She, however, shrugged her shoulders.

“There was an attempt on Edmyn’s life and I rather she stays with him. She’s surprisingly well-behaved around Roslin.”

“An attempt on his life?” Jon asked, obviously concerned. Arya didn’t want to discuss that, at least, not in front of so many people. Jon picked up on it immediately, thank the Gods, and gave her a nod for her to stand up and face the rest of the men.

“My lords.” She greeted doubtfully, not knowing any of them, except for recognizing the sigils of houses Manderly, Glover and Hornwood.

“My princess.” All of them greeted her with a bow, instantly making her uncomfortable. Oh Gods why must they torment me with curtseys?

Arya bore her embarrassment at her clumsy curtsey with a brave face as Jon presented his companion. “Ser Wylis Manderly, heir to White Harbor.” Jon signalled a fat man, who simply greeted her again with a formal ‘my princess’.

“Pleased to meet you, ser. I visited White Harbor with my father once, as a child.” Arya said, earning a smile.

“Did you enjoy the visit, Princess Arya?”

“I enjoyed the sea very much.” She said, avoiding the topic of how she had been nervous the entire visit. Jon let out a short laugh as he continued.

“Larence Snow, a ward to House Glover.” Jon then introduced a young man, quite well dressed.

“My Princess.” He greeted with a hint of eagerness. Arya had no idea of how to greet a bastard properly, so she just tried to think of the most pompous thing she ever heard coming out of Sansa’s mouth in King’s Landing.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance.” She said.

“This is lord Robett Glover, of Deepwood Motte, a loyal bannerman of Robb’s and now mine.” Jon said with a certain pride, and she could tell by the look on his eyes that he had had to earn that loyalty. This, Arya thought, is the man who so offended Alesander. She spoke before the man could introduce himself.

“Lord Robett, I hear you very much accused Alesander of taking part of the Red Wedding.” Arya told him icily, making Jon drop his smile and Lord Robett to stammer before he answered.

“My lady, my emotions were overtaken by the anger of the Frey’s treachery.” Lord Robett said as he ran a hand across his white hair.

“Alesander was not a participant of that.” She told him flatly, and looked him square in the eye. “Unless you doubt my justice?”

“Of course not, my princess.” He said with a small bow, although looking none too pleased of getting told off by a girl of barely six and ten. Arya realised that neither him not any other of Jon’s companions seemed to be taking seriously her warning. I did not go through the hell of picking apart the Frey family for them to doubt me.

“Jon,” she started, knowing that involving him as king would force them to take in her seriousness. Jon seemed surprised at her tone of voice. “I hope your men realize the seriousness of a need for respect to the members of House Frey that I allowed to live. I should not have to explain to them what it means to have all your family branded as traitors and killed when you’re innocent.” She saw shame in Larence Snow’s eyes, but she meant to put the proud lords in their place. “I was very careful of whom I allowed to live, and even to those who lived I have demanded payment in gold and service. You will respect them; else I will take it as disrespect to me.”

Your Princess, she should've added, but it was not in her nature to use titles as a tool of manipulation. Soon enough, all men nodded their heads in respect, leaving her content enough. Jon was looking at her with a very subtle smile on his face, making Arya smile herself. She told herself to control her face but she just couldn’t quite help herself. Jon motioned for another man to come forward, an older man in much more humble, travel-worn clothing.

“This is ser Davos Seaworth, former Hand of the King to Stannis Baratheon and,” Jon noded at the man to encourage him to approach, “a friend.”

“Milady,” He said with a small bow then quickly corrected himself. “I mean, my princess. It’s nice to meet you.”

Arya could tell immediately, from the way he carried himself to his accent, that this man was neither highborn nor a northerner. “I am glad my brother has a friend with him.” She told him and offered a truthful smile, which he returned. Arya saw the honesty in his eyes, and a certain kindness, and because Jon was around and he had always managed to soften her heart, Arya found herself talking to him with confidence. “You remind me of a friend of mine, ser Davos. It’s your way of speaking, I think.”

“I was born in King’s Landing, Princess Arya. In Flea Bottom, and so I speak like a commoner from the capital. I was once, uh, dedicated to my trade at the sea.” There was no shame in ser Davos voice, only hesitation which made Arya smile. He is like Gendry, then. We can be friends. Not for the first time, she wondered for her poor friend. “I was awarded with a land and a name for my help to house Baratheon during the Rebellion.”

So he is a loyal man, Arya realized.  She crossed eyes with Jon and she could tell he was thinking the same as her. He is trustworthy. She noticed something else on Jon’s behavior too. He was worried and anxious, and somehow Arya was reminded that not only this was her brother coming to see her, but also the King in the North.

“I believe my quarters have been prepared, along with wine and everything is set so we can sit and talk properly.” Arya told Jon quietly, and he nodded, silent and brooding. She turned to Jon’s companions. “My lords, you can rest now, get settled. There is a feast tonight in honor of your visit to the south. I am sure you will all wish to be well rested so you can share wine and a good meal with the riverlords in my company.”

Arya’s words were received with joy among the men, who she knew must have met some riverlords during Robb’s campaign. One by one, they said their proper goodbyes and retired to their chambers, until it was only ser Davos, Jon and her. She guided them to her quarters, the most sumptuous in the Water Tower.  Beside her chambers was the room where a table was ready, enough for nearly eight people, with wine in the center as well as rum. It made Arya smile, to see the servants remembered that particular detail, yet she was not convinced.

As Jon and ser Davos entered, she called out for a maid only to see Dally entering the next room with her trunk and other belongings. “Dally!” Arya called out, making the maid hurry towards her, “please get us a new flagon, you know how careful you must be.”

“Yes, my lady!”

“No one will bother us here,” she told them both as she closed the door and joined them. She stood at the head of the table; Jon came to sit beside her and ser Davos a few seats away. There was a heavy silence until she saw Jon reach for the wine. “No!”

They both snapped their heads to look at her, alarmed, but she gave them a reassuring smile as Jon asked “What is it?”

“Nothing, just a precaution, it is better to get a new flagon served by a trustful servant.” Arya explained. Jon looked worried.

“Has someone tried to…”

“Yes it’s uh….” She sat and played with her hands, the memory of Edmyn’s scared face still unsettling. “Someone tried to poison Edmyn, we believe it might be Cersei but I’m not… not sure.”

“Seven hells.” Jon let out a deep breath and grabbed her hand, squeezing it tightly. Arya looked at his grey eyes and wondered again why did he look so worn down, so scared of something.

“Jon… We’ll be fine but what… what happened?” Arya wanted to know everything, about him, Sansa, Rickon, Bran. “Why are you not at the Wall? How-”

“Arya…” He started, his voice wavering. He took both her hands, made her turn to look at him. “Little sister, I have something to tell you.”

Arya waited, looking at him in the eye, hoping it gave him courage. Yet nothing happened, and Jon seemed to struggle with coming up with words even as she nodded at him to tell her.

“Perhaps I should leave you.” Ser Davos said, and Arya snapped to look at him as Jon looked to his feet, conflicted. “This will take you some time.”

“I will call for you when we’re ready.” Arya told him, and ser Davos gave one last look of pity at them before he left them alone. “Jon, you know you can tell me anything…”

“I died.” He blurted out, looking at her suddenly, fiercely. Arya didn’t understand. She could only shake her head. “I died, stabbed, by my men. I was Lord Commander, I… I made some choices and they disapproved and then they… it was a mutiny and I couldn’t do anything. They stabbed me.”

“How—” Arya didn’t understand. He could not have died. It couldn’t be that he died alone in the cold without her ever even knowing. That’s how it would’ve been if I had stayed in Braavos. All the rest of her family dying without her knowing.

“There was aaa.... witch.” Jon drawled his words as he looked at her, hesitant, then let out a short laugh. “It sounds stupid.”

Wait until I tell you I can change my face, she thought. “I can handle it.” She whispered.

“I died Arya. I was….” He looked away then, brow furrowed in deep thought. “There was nothing. And it wasn’t as nothingness were I didn’t exist, I was aware of it. Apart of me at least, a certain… I don’t know.”

Jon ran a hand through his hair, a confused look in his face. Arya remembered her blindness, the darkness and the helplessness. She remembered the cold nights in Harrenhal, sleeping in the freezing mud with nothing but the sounds of the dreadful Harrenhal around her. She tried to think that maybe this nothingness was Jon’s worst experience as blindness and Harrenhal were hers. “Please, Jon, tell me how you…”

“I can’t stop thinking of them,” he blurted out, looks at her with despair. “Robb, Rickon and father… if this is what it is like for them.”

“Hush now… there is nothing we can do for them Jon. Only live.” Arya told him softly.

“You’re right.” He said after a long silence. Arya smiled as she reached to shake his hair. It made him smile too.

“So are you going to tell me how…”

“Magic. Some sort of fire magic. There was this woman, Melisandre. She was a priest of the Fire god.” Jon shook his head. “I don’t understand it, but you have to believe me…”

“I do,” she reassured him. “I’ve seen it before.”

“What?”

“A red priest…. Thoros his name is. I’ve seen him revive a man that the Hound run through with his sword.” Arya admited, feeling somewhat confused at the idea of Jon and Beric Dondarrion living the same existence. He did not wish his destiny on father, should I not wish his destiny on Jon? How could she, when it was the only way she could have him with her now.

“When I woke up, I…” Jon looked away again, deeply lost in thought. “I was different. The same man, but different. I feel different.” He looked at her then and Arya didn’t know what to say to that. She could only think of herself wearing faces, she was herself but she was not the same. It’s not like that. Still, she wished she understood him better, if only to help him carry his burden. “I’m me though, I’m still your brother.”

“Always” she reassured him, knowing this was just as when she was a child, looking for a sense of belonging with him. Jon had never been a half-brother. “Tell me what else happened.”

“I killed the men responsible for the mutiny. I lived and died in my post, I—” He swallowed with difficulty, as if he sas somehow ashamed. “I left the Night’s Watch. Sansa came to the Wall.”

“So I’ve heard.” She could not help feeling a little jealous, to know she could’ve gone to them, that Sansa reached him so easily when Arya could not even get past the Twins. Maybe I could’ve helped. I could’ve helped him avoid Rickon’s death.

“Ramsay Bolton was…” Jon began, then let out a breath. “I am so very glad you never got near that monster. I took Winterfell, the Knights of the Vale arrived when the battle seemed lost.”

“What?” Arya could hardly believe it. If the river lords had told her something, was that the Vale had comfortably stepped aside from all the latest conflicts.

“Sansa wrote to your cousin. Well, to Littlefinger, who is his protector much like you are Edmyn’s.” Jon smiled, and petted Arya’s hair. The gesture softened Arya’s heart, but did not take away her confusion. Jon could read her like a book, of course, so he explained further more. “Baelish was protecting her from the Lannisters, and married her to Bolton to send her home, but all that backfired. Ramsay Bolton was a monster, and a monster to Sansa especially. And Theon.”

“Men are monsters.” Arya deadpaned, remembering Meryn Trant stick hitting her back all too well.  Jon looked at her in panic, and his clutch on her nearly hurt.

“Arya, you—”

“I’m fine.” She told him, but he was looking at her in the eye very seriously. I know what he is asking. “I am. Truly!”

“I have no idea of what your life has been like for you the past few years, can you—”

“Finish talking Jon. Tell me everything.” He looked displeased, but otherwise shrugged his shoulders and continued.

“Littlefinger rode with the Knights of the Vale to the North and surprisingly arrived to help us just in time. We took Winterfell and later the men just… claimed me as their king.” Jon rushed through the last part as if it was nothing. Arya felt immense pride, but couldn't help the amount of questions.

“I am sure you deserved it.” She began, but took a deep breath to begin her questions. “But I am so confused and concerned Jon, how can they pass through the causeway with no one noticing, you must make sure Moat Cailin is keeping it safe!”

“I come from Moat Cailin, Arya, is taken care of, there are more pressing matters—”

“And Littlefinger’s intervention… Robb’s men told me my mother herself refused to trust him, Jon, I saw him in Harrenhal when I was Tywin Lannister’s prisoner—”

“You were what?!” Jon’s eyes were nearly popping out of its sockets. Arya couldn’t care for it and just waved her hand.

“That man is always planning something  for his convenience!”

“Do not worry, Sansa herself has told me he is not to trust, but he is useful nonetheless. Trust me we need to prepare for war.” Jon said, and held her hand and squeezed it tightly. He opened his mouth to speak, but Arya’s question popped up in the worst possible way.

“What of Bran?” Arya asked desperate. I cannot lose any more siblings. Jon looked as if his heart was aching with the question.

“He is beyond the Wall.” He admited, and he looked so defeated about it that Arya just stayed quiet, letting him explain. “I found out when I was still sworn to the Night’s Watch, when I could do nothing….”

“Jon, if Bran lives—” Arya started, wondering how to find the words. I do not mean to hurt him.

“He is King.” Jon said, voice hoarse and weak. He ran a hand through his hair and then that ugly small beard that she hated. He deserves it, he has earned it, yet he knows it rightfully belongs to another. Arya knew, right then, he did not want to talk about this.

“I think… when all its settled, we must search for him, bring him back, we must all go back.” She said, hoping it would make him less sad, but his eyes bore a weight she could not lift. I do not understand why he is like this.

“There is no going back, little sister.” Jon said. Don’t I know it too well? “And if it were my choice, I would send you as far away from the North as I could, and yet…” his hand came to hold her arms, angling her body towards him, “I would wish we never separate again.”

“Jon…” Arya let her fear be shown in her voice, and she could tell Jon noticed by the worried look on his face. “What really worries you?”

“The dead.” Jon said simply, but such was the fear in his voice that Arya couldn't help but shake a little. “The dead rising beyond the Wall.”

So it’s true… Arya could hardly believe that Thoros of Myr was saying the truth. There was no trace of doubt in Jon’s voice or in his eyes, like there had been none in Thoros’. “Creatures made of ice?”

Jon’s head snapped to look at her so fast Arya wondered if it hurt him. “What do you know?”

“A red priest told me of creatures made of ice, that only fire can destroy.”

“He’s wrong,” Jon said shaking his head. “These creatures of ice, I don’t know what they are… Their leader, it can bring corpses back to…to walk. They are not alive but they can hurt and only fire stops them, but not their leader nor any of his kind. They are different. Only dragonglass and valyrian steel can stop his type.”

It sounds like one of Old Nan’s stories, Arya thought, but only this is real. They could no longer hide from the monsters of nightmares underneath their bed sheets, but they had to fight. How? With what?  “Dragonglass?”

“Obsidian. The first men called it dragonglass. We don’t know anything about this enemy Arya, where their power comes from or what they are.” Jon looked at her in despair. “I sent our maester to the Citadel to find out more, but until he goes back to the Wall I can only help them by getting men to the Wall.”

He’s still defending the realms of men, Arya realised. Jon had died and was born again a free man, but he still wanted to honor those vows in some way. Arya wanted to ease his burden in some way, in any way, so she attempted to smile as she told him of her prisoners. “I have men who will fight for you.”

“Prisoners for the Wall?” Jon asked and Arya heard his real question, bandits and rapists untrained and paying the penance for their crimes?

“In a fashion, yes.” Arya was interrupted by Dally entering the room with two flagons in a tray as well as three cups.

“Wine, my lady. As well as some rum for you.” Dally said with a smile as she set the tray in the middle of the table.

“Thank you Dally, please call ser Davos, check with one of the servants in which room he is staying.” Arya asked her as she served Jon some wine and passed the cup in silence. She served the rum in her cup and sat comfortably, enjoying the moment of quietness. Jon seemed amused. “What?”

“Rum? What do you think you are, some pirate?”

“I can curse like one too!” She let him know and Jon barked out a laugh. What would my lady mother say?

Ser Davos entered then, and a small smile came to his face at seeing the two of them. He seems like such a nice person, Arya thought. Rum always made her think of Lady Crane’s kindness and made her a bit more optimistic about people. She rather remember that about her than her death. It was my fault, like Mycah’s.

“Arya?” Jon’s voice pulled her out of her trance, making her shake her head.

“I’m sorry. Ser Davos, please.” she sat up and served him some wine as well, then handed it to him.

“Thank you, milady.” He said, then corrected himself. “Princess.” Arya would tell him that she didn’t care for the title, but she knew correcting him would only make him feel worse.

“Unless you want rum?” Arya offered, and Davos simply smiled.

“So long as you won’t find it too common.”

“Has my brother told you nothing about me?” She asked, full of indignation. She sent Jon a reproachful look that was met with a smile. “ I feel almost insulted.”

“I haven’t seen you in years! In my defense, Sansa is quite different from the girl of our childhood.”

“Be that as it may, I feel sad to think you prepared ser Davos for a refined lady.” Arya admitted as she handed the man his cup of rum.

“I did not!” Jon quickly defended himself.

“Truly, he didn’t.” Ser Davos agreed as he took the cup and mumbled a ‘thank you’.

“So… let’s talk serious matters.” Arya started. “What first? War with this undead monsters? Provisions for winter? The rumours from the East?”

“There’s nothing we can do about rumours, only prepare for the war.” Jon said.

“I uh… I will have a problem on my own with that.” Arya admitted, and she was hesitant to continue. She knew Jon wouldn't like one bit what she would have to say next. “After Cersei’s actions against hostages from the Riverlands and this assassination attempt… The riverlords want war, justice and I cannot forestall their judgement.”

“War?” Jon’s voice was hopeless. “You’re going to war?”

“You have to understand, this woman will not— it’s her or us.” Arya explained to Jon, even if she knew his concern would overcloud her reasons. He sees nothing but his little sister. “Edmyn is not safe.”

“So protect yourself! There’s no need for war.” Jon very nearly scolded her, arms stretching out in indignation.

“Easy for you to say! You are up in the North! My cousin, who is under my protection, is between King’s Landing and Casterly Rock!” Arya objected, trying to make him see.

“Milady,” ser Davos intervened in a more composed tone. “We are men of war, we know of its dangers. I think you’re very capable,” that made Arya smile, “yet I wonder if your lack of experience in war may be affecting your decision.”

“I certainly did not took it on my own, I come from Harrenhal where all our bannermen decided this was the next course of action. Seven Hells, you need to stop treating me like a child, because I haven’t been one since they cut my father’s head off!” Arya raged. “I understand men love to think that they have all the answers, but trust me I know what I am doing.”

Jon shook his head stubbornly, disapproval all over his face. “It’s not that I find you you incapable, I just think it’s unwise.”

“The decision has been made, everyone in the Riverlands has experience with war, we know our enemy and our strengths and weaknesses.” Arya assured him. “You opinion will have no change in the matter.”

Arya couldn't hide her disappointment at Jon’s lack of faith in her abilities, but she tried to remember he had not seen her in years. He still sees the little girl, eager to play at swords and escape her lessons.

“Well this brings up a problem. You will have no food or men to spare and help our cause.” Ser Davos reckoned.

“I can assure you both, that I will bring up this issue with the lords. Many of them are well provisioned, lands fertile. We have begun a process of building glasshouses. It was expensive but it will give us food. I can make arrangements.” Arya told them, sending Jon a shy look, expecting a hint of approval. He smiled in gratitude. “And if the time comes, any food you may need to buy can pass through the Twins or our ports will pay low taxes, so as it is not so expensive.”

“Excellent, lord Manderly was concerned because according to their records, during winter many ships don’t venture too far North and even find White Harbor unreachable.” Jon said. “Thank you.”

“As for the men, I have some people very eager to go help you.” Arya told them.

“Who are these men?” Ser Davos inquiried.

“The Brotherhood without Banners. Former outlaws, we caught them. The lords want them punished, or at least out of these lands. They believe themselves some sorts of heroes, who want to help the realm. A priest of that fire god is among their leader.”

“Dressed in red?” Davos demanded, nearly spitting the next words, “I hope she is not a woman.”

“No, a drunken fool who sees visions in his fires and revives the lord Beric Dondarrion, who leads them, every time he dies.” Arya told him plainly. “They talked to me of this undead threat in the North, and I waited to hear your imput on this before judging them.”

“If they want to help, they are welcome.” Jon proclaimed, no room for discussion.

“We must banish them, so you see, they committed certain…. unsavory actions.” Arya told them, but neither seemed very much against  the idea of bandits going to fight. I forget I’m talking to a former smuggler and a former man of the Night’s Watch.  “The Hound is among them.”

“The Hound?” Both asked in unison, surprised.

“I cannot stress how much I would like for you to take this man away.” Arya grumbled. “He killed a friend of mine.”

“We need men to fight, no matter their past. Even if they don’t swear the vows… we need to man the wall, train the new recruits.” Jon said, giving her a sad look.

“This red woman priest you speak of… Is she a red haired woman, in red robes… ugly necklace and disturbing eyes?” Arya found herself asking. It has been bothering since ser Davos mentioned her, could it be the same woman?

“You know her!” Ser Davos exclaimed as both of them look at her shocked. The world gets smaller as I grow older, Arya thought.

“How do you know her?”

“She was the one to…” Jon signaled himself in silence. She brought him back.

“And that was the only thing she ever did that was useful.” Ser Davos nearly spat, hate clear in his voice. What did she do to displease this one? Arya wondered, giving him only an inquisitive look. “She burned a child.”

“I banished her from the North.” Jon quickly added. Arya couldn't hide her surprise, and she quickly took a long drink from her cup to assimilate the information. They were both looking at her with curiosity.

“She took my friend!” Arya blurted out. “I’ve never known her name. I knew she was not to be trusted!” All the rage from her hopelessness at the situation came back to her. Gendry had been but a nice boy running away from the Queen, and they sold him and took him away.

“Her name is Melisandre. She used to advise King Stannis.” Jon said softly, sending her an apologetic smile.

“What was the name of your friend?” Ser Davos asked interested.

“Gendry.” Arya told him, and one look at ser Davos told her that he met her friend. “Did she hurt him?”

“Him?” Jon asked, brow furrowed.

“The boy, she did some magic, didn’t hurt him too much. Some spell to kill the other five kings that coincidently happened little before the Red Wedding” Ser Davos told Arya with little concern. “Then she meant to sacrifice him, you know, for complete success.”

“Oh no…”

“I got him out of Dragonstone!” Ser Davos quickly reassured her. “Put on a boat and told him to escape.”

“I never understood why she took him away. We were about to reach Riverrun, he wanted to be part of the Brotherhood, stop serving and help people.” Arya couldn't help her sadness and her indignation. She had seen it, back when she was a little girl in the Riverlands. The lords having their war while the poor people suffered, but this time if felt even closer. Gendry had done nothing to deserve such a thing, and because of the war with the undead, she could not punish the Brotherhood.

“A good lad, she chose him because he is the King’s bastard.” Ser Davos said,  nonchalant.

“What?” Arya simply couldn"t hide her surprise. Gendry truly had been in danger, she realised, the Queen really would’ve killed him. He didn’t know, she was sure of it, he wouldn’t ve hidden it from me. She should’ve figured it out by herself, it seemed obvious now. But they had been children, scared and on the run, the only thing that made sense back then was surviving.

“Stannis’s son?” Jon wondered with such an odd expression on his face, Arya nearly laughed at him.

“Of course not!" Ser Davos looked as if someone had suggested it had snowed on Dorne. "King Robert Baratheon’s son.” 

“You’re telling me, Gendry is the real heir to King Robert?” Arya couln't contain her giggle at the idea. Life is just a jape on all of us.

“What’s so funny?” Jon asked.

“He gave me hell for being a high born lady. And he is the son of a king?” Arya was beyond dumbfounded, more astonished at the cruel joke on Gendry rather than the secret itself.

“He had quite the opinions about the highborn.” Ser Davos said, letting out a laugh. It almost felt bad, laughing at her poor friend’s identity, but she could’t help but imagine stubborn distrustful Gendry learning he was one of them all along.

“‘Nothing good ever comes’, he would say” Arya said, and ser Davos shared a laugh, nodding along. “Do you know where he is? The gold cloaks were looking for him.”

“He told me as much, but the red woman was more dangerous.” Ser Davos shrugged his shoulder, giving her a pitiful look. “I’m sorry princess, I don’t what happened to him. He may have gone to King’s Landing.”

“It’s the only place he really knew.” Arya reckoned.

“Davos… you said on the journey that you did not know how you could join the remaining lords of Storm’s End to our cause… what if we deliver them their rightful lord?” Jon said suddenly. Arya didn’t know what to think.

“It could work, they must not be pleased with Cersei and there are no Baratheons left.” Ser Davos said, stroking his chin.

“You mean make Gendry a lord?” Arya cannot believe what she was hearing.

“He is a king now, and Houses Stark and Baratheon have always been friends.” Ser Davos explained, motioning Jon. “If he legitimizes him, it can work.”

“So you will make a pawn of him.” Arya didn’t bother to hide her disdain. Is this what being King meant? Jon did not seem exactly happy with the idea either but, unlike her, he had no attachments.

“Oh Arya… we must do what needs to be done.” Jon went to hold her hand again. “If this helps us and makes the Stormlands our allies…”

“I understand how this works, I just— He’s my friend. I care about him.” Arya knew she couldn't fight them on this, it was their political move, not hers. She just wished it didn’t have to be this way. If only she could help Gendry somehow, but even if they did find him, she hardly knew how to be a lady. And he would have to be a perfect one, so he wouldn’t be judged and played by all his bannermen. If they accept him, she thought.

“I will go to King’s Landing, find him. Bring the rightful lord to the Riverlands, and if that doesn’t work then… I will go to the lords anyways, to try and convince them.” Ser Davos said with determination.

“If you don’t succeed, please do tell him… That he is welcomed here.” Arya tolds ser Davos, hoping the warmth in her voice was enough to let him know she wanted her friend protected, taken care of. Jon was looking at her intently, as if figuring some sort of enygma.

“Or if not, a blacksmith could always be welcomed in Winterfell, he can go there if it pleases him. Or to fight, to help the realm.”  Jon smiled at Arya, who simply squeezed his hand in gratitude. “A friend of yours is a friend of mine.”

“What will you do?” Arya asked him.

“I… have to think about it.” Jon drawled out his words as he let out a breath, a look of pessimism etched on his face. “I reckon the more I move south the less they will care about this threat.”

“This is Westeros, there’s always more wars to come.” Ser Davos said these ominous words with dread in every syllable. “And I will do anything I can to help.”

“We should first try to convince the riverlords tonight at the feast.” Jon said with anxiousness.

“Don’t worry, we’re in this together.” Arya reassured him.

“Of that I am certain, little sister.”

Chapter Text

All across the hall, the booming voices of Jon’s retinue filled the air. He attempted a smile as he raised his cup. We have nothing to celebrate.

“The king in the north! the king in the north!” the men shouted as they sat, many of them easily falling into conversation with the men of the riverlands. They were, after all, companions during Robb’s campaign and had as much in common as they had differences.

“Now see, some of then drank to your health.” Arya leaned in to whispered, making him smile. He didn’t need to ask who. Indeed some riverlords had silently raised their cup. Arya’s eyes observed the room with the attention of a hawk.

“You have a keen eye, little sister.” Jon told her, looking at Ghost silently sitting beside Arya, who immediately fed the wolf some of her meat.

“I only want the best for my brother the king” Arya answered in a mockery of a sweet dutiful voice that did not suit her at all.

“Only a King’s sister would make fun of a king.” Jon found himself leaning towards her to give her a kiss in the forehead, thinking of all the japes she used to make as a child. Although still as full of live and vigor as ever, his little sister seemed more serious now, less filled with laughter. He had assumed she could be like this due to all the hardships, yet it made him sad nonetheless to confirm it.

“Listen, you better start talking to then now, before anyone starts thinking you’ve had too much wine.” Arya said as she smiled to some lord over at some table. Jon just threw the man a serious look, unamused by his flirtatious smile.

“Where should I start?” Jon wondered if letting them drink some wine would help his cause. Davos and him had been practicing what to tell them and how to approach them, and every time Jon thought that he sounded like Old Nan telling scary stories before bed.

“Start with either Bracken or Blackwood, and tell them the other doesn't believe you… I can tell you don’t seem fond of acting anything for them.” Arya said as he groaned at the suggestion.

“I am not… the best at this.” Jon admitted. He was more effective being direct and bluntly honest. And here, he must be subtle, charming and convincing. Sansa had warned him, and he had been determined to try anyways.

“Well make do! You think I enjoy playing dutiful?” Arya chided him, signaling herself in a dress that seemed uncomfortable. Jon knew her, she had always been burdened by expectations, and he felt a slight shame for thinking he was the only one uncomfortable. “Now I have to make my own rounds as well, else they think I’m letting you play host.”

“Seven Hells.” There was a set of boundaries. He might be king, but this were the Riverlands, the lands of the Tullys, who did not want to see Lady Catelyn’s daughter being upstaged by the bastard of Ned Stark. Even from the grave Lady Catelyn’s shadow still haunted him.

“Listen I am not good at this either Jon, but… it is a part of ruling right?” Arya asked, looking much more like the insecure little girl of old. It prompted him to be honest himself.

“I didn’t precisely get it right the first time around.” Jo admitted, remembering the painful stabs of the men he thought to be his brothers. He had been honest with them, about the danger and the things they needed to do, yet it served for nothing. I need to learn to convince this people outside of the battlefield.

“You will do better this time.” Arya urged him, holding his hand. It was smaller than his, and it reminded him of when he used to take her to walk around the Godswood. “Listen you know I am not a very confident person, mind not making be confident for two?”

“Do what you must.” He said with a smile, amused at her irritation. She squeezed his hand one last time before she got up and approached one of the tables to speak with an old merry lord.

The warmth of the squeeze of her hand gave him confidence, and quite suddenly he found enough courage to approach a short lord with a jovial smile. Jon signaled Davos to start making rounds too, and he had to remind himself he was King in the North. I have a duty.

But duty did not win over men as easily as his father once made him believe. Jon spent better part of the feast talking to old men, seasoned soldiers, twice his age and twice as proud. Last time anyone near Jon let his arrogance overcome him, he beheaded him. He couldn’t do that now, he couldn't do anything but listen to men dismiss his plea or try to please him with some uncommitted promise of considering his warnings. What was worse, every time he looked around for Arya, he found her smiling and laughing, deep in conversation with men who looked at her in wonder.

Jon was gulping down his cup of wine when Davos approached him. “Any luck?”

“Hardly. You?” Jon felt tired and defeated, and if he kept drinking, he would have a headache too. He took a gulp of wine anyways.

“I was a foreigner in the North. It is not much different here.” Ser Davos said.

“I don’t see any Lyanna Mormont's to convince here.” Jon tried to jape, but ser Davos only gave a fond half smile at the memory of the girl.  “They’re all a bunch of old man, weary of war.”

“Your sister seems to have them quite charmed.” Ser Davos pointed to Arya, talking to some northern soldier laughing at whatever she was saying. It made him frown to see her so easily adjusted, but he noticed how she changed weight from one foot to another and he knew she was nervous.

“It is not… not her, really.” Jon told Davos. “She’s a much better actress than I am”

“So she is also brooding and serious?”

“I am not brooding.” Jon answered, filled with amused indignation. “...All the time. No, Arya is actually as lively as she seems, she’s just less… poised and pleasing. More like a mischievous sort of nature. ” Jon explained, a smile forming unbidden in his lips.

“You’re talking about me?” Came a voice from behind him. When had Arya approached them, he could not tell, she had more stealth than a cat.

“How did you know, princess?” Davos asked amused. Clearly, he seemed as fond of Arya as he was of little Lyanna Mormont.

“‘Mischievous’ is part of my infamy.” Arya says with a smile. Then she drops it, lets her shoulders fall and lets out a sound of such a childish irritation that both Jon and Davos let out a small laugh. “Your lords are very…”

“Drunk?” Jon asks, throwing one look at the vivid table of his companions.

“Northern.” She deadpans and at this, Jon just raises eyebrow. “I think I had forgotten the accent.”

“You do sound slightly foreign sometimes.” Ser Davos says, but Jon hadn’t noticed, although perhaps Davos has a better ear for accents than Jon, who is currently as South as he has ever been. “You’ve lived across the Narrow Sea perhaps?”

“Yes actually, in Braavos.” Arya answers, surprise written all over her face at Davos’ perception.

“Braavos?” Jon asks, remembering the bravo blade he had once gifted her. He had not asked if she still has it, or if she ever got to use it.

“Got the sword to match.” Arya says, giving him a smile. So she still keeps it. “I miss the sea sometimes. Seeing the Titan and the ships.”

“An incredible sight.” Davos says and Arya nods in agreement. The most wonderful sight Jon has ever seen is the Wall weeping at sunny days, yet the knowledge that winter means no more of that for some time makes him sad.

“Smugglers like Braavos?” Jon asks, surprised at the man’s tone of melancholy.

“It is called the bastard daughter of Valyria.” Davos explains. Perhaps I should like it too. Jon tries to think what it would be like to travel there, perhaps with Arya to show him the city. It is a sweet dream, but it is not one that seems close to be fulfilled. “It was founded by slaves who had run away from the dragonlords.”

“There was a lot of talk of Daenerys Targaryen in Braavos. Especially her conquering of cities.” Arya points out, face revealing a certain worry. Jon had heard of the dragon queen and her three ‘children’ from Littefinger. Wished I had a dragon, then no wight would ever be a threat.

“You’d think they would like the fact that she frees slaves.” Ser Davos offers.

“Braavosi do not jape of dragons.” Arya shrugs her shoulders. Then a certain serious look takes over her. “And I would be wary of someone who possesses three of those and seems fond to conquer cities only to destroy their way of living and offer no solutions before moving along to the next conquered city.”

“That sounds very smart of you.” Davos points out, eyebrows high up in surprise.

“And here I thought you would admire her.” Jon says, remembering a little girl naming her pet after a famous warrior princess. Arya nods but then tilts her head, a grin of hesitation in her face.

“I certainly think she is fantastic, like a hero of the songs.“ Arya starts, then drinks some of her rum before continuing. “I’ll be honest and admit I wouldn’t care for her conquering and burning if it wasn’t for the fact she’s getting closer and closer, and I am both a Stark and a Tully… Not exactly the houses an exiled Targaryen queen would be fond of.”

Arya’s somber omen sets some weight in Jon’s stomach, and then she apologizes to go entertain some other lord, her mask of dutifulness back on. How to know if this Daenerys is not merely another mad ruler like her father? Yet Jon could not deny the idea of dragons was more than attractive for him. He needs men and soldiers for the Wall, and Jon harbors no fantasy of Cersei Lannister or any other high lord giving them away for nothing. But if this Daenerys truly was a savior of the people, she may find it in herself to help them.

“Is it too early to prepare for this, Davos?” Jon asks, and sadly realises his cup is empty.

“You should talk to your sister. Treacherous or not, that Littlefinger might have a good advice.” Davos replies, and Jon feels the usual suspicion creep back in. He hates to suspect of Sansa as any less than loyal, but their disagreements before leaving meant he can’t avoid comparing her to Arya’s unwavering support.

“I fear it may be some time before we set back to Winterfell.” Is all Jon says. He keeps looking at his cup, the copper surface of the bottom offering him no answers. He had failed here, and all the answer he could think was to continue travelling south and speak to anyone who may hear.

“Brooding about it won’t help.”

“Oh shut it.”

Jon turns away from Davos to go speak to another lord eager to talk to him about Robb’s military success, and once again Jon prepares for the japes and hesitation he will receive once he starts talking about the Night’s King.

The night drags on until Jon is aware they’re all too drunk to care. Arya, quick like she is, manages to sneak off before all the men become bold and crass. Jon stays long enough to bond with his men and make fun of drunken fools before it all becomes too much for him.

His room is spacious and luxurious enough for a King, but he couldn’t care less. What matters is that the hearth keeps it warm and Ghost settles himself on the floor at the side of his bed, relaxing Jon enough to allow him a dreamless sleep.

Jon wakes up with a jolt, unaware of what has unsettled his nerves. Perhaps it was nightmare he could not remember, or just dreams of the nothingness that lies beyond the threshold of death. Ghost remains calm however, and there seems to be no danger. Then his door opens slowly, the dim light of a candle illuminating Arya’s face. When she notices he is awake she enters quickly and her smile is the most adorable sight Jon has ever seen.

“Did you have a nightmare? Need a little story before going back to bed?” He finds himself mocking, trying to tease the young woman with what her child counterpart did. A little girl, sneaking under his furs to protect herself from thunder and raging storms.

“I am not a little girl anymore, Jon.” Arya says quietly with a smile. She walk to his bed as he sits, setting the candle on the bedside table and sitting on the bed next to him. “ So… how did it go?”

“Not bad but.... they have other priorities.” Jon tries not to sound too annoyed or exasperated, but he’s sure he fails. “I am not sure how truly convinced they were or just trying to appease me.”

“Think if we kill someone and get Thoros to revive him they will believe some of it?” His sister japes. Jon can’t bring himself to laugh, and it takes some times before he speaks.

“Arya.... I can’t win this war.” Jon’s voice is hoarse and trembling. “Not without an army.”

“Jon, maybe if the actual Night’s Watch-” He knows where she’s going with this.

“I wrote! To all the lords of Westeros and only Stannis came back.” Jon‘s words come out rushed, showing his frustration. He tries to get a grip on himself, remembering he is not a fifteen year old anymore. Arya‘s eyes, darkened by the dim light, look down as she shakes her head.

“Seven Hells.” Arya’s shoulders are down, and it hurts him all the more. Arya was never overly cheerful, but she was happy and gave him great joy with her fierceness. Even now, seeing her so strong and determined in front of her lords made him smile. I cannot see her defeated. “Jon…”

“There now, we’ll make it-” He takes her hand, making her turn slightly to him. Her eyes look up and he can see she’s scared, unlike that afternoon when they had spoken of the Night’s King. At night, monsters seem much more real. “Listen you know I am not a very optimistic person, mind not making be optimistic for two?”

“I’m sorry.” She says, letting out a tiny sigh.

“It’s alright.” Jon whispers as they sit in silence, holding each other’s hands. He doesn’t know what is going through her mind, but Jon is not letting go until she seems alright.

“Ever since I got back… the people, they thank me.” Arya says slowly,  as if she’s coming to a conclusion after much thought. “I just, they were all suffering and I could do something about it. About the bandits and the burned farms and all those things.”

“You helped them.” Jon can feel pride rising inside of him.

“How will I help them from these monsters you speak of?” Arya asks. Jon wants to point out that if it comes to the Riverlands having to defend themselves it means the North failed, means he failed. But h can tell Arya is scared so he says nothing. There’s nothing he can say. Jon spends every waking moment thinking how they can defeat the Night’s King, and so far all he can come up with is the need for more men to defend the Wall to keep him on the other side, let alone an strategy to fight the army of the death.

The silence is heavy between them, and they both know the implications of his lack of answer.

Illuminated just by the flickering candlelight, Arya looks much more a girl. She’s covered in wool and her hair is down in wild waves of brown. She’s still small, he realises, still so young. She is hardly any older than how he was when he left for the Wall.

“Jon….” Arya’s trembling voice pulls him out of his thoughts and he looks up to her.

“Yes?” He asks earnestly, noticing the tears welling in her eyes. He waits to see if the tears will fall, but they don’t.

“This place does give me nightmares.” He almost doesn’t hear her, her confession spoken so quietly, he’s unsure she even said it. But then her eyes lock with his, and he sees his little sister again, scared of thunderstorms.

“C’mere.” It doesn’t matter that she has grown and they’re not the children from before, Arya fits cradled against him as perfectly as she used to.

“I was here when it happened… well not here. At the doors. Sometimes I imagine I’ve reached them, I was just outside.”

“How…” Her words leave him speechless and he can’t even ask. He had been curious, but her confession suddenly makes him realise maybe he is not ready to hear the pain in her voice.

“The Hound took me. As a prisoner.” Arya’s voice is steady, but filled with resentment.

“He didn’t…” He cannot even word it, Jon can’t help the blind rage that fills him at the mere idea. Arya shakes her head, and Jon can breath evenly again.

“He was not kind. I don’t think he’s a good person but neither am I.” Arya tucks herself closer to him, which he did not think it was possible. His arms go to hold her, closing his eyes and relishing the feeling of Arya safe in his arms. I failed father and Robb and Sansa and Rickon, I cannot fail her.

“Don’t say that.” He reassures her. Arya never saw him as different, never ever called him half-brother, she never looked down on smallfolk or servants. She, of all people, would always be a good person in his eyes.

“It’s true. And don’t pretend you don’t feel that way about yourself too.” Arya tells him, leaving him in stunned silence. “I could see it in the way you spoke of the wildlings and the mutineers.”

“I’m sure you just did what you needed to do.” Jon knows those words are the only ones that can ease her feelings. When he broke his vows with Ygritte, when he loved her even when he never should’ve, he did what he had to do. Hanging the mutineers was no different, there was no place in the Night’s Watch for men who betray their superiors. But Jon knows the words are not infallible. Sometimes, the guilt creeps back and haunts him.

“He is not a good person, and neither am I.” Arya repeats and Jon wants to hold her closer, to tell her that killing to survive does not make her a bad person. “But he protected me, in his own way. We escaped the havoc… but when I saw Grey Wind’s head on Robb’s body I just…”

So it is true. For Jon, all that was said of Robb had been half truthful news and half rumours, reaching him through the letters Sam read for Maester Aemon or the new recruits from the south. The confirmation of the desecration of his brother’s corpse causes such a pain in his chest, Jon thinks he will wake up tomorrow with a scar.

“When I heard that… I thought it was just rumours.” Jon says with difficulty.

“It was true.” She says after some silence. Jon wishes he could take away that memory. It obviously changed something in her, and whatever it was, she dislikes it enough to think herself as a bad person. Jon tries to think of something to make her feel better.

“At least you made them pay. You came here and made them pay.”

“I came here and killed them yes, but I killed the man who butchered Robb long ago. Found him by a fire, tricked him into looking down and stabbed him in the neck.” Arya says slowly, detached.

“I-”

“I told you I wasn’t- I mean…” Arya interrupts him, suddenly nervous at his lack of words. “I know you will love me no matter what, but i’m not sure I’m ready for you to stop seeing me as a little sister.” Her words soften Jon’s heart, knowing that above everything, she will always be his little sister.

“You,” he places a finger on her chin, gently tugs so she looks up at him “will always be my little sister.” Arya smiles then, her face a mirror of his own. I will do anything so she keeps smiling. “And much more.”

“You think father… would forgive us becoming this?”

“Father was a man of war, Arya. Grew up around soldiers. In war, we do things… he would understand.” Jon tries to sound certain, but the truth is he harbored the same doubts. their father was a man of honor, and Jon wonders what would he think of hanging boys and breaking his vows with a wildling woman.

“I loved him so much, but I understand him more now, and admire him much more.” Arya says, voice full of devotion.

“Why?”

“We all wear the scars of war. You, me, all the riverlords, surely all your northern lords…. But father wore his with such a … calmness.” Arya’s voice trembles at the end, and Jon wonders if his father was indeed stoic at their age or if it was something that happened with the years.

“You can cry.” Jon lets her know, remember the little girl who came to him in fear of being a bastard. “It is dark here, not even I will see you.”

“What if I am more angry than I am sad? More enraged than tired and defeated?” Arya asks, leaving him quiet in bewilderment. Jon doesn’t know what to say. He knows anger and frustration, but he has no recipe of how to overcome it.

“I don’t know. If you want to hit me to relieve your anger I only ask that you avoid the face.” He answers with a nervous laugh, hoping to lighten the mood. He can feel her smiling, shaking her head at his bad jape until they’re both laughing.

Her laughter warms him, and he tickles her. He remembers all her weak spots as much as he remembers every detail of Winterfell.

“Stop it!” She giggles as he continues to tickle her side.“Jon, you- stop that!”  Suddenly, Ghost jumps to his feet, softly biting him and making him stop. “Ha! Well done Ghost.”

“Gods help me. If I cannot retain his loyalty then I’m truly doomed.” Jon says, surprisingly amused. One day with her and I’m already different.

“Don’t speak like that.” Arya chastises him, reminding him of the serious situation. He lets out a sigh as he passes his hand along his face, scratching his beard. I have Winterfell and Arya is alive, yet I’ve achieved nothing. Jon remembers his quarrels with their sister before coming south and wonders what would Arya think.

“Even Sansa disagreed on me coming here, sure that it was a waste of time. That they would never believe me.” Her words were still fresh in his mind. ‘We’ve hardly secured the North and you’re leaving! You will not convince them Jon!’, she had said. Jon suspected they prioritized different things. He knew she could manage the North and he knew he need to do something about the Night’s King.

A part of him is starting to doubt the reasons why he rushed South, suspecting - like Sansa surely did - that it had more to do with seeing Arya than convincing the Riverland lords to help the Night’s Watch.

“She’s Sansa… I’m sure she was just being precautious” Arya waves off her hand, unconcerned.

“We disagree on everything. How to punish the traitors, how to maintain certain keeps, how to deal with Ironborn, who to ask for an alliance…” Jon feels once again disappointed of how difficult discussing things with Sansa had been. At the Night’s Watch, men listened. Even among the wildlings, he knows when to talk and when to let Tormund take over. A discussion with Arya always ended in agreement, but he had no clue how to communicate with Sansa.

“Listen. I don’t care what Sansa says. I know maybe you had a bad first experience with ruling but you know better now. You’ve said so yourself, this is a war, and you, you’re a commander.” The strength in Arya’s words is not enough to convince him, no matter how much Jon wishes it did.

“I did not want it.” Jon admits after some time, putting into words something he has felt for a long time. It seems like yesterday when King Stannis had offered to make him Lord Stark and he had considered it. It feels more like a curse now. “Maybe a boy inside of me did, but the man who was betrayed by his brothers… he knows better.”

Arya turns in his arms to look at him. Her face is illuminated by the dim candlelight on one side and by the moonlight on the other. She looks like one of the statues  in the crypts of Winterfell, harsh like winter. Her hands come up to take his face, make him look at her eyes.The raw emotion, absolute trust and faith, almost makes him tear up.

“Look at me. You are my brother. You’re a Stark of Winterfell as much as me, Sansa, Bran. Like Robb and Rickon were.” Arya’s fierceness was a force to be reckoned with, and Jon finds himself easily influenced by the strength in her voice. “And father taught us. A Stark of Winterfell has a duty. Our family has a duty. I know you took your vows seriously, well being a Stark is a vow as well.”

“I’m a Stark.” Jon repeats, his conviction rising along with his gratitude. Little sister, how I needed this.

“I don’t care for names, you’re my blood, now and always. But if you need it, I will call you Jon Stark to every lord I meet until they start calling you as well.” His heart beats faster, and it feels like it weighs too much and nothing at all in his chest.

“It’s not necessary.” Jon reassures her. Kill the boy. Kill his insecurities and his doubts, and do what you have to do. “I will try to convince your riverlords. And if it doesn’t work, the lords of the Vale.” he tells her, traces his thumb between her eyebrows to get rid of her frown. “And if that doesn’t work, I will go back to Winterfell. Make the maester write letters to anyone who receives them, even Cersei or this Mother of Dragons, and I will make the Free Folk a proper army.”

“I will man the wall.” Arya swears, grey eyes brighter than the moonlight.

“Arya…” He wants to tell her the truth, that no amount of men is enough. That she could send all the Riverlands army and it still wouldn’t be enough. That’s what I was dreaming about,  he suddenly remembers. The Wall, filled with men, all freezing to death. A chilling nightmare.

“The Starks have manned the Wall for thousands of years. I don’t care if it’s with prisoners of war or my troops after I defeat the Lannisters, I will man the Wall.” Arya swears, sounding so much like their father that Jon wonders if she’s trying to quote him.

“I won’t fight you. I was told your power of will is a mighty force.” Jon smiles, remembering the words of the old lords of the Riverlands. For him, Arya was the stubborn child, running around Winterfell making all of the castle smile. For these men however, Arya was a she-wolf, leading a pack and an army and ruling them great care. Half the men wanted to marry her and half of them saw her as a granddaughter.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Arya says, trying to settle again on his side, annoyed at his comment.

“If every man I approached was half as brave and determined as you, I would defeat this Night King in a fortnight.” Jon tries to please her, but it seems to have little effect.

“I need something of you as well.” Arya says, finally done fidgeting and simply turning to look at her.

“Anything.” The answer comes out of his mouth immediately once he realises how distressed she seems. Arya plays with her hands for a little while, until finally, she looks at him.

“I could not bear to lose any more family.” Once again, her eyes tear up.

“Arya-” It pains his heart to know she fears this enough to cry, and yet there’s so little he can do about it.

“Please… I could not bear to lose any more siblings. I reckon if there are seven hells, I’ve been through most of them.” Arya’s words come out quickly and desperate. “I know I survived the news of all of their deaths, I lived through the pain of watching my family murdered in front of me. I overcame hunger and cold, men threatening to fuck me bloody and men beating me, I was forced to work for those who tortured innocent smallfolk in front of me, and then to work for people who blinded me.”

“Please-.” Gods, please let it stop. Some of it doesn’t make sense to him and yet he feels an incredible pain at seeing her like this, at thinking of her in such a distress.

“I survived Jon. But I could never live in a world where you were gone.” Arya finishes, holding his hand with an iron grip.

“Don’t talk like that.” Jon whispers, with little force behind it. Much like hearing Sansa speak of Ramsay, listening to Arya was worse than a slap in the face. Forgive me father, I should’ve been there to protect them. Jon thinks of the Old Bear’s words, of how honor made him leave the Wall that night years ago, to fight alongside Robb. And honor brought me back. It didn’t feel like honor now, with two brothers dead, two sisters tormented with nightmares and another brother missing.

“Shut up.” Arya spats at him, and he can tell she wants him to stop talking and stop thinking. She knows me better than anyone else. “I love you.”

“I love you too, little sister.” Jon answers. Arya did not make him promise not to die, she knows he could never make such a promise. She doesn’t seem to have any more to say, Arya just turns to blow out the candle and the settles to his side.

Jon remains awake a little longer, watching her sleep and thinking of her words. He feels the scars from the stab wounds with his fingers and wonders if Arya has scars as bad as his. Jon realises with silent panic that he could’ve lost her so many times and worse, he wouldn’t have known. He had assumed she had died in the capital, and yet he always held onto the hope that she might’ve escaped. It had been a childish hope, to think his fierce little sister would be happy living underfoot remaining hidden. Jon knows war now, and he knows that it never would’ve been as simple as he imagined.

Jon takes a look at Arya sleeping beside him, curled up like she did as a child, and he forces his mind to forget all those thoughts. She’s safe for now, and there are other battles to be fought. Jon closes his eyes, and Arya’s steady breathing lulls him to sleep.

He wakes up alone long after the sun has risen, which is odd since he has trouble sleeping ever since the Red Woman brought him back. A maid is cleaning around the room as silently as possible, turning around only when Jon clears his throat. She offers a tray of warm broth, some mead and seasoned eggs. When he asks for Arya, the maid says she must be attending some business, but she ordered to be informed of when he woke and that they would meet in the dungeons.

Jon takes his time to getting ready and making his way to the cells with Ghost by his side. All around the castle, preparations seem to be in order, servants running around in haste. He sees no riverland lords though, and he realises they must be in some council. Jon’s own companions seem  interested in Arya’s campaign, and he cannot blame them. Regardless of their feelings or fealty to Bolton, they all hated the Lannisters, remembering the war too well.

I am not their brother, Jon concludes after listening to their conversation in silence. Unlike the band of brothers he had made in the Wall and among some of the wildlings, he had not fought any battle with these men. I am not their brother yet, Jon corrects himself, knowing of the many wars to come.

“Princess!” Manderly exclaims in surprise as Arya, once again and with surprising ease, sneaks up on them out of nowhere. Jon smiles at Arya’s discomfort with the title.

“My lords, brother.” She greets, eyes sparkling at the last word. “I am afraid I must steal your king.”

“We would not blame him for preferring your company, my princess.” Says Larence Snow, the slobbering fool looking like he was in love. Jon can’t help the frown that takes over his face, voice much colder that he intends.

“Let us get on with this business then.” He steps forwards and even if he should offer his arm, he simply puts one arm across Arya’s shoulders and leads her away from the preying eyes of his men.

“Jon!” Arya shakes her shoulders, making him drop his arm.

“You can’t blame me, the way he looks at you, seven hells…”

“I’m used to men being much more rude, I can assure you.” She says annoyed, giving him a complete hell by setting his imagination running. Nevermind however any other men acted, she needs to realize that men take even a simple smile as encouragement.

“Arya you need to understand that men-”

“I’m not a child!” She stops to look at him, reproachful. Her hands go to her waist, frown set deep between her eyes. “You know, you use this... condescending tone sometimes-”

“Me?! Jon has never meant to treat her with any condescendence.

“Yes, you!” Arya is irritated, he can tell, but not angry. “I’m sorry, but, even some lords like Bracken noticed last night. Every time you talk is like you’re giving us a lesson, interrupting my talks with men as if I didn’t know how to handle myself.”

“I’m sorry.” He apologizes, sad that he embarrassed in her in front of her men. Arya’s frown disappears, and instead she takes his arm and leads him to what he can only guess it’s the dungeons.

“I know you worry…I know you.” Arya says, her voice softening. “But maybe, Sansa doesn’t? And she thinks you’re treating her…”

“Treating her how?” He asks when her voice trails off. What have I’ve been doing wrong?

“Well you know, she was always so… Sansa.” Arya explains vaguely. “Ugh, Bran and Robb always knew how to please her.”

Robb always knew how to please everyone, Jon wants to say, although it was not entirely true. “I’ll do my best.”

“I should write to her, I guess.” Arya says, although Jon can tell she’s not exactly thrilled at the prospect. He looks at her until she lets out a sigh of annoyance. “We weren’t on the best of terms when father… When I had to escape the capital.”

“I’m sure all of that is behind, she must love you and want you back home as much as I do.”

“You’re sweet, Jon.” She says with unusual softness. “But love can only change things so much.”

Jon remembers Arya coming to him crying because Jeyne Poole and Sansa neighing whenever she came near, and he know some things must be fixed only among his sisters. There’s nothing I can do about it. He simply rests his hand on the one she has holding on to his arm, giving it a gentle squeeze.

The dungeons of Riverrun are, like any cells for prisoners anywhere, dark and cold. Ghost looks around as if he would like to be anywhere but there. Arya greets the guards as if she were their friend, which sounds very much like her old self. They’re lead to a cell and when they enter, Jon sees two men sharing it, clothes ragged and faces tired.

“Lady Stark,” says one of the men, who lacks an eye. He quickly stands, prompting his companion - the red priest, Jon can gather - to slowly imitate him. Arya is not fond of the men, she can tell. Her stormy grey eyes seem colder than the Wall itself. Ghost sits by her side, both looking like statues. The men eye Jon’s wolf with curiosity and fear.

“Ser Beric, Thoros.” She crosses her arms and nods toward Jon. “This is my brother Jon. The King in the North.”

“Aye, you told us so in our travels.” says the Red Priest, who bows to him as ser Beric starts to kneel. “Your Grace.”

“Rise,” Jon commands quickly.  “You’re the famous Thoros of Myr. My father used to tell us stories of the siege of Pyke.”

“I can show you how to set that sword on fire if you want, Your Grace.” Thoros answers with a mocking smile, as if the trick was now an old joke.

“That won’t be necessary. My sister tells me that you wish to fight the undead? Are you aware of what's happening?” Jon asks, looking at their to try to find second intentions, finding only honesty.

“I have seen it in the flames.” Thoros answers somberly. I’ve forgotten these people and their fires, Jon thinks of Melisandre and what was of her.

“We serve the smallfolk of all the realm” Ser Beric says for all answer. It reminds Jon of the Night’s Watch vows. The vows I broke.

“Very well.” Jon nods, trying to clear his mind of the old guilt and focussing on the  of these men.

“You don’t seem surprised of my visions in the fire.” Thoros notes, eyes nearly piercing Jon.

“I’ve seen the power of your red god.”  It’s all Jon will say of the matter, and it only seems to irk Thoros.

“The… Princess Arya has made it clear we must remain in the North. As a… punishment.” Ser Beric says. Jon looks at Arya, who in turn looks at him with exasperation before looking back at her prisoners with annoyance.

“You will serve at the Wall, unless upon arriving at Winterfell our sister Sansa finds another use for you in the arrangement to prepare for winter.” Jon feels Arya throw him a look, but he knows she will reproach him in private.  “Part of my men will escort you, by ship.”

“Consider yourselves lucky.” Arya throws at them, complete with that hands to the hip mannerism women do to look more stern.

“We are thankful, your Grace.”

“We will fight.”

“I wouldn’t trust their word, but it’s better than nothing.” Arya spits before turning to the door and waiting for him there.

“Be that as it may, one can find honor at the Wall.” A bastard sort of honor. “And brothers. You leave today, your escorts will come soon.”

Jon joins Arya at the door and they remain in silence on the way up. She tells him they should go see Davos and he agrees before they fall into an unusual silence again.

“Why do you hate them so?” Jon asks, voice hoarse. He knows they were not perfect men of the law, but in an effort to do the right thing Jon also broke rules. He knows things are never as black and white as they seem yet Arya appears determined to treat the Brotherhood with contemp.

“Because they used my father’s quest for justice to justify their defiance to the law, which is not something my father would approve. Or their methods. Or the fact that they sold a boy, my friend, who wanted to join their fight, for a bag of gold.” Arya explains, anger clear in her voice.

Jon says nothing to this. He can tell Arya isn’t going to change her mind.

Davos is already prepared for his journey when they find him. He seems more optimistic than Jon.

“Are you sure the lords of the Stormlands will support this boy and that he will try to convince them to-”

“Gendry is smart and loyal. He will do what is right, I can vouch for it.” Arya says firmly. Jon wonders why his pragmatic sister seems to have such a faith in someone she hasn't seen in a pair of years.

“I will asses the situation in Storm’s End, but I doubt they like Cersei. They’re loyal to house Baratheon. And the lad is smart, he will support your cause.” Davos confirms.

“I do hope you’re right.” Is all Jon says. “A portion of the men leave on the morrow to Maidenpool, if you go with them you may catch a ship.”

“There’s been word of bad weather. Should you and the men need somewhere to wait out the storms, you can stay in the keep. I will make sure a raven is sent  ahead.” Arya offers.

“Thank you, Princess Arya.”

“And give my regards to Gendry when you see him. If he doesn’t wish to be a lord, remind him he can still serve safely here.’

“Or in Winterfell. We’re in desperate need of a blacksmith. Any friend of Arya is welcomed.” Jon adds, earning a beaming smile from Arya. It makes Jon smile too.

“Very well, your Grace.” Davos sets his little possessions by the door, ready to go. “We will see each other again.”

“I’m sure of it.” Jon is certain of that. “If you need to reach me, write to Winterfell. Arya may be on the march and will miss my ravens or yours, but Sansa will be updated.”

Davos nods, and starts to bow. Jon stops him and offers his hand, remembering how much he owes this man. They shake hands as Davos offers a warm smile.

“Princess.” Davos begins the same bow, but his precious little sister will have none of it.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” She chides him before offering her hand, not to kiss it but to shake it. Davos smiles fondly at her as Arya wishes him good luck, shaking hands like two friends. Davos gives them both a nod of the head before he leaves them alone in the room.

“I should-”

“Come with me?” Arya interrupts him “I wrote to Roslin from Harrenhal and I have a feeling- well, I’ll explain there.”

“Of course.”

Arya leads him out of the Water tower and across the bridge, towards the gates of the southern castle. She lets out an adorable squeal of excitement when she sees a gentle snow falling and covering the ground in white dots.

She holds onto his arm and they walk slowly, and he is slightly mesmerized by her own wonder at seeing everything slowly being covered by white. Jon remembers she has not seen this since she was a girl in Winterfell, and smiles at her childish cheerfulness.

“I’ve talked to lords,” Arya says finally, letting out a final sigh and getting suddenly serious. “The Riverlands haven’t really healed entirely, so we won’t march aggressively yet. We will secure certain regions by marriage between borderline houses.”

“That’s… very smart.” He says, making her smile.

“Not my idea. But I learned from father to listen to my people and some lords are indeed very smart.”

“I… I realise that you’re not insensible but please,” the mere idea of Arya hurt is unbearable, “take care of yourself.”

“I will. I’m not stupid, anyone who is bigger than me can run me down with a sword if I’m not careful. To be honest, I think I will give them commands, but I can hardly be part of battle,” Arya says with scorn, clearly upset at the idea, “I must protect Edmyn and the people, and I can’t do that dead in some battlefield.”

Jon is beyond grateful for her prudence . The guards and ladies and servants all greet Arya with as much affection as they do respect, and she reminds Jon of their father. It makes him think of Sansa too, and that perhaps in an effort to protect them and keep them away from unsavory things he had treated them as incompetent when they’re not.

“Anyways, since we won’t march all the army straight away, I agreed with some lords to send food North.” Arya says, taking such a weight off his shoulders Jon nearly jumps. It had been the one thing all his bannermen had insisted. “And at least I convinced them of sending prisoners north to the Wall.”

“Thank you.”

Arya nods and they walk in silence to the southern castle and then out the gates, looking at the snow covered forest in contemplation. Ghost lays down and rests his head on his paws, almost disappearing into the whiteness. Snowflakes are melting in Arya’s hair, making her look very much the winter maiden she is.

“How have you avoided the marriage offers?” Jon blurts out, making Arya look at him curiously. “The Northern lords never stop talking me of the beautiful maidens they have for daughters”

Arya laughs at his discomfort, as if it was a funny joke that only he can’t understand. “I tell them stupid reasons why I can’t get married.” Jon can only lift an eyebrow at that. “You know.. uhmm… oh I can’t marry I have no nice dresses or I can’t have a husband because only death is my husband… something like that.”

“And it works?”

“For the most part.” Arya lets out a sudden laugh. “Once I told them I wouldn’t mind being a bride at a wedding if I could do without a husband.”

Jon finds himself laughing at that until he nearly cries. “What- What did they say?”

“Spent the rest of the week debating whether or not I was crazy and having unnatural thoughts about women.” Arya is grinning at the memory, letting go of him to kneel and grab some snow with her hand, making a snowball. “Roslin and I could hardly keep a straight face whenever they saw us together.”

“Roslin sounds like an easy person to get along.”

“Oh she is! It’s truly sad Robb didn’t marry her.” Arya looks up at him with a pride in her eyes. “And she’s such a great mother to Edmyn. I adore them both.”

Jon felt a pang in his chest at the affection in her voice, silently waiting until she’s standing up again to ask; “You’re not going home anytime soon, aren’t you?”

Arya lowers her eyes.

“I want to,” she whispers, “and I know Roslin is stronger than she seems and will be an amazing protector of Edmyn.” Arya takes his hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “I will make sure the Cersei threat is taken care of, that the region is prepared for winter and that all lords respect the Roslin’s position; And then I promise I will go back home.”

“You promise?” One shouldn’t make promises that one can’t keep, little sister.

“I promise.”

Arya bites her lip, and Jon opens his mouth to ask what’s wrong when a ball of snow is pushed straight into his face. He’s momentarily stunned in silence and cold. So damn cold. Arya barks out a laugh that makes Jon younger by years. He quickly cleans his face of snow to find Arya kneeling for more, when she catches him looking she lets out a squeal and starts running from him; Letting out boasts of being superior in snowball fights.

Oh no, little sister, snow is my name.

Jon sprints towards her, knees bending a bit so his hand can quickly grab some snow and shape it in a ball . Arya throws one backward which lands in his neck, impressive feat considering she wasn't exactly looking back or aiming. Jon, however, takes his time to retaliate, until he’s closer to her and aims for a headshot. It’s effective, and it lands on the back of her head, the ball breaking spectacularly and filling her brown locks with white.

“Ouch! Mercy! I’m out of practice!” She shrieks as she keeps running in circles. Jon has trouble keeping up, or really, keeping up and shaping effective snowballs. Arya is a quick runner and has good aim, but can’t throw with much force behind so her hits hurt less.

When she lands a second one to the face, Jon goes after her blindly. She clearly wasn’t expecting it, since she doesn’t run away and they end up colliding. Arya ends up trapped between the snow and himself, letting out an impressive array of curses between bursts of laughter.

“Unfair,” she says breathlessly. Jon quickly supports himself on his hand and puts space between them.  Arya gives him a queer look at his sudden movement, but lets it pass. Jon himself can’t quite explain why being flushed close seemed strangely uncomfortable. “Completely unfair.”

Arya’s flushed face reminds Jon of when she used to run around, trying to keep up with him and Robb. She’s is no longer that little girl however, and her pale face with reddened cheeks and big grey eyes under dark eyelashes is no longer childish. It’s still similar to his, but different than before. Jon opens his mouth to say something, but the truth is he has nothing in his mind.

“Promise me…” She starts, then she smiles and brings up a hand to caress his beard. “Promise me you will shave this, it looks awful.”

Jon lets out a  breath, smiling. Arya was always extremely honest. “I promise.”

“And promise me…” Arya looks away from him then, her voice serious. “Promise me not to get married to any of those northern maidens your lords talk to you about?”

“I- Arya.” One shouldn’t make promises that one can’t keep.

“I know you may need alliances, I’m not an idiot.” Arya looks at him then, eyes sadder, unbearable for him to look at. “I just got you back, I wouldn’t like to lose you to anyone yet.”

“You would never lose me to anyone.” He assures her. the place Arya has in Jon’s heart is something no one could replace. We’re the same children of winter. “We will both go back to Winterfell, and we’ll win this fight and be together back home. You and me.”

“You and me” she repeats softly, looking at him with more intensity than anyone ever before. “Promise me, Jon.”

It was almost wicked of her to ask him, and it was foolish of him to commit to something so unlikely. Yet, just to please her, he finds himself saying the words.

“I promise.”

The silence after that is broken by a howl, powerful and very near. Arya pushes him to stand up. “I knew it,” she whispers, “I felt it.”

“What?” Jon asks as he eyes Ghost, who is suddenly on it’s feet and looking pointedly at the treeline.

“I dream of her.” Arya says, turning to him with confusion all over her face. “I don’t understand it, it’s… I can’t explain it, but sometimes I dream of Nymeria…”

“As if you were the wolf?” Jon finishes. Arya’s eyes go as big as saucers and Jon feels his heart beat rapidly. I’m not the only one.

“Yes!” Arya is visibly shaken, so he comes closer to put a hand on her shoulder. “I thought I was mad.”

“There were some of the free folk with this… ability. They could control it.” Jon can’t do that. He would dream of Ghost, and more commonly after his death, yet he had never done it awaken like Orell used to. “Skinchanging they called it. Wargs.”

“Wargs,” Arya repeats the word. “I sent a raven to Riverrun from Harrenhal days ago, told Roslin to let Nymeria lose. I dreamt of her and the pack all these days and I woke up today knowing she was close.”

“Can you do it deliberately?”

“No,” Arya shrugs her shoulders, “can you?”

“No.”

They both turn to look at the woods as the distinctive sounds of pack of wolves reach their ears. An immense pack of wolves, Jon thinks, by the loudness of the sounds. Indeed after a moment hundreds of wolves emerge from between the trees. Jon takes a few steps back, but Arya grabs him firmly by the arm. He looks back and sees the guards by the gates looking shaken but not precisely surprised. They had heard about this. Jon had too, but it was different to seen it with your own eyes.

“Nymeria, to me!” Arya commands. Immediately among the wolves emerges a huge beast that Jon knows is a direwolf. Big like Ghost, but much more wilder in appearance, Nymeria has grey fur and golden eyes. The she-wolf approaches them with confidence, reaching Arya and letting her mistress pet her as if she were an adorable pup. Jon remembers handing it to Arya in the kitchens of Winterfell.

Jon extends his hand to Nymeria, who smells him silently before licking his fingers. Her fur is wild and unkempt, which reminds Jon of Arya’s hair as a child. Nymeria lets him pet her until Ghost approaches them.

It only takes one sniffle between the litter-mates to start playing. Jon wonders if they too miss their siblings. If they miss home like Arya and him do.

“Lady Stark!”

They both turn to find a guard approaching. He runs until halfway he slows down, clearly put off by the wolves. Arya makes way to him, Jon following.

“What is it?”

“It’s… a group has arrived, my lady. By the north way.”

“Who?”

“The knights of the Vale, lady Stark.”

Arya immediately turns to him, eyebrow lifted, but Jon can’t answers her obvious wordless inquiry.  He panics because he finds no reason for them to apparently desert Sansa. “Did they say why are they here?”

“They claim to come in your sister’s name, my lady.”

“Let us see then,” Arya says, starting to walk back to the castle, beaconing Nymeria to come along, “what does my sister want from me.”

Chapter Text

Snowflakes swirl inside Sansa’s bedchamber as she dresses, her maid closing the window in a hurry as the winds gets stronger. These are not the gentle summer snows of her childhood, but harsh winds that freeze their crops and animals to death. Sansa knows she should not complaint of her rationed food and occasional cold feet when compared to the luck of others, but living in the south for years is no help to prepare for harsh winter.

She dresses herself in grey wool dress and stockings with a bear fur cape to keep her warm, a wolf embroidered in the neckline of her dress  in hopes it will remind the remaining lords that she is the Stark of Winterfell now.

The first thing the maester does upon her arrival to the table is to tell her ravens arrived for King Jon, and as always, Sansa has to stress that she is allowed to read them. And just like every time, he frowns as he hands her the letters and makes to leave. Sansa puts the letters on her lap as she faces her meager breakfast. She knows she should not complaint, and that she eats more than others, and yet she can’t help but remember the rich dishes she had in King’s Landing when the Tyrells brought the food.

Nevermind that, she tells herself. I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell. And the Lady of Winterfell worries for more than dishes. She knows the food situation is already hard enough and that if they don’t prepare they will go through their stored food in a matter of months.

“Lord Manderly,” Sansa starts, already putting her voice in that helpless tone men usually can’t resist, “have I told you of my desire to bring glass to build more glasshouses?”

“No, my princess.” The fat lord looks at her surprised, yet his eyes quickly display his very practiced kindness. “Are we to expect the arrival of a shipment of glass to White Harbor?”

“Oh no, not yet. It is a matter that must be… thoroughly analyzed due to its cost.” Sansa says softly. Despite his mask of affableness, she can see the wheels turning on his head. Petyr had told  her he was an ambitious man, and since months have passed and Sansa did not show any signs of carrying a Bolton inside her, lords would want to wed her to their sons.

“House Manderly is always ready to help House Stark, princess Sansa.” He says for all answer. It is the one Sansa is expecting anyways.

“Before he departed,” the strong voice  of little Lyanna Mormont interrupts Sansa’s meal, “King Jon said he wished for us to discuss with the wildlings how they managed to feed and keep animals Beyond the Wall and see if we could use some of their experience during our winter.”

“I believe we cannot expect these savages to teach us anything we don’t already know.” Lord Manderly mocks, earning a few laughs of some lords.

“My brother means well but we can use our own history as a guide to teach us.” Sansa looks at the girl kindly, but finds nothing but judgement looking back at her. “During the long summer we got used to growing flowers there, but in the past glasshouses have served as a way to grow food.”

“We have been living in the long summer for a long time, and they on the harsh cold twice as longer. Denying their experience is foolhardy.” Lyanna Mormont looks around with one final word that seems to easily convince everyone. “King Jon knew the Boltons used much of the gold stored in Winterfell to repair the damage of the castle, and wanted to avoid using the rest of it if it was possible. Are you unwilling to listen to your king’s will?”

They all nod silently and Sansa can only hide her disappointment with a compliant smile.

Petyr had told her the little girl would be a problem, but Sansa had not wanted to listen to him. Jon had left her there to help, making Sansa wonder if he doubted her abilities to rule on his place. She was sure she was doing the best she could and was confident of her own *aptitudes* until she realised how little influence she has on the lord's.

One word from Lyanna Mormont and she lost their support to her ideas.

Sansa waits until many of them are finished to retire, having made sure she spoke with as many as she could. She sits there and bears their long speeches of advice and counsel to her, as if she was inept and stupid.

I am not a stupid girl anymore, yet it seems I’m the only one who sees that.

Sansa goes up to the lord’s chambers. Jon had refused it, and so had she, but they used their father’s desk. It was indeed the most comfortable chair in all of Winterfell and in there Sansa can think in peace.

She can’t help the buried resentment she feels of Jon. Sansa loves her brother and thanks him for taking back their home, but it feels like it is he who did everything. It was me who brought the knights of the Vale, it was thanks to me that we won. Once that thought invades her head, soon others - often pushed away - rush to her mind. I am Eddard Stark’s trueborn daughter, I am King Robb Stark trueborn sister.

Sansa reminds herself that Jon isn’t a lesser man because he’s a bastard. That she herself once pretended to be one and did not see herself as any less valuable. Yet, as she looks upon her father desk and the seals and tapestries of the Stark direwolf, she can’t help thinking that this is what she wanted. Neither Jon or Bran or her father ever longed to wear crowns and rule over the land, but she wanted to be a queen all her life. This is not Littlefinger’s influence, she’s forced to accept, this was your ambition.

You’re a Stark of Winterfell, that’s what matters, a voice that sounds like father interrupts her line of thoughts. You do not want to be queen by usurping anyone, by plotting and manipulating like a daughter of Petyr Baelish. She feels the usual dread whenever she notices his influence in her, how she thinks of ways of convincing people and moving the pieces automatically.

“Enough of this.” She tells herself, the empty room offering no reply. Sansa settles in her father’s old chair, closes her eyes and listens to the sounds of the people on the courtyard going about their business. She never bothered much for them and what they did, but now she realises that noise was part of Winterfell as much as her family was. I am home now, I am the Stark of Winterfell, and much stronger than any bastard daughter of Petyr Baelish.

When Sansa opens her eyes, she is ready to read the letters. Both are addressed to Jon, and she knows if one of those is from Davos she will have to send it back to the King’s latest camp. Last she heard, Jon was in Castle Darry, a stronghold Arya had taken and had lent to her brother to stay as he planned his campaign to win lords to the cause against the White Walkers. Castle Darry is not a place Sansa remembers fondly and she’d rather never set foot there again. If only I had Lady at my side, no one would ever doubt I am a Stark.

“Jon, I had reach my destiny.”

Sansa frowns, and a quick scan of the letter makes her note the various mistakes both in grammar and in his terms of addressing. She wonders where did ser Davos learnt his letters and, considering his upbringing, it was probably aboard some ship in the sea by some sailor. Even with so many disagreements between their different council to Jon, Sansa feels a bit sad for him. Mayhaps next time they saw each other she would teach him to write properly.

“I hope this letter find you still enjoying the Lady Arya’s hospitality. Although we’re barely entering winter, already the waters of the bay have become as worse as they’ve ever been. As we predicted, the new queen is not loved here. Our idea was good received and I’ve set to find you sister’s friend. I’m afraid it won’t be an easy package to smuggle.”

The letter closes just like that, and it bothers Sansa how little she knows of the plans. From what she understands, the North is suddenly in some sort of alliance with whomever ser Davos visited, and planning on taking down Cersei. And who in seven hells is ‘Arya’s friend’?

She knows ser Davos is being vague purposefully, yet it bothers Sansa to find herself ignorant from so many details. It used to unnerve her back when Littlefinger did his scheming in the Eyre and it annoys her more now that Arya is playing at war.

In a manner of sorts, Sansa feels pity for her little sister. From what she had gathered from Brienne, Arya was being taken care of Sandor Clegane like once he had protected Sansa. Then suddenly one day  she had turned up at the Twins and taken back the Riverlands like a hero in a song. But life is not a song, Sansa remembers. She imagines her sister must be struggling as much as she is, perhaps even more.

She probably doesn’t know how to make the lords  agree on anything or how to truly rule an entire region. It had surprised Sansa greatly that Arya even managed to get herself chosen as a form of regent of Edmyn. Arya had always spoken the first thing that came to her mind and had not experienced court like Sansa did, she imagines at the end of the day she feels frustrated and alone, like Sansa once did. Like I still do, she admits to herself, remembering her lack of success during the morning meal. She’s away from home… at least I’m in Winterfell.

The second letter comes from Lady Flint of Widow’s Watch. It is addressed to Jon  as well, and her first sentences are that of well thought  compliments and promises of collaboration. Sansa nearly dismisses it as useless, until she reaches the very last paragraph:

“I’ve received a letter from your sister, the Princess Arya Stark. Even here in Widow’s Watch we’ve received word of the wonderful achievements of your younger sister. She writes that it is her intention to send supplies of grain and perhaps even livestock to Winterfell, and desires to use Widow’s Watch as a way to avoid White Harbor’s heavy taxing. It would be an honor for my house to participate in this trade.”

The letter continues with more courteous offers of help, yet it does not soothe Sansa at all.

A great part of her intention of conceding power and making connections with House Manderly was the fact that they were their biggest port city and one of the richest houses of the North. Since there were no living males of House Flint of Widow’s Watch, their military decisions and other type of actions were taken under the lead of House Manderly. Giving them power over their supplies would not help with their relations to House Manderly.

“May I come in?” Petyr’s voice shakes her out of her ruminations, and she looks up to find him standing at the door with a small smile in his lips. He knows.

“You should ask properly.” Sansa retorts, watching with frustration as the smile did not leave his face. She could not forgive him leaving her at the mercy of the monster that was Ramsay, yet she knows he understands her and would play the game on her behalf.

“May I come in, my princess?” He drawls the last words in what she cannot define if it’s a mockery or simple teasing. In any case, she nods for him to sit and sets aside the letters.

“I did not know the Vale considered me their princess.” Sansa wants him to know she had not missed the way he had spoken constantly to the Knights of the Vale before they left. Littlefinger had seemed to be quarreling with Royce and the rest of them, yet he did not seem disturbed by it at all. In fact it seemed like he had enjoyed the Knights of the Vale leaving in hurry.

“They will eventually.” Sansa tries to ignore his ominous answer as she folds the letters and begins to write some words to Arya. She had expected some answer would come from Jon or Arya after she sent the Knight of the Vale to help Jon’s cause, yet no words have reached Winterfell yet besides short updates on Jon’s location.

“I intend to write to Arya.” Sansa finds herself saying, surprised by her honesty. No matter what, I still look for his counsel. To her, Baelish was simply smart and bold beyond anything Sansa would ever be capable of. Even if she knows his intentions are often less than noble, she can’t help the keen interest she feels in his opinions and advice.

After all, it was him who suggested that she sent the Knights of the Vale south to help Jon. Without that suggestion, Sansa would still be ignored and disapproved by the bannermen. Their quarrels regarding how to deal with their defeated enemies have not gone unnoticed by the bannermen. Sansa respected his choice to not take away to lands, but she couldn’t help but write and demand monetary payment from the families. She had done so after Jon had left, and she berated herself for it later. Lyanna Mormont had noticed, and had loudly spoken against ignoring Jon’s intentions.

Sansa had only meant to gather and save coin for when winter got harsher, instead all she got were lords doubting her loyalty and questioning if she knew her place. I know my place very well, I am Ned Stark’s trueborn daughter and the Lady of Winterfell. Of course, Petyr had noticed her difficulties and easily came up with a solution. Sending the Knights of the Vale did improve the way the Northerners looked at her.

“Your dear sister.” Petyr says, his tone indicating Arya was not dear to Sansa. No matter what, she’s my family.  Even if she had been an unsatisfactory sister, not even Littlefinger would convince Sansa she should not help her sister. I am not a child anymore, I know what it’s important, and old quarrels over ruined dresses don’t matter.

“Yes, I suppose she will summon you soon enough, as Lord Paramount of the Trident.” Sansa doesn’t know how she feels about Baelish being anywhere near Arya.

“Well, I am not Lord Paramount of the Trident anymore.” The controlled tone in his voice lets Sansa know that despite his calm expression, Littlefinger is not at all in control. Sansa tries to contain her surprise but she knows he must sense it anyways. “She wrote.”

“She did declare war on House Lannister.” Sansa retorts, wondering about the contents of Arya’s letter to Littlefinger.

“Of course,” He agrees, gently stroking his beard and pretending to be thinking something with much concentration. “I believe her exact words were… ‘no man of such a deceiving nature should be awarded any sort of title in the Riverlands’.”

Sansa can no longer pretend to be concentrating on her letter, and simply stares at him until he gives her an eerily calm smile.

“What about Harrenhal?”

“Stripped of that as well. It is currently her own, seeing as she took it with her army of wolves, to give as an empty reward whenever she needs some lord’s favor.”

“Why would the Riverlands men be called the army of wolves?” Sansa frowns. It seems odd to say the least, especially considering surely Arya is not even commanding such forces.

“They’re literally a pack of wolves, hundreds of them.” Petyr’s eyes squint slightly, watching Sansa so intensely she suddenly wishes Brienne were there with her. “Even my spies confirm this much is true, and that your dear sister rides behind them and ahead of the army, shouting orders like if she were a queen.”

Sansa knows he used the words ‘queen’ and ‘dear sister’ just to get a reaction out of her. And no matter her frustrations, she will not give him the satisfaction. “Well it sounds like she does a great job.”

He simply nods, and Sansa goes back to her letter, wishing he was not there. It seems so silly to write to Arya now. She had thought to write a conciliatory letter, kindly offering any advice and empathizing with her problems, explaining to her why she couldn’t contact her lords just like that.

Now, she can’t help the slight envy she feels at Arya having earned her title and no lord doubting her. She both worries and disapproves of her being in battle, yet it makes Sansa wonder if this is the sole reason the Riverlands men follow her lead. Act like a men, and they follow. Act like myself and be second after Jon. It was a horrible thought that she wishes she didn’t think,  but she does anyways.

Dear sister,

The words write themselves, and immediately Sansa feels distaste for them. They’re hollow and Sansa knows Arya will feel it so. Arya is unlike any of Littlefinger’s victims. Even if they haven’t seen each other in years, Sansa remembers how Arya had never ever fallen for Cersei and Joffrey’s facade.

“Where is the Lady Brienne?” Petyr asks and, like whenever he speaks of the Maid of Tarth, he sports a mocking smile.

“Sparring with Lady Lyanna, teaching her I guess.” Sansa does not mind Brienne teaching the little girl. Even despite the fact that Lyanna is such a stubborn combative figure, she is utterly loyal to the Starks. And you can’t buy that kind of loyalty. Still, it would be nice to have one friend. One supporter.

Suddenly, Sansa looks up to find Petyr looking at her. Their eyes meeting for a moment so eternal it felt like the long summer had come again.

What if he truly is loyal to me?

Sansa felt the sudden warmth that came with feeling powerful. If his devotion is true, I have power over him. She knows now that power is what keeps you safe. As a girl, she wanted to be queen because she thought it would make her happy, that it was the loveliest of dreams. Now she knows she wants to be one because of power. Power is safety. Power is never ever again being married off to men who only want to take things from her.

No matter his loyalty to me, he sent me to marry Ramsay Bolton.

Sansa sees the exact moment he notices she’s looking at him with blatant resentment. Petyr sits a little straighter, and when she coldly dismisses him so she can write her letter, he leaves without a word.

Arya,

I am glad to hear of your success and well being. Winter is here, with all the harshness and cruelty father promised us. Snow has settled here in every field and moor, making me wish we were all back here playing with snowballs as we did when we were children.

I am sure all the harsh tasks you have as ruler of the Riverlands must overwhelm you, and I just want to reassure you that you can always write me should you need advice. I encourage you to think very well about the war you plan on fighting. You’re only a child, and trust me, this game can only be won by the strongest players.

Sister, I write because your latest letter to lady Flint proposes using their port as a meaning to send supplies. Please, I encourage you to direct all your questions and requests of the use of the North’s port to me. I understand you’re younger and don’t know how this things work, but I have to ensure that House Manderly does not feel slighted by one of our own.

I hope you remain safe, and Jon as well.

Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell.

The wet seal of the Stark direwolf taunts her as she gives the letter to the Maester. Since he seems so keen on distrusting her, Sansa makes point to stay until the raven leaves the rookery.

“My la- Princess,” He speaks up before Sansa can leave, making her turn to find him fidgeting. “I’ve… I’ve begun my search of records of past winters.”

“Very well, thank you, Maester Wolkan.” He seems surprised at her even saying his name, and remains speechless as Sansa leaves the room.

Not for the first time, Sansa wondered if the maester had overheard her say to Jon that she wanted him out of Winterfell. It was nothing against his character,  but Sansa can not trust any man who used to serve the Boltons.

I am back home, I am again a Stark of Winterfell, yet it does not feel so different from King’s Landing.

Sansa walks Winterfell with her head high. She is drawn to the courtyard, where people bow to her as she passes. It is dirty and muddy and she dislikes being there, but she doesn’t want them to know it, so she stays there despite the cold and the smell. Brienne however, smiles when she sees Sansa looking at her, and something inside Sansa feels warm when she remember at least she is loyal.

As days pass, the spectacle of seeing Brienne train young men, Pod and Lady Lyanna becomes something Sansa can hardly enjoy. Running Winterfell takes time, and her experience in the matters are limited. Perhaps the task would’ve been easier during the summer or living in the south where it is both easy to farm and to communicate. However, every day, more problems arise that she can manage.

Although the wildings are distrustful, the ginger bearded fellow that once helped Jon tells them of their methods of surviving harsh winters. However, many of them only had experience living day by day in small groups. Getting through winter while maintaining a large community in the Gift is also proving to be a new challenge for them.

Of course, Petyr is always there to help. Much as Sansa would like to avoid him, the truth was he had more years of experience than her in managing an entire region. It even came to a surprise to her that as much as he had taught her of lying and scheming and manipulating, he taught her little of how to rule with efficiency.

And I bet being essential to me was his plan all along. Being essential despite not seeming it has always been his way of achieving power.

She resists his efforts to incite her into borrowing money from foreign banks, but can’t really avoid his help when he offers guidance in who to trade with. Sansa knows and loves the North, which was never the luxurious south. She is aware that winter will not make them live with fine clothing but rather wool and pelts. Yet, the North of her childhood never lacked proper food and clothing, and all that Winterfell had was shared to the lords at the harvest feast and with the people of Winter town.

They cannot afford themselves to begin Winterfell with rationed food, else they will find themselves in the middle of winter eating roots and moss. The truth is that they need the supplies that Arya promised, yet all that comes is a letter.

Sansa,

As much as I want to help my home, the North, I also have a duty to Riverrun. I cannot waste much gold in paying the high taxes of White Harbor when there is an option that won’t drain us of gold. If you can find me a better deal with Lord Manderly, I’m willing to compromise a bit of gold, but at the current rate of his fees, I cannot send ships to his port.

I apologize if this letter comes late. I am currently at the Golden Tooth and as such I write you from there and send a messenger by horse  to Pinkmaiden, as I trust the maester from there more than the one from here. We’re celebrating the wedding of the widower Karyl Vance of Wayfarer’s West to Alysanne Lefford, so the messenger can only leave once he is not needed for the preparations.

I await your response before a fortnight, else I will have to send the grain to Widow’s Watch or it will be too late for you to use it in the glasshouses.

Stubborn as always, of course Arya would latch onto an idea and not let it go, nevermind how much of a headache it caused to Sansa. Her frustration is interrupted by a knock on the door.

“May I come in?” She recognizes the voices and wants to say no, but the truth is now more than ever she need his advice.

“Come in.”

When he enters, she can tell he is Littlefinger and not Petyr. His smile is deceitful, pretending to be pleased when she can tell his eyes are keenly looking at her face, analysing her expression. Well, two can play that game.

“Good news from the south.” He starts, crossing his legs and sitting back with confidence. Sansa simply throws him an inquisitive look. “Your sister has arranged quite an important marriage.”

“The Golden Tooth is hers.” Sansa says, feeling some pleasure in seeing his surprise at her knowledge. He thinks Arya and me keep secrets from one another.

“Yes. She will easily control the hill road now. Cersei will become mad with anger.” Although he seems pleased with that detail, overall his eyes show no pleasure of the attack on the Westerlands.

“She is already mad.” Sansa suspects nowadays it takes little prodding to start lashing out at imaginary enemies. “And she has lost the Reach. She’s digging her own grave.”

“Perhaps not.” Littlefinger says, looking at her with a gleam of mischief in his eyes.

“You remain her counselor?” Sansa asks softly, but she hopes he realises she would send him away as soon as she has the slightest suspicion of him speaking to Cersei. She is not foolish enough to think him loyal to the point of selflessness, but she has learnt quite a bit in the art of reading him and Sansa is quite certain his faithful devotion seems directed at her.

“No. I only meant your sister may not remain an enemy to Cersei for too long.” He does not even bother to pause and give himself an enigmatic air. Littlefinger seems almost gleeful to give her the information. “Soon enough, Euron Greyjoy, King of the Iron Island will start pillaging and raiding both the Riverlands and the Westerlands.”

“I will write to her then, to let her know.” Sansa basks in his badly concealed surprised expression. He had expected her to be vindictive, perhaps even jealous of Arya’s success. Even if I were, I wouldn’t not risk her life for something so petty and stupid.

“That along with details of how to ship her supplies?” He quickly asks, obviously rubbing in her failure.

“I’ll settle that soon enough.” Sansa answers shortly, sour at being reminded that she indeed has yet to find any way to handle that situation.

“Perhaps I can help convince Lord Manderly to reduce his taxes, so your mighty sister can send her help.”

“Arya is not mighty.” Sansa finds herself snapping. “She’s just a child.”

Being stubborn and spoiling everything, making everything harder for me, as when we were children.

“If we could discuss options-”

“I will offer him the Dreadfort in exchange of lowering his taxes.” Sansa explains quickly. The idea had come to her the day before. She had no love for the place and it belonged to her as a Bolton widow. “I’m sure you will find me some sort of family relationship that may justify granting it to him that the other lords will believe.”

“I said I would serve you-”

“So you will do that.” Sansa orders him, feeling an incredible sense of relief at seeing he is willing to do as she obeys. To know it was her the one with power in their wicked affiliation made her feel safe, strong even. I am stronger within the walls of Winterfell. “I need to bring in those supplies, and also glass to build more glasshouses.”

“I am sure he will accept.”

Indeed, he accepts. Lord Manderly, fat and ambitious as he is, seems very eager to take over the Dreadfort. He easily allows the ships to port and pay lower taxes for as long as the cruel winter continues and Sansa hates the fact that he obviously was waiting for an offer to be made from her part. She can only be thankfully he did not demand more. At least he has some Northern solidarity.

“Lady Lyanna.” Sansa is not an idiot, and she knows the little girl is Jon’s most loyal ally and for some reason, all lords hear her opinion. And if Sansa can convince her that she is a trustworthy ruler then surely she will win an influential ally among the Northern lords and ladies.

“Princess,” lady Lyanna bows her head as she pulls the fur cape to cover her more properly. Winter is getting colder and colder, and Sansa has heard stories from the countryside that make her shiver. Already there are newborns are dying because the cold is too harsh to withstand. In the North, only the strong survive the winter. It all sounded like one of Old Nan’s stories, yet this time the warm walls of Winterfell did not make her feel any better.

“I hope I do not interrupt you, but I would like your opinion on something.”

“Of course, what is it?”

“The Ironborn.” Sansa’s words make lady Lyanna stop her walk immediately. “House Mormont have fought them for years.”

“And will continue to do so, my Princess.” Lady Lyanna boasts. “Every man and woman in Bear Island learn to protect their lands from wildling and ironborn as soon as hey can walk.”

“I had hoped Theon Greyjoy made it to the Iron Island and reclaim it with the help of his sister, perhaps making a truce with us.” At lady Lyanna’s frown of disapproval, Sansa quickly continues. “But no news came, and now it seems Euron Greyjoy is the king.”

“Tales of Crow’s Eye viciousness are source of nightmares back home.” lady Lyanna’s round childish face looks considerably older when overtaken by such a seriousness. “He is cunning and cruel, they say.”

“I have reports he plans major raids soon. First in the Riverlands and the Westerlands, but eventually… He will set his eyes here.” Sansa sees in the little lady’s eyes that she is following her train of thought.

“We must prepare.”

“Yes. Bear Islands, Flint’s Fingers and Deepwood Motte know more about the Ironborn than we do at Winterfell.” Modesty always works on the proud. “I will need you, lord Glover and whomever house Flint can send, to gather and think how to fortify and defend our west coastline.”

“Yes, we must gather a garrison of men and prepare them.” She looks up to Sansa for approval, and with one nod from her, the little lady leaves in a hurry.

It keeps the Mormont lady busy, which in turn gives Sansa more freedom to discuss preparations for winter and political moves without Lyanna second guessing her and proclaiming that they need Jon’s approval for every little decision Sansa makes. It is a relief to find herself with the freedom to rule as she pleases, yet she tries to remember that she has a responsibility to her House to do it as well as her father once did.

Sansa has organized for every keep to have glasshouses ready to receive grain, and as weeks pass, every lord comes along with empty carts ready to be filled with bags of grain and legumes. In a way, it is like organizing a harvest feast, and so Sansa makes sure to serve as much as possible in every meal  and to wear her best dresses. Brienne, ever so distrustful of everyone, follows her around relentlessly to make sure she’s never alone with any man. It causes Sansa some amusement, although she knows it is because she feels safe with the woman. She would certainly miss her if she was not near.

When the carts start arriving filled with bags and bags of grain, Sansa lets out a sigh of relief. We did it. She hears the clapping and cheers from the winter town, and Sansa does not suppress her smile. I always hoped people would love me rather than fear me.

Sansa makes up some sort of ceremony out of the servants taking the tons of bags from the carts and carrying them inside to storage. She personally thanks every single one in the party, even if they’re dirty and lowborn, simply because she can’t be any more thankful.  Sansa orders for flour to me made as soon as possible, and put in smaller bags to give away in winter town. It was one of the thing Starks had done for centuries; help the people gathering in winter town, and she would not break the tradition.

it takes nearly an entire day to properly storage and order all the supplies that arrived. Ser Marq Piper, the son of lord Piper, is the one highborn member of the Riverlands party, and Sansa makes sure his room is prepared accordingly. The man is proud of having arrived here.

“The Lady Arya is very kind, but she was very stern in telling me to get this supplies here as soon as possible.” He says honestly, his big eyes big as saucers. “I am very glad i did not fail her.”

“You have seen my sister.” Sansa whispers, a smile forming unbidden in her lips.

“Yes, my lady.” He returns the smile. Sansa does not want to correct him, but he must sense something because he immediately corrects himself. “Princess.”

“I hope she is safe, away from battle and enjoying spending time with our cousin.” Sansa says, remembering her letter. “She wrote to me about attending a wedding.”

“The lady Arya, that is, Princess Arya is never away from battle.” He explains with clear admiration in his voice. “Of course she is not in the vanguard, nor does she has many occasion to blandish her sword but she is a smart commander, always listening to the experienced and the scouts and caring for all her soldiers.”

Sansa can only frown at that, wondering why would her sister bother in doing what other can do for her with - surely - much better results. Battlefields are not safe. Robb had been at war and Robb had been injured.

“And my brother, did you see him?” Sansa asks quietly, not wanting anyone else to hear.

“He’s going south. Spoke to my father and some other lords. I’m sorry to say this my la- princess, but…” He trails off and stand in discomfort.

“Not many believe him.” Sansa gathers from his silence.

“Do you?”

“Yes. Yes of course.” Sansa would not believe that Jon and ser Davos and so many wildlings could fall the victim of delusions. Whatever else, this threat beyond the North was true. “I’ll see you at the feast, ser Marq.”

The feats is not like the ones Winterfell offered in her youth, but it’s still more magnificent than what they’ve had in months. Sansa ordered the banner to be washed and the grey and white practically shines, she also had the silver polished and the best wine barrels opened. Sansa sits at the central seat in the high table, and raises a toast to Winterfell, which everyone's echoes loudly.

“My lords and ladies!” She tells them once they silence themselves. “This grain and gracious help from the Riverlands will set us on a  path of prosperity and solidarity that Winterfell will share with all of you! Thanks to you, ser Marq, and all your companions.” The hall follows her example, and all raise their cup to honor their savoirs. Ser Marq graciously bows his head. “Let us begin!”

Laughter and good spirits fill the hall and Sansa enjoys a good slice of boar meat and sweet wine. The high table is a combination of those who have been more than doubtful of her and Jon’s abilities as rulers and those who have vowed to be loyal to the end. She makes sure to sit Petyr as far away from her as possible and even then she could sense his eyes staring.

Brienne notices too, and approaches her chair. “You want me to send him away?” she whispers in her ear.

“That won’t be necessary.” I can handle him looking at me, it is nothing new.

“Now, the glass will arrive within a few weeks, and the Princess has already encouraged many of us to build more glasshouse in our keeps.” Lord Manderly is explaining to ser Marq how they plan to brace the winter.

“The lady Arya has also built many glasshouses, and not just in keep, but in towns and villages.”

“How could this be afforded?” the lady Lyanna asks interested. Sansa remembers that Bear Island is not a very rich island, and the poor little girl must be overwhelmed by that constant obstacle.

“Oh the lady Arya is very smart. First she finally got rid of all the bandits left in the Riverlands, former soldiers other outlaws, and then put a lot of effort into making our ports better to compete with King’s Landing. Thanks to her, we’re better than even before the war.”

So much praise to her little sister shocks her. It is not something she was ever used to hear, and to Sansa the idea of Arya as  ruler played the picture of a wild beast confused at what to do.

“And this war against the Lannister woman?”

“She is a very cunning warrior.” Ser Marq says. “I will admit I thought it foolish for a woman to go into battle. But she’s cautious and I hear she listens to all the opinions to form her plans. What that Lannister woman did, she offended us, humiliated many families by sending them the rotten heads of their families.”

“That is why we must give thanks that we do not call her our queen.” Glovers says, earning many an ‘aye’ across the table. Sansa can only smile at the idea of Cersei being so publicly hated by everyone.

“Neither do we.” Ser Marq says. “The lady Arya is all we need.”

Sansa is left stunned by this. Although he does not seem particularly devoted to her sister in any way, Sansa feels like this is nowhere near as how men speak of herself. They constantly doubt me.  She knows she must prove herself worthy and she will, but it nevertheless feels odd to be the one being disapproved while Arya gets so much praise.

“The princess Arya, you mean,” lady Lyanna corrects him, making ser Marq nod in apology, “I heard the singers call her Queen of Wolves.”

“It is difficult not to formulate those words when you see her riding ahead of a pack of wolves.” ser Marq says, making everyone turn to him in silence. “Oh yes, that much is true.”

“To Princess Arya then, for her gracious help.” Lord Glover raises his glass.

“To princess Arya!” They all say, and Sansa catches Petyr looking at her with a smile, before he opens his mouth and raise his glass. If the words come out, she cannot hear them, but she can read his lips as if it was herself speaking. Queen of Wolves, they say.

When Sansa wakes up the next day, she stays in bed for a long time. She can’t really help herself from comparing her situation to her sister’s. It takes her all night to realise she feels a certain jealousy, not of the kind where she wants Arya to lose what she has but because she wonders…. Why can’t she have that?

Why do they continue to doubt me and refuse to trusts me?

Not for the first time, Sansa wonders if she should cut ties with the South. Tell Littlefinger to go away and not contact lord Royce or any of the knights of the Vale. But she needs so much help, and they seem to be the only ones willing to help and respect her. I am not some little girl, I can do as I deem necessary to rule the North and the lords will just have to understand that.

A knock on the door makes her sit up. It seems early for the maid to wake her after a feast, but she orders her in anyways. Instead of her usual maid, it is Brienne who enters.

“Princess,” she says, her ever so imposing figure not matching her gentle smile. “I’m sorry to wake you.”

“Nevermind, I was awake.” Sansa lays back on her headboard and notices Brienne’s eyes are showing worry. “What is it?”

“ A raven came from the Wall, and the maester came running, saying you needed to read this urgently.” Brienne explains as she hands him the folded paper of the letter. Sansa practically snatches it out of her grip.

Dear Sansa,

I am at Castle Black, along with my companion lady Meera Reed.  I’ve been beyond the wall and I have much that I need to tell you and Jon. I am so glad you two are together and safe back at Winterfell. I need help to get back home faster, as it would take me and Meera too long if it was just the two of us.

Winter is here, and there is no time to lose. I long to see you and go back home.

Bran.

“Bran,” Sansa’s voice sounds so broken to her own ears. She chokes back tears as Brienne asks her what has happened. “My brother is coming home.”

Chapter Text

It is raining heavily that night, and Arya shivers as a drop runs down her back. The siege has lasted five days already, and Arya no longer bothers riding a horse with a saddle and having someone holding her banner besides her. She simply mounts Nymeria and stands on the hill overlooking camp and, passing the tents, the men using their limited siege weapons to try and break the walls. Of course, they tried stealthily climbing and failed, as well as ramming against their gates again and again.

“You should rest, my lady.” Lord Tytos says from beside her, covered in a cloak lined with such an amount of bear skin that it looks like the garments the wildlings used in Maester Luwin’s illustrated books.

“As long as the men are up, so am I.” Is all she answers, seeing him shake his head slightly out of the corner of her eye. So what if they call me stubborn? Jon always said I was, so I won’t stop being stubborn now. “I know some of them tell me we’re making progress but.. are we really?”

“We’re not surrendering… casualties are less than barely around twenty a day.”

“They’re still casualties.” Arya says, she has seen each and everyone of their faces. “How long do we do this until a few dozens become hundred?”

“Sieges are long, my lady. They waste resources and men get tired of sitting and waiting-” Lord Jonos, silent until then, seems ready to begin a speech before being interrupted by Blackwood.

“It will be worse if we give up!” Arya does not feel like witnessing another fight between these two. Brackens opens his mouth to fire back, but Nymeria opportunistically lets out a deep growl. Both men shut up, until lord Blackwood says he’s retiring for the night.

The night is cold, and Arya nearly feels pity for the men up in the towers of Ashemark who must be standing guard while they watch their troops trying to destroy hard stone walls. She lets out a barking laugh when she realises she’s feeling pity for the enemy. Lord Jonos looks at her funnily but, how can Arya explain? She’s sure if she was the lord or lady of Ashemark she’d do anything to keep any army from taking her home. Nevermind liege lords and wars, she’d be just as stubborn and defiant.

“I don’t even want this- this castle.” Arya says softly. She does not want to look at lord Jonos. He is, in so many ways, a much better military leader than Blackwood. He is every bit as pragmatic and negotiating as - in her opinion - a military commander should be. Lord Tytos Blackwood was excellent  when you wanted to convince all the lords in your table to think your decisions were  the best, but here, in the battlefield, he gave Arya little reassurance.

“You want Cersei.” It’s all he says.

“I want to know she will not come for Edmyn, I want to make sure, she will have no power to do so.” Arya explains, hearing some of the men singing in the camp, laughing and drinking. In the end they know at least the can starve Ashemark enough to make them surrender, no one feels like they’re on the losing side. “I don’t care if she lives or dies.”

It’s the truth. The more time she spends in the westerlands, the less she wants to be here. She wants to go home, she wants to be with Jon. He’s closer that he has ever been since I was a girl and yet he’s so far away.

“Don’t say that to those who received the head of someone they loved.” Is all lord Jonos says.

“I saw the head of my father roll down the steps of the Sept of Baelor.” Arya suddenly feels a knot in her throat. She doesn’t want to talk about that, so she dismounts Nymeria and turns to him. “Walk with me?”

“Sure, my lady.”

The men know her and are not surprised to see her, rather they receive her with pleasing smiles, even with Nymeria following behind. She approaches to talk, to check that they’re eating, that they’re not drinking more than they should. Arya likes to do so, makes her feel like her father when he brought a man to sit at the table. It also confirms to her that everyone misses their home and worry about abandoning their families to the winter as they go further and further down the westerlands. Lord Jonos sees the worry in her eyes.

“Men are used to war, my lady.” He reassures her.

“Because of my brother,” Arya has heard more than one person compare her to ‘the Young Wolf’, “and now because of me they will continue to get used to it.”

“My lady-”

“Do you think Cersei even cares? Do you think she feels threatened by this… that it will make her stop demanding our heads?” Arya does not miss the way lord Jonos shifts uncomfortably.

“My lady, the Mad King never needed excuses to demand the heads of your father and his allies.” She hears the words behind the words.

“You mean this campaign is pointless?”

“I mean your brother took Oxcross and nearly all the northern lands of the Lannisters. Tywin Lannister got them back in one night with the Red Wedding. I doubt the Mad Queen Cersei cares one bit for these lands.”

“Tywin Lannister had allies.” Arya stops to look ahead, at the men trying to break into Ashemark. It seems to be taking them forever.

“So do we.” Arya knows what he means and opens her mouth to correct him. I will not involve Jon in this, he has enough problems as it is. Lord Bracken speaks before she can talk however. “I do not mean your half brother.”

“My brother.” Arya corrects him, irritated that she has to continue to do this. “Who do you speak of?”

“The Tyrells.” He says slowly, watching her reaction. “If your honor allows you to ally yourself with the people who once supported House Lannister.”

“My honor…” Arya draws the last word in contemplation. Once a man had accused her of having no honor. No man had ever hurt her more. I trusted him, and he beat me and send an assassin after me. “You think the other lords will approve?”

“You already gave the hand of our liege lord to lord Mooton’s Tarly granddaughter, it won’t exactly be a shocking surprise.” He seems to think it through for a moment. “Blackwood won’t like it. He will bring up the past alliance to the Lannisters and rage about it.”

“You both support me in different ways.” Arya had realised that different people serve different purposes. She wishes she had known back when Jon was with her in Riverrun; it would’ve helped her cause. Arya had not known then who among the bannerman was the most influential, and if only she had known, she’d told Jon to focus only on lord Tytos and eventually the rest would come around.  Nevermind, I’ll fix it now.

“I can see in you face you have a plan, my lady.” Lord Jonos seems almost excited at the idea of her having any sort of plan and who could blame him, sieges are dull.

“I was thinking-”

Arya is interrupted by a loud roar coming from the gates. The camp behind her suddenly goes silent and she can tell something is wrong because lord Jonos is frowning and gripping the pommel of his sword. He steps in front of her as Arya herself prepares to unsheathe her sword. After what seems like a lifetime, Arya can finally make out one of the words the men are shouting.

“Breach! We have a breach!”

“Fuck.” Arya whispers, not minding what would lord Bracken think of her profanity. But like her, he seems concerned with other matters.

“We were not prepared, we must hurry if we don’t want them to swallow the few men we had in the front.” He turns to her. “My lady, you need to to run back to gather everyone. I will gather the nearby men-”

“Are you crazy, I have Nymeria. I can run around these few tents and lead them much more quickly. You get yourself a horse and gather everyone else!”

Arya mounts Nymeria swiftly and takes out her sword, screaming to the men around to follow her  as the noise drowns lord Jonos protests. The she-wolf is fast, but it takes a moment for all the men to get ready and get in formation. Unsurprisingly, the she wolf starts howling to call her pack. When Arya sees that around fifty men have gathered, she leads them into charge inside the castle.

Its is not easy. The breach is frankly, not wide enough for enough of them to enter in full force. They jump the  rubble and destroyed stone in groups of five only to find themselves in the middle of a confusing melee. Arya is fast at avoiding hits and skilled enough with a sword to disarm and stab, yet there enough pushing and hitting to throw her off balance enough times. She is not stupid and she know she stands to chance if someone hits her hard enough to slow her down, so she gathers three men to surround her. Arya can dance and confuse enemies while they provide cover, and attack them while she distracts them with the water dancing.

Sooner rather than later, all enemies are killed, yet they find themselves in front of another gate. It is obvious  that it is nowhere near as firm as the one they destroyed, yet it still frustrates Arya. She knows whomever is inside will hold that gate to their last breath.

“Break it down!” Arya barks at her men. “Tonight we will take this castle!”

Her men roar and hastily work to bring in something to ram the gate open. Arya sees lord Jonos ordering for the destroyed gate to be cleared so more soldiers and weapons can come through. Everything around Arya seems to be happening too fast or too slow, from the wounded men being carried away to the siege weapons being brought in.

Every blow of the battering ram was followed by the eery silence of expectation. Arya mounts Nymeria and practically jumps with every crack of the gate. Around her, men carrying spears prepare themselves to be the first to enter, passing by her and swearing to take this castle for her.

I did not even want it.

That is the last thing she thinks before the tension is broken by the sound of the splintering gate breaking under the pressure of the battering ram.

“Men of the river, soldiers of Riverrun, FIGHT WITH ME!” Arya screams as the gates open enough for a mess of spears to clash and press against each other. For a moment it seems even, but Arya’s men are invigorated by her words and the men of Ashemark are tired and underfed. Once their wall of spears is finally broken, they all storm inside.

Nymeria leaps inside and Arya dismounts her swiftly. Her wolf is loyal and protective, but Arya needs her leading the pack inside, not putting herself in danger to take care of Arya. Nymeria leaves to  do her part, and soon enough Arya is fighting two men. One is a man with the face of a scared boy and the other a much more skilled. Arya kicks the weaker one in the knee, sees him bend over and, hearing the other coming to attack her, jumps aside to evade him. The sword that had once been directed at her back hits the bent over man in the head, and Arya takes the opportunity to thrust her sword in the underarm of her strong attacker.

The men who surrounded her earlier had made his way to her, and together they slay down two more enemies. As more and more of their men enter the keep, Arya’s body begins to work on her own. It is a concentration she did not knew she had, a capacity her mind has to focus. She feels the pain in her joints from every clash of her sword against another, she can only hear the sound of battle in some form of muffled undefined nose. Unless it’s her next opponent, Arya cannot focus her attention. It is a mistake.

“My lady!” Tom Butterwell, a minor lord and leader among the men, screams at her, pulling her out of her daze. “You must think of what to do next!”

It had been easy to think orders and plans of attack while commanding from the back of the army, here in the thick of battle it is much harder. Arya takes a deep breath, and tries to think while fighting the last men left.

“Secure this room!” Arya orders. “Send a messenger to lord Bracken, tell him to make sure the men divide themselves equally between this breach and the other.”

“My lady, you’re putting yourself at risk here, please leave!”

Arya ducks the swing of a man’s sword. His steel is longer, a bastard sword, and she must move very quickly out of his way. He is fast in his blows and for a good amount of time they just remain like that, him swinging his pretty steel and Arya avoiding it with speed. It takes long to find a weak in his form of attack, but Arya sees that he raises his sword a bit too much to swing, surely hoping the momentum will give the blow more force.

When he raises his sword again, Arya throws herself to his feet, where she manages grab his ankle and cut through. He had been very well armored, but strangely enough he wore only leather shoes. Something told her he had dressed and armed himself in a hurry. The man bends over and screams in pain, but Arya is still in danger down on the floor so she takes out her sword - splashing herself with his blood - and quickly stands up. She kicks his right leg with her knee, making him lose balance. He goes down to his knees but out of the corner of her eye she sees him grip his sword tighter. He’s pretending to be weaker than he is.

Arya grabs her sword with both hands and much like he did before she brings it up, then back down with all force on his helm. The man makes no sound, but she just rang his head like a bell and she knows he’s disoriented enough for her to grab his collar and look for the space between the plates. Arya’s sword pierces through his armor, and she closes her eyes as she hears his gasp of surprise and finally, his body going limp.

Arya lets him on the floor as she turns around. No more men are attacking her, there’s only a few Ashemark men still fighting that go down easily. Tom Butterwell is nowhere in sight, and all men are looking at her. “Right,so.”

“My lady, shall we continue trying to breach the castle here or support the ones on the main gate?”

The truth is that she doubts they would be much help on the main gate. Since they had managed to get inside the castle, they’d be much more help from within. “Let us join the others, from the inside. Make our way to them.” The others don’t seem to believe it a good idea, and they stand there looking at her wearily. Men, they’re only as bold as long as they’re a large enough group. “We will move with stealth, not advancing until we have secured room after room and never separating.”

It works.

There had been little opposition as they moved along the castle. Besides one or two random soldiers, they had managed to gather together easily. Yet there are no men, women or children begging mercy. Arya’s own body seems to have gotten used to the quietness, her body heat leaving her and her muscles and joints beginning to ache.

“There’s something wrong.” Lord Jonos says, examining what was surely the lord’s chair of Ashemark.

“I agree.” says Lord Tytos Blackwood, agreeing for the first time in his life with a Braken.

“Maybe we should-” Arya’s idea is lost among a battle cry as doors open and whatever remaining men Ashemark has strom in. It is a mess of shields pushing shields, and Arya finds herself being pushed from behind by her own men and  on the front by whoever is holding the shield wall against Ashemark soldiers. Right in front of her on the other side, a man is yelling at the soldiers, encouraging them to keep their home safe. It’s a never ending push and pull, and she hears the men telling her to go, that she doesn’t belong here. Fuck that. “Lower your shield!” She orders to the men next to her.

“What?”

“Stand in front of me and lower the shield!” Arya knows this is gonna be dangerous. Stupid even, but it will inspire her men. She takes a deep breath, ignoring the smell of sweat and blood as well as the pain in her joints. When the shield is down, Arya steps back as much as she can with all the men pushing around, runs fast, steps on the shield, then the man’s shoulder and jumps.

Her moment on the air seems to be slower than all this bloody battle, and she sees the enemy's commander looking up, standing there in shock as Arya goes down and lands on him. Her swords goes through his neck with surprising ease, and Arya feels his blood stain her as she pulls the sword out and stands. Her men are imitating her efforts, some with success while other are pushing twice as hard to break the shield wall. Arya fights one, two even three men at the time until a few of her own are around helping.

The whole thing is even a bigger mess once more of her men pass the shield wall. The sounds of sword clashing and men dying is starting to make her dizzy, and Arya wonders how long will it be before the people of Ashemark give up and surrender the castle. They gain the upper hand after battling them long enough, and soon enough whatever men remain escape and get lost among the castle’s rooms.

“Oh Seven Hells.” Arya mutters, tired and impatient. “Why can’t they just give up the castle, what do they want us to do? Pass everyone through the sword?”

“You have to respect how much they are willing to fight to the death.” Lord Tytos says as lord Jonos rolls his eyes behind his back.

“Search every room! Take every one you catch alive prisoners and bring them back here!” Lord Jonos orders, the men dividing into different groups and going about their search. Then he turns to look at her and signals the chair, high among the turned tables and dead bodies of the main hall. “You can sit and rest, my lady.”

Arya does not like being pampered, but she can feel her joints ache and her legs trembling so she smiles in gratitude. “Let Nymeria come inside once the wolves are done.” Arya orders her lord Tytos and lord Jonos discuss whatever to do next. “And go fight by the doors so I don’t hear your bickering.”

They know she is teasing them as much as she is reproaching them, so they nod and do as she says. Arya sits in the high chair overlooking the massacre. It hurts to see so many of her men dead, not to mention the dreadful realisation that Ashemark gave a sword to any man, too young or too old, who could hold a sword. This is what happens in war, she tells herself, though it does not make her feel any better. Arya has lost most of her family , lost her home for some time as well and had to wander the countryside poor and hungry because of war. And now I am doing it to someone else.

She closes her eyes and sits back, tries to clear her mind and-

Suddenly, there is something metallic around her throat, and she can’t breath. I can’t breath.

Arya thrashes against the chair, but the only few left in the room are either focused on treating the wounded or by the door guarding the entrance. She tries to scream but nothing comes out of her mouth, and even trying makes it hurt enough that she feels like it’s breaking something in her throat. Her hands go up to her attacking, scratching skin with her nails and hitting the person to no avail as she feels her own limbs get weaker and weaker. Arya is feeling drowsy and no one is looking her way...

I’m going to die. I’m going to die and I didn’t even see Winterfell. I’m going to die and I barely spent any time with Jon.

I am Arya Stark. They will not kill me.

Arya gathers whatever strength she has and tries once again to scream. Whatever croak type of sound comes out of her mind calls the attention of one wounded soldier who yells at the others to do something. Arya can’t keep her eyes open anymore even as hope comes back when she sees lord Jonos and lord Bracken running to her, taking out their swords.

Stick them with the pointy end.

Arya opens her eyes with one painful air intake. She’s gasping for air and letting it fill her lungs hurts so much that tears immediately come out of her eyes. She goes to open her mouth but the deep sound that comes out is little more than a guttural cry. It feels like speaking will kill her from pain. Above her, she sees the maester lord Tytos brought along as well as lord Tytos himself and lord Jonos.

“Don’t speak, my lady.” The maester says. His name is Gulian, she remembers now, and he comes from Harrenhal. “It will only hurt more.”

He is applying something to her neck, some lotion to help surely but his fingers are making it hurt more and Arya begins to thrash against it. She wants to push him away but her arms don’t work properly and all she manages is to have the others restrain her.

“Please, my lady! Your trachea must be bruised and swollen, this will help, I promise.” The maester continues to apply the lotion as gently as possible. “Does your head hurt?” Arya slowly moves her head ‘no’. “That’s good. Means no great damage to the brain.”

Arya wants the pain to stop, but it gets worse and worse with every breath she takes. It makes her cry and it makes her angry. She looks at lord Tytos and then at lord Jonos until eventually the first one catches her eyes. He seems to be in pain as well, from what, Arya cannot imagine.

“It was some soldier who pretended to be dead. He had a piece of chain and he put it to your neck.” Arya closes her eyes as more tears threaten to fall. She wills the tears to stop but she can’t help when she starts breathing heavily, sobbing and of course it hurts more and then she can’t breath again. “Calm down please, he’s dead now, you’re fine now!”

Someone holds her hand - probably lord Tytos himself -  and Arya imagines it’s Jon. Somehow, that it’s calming. “Nymeria.” The weak, rasping voice sounds nothing like her own. In fact Arya is surprised they even understand her when she can hardly pronounce.

“I’m sure the wolf it's on her way.” Lord Jonos soothes her, and Arya is sure too. I can feel her.

“Don’t talk, my lady.” The maester seems to be checking other bruises. He asks her to move her feet and her fingers. “Weak, but working.” He looks at her in the eyes, and Arya tries - and fails once again - to stop the tears. “I will give you milk of the poppy.”

It is useless to say no, a few drops in her  mouth - and even those hurt when they pass down her throat - and Arya is sleep.

When she wakes up again, she doesn’t need to reach for Nymeria, she knows the wolf is beside her. I dreamt of her.

No.

I dreamt I was her.

It makes her sound crazy, but she remembers arriving at the great hall, her own body being carried away to one of the rooms. She saw women and children being detained and smelt soldiers thirsty to avenge the damage to their queen of wolves. How could she be so sure that this was real, she doesn’t know. Jon said the wildlings called it skinchanging.

Arya keeps her eyes closed, fingers digging into Nymeria’s fur as the wolf licks her cheek. It still hurts to breath and to swallow her own saliva. She hears the door opening, recognizes the steps of Dally and opens her eyes. The room is large and elegant enough for Arya to realise she is in the lord’s chamber of Ashemark. She tries to sit up but even that hurts. That can’t be the choking… that is just the effects of the battle.

“My lady!” Dally rushes to her, setting a tray in the table and arranging cushions behind her. “Don’t speak, my lady, it will hurt.”

Arya lies back in the cushions and accepts a tray of some sort of soup. Dally suggests waiting for the soup to get colder before she eats it, so Arya sits back and winces at the movement. She motions for Dally to come closer. The maid bends and puts her ear near Arya’s mouth, who lets out a painful whisper.

“Bracken… Blackwood.”

“Now, my lady?” Dally asks surprised. Arya knows nodding will hurt, so she just blinks firmly, hoping she will understand the confirmation. “Yes… well then I will have someone call you and… help you look more… well, I’ll be right back.”

Help me look more what? Arya has always been ugly, and riding round in armor surely does not help. Her hand suddenly goes to her hair, thinking it must be a bird’s nest. She hasn’t cut it in a while and it’s long now, as long as back when she lived in Winterfell.

Dally comes back and brings her a deep plate with warm water.She washes her face and takes especial care not to touch her neck. Then she combs her hair softly and braids it nicely. At last, she gives her an apologetic look and extends a woolen shirt. Oh this is gonna hurt. Dally helps her the best and apologizes as Arya winces her way into the new clean shirt. Once Arya is done, she puts a woolen blanket around her shoulders and sets the braid on her side.

Arya can’t speak, so she grabs her hand and mouths a ‘thank you’. Dally smiles and bows and then goes to open a window, letting out the air of sickness and enclosement from the room. She sets the tray on Arya’s lap and then throws some more logs into the fireplace. The soup is nice, but it hurts to swallow and Arya wonders what even was the point of maester Gulian’s lotion.

When lord Jonos and lord Tytos enter, Arya notices their eyes immediately go to her neck. She doubts it can be uglier than any other injuries they had seen across all these years. She nods at them to grab a chair and they sit next to her. Nymeria moves her head to lay it on her legs and stares at both of them with her big yellow eyes.

“How are you, my lady?” lord Tytos asks, earning a roll of the eyes from lord Jonos. Arya just smiles and nods gently. “I guess you want a briefing on how the situation is.”

“You killed ser Addam Marbrand in battle,” lord Jonos starts, “so add that to the list of things bards can sing about you. He was son and heir to lord Damon, so I guess their second son must be quite thankful to you.”

Arya throws him a look to reproach his lack of tact, but then again, he has never been the kind to be sweet about things.

“We thought Lord Marbrand would offer some sort of monetary payment, but then we found out a rather… unsettling truth about this lands.Their mines are dry. Or drying.” Blackwood seems more concerned than happy about this so Arya sits quietly to let him explain further. “If we demand the lands we’ve conquered to become part of the Riverlands like your brother once intended, then we would only be adding poor regions.”

“The westerlands have long ago stopped bothering with large scale farming… or any other than mining and buying everything they can’t mine. Now they’re filled with abandoned towns of where the mines dried and people are going to be hungry very soon.” Lord Bracken’s face seems to reflect Arya’s own disappointment. Not only has this campaign been met with utter indifference on Cersei’s part, but it will help very little in terms of money. We all wanted revenge on Cersei, we went to war, we’ve achieved nothing.

While they inform her of raids from the Ironborn and how much of Robb’s once conquered castles they have reconquered. Arya can’t stop thinking about how useless it all feels. Perhaps it’s the fact that she really thought that it was it for her and that she had yet to see her home again. Maybe it was because she missed Jon more than ever before, because she needs her father and her mother advice and because she’d give everything to play in the snow with Robb, Bran and even Sansa.

Arya wonders about the threats Jon spoke of in the North. That is the real war. The war to end all wars. It is true that it’s much more important, but her campaign through the Riverlands and Westerlands had made it obvious for her than the smallfolk were nowhere near ready to face winter. More war would not help the people. It would not help the orphan kids, the widows, the poor farmers Arya passed through when she rode across the countryside. If I’m missing my family and my home, at least I should do something. Arya had been like them not long ago: hungry, cold, afraid. Hearing about her home being burned and her grandfather’s lands being ravaged.

Arya raises her hand to shush the two men in front of her. They sit in silence and Arya prepares herself for a lot of pain. She takes a deep breath and chooses her words to use as few as possible.

“We will not demand them any payment. I want to help them.” They both open their mouths to protest, but Arya raises her hand to shut them up again. “I want ideas, not opinions.”

“Forgive me my lady, but...They tried to choke you to death.”

“They were protecting their home.” Arya is in pain, and she knows that they won’t understand her point. They were men of war, soldiers. But Arya had been the orphan, hungry war prisoner. “And we will help them prepare for winter. To protect both our lands form the ironborn.”

“We have Golden Tooth, the Crag and now Ashemark. We control practically all of the northern Westerlands.” lord Jonos is scratching his forehead in what Arya can easily read as a sign of him losing his patience to her proposal.

“We can’t continue to ravage through the lands and conquer castles while the ones we have conquered wither and try to rebel our occupation, lord Jonos, unless you’re more informed about our resources and our numbers than I am.” Arya snaps, speaking with difficulty.

“Lord Edmure would want to help. The places we’ve conquered become ours, and he’d want to help his people.” Lord Tytos says, and for once, Arya is glad to have his idealism on her side. “Our lands have so many men whose towns and farms were burned, who are here in this army because fighting is the only thing they have left. We can sell them grain, timber, all the things they’re used to buying with their gold. We can tell the men there’s work to be done here, preparing for winter. All they know here is mining and now that is gone.”

Arya smiles and lord Jonos simply puts his elbow on his knee and lowers his head to touch his palm. But then, he looks up at her and his eyes pierce through her. “Remember that talk we were about to have before the battle began?”

“Yes.”

“I think we need to consider this now more than ever.” Lord Jonos says slowly, while lord Tytos looks between the two of them with a queer expression.

“Tonight.” Is all Arya answers. She’s tired, and she wants to go back to sleep again, even when she slept Gods know how many hours.

“There’s a feast tonight, to celebrate.” lord Tytos cuts in. Arya is surprised and doesn’t bother to hide it from her face. “Just among some of the lords who are here with the army, and of course, some of the soldiers will have their fun in camp.”

Arya can only think of the Twins, and her brother’s army massacred.

“Don’t worry, we’ve taken excessive security measures.” Bracken reassures her. “Besides since most of the Ashemark men at arms refused to surrender there is… not much of them left.”

“Lord Damon is prisoner in a chamber. He eats and gets water and a warm fireplace, as you would have it.” Blackwood says with a smile. “We have both made sure everything has been handled as you would, my lady. Him and his wife were allowed to bury their son, she and their youngest children are free and unharmed and we make sure they stay in a protected part of the castle.”

Arya is so stunned by this information that even if she was able to speak freely, she wouldn't have been capable of saying a word. When she was young, she had taken the kindness and goodness of people in the North for granted. It had taken all this years to realise that it had been her father’s influence, the peace he kept and how he treated everyone that inspired this behavior. She had seen Robb’s own soldiers commit atrocities, she had learned long ago what war does to the souls of everyone: men, women and children.

Arya worries for people, but she has never ever expected men to follow her example. She has been so concerned making sure no women or children or poor people were harmed that she has never imagined others would do it if she wasn’t around. For the first time in a long time Arya feels like a wolf of house Stark. It makes her smile, a true smile, from one ear to another.

And they both smile back at her, these old, bickering men, who at times tried to manipulate her in their favor and other times were shocked at her tactics. It makes Arya realise she could trust them to guide Edmyn when she was gone. That no matter the disagreements, they’d be there to help Roslin and Edmyn maintain the honor of House Tully.

“I will be there.” Arya croaks. Both lords look at each other before looking at her, more pointedly, at her neck. Arya rolls her eyes. “Just… go.”

It takes more of maester Gulian’s variety of potions against pain and some comfortable men’s clothing to get Arya up on her feet. Then Arya looks herself in the mirror and despite her general lack of vanity even she has to admit she has looked better. Nevermind, no one is gonna be looking at me because of my great beauty.

“My lady,” Dally is looking at her reflexion nervously from behind her and Arya wants to shake her head and tell her that she had always been ugly and never cared but the truth is the big ugly bruise in her neck is disturbingly ugly even to herself. “I can sew one of the fur collars of your cloak to a dress.”

My dress now? Arya simply throws her a curious look. Dally looks at her feet and then at her, her big, pretty brown eyes showing some embarrassment. “Tell me.”

“It’s just, you’ve just conquered this castle my lady. The men want their lady Arya looking regal and like a lady from a song.” Arya can only stare at her but Dally smiles. “I can’t hide the scar but… If we have the dress with fur neckline and use some powder. Your hair is longer now, I can brush it until it shines. You will look so beautiful.”

Arya doubts it, she had never ever been beautiful, but Dally seems so eager to actually do what a lady’s maid is supposed to do  that she can hardly deny her. It makes her feel strange, to be washed and perfumed and fitted in a dress. Dally, ever so thoughtful, does not even suggest a corset, and gives her a pair of pants to wear underneath her skirt. Arya sits as her hair is brushed and her face is powdered, Dally even pinches her cheeks to make her look less pale. When Arya enters the main hall - walking with difficulty - she is wearing a blue dress with fur lining her neck and a wolf pelt cloak, Nymeria calmly walking beside her. She walks with her head held high to the high chair, sitting and watching the hall filled with her men. They’re looking at her as if she was a stranger, and Arya wants none of that.

“Wine, my lady?”

“Ale.” She asks, watching her mug being filled as everyone else is hanging on her every move. Arya raises her mug and smiles, despite knows the next words will hurt her throat like the Seven Hells. “To us!”

“TO US!” The entire hall cheers back. All the men at the table greet Arya and ask for her wellbeing. The only one silent is a woman who doesn’t seem much older than Arya herself. She is tall, blonde and brown eyed. Whomever she is, she is the one looking regal, like this is her castle and she is its queen.

“I do not believe we know each other-” Arya starts, but the woman interrupts her before she can finish.

“I am Lelia Marbrand. You do not know me, but I know of you. You killed my brother, imprisoned my father and took my home. Thanks to you, my mother is in tears and my young brother is terrified.” Lelia’s harsh eyes are as accusatory as her voice, and Arya can only maintain a mask of nonchalance as the woman finishes her tirade. “I am here because I want you to know I do not fear you or your bloody wolf or any of these men.”

I like her.

Arya shares a look with lord Tytos, and she knows they’re thinking the same thing. This woman was here because she was brave yes, but also because she is smart enough to realize being here helps her family rather than locking herself with her self pity.

“Your family won’t be imprisoned forever, my lady. I can assure you.” Lord Tytos says, and poor Lelia sits back and drinks her wine with defiance in her eyes. Blackwood leans to whisper in Arya’s ear. “Much as it pains me to say, Bracken has lots of ideas of how to manage this lands while maintaining order with the army. Are you sure you want to help this people?”

Arya nods, and gives old Tytos the meekest smile she can muster. She knows it must be difficult for him to admit Bracken knows something, so she grabs his hand and squeezes it in gratitude. She mouths a ‘thank you’ and goes to reach for her rum.

“Oh no.” lord Tytos says, “maester said no ale or wine or rum for you.” He motions for a servant to serve her water. Is he serious right now?

He is. In fact, by the time Arya leaves Ashemark to Riverrun, she has been instructed not to ride, not to eat anything besides soup and not to drink anything besides water. Arya has to admit even if the maester allowed her to do the last two, she wouldn’t be able to. But being carried in a wheelhouse makes her feel like some feeble lady that she has never been.

The journey is long, and much as she hates to admit it, she misses lord Tytos and lord Jonos bickering. Only the first one is coming back with her, Bracken staying behind to lead the army and put order into the lands they’ve conquered. Apparently, once it had been Robb’s plan to demand those lands from the crown, but now, Arya would win them over. They had also discussed an alliance with house Tyrell, and Arya plans to speak to ser Marq Piper to send him as her personal messenger into the Reach.

Arya smiles when she sees Riverrun. I will see Jon… and Edmyn and Roslin again. Dally is in the wheelhouse with Arya and she can tell she’s absolutely elited to be back.  She knows Dally has a son, who is under the care of her sister, who works in the kitchens at Riverrun. Dally is not a widow, but she fell for a man back when the War of the Five Kings was going and ended up swollen with his child. It is a story Arya has heard repeatedly, yet she cannot understand it. Love, passion,  they were feelings she could not understand. She had seen men who she could describe as handsome like Marq Piper or the man who used the face of Jaqen H’ghar… even Jon she deemed handsome. Yet Arya could never understand the... sensations.

This is so stupid, I sound like Sansa.

Riverrun greets her like some sort of hero. There is at least forty people in the courtyard standing to receive her and in the steps above all are Roslin and Edmyn smiling, Utherydes and maester Vyman waiting dutifully behind them.

Arya gets off the wheelhouse without help but nearly loses when Edmyn runs to her and hugs her legs in an iron grip. It’s only been a few months, but he’s already bigger and looking so much like Rickon that it aches Arya’s heart.

“We heard you got hurt!” The poor boy cries out. “Are you going to die?!”

Arya wishes she could laugh loudly to cheer him up. Instead, she just shakes her head and pets his auburn locks. Roslin steps forward to chastise her son and give Arya a short but tight embrace.

“Let us get inside.” Roslin says with a smile. “The cooks have made boar for us to eat at supper.” Arya has spent her entire journey eating soup, and she doesn’t care she will have to eat her bites of boar after chewing it twenty times, she is ready for a proper meal. She practically runs inside the castle.

“My lady,” Utherydes - old man that he is - has trouble keeping up, so Arya slows down to listen, “I’ve received a raven from Maidenpool a week ago, your brother is on his way. I’ve prepared a chamber for him.”

Jon. Her hand immediately goes to her neck. He will be upset that I got hurt.

“Thank you Utherydes.”

“There’s something else. As you know, before he left ser Marq Piper left behind men commanded to protect the common folk from bandits. They overpowered a group of Lannister men who were escorting ser Robin Ryger and ser Desmond Grell to the Night’s Watch.” Utherydes pauses to frown at Dally running happily to the kitchens. “They arrived here, ready to retake their position as master-at-arms and commander of the guards if you wished so.”

Oh. Jon could need them in the Night’s Watch. Jon had said that they need more recruits and men to train them. Arya signals him closer to her, and when he leans in, she speaks in a low, hoarse, broken voice. “I will decide when Jon is here. Take good care of them.”

“Of course, my lady.” Answers Utherydes, in a tone of voice that indicates he’s clearly offended she even suggested he was given them less than good care. He leaves in a huff, leaving Arya with an apology in her lips.

“Leave him be, my lady.” Maester Vyman reassures her, eyes looking at her throat. “It will leave a scar, you know.”

Arya nods slowly, her eyes closing as she lets out a resigned shrug. I was never pretty anyway. Only Jon and her father ever called her pretty, and if she was ugly, men would not be fighting for her hand in marriage after she loses the position of Lady Protector of Edmyn. At least I will spend the rest of my days in Winterfell.

“Surely you can do something about it?” Roslin wonders.

“The bruising will go away, so will the mark in your eyes. You will be able to talk normal eventually.” He gives her a sorrowful look. “But you were strangled by a chain my lady, with the purpose of killing you. That leaves a mark.”

Arya is certain he is not just referring to her skin, but once again, Arya shrugs. At least this time, it was a stranger trying to defend his home. Death is part of life, no one is safe from it. So she just looks back at them both and nods towards the main hall. “Let’s eat.”

The days pass by in what seems a repetitive loop. Every day consists of speaking little and listening to maester Vyman, Roslin or Edmyn. Arya sneaks into Edmyn’s lessons to listen to the maester talk of history, administration and strategy. Then she eats and spends part of the afternoon with Roslin. Edmyn’s mother is very smart, as she spends her morning making friends with the ladies by sewing and weaving and her afternoons running things with Utherydes. In no time, Arya is sure she will have everyone convinced that she can be Lady Protector herself. And then I will go home.

Edmyn is adorable and always eager to learn to fight with a sword. Ser Desmond Grell is an excellent master-at-arms, and he gives the boy council and tips often whenever Edmyn and Arya spar for fun. Arya goes easy on the boy, happy to be able to use Needle every once in a while and teach what she knows from the Water Dance.

Lord Blackwood and Maester Vyman sit with Arya every night after supper to discuss the running of the Riverlands. With her forced silence preventing her for being the loudest of the room, Arya realises they’re both more than capable of giving Roslin the right council when Arya is absent. They know me, and they know these lands, and they just want to rule it wisely. In a way, it only reinforces Arya’s desire to make sure Cersei never gets her hands on the Riverlands. For the first time, Arya fully understands the value of their independence. With no war and no foreign army in the countryside, the Riverlands have flourished and worried only for themselves.

They won’t kneel after this. No to Cersei, or any other.

The realisation hits her as she is looking at the snow falling along the road, and the thought is almost frightening. Arya knows once there were seven kingdoms, yet the Targaryen dragons changed everything. And now, a new Targaryen queen rises in the east, with three dragons and eager for her family’s throne. What will they do, when she arrives to take back whats hers with fire and blood?

Jon figures becomes visible among with the snow, which is funny enough for Arya to smile. She runs to await in the yard, but before she arrives to the main gate he comes through the doors of the hall. He smiles at her, and strikes his chin to show he has remained clean shaved. Nymeria runs to Ghost, playing in the snow like pups.

“I’ve kept my promise, little sister.” Up close, she notices that despite the smile he looks exhausted and not at all happy. She wants to hug him, but he grabs her by the shoulder, one hand gently grabbing her chin and tilting Arya’s head to the side. She can’t see his face, but she hears the distress in his voice. “What is this? You said you’d take care-”

“Not here.” She whispers. Roslin is taking care of Jon’s northern companions and the knights of the Vale. Jon lets go of her but Arya is not ready to let go. She holds his hand as the men bow their heads and call her ‘princess’ and offer their blessings. Arya cannot answer to all of them without damaging her throat, so it is Roslin who takes over. As she leads them to their rooms, Arya leads Jon to hers.

The moment the door closes, Jon pulls her into a tight embrace. Arya lets out a sigh of relief, his arms around her warming something inside her that had remained hidden and lost since the last she saw him. She wishes, if the Gods were real and willing to grant her anything, that they could stay like this forever. Protecting each other, and never ever apart again.

Arya could’ve died in Ashemark, and she never ever would’ve seen Jon again. Or Winterfell, or Nymeria, or Bran or Sansa. She’d leave Edmyn and Roslin unprotected, she’d never travel again, feel the wind of the sea or ride her horse through the forest. Arya doesn’t know when she started crying, but she knows Jon is there to dry the tears with his hands. He is not telling her not to cry, Jon would never do that. He’s letting her get it all out, and holding her, protecting her. He waitsuntil her breakdown is over to finally make questions

“Arya, do you want to talk about it?” Jon’s voice is so gentle, Arya might cry again. He holds her face in his hands, and she realises she has grown, that he doesn’t seem as tall as before. His hand trembles as he removes her braid as he traces her bruised, swollen neck. “Someone tried to-” He closes his eyes in agony, and Arya can only hear her own ragged breath as he pulls her head closer and kisses her forehead.

“He used a chain… I never even saw his face.”

“Oh Arya.” Jon pulls away and passes a hand through his hair. He has dark bags under his eyes, and it is Arya who is overcome with concern now. She remembers their talk at the Twins. of his death, and she wonders if he is being hunted but that which is beyond their knowledge. “I thought you said you would be careful.”

He is reproaching her, and while a part of her admits her recklessness during the siege at Ashemark, Arya remembers every men who died protecting her in every battle. “I was.”

If Jon wants to say anything to that, he remains quiet. He takes off his cloak and goes to sit in her bed, looking at the window. Arya wonders if he finds the river as calming as she does. It will be frozen in a few months, the maester says. It will be hard to fish then, and they can only hope the people will learn ice fishing relatively fast else they will go through their winter reserves too soon.

“Every day, I think-” Jon’s voice seems almost apathetic, far off and very restrained. “I think we should just give up.” Arya goes to sit beside him, but he doesn’t look at her, so she just sits and makes him company. “Go across the Narrow Sea, to somewhere warm and far far away.”

“I wanted to go west as west goes,” she admits, making Jon let out a smile. “Then I came back.”

“I’ve warned everyone, Arya. Every lord in every castle. I wrote letters when I was lord commander, even to that Bolton leech!” Jon stands up, agitated, but Arya knows he is not angry at her. “And I see in their faces, they nod and act polite because I’m supposed to be respected but they don’t believe it!”

“I believe you.” Arya tries to sooth him. When he turns to look at her, she knows it didn’t exactly work. “And Sansa too.”

“I love you. I love you both, but that’s not enough.” Jon shakes his head, irritated. “No one else truly believes me Arya. Some of the Northerners maybe, and the few Knights of the Vale who actually talked with our kind back in the North but- I’ve been doing this for years!”

“I know.”

“I died and nothing has changed! Nothing!” Arya can only nod as he paces in front of her. Jon had always been burdened by so many things, and in their childhood, he had never bothered to ask for more than smile from her while she had run to him with every silly problem. “What is the point, I mean- I could be out there, looking for Bran.”

“Oh Jon, I understand but-”, Arya doesn’t really have any comforting words for that, it haunts her too.

“There’s nothing you can do about it, little sister.” Jon looks at her, shaking his head despondently.

“I’m sending ser Desmond Grell and ser Robin Ryger to the Wall.” Arya says, hoping to get a reaction out of him, but he is still deep in thought. “They’re loyal and don’t really deserve it. Maybe they don’t have to take the black but they can train your men and inspire others-”

“I wish… That was enough, but-” Jon is shaking his head, his hand dismissing her words.

“Desmond Grell and Robin Ryger are trained men, they’re- commanders, experienced!” Arya insists. “And- and I will make sure all our war prisoners are sent to the Wall…”

“Seven Hells Arya that is not enough!” he yells, not even looking at her but out the window. She sits in silence until he gives her an ashamed, apologetic look. Arya just nods, understanding. She has her frustrations too.

Jon stands up and starts pacing the room. Just by looking at him, Arya can tell he’s hiding some deep anger that he’s trying to contain for her. She could prompt him into letting it out, but she knows too well he won’t like to lash out at her again.

“The whole war on the Westerlands was fucking pointless.” Arya admits. She tries to sound as defeated as possible, which does not require much acting.

“What do you mean?” He goes back to sitting next to her.

“They’re not rich, their mines are either dry or about to do so. They’re being pillaged by the Ironborn constantly - and I mean constantly - and none of them have prepared themselves  for winter.” Arya has come back from the entire campaign feeling much more worried for the small folk than even she expected. Not to mention, frustrated and anxious. “And Cersei doesn’t care two shits about the lands I’ve taken so long as Lannisport is safe and why should she? They’re getting poor quickly and giving her no resources.”

“Seven hells.”

“Yeah.” Arya takes a deep breath and looks at the dark blue waters of the river under the blue cape of the twilight, trying to find the peace she once found there.

“I am not sure I can convince anyone.” Jon admits abruptly. “The thing is I don’t know anything about how to destroy the enemy, except that their weakness is Valyrian Steel and fire for the wights. But I would need tremendous amounts of fire. Which, apparently, Cersei had.”

“You, you wouldn’t-”

“Let us hope it doesn’t come to that.” He says, but Arya sees the truth in his eyes. And if he once asked Bolton for help, it means he is much more willing to do what's necessary then she could ever be able to.

“As for the white walkers… Seven Hells, I could barely defeat one, one Arya! And I’ve been trained my entire life to use a sword. I tell these lords that I need more men but the Night’s Watch has been asking for it for years. I tell them of these dead and even when they believe me, there is no way they can help me make more fire.” Jon is calmer now, but no less frustrated. “Don’t get me started on their faces when I try to explain the Night’s King to them! At least if I could tell them a sensible concrete plan to defeat them perhaps they would listen but-”

“We will get through this, Jon.” Arya stops him, holds his hand, but he only gives her a heartbreaking sad smile.

“When you think of the future, Arya, what do you see?” Jon speaks in barely a whisper, as if scared to know her answer.

“You and me,” she answers immediately. “Bran… and Sansa too. Together, in Winterfell. All of us back home.”

“It’s a nice picture…” He says, that sad smile freezing Arya to the bone. “… But I don’t see that. If I see a future… I see Winterfell in ruins, buried in a perpetual snow, all of us frozen corpses.”

“Jon-”

“I did my fight! I did my best to prevent it! And they killed me for it!” His voice is still a whisper, but harsh, hopeless. “And now I’m fighting this fight again, for you, Sansa, Bran- but no one listens Arya. No one wants to believe.”

“I believe you.” Arya swears, takes his face in her hands and makes him look at her. Their faces, so similar, are close enough that she can feel the air leaving his mouth. “Jon, I will always support you.”

“I know.” He tries to give her a better smile, a real one. It doesn’t really work.

“You said some of the knights of the Vale believe. Maybe… you should go there.” Arya doesn’t know if her voice is hoarse because she has spoken too much of because she is devastated at the idea of them separating again. It’s as if she’s half herself when he’s not around. Arya holds onto his shoulders, squeezing them. “There is hope for you.”

“Of course you would give me hope.” He says shaking his head, and his hand goes up to her hair. Arya thinks he is going to mess it up, but he caresses it tenderly. “You’ve grown, little sister.”

“We both have.” She says, letting go of him. He turns to look out the window and Arya snuggles next to him, his arm coming around her shoulders. “It’s part of life. Growing, dying.”

“Resurrecting too?” She feels him shaking beside her and she knows he’s trying to suppress a laugh. Arya doesn’t attempt to quiet her own, no matter if it makes her throat hurt.

The sit there, looking at the river and sharing stories until darkness falls.

Chapter Text

Princess Nymeria and her ten thousand ships sailed from the mother Rhoyne and conquered Dorne, Tyrion thinks to himself with a smile. She married a Martell who was besotted with her and destroyed all his enemies.

Daenerys is no Nymeria, but Tyrion figures that in the end they’d go down to history being compared as women who conquered and protected their people. Singers would sing of their Dragon Queen as they did of Aegon and his sisters, and they’d probably never sing of Tyrion. It was a bitter thought, but nevertheless a truthful one. Much as he longs for it, Tyrion knows his fame would never be that of the hero. The singers would never forget his time in Joffrey’s court. Fuck them, he thinks, I will not care about them anymore.

Volantis eastern side is visible now, the cusps of its ancient Valyrian buildings shining, black dragonstone showing them the ancient glory of the city. Tyrion remembers the bridge, the whorehouses, the smell of elephant dung and the tattooed slaves. She won’t like that.

Their Queen is not with them. Daenerys Targaryen would find easy the task of freeing Volantis. There is five slaves for each free man in Volantis, and long age had the priests of R’hllor been encouraging support for Daenerys. One flight on top her black dragon, and the whole city will start to unrest.

“We need to go,” Volantis’ humid weather does not seem to agree with Varys, his face is covered in the shine of sweat. “We have no business in battle.”

“You may not, but I-” Tyrion’s eyes go up to the sky, so see Viserion fly high above them, “I have things I must see.”

“Not sure these lot will let you stay in the ship.” Varys sneers, looking around at the surrounding ironborn with their crass jokes and suspicious eyes. “Not sure I wanna see how this men act on taking the city.”

“You can’t make deals with these type of people and expect them to act gallant.”

“I did not make deals with these people.” He stresses out, turns around, and goes to hid in his cabin. Tyrion chuckles as he watches him go. Ironborn ae cheaper than some sellswords army.

Daenerys Targaryen, mother of dragons, flies above the skies of Volantis three times, and Tyrion looks from below marveled at how the sun shines along the gold wing bones of Viserion. By the time the Ironborn disembark, the rebellion is already happening all around then. The men of Pyke were not the Unsullied, and Tyrion turned a blind eye to their pillaging and raiding. At least they get along with the Dothraki.

Tyrion has no interest in their barbaric ways, there are other things he wishes to see. He walks as fast as he cans along the famous bridge, ignoring the tattooed slaves turning against their masters, the Dothraki destroying the market and stealing the gold and the Ironborn waving their axes like madmen. When Tyrion approaches the eastern end of the Long Bridge, he sees a mob in the gates of the Black Walls demanding to enter.

“Mysha! Mysha!” Tyrion sees the ragged clothing, the hungry mouths and the tattooed faces and he knows this will be just another delay in their path. She should leave them behind. Yet the mother of dragons could not bring herself to leave the poor devils behind. Perhaps if Tyrion had ever truly been a slave for more than a couple of days, or if he had had less trust that his wits would eventually free him, he would understand their despair and excitement at seeing her.

If I were them, I’d scream ‘dragon’ instead of ‘mother’.

Daenerys Targaryen, Mother of Dragons, does not take the eastern part of the city. The freed slaves of Volantis do. But Tyrion knows Volantis is not all slaves, and that once those slaves are capturing their former masters and taking over their palaces, they will know nothing of ruling the city where the major trade is gone. They want freedom, but do they understand that they will have to earn coin from those with money? Tyrion’s opinion of the common folk had never been something that ever proved an obstacle, but he knows deep down he and Daenerys see things differently. I see a thousand problems, she sees a thousand of her children.

Hours later, in the House of the Triarch, Tyrion sits to drink the known sweet red wine of Volantis as Daenerys Targaryen looks out the window to the celebrating mass of people outside the gates. Grey Worm and the Unsullied had gone out to keep the city under control and stop any revenge murder of nobles from taking place. Tyrion has a feeling they won’t be too successful. In his way of seeing things, there was no trusting what the oppressed ignorant would do once they gained power, and he is becoming more and more worried of what Daenerys expects from Westeros. Slavery does not exist there, and she seems very confident that the common people willbside with the bloodline of a mad king who burned nobles and a prince that bleed out the Seven Kingdoms. And then there’s the dragons… wonders as they may be, I suspect that it will bring her fearful subjects rather than loving ones.

“Make no mistake, the elephants are no much better than the tigers, my Queen.” Varys soft spoken voice breaks Tyrion out of his musings, and he catches eyes with Missandei. She seems heedful of Varys words, and Tyrion figures she has met more Volantenes slave merchants that all of them united.

“What does Missandei say?” Tyrion asks out loud, making them turn to the young woman. She seems nervous, but Daenerys gives her one smile and encouragement and the words come out.

“Back in Astapor… the masters sometime spoke of tigers and elephants, your Grace.” She offers her knowledge in her few words, and Tyrion makes a point of smiling to encourage her. “They said that tigers were more likely to go to war and need Unsullied… but the elephants were smarter merchants, and if they kept Volantis thriving then they would always be need of slaves.” Missandei tells them calmly, sure of her own knowledge. Tyrion is sure of his intelligence, but he knows in matters of slavers and its trade, Missandei knows best.

“And the freed slaves here? do they have leaders?” Daenerys seems more than a little disappointed that there are no rich factions that support her cause in the city and Tyrion understands. If, like Slavers’ Bay before, the richness of the city depends on its slave trade, ending it immediately will provide a heavy blow to the city and its inhabitants.

“Yes my lady, but there’s no guarantee that slaves considered freed slaves leaders their own leaders.” Varys points out. He is looking at the goblet in Tyrion’s hand like it's tempting him.

“You’re my hand”, Daenerys turns to Tyrion, making him jolt and look at her curiously. “Help me.”

“Volantis is used to elections. Powerful men and women voted for the triarchs, you should respect that tradition.” Tyrion says, before taking a long sip of the wine to give himself more time to think. “Volantis is populous and must be many ideas of how to rule it better. Make a council of twenty, with all Volantenes of age being able to vote. You can oversee the election then leave to let them govern.” Tyrion suggests, then thinks to himself that she should leave this rotten continent behind as soon as possible.

“What if the elected can be easily bribed by those of Old blood? What if they decide they don’t want a Queen?” Daenerys asks him, apprehensive. Her first question reminds Tyrion she is smarter and more perceptive than what meets the eye, and the second reminds him she can also be too proud for her own good. But who am I to chastise anyone for that?

“Freedom means letting them make their own choices and mistakes.”

“As long as the common know Daenerys Targaryen, mother of dragons, supports them, they will not fear accusing those corrupt and incompetent.”  Tyrion wishes he was as sure as his words sound. “And they will love you more for letting them choose.”

“We will do that. But I will not stay just for the elections. I must see that what happened in Slaver’s Bay does not happen again. I must stay where I’m needed.” Daenerys tells them, and one quick look around and Tyrion knows even Missandei disagrees with her mistress.

“Wait too much and our allies may grow impatient.” Varys voice is soft like always, but Tyrion hears the underlying urgency. “Things are not going well in Westeros, your Grace. People need you.”

“You should set your eyes on Westeros, Your Grace.” Tyrion agrees, but he sees in Daenerys’ eyes that she won’t agree. She puts on a queenly mask of resolution before repeating herself.

“My allies will wait, as I am their Queen and I must be where I am needed. I can’t just abandon Volantis to its luck.” No one has the courage to contradict her, and Tyrion is never in the mood to fight a battle already lost. “And whatever happens I know the smallfolk will love me.”

So you think. Tyrion does not doubt they will sing pretty songs about her, but in the end the ignorant smallfolk end up repeating what the courts of their lords say. And the lord's will bow because of fear, not love. Varys gives him a begging look, desperately asking for more support to his suggestion. Tyrion is not here to play sides. He gave his council and he can only hope Daenerys follows it. I must admit the idea of spending more time in this humid hell does not sound tempting.

Volantis is populous, its people separated not only by a bridge and a stone wall, but years of bad blood. The city is rife with tension, suspicion and disagreement. The former slaves like Daenerys, but Tyrion sees the seeds of the disorder that freeing slaves from laboring with the people who fed and housed them can cause. Those who had been freed slaves for years were few, but they see this as their chance to take power, and every day Tyrion must sit next to Daenerys as she sits to listen them tell her how much better each of their ideas is. The nobles don’t like them one bit, and Tyrion can’t help but wonder how will it be when they reach Westeros.

The endless, humid nights of Volantis are only ever entertaining when Tyrion looks out the window to find Viserion flying nearby, ripples of gold shining in the moonlight. I would trade all the gold in Casterly Rock for a chance to sit on Viserion’s golden scales. In the end, that will be all the law that will matter. The endless schemes Cersei and their father made, all the things Tyrion was ever accused of, whatever ill feelings Tyrells and Martells and Starks may have, in the end it will all end with the dragons. No laws of men can stand dragons, no affairs of politics can fight fire and blood.

“Enjoying the refreshments of this city?”

Tyrion doesn’t know where Varys came from and won’t pretend to be surprised he sneaks into his room with such an ease. He just raises the goblet, a silent toast to his friend’s ability.

“Have your birds told you anything from the capital?” It’s a stupid question, because Varys always tells him if his birds told him something important and Tyrion knows that if he wants to keep information to himself he would.

“Cersei blew up the Sept of Baelor along with most of Visenya’s Hill, with Queen Margaery's and her family inside along with the High Septon and many others. She has declared herself Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.”

Tyrion barks out a laugh so loud he’s sure the entire city can hear him. He nearly doubles over and spills all the wine on his clothes. But just as tears are forming on his eyes he notices the serious expression in Varys face.

“Seven Hells.” A thought freezes his heart and aches his chest. “Is Jaime-”

“He’s alive, by your sister’s side.” Varys says calmly, but that answer does not leave Tyrion calm in any way.

“Tommen?” Tyrion turned to Varys only to find the Spider looking away, a truthful sorrowful expression on his face.

“Killed himself after his beloved queen died… No more Baratheons left, it allowed her to take the Iron Throne.” The air of finality in his voice confirms another fear of Tyrion: that this had been accepted. No one is contesting Cersei’s usurpation of power. Cowards, he thinks, cowards all of them. No one bothered to stop her and she burnt half the city and caused the death of her own son.

“Damn her, she couldn’t even control herself for the sake of the boy.” I want her dead. “That … that cunt!”

“She grew desperate as her trial to the Faith approached.” Varys explains in his unnerving sweet and calm tone. “Imagine her when Daenerys arrives to conquer the city.”

“Cersei is hungry for power, now that she has it, she won’t let it go, she’d rather burn the city to the ground.” And herself along with it. Jaime too, probably.

“We must avoid it at all cost.” Varys asserts as if it was an statement so easy to convert into a reality.

“I’d like to see you try to convince Daenerys not to take the city.”

“Eventually she’d take it of course… but if she arrives to Dragonstone, Cersei will hear of it, everyone will hear of it.” Varys’s silent suggestion is not something Tyrion wants to hear. I want her dead, I want her dead. Cersei is not going to get what she wants.

“You’re suggesting giving Cersei time to… prepare?!” Tyrion can’t hide the angry tone if his voice. He can’t believe what he is hearing. Everyone judged Tyrion and thought him a monster only because he was the dwarf son of Tywin Lannister. And Cersei, who always got what she wanted, rotten despicable thing that she is, she manages to get away with burning an institution of Westeros and the rightful Queen.

“I’m suggesting giving people time to escape.”

“The ones that called me demon monkey? The same ones who said everything was my fault?” Tyrion could pretend it amused him because a part of it had found it amusing, but in the end it always hurts something deep when he realises that people will always blame him.

“People always pay when we play the game, I am trying to reduce their suffering.”

“And you think the krakens care? Have you any idea what their men are doing out there in the city?” Varys eyes follow Tyrion’s finger as it points to the city.  “The people… you think I care?”

“That is what our dragon queen cares about, which is why I serve her.” Varys’s soft tone seems suddenly much harsher. To Tyrion it even seems like even the perfume that always accompanies him has vanished.  “I don’t know about those squids but what do you care about?”

I don’t know. It is the first thing that comes to his mind. He could say Jaime, but that is no answer. He loves Jaime, but he is no motivation of his. He can even lie, take a sip of his wine and spill some lie about only wanting to watch the dragons fly on the Westerosi sky as Viserion is doing right now. But none of that is true.

“I want them to admit they were wrong.” Tyrion said quietly.

“Who?”

“All of them. The nobles and the poor devils, our enemies and our allies. I want them to admit I am a great Hand. I want to come back and outsmart all those pompous bastards and I want Casterly Rock so my father can roll over in  his grave. I want Cersei death with the knowledge I was better, I want them all to know I am better.”

“Is that all?” Varys seems to squint his eyes for a second before he just turns to look at the city, not bothering to look him in the eye as he waits for his answer. Tyrion wonders if he sees something in him that even he does not see.

“Just about.” He says, looking up to the dragon flying freely above them.

Varys retires for the night, probably to prepare for yet another day of discussions and audiences. He stays a little longer, admiring the goldish white light that is being reflected by Viserion’s scales.

Tyrion must admit that, while he hates sitting in this endless councils thinking how to gently manage Volantis into a city with no slavery, the chance to see the immense labyrinth of palaces of black dragonstone or the beautiful temples built to the old gods of Valyria. On top of the view, the dragons flying above it all makes him wonder what the ancient city of the dragonlords must’ve been like before the Doom. It makes him wonder what more magic will he witness in his lifetime.

“Does it always smell like this?” Tyrion asks to Varys, tired of of the stench of an old whore, lounging back on his seat as they all take a break from endless audiences by different citizens.

“Yes.”

“Is it less hot when you are bald?” Tyrion asks Varys, making Daenerys turn to him flabbergasted and Missandei hide a smile behind her hand.

“No,” Varys answers while raising an eyebrow, “is the air any clearer down there?”

“Enough,” Daenerys orders with gentleness, before turning to Missandei. “Who is next?”

“A messenger from Braavos, your Grace.”

Daenerys sits straight on her seat and Tyrion looks on with interest as a man enters the room. He is dressed in a blue so dark it is almost black. From what he has read, Tyrion knows this means they are seeing an important man. He sends a look to Daenerys and tries to mouth ‘important’ to her. Her nod seems to imply she understands, but Tyrion knows sometimes she can get carried away.

“Tycho Nestoris, from Braavos.” Missandei announces as the men steps forward and takes one judging look at all of them before kneeling. “You kneel before Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Queen of Meereen, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Mhysa, Breaker of Chains, the Unburnt, Mother of Dragons.”

“Rise,” Daenerys bids him, “to what do I own the visit from an emissary of the Sealord of Braavos?”

“I am not an emissary of his lordship. I doubt you will receive any visits from him, sick as he is, your Grace.” Tycho Nestoris says with a serious face.

“I wish him health.” Daenerys smiles. “What is the reason for your visit?”

“I come on behalf of the Iron Bank of Braavos.”

Oh Seven Hells.

“We have no need for gold.” Says Daenerys. We have no need for gold yet, thinks Tyrion.

“The Iron Throne comes with debt, your Grace.” The emissary says, and while Daenerys keeps her smile, Tyrion sees the mirth is gone from her eyes. “And whomever sits upon it must repay them.”

“You must jest.” Daenerys tone leaves no room for questioning but it is clear Tycho Nestoris is not kidding at all. “Why should I be burdened with the debts of Lannisters and Baratheons?”

“We Braavosi do not jape with the blood of the dragon, Your Grace.” His words are laced with a chilling foreboding, and Tyrion sets his cup and leans forward to better examine the man’s eyes. He finds no trepidation and Tyrion realises this man is not intimidated at all by the Mother of Dragons.

That is such an extraordinary thing that Tyrion can not help the curiosity that takes over him. Everyone they met has always treated Daenerys with respect or devotion, unless they were downright hostile. But Tycho Nestoris is neither. And it makes Tyrion wonder how will Daenerys react to the lords of Westeros. They are all aware that they have allies and enemies, but in the end there is little guarantee these allies will remain that way or that they will truly consider her an authority. It is always interesting to observe what do people really think of their Dragon Queen when the creatures themselves are not involved.

“I will not answer for the bad management of the reign of the Usurper.” Daenerys says stenrly. To her credit, Tyrion can sense she’s on the verge of losing her temper but know better than to act on it. “You can’t force me to do so.”

“When you arrive to Westeros you will find war, and not just the type that is fought against rebellious lords. Winter has arrived and you will have to fight the starvation,the outlaws and the angered faith of the seven.” He has a point, Tyrion thinks. Tycho Nestoris face is a mask of apathy, as if this was little more than a boring process to get over with. “The bank will not continue to support the Iron Throne unless you agree to pay.”

“I do not need your support.”

“Braavos is a powerful city, you will arrive to Westeros and will need to make friends. When your new subjects need loans no bank in the powerful Braavos will-”

“Look what my dragons do to powerful cities.” Daenerys interrupts, annoyed. She waves the man away. “You may leave now.”

“We Braavosi play with death as much as your who play the game of thrones.” Tycho Nestoris no longer bothers hiding his discontent. “And we are not fond of dragons.”

“Is that a threat?” Daenerys hand grip themselves from where they sit in her lap, and Tyrion feels the air in the room change. Varys and him exchange a look of concern, and he can tell the Spider is not prepared for a confrontation between Daenerys and the city of Braavos.

“It is a reminder.”  The man says ominously. “The Iron Bank will have its due. Think of Braavos as just another forgotten Valyrian city and your reign may not be long.”

“Leave! I have endured more impertinence than any other queen would.” At his Queen’s words, Grey Worm steps forward, silently letting the man now he must leave now or he will be forced to do so.

“I wish you good fortune on the wars to come, your Grace.” Tycho Nestoris bows and steps back. “Valar Morghulis.”

“I am not a man.” Daenerys voice sounds more like a promise than a warning. As if stubbornly swearing herself to be above the fate of death.

“I know so, your Grace.” The Braavosi answers before leaving the room, ignoring Daenerys hateful look. “But that doesn’t make any difference to a Braavosi.”

With those last words, he turns to leave. No one dares say anything, despite knowing their Queen is not one to lash out. Tyrion knows a thing or two about not being respected, and he knows the last thing Dany needs right now is to be coddled. They sit in silence as Missandei recites the name of the person who is next. Whomever they are, their Queen receives them with the same kind smile she shows to all her subjects.

Tyrion waits until later, when it's just him and Daenerys quietly sipping wine. It is not something they do usually, but she is good company. It is strange, but he and Dany have more in common than what he initially believed. They have both loved and lost. They have both being humiliated and disrespected. They have both being underestimated. It makes Tyrion wonder if he will be such a good Hand if he becomes her friend. Will he be able to tell her harsh truths when the time comes? Will he be able to remember when she is his Queen and when she is his friend?

Looking back on their audience with the Braavosi, he wonders if she will  feel insulted if he reprimands her… yet he can’t help but literally bite his tongue from calling her stupid. It is never wise to anger someone to whom you’re indebted to, and even more if they’re the Iron Bank of Braavos.

“Your Grace.” Daenerys turns to give him a blank expression, knowing from his tone what is coming. “May I speak my mind?”

“When have you not-Tyrion,” she starts exasperated, “of course you can speak your mind.”

“Daenerys, Dany… you lived in Braavos, didn’t you?”

“As a child yes, I-” Something in Dany’s gaze shifts. Gone is the deadpanned expression, and her voice trembles slightly when she speaks again, “it was my home.”

“And yet… even with your education there and all your travels through Essos, did you ever learn anything about the Iron Bank of Braavos?”

“No.”

“And you wouldn’t even if you had asked.” He quickly points out. “And if perhaps your brother asked for a loan and was refused, it is likely he would not even bother telling you about them.”

“I know what they are.” Dany offers, shrugging her shoulders as if saying ‘I know the important bits’. “They’re a powerful bank from Braavos, they loan money to lords and kings everywhere.”

“They’re powerful because they get paid. They make sure of that.” Tyrion would know a thing or two about the use of power behind making sure debts are paid. “If this was any other, I would laugh at what happened in that audience.”

“But?”

“Because regardless of its flashy bravos and pretty courtesans, Braavos is a city shrouded in mystery. There’s very limited information the maesters have on the Iron Bank, everything about them is hidden by secrecy…. Dany, an enemy you don’t know is the most dangerous of enemies.”

His words seems to work, for her eyes glance to the window in silent introspection. Tyrion knows she can be stubborn and proud, but he also knows she listens. She is smart, he would know, and like anyone smart she knows she must listen to others.

“I didn’t think of him as an enemy,” she admits after a brief silence, “I thought he was- you don’t understand. Everyone turned their backs on Viserys and me, and everyone, every single person looked down on us. They laughed at his claim for the throne and they laughed at mine too. Not even Khal Drogo… not at first anyways. The only person in Qarth who pretended to support me ended up betraying me.” Daenerys looks down at her cup in well contained disappointment. “I try not to see enemies everywhere, I don’t want to be my father but-”

“You assume everyone underestimates you and will use you.” Tyrion knows it is not a comfortable feeling, or one that easily leaves you. He has been trying to prove himself to people who don’t deserve it his entire life. “I know a thing or two about being underestimated.”

“Explain to me why the Iron Bank is important to Westeros.” Dany sets her cups aside, and looks at him serious.“If I am to be its queen I need to know.”

“Many lords asks for loans when times are bad. When they lose money they lose power, other lords see to benefit from this, you have quarrels that turn into wars...orphans, farms destroyed, outlaws… and you to blame, for not seeing it all beforehand.”

“You think they will be less angry at me if I send someone with some payment?” She asks after some silence. She doesn’t look very happy about it, but she seems to be at peace with the idea. “As a… compromise.”

“It would help.” Tyrion certainly hopes it does.A bank receiving any amount back will be more glad than a bank receiving none. A smile forms itself on his lips. “You know… Robert also had great debts to my father…”

“Don’t even think about it.” She warns with a smile of her own.

After a few days of loving subject thanking Daenerys and endless grateful freed slaves requesting an audience only to praise her, Varys smartly approaches the subject of disembarking in Dragonstone. Tyrion remains mostly silent. Yara Greyjoy seems to long for a good fight, but Theon remains silent as well. He doesn’t know the reasons behind his new shyness, but to Tyrion at least the subject is done for. If Varys wants to care for the people, that is his business. Tyrion knows Dany will want to go to King’s Landing sooner rather than later and he also knows Cersei won’t leave her seat of glory.

Perhaps, it will give me time to reach Jaime. It had been crawling inside of him, the memory of his brother. It is an unspoken subject between him and Dany. Tyrion does not know the extent of her wrath towards Jaime and Tyrion did not know if the same brother who risked his life to save him is the same who is blindly staying by Cersei’s side despite so much atrocities. We’re all monsters, all three of us… but Cersei is the only unredeemable one.

Tyrion loves his brother. That much he knows. But a terrible part of him is willing to let him go if he stays by Cersei’s side. A part of him has always wondered how can Jaime love both of them yet stay with their sister.

His musings are interrupted by Varys striding inside the room. Daenerys, Yara and Missandei look up from the corner where they had been sitting and checking a map of the city, while a silent Theon approaches from the window.

“What is it?” Tyrion asks. He has gotten very good at reading Varys, or at least whatever Varys wills his face to show. In any case, it is obvious he has something important to say.

“Your Grace, Jon Snow has been declared King in the North.”

“Declared King?” Daenerys stands up so fast Tyrion wonders if she has damaged a leg muscle. She looks at him confused and Tyrion realises she has no idea of who the lad is.

“Ned Stark’s bastard son.” Tyrion whispers.

“Snow?” It is the first time Theon has even raised his voice since he has been with them and that is enough to stun them all into silence. “Impossible, he’s a sworn brother of the Night’s Watch.”

“Maybe the Northern lords didn’t care… they just wanted a king in any way…” Dany starts, but she’s quickly shut down by the Greyjoys.

“No. Not the Northerners. They take the Night’s Watch much more seriously than the rest of us.” Yara tells them, her eyes focused on Theon, who seems positively scared of the news.

“It makes no sense.” Theon’s voice comes out rushed. “How? He can only be king if he deserted, and all Northerners look at a Night’s Watch deserter as punishable by death.”

“Well they crowned him anyways.” Yara, ever so pragmatic, already seems to be debating whether or not she should use her axe against the new king. “Besides, who can understand men and whom they pick? Euron clearly killed our father and intends on killing us, and they pick him as king, when he has been away for years!” A silence follows her last words as Daenerys, Missandei, Varys and Tyrion himself look at her pointedly. Yara simply shakes her head, nonchalant, giving them a ‘you know what I meant’ look.

A strange feeling has settled in Tyrion’s stomach. He feels very light, as if he could walk on the clouds. For some reason, to hear of Jon Snow being crowned makes him happy. He tries to tell himself it's because they’re friends, but the truth is they only ever shared some moments together. The truth is different. The truth is Tyrion can’t help the pleasure that it gives him to hear that the bastard of Winterfell is now king. Once, I told him all dwarves are bastards in their father's’ eyes. Now look at them, King and Hand of the Queen.

I hope someone writes a song about it.

“So how did this came about?” Daenerys asks. So far, she seems more consternated at the news than angry.

“He was the Lord Commander. Some of his men mutinied and stabbed him to death.” Varys makes a grimace and balances between his two feet. “Apparently he was uh- resurrected in a ritual with the Lord of Fire.”

“That’s ridiculous.” Dany blurts out, making Tyrion smile and open his big mouth against his better judgement.

“You woke dragons from stone with a funeral pyre.”

She stays quiet after that one. For their part, the Greyjoy siblings again look like they’re having an entirely different silent conversation between them. Doesn’t their Drowned God bring people back from the death too?

Still, there’s a limit to the things Tyrion can believe and Jon Snow dying and being brought back by some slave religion sounds implausible. Varys seems to read his mind, yet he shrugs his shoulders.

“It provides a nice loophole, since their watch is supposed to end only with their deaths.”

“How convenient.” Daenerys furrows her brow. “Should I demand that he faces justice for being a deserter?”

“The lords of the North declared him king, and trust me, they’re the only one who care about the Night’s Watch.”

“Great.” Daenerys takes a sip of wine, and Tyrion sees the frustration in her eyes. The feeling of helplessness that is making her eager to leave the city, that hidden determination to take back what belongs to her.

Tyrion wonders what she will be like when she finally sits on the damn chair and gets rid of her enemies. How long does it go on? Until we’ve dealt with all our enemies, Cersei had said. Well, Dany seems more eager for allies than enemies, but that doesn’t mean she will get them.

“So… Winterfell belongs to the Starks again.” Tyrion says, although no one seems too bothered by this fact. Only Theon flashes a brief smile, but it makes Yara frown at him and the smile drops.

He guesses that in a way Winterfell is more his home than Pyke, and yet he was just a glorified captive. People learn to love their chains. Tyrion guesses that after the Winterfell of the Boltons the old memories must seem fond and jolly in comparison.

“How fares my lady wife?” Tyrion asks, suddenly remembering Sansa’s pretty blue eyes. The wife who abandoned him to be judged by a murder he did not commit. There’s no proof she did it either. It still stung.

“The lady of Winterfell brought the knights of the Vale to fight and aid in Jon Snow’s battle to retake their home.” Then Varys gives Tyrion a long and cryptic look. “With a little help from Littlefinger.”

Tyrion barks out a short laugh. Of course he had something to do with this.

“Ah… so now we know where she has been since she escaped King’s Landing.” Tyrion drinks some more wine. “I'm sure Lady of Winterfell sounds better to her ears than Lady Lannister.”

“Or Bolton.” Theon seems like he wants to ask more yet refrains himself for some reason.

“So Littlefinger and the Vale are supporting this King in the North?” Dany asks Varys, hands in fists. She is not happy about this.

“Well is not sure if they consider him King, but they certainly are allies.”

“And correct me if I’m wrong, but if the Starks and the Arryns are allies, wouldn’t the Baratheons follow?” Tyrion asks.

“You said there are no more Baratheons, which is why your sister took the crown.” Dany furrows her brow.

“King Robert left bastards. I know of some. It is very possible Stannis knew some too, and his old advisor is now Jon Snow’s”.

“Joffrey dealt with those children” Tyrions says sadly, and both Missandei and Daenerys’ faces contorts in horror. “But we have no way of knowing how throurough the purge was.”

“This King in the North… we must figure out a way to deal with him. Send a messenger to the North as soon as we arrive.”

“He is not in the North, your Grace.” Varys tells her calmly. “He is in the South seeking allies to fight a threat from beyond the Wall.”

“Threat from beyond the Wall?” Dany gives him a chilling look. “Am I supposed to believe that?”

“I have seen enough fantastic things to learn to keep an open mind.” Tyrion offers, although he does not really believe it. He can’t imagine how much of a threat the wildlings can be that Jon Snow needs more forces than what the Northern lords can offer. “I think it may be time we leave Volantis.”

“This changes everything,” Dany says gravely, “we must arrive soon and stop Jon Snow.”

“What about Cersei?” Tyrion will not let her sister get too comfortable in the Iron Throne.

“This Jon Snow changed everything. From what I hear Cersei is all alone, with only the support of her own lands. I have allies but if I let this Northern issue go I will stand against the other half of the kingdom.”

Your dragons change the game.” Tyrion retorts. “What may seem like an uprising now may change when you arrive. The Starks knelt to dragons once.”

“And they never had interest in expanding to the South before-” Theon gulps loudly, as if choked.

“Before what?” Yara asks.

“Before Robb.” Theon finishes in whisper.

“Well what if this Jon Snow plans to continue that idea?” Yara asks, looking at Theon. “How long  until he plans to take the Iron Islands as revenge?”

“Listen, we would still have the Riverlands to separate us.” Tyrion points out. “Make sure you have a proper strong Kingdom in the South. Think of the allies Varys gathered, you think they will patiently wait as you delay dealing the one enemy we have in common?”

Daenerys grimaces, giving Tyrion the satisfaction of knowing she thinks he’s right. But whatever progress he made is torn apart by Varys’ next words.

“The riverlands are no longer a neutralized land of no concern,” Varys tells them, “they are as involved in this as the other regions.”

“The riverlands?” Daenerys frowns, perhaps wondering why should she worry about a war torn country. Tyrion certainly doesn’t, drinking lazily as she says exactly what is on his mind. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but aren’t they poor and lacking in natural barriers? That is, wouldn’t they prefer the protection and help of the crown when I take the Iron Throne?”

“They’ve prospered under Arya Stark’s rule.” Varys says. That gets Tyrion to stop drinking. “She has even conquered half the Westerlands, after one too many slights from Cersei.”

“That girl has been missing since they arrested her father.” Tyrion is more than shocked. I bet Cersei regrets not worrying more about finding the girl. “You mean Arya Stark just showed up and took the riverlands back? And then some more?”

“Lady Arya Stark.” Theon Greyjoy corrects. It seems like a reflex that catches him off guard, and he looks down when all of them turn to look at him.

“Well, Princess Arya technically” Varys corrects. The sister of the King in the North. No one in King’s Landing had ever treated Sansa as princess, and so Tyrion had forgotten how things worked. “Though the people prefer to call her the Queen of Wolves.”

“Is that so?” Danerys voice seems made of ice.

“She prefers to simply go by ‘lady’”. Varys says.

It is an interesting thing to point out. It even seems so to Dany. She is trying to see all angles to the situation.

“Maybe she is not as ambitious as others. She may kneel, see the benefit of being loyal to the rightful ruler.” Tyrion offers, though he wishes he had the certainty. He knows nothing of this Stark girl except for the fact that her direwolf attacked Joffrey. She should’ve finished the job, would’ve saved her a lot of grief.

“Mayhaps, she will.” Daenerys ponders. “If she’s only a young girl…”

“Your Grace, you know better than anyone than young girls are capable of much more than what given credit.” Varys, although speaking softly, is clearly warning them. “She is the cousin of the current lord of the Vale, and both of them are of marriage age I may add, besides being the half sister of Jon Snow.”

“I spent little time with the Starks but it seemed to me Jon Snow was an outcast.” Tyrion remembers. “And with Littlefinger nearby maybe both Sansa and Arya will eventually start their own agenda.”

“Not Arya,” Theon says. It is the first time they’ve heard him speak with certainty and conviction. He is shaking his head fervently. “She will remain loyal to Jon Snow. They love each other something deep… They would-”

“They what?” Missandei asks softly.

“They would stick together no matter what.” He finishes. He knows them more than us. They will have to believe him. Daenerys huffs, as frustrated as Tyrion feels. It is clear now that this means his argument of leaving the Jon Snow issue for after they’ve taken King’s Landing is losing weight.

“You’re telling me there is a possibility Jon Snow has the allegiance of the North, the Riverlands and the Vale. Not to mention probably planning something with the Stormlands?” Dany sums it up. Along her evident anger at the situation there’s clear disappointment.

What a bitterness, to discover she will not have an easy path. She had wanted to break the wheel, but reality is much different. There’s little hope the common people of Westeros will love her if she arrives to wage war on all  their lands.

“Just because it is a possibility it doesn’t mean it will become true.” Tyrion says, but Yara Greyjoy scoffs at that. Missandei doesn’t seem convinced either. “Like I said, North knelt to dragons before and the Vale accepted them peacefully, Visenya gave the young lord a ride in her dragon and he knelt.”

“I will prefer a diplomatic solution above anything else, if that’s what worries you.” Daenerys says, and Tyrion hears the words behind the words. I am not my father. “And this Arya Stark, she is only a new player in this after all, she may choose to be cautious.”

“You’d be wise not to underestimate Arya Stark. This one  girl has proven she is a skilled and calculating leader. She is not feared, she is not admired; she is loved. And love inspires long lasting loyalty. Combine that with willpower enough to move mountains, and she is-”

“Dangerous” Daenerys finished, brows furrowed. She looks angry, tense and irritated. Tyrion is concerned. Suddenly, he uncomfortably remembers the three living dragons flying outside, remembers them burning and attacking. Is this how Jaime felt around the Mad King and his wildfire?

It’s a stupid comparison. Daenerys is not Mad King, she is wise, and she has proven she is willing to be patient and try to do things right. But she is desperate for her kingdom, for the home and respect she was promised as a child, for the Iron Throne that will finally make her feel like the Targaryen she’s supposed to be.

“Your Grace,” Tyrion speaks softly, making her turn to him, “I think it’s time we go back home.”

“Yes… yes it is.” She agrees, standing straight and looking at them all with her with her regal purple eyes. “Ready the ships, prepare the armies. Dragons are coming back to Westeros.”

Chapter Text

The moon is high in the sky, it's frozen paleness as harsh and unforgiving as the snow around her. She runs, not far from the castle, in search for game. Her pack follows close by, and she knows many are hungry and it falls on her the burden to find them something to eat. There is a scent of blood and death near them and all she can do is follow it.

She runs as fast as she can, the moon revealing a path among the snow, a trail where fear had clinged to every corner as the poor animal tried to escaped from its inevitable fate. Finally her instincts lead her to a meadow where her brother lays, eating his prey as he watches them with red eyes. She approaches him confidently and he seems not to care for her proximity. She reaches the deer and begins to eat greedily, tearing the flesh and feeling it fill her with its warm blood.

When the rest of the pack approaches, her brother lets go of the animal to jump in front of it, silently bearing its teeth. The reflection of the moonlight on his fur and blood soaked white teeth gave him a harshness she has never witnessed before. The message is clear. She can take her part of his victim, but not the rest of them. She knows she ought to care for her pack, but her own survival is paramount. If she is fed, she will be in better shape to hunt with them later.

Her pack leaves her be, and she eats silently with her brother until the moon illuminates nothing but bones. In its white cold light, she lays next to her brother, letting him lick the blood left in her snout. When he is done, she nuzzles her own muzzle against his white fur, feeling his heat until she falls asleep.

 */*

Arya woke up to a cold breeze. Jon had let the window slightly open, but the wind had opened it wider, letting the cold in. Arya did not want to leave her brother’s side. He was not exactly warm, but she knew that when she kicked the covers she would definitely freeze. She closed her eyes as she laid her head on top of his chest, enjoying the rise and fall of his chest.

Knowing Nymeria had Ghost as she had Jon made her smile. For the longest time, Arya wandered alone. She was never lost, but she was certainly lonely. And that loneliness, that constant detachment which had ensured her survival seemed only to have disconnected her from her family. No one had no family, no home. And now…

Arya was not at home. Her home was Winterfell, miles away. And she was not safe, if the constant pain in her throat was proof of anything. She was mortal, and just a girl after all. A long sigh came out of her mouth and she closed her eyelids tighter. When she opened her eyes, she wouldn’t be in Jon’s chambers in Winterfell, like she did as a small girl, sneaking and cuddling beside him after a nightmare. When she gets up, she won’t see her old wooden toys lined up on her chimney, or the decades-old tapestries of hunt parties in the Wolfswood hanging on her walls. When she goes to look out the window, she won’t see Wintertown, instead the river will be looking back at her.

Taunting me with all the things I’ll never get back.

“If you’ve been awake this whole time couldn’t you just close the window?” Jon grumbled, his voice thick with sleep. Arya was tucked next to him and when she opened her eyes she saw nothing but the side of his body covered by the linen of his shirt. His chest rose and fell as he breathed in and out.

“Shut up, I was asleep.” Arya lied, giving him a soft kick with his legs.

“I’m gonna tickle you…” Jon ran the tip of his fingers along her back, making her shiver. ”...And then you’ll start moving and you’ll kick your covers…” Arya swat his hands away, “and you’ll be cold and I will get to stay under the covers so you’ll feel sorry for me and close the window.”

“Didn’t you fight ice monsters on the other side of the Wall?”

“Shut up”. Arya opened her eyes and found him smiling, eyes closed and hair a mess.

It was cold when she kicked the cover away, making sure he was exposed to the cold as well. It was still very early in the morning, and the sun was coming up later in the day as they got deeper into winter. The lake had a thin layer of ice on top of it. Will I stay here until people carry their game on sleds along the river?

Arya closed the windows a little too harshly and when she turned around, Jon was looking at her with a quizzical eyebrow. Arya looked down at her feet, all wrapped in wool socks, avoiding his eyes as much as she could. “I want to go home.”

Jon’s expression softened, his hand stretching out, motioning for her to sit. Arya took his hand and sat next to him, looking down to his unshaven face. His grey eyes looked up to her as he spoke. “Duty is never easy, little sister.”

Her heart sank at those words. “So you believe I should stay here?”

“I want you to go home, if it's what you want.” Jon squeezed her hand. “But remember, it’s not the same Winterfell we left. And I fear you feel so detached from this place because you keep thinking you could be in the home of your past instead. But you see sister,” he reached up  smooth her hair, “that Winterfell is never going to come back.”

“When you-” she stopped herself, not knowing if she could asks what’s running through her mind. But Jon just nodded for her to go on, so she did, “when you died...when you came back… did it feel like…” she trailed off, unsure of how to voice her desperate feelings.

“Feel like what?”

“Like you had to leave the Wall… like you had to go back.” Arya had been wondering constantly if it was simply because she felt unsafe after her strangling and she knew she would feel safe in Winterfell or if it was something else entirely. It was strange, but sometimes she felt like maybe being so connected to Nymeria was some call from the Old Gods to go north. A call to go back. “Not only something you wanted, because then I know you would’ve stayed as its your duty. No… something you had to do.”

“Yes.” Jon looked at her wistfully. “But only after I found out about Rickon. After Sansa came to the Wall. Before that I just…”

“Just what?”

“I felt like leaving, because I knew if I stayed I would be fighting this same war forever… and always on the losing side.” Jon looked away from her then, shame darkening his handsome face. “It was not honorable.”

“Oh Jon… who cares about honor? We’ve been fighting long enough to allow ourselves a rest.” At this, he turned to look at her.

“You think father would have forsaken his duty because he was tired of fighting?” Jon asked her, stunning her into silence, and then let out a scoff. “Or your mother, even?”

“Do you think…” Arya tried very hard to keep her voice even, but it proved to be difficult. “If they saw me now, do you think they would be ashamed of me?”

Jon sat up very quickly, and his hand went to rest on the nape of her neck. “Look at me,” he said, making her look at his face, so similar to her own. When he spoke there was nothing but certainty in his voice. “Your mother and father would be very proud of you.” He smiled at her, a gentle, honest smile. “As I am.”

That, she could believe. Jon’s love had never been nothing but sure. Arya really couldn’t help herself from closing her eyes in relief as her forehead went to touch his own. Her eyes opened to find him looking at her. Slowly, the gentleness of his eyes seemed to warm her entire body. Her hand went to touch his scars, and he was holding his breath as her finger trailed the marks on his face. When she stopped, he put some distance between them.

“We… we don’t look as much alike as we did as children.” It was a silly thing to say, especially whispering it like it was some secret. But for some reason Arya felt slightly intrigued by the fact that despite their similarities they didn’t look as much alike as they used to.

“No.” Jon was pensive, his hand going up to trail her cheek and then up to her hair. For the second time that day, he smoothed it rather than messing it up as he did she was little. “No... we don’t look like those children anymore.”

Arya’s eyes went to see all those things that made Jon look less like a child, his stronger shoulders, his thinner face, his short beard and the hair above his lips. Her eyes stayed there for a moment as she considered the fact that his facial hair didn’t bother her as much as it used to. Her eyes remained on his lips as her hand rested on his chest, impossibly warm, nearly burning. She leaned forward and-

A knock on the door made them jump, and only then did she realize how close they were. For some reason Arya felt an incredible embarrassment as her cheeks turned red hot. Jon was not looking at her. He ran one hand through his hair and gently pushed her away as he went through the door which lead to the hallway to the privy in a hurry. Arya doubted it had anything to do with any biological need and wondered if he felt, like her, that it was best if no one catched them in such a state of clear embarrassment. She stretched her nightgown and put on her boots, as well as the fur-lined robe she had worn when she had come in the night before.

“My lady!” the maid, whom she believed to be called Penny, bowed in a hurry. “I brought warm water and came to ask if he’d eat here or at the table.”

“I came here to ask that as well,” the lie came out easily. “You can leave the water, he will eat at the table as I will too. Please let Dally know”.

“Of course, my lady.” The maid did as she was told, and left Arya alone with her thoughts.

She walked to the door where Jon had gone through. She doubted he had gone all the way to the privy, he probably just stayed on the other side. Two knocks and no answer came from the other side, though.

“I told your maid you would eat the table. She brought you warm water.”  Arya left him be, and run to her own chambers. She closed the door behind her, and then went to stand in front of the mirror. Despite feeling like something had crashed against her body and turned her upside down, she looked perfectly fine.

She had been trained to find the details that tell you when something was amiss, to use every one of her senses to understand her surroundings. But something had happened that she could not understand and what was worse, the embarrassment was such  that she feared there was no one who she could ask about it. Something had happened between her and Jon that made her feel as warm as fire itself, yet now when she thought about it, she was frozen in fear.

*/*

“Jonos Bracken remains near The Crag, overseeing our newly acquired territories”.

“How many men have you there?” asked Larence Snow, one of Jon’s companions. Arya was surprised when Jon told her he was barely two years older than herself. He had asked plenty of smart questions back in the Twins and more now, seemingly much more witty than someone of barely eighteen years of age.

“With Bracken remain the broad of the army, nearly four thousand men. An additional two thousand are divided between our borders with the crownlands and further south”. If lord Tytos was irritated at answering to a boy, Arya could not tell, but she could see he did not seem happy with Jon. “Of course, your grace has been going around asking for men to be taken to the North.”

Jon seemed much more impatient than upset about the comment, in fact he only groaned and crossed his arms. Arya, on the other hand, felt her indignation rising in her throat. Her hand went on to her throat, by now a habit she had deemed useless - for it did nothing to fight the pain in her throat when she raised her voice-, but that did not seem to leave her.

“Jon,” Arya began loudly, “is fighting for a cause much more vital and important”. Her voice trembled slightly at the end of her sentence, and Jon looked at her worried as he served her a cup of wine.

“All I’m saying is we can’t afford to send men away”.

“All I’m saying is that if you don’t send men there will be nothing left to protect”. Jon explained with barely contained irritation.

“Perhaps what lord Tytos means is,” started Roslin, her hand on little Edmyn’s shoulder, “there’s so little left of House Tully and the Riverlands have just recovered from the war, surely in the Eyre you may find them more ready to help you?”

“You have recently recovered all the territories that Robb Stark conquered, which include several gold mines, and you army is once again united and well taken care of, you have never been stronger”. Robett Glover was not exactly pleading, but Arya was moved by the urgency in his voice. The North, is my home they’re fighting for… and yet there’s so little I can do...

“Dried gold mines, impoverished lands.” Lord Tytos clarified, then looked at her and to her left, at Jon. “We lose a lot by helping you, you do understand that, don’t you?”

“Yes, my lord. But this enemy won’t be stopped by the Wall.” Jon clenched his fists. Arya wished there was something she could to to quell his anger, but she knew better.  Sometimes, people simply did not see what was so clear in the eyes of one’s self.

“So you say.”

And there it was. In the end, it all went back to the same basic problem: they had no word but Jon’s. Arya’s own credibility weakened by the lack of proof of Jon’s claims. Even his companions had little proof except for the word of the wildlings they had dared to speak to. The Night’s Watch letters, which claimed more than half a dozen men had witnessed the undead creatures in Hardhome, seemed no more than a desperate attempt for more help by an organization that had spent years begging for more support. Arya saw Jon’s frustration and understood perfectly why he once wanted to simply leave and stop fighting. But he is dutiful, like father was. Arya held his hand under the table, but his eyes were still glaring at lord Blackwood.

“Leave us a moment”. Arya’s raspy voice seemed to pull them all out of a trance, their heads turning at the same time to look at her.

“My lady, we should-”

“It wasn’t a suggestion”, Arya clarified. One by one, they all left the room, and only to little Edmyn - who complained about being left out - did she give a smile. Jon remained where he was, looking at the group. “You’re not gonna change their mind”.

“They don’t believe me,” Jon’s bitterness was clear in his voice, “I have seen it before enough times”.

“I guess… it’s hard for them, with no proof”.

“I wonder, if I let the damn things cross the Wall and invade their castles will they believe me then?” Jon asked somberly. Arya let out a snort.

“Of course, that would mean they already invaded the North…. but yes, maybe that would convince them”. Arya scratched her chin, faking an air of contemplation. Jon smiled at her expression.

“You don’t seem very worried about the monstrous ice creatures”. He pointed out with amusement.

“Well… I’m actually… pretty good at escaping from bad situations”.

“I’ll take my chances then, and stay here with you”. Jon lied easily, though not convincingly. Then his voice came out like a whisper, once again making Arya feel like they were sharing some secret. “Why do you believe me?”

Arya found herself a little lost at the question, or perhaps it was the depth of his eyes, she couldn’t tell. “You said it,” she shrugged her shoulders, “I believe you”.

Jon let out a small laugh, and Arya cherished the little lines a the sides of his eyes, his hand coming up to mess her hair. Arya laughed until her throat hurt, his smile dropping as she gulped down her drink.

“No rum today?”

“And risk having a sailor’s breath?” Arya shook her head. “Even I know better”.

“Well I need some too”. Jon drank his own wine eagerly, running his hand over his face once he was done drinking. “We need to be smart about this”.

Arya furrowed her brow at that. “I am… already being smart about this”.

“Smarter”. Jon played around with his cup of wine. “Is there anything we can offer the riverlands that…”

“Wait wait, we?” Arya shook her head stubbornly. “Jon why must the North pay or offer anything when this is something that everyone in the Seven Kingdoms must deal with?”

“If I’ve learned anything in these years, little sister, is that people don’t always do what they must do”.

“These people… they’re going to get us killed”.

“We’re going to get ourselves killed, if we don’t learn to play their games”.

“All they want is safety, to never again having to surrender their land to an enemy”. Arya had seen it enough, in their determination to be free of the Iron Throne’s rule.  “I don’t know how you can give them that”.

Jon thought for a moment “I know how we can ally the armies... but it would take time”.

“What?”

“The ironborn”.

“Uhm… explain”.

“You say the ironborn are a problem, that they constantly attack your western shores”.

“As well as the land we recently conquered from the Lannisters,” Arya was more than a little lost and the optimism in his face did not make sense, “I fail to see-”

“Your army needs to learn how to defend themselves from the constant attack of foreign invaders who come to pillage, rape and burn ”, Jon explained with a hint of excitement,  “which army has done precisely that for hundreds of years?”

“You say…. we build a wall?”

“We do more than that!” His indignation quickly gave way to shame. “That is, the Night’s Watch has done than that”.

“I know, Jon”. Arya rolled her eyes. “I was taught the same lessons on history that you were”.

“Which one of your lords do the others listen to?”

“Blackwood. Or Bracken too, but he’s much too valuable  to be sent anywhere. I mean they both are, but truly Bracken is our most necessary commander”.

“Well you send Blackwood and a bunch of men to the Wall, to learn of how we have defeated invasion attacks for years...”

“A giant wall”.

“... and then they won’t be able to deny what the entire Night’s Watch knows”. Jon looked at her unsure expression. “What?”

“You don’t know them. These lords are not like in the North…. United in their vow to our family. In here, everyone is petty and longs to have the last word on everything”. Arya wished it were different but these lords were not like the ones she had seen her father rule, they questioned every intentions and plan of action in a constant struggle for power. “If Blackwood comes back insisting that the army goes North, Bracken will insist in them staying here”.

“It is this way in any position of rulership, little sister.” Jon leaned closer to hold her hand firmly. “I failed as lord commander, but I will not as king. Trust from my experience, sometimes all you need is one good ally on your side and others will follow you”.

“And then what?” She asked in a low voice.

“What do you mean?”

“They go North and then what?” His hand let go of her and Arya understood she had asked him something he was not prepared for. “Jon, I- I would never doubt you. You’re my brother and my king. But what- what weapons can we possibly conjure to defeat an army that can use our own dead against us?”

“Oh Arya...” Jon closed his eyes, breathing deeply, worry was clear in his face. “Those are my worries too. I don’t know how, if we had all the fire possible, dragonglass and valyrian steel in the hands of one large united army, then we’d stand a chance.” Jon composed himself, his eyes turning to steel. “I can’t possibly get the first easily, but I can try to achieve the later”.

He has no real idea of how to defeat the Night’s Watch. Arya realised now it was not the time to voice her uncertainty and have him comfort her, but the other way around. My brother, my king. Arya took his hands in hers, making him look at her.

“We’ll give them a good fight. It’s good Jon. It’s a plan”. Arya reassured him, but his answer was not what she expected.

“Not a great strategy actually. Fighting them means more of us die and he gets more soldiers”. Jon ran his hand through his hair. “I just wish I had a more certain solution. All I did was having them all look for dragonglass and train anyone who can hold a sword, and there is really no certainty that that will be enough”.

“Nothing in life is certain, only death”, Arya smiled, “and that’s not even true for you”.

They laughed together. Arya wished they were back home, somehow she felt they would be less pessimistic if they were in Winterfell. Instead, Arya let out a sigh as she imagined having to explain his idea to lord Tytos. But I must be strong, like father and Robb were with his men.

“Do you need me here to help you with Blackwood?”

“No!” Arya closed her eyes. “I can do this”.

“I know you can”.

Jon’s smile warmed her as he left and Blackwood entered again with Roslin and maester Vyman.

*/*

“And whom do you have in mind for this task?” Lord Tytos had a raised eyebrow as he pondered the plan. Arya exchanged a look with Vyman, silently asking who in the Seven Hells would be willing to go.

“Ser Marq Piper sent raven nights ago when he passed the Twins, he should be arriving soon”. The maester shrugged his shoulders. “He could be sent by sea to Eastwatch”.

“But if he has just returned from the North, won’t he find it insulting that they send him again?” Roslin asked worriedly.

“His liege is sending him on a very important mission”. Arya said slowly, brow furrowed. “He should be honored”.

“You can’t continue to task him so far away from his home without compensating him somehow”. Maester Vyman agreed.

“Harrenhal?” Arya held no love for the fortress, but it was hers by simply conquering it.

“More trouble than it’s worth”. Blackwood shook his head.

“And rumored to be cursed”. Roslin quipped in.

“What about castle Darry?”

“It’s a valuable keep. Renown”.  Roslin said with more worry that Arya would’ve liked.

“So? More reason for him to think I appreciate him”.

“Do you, my lady?” lord Tytos asked.

“Do I what?”

“Appreciate him?”

“He made sure our help arrived to my home, I am very grateful”. It was the truth, and Arya found no reason to hide it.

“That’s not what I meant”. The old lord gave her a funny expression.

“I can assure I meant nothing more”.

“It would send a good sign, to marry someone from the Riverlands”. Blackwood suggested, making Arya instantly angry. To think, that after all she had done, she was still expected to marry someone by convenience.  “Maybe then it will be easier to assure everyone the North will remain an ally”.

“When have we stopped being allies?” Arya lashed out, wishing with all her heart that Nymeria was there to support her. “Why are you suddenly doubting?”

“I said I agree we should send Marq Piper to investigate”. Lord Tytos explained, but Arya could see in his eyes he meant to say much more.

“Yet you sound very much like you doubt the word and value of a Stark”. Their doubt of Jon did not please her but she had expected it. Doubting her, however, hurt a deep pride even she did not know she had. Have I not sacrificed enough? “Tell me, will you act as Bracken and be the first to bend your knees should I fall like my brother Robb did?”

“Of course not, my lady.” Lord Tytos took a deep breath, and exchanged a look with Vyman and Roslin. “All I mean is, marriage between the North and the Riverland would help secure that the interest of the Starks will always mind helping the Riverlands. Even as you face… problems in your northern borders”.

“So this is our problem?!” Arya felt the rage of a wolf fill her veins, words coming out quickly and scolding. “Need I remind you my father send men to protect you when the Mountain’s men attacked the smallfolk here, and my brother lost our home because all our fighting men were here driving Tywin Lannister out of the Riverlands. These were all problems in your southern borders”.

“Lady Stark-”

“Need I remind you it was I, Arya Stark of Winterfell, who killed Walder Frey and freed many of the keeps and castles and lords held prisoners?” Arya raised her voice as she defied him. “Don’t you think it is you who owe to prove your worth to the Starks?!”

There was silence, and while Arya did not have reason to be angry to Vyman or Roslin, she made sure to look at all of them as she expected some answer. It was lord Tytos who spoke after some time, and Arya could hear in his voice that he wished not to hurt her. It reminded her of when he explained how she had been strangled, with a pained honesty.

“But your bastard brother is not a Stark. He is a Snow, no son of Catelyn Tully”.

There was more silence as Arya glared at him. She could see that he meant good, that he tried to explain to her that not all bastards were good. That Jon may have left the Night’s Watch but he still fought for the realms of men. But how could she explain to him that Jon was as trustworthy as any trueborn brother of hers, and that with any luck she’d become half the person he was?

“My lord Blackwood, I have appreciated your council and heed your words every step of the way.” Arya said calmly, reminding herself how Jon had grown up taking every insult and bad word. “But I, not you, rule in Edmyn’s name. And so you will sit in silence now and hear my words, are we understood?”

“My lady”.

“If you ever put in doubt how much of a Stark my brother is, I will marry all your offspring to Bracken, Gods forgive me. I make no empty threats, if  you doubt, ask her family”. Arya pointed at Roslin. “As for the Wall, we will send ser Marq Piper, and when he comes back confirming all of Jon’s words, we will send every man we can spare to send. Furthermore, we will train every children, girl or boy, to protect themselves since we will send their fathers and older brothers away. Are we understood?”

“Yes, my lady”. Lord Blackwood nodded, stood up and walked to the door, stopping just before leaving. “I am grateful, my lady. And loyal. But in the end, you would follow your brother to the death. You’re Arya Stark, daughter of the North. It is my duty to make sure all of the Riverlands won’t fall to that extreme”.

“We will all fall if we’re not united, my lord”. Arya had grown tired of repeating the same point, but she could only assume  Jon felt even worse. “That truth we cannot deny”.

“Then if you let me, I will pray… that your half brother is lying”. Blackwood gave her one last reassuring smile. “I will make sure the other lords see this enterprise as necessary as we do”.

Arya closed her eyes, longing for home, for Nymeria… but mostly, for her father, who she knew would’ve given her wise words. My pack, my pack… all I do is for my pack.

“Vyman… would you please let Jon know it all turned out as expected and that now all we must do is wait for ser Marq?” Arya asked, eyes still shut.

“Of course, my lady”.

She heard him leave, and she enjoyed the silent companionship of Roslin. Though they had little in common in terms of temperament, Arya felt like she too suffered from the mistrust of men. She should be Edmyn’s reagent. That was the plain truth of it. But like Jon, her name carried a stain she could not shake easily.

If only Blackwood and Bracken and the other lords were less… well, lordly perhaps they would see beyond names.  Arya let out a groan in frustration, because she knew that deep down their intentions weren’t bad… the root of their doubt of Jon was born out of worry for House Tully. Like their initial mistrust of Roslin.

“I’m sorry… about…” Arya trailed off, feeling badly for throwing around her family’s death so carelessly.

“I understand”. Roslin nodded, only to  look away deep in thought. “At my home… you learned very quickly that your brothers could easily die at any moment, and that no one was safe from scheming treason. But my sisters, all of them, we all loved each other to death, for mothers  came and went and my father held no love for us. If you had hurt even one of them…” Arya was surprised at the low threat of her voice, but when she turned Roslin looked at her calmly. “He never should have forgotten Robb’s sacrifices”.

It was Arya’s turn to look away. She wondered if Robb ever felt like her, trapped in the Riverlands. This was her mother’s home, and Arya cared for it, but it was an endless source of frustration. In any other realm, all Jon and her would’ve had to do would be convince one great lord and the rest would do his bid. But here… they all enjoyed fighting with each other and doubting even her. And even Robb had to agree to a marriage.

“Did you ever see him?” Arya knew she did not even need to specify.

“Only once, from far away, when he passed the Crossing on his way South”. Roslin seemed amused, as if thinking of childhood games. “I thought him handsome”.

“He was”. Everyone had always said so. Sansa and him were always considered the most beautiful, dutiful and graceful.

“And he was only a heir to Winterfell, future Lord Stark. We made stories about him after he was crowned, wondering which one of us would be his queen, which one of us would get to leave the Twins forever, how we would all get to have a handsome kingly brother”.

“I am sorry… that he broke his word to you”. Arya felt little guilt for her justice to Roslin’s house and yet… it was not women’s fault that marrying men is all they can aspire to.

“Not to me. To all of us. All of my sisters.” Roslin’s words carried no bitterness, but it was plain in them that while not excusing what her family did, she still remembered the slight. Arya appreciated honesty.

“I am sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“Still, he was my brother, my king”. Arya knew now that did not meant she had to think him perfect, but she had to honor him nonetheless. “I am sad that this is how it ended”.

Roslin nodded in silent, as if reciprocating the feeling, probably musing about how she would have to forever carry the burden of her father and brothers betrayal, a shame she would never shake away.

I must go to Jon now.

She did not find the Northern guests in the wing assigned to them, and when she questioned Utherydes she found that they seemed to have gone to the courtyard. Arya wished she could speak to Jon privately, and tried to think of ways of explaining the situation without making it sound like the river lords doubted him. But she was no good at sugar coating her words or twisting truths, yet she was reluctant to straight up lie.

Arya found them training. Jon was sparring Larence Snow, looking masterful and strong as he repeated to him Rodrik Cassel’s teachings. Handsome kingly brother, like Robb. The memory of Robb and him training as Bran and herself watched in awe nearly brought tears to her eyes.

“Arya?” She felt  a tug on her breeches and looked down to see Edmyn holding out his own small wooden sword. “Can we, please?”

“You want to spar too, little one?”

“Yes!”

Arya entered the practicing circle with Edmyn, smiling as she heard the oohs and cheers of both Jon’s companions and some of the other men gathered around. Jon smiled from ear to ear, pleasantly surprised.

“Here to replace me, little sister?”

“No, you carry on doing your own lessons, I’ll give Edmyn my own”. She smiled at him, grabbing a wooden sword and taking a few steps from and eager Edmyn. “Now what have I told you?”

“Defense first, until you know your opponent”. Edmyn repeated. “Patience and calmness even in the face of danger”.

“Good. Now when I do this,” Arya swung lightly at him, letting him easily block her strike, “what do you see?”

“You’re… fast?”

“Look with your eyes”.

“I am!”

“What did you see then?”

“You use your left hand. It’s strange.”

“Go on.”

Silence.

“It means her moves will be more difficult to predict, since most foes will swing at you with their right hand”. Jon intervened, pissing her off. She turned to him fast as a whip.

“Shut it!” Arya admonished. “Let him think”.

“Oh Arya I’ve been his age, let him practice fast and trade blows, boys like it that way!” Jon signaled around and the men agreed.

“His grace is right, my lady!”

“Let our little lord spar with the king in the North!”

“I’m trying to teach him to be smart and observant, you know, like one has to be when one is… small and not exactly strong?”  Arya looked at him serious, but found him smiling too much for her not to mirror him.

“Aryaaaa!” Edmyn pouted. “C’mon!”

Arya was amazed at his deep frown, clearly directed at Jon and not her. “Would you like a lesson from Jon?”

“Why him?” Jon’s warm smile fell at Edmyn’s glare.

“Because he is a great swordsman, little one”. She smiled at him. “He has battled many men, he can teach you much. Remember, how important your lessons are?”

“Yes, Arya” Edmyn went to Jon sullenly. “Could you teach me, please?”

“Of course”.

“How old are you, lord Edmyn?” Jon asked as he moved the boys feet and lowered his grip on the sword a bit.

“Nearly five, your grace”.

That response had the effect of making most of the river lord and inhabitants of the castle laugh. Arya herself barely contained her mirth. Edmyn was halfway to five at best.

“You’ll grow one day.” Jon said, “Until then, you will have the advantage of being a small target”.

“Will I be taller than Arya?”

“That is a very easy height to reach so probably yes”.

“Jon!” Arya huffed at his tease. “You’re not so tall yourself, your grace!”

Her jape made everyone laugh. Even Edmyn chuckled as Jon shook his head and finished teaching him a good posture.

“You’ll need to start lifting some small shield soon, start preparing those muscles to lift shields and tense a bow”. Jon took some steps back. “Now try to strike me, and when I block you you remember to come back to that stand”.

Edmyn was small, but determined. He went at Jon with everything he got, but of course he would be blocked easily. At first their movement were almost boring: Edmyn launched at him, Jon blocked, the boy stepped back and then tried again.

Eventually, Jon got them to start circling each other, and then taught Edmyn how to block him. That was harder for Edmyn, and it tired him most out of all the other exercises. When Jon deemed it enough, Edmyn, ever so mindful of his manners, thanked him with all “his grace’s” and ran for the kitchens.

Arya applauded Jon silently as he walked back to her. “What a demonstration”.

“He is a sweet kid”.

“He reminds me of Rickon”, she admits. “Sometimes too much”.

Jon looked at his feet, deep sorrow taking over. Arya laid a hand on his shoulders, knowing all too well how the hurt of loss came at any moment. Silence hung heavy between them, and Arya wished Ghost and Nymeria were there with them. Somehow, one feels less lonely with the wolf.

Jon’s hand went to Needle’s hilt, the sword strapped at her waist. His hand caressed the leather gently as Arya smiled at the memory of Jon gifting her the sword.

“I’m glad you still have it…. that your learnt to use it… even if I wish you never had to”.

“It has saved me Jon,” Arya remember keeping it despite everything, even as her own identity was at peril, “in more ways than you can imagine”.

Jon smiled and slowly unsheathed it, holding it between them, and Arya’s breath quickened as the light catched on the steel. Jon’s eyes looked like melted steel too, warm and dark and just like her own. She remembered the day he gave it to her, how scared she was of never seeing him again, of being apart forever. And thought he did not know if they’d ever see each other after their goodbye, he made sure she carried a gift of his forever. Our secret, a treasured memory only mine and his. Whatever the Many Faced God had wanted, she never could have given them Needle and the part of Jon that was in her. Some part of me really is always his, and some part of him is really always mine.

Jon cleared his throat and gave her a nervous smile. “You have outgrown it”. He said as he nodded at her.

“I used another sword when necessary,” she said weakly, as it hurt her throat to speak after a long silence.

“What’s the name of that one?”

“No name, it’s just a sword.”

Jon opened his mouth to say something, but he was cut short by the maester running to them, his chains clinking with him.

“My lady,” Vyman said out of breath, “a raven just arrived for you, your Grace, from Winterfell. Two letters”.

Jon and her exchanged looks, with Jon taking the messages and thanking the Maester. Arya suggested reading it somewhere private, which is how they ended up in her solar. Dally had gone to fetch them a refreshment, and Arya went on to sit next to Jon at the edge of her bed, looking out the window to the river. He opened the first letter quickly, and as soon as he glanced at it his voice came out weak and choked yet impossibly deep.

“This isn’t Sansa’s writing”. Arya turned to him instantly, brow furrowed.

“Something happened?” Winterfell, Sansa, the North she so longed for… must the things I love never be safe? Arya thought wildly, heart beating uncontrollably.

“Bran, it’s Bran”. Jon whispered, his voice trembling. Arya snatched the paper from him swiftly. “Arya!”

“Jon, I hope as you read this Arya reads over your shoulders as Sansa peaks behind mine”. Arya read as a tear fell from each of her eyes, her own smile nearly hurting her cheeks. “Jon, he is safe, he is safe in Winterfell”.

Jon took the letter to read it himself, disbelief disappearing before the utmost happiness. His own smile turned to a brief, heartfelt laugh. Arya threw her arms around him and rained kisses on his face, on the joyful lines on his cheeks, on the ridiculous whiskers she had yet to decide if she liked or not, on his nose, on his eyes, until her laughter made her incapable of anything but letting Jon hold her as if his life depended on it.

Bran, my brother, the last sibling that remained lost to her. Arya was struck with the memory of playing in the snow with him, both children free of any worry. Her laughter died as she closed her eyes and hugged Jon back, wondering when would they be back home.

Jon let go of her as he went on to read the letter out of breath. Arya closed her eyes as she tried to imagine Bran as she last saw him, to remember his voice, his sweet smile and his curious eyes.

“I am home. I have seen the thread beyond the Wall, and the army of the Night’s King. Magic revived you, so I hope you believe me when I say magic has given me a sight beyond that of my two eyes. If you had seen a warg, I had seen a greenseer. If you had seen giants, I have seen children of the forest. Trust my word, there is not enough dragonglass in the North. It is not in arms but in magic that this war will be fought and won. It is not in weapons of men that you must seek your answer, rather in ice and fire”.

What is the meaning of this? Arya asked herself. “What does he mean?”

Jon let out a sight. “He means we can’t win, no matter if we have a million trained men with dragonglass broadswords”.

“Ice and fire?”

“The Wall is made of ice, and it was built with magic to keep the White Walkers out”, Jon mussed, “now we need fire”.

“There is a dragon queen in the east”.

“I can’t travel to Volantis,” Jon looked at her apprehensively, “but Cersei has wildfire…”

“No. Jon,no”. Arya stood up to look down on him. “You cannot even think of going to see Cersei to ask an alliance”.

“Arya… too many lives were lost already because the Night’s Watch refused to just unite with the wildlings”. Jon’s reproachful voice did not convince her. “We must all see the importance of an alliance”.

“Not Cersei. Do not underestimate her!” Jon’s exasperation was clear in his face.

“You sound like Sansa”. Jon shook his head. “She too seemed much more focused on the south than on the threat in the North”.

“She’s not wrong you know?” Even Arya could admit that. “Have you any idea of what that woman is capable?”

“Arya-”

“I am trying to help you. But being wary of Cersei is what you must do”. The Red Woman, The Mountain, Cersei Lannister. Arya’s own irritation made her turn away from him to look out the window. “Read the other letter”.

Jon let out another sigh as he opened the other letter. “It’s from Sansa”. They fell into an uneasy silence, so he took a deep breath and began to read. “She writes that the lords have endless request and complaints. That the ironborn have diminished their attacks of late. She- oh.”

“What?” Arya turned to see Jon visibly shocked. Perhaps even pleasantly surprised.

“She says she has arranged for Yohn Royce to listen to my plan against the White Walkers. That he will receive me and listen to me if I go to meet him.”

“To Runestone?”

“He’s in the Eyre. She writes that if we send someone in advance they can meet halfway near the Bloody Gate”. Jon furrowed his brow. “I can send Larence and Wylis Manderly´… do you have any men who have made the journey before?”.

“That I can spare? I’m not sure… after all I’m too focused on the war with Cersei to help you”.

Jon smiled and patted the space on the bed next to him. Arya crossed her arms. Her stubbornness had always been the biggest ally of her pride. Jon looked sideways before looking at her with a pout. “Forgive me?”

“You go find who has done the journey before and tell them I wish them to go with you… Perhaps if you come back with the support of the Vale the Riverlands will have no option but to believe you”.

“Let us hope-” A knock on the door interrupted him.

“My lady Arya?” Maester Vyman’s voice came through the door. “Marq Piper and his men have returned from the North.” Arya and Jon exchanged a look before she went to open the door. The maester did not ask her of the content of the letters. “I thought perhaps you’d both be interested in receiving him”.

“Of course.” Arya turned to Jon. “Shall we?”

“You did not said if you forgave me or not”. He pointed out as they left the room.

“My throat hurts”. It wasn’t exactly a lie, but the pathetic excuse made Jon bark out a laugh.

*/*

The hall was quite filled, all the lords and ladies currently at Riverrun welcoming ser Marq. He looked quite dashing, his hair longer than when he was sent away, covered in armor and filled with tales of his journey. Arya supposed that with most men gone at war, the women would be swooning over him for however long he remained in the castle. When Arya entered with Jon, the hall fell mostly silent. She guessed she seemed less imposing without Nymeria at her side, but the wolf was hunting.

“My lady,” Marq Piper bowed respectfully before standing up proud and tall. “Your family in the North has received your help, and the lady- that is, princess Sansa send her gratitude.”

“Ser Marq, in behalf of my sister, I thank you for your dutiful work.” Jon said, while Arya signaled her throat and simply nodded at ser Marq in gratitude before taking some watered wine to ease her pain.

“I was very concerned when I heard, my lady.” Ser Marq said seriously, but then smiled at her. “Then as I got closer I began to hear all these songs of your courage in battle and how our beautiful lady defeated ser Adam Marbrand.”

Arya smiled back, a little blushed at his last comment. “Thank you ser Marq”.

“How delightful to hear the voice of our lady”. His shameless flattery seemed to make everyone laugh. Arya hated her own increasing blush, feeling silly and ridiculous.

“Enough of that, it is my time to compensate you”. Arya began, trying to recall how her father would talk. “You have done us a great service, and you will forever have the gratitude of both House Stark and Tully. It is my honor as both which compels me to grant you Castle Darry, for you, your children and as long as your lineage lasts”.

“Thank you, my lady”. Ser Marq seemed overcome with pride. “I am always at your service.”

Arya exchanged a brief look with lord Tytos, and he nodded at her in understanding. “I know you’re”, she raised her cup and smiled, “to ser Marq!”

“To ser Marq!” The hall erupted in commotion and congratulations to ser Marq. He was the heir to Pinkmaiden but now Castle Darry was his as well, surely many ladies would be seeking to be his future wife. When everyone was done drinking, many of them approached him to hear more tales of his journey.

“So that is the famous ser Marq Piper,” Jon started in a low voice, and Arya caught a tone of annoyance so she looked at him to find him actually avoiding her eyes. “He seems… quite interested.”

Arya was not quite sure how to answer, but she drank some wine to soothe her throat. “He uh… he has never done anything but his duty.”

“Of course he has never.” His snappy answer was enough to set her in a foul mood so she just gulped her wine furiously. “I’m just saying he might have second intentions.”

“He supports me because I swore revenge on Cersei after she sent the head of his brother. Poor Lewys was forced to be a young squire to the Kingslayer and he was in King’s Landing… well, that is the reason he’s so loyal”.

“The only reason, I’m sure”.

“Stop that! As if I’d ever get the attention of men”. Arya avoided looking at him, focusing on the people, happy, all exchanging the newest information they had on the east, on the west, from the north or the south.

“Arya-”

“As if I’d ever agree to get married!” Arya stubbornly complained as she turned to look at him, and was surprised to find him giving her the most stony look. It was most unnerving and soon enough she began mumbling. “To always have to do what my husband told me, and feel obliged to have children like a broodmare-”

“Arya,” he began more firmly this time, “it’s not always like that. Sometimes…” Jon looked down to his cup, “sometimes there is love”.

“Father loved mother”, Arya began, somewhat sad, “yet she still had to leave her home and give him sons and he still-” he still had you, she thought of saying, but she had no wish to hurt him, “he still left her to serve the king”.

“Duty and love are not always compatible, dear sister”. Jon was sad, that much she could tell. “I suppose… when there is trust…”

“I’m not sure I could love and trust so much… what if the person died?” Arya’s heart already stopped whenever she imagined anything taking her family from her. To love so deeply, to trust so blindly… and lose it? Jon was still looking away from her, deep in thought.

“I’m afraid… neither love nor loss is something we can so easily avoid”. This time, Jon’s voice was not calm, but rather sad and desperate.

He’s talking from experience, she realizes. A sudden horror took hold of her, and all she could ask was “who was she?”

“Doesn’t matter now.” Jon took a long sip from his wine. He finished and looked at the bottom with a sad smile. “You know… she reminded me of you”.

Jon left her alone then, going to talk with his own men. His place next to her was quickly replaced by ser Marq, who looked at her sheepishly as he looked at Jon.

“May I speak with you?”

“No more flattery”. Arya warned, earning a friendly smile. “You keep doing that lord Tytos will suggest marriage”.

“I thought you’d give Castle Darry to him” he admitted, “what will all his help and his six sons”.

“I know lord Tytos… I don’t know his sons,” Arya put her hand on his arm, “and I know you, I trust you.”

His smile faltered as he looked at Jon and his men and then back at her. “My lady, may I speak to you of a concern I had when I visited Winterfell?”

“Of course, tell me.” Arya’s heart filled with worry. “Tell me”.

“Are you aware that Petyr Baelish is there?” He asked, and Arya nodded. It didn’t make her happy, but Jon had said he very well couldn’t kick him away if he had brought the Knights of the Vale to take back Winterfell. “He remains… close to princess Sansa”.

“What do you mean?”

“He counsels her on the ruling of Winterfell.” But Jon himself said she had told him he’s not to be trusted. Ser Marq seemed to read the confusion on his face. “I found it strange he did not leave with the Knight of the Vale and that he sat next to her when she sat at the hall”.

“What of Bran?” He should be sitting next to her, no, he should be ruling Winterfell. “Did you see him?”

“Only the once before we left.” He grimaced for a moment. “He spent a lot of time in the Godswood”.

This is not right. “Thank you ser Marq… I’m afraid I will have to continue to rely on you sooner than you might expect”.

“I’m at your service, princess Arya”. Arya made a shocked expression at the title, so unused she was to hearing it. “I mean, my lady. I fear I spent too much time in the North, they kept correcting me.”

Arya smiled, and exchanged a few more pleasantries before she went for Jon. The lords seemed extremely pleased to see her, calling her princess too and thanking her for intervening with Blackwood.

“Our princess is very mindful of her duty”. Wylis said, although his words sounded nothing like her.

“The Queen of Wolves,” Larence teased her, and all roared in laughter.

“Of course Ned’s little girl would help the North”. It was Robett Glover’s words, more than anything, that made Arya smile. And yet…

“I’m afraid I must steal my brother from you.” Arya took her brother’s hand and smiled at them, ready to tease them. “Try not to drink all my wine or I’ll set Nymeria on you”.

Arya and Jon walked away as the men’s laughter echoed in the hall. She wondered if the wolves were done hunting. She had dreamt of Nymeria of course, but she had little way of knowing if the entire pack were fed.

“What is it?” Jon stopped just outside the hall. Arya kept walking slowly towards the closest window. She did not know how to voice her ideas very well, although she was confident he would understand in the end…

“Have you informed your men?”

“Larence and Wylis and three of your men will depart when the sun rises.” Jon smiled sadly. “I’ll depart tomorrow too, though I will probably make more stops along the way…”

“Good… that’s excellent”. Arya did not want to think of him leaving her again, another goodbye so soon after the last one.

“Arya… I have to”.

“I know…” Arya tried to be optimistic. “Different roads sometimes lead to the same castle, right?”

“Right.”

Arya turned to look at him and bits her lip, unsure. “Jon… what happened with Sansa? Because from what I was told… she seems to rule with Litllefinger at her side”.

His face instantly grimaced at her question. Arya knew him enough to know he was trying to hide shame and irritation. “I… I don’t think either of us knew how to work together”.

It didn’t exactly surprise Arya, not only had they never shared much but it seemed to her that they had very different temperaments. Arya remembered Jon’s words… much more focused on the south than on the threat in the North. It is clear they had disagreed on the priorities. “I know she can be difficult”.

“I let our differences turn to…”, Jon seemed to struggle to find the correct words, “some sort of… enmity. A struggle.”

“Listen,” Arya let out a scoff, “I understand better than anyone not being able to have a conversation with her”.

“Yes… but I’m older”. Jon gave her a sad smile. “And I was once lord Commander, I should’ve known better than to not listen to Sansa.”

“It’s difficult when one thinks one is right…” Arya had cursed her own stubbornness enough times to know it is difficult to not think people are just stupid.

“She was right though.” Jon closed his eyes for a moment and stepped closer to her. “And so are you. Cersei is dangerous and I will not underestimate her. And now I’m sure she only feels support from Littlefinger and is listening to him-”.

“Whatever you did, I know you did what you thought was right, Jon”.

“I just… all disagreements we had… I always did what father would’ve wanted”. Jon looked down, his fingers absentmindedly playing with his clothing. “I broke my vows Arya, to the Night’s Watch. And then I hung the men that killed me, one of them was a child, Arya.” Jon’s voice came out shaky and bitter. “I was willing to walk away from the North even as Sansa begged me to help, I only fought the Bolton bastard for Rickon and he died in front of me!”

Arya knew what hung so heavy in his heart, it was a feeling she knew all too well. None of that sounded like something their father would’ve wanted of any children of his. Like killing people to steal their faces. Arya’s felt a knot in her throat but knew better than to let go any tears. My brother, my king.

“I am not the person father would’ve wanted either, Jon, but… I survived. We cannot live our lives condemning ourselves”. Arya held his face in her hands, forced him to lock eyes with her. Jon was solemn as ever, already silently composing himself as he always had done. “Father would be so proud of you… like I am”.

“He wouldn’t be happy that I didn’t go looking for Bran or you.” Jon’s guilt was clear as he avoided her eyes, and her heart broke at his next words. “Or that I'm king now over Bran like some usurper”.

“Jon, you… you had to get back Winterfell and you had to wach the Wall before that.”. Arya let go of his face to hold his chin and firmly made him look at her. “The men chose as king you because you did your duty. Don’t judge yourself too harshly, look at all you have accomplished”.

“I’ve done plenty wrong too”. Arya held his gaze after those words, wondering if she should feel more guilt for her action. But everything I did, I did for survival and justice. And everything he did, he did for duty.

“Listen to me, you’re my brother and my king. You’re a Stark and King in the North, you did what you had to do, and will continue to do so”.

Jon smiled wistfully at her words. “A man once said to me, to kill the boy and let the man be born. It’s good counsel, but not an easy one to heed at all times”. Arya kept her hands around his face, smiling herself. Jon traced her face, his voice an affectionate whisper. “You always make me feel better… little sister.”

*/*

It had been three days since Jon left, and Arya missed him terribly. Their goodbye had been a short hug, as hopeful as it had been scary. She hoped whatever Sansa had done helped Jon, and dreaded how he would return should it fail.

With his departure, Arya’s own responsibilities seemed much more oppressive. She missed the distractions of being with the army, the purposefulness of knowing you were battling and fighting and doing something. She’d gladly go out to help the farmers plant their crops in the different glasshouse she had ordered to being built. She would gladly visit every town to check what else could be done to help.

The constant, repetitive sitting with lord Tytos and Roslin was tiresome, and only Nymeria was her comfort. Although the wolf was tame despite her ferociousness and well behaved, Arya felt she suffered the same problem. Perhaps we both belong more to our packs than to castles and rules.

At least Edmyn was glad of her presence, and was delighted when she told him she would not come back soon.

“What is it little one, you didn't like Jon?” Arya messed his auburn curls. “He is my favorite sibling you know, like you’re my favorite cousin”.

Edmyn made a face. “We don’t even know our one other cousin”.

“Ha!” Arya could not help barking out a laugh. Leave it to the kid to find a fault in her logic. “Answer me, didn’t you like him?”

“He was good I guess,” the little boy shrugged his shoulders, “but I don’t like that you love him more than me”.

“What?” his words left her so perplexed, had she had something in her hand she probably would’ve dropped it.

“When he’s here you look at him”. Edmyn’s pout was both adorable and ridiculous, and Arya swallowed her surprised to give room for laughter.

“Now that’s because I’ve missed him so so much for years, Edmyn”. Arya clutched to his level. “No need to be jealous, I still love you very much. Jon is just… he’s a part of me”.

“Are you going to marry him?” He asked innocently, making her laugh.

“He’s my brother you silly boy”. Arya messed his hair and stood up.

As a child, she once said she’d rather marry Jon than anyone else. Robb and Jon had laughed like maniacs, and Theon, perhaps remembering her aversion to seeing her parents kiss, had pointed out marriage included kisses. Arya chuckled at the memory of her five year old self sheepishly asking Jon if he would mind if she never did that. Jon had messed up her hair and said “whatever makes you happy”. Robb had made a show of false anger and asked why wouldn’t she marry him.

Arya knew Jon’s words were true. The Winterfell of her childhood was gone. Her mother and father would not be looking down at them play, Robb was gone and so was Rickon. Theon would be a traitor and wherever she looked she’d see the signs of reconstruction.

And yet… her heart ached for home so much sometimes she pondered the possibilities of just leaving. It’s not what father and mother would do. They’d do their duty. Arya dug her fingers in Nymeria’s fur, hoping she could give her some of her strength.

From the window where she stood, she saw three riders coming to the bridge. The one ahead was armoured, but none carried any banner. Curious, Arya ran down the stairs and into the yard, Nymeria in tow. The bridge was down and the gate was open, for they had told her it had always been that way when her uncle Edmure  ruled, welcoming common folk when they needed protection. Arya had seeked to honor his tradition, despite the war.

She arrived to the courtyard, fur cape clinging to her as a heavy rain chilled her to the bones, Nymeria circling where she stood in protection. The first rider stopped in the middle and as he dismounted all around her the people awed and did little to hide their shock.

The man was tall and lean, his face marked by lines and his hair grey. For the way he bared himself Arya realised quickly that he was a noble and up close she could identify his armor as that of Tully.

“Ned Stark valiant little girl”, he said with a hoarse, smokey voice, lifting hi eyebrow as he glanced at Nymeria, “Queen of Wolves”.

“And you are?” Arya looked around to see several people bow their heads, and as he approached she finally managed to distinct one word among the whispers.

Blackfish.

“Why girl,” he smiled the gentle patient smile of old men, “I’m your uncle, Brynden Tully”.

Chapter Text

Home.

That was Dany’s first thought when the watcher announced that land was visible.

I’m home, brother.

It hurt to think of Viserys, whom she did not mourn nor miss. Does it make me a bad person? To not miss a brother who beat me and sold me like a broodmare?

Daenerys knew she could always ask that to Tyrion and he’d have a sympathetic answer. He too knew all too well that sometime loving your older siblings can be too hard a burden. Despite his constant disagreeing and his drinking and witty remarks, she had grown fond of him, particularly as the journey reached its end and the weather got colder. Locked up in her cabin or below deck along with her advisors, it had been Tyrion who had become the best companion to lighten the mood.

She glanced at the Greyjoy siblings, proud in their kraken armour and looking like they belonged on a ship much more than her. Daenerys had seen Yara smile and jape, yet she had yet to see Theon Greyjoy look anything but miserable. Tyrion had told her in hushed whispers what he had been like back in Winterfell, and how different he was now. It seemed to her that Yara loved her brother but had no clue how to treat him, whereas Dany knew better.

Daenerys Targaryen had been hurt in her life, and she knew it took time to break one’s own mental chains.

But my chains are broken now, nothing separates me from my home, my birthright, my kingdom.

Daenerys rejoiced of the wind on her face, the salty taste on her lips, the castle now visible far away. She was finally to reclaim the only thing her family left her: a legacy, a kingdom, a throne.

The dragons arrived first. She herself was barely stepping on a boat while the dragons already circled the island. There was no reception awaiting on the beach, no army putting a stance. She saw a few children and women picking seafood from afar, and a couple of fishing boats. As they approached, they stared silently in awe at her, at the impressive fleet, at the three dragons.

Her heart beat faster as her boat got closer and closer to the land, dragonstone now visible in all its Valyrian glory. This castle is truly Targaryen, like me. A childish wonder took hold of her as she took in every detail of the last gargoyle in each tower.

And then, in one eternal moment that took her entire life, she touched land. Westeros. Stepping out as if in a daze, she clutched to touch the soil that saw her being born. It was mere damp sand and yet it was everything, it was more than Drogo, more than her children, more than any throne. Home.

Daenerys looked up to the castle and turned to Grey Worm, “is it guarded?”

“This one does not know Khaleesi,” Grey Worm quickly sent orders to the Unsullied to inspect if the keep was manned, “they will come in short time."

“Perhaps there are easier ways to go about." Varys looked for something among the pockets of his robes and approached some of the children and women.

Are they my people now too?

Tyrion was admiring the castle and explaining to Missandei about the first Targaryens to settle there when Varys came back.

“Well?”

“A pathetically small amount of soldiers left behind by Stannis to guard it,” Varys looked at her as if expecting something from her, “surely green boys and old men too troublesome to take to battle."

Dany heard the words behind the words: not the real enemy. “We will give them time to ditch their Baratheon armor and leave as we make our way up slowly."

“I doubt they can afford armor." Tyrion said glancing at the desolate state of the beach.

“Then we shall make them one with Targaryen colors."

Once she arrived to the castle’s gates she found Unsullied and no trace of other guards. She guessed they had fled or hidden. Well, she was Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen this castle was hers and not of any Baratheons. She allowed herself to touch the black walls, to get lost in the eyes of the dragon statues, to admire every carved wyvern, minotaur, griffin, manticore and gargoyle. It did not matter if she had not grown in this castle, this marvelous construction was her family’s legacy, the only thing they ever left her.

When she turned, she saw Missandei and Tyrion look around more horrified than amazed but Daenerys did not care. Too long has she heard her children being called monster, too many times has she played with fire to expect people to always understand. I am the blood of the dragon, they’re not.

The hall had a strange shape, and it took her one long look to realise it as a dragon and that she had entered through its mouth. The hall was simple, and throne little more than a high chair surrounded by the black stone. This was not the room she was looking for. She continued along the castle, carried by an instinct akin to the one that made her love the dragons.

It was located in the highest floor of a tower, what she looked for. When she entered, she was nearly blinded by the light after so long in inside the dark castle. There were windows on all four sides and at its center laid what truly belonged to her: Westeros, carved in stone by orders of Aegon the Conqueror. Every hill and valley was there, years of varnish giving it an old shine. She walked to the chair, right next to the miniature Dragonstone and sat on top of it. Daenerys casted a shadow across the table, like a dragon’s wings darkened the ground underneath it.

“Your Grace."

She did not know how long she had been sitting there staring at the Painted Table. She turned to see Tyrion looking at her, Varys just behind. Daenerys raised her hands to signal at the chairs across the table.

“I suppose I should not expect all of Westeros to put so little a fight."

“No, we shouldn’t” Tyrion says while frowning. “Where’s the wine?”

“On its way, I’m sure."

“First things first, we must write to every high lord. Tell them you’re here, the legitimate heir to the Iron Throne and such." Tyrion hand waved vaguely as he sat, a bit more interested in the details of the table.

“And our allies?” Daenerys questioned, looking at Varys. “Shouldn’t they be here?”

“They… all have their problems, Your Grace." Varys walked to the Iron Islands. “The ironborn have attacked  all along the western shore of Westeros, pillaging and raping abundantly.”

“It is time for our own Ironborn to deliver on their promise,” Tyrion looked out the window towards their armada, “people in Westeros grown angry when monsters like Crow’s Eye are left loose. You will earn their love if you help them get rid of the monster."

“Monster, you say?” Daenerys was the mother of monsters, and had dealt with a fair share of monstrous men in her life. Now is not the time to dwell on that, you’re here to take back what's yours.

“They say he communes with ancient gods, he ties people to the prow of his ship, the Silence, which is navigated by men he cut the tongues off,” Varys looks properly horrified, “without mentioning the stories of his...salt wives."

Those two words were enough to give Daenerys a sick feeling in her stomach. I know well what it is to be forced to play the wife.

“He is a monster” She confirmed. “the Greyjoys must plan the battle and depart at once. Should I send Unsullied with them?”

“I am sure they will go wherever you send them, but as far as I’ve read Unsullied are a land army, are they prepare to fight in a ship and not be nuisance to the sailors?”

“Bu if you say he must be stopped…”

“His army raids people reserves for winter, Your Grace,” said Varys, “rape women, kill children if they have to.

Once, when she had told Tyrion that the people of Westeros would support her, he has treated the idea like an extremely positive assumption. Mereen had taught her best. People will love you as a ruler so long as you help them and do what pleased them. What had ser Jorah said? People cared little for the game of thrones, they prayed for peace and a kind winter, safety and stability.

“If I we help in his defeat… we distract ourselves from King’s Landing...” she began, hoping they would not misunderstand.

“Your Grace, King’s Landing is densely populated, to use the dragons-” began Varys at the same time as Tyrion.

“Perhaps approaching so swiftly with dragons to the capital is not such a great idea."

“What I meant was that I need our plan to be effective in dealing with the Ironborn because we must not lose sight of my real objective." I must not again allow myself to dwell on different fights.

“Of course, your Grace." Varys, ever respectful, bowed his head.

“We must get our allies here, make a plan against Crow’s Eye and Cersei, defeat the first and then the other.” She ordered. And then, I shall what is mine

“Euron Greyjoy has a blockade in King’s Landing. I fear it will be difficult for our allies to travel by sea, no one can safely sail past Blackwater Bay.”

“By foot, then.”

“It’s a long jouney…” Varys began, doubtful and cautions, “but much safer if they steer closer to the Reach and the Riverlands and then head east."

“And the Riverlands?”

“Write to them” Tyrion said quickly. “They’ve been ravaged by war, and hold no love for Cersei.”

“Lady Arya Stark is there to rule so long as the Tully boy remains… a boy."

“Then we will write to her." Tyrion shrugged his shoulders. It didn’t seem to occur to him than a girl, who had no claim to the Riverlands and that ended up in its controlling it, was a danger. “I doubt the Stark girl will want to see Cersei crowned, after all, she set her wolf on Joffrey once."

“Her uncle and grandfather were executed by a Targaryen king," Varys told her softly, as if she didn’t already know. He ignored her irritation, however, “her aunt kidnapped by your brother, Your Grace."

“You make a great case against me.” That was all that she answered, once again feeling that to be judged by her family's crimes was unfair. She turned to Tyrion. “And do you forget? Her brother is king of the North, and much more likely to gain allies than Cersei."

“Write to Jon Snow." Tyrion, “listen to me, he is no Cersei, he has a good head upon his shoulders. He will try to be every bit the honorable Stark his father was. And the Starks knelt once, they can do it again."

“I have no wish to rampage Westeros with three dragons, we will write to every single one of them to invite them  to kneel and swear fealty.” Dany was sure of this part if the plan, what she doubted was the answers she would receive. “But I am not a child. I do not believe everyone is secretly toasting for the return of a Targaryen queen. What should we do with those… who do not kneel?”

“I heard my father say once, that to ensure loyalty one must punish rebelling subjects, but when they are on their knees asking for help, then one must help them stand again." Tyrion looked at her as if it killed him to quote his father, “no one here will harbor you any special love for being Targaryen. Your dragons are creatures of amazement, but they sooner cause fear rather than love.”

“Your point being?” Daenerys grew irritated to his answer. He probably thought her own thoughts went along the lines of fire and blood, and he wasn’t entirely wrong. When lords bowed to Aegon the Conqueror, he was generous to them. Only to the stubborn enemies did he ever punish with dragonfire. She bowed to herself to maintain a similar policy.

“You must be a perfect ruler, Dany. Which I know is not easy, but-”

“I don’t have to be taught on duty, I’ll have you know." Dany chastised herself for snapping at him. I am a woman grown, a queen, not a child. “I understand what you mean…. Tyrion."

Missandei and Grey Worm entered along with a string of maids. Daenerys noticed immediately that they were not of any eastern city and she knew straight away they were locals. She made a point of smiling at them as they served their wine and produced paper, ink and quill for them. Once they were done, they left quietly, Grey Worm closing the door.

“Thank you Missandei."

“Your Grace."

Tyrion sat with a cup of wine filled to the top and set aside some parchment as he readied the ink. Daenerys would doubt of the wisdom of writing while drinking wine if she didn’t like him better with a cup of wine than sober. Perhaps he is more amiable while drinking, his words kinder and more likely to get a diligent response. Is that what she would never get? Her dragons would ensure her fealty, even allies, but friends? Would she ever have any Westerosi friend?

Dany’s eyes went to examine Varys, who had walked to the window to look out to the Narrow Sea. He was a foreigner, unlike her, and claimed to follow her because she would protect the people, and it was only for that sole reason that he played the game in her favor. But if I do wrong, will he tell me with kindness and patience, with firmness ad clarity… or would he plot behind my back? It was a dangerous train of thought, for her chief strategist was brought over by Varys himself, a Lannister of all people.

Stop, she told herself. She remembered her father’s sins and her own family’s demise. I am the last dragon. I will not risk my kingdom by paranoia and fear. I am the blood of the dragon. Dragons were lost until she hatched the eggs and paid her price in fire and blood. She would not her father, insecure and rash. I will be better. Daenerys had lost everything and rose from the ashes, she knew patience, she knew kindness, she knew she could help people to break their chains and she knew she could be wiser.

“Bring Yara Greyjoy and her brother, please," Daenerys told Missandei, “it’s time we talk.”

The girl left as Varys turned to her, suspicion behind his deceitfully soft words, “so it is with dragons and ironborn that you plan to take the capital, Your Grace?”

“And burn the city to the ground and have the ironborn pillage and rape?” Dany turned to him with a smirk. She knew what he feared, and she would give him no reason to fear so. “No."

“You can’t use the Dothraki either,” said Tyrion, frowning. “Where is the maester? He should be here by now.”

“My lord of Lannister.” A stranger’s voice came from the barely opened door, a young face looking at her hand impassibly. His eyes looked at her with something akin to wonder. No fear. “Your Grace,” he tentatively stepped in under Grey Worm’s watchful eye. Daenerys stepped up as he approached her, kneeling before her. “I am maester Pylos."

“Rise," Dany gave him a warm smile as he looked up to her nervously, “serve me loyally and wisely and you will have naught to fear, maester Pylos."

“We could use the more recent news of Westeros." Tyrion asks, shrugging his shoulders at Varys offended look. It seemed smart to her, to double check the Spider’s information.

“My lord , winter has settled deep in the country. Soon food will be scarce and that is an issue that looms over all of us as a threat."

“Are there no reserves?” Daenerys would not let her people starve,  and she knew wars drained resources. Yet she had expected people to at least have winter reserves.

“Not many,” maester Pylos approached the table, signaling different regions, “Dorne’s warmer weather may help them for some extra time, same for the Reach, but if they will be helping Your Grace in a conquering war, then they will produce less exactly when we need them to grow every last seed.”

“The North has survived harsher weather all these years, without perishing, which means even if it's hard they’ve made it through." Tyrion said nonchalantly.

“At what price?” Dany turned to him, raising her voice, she remembered reading once that the North often had to buy food during the worst of winter, with the weakest perishing. “It is not for nothing that is much less populated and their people are thought strong. Will my reign begin by depriving people of sustent and forcing them to become as grim as northerners, their numbers scarcer and their ways of living dead to the cold?”

“You think Aegon the Conquerer thought about that when he and his sisters burned everything on the Field of Fire?”

“Perhaps not but I will." Dany emphasized. Maybe she imagined Varys approving glance, but she was certain she saw Tyrion set his lips in a thin line. There was a tense silence that was only interrupted by a cough from the maester. “Any other news?”

“Crow’s eye has left King’s Landing along with some of the Lannister fleet. The maesters at Oldtown are worried that they plan on wiping out the Redwyne fleet."

“Cersei means to weaken Olenna Tyrell sea power." Tyrion traced his fingers along the map. “Weaken them by the west, keep the ironborn there… she can attack them from the west and they will have nowhere to run."

“Is the Redwyne fleet so important to their power?” Dany asked.

“Part of the Tyrell army was destroyed with the burning of the sept of Baelor, and they must always have another part of it defending their borders with Dorne and the Stormlands.”

“The Redwyne fleet has not seen war and remains strong, organized and complete, it is their stronger force and useful to us." Tyrion gave the last part great emphasis.

The Redwyne fleet… Daenerys had read once that it was the third largest fleet in Westeros after the royal fleet and the iron fleet. The royal fleet is rightfully mine, she thought. Yet it remained in King’s Landing under the service of the Lannister woman. And she was letting this man pillage and rape so long as he helped her defeat her enemies. Dany clenched her fists, indignant and irritated.

“We’ll make good work on them. Finish their violent plundering with fire and blood." She closed her eyes at the men’s stares. I will answer injustice with justice, and I will teach them what kind of queen I shall be.

“What about King’s Landing?” Tyrion asked.

“Will Cersei kneel to my warning?” she signaled to the letters he was writing.

“Cersei giving up any power is a fool’s dream." Tyrion gave her a sarcastic smile.

“But surely my queen will not wish to just enter and burn everyone?” Varys asked.

“I believe we’ve established I’m not the one willing to burn everything?” Daenerys snapped back at him, tired with his assumptioms of her character.

“All the more reason not to scare Cersei Lannister."

“I-”

“Perhaps, forgive me your grace, perhaps let us leave King’s Landing to after we’ve dealt with the ironborn problem?”

“What Ironborn problem?” Yara Greyjoy stood on the doorway, smirking, confident and dangerous. Her brother was behind her, meek and silent.

“Your uncle Euron,” Daenerys said slowly “a most monstrous man, I can’t understand why he was chosen."

“Men follow strength, and he has the strength to slaughter even his own ironborn men." Yara shook her head in disapproval, “they’re idiots, but I will teach them I’m stronger."

It is no strength to slay your fellow countrymen.

“We will teach them."

“You will go with them, your Grace?” Varys asked surprised.

“Olenna Tyrell has promised her help, she has promise she will swear fealty,” Dany turned to Tyrion, “what kind of Queen would I be if I do not help my subjects stand again?”

“I will kneel to victory, and my people to peace,” Yara Greyjoy turned to her brother. “Our islands, our black soil and stones, our halls, too long they have been forgotten by the men of my house in favor of empty conquests and failed rebellions."

“Go to the Arbor, help the Tyrell armada, defeat them and reclaim Pyke. Kill the Crow’s Eye and his sailors...” Dany clenched her fist, “And when they look up, they will see my dragons."

“So it shall be,” Yara’s determination was clear in the fierceness of her eyes, surely glad that retaking her home was the first item on her list."

“Theon,” Tyrion spoke up before the siblings could leave, “wait outside for a moment, if you could."

The siblings exchanged a look as Dany looked to her advisor. He gave her the slightest nod, and she understood he would explain in a moment. The ironborn departed, the door closing as Theon leaned on a wall outside the chamber.

For her part, Dany walked over to where Tyrion had been writing different letters. A closer look showed her he had been writing a generic similar litter to different lords. She didn’t know all the houses, though she read some familiar names. The queen sat next to her hand as he explained his plotting in a low voice.

“That was smart, Your Grace." He smiled at her, “I don’t say that often."

“Thank you... I do listen, I’ll have you know." Dany quipped. She remembered his caution words in Volantis…. her allies wouldn’t wait forever for her to deliver on her promise.

“I shall ask again… will the Unsullied go with you?” Tyrion looked up to Grey Worm. Dany smiled at her trusted Unsullied.

“This one will go wherever the Queen  send him."

“And I thank you, but I believe…” She turned to Tyrion to find him looking away from his letters and toward the sculptured west of the table, “my lord Hand has other ideas."

“The ironborn are not like you and your men, surely you’ve noticed that by now.” Tyrion looked up with a smirk towards a perfectly composed Grey Worm.

“What some men lack what others have,” Grey Worm furrowed his brow and made a show of having to look down at Tyrion, “this one believes you know that feeling too."

“Good one, see, learning to jape is not that hard,” Dany did not missed the exchanged looks between Missandei, Grey Worm and Tyrion but when she looked at Varys he seemed as lost at her. Tyrion did not bother explaining. “What I meant was of course, they’re not a disciplined army… and the Unsullied are not sea warriors."

“We will battle wherever we are sent, we do not know fear."

“Yes but it is a waste of resources,” Tyrion looked at her, “and we can use them better."

“Explain.”

“You won’t like what I will say.” He warned as he walked to the other side of the table, standing right across from her.

“I have not made it this far by only listening to what I like to hear."

“Let the ironborn sort each other out, wait, hear me here,” Tyrion held up his hand, “Yara Greyjoy has no intention of supporting you but in name only. She won’t betray you, she will be loyal. She will call you queen and bend her knee. But the superiority of her promise to her men lies in swearing to them she won’t involve them in more wars. She will win them by giving them what she said right here: raid to sustain themselves, fight only within their border to keep their way of living."

“And if she drags them to my war…”

“She will lose whatever support she gains," Varys nodded, “you’re right. I’ve been listening to the tales of the kingsmoot. Euron won by promising too much, but when he doesn’t deliver and you end him, Yara must make good on her words.”

“But I can’t go back on my own word then.” Daenerys frowned at them.

“No… and you will not. You will go, your dragons will go. But not your entire army…” Tyrion walked along the edge of the table, his finger tracing the border until they landed in a notoriously enormous hill, “they will go to Casterly Rock.”

His home. Daenerys looked up to find him looking at her rather than the miniature of his home.

“Is it wise?” She dared to ask, not wanting to sound fearful despite the fact that the Unsullied were her more trusted force of arms.

“Your army is the largest by far in all of Westeros." Tyrion’s words were true, but Dany could not help the doubts in her mind. She saw no use in Casterly Rock, Cersei seemed completely uncaring of it, and Arya Stark had taken back most of the northern lands of the Westerlands in the name of the Young Wolf.

Daenerys remained silent as Tyrion looked at her expectantly. She looked to Missandei who seemed as confused as herself. Then she directed her eyes to Varys. He has been very silent. “What do you have to say?”

He took a deep breath as he accommodated his layers of clothing.  “The ironborn of Euron are not so different to Yara’s men, Your Grace. Perhaps it is better that they sort each other out instead of using them to attack King’s Landing.”

“Let Yara Greyjoy crush Cersei’s only ally. Take Casterly Rock… take Storm’s End, gain Highgarden and Sunspear…. drown her until there is nothing for her to do but fight or surrender.”

“And then?”

“And then leave her to me.” Tyrion finished threatenly.

“Save the Redwyne fleet first then, keep Highgarden strong and the Reach safe."

“Send the Dothraki screamers to guard the Reach if you must." Tyrion looked at her. “Casterly Rock and Lannisport are the only places Cersei can find money, and the Reach must be cared for so it will feed the realm in winter.”

When we arrive to King’s Landing, we will find a weakened enemy.

“Do that then,” Dany looked at the door, “what is going on there?”

“He knew the Starks, he knows the North and Winterfell,” Tyrion looked at her then, “we need to know."

“I thought you said this Jon Snow would kneel."

“I said he is no Cersei. He was also made king by the Northerners…. what if they do not wish to bend the knee? There are now two Stark girls whose name could be used and be crowned.” Tyrion seemed to finally see what Dany and Varys feared, two girls with ancient family names could be a serious threat. “We must know as much of the North as we can… as much of the Stark ladies as we can."

“Very well, I trust you will see what good information comes out of Theon Greyjoy’s mouth.”

“We’ve discussed the Iron Islands, the Reach and even the North” Varys stood south of the table, high above the carved ups and downs of the dunes of Dorne. “What of your dornish allies?”

“What news you have from Sunspear?”

“They still hate Cersei… they’ve had some problem gathering men to their cause.”

“You’d think they’d jump at the chance to avenge Oberyn,” Tyrion grimaced, “but I guess Doran’s death must’ve let them unorganized."

“It is not the death of Doran,” maester Pylos corrected, “it is the death of his heir Trystane which has caused unrest."

“Trystanne Martell is dead?!” Tyrion seemed overly concerned as he turned to Varys. “You failed to mention that.”

“I said the deal was done with Ellaria Sand and his daughters."

“Dorne is different, you knew we would all assume they had big parts in Trystane ruling beside him… no one would blame him for trusting his uncle’s paramour and his bastard cousins."

“You said Doran’s inaction was his doom… why would his child be punished for it?” Daenerys did not like what was being implied here, that he had been punished for nothing in a move to grab power.

“Send me there,” Tyrion demanded, his eyes begging, “send me at once and I may-”

“This alliance is based in a common hatred for Cersei, you really think a Lannister is a good choice to send as emissary… the one Oberyn died fighting for?” Varys asked and Dany once again found information had been hidden from her.

“You said he died trying to get justice for Elia, Rhaenys and Aegon." Rhaegar’s children, we would’ve grown up together as siblings rather than cousins.

“That was his objective,” Tyrion explained rushedly, “my trial was the mere instrument.”

“What more have you neglected to tell me?”

“My niece Myrcella was in Dorne betrothed to Trystane,” Tyrion softened then, “the girl’s only crime is being Cersei’s daughter… she is innocent in all this. I… I sorted out the betrothal so she’d be safe from the War of the Five Kings.”

He feels responsible for her. The usual fear of betrayal grew on her. Children are innocent. What fault did she have for her father’s crimes? How scared was she when she was sent to marry her sun and stars? Daenerys shut her eyes at the memory of her wedding night, of begging Viserys to go home and not marry to an unknown man from a foreign land.

“I’m sure they can be reasoned with… you said it was Cersei’s champion who killed him, why fault the girl?”

“Doubt they can be reasoned with in this matter," Varys did not hide his discomfort, “I’m sorry but the girl is dead as well."

Tyrion set his cup down lower, his eyes burning through Varys. For her part, Dany felt a passing sadness for the girl and for him, but she could not help thinking that her family carried the sad memory of dead children as well.

“Poor thing, last I saw her she was crying as I send her to Dorne....” Tyrion sent Varys a reproachful look. “How did she die?”

“Your brother was sent by Cersei to fetch her home… he arrived to King’s Landing with the body."

“She arrived dead from Dorne?” Tyrion was seething. “Was it them?”

“Answer him, now.” Daenerys ordered after Varys prolonged silence.

“Your sister blamed Ellaria and her daughters, too."

“And was it their fault?!”

“Even my little birds can’t know everything… poison is a common weapon among powerful women."

“I am a powerful woman, and I will have no business with child murderers,” Daenerys felt rage awakening inside her. “I am not stupid enough to not see… it is entirely possible this Sand Snakes killed their own cousin, their kin and rightful lord.”

“You cannot afford to lose an ally, my lady," he turned to Tyrion and then back at her. “Joffrey conveniently died when he wed Margaery, you think Olenna Tyrell would have let her granddaughter marry him? No… I bet she made sure she got meek little Tommen. You will stop being allies with her too?”

“To Seven Hells with your whispers, Spider.” Tyrion practically spat the last word. “Myrcella was no Joffrey. She was innocent,” he looked at her then and Dany felt as if judged by one of her very own dragons. “I came to you because I thought the innocent wouldn’t have to pay for what they had no part of."

That shocked her enough for her to sit. So far, it seemed Tyrion had joined for nothing more than revenge on his sister.  But perhaps he was like her, for Dany too had more reasons for the Iron Throne than a mere wish to impose her right.

She had hoped to leave a legacy in Westeros, the home that never was her home. Dany hoped for more than to be be remembered as the mother of dragons… though she was just that, she knew in her heart she could be more. I could be a good queen… I can be remembered for breaking the wheel.

But how could she do anything without allies? Daenerys knew she couldn’t just use dragonfire. Remember Tyrion’s own apprehensions… dragonfire does not get you loyalty.

“I understand the severity of their actions,” she began, Tyrion ….., “but I can’t be left with just one ally."

“Can’t you?”

“When Cersei is done for, when the North kneels, when every lord has bent the knee… we will have justice for those children."

“You think I followed you because I trusted in the laws of Gods and men?” Tyrion scoffed. “You know, I would’ve understood… when the time came I would’ve understood that I’d have to accept you killing my brother. But I will not abide this, your Grace.” He leaned closer to sneer at her, “you are here to retake what the usurper took from your family, which he did by killing children. What do you think this women are if not usurpers and child murderers?”

He stood up, leaving Dany shocked.  “Tyrion-”

“Forgive me, your Grace, your lord hand must see to other business."

The silence hung heavy as he shut the door with excessive force. She hardly noticed when maester Pylos took his leave, Daenerys did not remember the last time she had been treated so abruptly by… an advisor? a servant?  Missandei and Grey Worm remained stone faced and silent. Would they ever treat her like this? Would ser Jorah?

She wanted to be angry, indignant as she would be if anyone dared to speak in such manner… but it was not so, she felt sad, and conflicted. Daenerys felt compassion, and she closed her eyes remembering ser Jorah’s words… I am good. And yet… she could not risk being stupid.

“Your Grace,we-”

“I’m not credulous enough to think you just forgot to mention these deaths.” She interrupted Varys, for her anger could not handle excuses.

“I knew how you would react, your grace.”

What does he know of dealing with dragons?

“Did you now?” She walked to the high chair and sat there, looking down on him with disdain.

“Yes… but I thought it more important that you kept allies to sit yourself on the throne."

“You really think me so stupid that I’d imagine you have such a loyalty? That you’re blindly following me because you think I’m the rightful choice to sit on the Iron Throne?”

“I don’t think you’re the rightful choice, I think you’re the best choice." Varys seemed to finally speak with honesty. “I have served more than one king, your Grace. You think I had ever seen compassion and solidarity towards the common men? I insist on you having allies so you sit on the throne because I believe you will be a good queen, who will find rulership is her duty toward the common folk."

Daenerys tried very hard to keep her face a stone, but inwardly she wondered why Tyrion could not see the bigger picture she and Varys were seeing. Or perhaps he did, which is why he was so upset.

Dany took her fingers to pinch the tip of her nose as she closed her eyes tightly. She’d achieve nothing with no allies, except relying on the dragons which was exactly what she did not wish to do.

“I may need alliances, but I also need smart, loyal and capable people at side," like Tyrion, she wished to say, “I will not trust your words no longer."

“You shouldn’t,” he shrugged “I care for the people, who need Cersei to be stopped and your conquest to be short and bloodless. I will always fight for the people, even if it means I will counsel you things you won’t like. But if you don’t like it, feed me to your dragons if you wish, it will not make me change my prerogative."

Perhaps this is his most useful trait, his counsel will not be swayed because of my children. Dany once again tried to search for any treachery in his eyes, but found none. “Very well, leave me alone."

“Your Grace.” He bowed his head and turned to the door, his face unreadable.

“Grey Worm, please, make sure lord Varys does not disturb the lord Hand in any way." Her faithful Unsullied bowed as he made to follow Varys. If the Spider felt in any way threatened or insulted by her command, he did not show it.

Silence filled the room as only Missandei and herself remained, the woman quickly reading Dany’s thoughts and serving her some win. She was not fond of Tyrion’s drinking but only now finally Dany understood the need to gulp down an entire cup in one go.

“I shall leave alone, Your Grace." Missandei filled her cup, set the wine down and turned to leave, but Dany did not truly wished to be alone.

“Stop." She commanded easily, and quickly enough Missandei stopped and turned to face her. She serves me too. “I don’t need solitude."

“What do you need, Your Grace?” Missandei asked in a sweet voice, so caring that she felt her heart softening. But she’s the only one I have.

“A friend," Daenerys answered in a bout of honesty. Missandei smiled diligently, stepping closer. Her maid was too mindful of respect to actually sit, so it is Dany herself who signaled the seat next to her.

“How does it feel to be back home?”

It was a difficult question to answer. She wanted to feel like  she was back home, but the only memory of home she had is the house with the red door in Braavos where she found refuge as a child.  This castle, in all its marvelous Targaryen heritage made her feel both like she belonged and as if she had missed out on being a royal Targaryen most of her life. In the end, all Daenerys could answer was silence and a question of her own.

“Do you remember Naath, Missandei?”

“The beautiful ocean… the sand…” a smile escaped unbidden from her lips, “the butterflies."

How lucky of her, to have memories.

“I don’t remember Dragonstone” Dany confided after a long silence, “I have a near memory of a home in Braavos but…”

Missandei nods as her voice trails off, and undeniably Daenerys knows that she must understand what is to be taken from your home until the word became an empty memory. Dany could not see her own sadness reflected and instead focused intensely on the shining surface of the table.

“If I went back to Naath, I would find no home there. My family was taken and sold along with me, and no one I care about would remain nor would I remember them.” If she was crying, Dany could not tell only from hearing her voice, but she refused to look up and deprive Missandei of a moment of vulnerability. “I’d have no mission in life other than a simpleton life. With you, I have a mission, a chance for something else… and in it, the knowledge that-”

“That what?” Dany looked up to find Missandei blushing and looking away, so she reached for her hand and made her look back at her.

“That I have people who care."

That is my mission, Daenerys thought as her heart warmed to her words, that people know I am a Queen who cared. And in order to be that, she will endure alliances she detests. When it’s all settled, she will make sure justice comes sooner rather than later. And yet she wanted Tyrion to know she valued his support…  “How do I show him that I care?”

Missandei was too smart and did not need to ask whom she was referring to. “I think… he said plainly whom he cared for… and there really is one thing your Grace could offer that would… ensure he saw you as I did."

I know what she means, and I like none of it. But duty and ruling was not about what she wanted, but what she needed to do. When she turned to see Missandei, she found her sympathetic eyes giving her a sad smile. Forgive me father, mother, brother… “Pass me that ink and parchment.”

*/*

She found him outside, looking out to the sea and to the dragons flying above it. A wineskin in his hand, he was casually leaning against the low stone wall. Daenerys did not falter in her step, thought she clutched the rolled parchment in her hand. If he felt her approaching, he did not acknowledge her. He did not even say a word as she leaned against the stone next to him, admiring the shine on Viserion’s golden scales. Rhaegal and Drogon seemed to enjoy flying closer to the sea, yet Viserion flew higher, closer to the grey clouds above.

“Tyrion.”

“Your Grace.”

The rage was gone from his voice. She wondered how many times had he had to swallow his anger and indignation and pretend for others. Daenerys knew the feeling as well, and remembered the Slave Masters pretending the justice she seeked was of no importance.

“What would it take… for you to accept this alliance?” She asked softly, to which he simply drank from his wineskin and scratched his beard.

“I’m afraid only a dragon would do, your Grace.” It was a joke, she can tell even if he’s not smiling. She shakes her head no as she offered a smile. Tyrion drinks from the wineskin again. “I understand the alliance must continue, I will go along with it. After all… I’m sure that Myrcella’s death hurt  Cersei the most.”

“Doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt you.”

For all answer, he raised the wineskin towards her and drank again. When he was done, he cleaned himself with the back his sleeve and smiled. “So… about that dragon…”

“Not a chance,” she began, then procured the parchment and passed it to him. She had not sealed it so he could read it and be sure she was not lying, “but perhaps I can give you something more.”

He took the paper warily, setting the wine aside and reading out loud. “I, Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen…” she closed her eyes as he listed her titles, preparing herself for the words he would say next, ..."hereby pardon Jaime Lannister of the legal capital punishment for treason against King Aerys, on the condition that he spends the rest of his days serving the Night’s Watch, honoring there his vows of knighthood.”

Silence hung heavy between them, Tyrion not yet looking up as she awaited his reaction.  Smiles were gone, and she hoped it weighed on him what this meant for her. Her father might’ve been cruel, but he was her father and the rightful king, and she was the last Targaryen that remained that could get justice for his murder.

“I don’t know what to say, your Grace.” His voice cracked and he cleared his throat as he looked up. Gratitude was clear in his eyes.

“I’m afraid it won’t be very useful if he meets us in battle, thought I gave order to Grey Worm that if possible he must not be killed.” Daenerys looked at her children, her strength and protection. “And I made sure Missandei and Varys signed as witnesses… should something happen to me.”

Tyrion nodded as the lump in his neck moved up and down, and his eyes read the letter again . “I hope the fool does not waste this in favor dying… I will have to convince him of freezing his arse for the rest of his life on The Wall."

“He killed my father,” she accused, feeling that the Kingslayer should be thankful. She took a deep breath as she remembered why she did this, “but you are my friend.”

Tyrion looked up at her then, shocked, grateful and content. This, she realised, warmed her as Missandei’s words had.

“Thank you… Daenerys.”

Daenerys admired her children flying at dusk time. It was weird how now the sun settled not on the sea but on the land behind her, the deep horizon already a dark blue. Yet another thing I will have to get used to, she thought.

“My queen” came an urgent voice behind her, speaking high valyrian. Daenerys turned to find Grey Worm running to her in the most possibly strict manner. He arrived in front of her and bowed his head.

“What is it, Grey Worm?” Tyrion asked puzzled, holding the parchment close to his chest.

“Two men washed up on the shore in a boat.”

“That can hardly be cause for such a rush,” Daenerys shared a quick look with Tyrion between smiling at Grey Worm, “I’m sure you can show them to an inn.”

“They had escaped King’s Landing, claimed to have hardly made it here… the lord Varys knew them and said I should get you at once.”

“Varys isn’t a lord,” Tyrion corrected, but then started walking, “we best go see what this is about.”

The stairs upwards to the castle were much harder a challenge than going down. Grey Worm, of course, seemed not at all affected by the long walk, whereas Tyrion and herself seemed to make a competition to see which was could hold their labored breaths better. By the time they were near the chamber of the Painted Table, Daenerys could not help the little laugh that escaped her lips when Tyrion suggested next time the dragons gave them a lift.

When they entered the room, they found Missandei standing properly and quietly next to the table, Varys beside her staring at a pair of men dressed in plain clothing. They were both clearly haggard, though one was younger than the other and seemed much more uneasy. The older man, grey haired and humble looking, lowered his eyes upon Daenerys entrance. The younger one, though handsome, seemed to have a mistrustful frown carved in his face and did not look away from any of them.

Neither knelt at her presence. Not even when Missandei listed Daenerys titles did they kneel. Dany would’ve been bothered if it weren’t for the fact that they seemed two simple common men and she was curious why was it that her presence was required.

“This man is ser Davos Seaworth,” Varys motioned to the old man, who grimaced at her master of spies but said nothing. “He was Hand of the King to Stannis Baratheon, and now he is an… advisor to the King in the North.”

Before Daenerys could say anything or truly feel anything regarding the man, Tyrion spoke. “What? The King in the North did not grant you the same honor as Stannis?”

Daenerys cursed his joke, wondering if wouldn’t this be the moment for diplomacy and perhaps start an offer for the North to kneel. Ser Davos frowned and when he spoke, his words were ripe with accusation.

“You’re Tyrion Lannister. Your wildfire killed my son when we sieged King’s Landing.”

Tyrion however, seemed unaffected by this and squinted his eyes as he asked, “Tell me… if your siege had succeeded, and your son and me had been faced in battle, wouldn’t he have killed me too?”

There was silence after that, at it seemed ser Davos actually had an answer which he chose to silence. Daenerys had no fondness for the Stannis which Viserys said had gone to find them all the way to Dragonstone butcher them, but even she could see Tyrion’s was justifying helping the bastard Joffrey remain in power.

“And this,” Varys piped in as he signaled the younger man, “is Gendry, a blacksmith apprentice from the Street of Steel.”

This, however, did have a reaction from both men, who did not hide their shock. The younger one, Gendry, sharply turned to Varys. “How do you know my name?” Never has Daenerys heard so much mistrust in a voice. Varys shifted slightly, looking at her of all people, as if wondering if he should answer.

“I paid the fee for your apprenticeship to Tobho Mott.”

His answer was short and made little to no sense to Dany. It seemed it did not settle Tyrion either. “Why would you pay the fee of some lad of King’s Landing?”

She saw ser Davos close his eyes slowly and she knew there was something they did not wish to share. Varys delay at answering all but confirmed it. Once again, she felt the paranoia crept inside her, but she willed her temper to remain at bay. “Varys,” she warned, “answer the question.”

“I had reasons to believe the lad would be… useful alive, well and trained.” Varys answered, once again an answer which explained nothing.

“You were the one who told Tobho to send me with the Night’s Watch.” Gendry said, furrowed brow and angry eyes. They shone brightly under his coal black hair.

“I’ve been to the Wall, I would’ve remembered you,” Tyrion said and he stepped closer, a fascinated smile on his face. Daenerys shot him a questioning look at his choice of words, but he ignored her and continued his talking, “anyone who ever knew Robert and Renly could see it,” he turned to her then, not before giving a sly smile at Verys, “this lad here is a Baratheon… most likely, a bastard of Robert, am I correct?”

A son of the Usurper, Daenerys thought. Fire awoke inside her and she quickly turned to Varys,  noticing everyone else doing the same.

“Well, he wasn’t going to be Stannis or Renly’s, wasn’t he?”

“I don’t care for that fat drunk king.” Gendry spat, seeming to despite being the topic of conversation. She did not know what to make of his words, but Tyrion laughed wholeheartedly while ser Davos shook his head softly. Daenerys was angry at the secrecy, and once again frustrated at Varys strange definition of loyalty.

“I am queen now,” she said strongly, looking at Varys and hoping he understood there would be consequences for his apparent duplicity, “we will talk later. Now,” she turned to look at these haggard men who were much more than what they seemed, “why are you two here.”

“We did not plan it, your Grace. Getting out of King’s Landing was much more difficult than expected and we ended up here.” Ser Davos seemed to know his manners much better, or at least, he cared to show them. He bowed his head when he addressed her and grimaced at the next words. “I serve the King in the North, he sent me back to the Stormlands to-”

“To give them back a rightful Baratheon king?” Tyrion asked, his amusement gone. Daenerys walked to the high chair, sitting top it and letting it give her height and power. She had a feeling a time had come to play a game of power, and this feeling was confirmed by Tyrion slowly walking to sit to her right, adjusting his pin. Have they seen the dragons? Are they aware of our strength?

“Not at all, that was not the intention-”

“I don’t want to be king or lord or anything,” quickly clarified Gendry. Ser Davos gave him an annoyed look, but the man shrugged his shoulders and then looked at her, “your Grace.” His clear blue eyes were sincere, she could see that. “I never met him, your Grace.”

I know that feeling all too well, Dany thought. She looked away so he couldn’t see that she had already decided he was no threat. He was obstinate and perhaps stubbornly indifferent to their desires for the throne, but he was not an enemy. When she looked back at him, she saw a orphan. “Ser Davos,” she turned to the man who looked at her expectantly, “I think it’s time you explain you and your... king’s intentions.”

Ser Davos looked at her in the eyes and let out a breath, he seemed to be bracing himself for a war. “We wanted to give the Stormlands the chance of having a rightful Baratheon lord in hopes they’d support us.”

“Against Cersei.” She guessed, hoping that perhaps there was hope for a peaceful solution. If we have a common enemy, and they kneel…

“No.” He said but quickly raised his hands. “We didn’t mean to take the Iron Thrones with their support or put the lad there. We just wanted an ally because of the threat beyond the Wall.”

Does he take me for a fool? Daenerys frowned and looked to her right. Tyrion seemed to be remembering something, unaware of he looks. She remembered he had talked of his journey to the Wall while they sailed here, yet he had described it as an army of thieves and rapist out there as punishment, fighting skirmishes against savages.

“What threat?” Varys voice was patient but, ultimately, incredulous.

“The army of the dead. Creatures of ice and death which seek nothing but our destruction. And their king, able to revive corpses into weapons destroyed only by fire.”

This is worse than Viserys fantasies of the people drinking in secret to their name, she thought angrily, this is a fantasy tale to scare children. Daenerys could not speak of the indignation. She’d much rather they be honest and straightforward with their intentions.

“When I was Hand of the King to Joffrey, the Night’s Watch wrote of similar problems… now it seems the King of the North himself believes this fantasies…”

“No fantasies, my lord.” Ser Davos looks at her pleadingly. “The Night’s Watch can confirm it, the free folk who crossed the Wall can confirm it. King Jon is not in the North now, he is in the Vale seeking men who will fight for the living. You have experience being a queen, your Grace, do you think any ruler leaves his kingdom just after crowned without a damn good reason?”

She had no answer for that, or rather , her answer was that he was right. No one in their sound mind would just leave a recently acquired kingdom unless it was urgent to do so. Daenerys turned to Tyrion, remembering he had made a case for the Starks kneeling once. His eyes found hers and he motioned for her to lean closer as he stood up to speak in her ear.

“Jon Snow is no superstitious simpleton, Daenerys, he was raised in a castle taught by a maester, trained by a master-at-arms.” He whispered, Dany looked at him, and was shocked to see him worried. She understood what he meant. It’s one thing to hear rumours from lonely soldiers freezing in the lonely Wall. It’s another thing to see a person you know to be smart, a king, risk an entire kingdom. “Mayhaps… we invite him here, listen to what he has to say.”

“I will not have my kingdom divided in two.” She warned to him in a whisper, just so he knew where she drew the line. “But if the North needs help, if they are on their knees asking for help, then I must help them stand again.”

He took a step back, perhaps surprised that she remembering the words he had quoted or maybe amazed that she too, like him, believed perhaps it was worth it to hear what the King in the North had to say. Tyrion nodded and then walked over for the ink and paper.

“I believe you must write to your king, ser Davos.”

Chapter Text

Loud chat filled the courtyard with noise. However, Arya felt silence inside of her. She could feel behind her that maester Vyman had come, as had Roslin and Edmyn. Initially her own silence had been a product of her concentration to finding out if the man in front of her was truly the Blackfish. Her search for deceit in his eyes was interrupted by the arrival of the maester confirming his identity by nearly jumping of joy.

But by then Arya had been distracted by something else.

The two other riders that accompanied her uncle Brynden had dismounted, signaling to the guards that another group was behind… more riders, with one of the horses pulling a cart. And on the cart… a wooden casket.

“No,” she whispered brokenly. She felt her uncle, Roslin and the maester looking at her. Please don’t let it be what I think it is. I’m not ready, I can’t-

“They found her by the river… long after the wedding. Roote bent the knee but he recognized his lord’s daughter when so many bodies washed up on Harroway.” His words seemed so far away Arya did not realise he was withing touch until he laid a gentle hand on her shoulder and she practically jumped. “It’s a gruesome affair child, you will wish for privacy.”

Of course I will. Arya closed her eyes and fought back tears, “please don’t touch me.”

“Let us go inside,” she heard maester Vyman say as her uncle lifted his heavy hand, “best you settle your affairs with wine and proper clothing.”

“Ha! Proper clothing, don’t you remember me at all Vyman?”

Arya could no longer stand the view of the cart carrying her mother approaching the gates. She turned and walked slowly inside until she was hidden from view, and then she ran, ran to the godswood with Nymeria hot on her heels. The tears did not come when she was gone from view, nor did they fall when she entered the sacred woods. They pooled at the corner of her eyes and fell freely as she knelt in front of the thin weirwood, it’s sad carved face a reflection of her own.

Its red dry sap tears felt like her own, crying felt like bleeding out. It hurt her so deep she thought a sword had run through her stomach. She could hear her own ugly croaky sobs and wished no more than for it to stop. Mother, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry. She had avenged her, but what difference that made? Catelyn Tully remained dead and Arya remained an orphan. I’d would’ve been with you, I would’ve if it hadn’t been for the Hound.

The wind made the leaves sing to her. It was a sad tune, longing perhaps and in her grief Arya swore she heard the leaves call her name. “Home,” they sang next, and then she knew she must be crazy, or was this why her father prayed so much? Perhaps the weirwood told him what he needed to do to stop feeling so lost and lonely?

The lone wolf dies but the pack survives. Uncle Brynden was here, he could take good care of Edmyn and Roslin… of her people in the riverlands. It’s time I go to my pack. She felt a pang to the chest… her pack was not together. Bran and Sansa were in Winterfell… but Jon...

One half of me is not back home, and without him, it is no home.

Arya stood up with difficulty. She touched the white bark one last time and then turned back to the castle. She wondered if she could join Jon in his travels and then go with him to Winterfell. That’s what I want not what he needs, she realized with sadness, it’s what you want. She remembered what he had said of Sansa, and now even Bran was back. Arya would never doubt her family, but she knew better now than to assume the northern lords would be faultlessly loyal. If they disagreed with Jon, they now had a legitimate male Stark to crown instead.

Arya walked back to the castle taking deep breaths and making sure there were no trace of tears. She had never liked being fussed over unless it was by Jon or her father. Mother would fuss over me a lot less, she thought, mostly she seemed sad that once again her septa had gone to her to complaint for my behavior. Arya felt so sad to remember that, she had no doubt her mother loved her, but she wished she had been the dutiful lady her mother deserved, not a wild thing always getting into trouble.

When she arrived to her uncle’s chambers, he was dressed in better, though still plain, clothing. He sat there drinking some wine and eating cheese, talking quietly with Utherydes and Vyman. Arya was not intimidated by three old men however, so she slowly walked to the table and waited for one of them to offer his seat. They all rose at the same time, however, it was clear the maester and the stewart had every intention of leaving. They both promised to come back later and departed hurriedly.

Sitting in front of her uncle, Arya saw strength and kindness. Somehow, she knew she’d like this man. He served her some wine and she knew she’d have to drink it out of courtesy, so she took a big sip to get on with it as quickly as possible. Her uncle frowned and smirked.

“They told me you didn’t drink wine.” He pointed out as he took his own sip.

“I don’t,” she admitted and she set the cup down, “I was just trying to be polite.”

“You do not know me child, and I do not know you, but we’re family, so let us be who we are with each other.” He said with an attempt of a kind smile, and as if to prove a point he lounged back on the chair comfortably.

Well, if he wants me to be myself… “I’m not a child.” She said irritated as she too got comfortable in the chair. Her uncle let out a laugh.

“Arya, when you’re my age anyone below the age of thirty is a child.” He said as a glint took over his eyes, “would you rather I call you ‘little princess’?”

“I’m not so little!” Arya complained, though she knew it was a stupid thing to say. Sure, she no longer looked the height of a child but as far as adult ages went she was far from being tall.

“Ha!” He barked out a laugh, his hand caressing his grey unkempt beard. “You have your uncle Brandon’s temperament. Anyone ever told you that?”

My father, she wanted to say, but somehow it as her mother she wished to bring up. “My mother said I was a wild thing.”

He looked at her silently, before nodding and once again attempting a kind smile. “Out of love and worry, child. She loved all of you fiercely.” It seemed like he wanted to continue, but he must have sensed she couldn’t bear the words any longer.

“Call me Arya,” she finally said when she could speak up, “or lady Arya if the situation needs it, I am no princess.” I was never even a proper lady. Ser Brynden raised an eyebrow.

“Is your ha- brother, not a king?” He asked, and Arya did not miss the way he nearly said ‘half-brother’, but she guessed he had more than heard of how she wouldn’t stand for anyone treating Jon as less than her full brother and a Stark.

“He is-”

“Then you’re a princess.” He said plainly, as if it was so easy. Somehow, Arya found herself answering, finding it surprisingly easy to talk to him.

“I’ve never…. been a lady… much less a princess.” She confessed, reaching for the wine but playing with the cup rather than drinking.”So long as Robb was king, I was on the run, hungry and dirty.”

“That doesn’t make you any less of one.” He said and then smiled fondly. “I disobeyed my brother a fair share, and prefered servitude in knighthood than entering a political marriage or being sent to court.”

“Did you quarrel?” Arya had never quarreled with Robb or Jon beyond irritated exchanges born out of stubbornness, but her perfect lady sister and her on the other hand...

“Constantly… and with my lord father too.” He did not seem as bothered by this fact as she was. “I gather he struggled with me… as your mother struggled with you.” He nodded at her then, and Arya couldn’t do anything to avoid gaze except look down to her lap. “But listen, child, none of that takes away what we are. Tully, Stark, it's not about being perfect”.

Arya felt her lips smile as she looked up at him. “It’s still difficult.”

“Oh child, you’re not the first to feel the constraints of being noble. We’re born privileged, not free.” Her uncle’s words resonated very deep, and she wondered once again if she should join Jon, go to Winterfell or remain here. “It’s never easy for anyone, but what’s important it’s to always remember our words.”

“Family, duty, honor.” She said, smiling at the image of making Edmyn repeat those words again and again. Still, the choice remained difficult. “I am… a Stark of Winterfell. And loyal to my house. Now I could help here with my wolves and sending help to the North, or join my brother and help him in his cause or whatever I can do to help in Winterfell… how am I to choose?”

“Serve.” He answered, and she was reminded of her old lessons. Valar dohaeris, all men must serve. “Serving one’s house is not always do what you’re told, or a path with a clear option. Now your father was honorable and you mother always mindful of her duty… but I can assure you, family always came first. Choices to help family can clash with honor or duty, the only way you can see what you must do is to simply serve your family as best as you think.”

Arya closed her eyes as she thought best how to serve her house and help her family. Uncle Brynden was there, and she knew he commanded the respect of soldiers and the riverlords. Would it insult the riverlords if I left him in charge after they chose me? Could I help more by staying here and securing men for Jon and help for Winterfell?

Can I take down Cersei all the way from Winterfell?

It was a thought that came to her often, though she wished it didn’t. The war they were fighting was supposed to be bigger than that. Helping the riverlands and the North was supposed to be her reason. Her pack was more important than anything. But even she had moments of weakness, of darkness where she wondered… where she wondered if it wouldn’t give her more pleasure to kill the woman. Joffrey was dead and his cruelty gone, but Arya was older now, and she knew the son got away with cruelty because his mother abided it.

Mother…

“My mother’s b...body, how did you...” She did not need to finish it.

“The Lannisters tried to take the castle, you know this. I fought to the bitter end, took many wounds yet kept pushing, but when it seemed obvious I’d lose it… I put my armor in the body of an old dead man and took his simple clothing, swimming away on the Red Fork. I was told… later, than once Edmure gave up the castle he made a spectacle of his grief and even gave ‘me’ a Tully funeral.” There was clear regret in uncle Brynden’s voice. “He must have guessed… hoped I was alive and coming back, and this time he’d be inside the castle. Smart lad.” The last words came with the glint of tears in his eyes, so Arya spoke to let him compose himself.

“He fought the Frey men inside Riverrun when I arrived. Between his men inside and mine outside, it wasn’t nearly as difficult as it would’ve been. He died opening the gate for us, a hero…” Arya leaned closer and grabbed his hand. It was rough and old, but warm. His bright blue eyes were bittersweet under his bushy grey eyebrows. “We kept his body until Roslin could come and say goodbye along with Edmyn. He is in the river now, with my grandfather.”

“Did you shoot the arrow?” He seemed curious. Arya nodded. “Got it on the first try?” At her second nod, he let out a sad laugh.

“What is it?”

“Edmure couldn’t do it on the first try and I had to take over, my brother couldn’t do it on his first try either when our lord father died.” He said gravely.

“I’m excellent at hitting a target.” Arya told him with a proud smile. Ser Brynden shook his head slowly.

“It ain’t got nothing to do with skill, child.” He said in a low voice. “You’ll see soon enough.” Before Arya could say anything, he continued his tale. “I arrived at Harroway and I spent  long time there being cured. Roote told me the body had washed up along with many others days after the wedding, he was lucky to catch sight of her. He held on to hope that one day he could deliver the body back to us. He had bent the knee to the Lannisters for his people’s safety, but he is a Tully man. The silent sisters took out the organs and blood as they do, cleaned her and everything, but she’d… decompose eventually, so he put her in a wooden coffin and improvised a crypt of sorts to keep her until he could sought out a safe way to send her to us.”

“But he couldn’t do it with the Freys controlling the Riverlands and the land filled with bandits and outlaws.”

“Exactly. Then I came along… needing to recover. By the time I was in better shape you had come along and again we wanted to make sure this war with Cersei would not mean we might stumble with soldiers. When all settled down, we came, it took longer than expected with this hellish winter.”

“I must see her.” Arya said slowly, then closed her eyes. “I must bury her.”

“Everything is being arranged child, the ship is being filled with wood and oil.” He leaned forward to touch her hand tentatively. “Go see her.”

Arya smiled him and gave him a soft thank you after he told her where she was being prepared. As she walked anxiously toward the room she tried to remember the bodies at the House of Black and White, but the memory of being no one and serving, learning, killing, was too much to bear. Besides, she knew it would not be the same. Arya remembered those days after the Red Wedding, numbly sitting on the Hound’s horse as they passed the slaughter. With dread, she realised her mother probably looked more like those dead bodies.

When she arrived to the lower levels, she smelled wood of the boats and saw the men running with timber. They’re preparing her burial. She arrived to the small harbor and they all turned to look at her for a moment before they carried on with their business. Arya walked past them to a room near the dock.

It was a small room, clearly meant for storage, filled with shelves and boxes, oars and nets. In the center of it, on top of a table, was her mother. A white linen sheet covered her and Arya saw someone had left a folded Tully banner next to her, surely meant to cover her on her final journey down the river. There was also a citric smell in the air, and Arya noticed someone had put open oranges and lemons in the room. It was not as strong as the perfumes used on the House of Black and White, but since the Silence Sisters had done their work, stronger fragrances were not necessary.

Arya felt her own breathing beginning to quicken as she approached the table. Low in her stomach, she felt movement, and she took some deep breaths to stop herself from retching. With a trembling hand, she removed the white sheet. At the sight of her mother, a sound escaped from her mouth that she could not define. It wasn’t a cry or a sigh or anything really, it was animal sound, so deep in grief that she thought life itself was going to pour out of her mouth.

Her mother was nearly as white as the sheet than once covered her, a soft purple tone covered her flesh. Her hair, once so beautiful and colorful, was mostly gone. Arya thanked the Gods the silent sisters had seen to keep her eyes closed, she could not have handled it to see the eye sockets empty and lifeless. But that did not take away the horrors of the sight, most particularly, the long, deep scratch marks in her face. No, no mother your face was so beautiful. Her hand went up to touch the marks so dark the red was nearly black, her skin shredded. By tracing them with her fingers Arya realised they were made by fingers, perhaps her mother’s own. Oh mother, why, your beautiful, beautiful face, she wondered as tears fell unbidden from her eyes.

Arya bit her lip as she traced her mother’s eerily soft and frighteningly cold flesh until she reached her neck. There, she found the open wound which killed her, so deep had they slit open her neck that Arya knew if she wanted she could probably sneak her fingers halfway in. But all she did was bring her hand to her own throat, nearly healed but forever marked by a scar. It was so ugly now, purplish and yellow where the chain had dug in. In time it would turn to a soft reddish and would be just another one of her scars. It was so unfair, that she, who was never pretty to begin with, would get to heal while her mother would remain like this forever.

Suddenly her knees were weak, because this was her mother and not some corpse in the House of Black & White, she knew her, she was kind, and beautiful, a perfect lady. She’d force her to eat vegetables so she’d grow and she’d try to brush her hair so it would shine. Arya couldn’t stand it anymore and she knelt next to the table and she was blinded by tears, so her hand reached up and searched her mother’s. It was cold, bloated and flaccid but it was her mother’s. There was a tearing sound echoing in the small room, and it took her an eternity to realise they were her own sobs. They burned her throat and yet it was nothing compared to the ache in her chest.

Hours could’ve passed and she wouldn’t have noticed, when she went out, there wre fewer people than before she entered. Her mother’s final ship was small, filled with oiled straw and decorated with flowers and Tully banners. Her uncle and Dally were waiting for her with sympathetic smiles.

“I’m ready,” her voice was trembling but she willed herself to be stronger, looking at both with as much composure as she could manage, “Dally, if you don’t mind, I’d like to wear a dress in my mother- in Tully colors, if it’s possible.”

“Of course, milady.” Her maid nodded eagerly. “Anything else?”

“Make sure I have a bow ready to use, please.” Her maid left in a hurry, and Arya was left alone with her uncle Brynden, who waits until they’re alone to approach her.

“Child,” he stepped forward with open arms, allowing Arya to step closer enough for him to grab her arms, “valiant precious wolf girl… Cat would be so proud of you.”

His words nearly undo her, but she closed her eyes, willed herself to be stronger and his grip became tighter. “I can do this.”

He left her go so could get ready. The dress that Dally picked for her was blue with red details on the sleeves and neckline. It had small embroidered fishes on the shoulders, however, they got lost in the wolfskin cloak. Arya let Dally brush her hair down and take two strands back to make a braid that looked like a fishtail. Time passed quickly by as she went down, the people gathered in the harbor, words of honor and respect were spoken of her mother and House Tully, the ship is pushed to the river and suddenly the time came.

Her bow was put in her hand and the torch was next to her for her disposal. She lightened the oiled arrow and lets the flame grow as she tensed the bow and looked down the river. Arya shoot but it missed, reaching only two thirds of the necessary distance and off to the left. I don’t understand, I could do this in my sleep, why can’t I do it perfectly now? Frustrated and disappointed and sad, she set a new arrow on fire and shoot again, only for it to miss, the shot even worse than the first one.

Arya can’t stand the shame and the silence around her as everyone tries to silence their comments. She went to lit the third arrow in a huff, and her uncle leaned closer and asked kindly if she wanted him to do it.

“No,” she answered, more fearful of failure and being a disappointment than pleased with his offer. His lips were set in a thin line and she saw he was willing to fight her on this but she insisted. “I can do this.”

You are Arya of Winterfell, daughter of the north. You told me you could be strong. You have the wolf blood in you.

Arya turned to face her mother’s ship going down the river, the waters giving it a serene  final journey since they were mixed with ices and thus the boat moved slower than usual. She closed her eyes for a moment, remembering her mother’s warm embrace and the last time she smiled at her, beautiful and strong. When she opened her eyes again, she knew she was ready, no fear of failure would daunt her.

Calm as still water, fear cuts deeper than swords.

This time Arya’s arrow hit its target perfectly, lighting the boat aflame and burning the last remains of her mother.

*/*

Arya arrived to her uncle’s solar the next morning with a dreadful headache. Too much rum had made a disaster on her bowels and splitted her head in half. Thankfully, she was not alone in her state. Last night there had been a loud celebration due to her uncle’s return. Arya had thought she’d be in no mood for a feast and songs, but she had been surprised at how easy she had joined in the festivities. When halfway into her cups someone had asked why did she not dance, she had confessed to not know how. Laughter had erupted at her revelation and Marq Piper himself had taken it upon himself to teach her some steps. Arya was good on her feet and a quick learner, but it was clear she needed more practice. Ser Marq had japed that he could not believe they had finally found something she was not excellent at. Arya was surprised at how easy she had laughed at the entire shenanigans.

When she had finally gone to sleep, she had wondered if it was wrong that she had so lightheartedly danced the same day she buried her mother. Now with clarity, she realised that perhaps it was the fact that she had mourned and cried her mother long ago. She had mourned her death and she had avenged her. Putting her mother to rest had filled Arya with a feeling both foreign yet fulfilling: closure. She realised now why it had seemed to her so important to get Cersei, and why she had been misguided in her pursuit. Her wretched list had caused her little joy nor had it filled the hole in her heart. No, that hole had been filled with Edmyn’s safety, and the riverlords’ pride at her justice for house Tully, with the North growing thanks to their help, with the knowledge that Bran and Sansa were in Winterfell, with Jon’s smile.

Arya had realised something yesterday, she was strong.

Arya was strong enough to patiently wait  to get justice for her family in due time. She was strong enough to gather men behind her and lead them. She was strong enough to become the person that her king needed to win the war. Arya was strong enough to push the Riverlands into helping Jon.

“Uncle?” She asked as she knocked on his door. A soft ‘come in’ was her answer and Arya stepped inside to find her uncle slouching over the table and mindlessly playing with his spoon, stirring the broth. Arya let out a laugh when she saw his red eyes looking up. “Guess I’m not the only one regretting those last few cups.”

“I’m old,” he answered with a smile, “what’s your excuse for looking like one of the seven hells.”

“I’ve been through shit.” Arya shrugged her shoulders and took a seat. “I’ve come to talk about-”

“Jon Snow.” Her uncle completed her sentence with no emotion in his words. “I knew this talk was coming.”

“He is my king. My brother.” Arya took a seat in front of him expecting him to object to the last part, instead he got up and began to walk the room. “I must go and help him.”

“And you’re so sure that you must leave to help him?”

Arya frowned at him, though his back was to her. “It’s not like I’ve been able to help him much from here. At least I made sure they agreed to send Marq Piper to the Wall. If even after he comes back with evidence the riverlords refuse to help, well then, to be frank… I won’t care if we lose and these ice monsters get them.”

Her uncle barked out a short laugh and then turned to her. His eyes were sharp as he grimaced. “You remind me of your mother,” he said slowly, “and your brother too.”

“You’re wrong,” the words left her lips before she could hold them back, her voice small and hoarse. “I was never anything like them… they were… like Sansa. Perfect.”

“Is that why you’re so eager to go to Jon Snow?” He asked her, and Arya could hear no accusation in his voice yet she knew he was not exactly approving.

“Is it wrong for me to go to my brother? I am a Stark, I belong at the side of my siblings.”

“Your siblings, trueborn Stark, are at Winterfell.” He stressed the last part and this time there was no doubt he clearly meant more than what he was saying. Arya could not help but feeling defensive.

“Uncle, Jon is as true a Stark as I am. We all belong to the same pack. I have done more than my duty to House Tully and trust me, Robb would help Jon too, he would-” She was interrupted by her uncle raising his hand.

“Child, I never meant anything bad of your half-brother.” He grimaced and took a deep breath. “As respect to your mother, I will never call him a Stark, but… your brother once thought of making him his legal heir, when we believed your brothers were dead and he had no son. From the North come the tales of his heroic deeds… I won’t believe him a bad man until I see proof of it, and since only now did Bran return I can hardly call him an usurper.”

“So  if this is not about Jon, then what is this about?”

“Why won’t you return to Winterfell?” His eyes were kind, but his gentleness only made it harder to answer.

Because I fear they won’t like what I’ve become, because I dread a Winterfell where Sansa is the Lady of the castle, because I know the Faceless Men will come one day and I have nightmares of that day. Because I am strong enough to fight my fears, but not strong enough to face what I am.

“I am not- when I go there, I can’t just be a princess of the North, I am not-” Arya closed her eyes, remembering crooked stitches and her father telling her she would marry a king and rule his castle. The memory of the House of Black and White, of poison and faces and glamours and killing and so, so much more rushed back to her. “That’s not me.”

Arya could not see, but that was no impediment for her to know he was looking at her with pity. When she opened them, she silently watched him walk to her and sit on the desk, his hands joined on his lap.

“Sometimes... there are some things that makes us different that makes us feel like less… but child we’re not less just because we’re not like the rest of them.”

Arya saw in his uncle’s eyes a pain she could not understand, but nevertheless she could empathise. “I just feel like I don’t belong, like I am not making this right. I doubt myself so much… it’s because I’m not great like them.” Her uncle continued to look at her pitifully. Arya quickly raised his hands. “I can take it! I swear I’m strong enough to handle my duties I just…. wish I wasn’t so…”

The words got lost in her mouth. Wasn’t so what? Arya knew she couldn't help but criticise herself, but she was determined and strong enough to carry on nevertheless. She just wished she didn’t always have to face her own insecurity. That is the word you don’t want to say.

Her uncle studied her silently, and Arya felt the urge to fidget under his gaze. But if this was a test on her character then she’d act like his keen observation  was not  awkward in the least.

“I’ve been on the right side of great men, like your brother, your father and your grandfather… girl, greatness does not come without self doubt.”

Arya was shocked to be compared to them. For so long she had heard that she was just a young lady, and while she had never doubted her abilities based on her sex or age, she had doubted her abilities to even be a proper young girl. She walked a constant line between trying to prove to the world being a young woman had nothing to do with what she could do while constantly second guessing how could she do these things when she had never been other than plain and simple and a disaster in whatever endeavour a woman like herself was supposed to do.

“I could never compare to them, how am I supposed to help Edmyn or Jon correctly when I’m just…. Just me?” She wished for a drink for a moment, until her stomach made a few turns at the thought of what Sansa would say of her drinking. How could  plain Arya Horseface ever be of help in a Winterfell where Sansa is its Lady Stark?

The Blackfish leaned closer. Now that she knew him she could see him better, unlike their first meeting, he looked much softer. His constant gentle smiles reminded Arya she did not be the wearer of a mask of proper coldness. I’ve been carrying my mask from the Faceless Men too long. Ser Brynden brought up his hand to pet her hair in a smile that reminded her of her father so much that it was the turn of her heart to go wild inside her.

“If we are the right hand of great men, their greatness is ours too. No man rules alone, no hero leads without help of others.”

 Arya smiled as she remembered maester Luwin’s lessons. “Like Aegon and his sisters.”

“Precisely.” He gave her one last affectionate pet before going back to his seat across from her. “Now… back to the subject of your beloved Jon Snow…”

“Oh uncle, truly isn’t there a way you could convince the men to fight for him?” At this point, Arya was fed up with the discussion. She understood Jon’s frustration much better now. The same lords who respected her and listened to her laughed when she brought up the matter of following “her king Snow to fight ice monsters”. If she brought up what they owed to her and the North, they repeated offers of grain, timber, whatever the North needed. I was not a problem of alliance with the North, it was a problem with her brother’s surname. I could call him a Stark until my tongue bleeds, his bastardy is a stain that can’t be removed. “All I achieved was that they agree to send ser Marq to the Wall and let’s be realistic, chances are when he comes back with any confirmation they’d still refuse.”

“I can do more than that.” His uncle said seriously. He leaned forward as he shook his head.“Listen child, no lord sends his men to follow a foreign ruler to battle on the basis of good faith.”

“I know that! I am not stupid.” Arya had thought that the possibility of complete extinction was more urgent. “But it seems they forgot Robb Stark crossed the Neck to save their asses with his army! Now they won’t even send men to save their own asses! ”

Her grandfather laughed at her foul mouthed indignation. “You have united them, you have inspired them. But at their core they remain the same squabbling lords they’ve always been. No… what you need to give them is a king.”

Arya is stunned into silence for a good two seconds before she frowns at him. “I am not foolish enough to believe you mean Jon. As for Edmyn, we discussed the idea of crowning him and discarded him due to his youth, it would cause more problems than solve any.”

“I did mean Jon.” At that, she opened her mouth in surprise. Mother’s uncle wants to crown Jon? Her shocked reaction made him smile as he nodded, “and your brother Bran.”

“You mean to crown Bran?” It was not a new thought for Arya. They were at war, and in times like these a man like Jon was needed. But afterwards? She would never doubt Jon’s talent, nor that all her siblings could unite to decide how to proceed, but she doubted everyone else’s intentions.

“I mean he shall be officially named by your brother as his heir, in a will with witnesses. A prince of Winterfell who is a true Stark, son of Catelyn Tully, will appease them.”

“And you believe they will follow Jon’s command?”

“They will follow House Tully’s command. You’ve ensured the strength of our house. When we kneel, so will they.” Ser Brynden said confidently. “And if they get stubborn, I will sway them.”

“You sound very sure of this.” Arya remembered Jon’s words: ‘sometimes all you need is one good ally on your side and others will follow you’.

“Dear child, I had my years of doubt as you did.” He shrugged his shoulder. “Age gives you fear of cold and broken bones, but it also grants you a new sense of confidence. You see even if we are not to rule, we can influence. Even if we don’t hold the power, we can counsel. Think of your father before he died.”

“He was named Hand of the King.”

“And the entire Seven Kingdoms went into war when he died.” He casted a very large shadow, she thought with sadness.  “And now his son is king. And his other son shall be king in time.”

“I understand. I must write to Jon.” Arya knew he’d have no problem naming Bran his heir. “What of ser Marq? We won’t need to send him to the North, then?”

“I was thinking… perhaps we may develop other plans for him.” Ser Brynden’s fingertips were touching, giving him an air of nonchalant contemplation. “First, let him see the great gift you’ve given him, Darry is not far. But let him know his visit must be short and he must come back. II think we should use him to contact the Tyrells.”

“They hold a deep grudge against the Lannisters, we thought of an alliance but we were scared they might use information of our movements to take lands from our southern borders.” Arya had never even given a thought to Tyrells, but Blackwood, Bracken and others had discussed it extensively.

“Tyrells are not the kind to take action in wars without political advantages. They would not join us without three back up plans in case we lose and will defect to their convenience.” Ser Brynden explained, but then he leaned closer. “Doesn’t mean we can’t profit from an alliance to them. Or what’s left of them.”

Arya was no good at this, that is, assuming how things would develop in time and making sure in the end it all worked out to their benefit in the end. “You’ll have to explain me a bit more, uncle.”

“Right now, you’re fighting a war on two fronts, even if all you’ve done is take unprotected lands, besieged castles and kick out whatever remained of the Lannister army here.” Her uncle’s eyelids close in suspicion until all that was left was two small lines with his blue eyes shining brightly. “With all due respect, it has been suspiciously easy, child.”

Arya would’ve protested, but it was a plain truth. “You think she is up to something, some sort of secret attack.”

Cersei had not seemed to care one bit for the lands she had taken or the soldiers she had killed. Arya had the feeling lord Bracken held the same suspicion that her uncle did, since he refused to move towards Casterly Rock and insisted in making sure their occupation was strong.

“I know she blew up the sept of Baelor. The entire hill, if what they say is truth.” Her uncle shook his head. “We need to keep her fighting a war on two fronts.”

“What will we offer them? The south of the Westerlands?”

“I thought we could taste the waters by offering an alliance against the ironborn… I heard the attacks have stopped recently but that just gives me concern they may be planning something more. Perhaps we keep the idea of an alliance limited to the problem of the ironborn and… this union of our house with that of house Tarly.”

“If you think it best… I uh… in an effort to maintain Maidenpool from eventually becoming a Tarly castle I uh… betrothed Edmyn to lord Randyl’s granddaughter.”

“I was informed. I understand why you did it, though I sincerely hope it doesn’t eventually bring us a headache.”

“How so?”

“Did you know that along with Robb’s betrothal to a daughter of Walder’s, you were also betrothed to a son of his?

“Yes… I remember.”

“Would you have gone through with it?” He barked out a laugh as Arya shook her head vigorously. “Figured as much. That’s why I am against forced marriages… and of  course, I never married.”

“In the end though, if my marriage would’ve saved Walder Frey from betraying us… you think I should've done it?”

“There’s no good in thinking of the ‘if’s, child. What’s done is done… but if you must know, I insisted to Edmure that he should marry with a Frey in place of your brother to keep the alliance. We all do what we can, for the sake of family.”

*/*

Two weeks later, a small gathering of sorts was assembled - by Roslin - for ser Marq’s departure. Arya enjoyed some rum and cheese and happily joined the games the children were playing. While some of Roslin’s companions frowned at their children playing with both Riverrun’s little lord and kitchen boys alike, most people seemed happy at the sight of happy children. She realised now that unlike the grim North she so loved, the riverlands had always been a happier place where living was easy. The war and this winter had affected them very much, and they could use some joy. She wished for the first time that Sansa were there. Her sister would know how to sing songs and create entertainment for the people. As it is, they had to make do with Arya organizing the kids in games, and wine and ale.

A she oversaw the children beginning to play rats and cats, ser Marq approached her. He gently touched her elbow and she turned to find him all armored, his squire not far and tending to their horses.

“I beg your pardon, princess, it’s time for me to leave.”

Arya rolled her eyes. “No one calls me ‘princess’ south of the Neck, ser.”

“But soon we will, if what Roslin told me is true.” He retorted, smiling at the little one’s games before they turned away.

“Roslin?” Arya frowned at the familiarity as they walked to his horses. She stole a look at him to see if she  could read anything but found nothing suspicious.

“Edmure was a good friend of mine. Me and Roslin enjoy talking of him, ser Brynden joining us as of late. We frequently have lord Edmyn joining us, so he can know some of his father.” He had his hands joined behind his back. “Am I correct in guessing you plan on leaving us?”

“I suppose it is wrong of me to ask you to leave your home again yet I plan on going back…”

“I am a knight, I took vows. And it is my greatest pride to serve house Tully.” He looked very serious as he said this, a bit unusual of his mirthful character. “Like I said, Edmure was my friend, I will help his son as much as I can and be considered a man he can trust.”

“I do trust you, ser Marq. I wouldn’t have rewarded you if I didn’t.” Arya smiled as he took a bow. “You carry our hopes with you. And our gifts for Edmyn’s future lady wife.”

“Princess.” He smiled and mounted his horse. It was a pretty thing, a gift from his father, purebreed and brought all the way from Highgarden itself. More than once he had caught her admiring the white steed. “Mayhaps the Tarly’s will offer me a gift for Edmyn in return. I shall ask for a horse for you.”

“You better.”

Ser Marq smiled and, among cheers and wishes for his wellbeing, he departed. Arya felt guilty. In her mind, she had toyed with the idea of leaving for Winterfell, though her heart also pulled her to join Jon. Ser Marq was the tip of a bigger issue for her: if she left, she’d be leaving the entire army and the people who put their trust in her. They would be away from their homes, in a war with new allies, and she’d be away. And how could she be sure they’d follow Jon then? All she had of her uncle were promises, but no army had assembled yet in Riverrun ready to follow her North. I can’t leave just yet, I must wait a little.

*/*

Arya’s shoulder heaved slightly as she tried to control her panting. Neither her nor Ben Blackwood wore armor, as they used tourney swords. While Ben had older brothers who had taught him the way of the sword, Arya had much skill and speed and quick thinking given to her by experience.

Arya evaded his swift blow and crouched, catching him by surprise by stepping up much closer than expected. She had no enough space to swing at some weak spot, so all she could do was hit him behind the knee.

A loud cheer erupted in the yard. Ben dropped one of his knees and Arya went to swing and stop at his neck, yet he caught her by surprise by using the back of his arm to stop and turn the blade. He had obviously used the advantage of a blunt sword to push her sword away. But Arya was not unskilled, she used the force of his movement to make a turn as he stood up, and he had no time to prepare as her sword hit his left side.

Ben let out a series of grunts as he doubled over. Arya lifted her sword to drop it atop his head, yet he blocked it swiftly. Several people awed, yet Arya was not to be overshadowed by his good reflexes, and so she unceremoniously kicked him. This, he had not been expecting, and so he fell back and Arya quickly went to step in his sword arm, her own blunt blade finally on his neck.

Arya smiled breathlessly as Ben hang his head back, exhausted. Arya herself was tired, still needing to gain back all the strength she lost after her long time away from battle. Around them, the people cheered and shouted their compliments.

“Well my lady,” began lord Tytos as he approached them, personally offering her a cup of ale before he helped his son up, “I believe you’ve taught my son a lesson.”

“That he should never underestimate a woman, perhaps?” Arya asked breathlessly with a coy smile. They could never understand what a real gruelling training was like, like her time in the House of Black and White or the harshness of war. “Maybe I  should put more men on their asses.”

A thunderous laughter filled the yard as they all proposed new foes and others made bawdy jokes about how they wouldn’t really mind fighting her. Her uncle Brynden tried to drawn attention to the fact she’d probably beat them all, and Arya enjoyed being a it of  show off.

Such were the good spirits that Arya nearly missed maester Vyman approaching her. She stepped aside, fearing bad news. “A letter from Winterfell, lady Arya.”

He exchanged a look of worry with her, and so Arya quickly unrolled the parchment. The contents were short and enigmatic, written by Bran.

‘Dark sister, we need you in the North. Time has come to return to Winterfell, delay no more, the Old Gods have shown me the riverlands will not be in peril. Jon is as the Gates of the Moon, but his road will take him elsewhere, whereas you bel9ng here. Should you ever feel adrift on your next step, seek the Godswood. The wolves will come again.’

Arya shuddered. She turned away from the maester and walked away from the yard, followed by her beloved Nymeria. Her feet took her to the Godswood, and as she arrived to the center of the garden she sat on a rock to hear the trees. The leaves seemed to be singing, chanting “home” with their rustle. What kept her here? Jon was soon to return from the Eyre, and it would be a perfect moment to return together to the North. Her uncle could take over the ruling of the Riverlands, and Roslin was loved enough that no longer Arya feared she’d be separated from Edmyn.

“Arya.”

Arya turned around to find her uncle watching her carefully. She quickly hid her face to check if she had been crying. There was no trace of tears, but she could not hide her wobbling knees as she stepped up by supporting herself on Nymeria’s backbone.

“It’s time I go home.” She said shakily.

“It’s something wrong?”

“No. Yes.” War, the death coming, the Long Night of Old Nan’s tales: dead children, famine, cold. “I’m not sure.”

“You’re worrying me, child.” Her uncle admonished her as he stepped closer.

“Forgive me, nothing wrong has happened.” She clarified, then looked up and took a deep breath. “Nothing aside from me remaining here.”

“Oh child-”

“Uncle! You know I remain here for only one reason.” Arya pierced him with her eyes, as he sighed and went to sit on another rock.

“Many of our troops have returned, there is little opposition from the Westerlands… I hear some wandering septons from here and the westerlands have been gathering somewhere between Pinkmaiden and Golden Tooth, perhaps to rebuild what’s left of their faith. The ambitious houses of the Reach will probably attempt to take Crakehall or Silverhill.” He scratched his chin as Arya paced in front of him, listening to him. He was so calm, he did not understand.

“I know the riverlands will be perfectly safe, I have heard your council, I have heard your plans.” Bran’s letter had given her a new source for despair. His letter had said they needed her, her family, her pack. Arya went to stand in front of ser Brynden, Nymeria silent and firm as a rock next to her.“I want to go home, uncle. No, I need to go home. My brother and sister are there, Winterfell is facing winter following war, and Jon is preparing for the war for our very own lives. I must go, and you know why I feel fear of leaving.”

“You’re a Tully as much as a Stark, you’re bound by family, duty and honor.” Her uncle exhaled, putting his hands on his knees and pushing himself up. “I have stalled in assembling an army for your brother because I wanted to make sure we were safe.”

So you say, Arya thought. She did not want to leave with an empty promise of help and present it to Jon and give him hope. She wanted to trust her uncle, she saw honesty in his eyes but… in her heart, she only trusted men like her father, like Jon and Robb. Bound by honor and loyalty. Her uncle’s promises had been built in what was most useful for the riverlands. But she could no longer live on a constant state of mistrust and doubt. That was for the House of Black and White, for fear of being backstabbed by a man she trusted. I must let that ghost go… the man who fears losing has already lost.

Bran had written that she should visit the Godswood if she felt adrift, and here she was, and the Old Gods were telling her that she had to go home. Arya took a deep breath as she looked at her uncle in the eye, then she walked to the weirwood tree, stopping in front it to look at the face of her gods. Again, the leaves rustled with the wind and whispered to her: ‘home.. home’ they chanted.

“These are my Gods, mine and my siblings. We’re as much Tully as we are Stark. We’re what’s left of my mother and you have promised your support to us.” Arya closed her eyes to give herself strength, and opened when she felt Nymeria sitting next to her. “I am Arya Stark, Princess of the North, and I will have your word, here, in front of our gods, that you will not abandon your promises to the North.”

“You have my word, niece.” Her uncle answered, his voice serious yet his eyes, his eyes showed great understanding. “So long as I rule in Edmyn’s stead, we will not abandon our promises.”

*/*

Harrenhal  received Arya in all its ancient, gigantic burned glory. She remembered the first time she laid hand on the castle, the air sticking to rotten corpses, the cold and the screams, the hunger and the pain. It was extremely unpleasant, yet riders had gone ahead to the bloody gate to summon Jon so the riverlords could swear fealty to him.

Arya’s retinue was large, and more lords would come as days passed. Aside from the obvious, necessary presence of Edmyn, ser Brynden and Roslin, along came lord Blackwood and Piper, and the representatives from other houses. They were there to witness Jon signing an official document making Bran his heir, and to bend the knee to him. Arya was more than a bit content with the knowledge that even if she had missed the moment he was declared king by the lords of the North, she would not miss this.

Arya carried with her the parchment of Jon’s confirmation that he would meet her here. He had not mentioned how things had gone with lord Royce but she guessed there would be time for that later. A smug and wicked part of her wondered if Sansa had gotten the same deal Arya had achieved for her brother… only with her in place of Bran. No, she wouldn’t. She wouldn’t do that to Bran. It was hard not to think of Sansa as the stupid, hurtful girl of the past, but Jon seemed more or less convinced her intentions were better than her words. If anything, I trust Jon’s description of her changes.

“My lady.” A voice called behind her. She turned to find Alesander Frey looking at her sheepishly, hands behind his back and boots still deep in mud. Clearly, he had arrived and come straight to see her.

“Alesander!” Arya tried her best to smile through her worries. “I know it’s never easy for you to be gathered among these men, so…. well, thanks for coming.”

“My liege calls me, and I think it’s time my family takes back the tradition of… showing up on time.” He grimaced at his own self-deprecating humour. “I uh… I’ve brought you something, my lady.”

A present?, she wondered as she smiled. “What is it?”

Arya sucked in breath as Alesander pulled from behind him a velvet bag with some protruding spikes in it. From inside it, he took out a circlet made of bronze, with nine spike little sword along its length made of iron.

“King Robb’s crown.” Alesander answered in a low voice, he gently pressed it against her hands. “My half-brother Ryman had it with him for a while…”

Arya was so entranced examining the old metal in her hands that she missed the tale of the crown’s journey. Holding it in her hands knowing it once rested atop Robb’s head gave her a sweet kind of sadness. She couldn't have him back, and the image of his body with Grey Wind for head would forever haunt her but now, now she had something else to remember him by. Arya wished Nymeria was there with her, instead of hunting in the woods with her pack.

“Thank you, Alesander.”

Arya turned away and walked towards the Godswood. As she looked around the castle in its disastrous decay, she grimly realized of the irony. If there were truly Seven Hells, she reckoned she went through one of them in Harrenhal. Now the fortress was of her family. No living member remained of house Whent to reclaim save from House Tully. It was Edmyn’s to give or retain.

Even its Godswood was ugly, she mussed, with its heart tree appearing a terrible vision with a face full of hatred. It was very dark, and she had to take out her boots and socks to cross a small cold creek and avoid them getting them wet. Still, she was of the North, and the giant woods are more welcoming to her than any other part of the castle. Even the scary heart tree looked less frightening when she knelt before it.

It was just Arya and her Old Gods. And Robb’s crown in her hands. She closed her eyes as she clutched the metal close to her. The leaves sang ‘sister’ and Arya thought she was going mad. But more than that, she thought of Robb, her brother, King in the North. He was made king, and he died for it. Now Jon was king, more importantly, he was going to be king of a land in direct confrontation with Cersei. Arya certainly didn’t want him to die for it.

She couldn’t contain her laugh at the complexity of how she felt.

It was odd, how her very existence, the very teachings of her father made her long for justice. Her experience in this life made her want to make sure no one would suffer what she suffered as an orphan through this war torn land. Yet an immense part of her wanted her to just leave with Jon and leave all conflict behind.

It was a sinister feeling, knowing she could walk away and leave all behind if Jon was there with her. She wondered if the Gods understood her or judged her. It’s been too long since the last time I was a good person, anyways.

The leaves sang a sweeter song then, a whisper of ‘wolf’, or maybe it was ‘dream’, Arya couldn’t tell. She touched the white tree, staining her hands with the red sap. It reminded her a bit of the faces back in the temple, their blood covering her fingers as she worked relentlessly to leave the faces ready for us. I paid dearly for those dark secrets, nearly lost myself. She looked up to the red leaves against the grey sky, remembering that through it all she always dreamt of Nymeria. I was always a wolf at heart.

Soon, she is on the woods, and there is wind. It’s dark but she can see, there is no game in front of her but she can smell it’s close. But her running stops abruptly. It cannot be. Her feet had been in boots and her hands soaked in red sap, not bare paws feeling the fresh snow. Arya is so scared, afraid of the smell of blood in her nose and the silence of the other smaller wolves surrounding her. They’re challenging me… but how do I know that? Arya wishes to speak, to send the wolves to get their game so she can be alone for a moment. But no words come out, instead, it was a raging snarl that shakes her entire body.

And suddenly there she was again, in the Godswood, alone and looking up to the grey skies. Her body wouldn’t stop shaking, Arya gasped for air as she clutched the tree in front of her. She closed her eyes tightly. If this is magic, I should not be scared of it, I have worn other’s faces before. But this did not feel like the dark magic the Faceless Men taught her. No, it was primal, it belonged to her. She could feel it. It was hers because it was Nymeria, an unbreakable bond, holding them both together.

Bran had sent her here. Her brother had taught her to seek the Godswood, and now her Old Gods were teaching her a new ability. Arya had been nervous the first time she had worn a face, she had been frightened and weak when she had been blind, but she persisted and learned. Scared, but fascinated, Arya held on tightly to the weirwood. She looked up again to those red leaves, and closed her eyes thinking of her wolf, who was part of her very own self.

When she opens her eyes, the wolves are there, no longer defiant. They look at her waiting for her to lead them to their prey. She can’t see all of them but she can feel their eyes on her. Her pack, giant and fierce, ready to attack the game hidden in the complete darkness. Wild wolves staring at her, hidden in the snow, calling her into the great unknown.

I will not run away from their call.

Chapter Text

“Why can’t you just throw them down the Wall?” Young Robin Arryn asked with a sardonic smile. “If they came here I’d just throw them out the Moon Door.”

Jon heard someone whisper to the boy ‘your grace’, as if correcting him to speak properly, but Jon truly couldn’t care less. He crossed his arms and looked at the young lord of the Vale in the eyes.

“Maybe you should be lord Commander of the Wall, my lord.”

The smile dropped off Robin’s face and he frowned at Jon. When he spoke again, his voice cracked, reminding them all that he was not yet a man. “You can’t say that! I’m the lord of the Vale and I must marry! I wanted to talk to Sansa not you! They said she’d come, uncle Petyr promised!”

“My sister is a princess of the North, the lady of Winterfell, with all the responsibilities of such title. She can’t come and go to Baelish’s wishes, my lord.” Gods help me, Robb and father would strike me dead if I ever let that happen.

“If all you said was true she should be here, mother and uncle Petyr said she had to be kept safe so why would she stay in her ugly snow castle?”

“Winterfell is the safest place for any Stark,” said Manderly with steel in his voice. He was large and dressed finely, much more in tone with the Vale than Jon and his other companions and ever since they arrived to the Gates of the Moon it had been him whom the Valemen had been most friendly towards. Sansa could’ve mention finery was useful. Even so, Jon hardly owned anything finer than leather and wool. “In any case, princess Sansa knows these monsters to be a true thing, she has been to the Wall, she has heard the wildling’s accounts for it. So does his grace’s other sister, the princess Arya.”

“Why should I trust the word of wildlings? They hide in the mountains, rape, steal and kill like savages!”

“Not our mountain’s wildlings, young lord.” Said lady Anya with barely any patience. “The wildlings beyond the Wall, who helped retake Winterfell.”

“Before the help of your knights arrived to save us… knights who have been to the North, they have heard of the real threat.”

“They have. As I have.” Yhon Bronze stepped forward from his place beside the Arryn lord, prouder and looking like the real lord of the Eyrie. “And I believe them. I sent my son there and the tales of his death were always confusing. We have all received the plea of help from yourself when you were lord Commander, and of the man who now holds the Wall. I spoke and heard plenty in the North. A man or two can be deceived by magic and old crone’s scary tales, but not an entire army of wilding men. Savages as they may be, they’ve survived beyond the Wall all this time and I doubt they are easy prey to superstition and tales to scare children.”

Jon remained silent as he looked to the other lords of the Vale exchange words. He noticesd some disbelief, but he could also gather that they all respected ser Yhon too much to simply discard his words. Glover seemed to notice too, as he addressed him rather than the young lord.

“The lords of the riverlands agreed to at least send men to the Wall to gather their own conclusions to the situation, ser.” He looked around to the other  lords. “Perhaps you could spare some as well?”

“Spare men?” someone shouted among the gathering of Valemen, “with Cersei Lannister demanding fealty?”

“My sister Arya has sent men, and she is actually in a direct war with the Lannister woman.” Jon spat back. “Are you telling me the knights and lord of the Vale have less courage than my youngest sister?”

“Certainly not.” Said lady Anya, but Jon knew the truth of it. Arya has more bravery in her nail that all the Vale put together. “We are being precautious.”

“No king newly crowned leaves his kingdom in haste unless there’s a real urgency, my lady.” Said ser Yhon, much to Jon’s surprise. “These are Ned Stark children, I believe in them.”

Jon took a deep breath as murmurs started once again. Manderly touched his arm and murmured in his ear that perhaps they should leave the lords to discuss among themselves. Jon grunted some apology and retired along with his men. As they made their way to their apartments, he heard Glover and Larence exchange bets on whether or not they’d help them. They were much more optimistic than Jon. Seven hells, they were more optimistic than what they had been when they left the North.

This is Arya’s doing, he realised. He had seen her mingle with his companions, he had seen the happiness in their faces when they had been told she had gotten back all that Robb had once claimed. She had given them hope, something Jon had failed at. It’s because she hasn’t seen the real enemy, none of them had. Jon knew very well the odds were against them. When he spoke to all these lords, he had to constantly remind himself not to tell them the exact truth of his encounter with them. I haven’t fought them, I’ve ran away from them.

He couldn't allow himself to dwell on that. Jon had made up his mind long ago, the first time he felt Arya’s arms around him at the Twins. For her, he would fight the Night’s King and his creatures to the bitter end, so long as there was a minimal chance Arya, Bran and Sansa could make it through. I am the only one left to protect them.

It didn’t take long before a servant came to fetch Jon on an invitation to ser Yhon’s solar. The Gates of the Moon were supposedly less impressive than the Eyre, yet Jon was still finding new things to admire in the taste and finery of the fortress. He supposed Sansa might’ve liked to spend time in the Vale had she not being pushed to marry that Bolton monster.

As always, remembering the fact she was left alone in Winterfell with Littlefinger upset him. At least she has Bran now, as well as lady Brienne and lady Lyanna.

“Your Grace,” ser Yhon had changed from some of the fine clothes he had worn when with his liege’s presence and now wore simpler garments. “Please, take a seat, have some wine.”

“Ser Yhon.” Jon sat and drank, waiting for more words that never came, so he began instead. “Thank you for having my back there.”

“I meant what I said. It is clear that you need help, no king leaves his kingdom like that. Besides… my own son died beyond the Wall.” Ser Yhon said with a tinge of sadness.  “The lad is too young to see it, but the rest will see it soon. I am prepared to do as your sister did, send men that can come back to confirm your words. Already some of our knights came back with concerns, it’s only a matter of making their voices heard.”

So that is why Sansa sent back the knights of the Vale. “I thank you, ser.  And I am sure Sansa does as well.”

“The young lord was glad of hearing news of lady Stark, believe it or not.” Yhon Royce admitted. “She should write to him more often, the lad has a bit of a crush, you see.”

“I’ll make sure to tell her.” Jon gave him a short smile. “I do believe communication between the Eyre and Winterfell should be more common, my siblings should have good relationships with their cousins.”

“Yes, the relationship between Stark and Arryn should… remain close.”

A short silence took over upon which Bronze looked at Jon directly in the eye.

“Sansa has been married twice, my lord, and I believe she has no interest in marrying again, no matter the convenience of the marriage.”

“You have another sister. The younger one, closer to lord Robin’s age, princess Arya? A maiden fierce as a wolf, I hear, and as strong as this bloody winter. It sounds as if she could handle a lad like Robin.”

Arya is not leaving our home to marry that manchild. Just the thought of Arya warming the bed of that green boy made him gag.

“No.” Even Jon himself was surprised at how hateful his voice came out.

“You’re not giving me much to work here… your Grace.”

It was clear ser Yohn wanted a relationship of trust and confidence with a true Stark. ‘You’re a Stark to me’, Arya had said. But while he was sure of her support, not everything else was as easy. What can I do? He could sense what the man wanted out of him. Jon drank his wine as he sat back and examined his options. He thought of Robb. When he had needed the crossing, he had promised to wed a Frey girl, and he has promised Arya’s hand to a Frey boy as well.

Jon remembered Sansa’s words, urging him to go the the Vale, that she had spoken in his behalf. She seemed to be much more perfectly able to handle lord Bronze. Not for the first time, he wondered if maybe Sansa was seeing a move of pieces he was not able to predict. She’s much more capable than what I gave her credit before… I should let her handle this.

“I could suggest that Sansa come here in a few moons. Winter will be harsh this year, and she could be safer from this fight-”

“Excellent!” Jon was surprised at his easiness to change the subject. It was clear he was a practical man, and when he saw an opportunity of going somewhere instead of nowhere he would take it.

Jon forced a smile on his face, which he was sure came off much more practiced than Sansa’s or even Arya’s. Those two had masks instead of faces, perfectly practiced to demonstrate only that which they seemed fit to share. Women are the smart ones, he reflected, hiding their fangs behind a pretty face.

Ser Bronze was more helpful after that, offering more swords, as well as personally offering some of their food to keep the ever growing amount of mouths that were relocating to Winterfell.  Jon hated games and fake compliance, he had no patience for it, so he sipped his wine silently and waited until the man was done with his speech of collaboration and the history of their houses to finally talk of the threat beyond the wall.

*/*

Glover was frowning when he arrived to the apartments Jon shared with his companions.

“A letter, your Grace.”

“Arya?”

“No, from ser Davos.”

Jon snatched it from his hands. He read it quickly. He was so shocked he read it again.

“Dragons…” Jon muttered, more to himself than to the rest. Larence and Glover were expecting more than that.

“Come again?”

“What did it say, your Grace?”

Jon looked out the window, lost in thought. He handed over the parchment to Glover and went to stand away from them. Ser Davos’ words did not sound as written under threats, yet Jon did not doubt the seemingly cordial words of Daenerys Targaryen hid further interests.The letter did not leave room for options. ‘She has three dragons and is ready to help those loyal to her in their problems’, said ser Davos’ words, the clear meaning behind loyalty being bending the knee.

He closed his eyes and groaned. Jon’s first train of thought went to the dragons. Three large beasts, spitting fire to the wights, it was a incredibly advantageous weapon. As far as he could tell the Night’s King had the number advantage with the ability to resurrect the dead . With the dragons…. along with enough men trained and armed with dragonglass...perhaps there was a chance.

Those loyal to her. These kings and queens, they were all the same, playing their game of thrones. Like monkeys, they didn’t let go off a branch until they had a good grip on the next.

“She wants you to bend the knee.” Manderly had arrived at some point while Jon was distracted.

All he could do was nod. Thankfully, they didn’t push the issue.

“I doubt that this letter reached us yet the Dragon Queen has not written to the young Arryn lord.” Glover

“I doubt it as well,” Manderly said, “best we go see if they have received any word from this Targaryen.”

They left in a hurry, leaving Jon with only Larence as company. He was a bastard like him, and for that, Jon had a certain fondness for the lad. Yet he wanted to be alone, or maybe he didn’t. It was long since he had had a friend like Sam, Pyp or Grenn, to exchange a laugh in spite of their unfortunate  circumstances.

Nowadays, the only thing that made him smile was Arya, and while that was not new, it had certainly carved a new pain in him. Jon looked away from Larence as he felt ashamed of how much he longed for his little sister. He was a man now, older than Robb ever got to be and here he was, missing Arya like he did in his first months in the Wall. He wanted to run his fingers through her hair, hear her laughter, see those eyes so much like his own fill with hope. But deep down he knew once they were reunited he’d have to put some distance between them.

Jon wasn’t blind, nor a green boy still. Back in Riverrun things had gotten confusing for them both. He had felt that pull to grab her closer, his attention had been deviated to parts of her he had never noticed before. Not only things he cherished or wished to protect, like her candor and her playfulness, but also things he admired, such as her relentless strength and the compelling force behind her every action. And mostly, he had felt more than ever before the attachment he couldn’t break. It was the knowledge of having her complete adoration, the reassurance that her love was boundless and the deep connection he felt even now, miles apart. Arya was present even in his dreams, and not in the abstract memories of her he had back in the Wall. No, she was in scent and touch. Jon did not doubt now that as much as he wore Ghost’s skin in his sleep she wore Nymeria’s too. They’re the only direwolves left, it’s only natural that they feel so attached to each other’s spirits.

But it wasn’t natural for a brother and sister to be so. One day, Arya would grow into a proper woman and a man would ask her hand in marriage. And while Jon’s hands became fists at the idea of his sister as anyone’s wife, he knew deep down Arya wouldn’t leave him for another. And that thought scared him. What kind of man grooms his sister into loving him and only him? Is that who he was? What would Ned Stark say if could read his thoughts now?

Forgive me, father. Jon did not know what he apologized for, perhaps because he loved Arya so, but that was no sin.

“You want to bend the knee, your Grace?” Larence asked quietly. His young face showed no judgement, neither did his eyes.

Jon let out a breath and went to sit next to the lad, hoping for an non judgemental ear. His other companions were loyal, but they were the lords who crowned him and wished his choices were always perfect.

And while he loved his sisters, Sansa was far from being easy to talk to while Arya had a stubbornness about her that could turn difficult at times. Sweet Bran would be a nice option, if he were there right now.

“It’s not a matter of wanting, Larence. We’re all going to die without that dragonfire.” Jon went for the wine. “You think my crown matters to me more than the lives of all of the North?”

“No, of course it’s the smartest choice, your Grace, but…”

Jon’s hand stopped before the cup could reach his lips. “But what?”

“I haven’t met Prince Bran…. but your sisters… it sounds like they have all suffered greatly by the war the Young Wolf fought.. would they bend the knee?” Larence asked timidly. If he was a boy still, like those first months at the Wall, he would tell Larence that he is the king and it were his words that mattered. But he was a man now, and he understood now that things were not as simple.

Jon could make the lords see his reasons and understand them, but deep down he felt Winterfell and the North belonged to Bran, Sansa and Arya. He was not blind enough to not notice his sisters’ desire to detach themselves from the South. The subject of the dragon queen on the east had been treated by both as a foregone conclusion: she’d arrive to lay claim to the Seven Kingdoms. Neither had seemed thrilled at the idea, but it was a thought too far away to make plans.

“I think… my sisters will be sure to make pragmatic decisions,” he said, “would you rather fight three dragons or have them on your side?”

Larence is interrupted by the return of Manderly and Glover. A raven has arrived for Robin Arryn, from Daenerys, inviting him to bend the knee. That was all.

“Best you return to Winterfell, Your Grace” Manderly said at once.

“That is no good move at all, this Dragon Queen may think we avoid her and go to prepare war on her”

“That sounds like presuming too much. But then again, if ser Davos is there and writing to me, not only must she know I’m close but also, that I need allies.”

“I doubt she’d assume you would just run to her without consulting it with your liege lords.”

“I don’t think we should assume what she would think.” Jon pointed out. He didn’t know why people do that, when it’s always annoying when anyone assumes things of anyone. “Particularly if in her eyes its either her or Cersei. And the Lannisters killed my family.”

“So did her father.”

“At the Wall, a man is what he becomes there, not what he was before.” At least that is the way it should be. “I won’t judge her for her father’s sins if she’s trying to be a better queen.”

His men frowned.

“You mean to go there and bend the knee, Your Grace.”

“It seems you are to tell me the reasons why I shouldn’t.”

“We go there, she kills us, and since conveniently the only male Stark left is a boy who can’t lead an army, she can conveniently offer him to keep his title of lord else she burns the North with her dragonfire.”

“And this is, of course, much worse than me refusing to go and try to gain something out of an alliance, thereby making sure she will never go North to burn us into submission?”

“Your Grace, the Young Wolf once travelled south making alliances and exchanging promises… it didn’t end well for him.”

I am not the Young Wolf. Jon had loved Robb dearly, but he had lived in his shadow his entire life. “It didn’t end well for him because he did not see his promises through. As king I am bound to look after the North. This is the way to do it.”

A long silence followed his words until finally Glover nodded. “He is right.” Manderly grimaced at the words, but Larence gave a somber smile. “But I urge you not to touch on this issue when we go to Harrenhal, your Grace.”

“The riverlords will kneel and declare me their king. You mean for me to hide the fact I am willing to bend the knee to another?”

Larence and Glover’s faces showed the same bewilderment Jon knew his own face showed. It was not just that the act was dishonest, it was dishonest and stupid.

“What I meant was, you may discuss it privately with the Blackfish, tell him to prepare the lords while you’re away, but do so privately,” Manderly stared at him intensely and Jon nodded, still confused, “as in not in the presence of Princess Arya.”

What in seven hells… Jon rested both hands on a table. “Why would I hide anything from my own sister, my lord?”

“Because, your grace, I believe both your sisters to have the will and the power to play this game independently of your intentions.” Manderly swallowed audibly upon Jon’s stare but continued to explain himself. “Princess Sansa had the knights of the Vale ready to use in the battle for Winterfell and she used them at the exact moment it was necessary for her to be the heroine, she rules the North now in your absence and does so with Littlefinger at her side. Princess Arya did not wait for you to annihilate house Frey, to declare war on Cersei, or to promise her cousin’s hand to House Tarly which is now the most powerful house in the Reach.”

“Arya would never plot against me.”

“Your sisters suffered greatly the minute the Young Wolf was declared king and the North independent. You think they wish to see all that go to waste?” Glover asked in a much softer tone.

“My sisters want to be safe. I think they would prefer to be alive over dying by the sword of the White walkers or burnt by dragonfire.”

“We survived the Long Night once. And Dorne remained unconquered by dragonfire for centuries.” Manderly boasted confidently. “I do not believe our she-wolves to be the kind to give up.”

“Is that what you believe, lord Manderly? That I have given up?”

“May I speak bluntly, your grace?”

Jon barked out a dry, mirthless laugh. “When have you not been speaking bluntly? Tell me at once what you think.”

“I believe so far you had very little hope in any chance of winning against this enemy. You insisted on giving them a fight because you’d never go down without one but you saw no triumph on the horizon. I appreciate that this dragons have made you change your mind but I will not pretend I am blind to your defects, my lord.”

“Well you are right.” Jon spat. It wasn't untrue and he wasn’t about to deny it. “But as you said I see a path now and that path is bending to knee to get those dragons on our side. But if you think I won’t try to get them by an alliance before kneeling, you are wrong. And if after all is done you and my sisters and all the North refuse to subject to the Targaryen again then I will do my duty and bend the knee for the sake of my people.”

Manderly bowed his head and remained quiet. The heavy silence lasted a short time. They were to depart towards Harrenhal in a few days and there was plenty to do.

*/*

Harrenhal was a monstrous ruin. After the beautiful castle Darry that they had passed earlier in the journey, Jon felt that Harrenhal compared even worse than had he seen it without passing through Darry.  He had already being told it was burnt and melted, but it was ugly as well. It was tremendous, but unlike Winterfell’s majestic vastness, Harrenhal was decaying. It seemed haunted, it was filled with poor servants, bats and rats. Cold and unwelcoming.

There were too many people inside Harrenhal, many lords arriving just like himself. There was ruckus and distractions all among Harrentown and within the castle halls. Jon heard someone shout “the King in the North!” and some other shouting in response. Many looked at Ghost with curiosity. Once they arrived to the main doors of the fortress, they stepped off their horses to be greeted by a grey man.

“Welcome to Harrenhal.” Even with  the gray hair and silver beard, Jon could still see the resemblance. He felt an acute sadness. Is this how Robb would’ve looked like as an old man?

“Ser Brynden. It is an honor.” Jon said as sympathetic as possible. He did not know what to expect from lady Catelyn’s brother.

“Arya’s maid has prepared rooms for you and your companions. The rest of your  men must sleep with all the garrison. This castle is so big there is no need to camp, but some rooms are full to bursting, so they better hurry to find a good sleeping place.”

“Manderly, can you  sort this out?”

“Of course, your Grace.” He left along with Glover and Larence, leaving just Jon in front of ser Brynden. “Has my sister arrived, ser?”

“Ha,” ser Brynden let out a tiny laugh as he crossed his arms, “arrived and settled and waited for you impatiently. Cat always mentioned she was a wild little thing, but I think she must be too excited to see you to be her normal self. Staying still and fidgeting is what she has been doing.”

Jon couldn’t contain the smile. Although he knew excitement made her quieter than usual, he had to remember maybe it wasn’t all him, since he recalled Arya saying she loathed Harrenhal to the bone.

“Where…”

“In the Godswood. I’ll show you the way.”

The little trek through the castle felt infinite, even more so with ser Brynden so silent. Jon was not good at conversation in any case, so he preferred to not start any. The only sound were their footsteps or Ghost sniffling something. They walked together to the entrance, where Brynden simply signaled him for him to continue and let him alone. Jon’s hands began to shake, his heart racing. Maybe the dark thoughts that had troubled his mind were affecting her too? It couldn’t be. While a part of him thought his precious little sister would never consider such an abomination, another part of him admitted he would never turn her away. He’d love Arya even if she were worse than a Thenn chieftain, that was certain.

Only a moment in the woods and he felt the soft footsteps of Nymeria, who came running to him and stopped in front of Jon with a wagging tail, as if she were a pup and not the enormous ferocious beast she was. Jon pet her lightly in the back as she went on to greet the ever silent Ghost. They nipped and licked and played with each other as Jon left them behind to continue in the direction from where the she-wolf had come.

The Godswood was not as welcoming as the one back home in the North, but Jon liked the darkness in it. It took quite a trek for him to find Arya, but when he did he was struck silent. His sister was praying, knelt before the heart tree’s scowl covered in wool and fur. She looked really pretty, a winter lady, impossible to take eyes off her.

She has grown. It seemed a bit ridiculous how with every new travel Jon made he came back to find she looked older.  I suppose it’s the same for everyone at her age. Arya was a lovely child woman, dark hair in simple braids and pale skin, cheeks reddened by the cold. Still as slim as ever, but now she looked fuller and taller.

Arya opened her eyes then and turned to him, her pink lips breaking into a grin. “Jon!”

Jon’s lips smiled widely as he opened his arms, his sister running  toward him like the wind and throwing herself to his arms. Her fingers dug into his skin and his own did the same, clutching her and breathing in her scent. He closed his eyes as their original excitement faded, their hug now more relaxed. Jon let his chin rest on top of her head as his hand ran along her back. It was strange, she was slim yet fuller. Still small, yet taller. Their embrace told him how much she had grown.

“Your hair is getting longer.”

“And messy.” Jon let out a laugh as he purposely messed her hair. Arya let out an indignant shriek. “Jon!”

Jon himself laughed as she put some space between them, letting him see her more properly. Arya’s face was less and less childish every day and more like his own. It made him remember the talks of marriage.

“What is it?” Arya frowned. She can read me like an open book. “Something troubles you.”

Arya was playing with his cloak. Jon took her fingers in his hand and winced at the warmth. One day, it would be another man’s hand that she would have to hold, another man to demand her hugs and affection. Arya is not in anyway mine to keep. The thought made him all sorts of angry, sad and ashamed.

Jon opened his mouth to answer but was interrupted by Ghost and Nymeria appearance, running and tumbling and play fighting.

“That’s it girl! Teach him a lesson or two!” Arya cheered as she turned, hands going upwards to rest on his chest, snowflake melting in her hair. Nymeria didn’t need the encouragement.

“I think Ghost is letting her win.”

Arya let out a laugh. Her nose wrinkled adorably, and Jon let himself smile again. “We must go,” Arya took his hand and put on a serious face, “everyone has been waiting your arrival”.

Jon let her pull him and guide him through the woods, the wolves following them behind. Arya held onto his arm and they walked through Harrenhal, all the soldiers, knights and lords bowing their head to their princess. It was strange to see his sister treated as he once saw people treat lady Stark and yet, he felt pride in having her by his arm. And he saw that pride in other men too. In his meeting with ser Brynden, he heard in his voice how much he admired all of Arya’s accomplishments. As the night settled and everyone made their way to the great hall, he saw how people looked at her.

Footsoldiers and washerwomen looked at her with fondness and admiration as she greeted everyone who passed their way. Lords and the few ladies present smiled at her with affection. Lords Tytos and Jonos bickered until Arya begged them to keep quiet upon which they bowed to please her. Edmyn played the disciplined little lord perfectly, Roslin standing uptight behind him.

Arya smiled through the whole thing. It reminded Jon of the days of old, back in Winterfell, during the harvest feasts, smiling and asking questions like the joyful little thing she was. Jon tried to be infected of her good mood, tried to remember the names of those lord whose troops she had secured, nodding along as she explained how they were trying to make the best of those fields still not affected by snow, how they planned to put the reclaimed territories to good use. He noticed what she was not saying: she was setting it everything up so she could leave as soon as he asked her to.

Being declared king again felt as despairing as the first time. People expected him to lead against the great war against the night, but Jon feared that he would only get for them to run away.

The celebratory feast was no less tortuous. Jon shifted on his feet uncomfortably. Everyone addressed him as ‘your grace’, his northern companions seeked to make company with whom they would trade, Arya fended off suitors as politely as she could. It brought a smile to his face, he could see her struggle to keep a polite smile. Perhaps it was that Jon was always forced to be observant, but he wondered if he could be as forward as some of this men.  For sure, if he ever saw a woman frown as such, he would walk off defeated.

Arya’s smile was reserved for him. She freed herself of the string of suitors and walked to him eagerly, gulping down her rum. He offered his arm for her to hold firmly. She let go a large breath of air and let her head drop to his shoulders.

“I’m keeping you from your string of suitors.”

“You’re freeing me.” She groaned against his clothes while Jon chuckled. “If this lords introduce me to more sons I swear I’ll set Nymeria on them.”

“You’ll have to marry someday, little sister.” He said gloomy, suddenly much more interested in looking at the crowd than at her.

“If they want to marry me is because I am a Stark, sister to a king.” Arya’s voice was just as sad. “They don’t care that I am ugly or that I rather wear breeches or that I could never sew their shirts. They care about my name, and little else.”

Jon gave her a look. He had seen that sort of disappointment in Sansa too, when lords have come to him asking for her hand following their victory taking Winterfell. He wondered if it was some sort of highborn women hopelessness that they all shared. That they were only wanted by the name they carried and the children they gave birth to.

His hand went to stroke her hair. It was so long now, a mane of brown curls. Jon would hate to see her transformed into something she hated, a wife in tight dresses and polished hair styles. He wouldn’t let her become just another highborn lady, married off to a man who would transform her into a property.

“I’d rather you never marry.” He said in a low voice. His heart began to beat faster once he realised what he said. Jon didn't had time to correct himself before Arya spoke her own forbidden words.

“I’d rather marry you.”

She doesn’t know what she is saying. Jon told himself. She’s young and wild and said the first thing that came to her mind. It was the only option. Jon searched her eyes and found she did not seem any different than how she had looked at the entire conversation. Whereas he… he had to drop her arm immediately.

“Excuse me, I-” Jon struggled to find an excuse, “I just remembered… I must go. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Jon practically ran to their assigned wing in the castle, the shame building up in his stomach until he could not stop himself from returning all he had eaten in the day. He retched in a pot and quickly went to the window in search for fresh air as he gulped down some watered wine.

Arya could not imagine the meaning of her words and that, that was what made him feel worse. She is your sister, that should be the worse. Oh but Jon had loved once, and he knew there was little one could do to stop it. But Arya… Arya who reacted to her suitor’s advances with irritation rather than blushing embarrassment, Arya who saw no ill in the comments ser Marq Piper made of her, Arya who did not bother to keep her wild hair in check, uncaring of appearances and looks. She knows nothing, nothing yet. Nothing of love, of sex, of wanting and longing, of what men and women are capable of feeling for each other.  Jon could never be the monster who took that childish innocence away from her. At her six and ten, she was hardly innocent in any aspects, her childhood lost to war and hunger, he could not take from her that last trace of innocence left.

Jon reminded himself he was a Stark by blood, the honor of Ned Stark could still be inside him despite being stained by bastardy. It was said that bastards were creatures of lust and selfishness, and all his life he had tried to prove such a thought as false, he could never.... he would not open Arya’s eyes to the world of adulthood by confessing a forbidden love. What would that make me? The uncomfortable image of Craster’s daughter-wives came vividly to him.  No, I’d never do to any women anything to which they were unwilling...

A knock startled him out of his musings. He already knew who it was but opened against his better judgement. Arya stormed in, stomping one foot after the other, hands in fists.

“Arya, what-”

“How dare you?”

“What?”

“How dare you treat me like… like a child!” Arya began pacing while he was struck cold. Was she suddenly able to read his mind? Was she more perceptive than Jon had thought?

“I don’t know what you mean,” he began, but he was once again cut short by her.

“I spoke with uncle Brynden.” She said slowly. “Did you think I wouldn't find out? You meant to keep me in the dark about your plans?”

“Arya”

“Have you any idea- any at all, of how difficult it was for me to secure you the support of the Riverlands?!”

“Listen,” Jon nearly said please, but refrained himself. He was king after all, and if she was to question his decisions he would make it clear he was the once who made the choices. “I never intended to hide from you, but I was advice to do so-”

“Then why did you?!” She threw her  hands up, indignation clear in her features.

“Because everyone agreed you would react like this!” He shouted, only for Arya to flinch. “I know how hard you’ve worked for this, and I know how proud you were that I was king…”

“I don’t care about whether you bend the knee or not!” Arya opened and closed her mouth several times following this, and Jon noticed she was trying to avoid crying. A deep affliction took over him and he reached out, but Arya stepped back and put a hand on her chest. “I… I thought we told each other everything.”

No, he thought for a moment, that’s what husbands and wives do. “Can you forgive me?”

“Of course I can, don’t be ridiculous.” Arya snapped, making him smile in return. A weight was lifted from his shoulders as he saw her roll her eyes to him. She turned to him with her hands on her hips. “You will make sure no wrong happens to the people of the riverlands. No matter what wars you fight and whichever queen you go meet, no more grief can be caused to this people.”

“I just swore I’d do so to your beloved Edmyn.” He pointed out, hoping for a smile, but instead Arya lifted her chin.

“I know, but now I need you to swear it to me.” Arya walked towards him, closer and closer until she was just inches from him. “Swear it to me.”

“I swear.” Jon whispered firmly. Arya nodded.

“Then I swear to support you, here and in the North. No questionings.”

Jon closed his eyes and let out a breath. Arya’s silent stoicism  and unflinching support was calming, determined and reassuring. “I love you”, he blurted out.

“I love you”, she said as she went to hug him. Nestling in his arms, Jon felt Arya relax and smile, instantly making him smile too. Jon let his nose touch hers, feeling her warmth and candidness engulf him. She was, irrevocably, the most dearest thing in his world. In one eternal moment, Jon felt the last remains of his experience with cold death being washed away by the certainty that this — Arya and him — was more powerful than death. Even the Night King could never take it away.

The warmth was broken by her lips timidly touching his in a kiss so chaste it was incredible it could feel as sinful as it did. His body froze cold at the sudden touch, but it was a burning cold that ignited something that felt as wonderful as it felt wicked. Jon’s own lips corresponded the kiss and, before he could wrap his head around it, Arya’s body was suddenly pressing against him.

She is so warm. Arya was so full of the fire of life, unlike him she was undoubtedly alive. Suddenly, Jon understood why the fire in Melisandre’s religion meant life. As Arya’s hand gripped his collar and her wet tongue danced inside his mouth, Jon grabbed her waist and clutched her against him. He felt the blood running hot inside of him for the first time since his death as one of his legs claimed the space between her own. Arya let out a moan and suddenly he felt cold all over again.

No. No, no, no, no. Jon grabbed her upper arms so tight he would leave a mark, and pushed her away slowly. Her eyes were closed for an instant but when they opened, he saw the same horror he was sure were in his, the slow realisation hitting her. This can’t be.

“Jon,” she began breathlessly and oh, why did her voice had to sound like that? Jon closed his eyes and reminded himself he had to leave. He began to pull away but her hands gripped his shirt tightly, “don’t go, please”.

“I have to.” Didn’t she see? It was clear they should remain together any longer, else they’d be dragged by a desire that was best left hidden and buried. Jon could not tell what was going through Arya’s mind, except a sort of desperation and confusion clear in her eyes. “We both clearly need our sleep.”

It took all his strength to step away from her, turn around and leave her. He went inside  his own own quarters and locked the door in a daze. Jon felt cold, shocked and disgusted. Would that it were morning, to ask a maid for warm water for a bath. He felt alone, unable  to speak of the matter with anyone and without Ghost at his side. At least he could be in the wolf during his sleep, and perhaps let go of some frustration with a good hunt.

No sooner has he gone to sleep and he is in the wolf. He is strong, quiet and no longer lost. He is running with the pack, yet he is enjoying a time alone. He can feel them near him, just pass the trees. They’re still feeding, but he got to eat first, warm blood still on his snout.

Suddenly he feels the strong scent of his sister approaching. He can not see her, but he heard other wolves making a loud mess. Lately she has been forced to snarl and scare them away, and even Ghost has helped by stepping in. This time, however, she managed to get away from them fairly easy. She appears between the trees, silently approaching him, circling him, moving her tail to the side.

He does not doubt, she is not making an invitation, she is making a choice. He is her mate and she is his, and so it shall be for the rest of their lives.

Ghost is quick to approach her, quick to smell her, quick to mount her.

The wolves were howling when he woke up, covered in cold sweat and agitated. His hand quickly travelled to his scars, a quick reaction to see if he was in his own body. Jon laid back and closed his eyes, condemning the gods and himself. It is wrong to love her, even worse a sin to want her. He had to leave, leave her. For her own good. Jon was already damned in the eyes of the gods, but he could spare her.

*/*

“I didn’t know you were planning on leaving so soon.”

“I have to.” Jon avoided looking at her as he tied his boots and fixed his clothing. Her voice let him know she was controlling her anger. Jon kept pretending he needed to secure his pouch to his belt properly, to check once more his bag was ready.

“Look at me at least, please.” Arya’s voice made him halt his pacing. I can’t, not after what Ghost did. The freefolk said it was an abomination, to be inside an animal’s mind when it mated with another. But wasn’t Jon an abomination himself already? “Don’t… don’t tell me after… that I am unbearable to look upon.”

Jon took a deep breath, and turned to her. Arya looked like she hadn’t slept a wink, chewing her lip, fingers playing with themselves. She looked pretty, lost, waiting for him to quell her fear. She looked too much like the child he left in Winterfell, so different from the lovely and fierce child-woman she was growing into every day.

It was easy for him to comfort her, as a brother comforts a sister. He walked towards her and tentatively put his hands on her shoulders. “Think about it no more.” Jon kissed her forehead quickly. Never ever again, he wanted to add.

“I can forget many things,” she began, frowning. Suddenly, Jon felt she was speaking of much more than their indiscretion. Arya hands went up to grip his own tightly, her steely grey eyes were penetrating, “but the truth is we can never leave behind the things we love.”

“Arya…” Jon gulped.

“I love you, a little mistake won’t change that. And we can’t blame ourselves for whatever the wolves do.” Jon frowned at her words, but Arya simply shook her head. “I dream what you dream Jon.”

“Arya, last night, I shouldn’t have-”

“We shouldn’t have! We! Why must you insist on punishing yourself?”

Because I am the one old enough to know better. Suddenly, Jon remembered waking up after the blackness of death, of Melisandre, Davos and his brother’s weary eyes. He remembered the Night’s King raising the dead, Craster sacrificing his sons, the wildlings tales of the unforgiving creatures beyond the Wall. Because I’m the one who has seen enough monsters to become one. “I can’t explain to you what makes me the man I am.”

“What do you even mean by that?” Arya sneered at his words, her grip losing strength and allowing his hands to go.

“You wouldn’t understand.” He said, but Arya let out an exasperated breath. “Oh stop that. You think I don’t notice you hide things from me too?”

There was a heavy silence as she looked at him. It was strange, to feel so close to her yet feeling like a secret hung heavy between them. Arya kept things to herself, he could tell, for he did as well. Perhaps it was good that they weren’t even closer, that some things still kept them apart, even if it killed him to know she did not trust him enough to tell him what had been of her life for so long.

“Consider it a measure to keep you safe.” Arya said. That was her justification as to why she didn’t share everything. Her reason could very well be his own. Keep her ignorant, keep her apart, save her from committing sin.

“Same here.” Jon said quietly. “Arya...I must go.”

It seemed her need for answers was quelled at that. Jon sensed her frustration would rise again however. Part of growing was feeling confused, he remembered as much. He was confused when he was her age, angry and many times frustrated with himself. It was best he was not there when she looked answers for that.

Jon took her silence for acceptance, gathered his belongings and began to put on his cloak. Arya got closer and took the cloak fastenings in her hands, dressing him with patience. "Promise me, Jon. Promise me you’ll find your way back home. Back to me.”

“Arya, I-” I want to, so much, but what will happen when I do?

“I don’t care about the wolf dreams or whatever you call it, I don’t —” Arya was on the verge of tears. “I love you, I’ve always had. You’re one half of me. I know you as well I know myself. We’re the same, you and I, we belong in the North.”

“My path is to the south, Arya. We need those dragons to survive. Remember Bran’s words? It is not in weapons of men that I must seek my answer, rather in ice and fire” Jon said sadly, taking her face in his hands, kissing the tears away. “What good does it do for me to be in Winterfell with you if I lose you to the Night’s King?”

“You won’t lose me. Ever. You understand?” Now it's her turn to hold his face in her hands, pulling him closer. “I love you.”

“I love you too, little sister.” The words were a dagger to his heart.

“Come back to me, no matter what. Promise me Jon, promise me.”

“I promise, Arya, I promise.”

Chapter Text

The oldest parchments were dry, the ancient books at peril of its ink slowly disappearing and their knowledge lost forever. Sam and the other acolytes were tasked with the copying of such books and the task could either be entertaining, such a the notes of maester Wyllem on the building of the Dragonstone fortress and the difficult handling of the obsidian, but many other times it could be extremely boring. Suffice to say, Sam had little interest in the different minerals found in the sand dunes of Dorne.

“Go eat something, can’t stand your groaning.” The Sphinx ordered him. Next to him, Pate gave an small smile. After months, Sam still couldn’t decide which one was more enigmatic. The Sphinx seemed to be good at everything he set out to study, earning chains with speed. Pate was quieter, and it took him a little longer because he studied less, but Sam still couldn’t figure out what did he wasted his time with.

“We can’t steal food from the kitchens.”

“We’re not novices anymore, Samwell, we can just go in the kitchens and ask for food if there’s some.”

Sam tended to forget this was not the Wall, but the Reach. In here, there were things such as ‘leftover food’ and fruit in spare to pick during the day.

“If I don’t finish my task I won’t be able to study in the afternoon.”

“If Pate here can forge chains then you can do so, you read more than him.”

Pate pretended to be upset by the comment, but Sam could see he was mostly indifferent. It was undeniable truth anyway, he was just smart. He could be shy and mumbling about things such as girls and swords, and a little grouchy when he was teased about it, but he was smart enough to pass the measters test with not as much as studying as the rest of them.

“Well I guess two links it’s not bad eh?” Sam said as he closed the book and rubbed his tired eyes.

“There’s no rush and in any case, until Marwyn comes back none of us will get the link for the higher mysteries.”

The mention of Marwyn made Sam frown. He wished desperately that the archmaester hadn't left. Sam had cleaned floors, emptied chamber pots, written letters for peasants, healed some rich men, copying books and feed ravens long enough to realise the archmaesters believed nothing of the ‘tales from beyond the Wall’.

He left Alleras and Pate studying, walking to his room while toying with the two pathetic links hanging from his grey clothes. He earned the black iron one barely a month after arriving. Sam already knew how to handle ravens from helping maester Aemon, and it only took reading some books to pass the archmaester test. It was also easy to learn a lead one and, if Alleras’ words were true, he was ready to take the next test and earn his bronze one.

But the links Sam longed to forge, to finally be of some value in this war, were difficult to master. No iron for him yet, having not enough knowledge of warfare, no red gold or Valyrian steel. At this rate, Sam would love to at least earn a s ilver link meaning he would be useful in healing people.

Books had always been his refuge, and he had convinced that knowledge was to become his weapon. But time could be a sour  lady,  and restlessness an even less tasty poison. Sam knew that up North a cold war was brewing, and he was miles away,reading.

His quarters were small. A cot, his chamber pot, a trunk for hus limited clothes and a desk. The desk was the largest furniture in the room, put against the Wall which received most of the light, the message being clear: read and study, that’s the only activity.

All Sam stole from the kitchens was a plum, it was small and not very juicy, as it would a fruit cultivated in winter. He should be thankful, thinking if what food must be like at the Wall. But alone, surrounded by the emptiness of his four walls with nothing but scrolls and a slightly dry fruit, Sam felt empty.

His hand played with the scrolls and searched for his letters. There were few, just a handful he had received from back home and two from the North. I should feel so honored, Sam thought in irony, the King in the North writes me himself.

Sam didn't want to think of Jon. Even if he could believe his friends story of death and resurrection (merely because, after all he had seen, it would be ridiculous for Sam to become an skeptic fellow), he had trouble seeing how this gave him any sort of allowance to leave the Night’s Watch. He thought of Grenn and Pyp, dying as shield of the realms of men, of maester Aemon, having to stay there even as his family was massacred. But Jon left while Sam remained doing what he was ordered to do for the Watch.

“I died Sam,” his letter read, “I gave my life for the Watch and none listened to my warnings. The kings and lords should’ve come when we asked, at least now I can do something.”

It was in that that Sam tried to focus. That now Jon could do something, he was doing something.

And after all, hadn’t he broken his vows too?

Sam looked for Talla’s letter and his eyes searched eagerly for Gilly’s name. She was well, according to his sister, with ‘little Sam’ growing every day.  He wished Gilly would learn to write aside from reading, but now she has busy learning to be a lady’s maid to his sister. Sam’s lady mother was, perhis sister’s words, adoring dotting on little Sam, which made him feel even more sadness about not being able to be there. His father surely was alright, since Talla wrote that she was betrothed to Tyrell.

Now that he has married her to a Tyrell and his grandson will inherit a castle in the Riverlands, my father will have the influence he always dreamed of. Perhaps the blow of him stealing Heartsbane wouldn’t be so great. Perhaps, Sam prayed, his father was too elited and distracted to mistreat Gilly and little Sam. I hope you can come to my wedding, Sam, it would be sweet for you yo be there, sweet for mother and me, and for Gilly and your boy too… Talla’s words were kind but deep down he knew his father would never allow his biggest disgrace to taint such a perfectly arranged marriage.

Sam shaked his head at the memory of his father, and finally made his way to the highest tower wondering what must he feel at the latest developments. A woman sat on the Iron Throne, with only another woman (with dragons no less!) with enough power and desire to fight for the crown. Everywhere one looked in the Seven Kingdoms there were powerful women in charge of the kingdoms: Oberyn Martell baseborn daughters, the Stark sisters, Olenna Tyrell… Mayhaps with more  women in power, men will stop looking down on their own kind only for  liking books over swords.

It was a silly idea, if Sam was honest with himself, he had little optimism that things would change when it came to the culture in Westeros. There had been powerful women and yet that changed nothing of what men thought of women.

 The tower was empty. In the night, when he and other were studying for the bronze link of the chain, it would be filled with young acolytes. But now… now you’re all to myself.

A good part of living in the Citadel was that you could find time for yourself at… all times really. Unlike Castle Black with its  endless tasks and chores, in here there were servants and cooks and people to take care of things of maintenance. As  novices you were tasked  with chores to teach discipline and servitude, especially to those of noble blood, but  sooner rather than later you were  ordered to focus on studying.

And Sam studied, oh he studied even in his  spare time. Even now, alone in this tower, he did not look for a moment to see the beautiful landscape. Sam had brought with him the latest book he had found on ‘higher mysteries’ and ‘myths’. Increasingly, Sam had found himself being more and more secretive about what he studied when he was  not looking to forge links.

First there had been the  nasty rumours of Archmaester Marwyn, then there was the fact that there was no maester to replace him. Eventually, Sam noticed the Archamaesters laughed at the tales from the Wall, scrunched up their nose at the reports of Daenerys Targaryen’s dragons and frowned on the rumours of assassins who change their faces or the Drowned God or the ironborn reviving drowned men.

Sam has given up on them. The only one who could’ve understand him was Marwyn, but he left as soon as Sam arrived. Now all there was for him was to come up to the tower and read his notes on ancient and extinct creatures of Westeros. Despite the author assuring that the children of the forest were no sorcerers, Marwin had scribbled on the side to check the third appendix of notes he added to the book,upon which Sam could read proof based on ancient accounts of the way the children handled nature.

So far his reading had not being very useful. Sure there had been some mentions of a period of darkness, of long winters, filled with tales of survival which made him tremble as much as the ice at the top of the Wall did. It filled him with dread, but there was little mention of the others, of dead walkers, of creatures made of ice. His biggest development was a mention of a ‘great enemy’, but Sam already knew that whomever was out there was their great enemy. But nothing of how this enemy was defeated, at most, a mention of the use of magic, of ice, of fire. But it was a song he did not know the words to, or maybe he knew the words but not the music. Sam the Slayer knew the enemy, he knew the cold of ice, he warmth of fire and the power of magic. But books and scrolls did not tell him what to do.

His reading was interrupted by the sound of several horns. Many of them sounded as the same small horn being blown at the same time, but the other… Sam’s hands immediately went to cover his ears. His heart beat faster as he ran to the window, feeling a sinking feeling when he found the picture all of Oldtown had been dreading to see.

On the horizon and approaching rapidly, the fleet of the ironmen threatened the city. The sound of screams and the horns of the watchmen filled his ears as, across the bay, several smaller fishing boats (and even bigger vessels) rapidly made their return to the harbor. Once again, a horrible, horrible sound filled the city. It was the enemy’s horn.

That’s two horns, what will the third mean?

Sam ran out of the room expecting to find a ruckus, instead he found silence. He had to rush down all the way to the first levels to find people running. Many of them were guards, hired and paid to protect the Citadel. He found the Sphinx running with wood in his arms.

“Hurry, find some use!” He shouted at Sam. For his own part, Sam could only stand there with his arms extended, perplexed that everyone seemed to have found a task at hand. Alleras sighted audibly and moved his head motioning for Sam to come along. He guided him towards the stacks of logs where Sam managed to lift five to carry along.

They ran up the walls, were archers were preparing to defend it every gate passible. The Sphinx and him delivered the logs to bronze fire pits where they were preparing large fires in case it was necessary to lighten up arrows. Running along the walls of the Citadel one could see most of the city. Sam tried to quiet the sounds of screams coming from all around them. There was no sound of clashing of swords, or armies in battle. Sam was witnessing a slaughter.

“Sam!” Alleras has a bow and arrow in his hand, his dark eyes looking at him in irritation. “Stop looking around like a fool! Those who can’t fight  must go help inside, go!”

He was halfway towards the main library when he realized he hadn't said anything to the Sphinx in case they never saw each other again, no goodbyes or wishes of good luck. What if I die? He’d never see Gilly again, with her sweet smiles and pretty hair. Or little Sam. Or his lady mother and his sister. He’d even miss not seeing Dickon one more time. He would fail at helping Jon and his brothers of the Night’s Watch. I will not die here, he told himself as he began to see acolytes and novices unfit to fight running around with scrolls.

Archmaester Ebrose was directing a group of boys, telling them which one to take and which one to leave. “Samwell! Hurry now, find some archmaester to help.”

“What are you doing?”

“We prepare bags with the most important books and scrolls so the acolytes can escape by a secret passage and at least keep some knowledge safe.”

“What about maester Marwyn-” Sam was cut short by Ebrose exasperated sigh, looking at him like he was crazy.

“I do not care in the least what happens with the mastiff useless scribbles!”

Archmaester Ebrose turned away from him then, his concern in selecting the books that the novices bring to him. No one cared too much about Sam to prevent him from entering Marwyn’s study. He was seeking the most ancient books, those who speak of the magic in the elements, the mysteries of ancient creatures, of the nightmares that inhabited ancient Westeros. Sam was so immersed than when the the horrendous horn sounds for the third time, he screams and lets go of the parchments in his hands.

He is so frozen in his scared state that he has to close his eyes and purposefully concentrate on moving. Barely an eye blink could’ve passed or an eternity, Sam couldn’t know. All he could feel was the cold in his veins as he heard a noise so tremendous he felt like they could’ve heard it all the way to the Wall. It was cracking, exploding and crashing all in one din that nearly deafened him.

Once he can finally move he rushed to the window, pushing the shutters, being hit with the smell of smoke. From the window of Archmaester Marwyn one could see the sea and a good part of the city. Something in the view felt odd to Sam, and he looked to the harbor filled with the vessels of the ironborn fleet. He listened intently to various screams of horror and tried to decipher what was happening to the people of Oldtown. However, it was the skyline of beautiful Oldtown that had now changed forever, Sam swallowing a scream of horror once he realised what was amiss.

The High Tower, with it’s beacon guiding the ships and illuminating the city, was gone. Once tall and proud, now all that remained was the inferior levels of the castle, surrounded by pieces of the demolished tower. How in Seven Hells… what monster had caused such a destruction?

“Monster, you say?” A voice said from behind him and nearly made him piss himself in fear. Sam turned to find the room had changed entirely around him, the colors brighter, with an unpleasant light having filled the room. Sam opened his mouth to speak but no sound came. All he could do was stare at the breathtakingly beautiful woman in front of him. If she saw him, she made no show of it.

The woman seemed to be listening with attention and paid him no mind, even thought it was as if she was standing right there in the extremely illuminated room. Her hair was long and braided, in a silvery color that shone so much Sam had trouble looking at her for too long. She was a delicate beauty, fair skinned and with striking violet eyes. When she spoke again, he heard disgust and resolution in her voice.

“He is a monster. The Greyjoys must plan the battle and depart at once. Should I send Unsullied with them?”

Unsullied? Was this the dragon queen Daenerys Targaryen?

“Please-” Sam began, his voice cracking. The woman turned, and the movement of her hair made a reflection with the light so strong Sam crouched and hid from the light, fearing he’d go permanently blind. He heard unintelligible sounds but through his eyelids he saw the light remained too strong. Finally it diminished, and he heard once more the screams coming from the city. As Sam finally rose and opened his eyes, he saw the woman was gone, all that remained was the glass candle of maester Marwyn burning brightly.

As he approached, the colors went back to their normal shade, the glow around the room was gone. All Sam heard was a distant whisper that seemed to come from the flame. It was a different voice than that of the woman and it said four words: “Write to Jon Snow…”

Sam bolted out of the room and ran as fast as his chubby legs allowed him. He ran out of air and had to stop several times, stopping to listen to several accounts of the attack. It seemed only one of the gates had been in danger of being attacked, but overall the ironborn seemed to have avoided the Citadel. Everyone was shocked by the fall of the Hightower, people were running to their gates to seek medical help.

The ravens in the ravenry were quiet, as if they knew perfectly well the seriousness of the situation. Sam scribbled some words with shaky handwriting addressed to Jon Snow. He needed to know that the power to put down such a large structure existed, he needed to know that magic had showed him Daenerys Targaryen.

*/*

Sam had worked endlessly, hunched over the bodies of injured and sick. The maesters of the Citadel did not usually tainted themselves with curing the masses, but even their hearts softened at the results if the  ironborn plundering. He worked so much the first days after the event that it was only after a fortnight had passed that he realised that all the doors he opened during the attack had been unlocked, an especially odd fact when considering he had entered Marwyn’s personal study and the Ravenry. When he brought up such a concerns to an archmaester however, he paid him no mind, telling him probably some archmaester opened them before and forgot to close them because of the attack.

There were so much rumours that Sam did not know what to believe. Tales of mute savage men, of a one eyed man of blue lips, tales of violence and blood. Only two things were certain: the Hightower had fallen, and before, during or after the fact, Malora Hightower had been taken by Euron Greyjoy.

The tower remained rubble, people were scared and there was nothing Sam could do. He wrote to Talla and his mother to let them know he was fine. He fixed cuts, healed infected wounds and repaired bones when necessary. The worst part was helping women who were attacked. Cuts and bruises they could take care of, and even, if they so wished, moon tea to avoid the possibility of them getting with chance. But there was something in those women’s eyes… something he had sometimes seen in Gilly… a despair no medicine could cure. It made him angry and more filled with the need to know how had one man bring able to defeat the tallest structure man had built.

 When Sam requested permission to investigate the fall of the tower, he was forbidden. There was an archmaester in the arts of building and architecture for that, they told him. After that, Sam hid in Marwyn’s study out of stubbornness and pride.  He tried to remember Gilly calling him a slayer, forced himself to recall how he encouraged his black brothers to vote for Jon. All of his courage seemed lost under the weight of hierarchy.

The Sphinx did not understand. He was a favorite of the maesters. Pate was elusive, even more so when Sam asked where had he been during the attack. Perhaps he was a coward like Sam and had hidden away. Leo Tyrell was worse, taunting Sam for the things he was mocked in his childhood. And so Sam was alone, using his mornings to study what he was meant to and his afternoons to study whatever he could get his hands on among Marwyn’s notes and books.

Two days had passed from the attack when the horn of the watchmen was heard loud and clear. From the window of the tower where he was studying, Sam saw people immediately start running in despair. However, the ships did not approach the city. Sam frantically searched for a spyglass, suddenly remembering this was the tower for astronomy, running to the top to find the bronze Myrish far-eye used to watch the stars. He directed it towards the horizon and saw the ironborn fleet passing fast. They beared the banners of House Greyjoy. Once the ironborn ships were gone, they were followed by another fleet which went much slower, bearing a Targaryen banner.

Was this what I saw in the candle? The Dragon Queen sending her fleet to help us? Sam bit his lip as he saw the ships pass. From the moment he arrived to the Citadel he had not heard good things from Daenerys Targaryen, or rather, her dragons. Maesters were distrustful of magic and all mysteries, and since the Targaryen kings of old never let their dragons be studied properly, they remained a mystery. He had to tell someone, however, and there was only one maester Sam knew to be slightly less bigoted.

“Maester Ebrose,” Sam began as the man looked up from his scribbles, “I know you hate Archmaester Marwyn’s field of study bu—”

 “Samwell, I do not hate anything except probably boiled apples.” He took off his eye glasses. “Tell me what do you want. I’ve been expecting you to come more, I see you have a talent for the silver link, yet you avoid us.”

“Maester, I will try to come more often, I promise.” Sam sat down in front of him. “I have heard the maester’s here dislike magic but, I must explain to you all I have to say without you interrupting me.”

“Very well,” Ebrose looked at him in the eye with attention, “tell me.”

The tale Sam told left out no details. It was better that way. Sam too had arrived to the Wall  thinking it a simple structure between two lands of ice. A punishment for his cowardice. But slowly, things became obvious. Sme tales were not as crazy as others. Tales of cannibals and giants were proven correct by the free folk. But others things were less easy to explain, brave fierce men deserting or running from their ranging, the tradition of burning bodies that had no origin other than the possibility they may rise again. The creation of the Wall itself. As Sam explained, he felt a shiver down his spine as he had to recall his encounter with the White Walkers.

Ebrose was silent as Sam talked of obsidian, of Mance Rayder, of needing to find the magic that gave the creatures life and needed to find whatever would stop them. “You see?” Sam asked in despair. “It is not that I believe in snarks and grumkins, I believe in what hundred of eyes have seen: the dead rising. And don’t even get me started on what happened in Maester Marwyn’s chambers. I saw a vision and it became true, I ain’t lying!”

The maester remained impassive, still looking at Sam. He poured himself some wine and took a long gulp. “Samwell. Sam,” he smiled patiently, “as a seeker of knowledge, I agree many of my brothers in the Citadel are biased. To turn away from investigating something on the bases that it is inconceivable—,” he shook his head, “if we all thought that way, we never would’ve discovered greyscale is curable in babies or that a woman can be treated of a dangerous childbearing with tansy and not risk her life, we must be open minded the new possibilities.”

“So— so you will help us?”

“Help you?!” Ebrose shaked his head, “oh dear boy, not even the strongest winds can move a mountain. You have convinced me that there is something strange out there, something worth researching. That is a victory. The Wall wasn’t built in a day, Samwell, little by little, you might convince more and more.”

“What? No!” Sam  threw his hands up in exasperation. “How—Maester! Jon Snow, the king of Winterfell has come south, armies from the riverlands and the Vale and the stormlands are in the process of joining him! We must act now, there is not time for deliberation!”

“Samwell, rushing into conclusions is just as extreme as closing our minds to new possibilities,” he put his glasses back on, “a good balance is the greatest answer, for now, keep looking for records of magic in Marwyn’s archive.”

“But—”, Sam began, but a look from Ebrose was enough to let him know the battle was lost. “Fine. What of Daenerys Targaryen? Shouldn’t we begin asking her help?”

“The maester at Dragonstone is already on contact Samwell, all things will come to pass at their due time.”

“But the dragons—”

“Having flying fire breathing creatures does not automatically make her the hero you need, Samwell,” he shaked his head in disappointment, “Cersei Lannister has Euron Greyjoy on her side, on the promise of letting him be king of the Iron Islands and raid where he please… Daenerys Targaryen has two Greyjoys on her side, do you truly believe she has promised them something different?”

All this deliberation will get us killed, Sam thought, and my brothers at the Wall will be the first to go.

Sam did not waste more time, it was clear that the Archmaester would give him none of the answers he wished. Once again, it was in books he hoped to find answers. Sometimes, he wished he could trade the life he lived to that of those he read about,  seekers of knowledge who let nothing stop them. But if that was his life, he never would’ve met Gilly, Jon, Pyp and Grenn or any of his brothers.

He ran up to his quarters, hands in fists.  He was tired of Marwyn scrolls, all his accounts of Asshai, of the magic of ancient creatures, his theories on the changing faces of the Faceless Men, the details of how to project glamours, his instructions for magical fires and useful maledictions.

Sam stared at the scrolls waiting for him: long pieces of paper who gave him no peace. He thought of Jon, a king now, enjoying the warmth of his childhood home while he and his black brothers still bore the weight of their vows, he thought of Gilly, surely by now quietly serving in Sam’s house and biting her lip at his father’s venom. He thought of Talla, wishing for him to go see her as a bride, and he thought of his mother, defying Sam’s father to protect him. And what was Sam doing? Was he becoming the kind of son she would be proud of? He was just wasting time reading on magical solutions to a war even Jon seemed to have given up upon.

The rolls of papers made a deaf sound when he threw them off the table. The inkwell and other instruments, however, made a loud sound as Sam let his frustration out. He wished there was someone he could write to to that would give him some support. But Gilly hardly knew her letters, there was no use writing to the Wall, and he knew Jon had no fixed location. His brother wrote of visiting and gathering supporters, of his siblings Bran, Sansa and Arya, of the political whispers of a war of queens.

Sam had heard of Jon’s siblings, although he always spoke more of Robb, his similar in age. Bran, he was just surprised he had survived beyond the Wall, and that, according to Jon, came back ‘with knowledge’. Of Sansa, Jon had mentioned her only a couple times, and so far, he had only written that she was in charge of Winterfell. As for Arya, Jon had spoken of her, but to Sam it seemed she was both a comforting yet painful memory, much like when he spoke of his father. She was also moving around as much as him, so there was no use writing to her.

Eventually, once he had taken a few calming breaths, he grabbed ink and parchment and wrote to Bran Stark, the crippled prince of Winterfell, hoping someone who went so far looking for questions would understand his frustrations, and perhaps, give him guidance of how to keep going. Perhaps Bran had heard of legends, names, anecdotes, anything to help him figure out how to keep going. Help me, he wrote desperately, knowledge seems our only weapon right now.

Sam a hand through his hair. It was getting longer and the Sphinx kept telling him he needed a haircut. He also needed to shave. So he did. He ordered his things, organized the scrolls in his desk again. He shaved, he got his hair cut by a novice. He clipped his nails and cleaned them. The he silently went to where the Sphinx and Pate were reading Marwin’s scrolls and at next to them, to ruminate through piles of information. Many were simply writings of recollections of his journeys. Others were letters, others — Sam suspected— were stolen documents. His eyes passed through the words quickly, trying to find if there was mention of something useful. Whatever the Sphinx and Pate were looking for, he did not care. They wanted a link in their chain, he wanted to learn how to save Westeros.

He was passing through documents mindlessly when the word ‘Stark’ captured his attention. When he read the word marriage, he felt a rush of blood from the importance of the knowledge, only to realise it really didn’t matter that much. Still, an ‘oh’ escaped from his lips.

“What is it?” the Sphinx’s curious eyes met his own.

“Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen were married.” Sam reread the words quickly. “In Dorne, by a maester near the marshes.”

Pate’s expression as unreadable. He seemed both unsurprised yet interested in the discovery. He opened his mouth to ask something but was cut short by Alleras sharp voice. “It was not valid. He was already married. Married in the Sept of Baelor, Targaryens had given up being polygamous centuries ago.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Sam concedeed, shrugging his shoulders. He was right, it was not a valid marriage. Rhaegar Targaryen was married when he kidnapped a betrothed Lyanna Stark, and no marriage could make that situation right. He couldn’t bring himself to dismiss the parchment, however, perhaps because it involved Jon’s family. He decided to save it in his pockets, hoping to one day give it to him or his family so they’d have it in their archives. Sam cared little of girl’s virtues and families’ broken honors (being a disgrace to his family himself and having seen from Gilly that these things really mattered so very little in the end), but he guessed it could be some comfort to the Starks to know Rhaegar married the young Stark lady.

“Why would he marry her, though?” He couldn’t help but ask as he went looking for other parchments that looked interesting. The Sphinx shrugged, deep in thoughts himself. It was Pate who answered, his voice suddenly much more… grave and older than usual.

“So any child born of her wouldn't be a bastard.”

Sam nodded in agreement, although it was all seemed useless to him, perhaps because he knew the end of the story. They had both died in the end.

Before anything else could be said, a novice came running. The three of them nearly jumped out of their seats, the latest events keeping them all on the edge.

“Samwell,” the young boy began breathlessly, “maester Ebrose is looking for you.”

Sam rose to follow him, initially thinking they’d go to Ebrose wing. Or perhaps, to when they were still tending some wounded from the attack. But he was lead deep down the Citadel, beyond damp hallways and darkened rooms. The dungeons, often unused and empty, many chambers used more for storage than punishment. In the citadel, the usual punishment was work, not imprisonment.

He did not expect to find Ebrose outside one of the dungeons, looking inside with concern and disgust. The old maester did not turn to look at him as Sam hurried to his side. “Samwell, I hope you have a strong stomach.”

Sam didn’t know if he was mocking him or not, not understanding until he reached his side and looked inside, his eyes connecting with painful blue eyes. Grayscale was hideous in any form, but when you saw it on the entire right side of a man the hopelessness of it made a  man with the strongest of stomachs cringe.

“This is ser Jorah Mormont, he has come to look for a cure.”

“But—” we can’t cure him. Everyone knows no grown person can be cured or grayscale.

“Yes, I know what odds I give him. We both know what odds the other maesters give him. You want to practice what Marwin teaches? Here is a chance. Marwin has many books on magical cures and treatments he has read and seen in the east.”

“But grayscale—”.

“You want us to believe, don’t you? Want us to start looking for a solution from a dark magic none of us has seen or believe, well I tell you… maybe what we need is a push.”

“I can’t cure grayscale on magical books. I’m no wizard. You can’t just rest my case on curing an incurable disease.”

“It seems to me you are turning away from investigating something on the bases that it is inconceivable. One would believe that if you’re keen on trying ancient magic and legendary creatures, you’d practice what you preach.” Ebrose turned away from the sick man and walked past Sam. “Practice your ancient magic, Samwell Tarly.”

Sam was left alone with ser Jorah Mormont, the sight of the scales on his skin repulsing him. Sam the Slayer had been mocked by his brothers at the Wall. He hoped Sam the Wizard could get better results.

Chapter Text

“Grey Worm said they seemed good people”. Missandei spoke quietly as she brushed Dany’s hair gently. She enjoyed whenever they helped each other with their hair. It almost felt like she had true sister. And yet...

“That man served Stannis Baratheon”. Dany chastised softly.

“Lord Tyrion served his father, his entire family. So did lord Varys”. Missandei said after a moment of silence. It was true.

“But they came to serve me, that was not ser Davos goal, he serves another king”. The king in the North . “Varys is not a lord”.

It came out more spiteful that she intended, but Missandei did not comment on it. Dany knew her friend would never comment on the discussion she saw the day before, but she wondered if she was scared now to defy her. It made Dany sad. She was her friend but she was her maid. It was the same with Tyrion. If he had anything to say regarding her disagreements with Varys, he kept them to himself. It frustrated her endlessly, she had made an effort to built a friendship, she had forgiven the life of his treacherous brother, yet he continued to deny her the one thing she wanted: his complete honesty.

The Red Woman had arrived clouded in mystery and riddles, her prophecies and talk of visions confusing Dany endlessly. Varys had demanded she be expelled from the island, but Daenerys did not fear magic as he did. So far, magic had been her powerful ally. Now she regretted how harshly she had treated him, but Dany did not think it wrong that when he was being so absolute with his judgement he ought to give her better reasons than just ‘ disliking magic ’. Tyrion had remained quiet the entire time they discussed this, and she could see in his eyes that he had opinions, he just chose to keep them to himself. Weren’t they supposed to be open and honest, as friends often were?

“Your hair is finished Your Grace, is there any other way I can help you?” There was a bit too much servitude in Missandei’s voice, and Dany couldn’t stand it. She faked a smile.

“Go tend to your affairs, I’m fine.”

When she was left alone, Daenerys walked to the bed and let herself rest on it. She was clad in a simple dark green gown, a black goat wool shawl protecting her from the cold. For some reason, she did not want to dress herself as a queen today, she ached for something else. As she stared at the high ceiling, Daenery realised how big her bed was, feeling the thick bed covers swallow her..

She did not miss Daario, not really. She did not miss his love, and some days, she had trouble recalling the exact tone of his eyes. Dany missed the cheekiness, the boldness. Tyrion was fun on most days, smart and witty. But she could not trust him, not the way she once trusted Daario. She missed that, her sellsword’s bluntness and confidence. Or Drogo…

With time and age, Dany had come to realise the bargain her first husband had done in order to get her. She was a queen now, and she could not help feeling offended. Though she knew that as any high born lady she would still have being married to any man in exchange of loyalty had she lived he life as a princess, she still resented the whole affair. Her sun and stars had given her strength, had made her w man and had transformed her into a Khaleesi.

But he had raped her, and he had bought her, and he had not made a move in favor of winning her throne until she had began carrying his child.

And yet, as she closed her eyes and remembered how it had felt to be on top of Drogo, both in power, both equals, both loving and trusting, she could not help the longing that it brought her. Dany could no longer deny her solitude, her desire for a partner. She didn’t need one, she just wanted one.

She wasn’t surprised when her hand travelled underneath her skirts and found herself wet. It had being a fortnight since her moonblood, and her body seemed to sense how many lonely nights it had being since her desires had being taken care of. Her fingers had become experts in pleasuring herself, keeping rhythm even as her hips thrusted upwards and her body twisted. Dany gasped as her peak came surprisingly quickly, sending a shiver along her body.

Her body relaxed as she took her hand out and covered her legs with her skirts.  She closed her eyes and relaxed for a few moments, listening to the waves crashing against Dragonstone black rocks.

*/*

After she had washed herself and fixed her appearance, Daenerys made her way to the chamber of the Painted Table. Although not a particularly warm place, they had grown accustomed to spend time there discussing the plans ahead.

Only Tyrion is there already. He does not make a sound of greeting, his eyes fixated on a point of the table she can distinguish as Casterly Rock. Did he miss his home? He had never spoken of it with much fondness, yet Tyrion was often cynical and sour about many things.

“Good morning, my lord Hand.”

Tyrion looked up quickly and gave her a rare honest smile. “Good morning, your Grace.”

Dany returned the smile as she went to sit near the northern end of the table, enjoying the view of the vast northern land in black obsidian. “May I ask what makes you smile this morning? I could use a reason to smile.”

“A family memory,” Tyrion confessed, walking towards her to sit on her side, “the day Jaime taught me how to swim in a beach near Casterly Rock.”

Daenerys forced herself to smile, hoping it did not look fake even though Tyrion was avoiding looking at her directly. She did not want to talk of his brother, and for some reason, the only thing to come out of her mind was thinking of her brother. “I remember how Viserys taught me High Valyrian.”

It was an odd memory, particularly because it wasn’t precisely lessons. Viserys just talked to her in High Valyrian and Common tongue interchangeably, more or less forcing her to grow up fluent on both. Unlike Tyrion, Dany did not smile at the memories.

“I broke my fast with ser Davos and the young lad Gendry.”

Blessed be the distraction. “Have they any news of Jon Snow?”

“Not besides the ones they’ve shared with us, that he is on his way.” Tyrion said as he ran a hand through his hair. “No, what’s interesting here is that they had much to say about… our newest visitor.”

Just what was it with that Red Woman that made her such an interesting topic of conversation? Dany did not understand. She repeated her question out loud to Tyrion and he laughed soundly. “I just don’t understand what makes her so interesting.” Dany had seen her fair share of weird and mystical things, and she was sure not even her dragons caused so much discussion.

“It’s because you’re a woman, you wouldn’t understand.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” She asked and this time all Tyrion did was raise an eyebrow. Then it made sense. Men , she thought to herself, it’s always the simplest of answers with them . “Well, what did they say that is of importance to me?”

“Well suffice to say they agree with Varys, she should be turned away.”

“I’m sure he was much happy with this.”

Tyrion did not bother denying that Varys was present during this exchange. “Apparently the woman used the lad, Gendry, for a bloody ritual to turn the odds in their fire during the War of the Five Kings. And again, for the sake of a sacrifice to her fire god, she burned Stannis daughter. Of course, now the subject of a dead child does seem to matter to Varys.

Daenerys hid her horror at the woman’s actions, yet she could not take out of her mind the image of the little girl her dragons burned back in Mereen. Before she could say anything however, the doors burst open and Varys himself came in, looking most displeased.

“Your Grace, my lord Hand.”

“Varys, any news?” It was their usual question. Day after day, most of what Daenerys did was ask what news there was, of their allies, of their troops,of the movement of their enemy. Reconquering back Westeros so far had being writing letters to lords asking to bend the knee, writing to what remained of the Faith to seek support, writing to Oldtown to seek the favor of the maesters. Writing, waiting, sitting, waiting some more.

“Yes, your Grace.” Varys grimaced. “That woman is outside the door asking to be allowed in. I suggest we make sure she’s far away before we discuss this matters.”

“Wasn’t she an advisor for the Usurper’s brother? If she served him she may have counsel for me.”

“Yes, your Grace, and Stannis Baratheon ended his reign dead in the snow as far away form the Iron Throne and everything he fought for.”

Everything he said was true and yet… Daenerys remembered Quaithe. She had hidden her face, but she had told ser Jorah where her dragons had being, and she had warned Dany of many dangers. She had known all along that the men of the city would seek to take her dragons.

“Her words I will hear, this doesn’t mean I will heed her council.” Dany gave Varys a firm look despite his reproachful expression. “Allow her in.”

The Spider gave no further comments and simply went to open the door. Dressed entirely in red, her penetrating blue eyes staring right into Daenerys’ own eyes, the shadowbinder entered the chamber with ease and not at all distracted by the immense table. It took a moment for Dany to remember she was too familiar with the chamber.

“Daenerys Targaryen, the dragon’s daughter.” Melisandre walked straight towards her, hands folded in front of her and bent her head. “Allow me to serve you, council you and guide you.”

For all answer, Dany signalled the empty seats in the table.

“My little birds bring news from King’s Landing.” Varys announced, sitting himself as far from Melisandre as possible. “Lord Tarly has decided to bend the knee to Cersei Lannister. It is also has become quite obvious she plans to send their combined armies to Highgarden.”

Daenerys felt herself stiffen as her hands turned to fists. A part of her wanted to tell them that being so cautious with the dragons have meant the lords have yet to realise the rightful Targaryen queen had arrived. Another part of her remembered that Aegon the Conqueror had planned his invasion of Westeros for years. But this isn’t an invasion , she thought, this is homecoming . She had expected resistance by some and fear by others, things she could eventually smooth over once she proved herself benevolent, but she had never expected this much indifference.

“It seems Olenna Tyrel’s powerful grasp on the Reach has dwindled,” Tyrion scratched his chin as he looked at her, “perhaps the time has come to negotiate with Tarly”.

“Is that wise? He is a traitor, he has chosen Cersei, and it is Olenna who came to us.”

“I am afraid you will see that forgiving traitors once they’re in their knees can be quite productive for you as a Queen.” Tyrion leaned forward and spoke softly. “Mercy, you see, can gain you an incredible amount of loyalty and help later. It is why that man Davos helped Stannis to the last day, why that boy Gendry will do whatever Davos asks of him even if he hates nobles, it is why many follow you now and more will later.”

“That is how Aegon did it.” Daenerys whispered more to herself than anyone else. When she lifted her eyes, she saw Varys frowning. “What is it, Varys?”

“I’d suggest that if you plan on forgiving lord Tarly or raise him above his status, you wait after either he has defeated Olenna or help her defend Highgarden.”

“I much rather prefer help her defend her right to rule the Reach.” Dany admitted as she looked to Tyrion.

“Olenna Tyrell is smart, but her house is dwindling. She is respected but in the end was married into the family, of the true Tyrells all that are left are distant cousins, but the main branch of the family has ended. Should we help her defend Highgarden, it is important that we know what she plans ahead.”

“Whatever the options you choose, do nothing and sort themselves out and act after all is settled, or intervene in her help, I truly suggest you do not make an action that imposes either Lady Olenna or Lord Tarly on the lords of the Reach.”

Daenerys looked out the windows to the Narrow Sea and thought of Mereen. Her impositions there, though well intended, had caused more disaster than she had anticipated. Giving and order and making a chose was all right and well, but truly ruling meant to measure with caution what those orders and choices could turn to in the future. She thought again of the indifference, to the next to nothing responses they’ve had to their letters. Her eyes slowly travelled to Varys.

“They don’t want me here, do they?”

Varys took a deep breath before he answered. “The lords have being ruled by inefficient kings for a long time. They do not know you, so they cannot trust you. And more and more it seems the age of seven united kingdoms have ended, that this idea will not guarantee a good harvest, peace and prosperity.”

“It has not ended, it is that they have not seen the true enemy.” The lady Melisandre’s voice cut through the conversation. When Daenerys looked at her, the woman’s eyes seemed alight with purpose. “When the true dangers comes to their doors, when they see they need someone to lead them to victory then they will believe in following one great lider all together.”

Daenerys rose and walked along the side of the table, feeling all their eyes on her. She remembered ser Willem Darry telling her stories of great heroes of Westeros, of noble men who people looked up to. People didn’t fear them, because they fought for greater things. The fought and they helped, they didn’t stay locked in castles sending letters.

“We shall send part of the Unsullied, and the Dothraki.” She spoke out loud. “Grey Worm will go and defend Highgarden until lady Olenna can settle her affairs. Then I will decide what to do with those who betrayed her. Tyrion, will you please decide with Grey Worm what strategies to use?”

“Of course,” Tyrion smiled enigmatically, “there is much I wish to speak with Grey Worm.”

“Varys, will you see to the matter of Dorne urgently? This constant silence is starting to truly vex me.”

“Very well, your Grace.” He exchanged a look with Tyrion then. “I think it’s time.”

“Time for what?” Dany asked. Tyrion lifted an eyebrow and then nodded in approval. “Time for what?”

“Legitimize the smith. Make that bastard of Robert lord of the Stormlands.” Varys saw her reaction and lifted his hand. “I understand your concerns, but understand this. On the eyes of lawful honest men, he would have higher claim than whatever Cersei has yet it would still be below yours. To practical men, it would at least show that you intent to put Westeros in order and that you're not like your father.”

“Not only would the Stormlands thank you for giving them a true Baratheon, but he is too young, unknown and unexperience to rally men in an attempt to claim any throne for himself.” Tyrion added.

“It would be smart for you to keep that young man close,” Melisandre added, “there is power in King’s blood.”

Daenerys looked at Melisandre once before looking away, she would not endorse that idea.That did not meant she was fond of the lad, or felt much pity for him. She wouldn’t sacrifice him, but this did not meant she’d want him as a lord. He was he son of the Usurper, and while she hoped not to be judged on the sins of her father, doing the contrary was easier said than done.

“We will have none of your dark magic, priestess.” Varys threatened.

“Dark magic will be needed in the wars to come, Spider, whether you like it or not.”

*/*

Daenerys had to tend to herself that night. In the morrow, two thousand of her Unsullied and all her Dothraki would depart led by Grey Worm, and so Dany suspected very well where Missandei was. She smiled at the idea of those two doing whatever they could do to have a warm goodbye.

Sleep evaded her, but instead of looking for Tyrion’s company — who was always ready for some wine drinking — she instead made way for the beach. Her guards observed from a safe distance, since the dragons were flying around and it wouldn’t be strange if they decided to land near her.

Drogon was the first to come down. He circled around her and she smiled as he tilted his head forward. He was too big for her to pet, but she did it nonetheless, wary that he may make a sudden movement. Viserion came down as well, less keen on being petted, and it seemed to her he was just resting before taking flight again. She called for Rhaegal, but he did not come down.

Daenerys felt peace when surrounded by the dragons. She felt both safe and powerful, smiling at her children as they playfully chased each other. Surrounded by the sounds of the dragons and the crashing waves, she wondered if this is how Aegon Targaryen had grown. No, he had sisters, probably a father and mother, he even had his friend Orys Baratheon. Who did she have?

She did not know how long she stood there in the sand, but eventually Dany felt the cold start to affect her and she made her way back. When she reached the entranced gate and made way for the long stairs, she found the red woman waiting for her.

“Have you made your decision yet, your Grace?”

Dany shook her head. She had promised Tyrion and Varys to think about legitimizing the young man, but truth was that however many doubts plagued her, she'd probably make him a lord in the end. The benefits far outweigh any of her concerns, and she was of the idea that Aegon the Conqueror would've done something similar.

“I must warn you,” Daenerys kept her voice even, but hopefully firm enough, “I  have no desire to be associated with bloody sacrifices. Leave the boy be.”

“You’re a queen, surely you understand, sometimes we feel it’s our duty to do as we must do for a greater good. No matter the consequences.” Melisandre’s voice showed little emotion and it unnerved Daenerys.

“Is that how you think your great hero should save us all? How this, this Lord of Light will save us? Doing whatever it’s necessary, damned be the consequences?”

Perhaps ser Jorah had being right all along all those years ago, perhaps Dany was too good for some things. Melisandre stopped their walk up the stairs to look  at her.

“Fire is unyielding, mother of dragons. Ice is vengeful. Magic has come back, undaunted and careless of our human struggles.” Daenerys opened her mouth to speak, but Melisandre rose her hand to stop her.The flames have shown it to me, no war from now will be won without fire and ice.”

Immediately, Dany’s thoughts went to her people, to Grey Worm and those who would depart on the morrow. “Do you mean I should go with them?” Dany looked up to the skies, the shadows moving between the stars.

“I meant the answers to your questions and troubles are not in the weapons of men, but in ice and fire.”

The Red Woman spoke no more, choosing instead to walk ahead and leave Daenerys alone in the stairs, contemplating the steps ahead. The solitude of her bedchamber provided little comfort, and that night she tossed and turned as her dreams filled her with visions of burning ships, of snowy field with gigantic pieces of ice, nightmares of desolation and cold.

In the morning Daenerys dressed herself in black, and let’s Grey Worm go protect Highgarden. She saw with apprehension as her ships departed, but avoided looking at Missandei’s face. While girl surely wanted him back safe and sound, a part of Dany wished she could go with him. In matters of ruling she felt inexperienced and incompetent, like a child, even. But she had grown accustomed to being successful taking cities and conquering them. Perhaps in that too, she was similar to Aegon the first. He was named Aegon the Conqueror, after all, and it was said he let his sisters the day to day ruling of the kingdom.

*/*

The day the king in the North arrived, Daenerys asked Tyrion to receive him at the shore. She hoped to convince this man to bend the knee to gain her help, and so it would see silly to put herself in a position where it seemed it was her who awaited him in need.

“Have the chambers being prepared?” Daenerys asked Missandei as she adjusted a silver brooch to keep her red fox cape in place.

“All of them, Your Grace. We were told to expect around eleven men, the rest of his retinue them remains in Maidenpool.”

His retinue . Daenerys played with her dress. Eleven companions, aside from ser Davos . From what Tyrion told her, they were probably men of North and some from the Riverlands as well, and he did not discard the possibility a pair were from the Vale. I haven’t even received a letter from Rook’s Rest.

She refused to peek through the windows to see what he was like, and sat on the throne to wait. Dany did not know if he would enter with all his men or just by himself, and wished she knew if she would be judged by one or many.

I am the blood of the dragon, she reminded herself, the rightful queen. I won't act like a nervous little girl to one man or many.

Missandei opened the door behind her and rushed in, whispering, “they're nearly here.”

A question arose in Dany's mind and she turned to her friend. “Should I address him as lord Snow or lord Stark?”

The door opened and in came Varys and Tyrion followed by ser Davos and the man she presumed to be Jon Snow. Not too tall or too lean, he looked a healthy young man. Indeed he was young, she noticed the more he approached, probably her age. Yet he seemed like a man to be respected, walking straight and with purpose, grey eyes looking directly at her. He wore no crown. He wasn't dressed in finery, however the dark colours of the northern fashion made a handsome contrast with his pale skin. As he approached, she noticed there was something unnatural about him. Sharp and dark, it reminded her of… of the lady Melisandre, perhaps, of the Greyjoys too. With him, came a group of burly men dressed in little finery, solemn and silent.

Jon Snow stood in front of her throne, tight lipped and solemn. He made no attempt to introduce himself, nor did ser Davos next to him. When Daenerys gave a pointed look at Tyrion, she saw him throw Missandei a look.

“Your Grace,” Missandei started, addressing the king, “you stand before Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Queen of Meereen, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Mhysa, Breaker of Chains, the Unburnt, Mother of Dragons.”

“This is Jon Snow, the King in the North and the King of the Trident, Your Grace.” Davos said the words as if he had being memorizing them for days.

“Welcome to Dragonstone, my lord.” If he was offended by her calling him a lord, he did not show it. “I’ve been told Dragonstone is much smaller a fortress than Winterfell, but I hope you find the accommodations we’ve made for you and your companions suitable.”

“Your Grace, thank you for your troubles, I’m sure we will be comfortable.” He said, voice deep and hoarse. “Ser Davos must have told you the reason for my visit.”

Well, he’s not going to talk in circles, isn’t he? she though, amused. Tyrion had warned her that preparing for Northerners meant something entirely different to the lessons he had been giving her on the Southron nobility. Varys had told her to drop niceties altogether and to better learn the art of smiling to a wall of ice. “He has, and I don’t expect you’ll judge me too harshly for not believing a word of these tales.”

Daenerys had thought him serious and harsh looking. She had being wrong, now he truly looked serious and harsh looking. If Varys and Tyrion disapproved of her bout of honesty, their faces did not show it.

“I did not believe in dragons, until the tales of yours became far too frequent to be disbelieved.”

“Have you seen them?” Dany asked and leaned forward in her throne. Jon Snow did not break eye contact as he nodded slowly. She had no way of knowing if he was being honest. “Then now you can be sure of their existence. Wouldn’t you care to offer me the same proof?”

“I believe ser Davos surely told you to what danger we’re speaking here, to my people and all of Westeros,” he extended one of his arms and frowned, “does it sound to you sensible that I’d waste time and men trying to hunt down a creature to prove something?”

“I believe,” Tyrion stepped forward, and walked slowly to the smaller seat on her right, “that our Queen was just trying to say that you must give more reasons for your visit since only this is… very difficult to believe.”

Jon Snow grimaced and looked at ser Davos. Daenerys could not read their exchange, but she could see the King in the North seemed to be restraining himself, as if he could easily end the discussion but chose instead to moderate his words. It was Daenerys turn to speak, then.

“My lord, hundreds of years ago the King in the North knelt to dragons, and the Starks served our house faithfully and with complete loyalty until our fathers were drawn into war. I have not come here only as king Aerys daughter, I come as the last of my kin, seeking to restore my family’s name to the glory of Aegon the Conqueror. Bend the knee, and I promise to treat with your land fairly and care for the North as if it were my birthplace.”

Jon Snow lifted his chin, and then looked at ser Davos. “When Stannis Baratheon came to the aid of the Night’s Watch, not a single house in the North had sworn fealty to him. He defended the Wall because he saw it as his duty, in the name of the throne he claimed a right to.”

Daenerys felt her hands fisten, but refused to lose her polite smile. “I have already offered my terms, I insist to hear yours.”

Did he really believe that she would freely give her dragons and her armies to fight an enemy made of old tales and songs? She, who had seen her dragons stolen and her best intentions twisted by proud nobles? I am the dragon’s daughter, not some girl  playing and calling herself a queen.

“The North and the Riverlands do not recognize Cersei as queen of anything but her dresses and lion pelts, I have no desire to see the woman who rejoiced in killing my father sitting on the Iron Throne. If it’s a future ally you seek, out help is promised, though you surely cannot expect great numbers, especially with the odds set upon us.” Jon Snow took a deep breath, and stood a bit straighter when he spoke next. “I have not come here to bend the knee. I have come to tell you that we can help each other, because make no mistake, if we don’t fight together… We will die first, and you second.”

“And if I help you?” This time, Dany could not contain her laughter. To think, all this time she had expected she would be negotiating the terms under which she’d gain the North. She should’ve prepared herself for more men ready to tell her how the world was supposed to work. “Do you truly believe this is the first time that someone has tried to deceit me or use me?  That I’ve never had men beg me to understand that things are not the way I see them? Those dragons you saw are my children, I birthed them through my own pain and grief, and until the North is not under my rule I am under no obligation to use my children to protect it.”

Daenerys thought her words would finally crack the icy demeanor of the man, but all hat happened was that a sudden dark expression took over his face as well as that of ser Davos, their eyes somewhere to her left. When she turned slightly, Dany saw they had been joined by new company.

“Jon Snow, the lord of light had shown me we would meet again.” Melisandre greeted, that enigmatic smile of hers both beautiful and horrifying.

Chapter Text

Jon grimaced at the sight of the Red Woman. “Lady Melisandre, I was told you were here.”

“You banished me, Your Grace.” Melisandre said softly. She moved slowly and rhythmically, her eyes boring into his  “This was the last place I lived before I went to the North.”

“I hope you set sail to your country after you're done reminiscing.” Davos loudly whispered with venom.

Varys lifted his eyebrows and looked away. “Couldn't agree more.” Beside him, the Dragon Queen clicked her tongue.

“The lady Melisandre is my guest here, I have known nothing but the help of red priestesses, I see no reason she could not help me.” Her head was tilted towards her Master of Whisperers, but Jon felt her subtle look. Varys proudly looked away from his Queen.

“Has her magic ever done something useful?” The bald man asked Davos.

Jon found himself exchanging a look with the knight. When he dared look at the Red Woman, Jon could hardly stand her smirk.

“On occasion.” Davos admitted beside him

“You could say that.” Jon said at the same time. There was a tende silence in the room before Tyrion spoke.

“Be that as it may, we must focus on what gathers us here. Ice creatures or not, the North is vast but not filled in numbers and resources. Soon Ironborn will attack, Cersei will support them. Are you sure you don't want to secure the protection of a much more kinder and powerful queen?”

Why would I rely on the gratitude of a woman I know nothing about?  “Tyrion… would you rely on the gratitude of someone you know nothing about?” Jon asked and regretted immediately the familiarity. Daenerys looked between her Hand and Jon himself with suspicion.

“But you are relying on our help.” Daenerys pointed out.

“I don't think you understand. You helping us, Your Grace, is help for you in the end. The White Walkers won't care for which of use rule where, they just wants us all gone.” “Please do not think it's easy for me being here. Knowing of this great danger I am here, instead of home, ready to defend my siblings, because I know we'll fare much better if we work together.” And if we have your dragons. “I am here, despite the past of our families and the threat of coming with just twelve men to an island full of your army and three dragons.”

Daenerys breathed deeply. “My lord… I hope the root of your mistrust of bending the knee has nothing to do with my father…”. The queen exchanged a look with Tyrion. “I understand he was wrong to execute your grandfather and uncle, as well as it was wrong of my brother Rhaegar to kidnap your aunt. I ask of you not to judge me for the sins of my father.”

She's more compassionate than she had cared to show before. She reminds me of Arya.

“So long as you do not judge my word based on the previous treachery other men have offended you with,” Jon began, hoping to sound honest in her ears. “I swear, on the family I have left, that what I speak is the truth.”

It was Melisandre who spoke next. “It is Your Grace”

“Here it goes…” Varys began.

“The lord of light has shown me, it is true, and the prophecies of our temple have predicted long ago that this threat would come.”

"No offense my lady, but this is not reason enough—”

"The wildlings beyond the wall were no different than us”, Davos interrupted whatever lord Tyrion was beginning to say, “they had territories, land disputes, they were unorganised, easy to defeat. They risked everything to attack the Wall just to pass through because there is something out there.”

“One men may be deceived, dozens and hundreds… but thousands of people do not leave safety to risk even their lives for nothing, Your Grace.” Jon added her title hoping she'd understand he had nothing against her ruling her kingdom.

“The danger is real, only fire can stop it.” Melisandre said.

Daenerys was looking at him, a subtle frown in her face. “All these people… wildlings, you fought them?”

“The Free folk, yes I fought them, then I let them pass, Your Grace. They didn’t choose where they were born, we put the Wall there and then decided they couldn’t pass unless they bend the knee to us.”

“Oh really?” Daenerys seemed to be holding a sarcastic smile from showing on her face. “So when you became king you let them into your kingdom without asking anything?”

“I wasn’t King in the North when I let them in.” Jon spoke firmly. “But the Night’s Watch guards the realms of men, and they were men who seeked protection. I gave it to them, ‘cause every single one I turned away would become one more corpse in the army of the dead.”

Daenerys, for all her harsh exterior, did show amazement in her voice when she spoke next. “You really are not lying, aren’t you?”

“This is Ned Stark son Your Grace. If there was ever one man whose word you could trust… it was him”, it was Tyrion who spoke in Jon's favor, “I very much doubt a son of Ned Stark would dishonor his fame with deceit.”

“May I remind everyone, that every day spent away killing this supposed army of the dead is a day away from ending Cersei’s reign, a woman willing to blow up a hill with wildfire and ally herself  with a known monster as is Euron Greyjoy.” Varys emphasized his words very carefully. “This woman must be stopped, You Grace.”

“I harbor no appreciation for the Lannister woman, and I could give you my word, that if you seek to dethrone her afterwards the North will aid you, as most definetly will the Riverlands, but right now there is no other fight. There is only one war that matters.”

“If this war… matters more than anything, why not bend the knee? I would take care of any land that is part of my kingdom.” To her credit, Daenerys's words sounded true.

If only it were so simple…  Jon had ordered his men to remain silent through this first exchange, knowing this encounter would be negotiations raher than a one meeting affair. He was thankful they had made good on his orders so far, but he dearly hoped Daenerys would not said anything what would incense them next.

“The North would never be yours, Your Grace.” You're a southerner and a Targaryen, a woman and a dragonrider. Daenerys frowned at his words. “Not, I believe, in the meaning you're trying to use.”

“It's true perhaps the North has not had the best recent history with House Targaryen, and perhaps relations would start a bit cold… but houses Targaryen and Stark kept trust and loyalty for many years during the Targaryen reign.” Tyrion offered.

"I understand the value of tradition, and that a ruler must abide to it," Daenerys began, conciliatory, “the last king in the North knelt to dragons, I am sure your decisions would not go against the history of your house.”

“The last king in the North fought for independence.” Jon realised Tyrion was now frowning as well. I am losing them both. “I am fighting for the survival of all men.”

Daenerys was to be deep in thought. “You ask a lot, yet give so little.” She whipeed and then looked at Tyrion. “I will not have a divided kingdom.”

Tyrion nodded and then looked at Jon. The meaning was clear. The move is your now.

“What I mean, Your Grace, is that if I bend the knee now, it could very well be empty words and fake promises.”

Daenerys frowned again. “Don't you rule over your own kingdom?”

Jon was now on the edge of his patience. “Have you never faced troublesome nobles?” From behind him, Jon heard one of his companions failed to contain a small chuckle.

Dany smiled, then nodded slowly, looking behind Jon ad  exchanging a look with Tyrion, who let out a smirk.“More that you'd believe..”

“Help us, and you'd have the gratitude of the seven kingdoms.” And not their fear.

Something had changed in Daenerys posture and look, she looked, suddenly much less imposing and perhaps even understanding. However, when she poke next, her tone was final“See to your accommodations and that of tour companions, my lord, I must think of what you say.”

Jon left. He was separated from his men and ser Davos as he examined his accommodations. The first impression his men had when they approached the castle was that it was hideous. Jon couldn’t agree. There was a darkness in it that he found welcoming. The creatures carved in stone reminded him of Old Nan’s stories and the views of the sea made him feel like he could fly. While it didn’t felt like home, as Winterfell did, he did not found himself feeling foreign. His rooms were ample, and the view magnificent. Ghost seemed to enjoy it enough, at least.

After changing his travelling clothing, and eating some of the fruit and cheese left for him in the room, he welcome a serious Davos who came knocking to his door along a lad slightly younger than him.

“Your Grace, this is Gendry. He’s a blacksmith, son of the late king Robert.”

Gendry wasted no time in tarting to bend his knee while eyeing Ghost warily.

“Please don’t.” Gendry looked doubtful and in pain “I insist.”

“Your Grace.”

“You may call me Jon.” Gendry literally cringed before him. “Or ‘my lord’, if it pleases you more, ser Davos calls me that often, when we’re not in the presence of others. Besides, I hear you’re a friend of my sister?”

“Arya? How is she?” Gendry's icy blue eyes shone bright with curiosity. So it’s true then, they were truly friends . He could see it the lad’s smile that he remembered her  fondly.

“She’s alright, bound to Winterfell at last.”

“She must be bloody happy about that.” Gendry muttered. “I mean, that was always her goal, my lord, going North.”

“And what of you? What was your goal?”

“Surviving, my lord. I was set to go the Wall when—” A haunted expression took over his face and now Jon was interested. What little Arya had disclosed of her journey involved quite a lot of movement, she was here first then escaping then next in another place, but she had devoted little time to explain exactly what her life was. Jon had a suspicion that whatever burdened Arya, Gendry had experienced it too.

“When what?” Jon attempted a smile as ser Davos served them all some wine. Gendry took his cup eagerly and drank it all in one long gulp. Well that's Robert Baratheon son.

“Well first the gold cloaks got us, my lord, then the Mountain’s men, that is, we were taken to Harrenhal as prisoners. I was put to work on the smithy, day and night they made us work, fed us next to nothing, beat us if we misbehaved. I didn’t see her much then, she had to serve the lord as his cupbearer. We escaped after a while.”

“Just the two of you?” Jon did not meant to sound as threatening as he did, but he could not help himself, not when Arya was concerned. Gendry, however, did not seem alarmed, in fact he shrugged.

“And another friend of us, Hot Pie,” Gendry smiled a little at that, “he was a baker, meant for the Wall as well, but he ended up staying at an inn while Arya and me were taken by the Brotherhood without banners. They planned to ransom her to the king, the other King in the North, and I planned to stay with them, but then they sold me to that witch.”

“Melisandre.”

“I hate her. Arya warned me about her, but I didn’t listen. She was right all along about the brotherhood and that woman.” Gendry rolled her eyes. “I bet that would please her.”

“To know she was right all along?” Gendry nodded at Jon’s question. “Oh I bet she’d laugh when you say you were wrong. In any case, you would be pleased to know the brotherhood and the Hound are bound for the Wall. You have Arya to thank for that.”

“I would like to.” Gendry looked at him seriously. “To thank her.”

“You mean you’d like to see her?”

“She’s my friend.” Gendry grimaced. “I have no other family. I could, she always said I could smith for her family in Winterfell... Storm’s End is no home  to me.”

Jon frowned at that and looked at Davos.

“What we planned to do, legitimize him to gain the favor of the Stormlands? Well, suffice to say the idea has more or less being stolen by the Dragon Queen.”

“I see.” I’d do me no good to try to take this from her. He looked at Gendry, the lad looking at him with a certain stubbornness that in fact reminded him of Arya. “Listen—”

“I can fight! I will join you and fight, I can do it.” Gendry looked pained. “I’m no lord.”

“However much we fight, it would be useless without those dragons.”

“And her grace demands Jon bends the knee in order to get those dragons.”

Gendry frowned. “Then why not just bend the knee?”

“It’s more complicated than that.” At his word, the blacksmith rolled his eyes. Then, he looked at him unashamed.

“I don't think Arya would see it that way.”

Who does he think he is, lecturing me on what my little sister would do?

“However practical Arya may be, you shouldn't presume, you'd be surprised”.  Arya had been incensed when she had found out he had spoken to the Blackfish about this behind her back. In many matters, she reminded him of Sansa and the Northern lord who had so opposed of Jon coming here. Jon had thought Sansa getting annoyed at his decision making had to do with their lack of closeness and similarity, but yet Arya also seemed to have a problem with how he took his choices. What was the point of being King of the North, if all the North was against his decisions?

Jon knew why it was. The North was ruthless, practical and focused on survival, which had lead Jon to think they'd sacrifice independence for the protection of dragons. But the North remembered, and there was an entire experience that Jon had missed while beyond the Wall. Arya and Sansa and all of the North have suffered the consequences of the War of the Five Kings and had payed very hard for the independence Robb had valiantly fought for. The Blackfish had all but explained to him when Jon had signed and agreed that Bran would be his heir: the line of succession would go back to the natural order it would have should Robb had lived. Arya was the hero they followed because she had fought for the riverlands like Robb did, and Sansa was the word the Vale trusted because she carried the Stark and Tully name with pride like her parents have done before her. The rest of the south and Daenerys Targaryen may consider Torrhen Stark the last king above the Neck, but the North would never forget The Young Wolf. And should Jon do anything to undo all that Robb had built...

I did everything to save the North, I was chosen by them and yet… the trueborn children of Ned Stark remain the largest figures of the North .

Suddenly, Jon felt as if lady Catelyn was still there, reminding him he was a bastard and his natural place was below her children and not ruling instead of them.

Would that Arya were here… she'd help me sort my heart and my mind in order. The thought of Arya filled him with pain and shame and longing, and it reminded him that Gendry was there. He's a bastard like me, our fathers were friends. Gendry was standing there, shifting his feet and alternating between looking at Jon or the ground.

“Davos told me you didn't know King Robert was your father… more wine?” Jon offered as he motioned for him to sit as Jon himself took a seat near ser Davos, who looked through parchments boredly.

“No, I'm fine, my lord.” Gendry did accept the seat and seemed even more uncomfortable than before, as if he didn't know what to make of Jon. “I grew up in King's Landing, didn't know who my father was, barely remembered my mother less of all if she ever told me who he was. I was an apprentice to Tobho Mott.”

At the last bit, Gendry sat up straighter, clearly proud of this. Jon looked at ser Davos. “A renown blacksmith,” he said and the muttered almost to himself, “the kid lived in the fancy part of town”.

Jon laughed and looked at Gendry, who seemed to have lost the frown at Davos goading. “Did you ever see King Robert?”

“Whenever he'd parade around the city. I mostly thought he was a fat old drunkard.” Gendry looked at him with something akin to envy. “He wasn't like your father.”

Jon smiled sadly, the memory of the last time he saw him outside the walls of Winterfell making him wish he had demanded more answers and, perhaps, hugged his father more tightly before rushing to become a man of the Watch. Who is my mother? Who would know now? I'll never know if she lived, if she cared for me at all.

“I never met Ned Stark, though I wish I had.” Davos spoke so calmly, Jon was thankful of the softness compared to Gendry's more abrasive tone. “Stannis spoke highly of him, everyone said he was honorable and honest. I can see that in his son, of course.”

Jon could only thank him by nodding, and drinking his wine.

“You look like him,” Gendry said suddenly, making Jon look up to him. Behind the rough exterior, there was a certain kindness when he spoke, “younger and not the same but… you look like him. It's when you walk and when you speak.”

Jon smiled. “You look nothing like your father.” It wasn't exactly true but Gendry gave him something similar to a smile nevertheless.

“You look nothing like King Robert when he was old… you're practically the very image of him at of his youth.” Davos chuckled to himself.

“Did you ever see him?”

“Not from up close, no. But Stannis thought so.” Davos smiled at Gendry's sad expression. “Don't look so disappointed, it doesn't mean you will end up like him. King Robert led a life much too different from yours, you're not to repeat his fate. Don't let it affect you. Think of the princess Arya, every lord says she looks like the very image of her aunt but I doubt Lyanna Stark fought with a sword or led armies.”

Jon had heard something similar from a few older men. It wasn’t a thought that gave him much rest. His father had never spoken of Jon’s aunt, despite visiting her constantly in the crypts. Not that Jon blamed him. Should something even worse happened to Sansa, the burden of guilt would weight heavy on him for the rest of his days, and should he lose Arya then Jon was sure life would cease of any meaning. He prayed neither of his sisters endured the fate of his aunt, or than Bran would never be near the fate of his namesake.

“Do I really have to let her legitimize me?” Gendry asked suddenly. His voice was strangely soft, teetering between that of a boy and a man. Jon remembered what talking like that felt like, before he was Lord Commander, when all he could think of himself was a bastard who broke his vows at the Wall.

Gendry was not guilty of his birth. And while surely he had many other talents, they mattered little when compared what his King’s blood could give them. Jon remembered Arya had not wanted to her friend to be a pawn. And yet…

“Would you rather have those dragons on your side or against you?” Jon asked, and all he received for answer was Gendry’s stare. ‘Of course I want them on my side’ , his icy blue eyes said. “Then you know what to do.”

*/*

It was much latter, nearly supper when he finally gathered his men in his quarters and they debated the steps ahead. Ghost provided a calming presence that reminded them of the North. The wine flowed as Jon's entourage discussed what to do next.

“Aren’t the dragons the most important?” Larence Snow asked.

“This woman seeks to dethrone Cersei Lannister and will achieve it, we must help her, the Lannister woman cannot rule” answered Dafyn Vance definitely.

“Bending the knee to get what we want is all right and well until we find ourself unable to do what’s more important for us.” Marderly stroked his belly as his eyes focused on Jon. “What if our king bends the knee in the promise of those dragons, only for her to force him to go fight Cersei herself?”

“It may very well happen the other way, my lord, what if she asks that we help her defeat Cersei and then she will help us? Is an option we haven’t offered her.” Brynden Blackwood, who so far was the man of the Riverlands that Jon liked the most, was also thinking along the lines of Jon's thoughts. It was very likely that before risking her armies going North, the queen would demand something if them. It was Glover who spoke next and gave words to Jon's biggest concern.

“I don’t believe you understand, we can’t waste time in the southern war.”

Blackwood however, carried on his optimistic train of thought. “The Wall still stands between us and this undead army, and as you’ve repeated, without the dragons we would be useless.”

“Has no one considered the fact that if we don’t do as she demands first not only will she not give those dragons, but can vey well threaten us with them?” Manderly spoke loud, earning a deadly silence as his words sunk in.

“Somehow, I don’t believe she’s that kind of person.” Jon earned incredulous looks from them, and to not look like a fool, appealed to a prejudice he knew they had. “I mean the level of cruelty displayed by Cersei is a rarity among women, is it not? Daenerys would rather legitimize a bastard than let House Baratheon end.”

“So you believe she’d not use the dragons to threaten us but she would not help us?” Larence raised his eyebrows, “how kind of her.”

Blackwood threw up his hand and scoffed. “Why should she have to? If we’re not bound to her, she’s not bound to us either.”

“Because if we don’t act fast and united we will all die? Does she wish to rule over frozen corpses?”

“She wishes to rule, that’s the plain end of it, it doesn’t matter to her the people she rules over.” Manderly, once again, spoke harshly.

“She wasted years freeing slaves in the east before crossing the Narrow Sea,” Jon began with mild irritation, “I’m sure she cares at least some bit about the kingdom she means to rule.”

“Your Grace, if we can appeal to her kindness… She wishes to rule Westeros, we give her as much of Westeros as we can, we help her defeat Cersei and she would gain most of the seven kingdoms, then we focus on the North and the riverlands. The Wall still stands and you have loyal men in the North… the Princess Arya is there, I’m sure she’d defend her home as fiercely as she has taken care of the riverlands.”

Larence Snow was offended (as most Northerners were) and leaned forward to interject Blackwood. “You’ll understand that keeps the North in the same precarious position as it is now, only with our soldiers here in the South.”

The discussion was getting heated and getting nowhere. Not wishing to appear as a scolding mother, Jon shared a glance with Glover. As an older man, he knew the lord understood the importance of diffusing the situation. When he spoke, his voice had the calmness of a father. “I understand your desire to protect the North, Larence. That is after all why we are here. But don't be so quick to think three dragons and an army of pillagers and slaves rampant in the North is entirely a good thing.”

“ Freed slaves.” Davos clarified, but was soundly ignored by everyone who wasn't Jon.

“ Many would disagree, it would be a decision that could cause serious unrest.” Manderly gave Jon a pointed look. “Both the riverlands and the North know how troublesome and dangerous unsatisfied lords can be.”

Ser Dafyn Vance let out a short mirthless laugh. “But surely they would be more unsatisfied if we did not comply to the Dragon queen and she came with dragons…”

“I can assure you her Grace does not wish to use the dragons as a weapon.” There was a commotion as a voice spoke from the door. Chairs scraped against the hard floor as all the men attempted to get a look of Tyrion. The Imp smirked and tilted his head. “At least, she only means to use them as a weapon as a very last resort.”

There was a commotion as Tyrion endured the rudeness and accusations of Jon's companions. Jon stood up and walked to the nearest window. He hoped to see the dragons. He saw only the cold dark sea. He had never crossed the Narrow Sea but now he felt an urge to try, like one of those things you want to do before you die. Jon was reminded of Tyrion pissing off the Wall and turned to rescue the Imp of northerners and rivermen.

“That's enough.”

“Supper is to be served soon. Will his Grace walk with me a little before then?” Tyrion's smile was it's usual cunning self. “The rest of you can join us in the main hall soon.”

There were murmurs of ‘'trap’ and ‘'prisoner’ but Jon knew better. If they had wanted to take him prisoner they would've done so already.

“My lord of Lannister is an old friend, I trust he remembers I was welcoming when he visited the Wall,” Jon saw a glint in Tyrion's eyes, “he will not harm me. Ghost will come with me.”

If his men had more to say, they kept it to themselves. Jon and Ghost followed Tyrion outside as he led them in silence through dark hallways decorated in statues of magical creatures in dark stone.

“For a bastard and a dwarf, we sure have moved up in this world, haven't we, Snow?”

“I always did think you made of better stuff than the rest of you Lannisters.”

“Sadly, their stain is mine to carry as well. How fares my lady Lannister?”

It took a moment for Jon to realise whom he met. He grimaced. “She was married to the Bolton bastard before I became king.”

“Was she? So soon was I declared dead?”

“She was forcibly married to a Lannister, in a sept, by a septon, with only southerners as witnesses.” Jon shrugged. “It was never going to be valid in the Northerners eyes.”

“Was he a kind husband?” Jon only gave him a look. “She must have enjoyed becoming a widow then.”

“You knew this already.” Jon realised, not enjoying being taken for a fool.

“Theon Greyjoy was here.” Tyrion said softly. “He spoke some.”

As it happened whenever he remembered Theon, Jon gripped his sword. He didn't kill Bran and Rickon, he reminded himself. But still, he had taken Winterfell and betrayed Robb, he shouldn't dare stand in front of Jon. “Where is he now?”

“Gone to take the Iron Islands from his uncle Euron, along with that sister of his. Powerful girl, that Greyjoy woman.” Tyrion looked at his side. “You seem to know a lot about powerful sisters.”

It was strange to hear about anyone referring to Sansa and Arya as powerful. There was nothing meek about them, but they knew nothing of the real danger, the threat beyond. “My sisters were raised to be great ladies.” It was all Jon could say, for it was true. If things had not gone the way they had gone, Sansa would’ve been a princess and Arya… One way or another she’d been taken too, to be dragged into a marriage to some powerful house.

“Aye, and we were raised to be disappointments and the shame of our families… yet here we are.” Tyrion chuckled as he led him to a large balcony. From there one could see the volcano and it’s deep black stone, some small caves and larger ones. “If you ask me it seems we will have an exile as Queen, a dwarf as her Hand… a bastard is King in the North, those she-wolves in Winterfell becoming the tale of songs… we’ve all risen to cast large shadows.”

“Is that why we’re here?” Jon asked, exasperated at this endless talk of things of no importance. The wind blew hard and cold, and while he had experienced worse at the Wall, he did not have his furs around him to shield him.

“I know you lied to her,” Tyrion smiled, “in the throne room, I know you lied. I’ve brought you here so you can see not only unexpected players can cast large shadows.”

Before Jon could ask anything, they were engulfed in a darker light. And it moved. Jon instinctively looked up to find the black scales flying above him. He knelt in shock, and felt his mouth hanging open as the beast flew past them into the caves.

“Seven Hells.”

“And there’s two more.” Tyrion looked around the skies. “They must be flying and hunting elsewhere. They enjoy the caves though.”

His mouth should not be hanging open, Jon had seen giants, and White Walkers and wights. He had been brought back from dead and yet… he had never felt such wonderment. The black beast turned and twisted in the skies, almost as if it knew itself being watched and wished to show off. Jon could almost sense how amazing it must be to feel the wind beneath its wings.

“Magnificent creatures, are they not?” Tyrion pulled Jon out of his thoughts.

“They breath out fire?” Jon asked as would a curious child.

“Oh yes… a most grimly affair,” Tyrion explained and then in a lower tone added, “for some.”

The dragon flew higher than the clouds and then descended rapidly back into the cave, sneaking between the rocks into caves that Jon could not see. With the display over, all that was left was a smokey mountain.

“Thank you for showing me that.” Jon turned around to find an amused Tyrion.

“You showed me the top of the Wall, I don't forget.” He walked back towards where they had come. “Let us eat.”

Jon did not felt like eating. He never had much hunger nowadays anyways and the sight had left him too amazed. And concerned as well. He had failed to imagine in his head how well they could use the dragons to battle. Jon had always known they'd need them, that they would be useful. But now he felt they might turn things in their favor… there would be little concern for the wights, with three dragons being able to burn them easily.

Jon flexed his burnt hand. We could win. We could save the North. Bran and Sansa would be safe. And Arya… He could give her a safe Winterfell, and she would spend the rest of her days away from war, riding as she so loved and hunting in the Wolfswood with Nymeria. As Jon followed the Imp to the main hall, his thoughts were a mix of battle tactics and daring to dream of a rebuilt Winterfell his father would be proud of.

Tyrion respected Jon's musings and did not attempt to break the silence, though Jon suspected the display of dragons had been a deliberate attempt to put him in such pensive state. By the time they arrived to the main hall, Tyrion simply directed him to his seat and went to find his own. Jon was placed towards the left of the main table. Next to him, toward the left end of the table were Davos and a bewildered Gendry, whom Davos kept insisting to “stop fidgeting son” . Along the hall two tables were set, on the left there were Jon's men, whom he greeted before taking his seat and on the left a number of men Jon did not know, although he recognized more than one sigil.

“You seem to be among friends.” Jon told Davos as he took his seat. On the table, a vast array of dishes were served, from mutton to fish and more seafood than Jon had seen in all his life. “They eat well here.”

“There's hardly any food in King's Landing,” Gendry said with furrowed eyebrows, his blue eyes scanning with mistrust and disapproval, “I think she wants to impress this friends of yours Davos.”

The Onion Knight only shook his head as he looked over Dragonstone's sworn lords.

“They were never too fond of Stannis or he of them, these were always Targaryen men, have been for centuries.” Davos shrugged. “And they never liked me, that's for sure. I will always be a smuggler to them.”

“And in the Stormlands?”

“I am less disliked, if you would. Some old lords who suffered the siege of Storm's End remain… somewhat grateful.” Davos grimaced. “Some thought me mad or kept looking down on me. Some who lost much of their lands in the war received me happily at the idea of a new lord.”

“Why?” Gendry asked.

“If they support you they expect to win lands.” Gendry rolled his  eyes at that while Jon laughed mirthlessly.

“Get used to it.” Jon eyed the richly served table and noted Daenerys absence. “Is there a reason she is making us wait?”

“Other than female vanity, I can’t think of none.” Davos attempted a smile.  “Those little braids must take time.”

At this Daenerys Targaryen entered her hall in all her silver beauty. She actually dressed much more modest than Jon had expected. He remembered the strong dyes of Queen Cersei's dresses with its intricate embroideries and her golden jewelry. In comparison, Daenerys wore black wool, with only the smallest details of red, no jewelry besides a ring. Indeed the biggest display of royalty remained her long and beautiful braids, a cascade of silver that matched the simple and feminine circlet she wore.

Jon thought of Arya's hair, always a wild mess as a child, now longer and always in a neat simple braid. Arya wore breeches or those dornish designs he couldn't make sense of, always in wool as well. Perhaps she'd like Daenerys. They had spoken little of her, with Arya telling him both her admiration for the Dragon Queen freeing slaves as well as her concerns inherited from living in a city that took dragonlords far too seriously. Jon felt a pang in his chest remembering her pain when he and the Blackfish had failed to inform her he'd leave to treat with Queen Daenerys.

Maybe she should dwell in that anger. Her abiding love was the source of comfort for Jon, but after what happened the last time they were together, perhaps it would be a curse to her. Maybe it was for the better if she thought him carless of her opinions, and she would mistake that for lack of affection. For Jon, that battle had been lost already. His heart, wounded and mended as it was after Ygritte, would belong to no other than to the girl who so fearlessly loved him when she was raised not to.

Jon lost himself in his thoughts as Daenerys made her speech. While she seemed to have the makings of a queen, Jon could not help but see what she seeked to hide. Her eyes looked a little too eagerly to the young new lord of House Celtigar and and boy lord of House Velaryon and his bastard brother. She wants the loyalty of this men, their respect. She was young, like him, and had endures many difficulties, if all he heard was right.

Jon raised his cup when he had to and tried to think of different possible outcomes. Could it be she would say she'd help them only to get her dragons North and then force them to kneel? Would she help them on what conditions? Could he even meet those conditions?  As he saw Daenerys eagerly speak with her advisors, he noticed she may face the same problems he had. These were not the days to kneel to any king or queen, not after Robert, and the Five Kings, Joffrey and Cersei. Her dragons may not be enough to rally kingdoms together, as the threat of White Walkers had not worked for him.

“Tomorrow, we should expect the arrival of lords Wylde and Errol, perhaps even someone from House Penrose”, Tyrion said, looking keenly at Gendry, “they're to be your bannerman, loyal to you”.

“Loyal to my blood, perhaps”. Gendry countered, and Jon smiled to himself ever so slightly. The lad might be quiet and looked like a fierce soldier, but he was no fool. Those lords were not coming to follow him because he was their leader, they came because by chance his father impregnated his mother and not another wench.

Jon understood now why Arya and him had become friends, they had that sharp honesty and quick smarts. Gendry carried it with less boldness and pride than Arya did, but he had it nonetheless. Jon wondered if he'd probe and get more information from Gendry about what his little sister's life had been. The Arya he remembered would've been irritated at a feast like this, but now Jon had shared with her enough to see Arya adapted herself to any situation as if she were some actress playing a part.

“It will take time, but they will be your men one day,” Daenerys smiled, “you will learn . Many who are born to rule must still educate themselves and learn from mistakes, you will be no different, except you already know of hard work and the needs of the people.”

To his credit, Gendry attempted something like a smile as he nodded to the Queen, but Jon found himself exchanging a quick glance with Tyrion. Jon thought of the lords he left behind in the North, half of them disagreeing with his choice to come and the other distrusting the men who came with him. He thought of Arya, who delayed her return to her beloved Winterfell until she could give him a strong and unified Riverlands, a feat the Blackfish let him know was no easy task.

“Wouldn't you agree, my lord, that it is best to do what is best for the people?” Daenerys asked him pointedly, “that way one can ensure that one is considered a leader.”

“Sometimes doing the best… I think the path one would willingly follow for the greater good may, for other valid reasons, not please the correct people.”

“As a ruler one must learn it is impossible to please everyone. And besides it all just works as a wheel… first you please these and then it spins and you must please those and on and on it spins until you find yourself moved by pleasing a little few who scramble to be on top.”

“Yes… but those are the ones keeping us atop the wheel.” Jon tried to stretch out the metaphor as much as he could, but the Queen showed displeasure.

“Your Grace understands, remember you once found yourself locking your dragons to please people?” Tyrion asked with an off putting conciliatory smile.

Daenerys fixed her purple eyes on her Hand before looking at Jon again, before focusing on her meal again and asking quietly if the lords of Westeros were so prone to question his established ruler.

To that, Jon chose to answer with honesty, perhaps naively hoping that when the time for his questions came, she'd answer the same way.

“I am not king of Westeros, but the North does not hide to its lord and warden its disapproval.” Jon suddenly found it hard to swallow. “When we took back the North, we didn't just fight the treacherous Boltons, we also fought people who sided with him because my brother Robb's decisions displeased them.”

Daenerys nodded at his answer. If this was any indication she had softened to his request, he could not know. She was not unkind for the rest of the evening, but Jon noticed her attention was mostly focused on the lords she had received. Tyrion Lannister and Varys did not speak to him, but once the feasting was done, Jon noticed they approached some of his lords. For a moment, Jon stared at Tyrion’s mismatched eyes as the imp waddled to the Northerners and began an icy conversation at the same time as he motioned for more wine to be served. This was not a game Jon was ready to play yet.

Gendry excused himself early and Jon was glad someone else left early so he could do the same. Davos said he knew very well that the reason Robert Baratheon’s bastard did not stay to celebrate was plain nervousness for the day ahead, and Jon told him to go to him. He could use the solitude.

Jon reached his chambers alone and thoughtful. Ghost came to greet him at the door, and for a moment Jon just stood there burying his ungloved hand in the wolf's fur. Silently,the direwolf walked by his side and accompanied him to the desk, where Jon began writing to Sam. He missed his friend dearly, and were not for the chain he had to forge, Jon would ask him to come and join him. He'd like the dragons, Jon though, he would be scared at first but the wonderment would make him swallow his fear.

When his letter was finished, he walked silently to the rookery. The young maester was eating some of the feast dishes all put together in one saucer. He was kind enough to interrupt his dinner for Jon, although he mumbled ‘His Grace’ as if he were ashamed to say it. Jon just stood there, trying to picture Sam with his chains as the maester set the bird on its path. If he had questions as to why he wrote to Oldtown, he kept them to himself.

Once Jon arrived to his chambers, he found Ghost lying at the foot of the bed. He debated over whether or not to send him to the floor, but by the time he reached the bed, Jon couldn't help himself from affectionately patting the white fur of Ghost's head. The direwolf made no sound, but Jon knew the action left him content. He took comfort in knowing he could at least please someone, and fell into a fitful sleep, dreaming of Arya and dragonfire.

*/*

As the throne room became quiet, newly legitimized lord Gendry Baratheon knelt in front of Queen Daenerys Targaryen, with a varied assortment of lords from the area surrounding Dragonstone, the lords who came with Jon Snow from the North and the Riverlands, and the newly arrived lords of the Stormlands as witnesses. Sans the Northerners, today it would be a long day of men swearing fealty to a new queen.

“There are even more men here than when I tried to gather them to have you legitimize the boy.” Davos whispered next to Jon, both dressed less finely than was expected. Truth be told, most of their entourage had limited clothes brought with them, and the best they could do was keep them clean.

“I’m sure many were just curious about the dragons.” Jon said as he took in the lords of the Stormlands. Many old men, few young ones. The wars must've taken many lads, and to be on the side of dragons, well, it was guaranteed victory.

“Many,” Tyrion spoke from behind him, “are curious to hear how will we defeat Cersei.”

Gendry rose comfortably, but Daenerys gave him a kind smile, asking men to kneel to their new lord, and to her as well.

“Lannister men still hold Storm's End,” Davos said, “I suppose the first cause of action will be to get it back.”

“Mayhaps.” Tyrion smiled up at Jon. He couldn't tell if it was true sympathy in his eyes. “I heard your family is quite good at taking castles back, maybe you and your sisters can device a battle plan for us?”

“My sister don't have any wish to involve themselves in any war.”

“If you say so, Your Grace.” Jon couldn't help feeling there was mockery behind the title. Whatever game Tyrion was playing, Jon couldn't keep up. “The queen and I have been trying to talk to your men. You have them well trained, Jon Snow, nothing comes out if their mouths.”

“They're careful,” Jon grimaced, “and stubborn too.”

“Lannisters, Starks, Targaryen… we all know a thing or two about stubborn lords. And yet there it is, a Baratheon bending the knee to a Targaryen woman. You know the lad wasn't convinced of this? But me and Daenerys talked it through with him.”

Jon looked sideways, to Davos who was looking back and nodding silently. Jon could only exhale.

“Gendry did not have yet any lords to answer to.” Jon pointed to the assortment of Southron lords lining up to their new lord and queen. “I want to see you deal with that.”

Tyrion laughed, and drank from his cup greedily. “Daenerys is willing to talk to you alone again, without your lords present. Whatever you may fear in their reactions, we can help you.”

“I will go with him.” Davos said, protectively. Jon tried to hide his grateful smile.

“And Ghost must be allowed too.”

“Of course,” Tyrion smiled again, “we've heard many things about your sister's wolves. We're all curious to see a an adult direwolf.”

“The lad looks a little lost.” Davos said as they all looked at Gendry stand awkwardly as the Stormlands lords who had sworn began to approach him. “Perhaps I should go help him.”

“Go before he begins to look properly scared.” Tyrion said as he played with his empty cup. “Not that I’d blame him. Becoming a piece of this game without knowing how to play is the most dangerous decision a man can make.”

As Davos left his side, Jon wished he had Ghost, or Sam, to give him courage. Preferably Arya, and in another story, maybe his father. But father died because he didn’t know how to play the game… what awaits me?