Author's Note: Hey there! Been a while between uploads, sorry about that :( Just been really busy ! Hopefully you'll be happy to knwo that I've acquired a Tumblr! The url's withfireandblood15, so you can go look at that if you want :) This is longer than chapter two, but shorter than chapter one, so hopefully it's a happy medium :L Also, someone asked if Robb had named Jon his heir- as far as I can remember he'd planned to after his uncle Edmure's wedding, but as we know- GRRM broke my heart with the Frey betrayal :( If there are anymore mistakes, I won't know unless you tell me, because all of my ASOIAF books are on loan to my friends, so please do, and unless they conflict with the storyline I'll fix them :) And since GRRM got tangled in the Meereenese knot, I'm pretty sure I'd end up tying a noose and hanging myself with it, so let's assume that in the three years since aDwD, Dany's figured out what to do, Hizdahr's died, and she somehow found her way to Valyria :L Anyhoo, enjoy, and please review!

Disclaimer: I own nothing, and GRRM rules my life.

They began to ready for the march, packing up food and clothes and weapons. In the yard, the knights on their big destriers towered over the servants as they scurried about, looking for this and losing that, never a quiet, still moment. The men from the Vale arrived, and finally Gendry realised what a battle would look like. He had never seen so many warriors, each in shimmering armour, with longswords and greatswords and Valyrian steel, proud and deadly.

With each lordling that arrived, more suitors began to vie for the Lady Arya's hand. Sansa, delighted, began to dress her sister more extravagantly, becoming more daring with the cut of the gowns she wheedled her sister into. A blue silk, baring the tops of Arya's breasts, tight around her slender waist, dagged sleeves falling to the ground, the collar and sleeves and hem lined with Myrish lace, so light it couldn't be worn outside in the cold. A ruby red samite, slashed to the waist, the bodice embroidered with roses, the cosy colour of the red fabric making her skin seem to glow. A dove grey wool, for warmth, but still low cut enough baring her collar bones, the colour setting off her eyes. Sansa could weave a dress out of diamonds, but it made no matter. With each new gown, Arya's face grew more sullen.

And with each new suitor, her eyes grew angrier, her mouth sharper. They picked her flowers from the glass gardens, red roses for her red gown, violets for the blue, small grey silk flowers for the wool, and for her eyes. She accepted them at Sansa's behest, her eyes tight, the muttered courtesies getting less and less pleasant as the days went by.

She still fought in the yard, in her beautiful direwolf armour, and he could see her presence growing in each of the men's hearts, like a talisman against the fear of defeat, against the Lannisters' might.

She was impatient, he could see that too. Eager to be travelling, to get closer to vengeance for her family. Sansa seemed more serene, making sure they had all they needed to travel before setting out. The weather was harsh, heavy snows and blinding bizzards, ice storms that would tear away bare skin with its icy pellets, and Stannis' army had been near buried under the first real snows of winter before they retook Winterfell, so Sansa was intent on preparing for every possible situation. It was unclear who would be staying in Winterfell; each of the three Starks seemed determined to play their part in the coming battles, but, as it was so often said, there must always be a Stark in Winterfell, especially after the Greyjoy betrayal. Rickon, of course, would be leading the army, if only as a figure head. At nine, it was impossible to allow him to fight, skilful as he was. The Young Wolf may only have been fifteen, but all agreed that it was madness to have a Wolf Pup in the midst of the chaos of fighting.

That left Arya and Sansa. It would be customary for Sansa, the elder sister, to go south, especially as her husband was Lord of the Eyrie, responsible for half their army, but Gendry could see the challenge in Arya's eyes everyday when she looked at her sister, daring Sansa to command her to stay at Winterfell. The auburn haired girl made no comment, but the men whispered that the little Tully-looking lady would not be able to stomach war as her steely she-wolf sister could.

~X~

One day, when all had been packed and stored and tucked into carts, they set out. After all the waiting for the weather to clear, finally, on a bitterly cold, bright morning, the procession set out from Winterfell. Standards fluttered in the brisk wind, grey direwolf and white sunburst, giant in shattered chains and merman, Stark and Karstark and Umber and Manderly, Mormont, Hornwood, Reed, Glover, Cerwyn and Tallhart. Near ten thousand men, a huge, living mass armed for death. Gendry rode with Harry and Howland Reed, just behind Sansa, Rickon, Jon and Alys Karstark. Arya hurtled ahead, Nymeria by her side, her grey filly flying over the snows. Sansa's forehead was creased, fretting should her sister's horse fall over something buried in the snow. Gendry felt some of her fear, but both girl and horse looked so sure-footed and graceful it seemed folly to even imagine something so clumsy and dangerous befalling them.

As he looked over each of the Starks, he thought back to the night the sisters had argued over who would stay in Winterfell. It had been in the waiting time, waiting for the weather to permit their departure. They had sat late into the night, discussing much and more. As the talk came round to the battles ahead of them, demands to have the honour of battle command were thick and fast. Some were brisk, some were flattering, some came with a jest, and Sansa looked over them coolly before answering that that was an honour that had to be earned, not given so freely as a gift. He could see the affront in the faces of the northern lords at being addressed as such. and by a woman of all people. He had to hold in laughter at that; they had seen Arya's steel, but Sansa's was of a wholly different type.

Gendry could see Sansa take a deep breath before she turned to her little sister. Arya was leaning back in her chair, arms crossed, head tilted to look to the right, through the windows at the cresting moon. Strands were falling out of her elaborately styled hair, and there were smudges of dirt on the blue skirt of her gown. Her face was carefully expressionless, but he could see the frustration in her grey eyes.

"My lady." Sansa said imperiously, formal with her only sister in front of these lords they ruled over.

Arya turned her head to Sansa, her eyebrows raised. "Sister?" Arya did not care what the men thought of her, and that was what made them love her all the more.

"Arya Stark, I would name you lady of Winterfell while Rickon and I march south to avenge our family." Sansa set her mouth, blue eyes proud.

Arya's face fell. She glowered at her sister. "Thank you, Lady Sansa, but it is not an honour I desire." Her voice was cold, eyes colder.

Sansa's own eyes grew hard. "It is not an honour, sister, but a command."

Arya straightened in her chair, trying to seem tall to her ever-taller sister. "A command?" She in that quiet way of hers, a subtle threat in her voice, ice cold anger colouring her simple words.

Sansa's expression softened. "There must always be a Stark in Winterfell. You know that, Arya."

Arya's face stayed set, a stubborn jut coming to her jaw. "And there would be, Sansa." She stared her sister in the eyes, furious grey meeting cool blue. "If they hadn't almost killed us all. Name one of your Vale lords castellan. I will not sit here while you taste the vengeance we have hungered after for so long."

Sansa's soft eyes turned to blue ice. "It is my right as your elder sister-"

Arya leapt to her feet. "Your right? I have let you dress me and bathe me and smother me in lemon creams like a doll, I have let you put me in these ridiculous dresses, I have let you brush my hair and string pearls in it like I'm some kind of stupid mermaid, but I will not let you do this! We are going to war with the monsters that tore our family apart. Six years I have thought only of this, six years I have whispered their names at night, reminding myself of who I am. It is all that kept me who I am! I didn't know who Arya Stark was! I thought I'd dreamed her. And when I felt that, I reminded myself that I am a wolf. I am a Stark of Winterfell, and I will not be commanded!"

Sansa stood, looming over her petite sister. Arya was breathing hard, fists clenched. Sansa's face was determined, but she took her sister's fists in her hands gently. "You're not the only one who had different names. I know what it is hardly know who you are, to not know the difference between who you're told you are and who you actually are. I understand. But I need you here. Father left, Mother left… and look what happened."

"Yes. Look what happened. Look at what they did to us. Please, Sansa. I need to go."

"Arya…" Sansa's face looked pained.

Seeing her chance, Arya pressed on. "This is all that's kept me going. I want Cersei Lannister's head just as much as you do. Joffrey Baratheon is dead, but there are others who must pay the blood price. Ilyn Payne. The Kingslayer. Roose Bolton and his bastard. The Freys. Theon Greyjoy, and all is slimy fish friends." When Sansa didn't speak, Arya continued. "And besides, Daenerys won't know you. Any of you." She said, turning her eyes over the others present. "She has been betrayed before. She won't know whether to trust you or take your heads- without me. You need me, Sansa."

For a moment all was silent, and then Sansa spoke, her face sad. "I know I do." She said quietly, and Winterfell was to be placed in the care of Harry's steward.

Rickon's bubbly laughter called him back to this moment, riding at the head of a train of thousands of men. Rickon's lords couldn't comprehend why their King and Lady Regent were bringing their bastard-born blacksmith to war, let alone having him sit in on council meetings and riding ahead of them, their banner men and highborn to boot. They couldn't openly protest though; Jon was as bastard born as Gendry, even if his parents were lady and a prince- if you believed that, that was, or so they said. The northerners cared nought for southern men and they're Houses, but Jon was as much Stark as he was Targaryen. If you believed he was a dragon, they muttered. A bastard was a bastard, and to insult one would be to insult the man at the head of their army, brother in all but blood to their King.

Shaggydog bounded alongside Nymeria, playfully snapping at his bigger sister. Nymeria had grown huge in her wild time at the Trident, looming over Arya and taller than most men. Her shoulders were huge, and the growls than could emanate from her deep barrel chest was enough to turn brave men's bowels to water.

They rode until dusk, which was coming ever earlier. This winter had been as long as the last one, the men said, near three years, but it seemed to still be only beginning. The days were still getting shorter, not longer, and soon there would be no light at all, the men whispered fearfully.

The clear kept for most of their ride, but it began to snow just as the sun dipped below the white-blanketed hills in a blaze of blood red and purple. They took the snowshoes off their feet, and off the hooves of their horses. Tents were quickly erected, and above the cloth roofs the northerners put up the queerest things Gendry had ever seen. They were wooden boards, held together with iron bands, supported by thick wooden beams. There was a rope hanging down, and that rope was connected well oiled hinge, which when pulled caused the roof to spring up and knock off the snow that settled on the wood. This could be done as many times as needed, to keep the snow from burying the tents, and the army inside them, Sansa explained. Gendry marvelled at the resourcefulness of these queer northerners. If Stannis had had these contraptions, he would've had a deal more men to storm Winterfell with, Lord Umber boomed. His name was Whoresbane, and Gendry didn't want to know why.

He knocked up a rough shelter for his forge beneath the huge wooden roof that housed Sansa and Harry's tent, Rickon's, Arya's and his own tent. Usually, Sansa told him, Rickon would sleep with Sansa and Harry, his guardians, but seeing as he was a King, it would not do to have him seen as a frightened child, unable to sleep alone.

Arya said not a word to him, and strode into her tent, Nymeria at her heels. Sansa looked after her worriedly, and sought out Gendry after dinner, while he was hammering out a dent in one of the men's shields. She came into the little wooden shack he'd quickly put up with the help of a friend called Henry, who cooked for the men. She drew down the hood of her cloak, snow settled on the dark fabric. The heat was blasting from the coals, but a bitter wind rattled the wood, whistling in the gaps.

He stopped beating the red-hot metal, and turned to face her. He wiped a hand over his forehead, sliding over the sweat beaded there. He was embarrassed; he was sour-smelling and his shirt was blackened with soot. He usually tried to keep clean when he was in Sansa's company. She wasn't like her sister; Arya could be found smeared in dirt with rips in the new dresses her sister had made for her, but Sansa was always pristine.

He dipped his head, and grabbed for a scrap of linen to wipe his face. "M'lady."

Sansa smiled wryly. "Sansa, Gendry. You still insist on using courtesies with me."

He nodded, grinning back. "Must speak proper to the Lady Regent of the north, or course.

She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. She perched on the edge of a rough-cut table, the surface covered with hammers and different little trinkets the men had come to request for their sweethearts.

"I have something to ask of you, Gendry." She said quietly, barely audible over the roar of the fire, blue eyes troubled.

He put down the damp linen, frowning. "Anything, Sansa." The auburn-haired girl might be brother to two kings, and queen in all but name, but there was something delicate about Sansa Stark Hardyng, even if she could be fierce when she wanted to. She had given Gendry a home in her castle, comforted him when he despaired over Arya- before she came back, of course. He still despaired over her, but he didn't think that would be something to share with her sister- and had become his friend. He would do her any favour, because she had done so many for him.

She bit her lip. "It's Arya." She whispered.

Gendry stiffened, growing still. "What of her?" He whispered back.

Sansa shook her head, giving something that was half laugh, half sob. "I don't know. There's something wrong, but-" She passed a hand over her face, as if to rub her troubles away. "But I don't know what. She's- she's not herself. She's not the same." When he raised his eyebrows, she hurriedly continued. "I didn't put that right, I know she's not going to be the same as when she was nine, but there's something wrong with her." The fire crackled in the silence as Sansa gazed at the flames. "It's like- It's like she's not really here. Like she's only pretending. I'm afraid-" She shuddered. "I'm afraid that when this war's over she'll do something awful. That she'll hurt herself. It's like she's trying so hard to be what she was, or what she would have been if we'd never gone to King's Landing and everything hadn't gone so awfully wrong, and when the fighting's over she'll have no reason to pretend anymore. That she'll leave again, or hurt herself or- or-" She sobbed, eyes frightened. "Or she'll kill herself." She raised her eyes to Gendry's. He was cold inside. She was back; She was safe. She was home. How could anything be wrong? Everything should be perfect, she should be happy.

"I'm afraid of what happened to her over there, Gendry. She won't tell me what happened to her in Braavos. She was there for four years, Gendry. Sometimes, the mask slips and she'll say something so detachedly and her eyes will be so cold-" Her breath hitched, and she shook her head again. "It's like she's died, but she's still going. And I'm so frightened of what will happen when she doesn't have a reason to keep going anymore."

Gendry didn't speak. What was he supposed to say? How was he supposed to help her when she wouldn't even talk to him?

Sansa pressed on. "I think you could help her. You knew her when she left King's Landing, which must have been the most confusing time of her life. You were her friend. You might know something I don't, say something I won't think of. You could help her, I know you could." She turned pleading eyes on him. "Please, Gendry."

He shook his head, overwhelmed. "Sansa- I was her friend once, but I don't know her anymore. She won't speak to me. She won't even care if I try." His thoughts went unwillingly to that night in the godswood, the way she'd sounded so tired when she told him to go away, the way she'd cried.

Sansa shook her head, standing up suddenly and coming closer to him, to stare him in the eyes. "She will. She pretends she doesn't care about you when I ask, but I can see it in her eyes. There's pain in her eyes when I mention you, and she can say you were just a boy she travelled with all she wants, I know you were more to her. Even if you hadn't already told me you were friends, I'd be able to see it. I think you could get through to her in ways I can't. Please, Gendry. Don't make me beg. Please." The was such desperation in her blue eyes, tears building up but not spilling over.

He sighed.

~X~

He didn't know how to approach her, to speak to her, and her expression when she caught him looking at her was hardly encouraging. Sansa's pleading blue eyes, however, forced him to at least attempt something. He watched her, careful smiles and bright eyes, still the sullen expression when presented with a gift, jesting and joking with Rickon and one of the Cerwyn cousins, whom she seemed to have befriended. The ugly creature in his chest that had reared it's head when she'd been attacked by the Redling oaf growled when he saw her talking to the boy, who seemed to be of an age with her. A stupid little lordling for a stupid little girl. He'd promised Sansa though, he thought dully, dreading the next onslaught of blows from that would surely come when he tried speaking with her.

As much as she seemed to like the Cerwyn boy, it was obvious she tired of even him easily. He began to notice her slipping off, Sansa asking round looking for her when she wasn't where she was supposed to be.

One morning, after he'd risen almost ridiculously early, before the sun was even up and the air was so cold it hurt to breathe in, after he'd woken in a cold sweat from nightmare of wolves howling and Arya screaming and something dark behind him clutching at his tunic with cold fingers as he ran, he noticed a slightly deeper piece if darkness fading into the trees, wreathed in mist as the snow glittered in the fading moonlight. Seized by a sudden madness, he decided to follow it, quickly dressing in his warmest clothes.

As he hurried through the dark, already beginning to regret his spur-of-the-moment idea, the stories the men told round the campfires of white walkers, of eating babes and ice spiders the size of hounds, and then the fact that Arya and Jon Snow had confirmed those stories- He was wishing he was safely back in his tent, instead of following something that he'd probably imagined in the first place and trekking through drifts of snow and tripping on hidden, frozen roots and biting his tongue because his teeth were chattering so hard-

He pulled up suddenly, a sudden feeling of déjà vu coming over him as he spotted a figure kneeling in the snow ahead of him, cloak spreading over the ground, hair spilling down unbound, gleaming in the moonlight.

He was too far away for her to hear him as she had the night in the godswood, but he crept quickly behind a huge, old oak, wide enough to hide his bulk.

She was crouching on the frozen ground, turning something that glittered in her hands. He couldn't be sure, but it looked as though her cheeks were glittering too, tear-tracks over her skin. He tried to even his breathing, terrified should he destroy the quiet stillness. She was beautiful, as always, but there was something more about her tonight. This was where she belonged, in the snow, surrounded by ice and cold and frosted trees.

She rose, and he backed farther into the shadows, instantly fearing the fury in her grey eyes that he'd become so accustomed to seeing. Thankfully, she seemed not to notice him, passing hardly two feet from where he hid, holding his breath. Her eyes were clouded over, her expression wistful and sad, and she was still clenching something in her hand, but he couldn't see it, the folds of her grey cloak hiding her small fist and whatever she was holding.

He stayed in the shadow of the tree, hardly daring to move, giving it enough time for her to be safely out of ear shot. Eventually, he slowly crept forward, curiosity getting the better of him, needing to know what she'd been looking at, and why it might've reduced her to tears. He knelt in the snow, mirroring the position he'd seen her in.

It was a patch of roses, but not of any type he'd seen before. During his youth in King's Landing, when the old king was alive and everyone was rich and drunk and happy and fat, the scent of so many flowers would almost block out the stench of unwashed bodies and rotting food and fish that surrounded the city like a damp cloak. Sometimes, Master Mott would send him on an errand to some client or other, and Gendry liked nothing better to look about him on the journey, breathing in the smell of roses and tulips and fried fish. There'd been so many colours; red and orange and yellow and purple, pink dresses and blue tunics and bright enamelled steel, all the colours of the rainbow. Then Master Mott had sent him away, to join the Night's Watch, and he hadn't seen as many colours since, just the green and brown of the country side. He had been bitterly disappointed at first; he could've lived well as a smith in King's Landing, especially as he'd been apprenticed to Master Tobho Mott, a popular smith among the court of King Robert. Then he'd met Arya, or Arry, as she'd gone by then, and he hadn't minded so much, the grey of her eyes making up for any missing colour.

In all his time in King's Landing, he'd never seen a flower like this. The rose was blooming when no other should, in the middle of winter, growing out of soil frozen solid. The petals were pale blue, and covered in frost -that's what was glittering- the stem slender, the petals full and graceful.

I thought she didn't like flowers. Her expression was sour enough that every time she was presented with flowers from her suitors he could hardly keep from laughing. But hadn't Sansa told him a story once, of Arya picking flowers and giving them to their father, and then getting a rash all over her arms? Maybe she just doesn't like getting flowers. Or maybe its that she doesn't like getting them from those idiots.

What flower blooms in winter, though? Covered in frost, growing out of icy ground.

A winter rose, he thought suddenly. The northerners talked about them often enough; they were very rare, and very beautiful, and bloomed only in winter. Wasn't Arya's aunt Lyanna famous for liking them? Maybe Arya likes them, too.

Struck by a sudden thought, he crouched closer over them, breath huffing in an icy cloud. He picked the flowers quickly, gathering a big bunch, careful to avoid the thorns even though he was wearing thick, sheepskin gloves. He stood, tugging his hood up to block out the cold, holding the pale blue blooms in his right hand. He trudged through the trees hurrying back to camp before everyone was up and about. The sky was dove grey, beginning to hint at pink on the horizon when he stumbled through the trees, tripping over a buried rock. Cursing, he kept his weight off his left foot, toe throbbing painfully. He cast his eyes around her tent, the dark canvas shadowed under its wooden roof. Sansa's maids were already bustling about in, readying their charge. One was warming water over a fire, passing the steaming buckets into the tent, helping another girl to carry out a copper tub. When she exited again, scooping more snow in her buckets to melt for her lady's broth, Gendry hurried forwards, drawing his hood forward more to shadow his face.

"Give these to Lady Arya, if you'd be so kind." He said quietly, holding out the roses. "Mind the thorns."

She took them with a curious look on her face. "And who will I tell her they're from, m'lord?"

He chuckled. "I'm no lord. And tell her they're from-…" He thought for a second. "An admirer. Tell her they're from an admirer." How she hates her admirers.

The girl curtsied, and smiled as he hurried away. He ducked into his forge, peeking round the edge of the wooden wall, waiting.

It took less than a minute before she stuck her head out, mouth tight and eyes burning. She looked round her, eyes searching. She strode out of the tent, the roses clutched in her hands. He shrunk back behind the wall more. She looked down at the flowers, and then glanced round her one more time, eyes wary. She huffed out a breath, and then turned on her heel and marched back into the tent.

He smiled. She's exactly like the roses, he thought, beautiful, but with thorns.

~X~

Arya

She waved away the gown the handmaidens Sansa had given -given, like I had a choice- held up to her. She clambered from the tub, missing the hot water as the cold air hit her, despite the fire burning in the corner. They wrapped her in thick towels, and she stood as they dried her, combing scents into her hair and rubbing Sansa's lemon cream into her skin. Ease out of it, she sighed inwardly. First the dresses, then the lemon stuff, and then the stupid perfume. Sansa had been so happy to have her sister back, but she seemed to have entirely forgotten who Arya was.

She's forgotten worse than I have, she thought dully, as the girl called Bette braided her hair. Dresses and pearls and flowers and perfumes. She hardly knew who Arya Stark had been, but she knew she had never been this person.

I'm trying, though, she thought fiercely. I'm trying to be the way I was. No more dresses, not anymore. They were away from Winterfell, so Sansa couldn't ask her to wear dresses anymore, not when they were travelling. Tunics and breeches and riding leathers and cloaks from now on. She stood, and the maids fluttered about like stupid little birds, reaching for hairnets and earrings and necklaces stupid, stupid dresses.

One came towards her with a corset, but Arya stopped her with a hand, a determined look on her face. "No. I won't be needing that today."

"But m'l-" She begins, a confused look on her face.

"No, thank you." Arya said, more firmly this time. "In fact, I won't be needing you any longer."

She looked surprised, but curtsied. "As m'lady commands."

Arya stiffened, but the maids hardly seemed to notice as the others scurried to tidy the tent. Even other people saying the stupid words annoy me now, she thought bitterly. He's wrecked everything.

It wasn't supposed to be like this. She was supposed to come home in a blaze of glory, to her sister and brother, and then they would get their vengeance, her death prayer would be answered. She hadn't really thought past that, though, but it didn't matter anyway. Everything was wrong. He was here, and Sansa kept asking her questions about Braavos, and Bran wouldn't come down from the Wall, and Sansa kept making her wear dresses and jewellery and she had to talk to those stupid boys. Some weren't even boys; some were old, older than her father'd been.

She hated the flowers, hated all the gifts they kept giving her. Pendants and necklaces and fastenings for her cloak. She didn't want any other cloak fastening than the direwolf Dany'd had made for her.

Dany. How Arya missed the little queen. Before she'd set sail for home, when she was spending the weeks convincing Daenerys to use her dragons for the Wall after the war, somehow they'd become friends. Arya hadn't expected to like the dragon-lady Bran had shown her; she seemed altogether too beautiful. She thought Daenerys would be another Sansa, perfumed and gowned and bejewelled. But Dany stepped off her ship wearing Dothraki leathers and sandsilk trousers. She had gowns, yes, but she was keeping them for Westeros.

"I'm going to enjoy my freedom while I have it." She'd told Arya one afternoon, when they were sitting in Illyrio Mopatis's mance. Arya didn't like the hugely fat man, and he seemed awfully familiar, especially his silly beard, but that's where Dany was staying and Arya had to stay with her. She'd travelled to Pentos to meet the little queen, and she'd insisted Arya take rooms in the mance.

"I learned in Meereen that to be the queen of the people you have to look like the people, act like the people. I bent to the people's wishes in Slaver's Bay." She'd said quietly, violet eyes far away. "I learned my lesson, and I won't be doing so again." She said, watching Drogon circle through the sky.

Arya remembered saying goodbye to the queen. She'd been about to board the ship, all the things Dany had given her safely stowed away. To go from have just Needle and the black and white tunic the kindly man had given her to having her new armour and her new clothes and her direwolf fastenings was surreal. When Daenerys had given those to her she couldn't speak for a moment. It made it all real. She was going home.

Leaving the House of Black and White to go find Daenerys had been strange. She'd gotten up one morning, and when the kindly man asked her who she was, she finally spoke the truth.

"I'm no longer no one." She'd said, squaring her jaw. "I am Arya, of House Stark.

"There is no place for Arya of House Stark here." He'd said sadly.

"I know." She'd nodded. "But she does have a place somewhere."

He'd led her down to the faces room, and taken the face she'd worn for the last few months off. She hadn't seen her own face in near three years, and was apprehensive about what she'd see in the mirror.

She looked the same. The same, but different. Her face was still long, her eyes still grey, her hair still brown. Her hair was longer, though, right down her back, and her eyes were bigger, her face not quite as horsey. She wasn't tall, still as short and skinny as ever. Her body had changed, though. She'd gotten her moonblood when she was twelve, and the waif had helped her with it. She wasn't as flat-chested, and her hips were wider, her waist narrower. She felt strange. She'd pretended to be someone else for so long she hardly knew herself anymore, and if the face in the mirror had been a stranger she didn't know what she would have done. How could she go to the queen as Arya Stark if she hardly knew who that person was, didn't recognise that face as her own? She wasn't a stranger to herself though; she knew her own face, even if it did look like someone else she'd seen once. She understood it now, what her father'd told her once.

She did look like Lyanna.

Arya almost felt like she'd known the other girl. My aunt. Bran had showed her Lyanna's life, how she was wild and fought and rode and wanted so desperately to be a boy. Arya understood. Lyanna had hated dresses and jewels and songs the same way Arya did. Arya had understood her desire for freedom, understood why she didn't want to marry Lord Robert. And then Harrenhal had happened, and Arya had felt proud of her aunt. She had defended Howland Reed, and she had punished those stupid squires for being such bullies.

And then Rhaegar had happened. Arya couldn't help but think he'd ruined everything. Arya knew Lyanna had loved him, but it was his fault that Brandon, who reminded her so of Robb, had died, that Lord Rickard had died, that poor Elia Martell, who'd never done anything bad in her life, had died, and the little children. Arya didn't think she'd ever choose something as stupid as love over her family.

And then Lyanna had died, and Arya had cried even as Bran kept showing her what happened next. The dead blue roses spilling from her hands, the ones Rhaegar had given her the day he left for war, the ones she'd clutched so tight. Arya liked the blue roses; much more than any of the other stupid flowers the other stupid boys had given her because their fathers wanted a princess for a daughter. Poor Lyanna. Arya almost missed her, though she'd never even met her. She'd never even gotten the chance to meet her, this girl who she felt so similar to. Arya would've liked to know Lyanna. She risen early that morning on the march, before her maids, to go and search for the winter roses. She had looked for a long time, but finally found a small patch, and knelt to pick one. They were beautiful, pale blue, graceful, covered in glittering frost. Promise me, Ned, Lyanna'd said to Arya's father. Father. Father and his secrets, so many. All those other stupid flowers did were remind her of the past, of the bad things that had happened to her. The violets reminded her of the flowers she'd picked for her father in the Neck, before that horrible Lannister queen killed Lady and Mycah died and everything went wrong. The silk flowers were the same as Father's eyes. And the roses, the roses were like blood. The velvety petals, the smooth colour most would consider beautiful, made her sick, sick to her stomach. All the people she'd killed's blood, Mycah's blood, Sansa'd blood, after she'd told Arya of how Joffrey had made the Kingsguard beat her, her own blood… And her father's blood. Yoren had made sure she hadn't seen it that day outside the Great Sept, but she saw it in her dreams every night. The blue roses only held happy memories, even if they weren't her own. Arya remembered the moment Lyanna had died, and the second between seconds she slipped away into the sky. Arya remembered feeling everything Lyanna'd felt, all the pain and fear and hurt, but the love, too. Arya wished she could feel love like that again, but she knew she was too broken.

She'd dressed in a plain white tunic, one that hadn't many stains, grey breeches, and a plain black cloak. She supposed Sansa would say she should have dressed better to meet a queen, but it was all she had, bought with the coins she'd found discarded or dropped on the streets over the years. She'd set out for Pentos, buying an old gelding with the coin the kindly man had given her. When she'd arrived in Pentos, dusty and tired after a week's hard riding, she'd gone to the docks, anxious and distrustful, searching for the last Targaryen.

She hadn't needed to search for long. Daenerys had just been stepping off the gangplank, silver hair gleaming in the sun. The hair would've been enough, if not for the monstrous dragon at her side, eating little cutlets of charred meat out of her palm. It was jet black, with eyes like molten fire. Arya had steeled herself, determined not to show fear of the beast.

The queen's guards had tried to stop her, two tall, brutish men with copper skin and dark, almond shaped eyes, another three wearing big, gold spiral hats, and another, old, white-haired man. He seemed familiar to Arya, the old one. She knew she'd seen him before, but couldn't remember where. When the dark-skinned one had moved to push her away, the little queen had stopped him with a small, pale hand on his forearm. She'd said something in a tongue Arya couldn't understand, a harsh and quick language.

Arya'd sucked in a breath, preparing to say her speech, but the white-haired man had cut her off before she'd even begun.

He'd stepped in front of her, looking searchingly at her face. "I know you." He'd said, shaking his head. "But it's impossible…" He reached out with his hand and cupped her chin, tilting her head this way and that. She'd jerked her head out of his grasp, looking instead at Daenerys, and trying furiously to remember the manners she'd been taught so long before.

"Your Grace." She'd said, dipping into a clumsy curtsy, feeling more a fool with each passing moment, searching her brain for the white-haired man's name, eyeing the hulking dragon with apprehension. "I come to you on behalf of House-"

"Stark. You, girl, can only be a Stark." The old man said gruffly.

"How do you know me?" She'd demanded.

"I knew your father- and his brother, and sister." He looked at her oddly, taking a strand of her hair, which was fluttering into her face in the wind, in his fingers. "You're the very image of her."

"Who?" The little queen had said sharply. "Who is this girl, Ser Barristan?"

It clicked together in Arya's mind. "Barristan Selmy. Barristan the Bold. I knew I'd seen you somewhere before!"

He gave her a gruff smile. "Smart girl. Last time you saw me you couldn't have been more than ten."

"I was nine. You were in the Kingsguard." She said, studying the man. He looked older, but still strong.

"I thought you told me all the Starks were dead, Ser Barristan." The queen said, looking irritatedly at Ser Barristan.

"I believed it so, Your Grace. Lord Stark beheaded, the younger girl missing when I left… Then, I heard that a Greyjoy had killed the two younger boys, the Red Wedding took care of Lady Stark and eldest son, and the girl Sansa went missing after Joffrey's wedding. I thought her to be with the Imp, who they'd wed her to, but as we know, Your Grace, Tyrion has no idea where his little wife is."

"I hid in Flea Bottom after they took my lord father." Arya told him. She hated telling people who she was, opening herself up for attack, years of hiding and lying screaming at her to speak them false. She couldn't, though. Bran had showed her she couldn't. She was confused as well. Who was the Imp married to? "Then, Yoren, a man of the Night's Watch took me north disguised as a boy heading for the Night's Watch. He was going to bring me to Winterfell, but we were attacked." She said unwillingly, refusing to say more in public.

"You're the younger girl. The wild one." He said, recognition blooming in his eyes.

"Arya." She said, nodding. "And I've come to offer the alliance of House Stark to you, Your Grace." She said, looking at the little queen. She was beautiful, no doubt; amethyst eyes and hair of silver. She wasn't dressed in an intricate gowns or jewels though, as Arya'd expected, but a worn leather vest and sand silk trousers.

The queen's eyebrows shot up. "The Usurper's dogs come to give me help?" She'd said, looking incredulously at Ser Barristan.

He'd regarded Arya for a moment before saying, "Perhaps we should continue this discussion away from listening ears, Your Grace."

"Yes." Dany'd agreed. She looked at Arya. "You will accompany us to our accommodations."

They'd gone to the fat man's house, something about his face stirring Arya's memory. They'd taken her to an empty, airy room, and the queen rounded on her now they were in private.

"Have you anyway to prove your identity?" She'd demanded.

"Well-" Arya'd said. "I do, but I'd prefer to tell you my story before I show you."

The queen had nodded, settling into a chair. The dragons were in the courtyard, and Arya could hear the buffets of their wings as they playfully snapped at each other in the air.

So she told them her story. King's Landing, her father, Joffrey, running away with Yoren, the gold cloaks, everything. Everything- except the men she killed. She would tell no one that. Then she told them about Bran, and about the things he'd shown her. The queen had looked more and more incredulous as she went on, and when Arya'd finished she said, "I'm sorry, my lady, but I have a hard time believing you." She shook her head apologetically.

"It is a far-fetched tale you tell, girl." Ser Barristan had agreed.

"I'm no lady, Your Grace. And I thought you might say that. If I may?" She'd said, holding out her hands.

The queen had looked curious, and put her hands in Arya's own. She reached out, the way Bran had taught her, feeling for her brother where he was waiting so far away. Bran was ready, and flowed through Arya into the little queen.

She'd taken a shuddering breath, her eyes flickering closed. Barristan had jerked towards her concernedly, but Daenerys shook her head.

"Oh." She said, "Oh."

She sat watching the queen as Bran showed her the truth about Jon, about the wars that had ravaged Westeros, about the Others, showed her the North grown strong again. When the queen opened her eyes again, they were purple fire.

"She speaks the truth, Ser Barristan. Instruct Illyrio to find her a room." She'd said, eyeing Arya with more respect now that she knew her pledge to be true.

Daenerys had asked her to sup with her, and to sit and talk with her afterwards. She'd asked Arya about her home, Winterfell. About her brothers and sister. About what had happened in Westeros before she had left. Bran had filled her in, but Daenerys seemed to want to know about the Starks in particular. Arya thought it was because they were her first allies, and Arya's brother- no, cousin,- Jon was half Targaryen. Arya had told her of Bran, of Rickon, of Sansa and Robb. Robb in particular, the queen was interested in.

"Your brother rebelled against the Usurper's son after they killed your father?" She'd asked Arya, sipping on the tea Illyrio's servants served them.

"Yes." Arya'd said softly. So close. She'd been so close to Robb, to her mother. "They crowned him King Robb when he was barely fifteen. Called him the Young Wolf."

"And then the Freys betrayed him? After he married the Westerling girl, against his betrothal?"

"He was only sixteen. Hardly older than I am now. We all make mistakes. The Freys murdered him, and my mother." Arya'd said heatedly.

"I know." Dany'd replied soothingly. "You'll have your revenge." They hadn't spoken for a few moments, a comfortable silence between them.

Then Dany'd spoke suddenly. "I intend to take up you alliance, Arya. But on conditions."

Arya had watched her guardedly, trying not to seem too eager. "What might they be, Your Grace?"

"From what you've told me, and what your brother-" She'd swallowed. "-showed me, it seems the north and south has been split. I learned from Meereen not to change things that people don't want changing, at least not immediately after conquering somewhere. That is how you earn the name Usurper. I think it wise for me to rule from the Neck down, your brother from the Neck up. What say you?"

Arya had been shocked. She had never thought to recover Robb's kingdom. Only to recover Winterfell. "I- I think those most generous conditions, Your Grace."

Dany'd smiled wryly. "I'm not done. There must be a marriage pact to seal the alliance. And your brother Jon must come to King's Landing, and rule with me."

Arya's stomach had dropped to the floor. Marriage? Who would have to wed? Sansa was already married, so her or Rickon? Arya had never considered marriage, even as a child. Rickon. He'll be the king, so he'll be the one who weds. It was one relief, at least. But what of Jon?

Arya had missed him the most. And now his vows to the Night's Watch were void, he could come home. But now Daenerys demanded he come with her, be her King, far south from the sweet cold of Winterfell.

She knew she'd no choice, but the words tasted bitter on her lips. "Yes, Your Grace. I find those conditions most agreeable."

Then Arya had spent time convincing her to use her dragons for the Night's Watch. Daenerys wore a horn on a fine black gold chain around her neck, a beautiful thing wrought of Valyrian steel, rubies and black gold. Arya thought it just a decoration, a pretty bauble. Until she saw Daenerys fly Drogon, that was. She raised the little horn to her lips, and blew a clear, sharp note from it. The dragon's eyes had widened, and from then on girl and dragon were one mind, one being.

When Arya had asked her where she'd gotten it, Daenerys had told her how a Greyjoy had tried to take her hand, and how his brother had a magic horn to control her dragons. She'd known she needed to find some way to make sure no one could steal them from her. She'd ordered her ship sail for Valyria, and had come out of the smoking ruins with stacks of Valyrian steel, dragonhorns, spell-imbued whips, jewels, gold, dragonglass- and fourteen dragon's eggs, petrified into stone by time, as Drogon, Viserion, and Rhaegal's had been. She was rich beyond dreams, with wealth to rival even Illyrio's.

When Arya had been about to leave her, Daenerys had gifted her with her armour, enamelled in Stark colours, with a direwolf helm. It was beyond her childhood dreams, perfect and fierce and deadly. It was only after Daenerys had told her that she realised it was forged of Valyrian steel, from the stores Dany'd found in the ruined Freehold.

"Unbreakable." Dany'd said, with tears in her eyes. "To keep you safe until we meet again." She swept Arya into a tight embrace, and though usually Arya didn't like being held, didn't like closeness as a rule, the little queen had become her friend, and they wouldn't be seeing each other for months, so she held her only friend in the world tight.

Coming home had been euphoric. Riding into the courtyard on Visenya, the mare born from Dany's silver, had been beautiful. Beautiful, and perfect, and wonderful. Home. She was home.

Sansa was more beautiful than ever, her red hair lustrous and thick, blue eyes shining. Her eyes slid past her, to her husband, Harry Hardyng, boyish and bright and joyful. Rickon was so big, tall and strong, almost taller than she was at fifteen. She hardly knew him. Shaggydog was by his side, monstrous, but not as huge as Nymeria. Then she looked past Rickon, and her insides froze.

What was he doing here? No, no- He couldn't, it wasn't fair. He knew her- really knew her. Knew about the men she'd killed. Once, she'd thought him a part of her pack, but then he'd decided to leave her. And now he was here, looking at her with such happiness in his blue eyes. So blue.

She refused to look at him, turning back to her family,- family - she'd slid down from her horse, looking at them instead. Rickon, who looked so like Robb, Tully blue eyes and auburn hair, tall and stocky for a nine-year-old. Sansa was taller, much taller than Arya, and more beautiful than she'd ever be. The same Tully features, the image of their mother, slender and womanly and radiant, the sun shining on her hair.

Then the dam broke, and she was crying and running to them and they were crying too, and suddenly Jon was there, and she had it, she had this- family. The one thing she'd never thought she'd have again.

Sansa led her to the feast, and they were joking and jesting with each other, the wildlings they had met in the Gift that had decided to follow Jon to war eating below them. Arya hadn't sat at this table in a long time, year and years, and she'd never sat at it without her father and mother. Rickon sat in Lord Eddard's seat now. She was happy, happier than she'd been in a long time, but she was cold inside too.

Sansa was different. She wasn't as spoilt, as bratty. Sansa was kind now, and she seemed to have missed Arya.

Arya remembered going to the godswood, taking a different route after that night, and meeting Sansa there, crying softly. Arya had ran to her, demanded to know what had happened, but Sansa just shook her head.

"Being home- it's brought it all to the surface. Mother should be here. Robb should be here. Father should be here. And I'm afraid-" She'd resolved to sobs, hiccupping, "-I'm afraid they'd be ashamed of me." She was shaking, and Arya pulled her sister into her arms, feeling her warmth through her thick cloak.

"Why would they be ashamed of you, Sansa? You've been so brave. They'd be proud." Arya was flabbergasted. Why, why would her beautiful, perfect sister have anything to be ashamed of? Her sister, who'd never killed anyone?

"Because of Littlefinger!" Sansa'd howled.

"Littlefinger?" Sansa'd told Arya of her time in the Vale, disguised as Lord Baelish's bastard daughter. "Why?"

"Because- because-" Sansa hiccupped, steadying herself against Arya's shoulder. "He made me play at being more than his daughter." She said miserably.

Arya drew in a sharp breath. "Sansa-" She took her sister's face in her hands. Her eyes were red, the blue bitter and dejected. Arya stared her in the eyes. "-Sansa, what do you mean?"

Sansa drew in a shuddering breath, and her eyes widened, as though she was only now realizing where she was. She stood, looming over Arya, fists clenched. "No, nothing, nothing, I- I was merely d-dreaming, sister." Sansa made to walk back towards the castle, but Arya stopped her with a tight grip on her sister's arm.

"Sansa." Arya said, with steel in her voice.

Sansa turned her eyes back to her sister, the deep blue swimming in tears. "I can't." She whispered, voice unsteady.

"Tell me." Arya said, with the same steely tone.

And Sansa, tall, dignified, beautiful Sansa collapsed against her sister, burying her head against Arya's shoulder. As Sansa's legs buckled, Arya sank to the ground with her, enfolding her shaking sister in her skinny arms, her knees sodden in the snow.

"What did he do to you, Sansa?" Arya asked coldly.

"It was the night of me and Harry's wedding." Sansa said wretchedly, her voice muffled against Arya's cloak, snow in her hair. "He'd put something in Harry's wine." Arya's throat closed, a cold bubble of fear blooming in her heart. "What did he do to you, Sansa?" She'd repeated.

Sansa pressed her lips into a thin line. "He raped me, sister." She glared Arya in the eyes, almost daring her to say something comforting, something to try and take the pain away.

Arya wasn't that stupid. Sansa'd always been the one who loved the songs, and it seemed like she'd realised that real life was different. Life was pain and hurt and rage, and Arya wasn't stupid enough to think differently. She knew that there was no way to numb the pain, to comfort yourself. Only revenge.

"I'll kill him." Arya said, looking at her tall, beautiful sister brought so low, nodding her vow, fury bubbling in her stomach.

"Oh, sweet sister." Sansa'd said, a bitter smile gracing her perfect lips. "I already did. After he'd had me on the bed that was supposed to be mine and Harry's, he decided to take me to his own chambers. When he dragged through the great hall, I stabbed him with the knife he'd given me to hide in my skirts. Then I pushed him out the Moon Door. Do you know what he said, just as I stuck the knife in?" Sansa said, jaw clenched.

Arya'd shook her head.

"He said, 'Why, Cat?'" Sansa huffed out a breath, misting in the frigid air. "When I begged him not to, when Harry was lying unconscious on the floor, when he ripped my shift to pieces, he called me Cat. Cat, for our mother. I didn't want to, I didn't want to, I didn't but-" She pressed her face to Arya's chest, sobbing a chorus of hemademe hemademe hemademe.

Arya'd helped her up, leading her to castle, through the doors, up a staircase, left, right, up again, and then through the second door on the left, into her own rooms. The fire was burning low, and Arya heaped more wood onto it after she'd settled Sansa in a chair, a thick fur draped over her. Her mind was racing. Sansa really had learned to lie. How had she not known, not realised something was so terribly wrong as this?

She poured them each a cup of wine, and when she turned to hand Sansa's to her she found her sister watching her with red eyes. Arya settled herself in a chair next to her, and wondered what to say.

"Does-" She'd said, breaking the silence. "Does Harry know?" Sansa's young husband had been very likable, happy and boyish and handsome and so in love with Sansa. Sansa sighed. "Harry knows everything. It turns out Yohn Royce had planned to have Littlefinger killed because he knew that Petyr'd poisoned Lord Robert. Our cousin," Sansa'd said, after seeing Arya's confused expression. "Mother's sister Lysa and Jon Arryn's son. The heir to the Vale. He killed him so Harry would become Lord of the Eyrie, and I the Lady."

Arya'd nodded, but she still didn't really understand. She had no taste for the intrigues of court, even when she'd been a child.

"I'm sick of it, Arya." Sansa said suddenly, her voice forceful. "I'm sick of all the lies and secrets and scheming. I had to tell Harry. I couldn't keep anymore secrets. I couldn't lie to him. I didn't want to." She said tiredly. "I love him. And I don't want anymore secrets. Ever. I just want to be here, home, with you and Rickon and Harry. Our family."

Arya sipped her wine, even though she didn't really like it, and Sansa did the same, the crackling of the now-roaring fire the only noise.

"What happened in Braavos, Arya?" Sansa said quietly, looking sombrely at Arya.

"Nothing." She said, her voice void of emotion.

"Arya-"

"Nothing happened Sansa. A kind old man and a waif took me in, and I did work for them." Not a lie, she thought, I'm not lying to you.

"What sort of work?" Sansa'd asked, still looking Arya in the eyes.

"Nothing interesting. I sold fish for them, cleaned for them…" She replied. I'm so sorry, Sansa. I can't tell you my secrets. I can't.

"Are you sure?" Sansa said, blue eyes pleading. How she wants to believe nothing bad happened to me, Arya thought.

"Yes." She replied, holding her sister's gaze. I've learned to lie, too.

The maid tied over the end of her braid, and spoke, startling her out of her thoughts.

"Will that be all, m'lady?"

"Yes, thank you." Arya croaked, her throat dry. She reached for the cup of water on her table, and drank. "And as I said before, I will no longer be needing your service."

The maid bowed, and turned to leave, but before her and the others could, the one called Ama ducked through the tent door, a bunch of flowers in one hand and a bucket of water to make tea and soup from in the other.

"An admirer asked me to give you these, m'lady." She said, dipping her head.

Arya sighed inwardly. More roses like blood, taken from Wintefell's glass gardens. If it was Col Cerwyn again she'd scream. Sansa had begged her to be a little less icy towards her would-be husbands, and Col had been the first one to come to her after Sansa had made her plea. He'd been following her around like a stupid little puppy ever since, even Nymeria's growls not discouraging him.

Turning in her chair, her breath hitched in her throat. In her hand, Ama clutched a bundle of the pale blue winter roses, the frost beginning to melt from the heat of her hand.

Striding suddenly from her chair, the took the flowers in her hands. They can't be the same ones, she thought, looking at where the blue rose she'd picked earlier lay next to her pillow.

"Who gave you these?" She'd demanded.

The maid looked startled. "He- He did not say his name, m'lady."

Not Col Cerwyn, then. He was always slabbering to take credit for all of the things he gave her. "What did he look like?" She asked Ama.

"Tall, broad, thick of shoulder… I could not tell past that, m'lady, he was wearing a cloak, the hood drawn up." She said, setting down the bucket, holding the flowers out to Arya.

She took them in her hands, avoiding the sharp thorns. She knew they had to be from the same patch she'd visited earlier; she'd walked for a good while looking for the roses, and the odds were against another patch being nearby. No one but Bran even knew she liked them.

"Where did he give them to you?" She asked the maid, who had turned to begin pouring tea.

"Just outside the tent, m'lady." Ama answered, holding out a steaming cup towards her.

Arya turned and strode out the door, the icy air hitting her like wall. She breathed it in, the cold sharp in her lungs.

There was no one matching the maid's description, just a sparse few people bustling about the camp, lighting fires and knocking the snows from the wooden roofs. She looked down at the roses again, realising that the only way someone would know she liked them was if they'd seen her kneeling among them that morning, crying. I was thinking of Lyanna, and Jon, and Father, and Mother. She'd been thinking of how thing's could've been so different if her father had at least told her mother. Or if Lyanna had survived. Or if Rhaegar hadn't died at the Trident.

A sudden thought occurred to her, jerking her head up. She looked around warily.

Who had followed her to the roses?