Jamie hadn't slept in days. Every time he took to bed, sad and frightened grey eyes haunted him. He had been so sure he'd found the lost daughter of Ned Stark, but he couldn't reconcile the soft terror in her gaze with that of the hard steel grey of the Starks.

He wasn't likely to ever forget the look in Eddard Stark's eyes as he strode into the throne room of the Red Keep in all his fabled honor, his eyes like a headsmen's blade as he took in the lifeblood of the Mad King on his Lannister sword, so red against the white armor of the Kingsguard.

The petrified gray of the little scribe's eyes as he held her captive by the wrist from across the table was nothing even comparable to the steely adjudication of the Lord of Winterfell. How could have been such a fool to think her a Stark?

She had absolutely no reaction to the story of the Direwolves, and the Seven know he had been trying to elicit one given the way he told the horrific tale so frivolously. There had only been a slight softening around her eyes, as was expected of anyone who heard the story of the demise of House Stark. Definitely not the reaction expected of the little spitfire Arya Stark had it truly been her.

Then again he had been certain that her impassiveness was all an act, and a good one, when she began to tell the tale of his own miserable family as a comparison. Once she started he was sure she was trying to return his own callousness in kind, and with the regaling of the ends met by Myrcella and poor Tommen she certainly had. Though, could he have been mistaken in his assumption of that being her intent? The intent to elicit a violent reaction? She looked so startled when it worked him into fury, so thoroughly terrified and regretful. And then her words…

They had been running through his mind every hour, every minute really.

"Not many people are what they say they are Kingslayer."

It was the first time she had called him anything but m'Lord. Kingslayer she said. His Gods forsaken title…and then coupled with those words…it seemed too much of a coincidence not to have meaning.

He remembered stumbling away from her, letting his grip go slack as soon as he had heard her despondent tone and the sorrow filled words. Her tone, her voice…it was as if she knew a Kingslayer he might be, but not a man without honor, not a man as despicable as the title implied. He wasn't what he said he was, what everyone said he was, not entirely.

Her words were an admission to the familiar knowledge of what it meant to struggle with accepting an identity. An identity that you worked so hard to acknowledge but couldn't ever really come to terms with, one that didn't seem entirely just or even reasonable and that the world cruelly pushed upon you giving you no other option. The Kingslayer wasn't something he wanted to be, it was something he had to be for the benefit of millions, though for the devastation of himself. What had the world pushed upon her?

How could a girl whisper such profound and commiserating words while facing real threat? Had she truly even been afraid of him? She had cried out and then scampered away when given the chance, but those words! They didn't fit in anywhere with the little scribe, or what little he could remember of the fierce wildling Arya Stark.

She had as good as admitted that she wasn't who she said she was, but then who did that make her and what had the world forced upon her? He would say he was intrigued, but that just wasn't the right word. He was apprehensive and suspicious and curious and that didn't even begin to cover all his feelings about the strange the girl.

He never went back to The Nameless Lover for fear of coming face to face with his own uncertainty, for he was generally confident to a fault, but that still didn't stop him from looking out for her around every corner and in the streets. He never expected to actually find her in a city so large, but when he did he was compelled to watch.

Where she had found the money to purchase the two pieces of Dragonfruit she was handling was beyond him considering how flagrantly expensive the bloody things were. He couldn't help but think that mayhaps she had stolen them, but as she collided with a slave, as marked by the small tattoo on the girl's cheek, he dismissed the thought. She wasn't as light on her feet as was necessary to live the life of a thief and still be in possession of all her appendages.

The belongings that both the girls held tumbled to the ground and he was surprised to see the scribe help the other woman collect her purchases before picking up what she herself had dropped. The look she gave the young woman as the she scurried off across the Long Bridge back towards whatever manse she served was peculiar to say the least, but just as it appeared, it quickly vanished in favor of an emotionless front with dead all seeing eyes.

Jamie didn't have time to contemplate the change before he found himself cautiously tailing after her as she dusted off her fruit and hurried down through the market. He was surprised at how difficult it was to keep pace with her. She easily slipped her way through the crowds, most people seemed not to even notice her presence as she moved around them. It was all in sharp contrast to the collision she just had and he found himself frowning once again thinking she was not at all what she seemed.

She surprised him once again when her eyes locked on a handsome young Tigercloak leaning disinterestedly against a wall and found she was suddenly making her way towards him. Once free of the mass of people she called to him and eagerly skipped into the man's now outstretched arms. Although Jamie couldn't see her expression, glimpsing the smile that lit up the Tigercloak's face was enough to know that she was returning his excited greeting in kind, especially when she leaned up and kissed him on the cheek dangerously close to the corner of his mouth. For his part the man looked shocked and a bit dazed though entirely pleased.

Jamie smirked slightly even though a wildly outrageous feeling of rebuke swelled within him at the thought that the little scribe would so obviously be willing to climb into this man's bed while she detested the thought of having to bed him or his men as an employee of Madame Meralyn's pleasurehouse. He snorted at the thought of the Braavosi proprietor's claim not to wish to see her ruined when she was so obviously determined to spoil herself with this fellow.

The reason for the Dragonfruit suddenly became apparent as she offered the dazed man one of the pricey things. The guard brushed her cheek tenderly at the gift before taking out his belt knife and cutting his up into slices and then doing the same for her enjoyment as well. He couldn't help but think that a meager caress was not at all worth the ridiculous cost of the sweet delicacy, but then again he'd been a sap in love once and he'd done much more senseless things than buy expensive items looking to garner endearment. He'd done things for love that cost him, as well as innocent others, much more than just a month's worth of gold.

It was evident that the man was clearly taken with her, and when he glimpsed a view of the smile she reserved for him he wasn't at all deluded as to why. She wasn't what one would call plain, but neither was she an obvious beauty, at least not until she smiled; then she was breathtaking. He had outright told her that she looked like Lyanna Stark, and she did bear resemblance to the former head turner of the North, but looking at her now it was difficult to understand how he hadn't notice how far and beyond she actually surpassed the loveliness of the long deceased woman who had been the death of an entire dynasty. This girl was striking, magnificent even. The poor fellow didn't stand a chance.

He was far enough away that he couldn't hear what was being said but he was still able to decipher what they were discussing through their body language and what he could read of their lips.

The young man had evidently been shirking his duty as a city guard and the little scribe was trying to convince him he needed to get back to his post less he get in trouble. She was nudging him half heartedly, looking for all the world like she feared for his safety because of their unauthorized rendezvous while he just laughed, a besotted gleam in his eye as he grasped the hands she was using to push him away and drew her up against his body.

The little scribe didn't fight against the action that brought her closer to him and Jamie found himself frowning as he clearly distinguished the words leaving the man's lips as he told her he was leaving the city late this evening and he must see her again before then. He saw the girl look up at the Tigercloak uncertainly and search his eyes before answering back that she would come to him tonight. Jamie's anger flared ridiculously even as the other man looked elated and found the courage to kiss the girl properly before letting her go and grinning madly as he departed up the side alley they were standing in the mouth of. The scribe smiled as well and her hand ghosted to her lips after the surprising kiss, her shoulders shaking slightly with gleeful chuckles as she bid him goodbye with a wave and started off down the road in the opposite direction of where he stood.

Jamie didn't know he was moving to follow her until he was already halfway across the street shouldering through the crowd, and even then he didn't stop himself. He stretched to his full height to keep an eye on the bobbing head of mahogany curls, and just as he had reached the spot where she had been standing with her male friend she halted her progress abruptly.

Slowly, almost eerily, she turned around to look directly at him, her eyes completely vacant of any emotion and almost unnatural in the foreboding way in which they grazed over him.

Jamie's first instinct was to try and hide upon seeing her begin to turn, but the way she had her eyes trained on him from the instant she swiveled her head made him think it would've been useless had he even tried. She had known she was being watched, that he was following her, and he found his eyes narrowing wondering just how long she had been aware of his presence.

He gave her a roguish although mirthless sneer having been caught and took a step towards her intending not to let her leave without being questioned. Almost instantly she was gone.

Jamie stopped and stared in astonishment, mouth agape trying to figure out where in the crowd she had disappeared to while right under his gaze. He found himself feeling uneasy as he looked all around him. It was only when he looked up the alley and saw the disappearing back of the Tigercloak that he decided if he couldn't follow her, he'd follow the fellow she was to meet up with instead. Her affection might've appeared genuine but the more he thought about it, nothing was as it seemed with the little scribe and he was determined to get some answers any way he could.

It was decidedly easier to follow the Tigercloak even though the man had quite a good lead on him. Jamie caught up easily considering the besotted idiot was meandering like a smitten fool, strutting through the streets as if he were a rooster with something to be extremely proud of. He followed him all the way to a familiar manse, where the fellow walked into the adjoining barracks.

Recognition was instantaneous for Jamie. He had been in this exact manse not even two weeks prior negotiating the contract for the Golden Company with none other than the current Volantene governing body, the Triarchs. He knew this was the personal home of Malaquo Maegyr, the tiger of the group where as the Nysessos Vhassar and Doniphos Paenymion were of the elephant political party. It made sense why the guard had said he was leaving this evening considering Jamie had been informed Maegyr was headed for Yunkai as an emissary to the Dragon Queen.

He had half a mind to demand audience with the man who had been instrumental in hiring his company, but the knowledge that the overly cocky warrior politician would only laugh at him for considering the little scribe a threat stopped him. Instead he opted to purchase a room at the inn across the street where he promptly opened the window and struggled to climb his way one handed onto the roof.

He felt half a fool as he hauled his leg over the side of the building and rolled onto his back huffing from exertion, wondering what could have possibly possessed him to think this a good idea. He couldn't help the bitterness that rose within him at the fact that there were still some tasks that were difficult for him seeing as he only had one hand. Even though he may have overcome the odds and worked to become just as skilled of a swordsman with his left hand as he once was with his right, that didn't mean there weren't things beyond his capabilities. Every time he was reminded of the fact it grated his nerves.

After a moments reprieve he pushed himself up to a sitting position against the small wall at the edge of the flat roof and took up watch for the appearance of the little scribe. He sat there for hours continually wondering why, as Catpain-General of the Golden Company, he was on this fools errand, spying on a little girl of all people. But then he was reminded of Florhin and the disappearance of the man who she had elbowed in the stomach for his unwelcome touches in the brothel the second time he'd been present at the Nameless Lover.

None of it sat well with him and he couldn't shake the feeling that there was something he was missing. Especially considering she had miraculously reappeared his second night after seemingly out running the man she had embarrassed and his clearly malicious intentions, only to return wearing a new shirt and with a small smattering of blood on her skirts. The stain was hardly noticeable of course, but he had been looking for it and as a soldier he could tell the difference between a wine stain and a bloodstain. He couldn't prove it though, and he hadn't found a body even after he'd gone looking.

Besides the ridiculous fact that it was a small girl he was dealing with, he was comforted by the terrified manner in which the Braavosi Madame behaved in her presence as well as the astoundingly murderous look she shot at the whore Bethany that she thought no one had spied. The way she seemed to dodge grasping hands with too much of a practiced ease, and the dangerous confidence in her stride when she wasn't acting meek had his instincts leading him to believe the girl he had observed in the market today was just that—an act. The fact that she had felt his eyes on her and then disappeared like some sort of wraith only drove the notion home.

Those were the reasons that kept him rooted in place until well past nightfall when he finally did spot the girl guardedly approaching the garrison entrance calling out for someone who came rushing out to sweep her off the ground and twirl her around. Jamie scowled witnessing the couple and felt sort of foolish as they disappeared inside the manse's garrison where he couldn't watch. He didn't know what he'd hoped to do but he knew it hadn't involved waiting around like an idiot.

Within an hour and a half movement in the courtyard of the manse started to become more pronounced as servants began to make final preparations for departure. Soon after, motion in the garrison also started to pick up as men bustled about and horses were brought out having been saddled. He watched the side entrance to the barracks open and saw two people in distinctly rumpled clothing share a chaste kiss before a recognizable girl scurried off.

Jamie frowned, absurdly disappointed that nothing had gone awry and believing himself a fool considering he thought the rendezvous was more suspicious than the innocent little rutt and run that it appeared to be. Still, he found himself getting to his feet and marching over to the other side of the building hoping to follow the girl with his eyes as she departed down the alley in between structures.

He wanted to confirm she was actually departing and not lingering, however upon looking down into the street he grimaced finding it empty. He searched the darkness with his well-trained eyes, scanning everything in sight, hoping to glance a slight frame when the cold steel he felt at his neck took him by surprise. A blow to the back of the legs felled him to his knees instantaneously.

"You shouldn't have followed me Kingslayer." Whispered a familiar voice in his ear although he certainly wouldn't classify the tone as pleading or meek now. "Are you so eager to die?"

He felt something prick him in the neck and the witty retort he had prepared melted on his tongue as he felt all the muscles in his body go slack and the girl lower him to the ground so as not to make a sound. He was immobilized and cursing himself thrice over for his own stupidity.

She turned his face to look up at her and the cold steely grey of the Starks stared unmistakably back at him, screaming the truth where he had otherwise denied its existence. There was no doubt this was Arya Stark and his eyes flayed her in such a manner that he knew she could feel his loathing.

Suddenly dread overtook him as his senses began to leave him and darkness took over. Something in his eyes must have communicated that he thought he was meeting his end, because she was suddenly kneeling next to him.

"Your time will come soon enough Kingslayer, though the Gift is not for you presently." She purred softly next to his ear as he scrambled in his own mind, trying to avoid the inevitable fade to blackened unconsciousness.

When he finally came to, he jolted upright and to his feet, looking around and trying to figure what had happened. It was still dark, and the moon was still high in the sky so he guessed he had been out only a handful of minutes.

That in and of itself made him wary considering the chances she was still around were high, but then he looked down in the street and his stomach plummeted and he felt the unfettered need to wretch, as if he were some untested green boy. There in the street in front of the inn, right in front of his own home, lay Malaquo Maegyr, his throat torn clean from his body. A retinue of some thirty men littered the ground around him, all dead from one wound or another.

There were people just beginning to encircle the carnage and it was the cry of a woman fainting that had him searching for a way to descend from the roof. He wanted to laugh at the fact that there was now a rope sitting next to the spot where he had climbed from but what stopped him was the knowledge of who must've left it there for him.

Even so he was circling it around one of the stone chimneys and checking the strength of his knot before he was looping the rope around one leg and repelling to the ground. Once there he began asking people if they had seen anything, and those that had all told similar tales.

A small black demon carrying a longed curved dagger appeared from down the way, stalking towards the party that had just exited the yard of the manse. The party halted and formed up around the Triarch's horse recognizing the threat, but when the demon got close enough men just started falling from horseback like sacks of grain, not even having been touched, and the phantom moved with ungodly speed to ensure each one was never to get up again. That's when it turned its attention on Malaquo Maegyr.

The old warrior supposedly charged the demon but the thing stood its ground. At the last second it moved to its knees and ran its blade along the underside of the Triarchs horse, disemboweling it and causing the politician to be thrown to the ground. Dripping in blood the black wraith moved like smoke over water to stand astride the groaning politician where it slit his throat vertically before reaching in and tearing out the man's esophagus with its bare hands.

They all spoke of how the demon stood there, head thrust skyward, yellow eyes glittering, the throat of Malaquo Maegyr still in hand, as if it were reveling in its brutality, looking in reverence to the moon like some sort of rabid wolf. Then, just as quickly, the wind carried it away never to be seen again.

Jamie knew how to read between the lines and recognize exaggeration for what it was, but even so he found himself very apprehensive. Perhaps he shouldn't have followed her. What she had done, if it was in fact her and he was almost certain it was, was admittedly nasty but also spoke of extreme skill if not remarkable planning. The threat to his own life suddenly became more real.

He headed back outside the city where the company was camped planning on tripling the guard. The whole way he had his hand ready on the hilt of his blade and his ears listening for the sound of any movement approaching him.

By the time the torches were only meters away he was feeling slightly relieved, that is until he was spotted and men came running.

"Captain-General!" A young looking boy with no rings present on his fingers, representative of not even a year of service with the Company, stepped towards him. "We've news from the city. Nyessos Vhassar was found dead not an hour past. He was strung up in his chambers, hung like a goat from his own bed with his throat cut open." Jamie frowned and tried to step past but the lad wouldn't let him. "There's more Captain, Doniphos Paenymion passed as well. They said he choked while taking his dinner, though his slaves suspect someone poisoned him. Others of his household were dining with him but the dragonfruit he is known to be fond of was for him alone."

Jamie paused at the mention dragonfruit and dread settled within his stomach. The little scribe was even more than he had just come to terms with it appeared. There was no doubt that all three were connected, all three Triarchs dead within hours of each other. He almost could've admired the skill it must've taken to orchestrate such a feat had the promise of his time nearing as well not echoed through his head.

"Find the lieutenants and have them triple the guard. Have anyone who's not one of our own sent from camp immediately. All the Triarchs are dead. We don't know what this means for our contract." He whispered the last part after the young fellow as he scurried off to do as ordered.

Jamie wasted no time in heading to the center of camp where his tents were and was relieved to see guards taking up post and still more keeping watch over the entrance to his living quarters. He nodded to the men outside and gave them instruction not to let anyone pass unless they were messengers from the city. Should officers wish to have words with him they were to assure them that the company wasn't going to be leaving unless specifically asked to do so and even then not without the gold they were promised. The last thing he needed right now was for his men to get it in their heads that their contract had been broken and the city meant to treat with envoys from Qohor and Norvos to avoid the war that paid their wages. Then his men would force him to sack the city to recompense what gold had been promised to them.

He walked through the thick oiled canvas flaps of his tent and headed straight to the desk at the far side of the space stationed at the foot of his bed. He didn't hesitate to uncork the bottle of pear brandy he had left there the night before and pour himself a large glass. It wasn't until he turned around and found the chair that he had been positive was empty moments before now occupied by a small girl that he realized he wasn't alone.

He had to stay his hand from reaching for the hilt of his sword as unease rose within him at the shock of finding her there. He figured she could've easily killed him already had she wanted to, so instead he raised his glass to her, lips curling upwards in a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes as he greeted her, forcing calm by leaning back against the desk in an explicitly easy manner. "What a pleasure." He drawled, falsely pleasant. "I can't say I was expecting you so soon, but now that you've seen yourself in, courtesy dictates I see you welcomed." He bowed mockingly. "Arya was it? Of House Stark?" He stated his voice now biting, his eyes burning.

She flourished the knife she had been polishing, no doubt cleaning off the blood she'd recently spilled, and then sheathed the blade. "Arya Stark is dead." She stated eyes drifting to his stoically.

Jamie laughed derisively. "Could've fooled me." He took a sip of his brandy. "If the girl in front of me isn't Arya Stark, pray tell, who is she?" He said with feigned interest.

"No One." She answered him simply.

He half smiled and shook his head. "No, I don't believe you're no one." He began as if considering her carefully. "You certainly look like someone."

She shrugged his question off as if it were of no consequence. "I have looked like many someone's." She responded, a small knowing smile tugging at her lips. "I simply chose to wear the face of a girl that once was. A girl who once would've had you look upon her face as you were delivered the Gift."

Jamie worked hard to steel his face although he couldn't help the shock that flashed through his eyes upon realization of exactly what she was implying. He was familiar with the stories. She must have noticed his recognition because her grin turned positively lupine.

"A Faceless man." He stated intrepidly. Eyes helplessly twinkling and intrigued even as the words sounded like a death sentence to his own ears.

She cocked her head to the side as her only answer. The vacant look in her eyes as she considered him standing there, relaxing as if he weren't as disturbed as he was given the situation he found himself in, was highly unsettling. He refused to show his dread.

Instead he turned to refill his drink. "Would you like one?" He offered her but she only narrowed her eyes suspiciously, though there was nothing behind the fathomless silver. "Of course not, my mistake. What use could No One have of drink?" He stated mockingly as he pulled out a chair and made a show of lazily settling into it. "I must say I'm flattered that someone valued my head enough to pay such an obscene amount to see it roll." He drawled disinterestedly.

"You think too much of yourself. No one paid for your life Kingslayer." She told him her gaze hardening.

Jamie was almost happy to see there was some emotion there; she truly didn't like him and that was very telling. He wondered if he could get her to show more. "And by No One, you mean you of course. Arya Stark." He sipped his wine impishly, peeking at her over the rim all the while.

She scowled at him. "Arya Stark is dead." She spat. Strangely, it didn't sound like the statement was directed wholly at him. "And I do not pay to take life. I serve those I find deserving with the Gift of my own accord." She told him.

Jamie pursed his lips and feigned thoughtfulness. "A Faceless man delivering the gift wherever she sees fit?" He asked curiously. "I've never heard of one of your kind having their own agenda. It's quite frightening really. What will the guild say?" He jibed and was happy to notice her tense even if it was minutely. "Tell me, how was it that you came to desire my head?" He posed the question leaning forward on his elbows looking introspective. "For the life of me all I can recall from the stories is that the Faceless don't have emotions or identities. How can No One, as you call yourself, wish to take the head of a man if you are, as they say, no one?" He inquired knowing he had her in a philosophical conundrum. "Such a person wouldn't have ties to anyone, or a want for blood, unless of course they are in fact someone." He finished looking her dead in the eye for any type of reaction

The girl scowled and he grinned.

"I spent some time in Braavos." He told her sitting back in his seat relaxed. "I'm curious to know how a girl managed to hold onto such hate when it identifies her for who she truly is. Faceless men are to remain nameless and yet here you are, Arya Stark."

"Arya Stark is dead." She said through gritted teeth. Her eyes flashed angrily and with something else, it almost looked like concern.

He continued, curious as to why she kept repeating herself. "You must've hidden yourself away quite well once." He goaded, not really knowing how dangerously close to the truth he was. "With me though, not so much. I wonder what your masters would have to say about this particular turn of events."

She blinked, holding her eyes shut for just a moment too long, looking to be gathering strength.

It was a strange reaction but a reaction nonetheless. He continued, a malicious thought coming to mind as his eyes lit up in malevolent hope. "Better yet, what would your dear family have to say about this new life you've made for yourself?"

She went rigid and repeated the words that seemed to be her mantra. "Arya Stark is dead. I belong only to the Guild." It came out noticeably monotonous, though still with such vehemence. She looked to be battling something internally and he wanted her to lose. Her eyes kept flickering open and closed, and when they were open she was searching the ground as if looking for something to hold onto.

He was close to something he could tell. He tilted his head to the side, eyes boring into her, understanding the cruelty of his next statement but resolved to use it as a means to break through the cold exterior that he had already begun chipping away. He would get her to admit who she was, if not by words than by anger.

"What would the honorable Ned Stark say if he could see his innocent young daughter had become a ghost?" He questioned. "Would he find comfort in the knowledge that he gave his head, besmirching his precious honor for the title of traitor, so that his beloved little wolf could do the bidding of cravens too scared to deliver their own wrath?" Her reaction was visible and he knew he was about to get what he wanted, though what exactly that entailed he had no clue. He couldn't stop now. "What would your father have to say about a demon that kills from the shadows and takes life without a care to whom it belongs? Do you think he would be pleased to have birthed an indiscriminate murderer? A Stark without honor?"

He visibly watched as she crumbled right before him.

He found himself quickly getting to his feet and taking a cautious step away from her, startled and bewildered as she stumbled backward clutching her head and her stomach, looking both dizzy and revolted, fighting some internal battle brought on by his words. He had to blink away confusion at seeing such a corporeal reaction though. He was still wary that it might be some sort of trick.

Suddenly she was falling to the ground onto her knees, her expression as she met his eyes more terrified than any he could ever remember seeing. Jamie's blood curdled when she looked up into nothingness, her eyes gone white and flickering rapidly.

When blood began to run freely from her nose, pouring onto the carpet, Jamie didn't think twice about letting his instincts take over. What he had just been the cause of he clearly didn't have the means to grasp and yet he felt inexplicably uneasy and almost remorseful. Almost.

He gathered her in his arms just as she had been about to collapse to the ground. Once there though he stared down at the unconscious girl wondering what in the seven hells he planned to do with her. What does one do with a captive Faceless man?

The only thing he could think to do was tie her up.

Arya Stark woke suddenly gulping in air as if she'd just broke the surface of water having been held under as someone tried to drown her. She looked around wildly wondering where she was. She was helpless as a feeling of overwhelming grief engulfed her, grief from long ago that she hadn't yet found the strength to deal with, grief that she hadn't wanted to deal with and had buried along with the girl from Winterfell.

She had worked so hard to kill Arya Stark and now she had returned with a vengeance, beckoned cruelly back to life by a man who didn't understand or care the consequence or the cost to her being.

Arya Stark was a tidal wave of epic proportions demolishing all the carefully hidden compartments of her mind where she trapped the emotions and the pain involved with being the child she once was. She was helpless to re-experience the torturous life of a girl child as everything else was subjugated, even her cold faceless will.

She was mortified as she found herself powerless to halt the sobs that came pouring from her lungs, her body wracked and trembling fiercely. Having not spilled a tear going on seven years it felt foreign and wrong, but then again so did the feelings of the girl of one and ten who she had hoped she had forgotten, who she had prayed would mercifully perish.

She was terrified, and vulnerable, and lost, all feelings she had hoped to never experience again overwhelming. The pain only became more acute as memories flooded vividly to the forefront of her mind one by one. She was reliving the nightmare she had tried to suppress.

She was in the North, looking on her brother feeling outraged and helpless. Bran looked to be peacefully asleep, her mother a wreck beside him and wailing inconsolably. She lifted the furs that covered his legs only to find a purple mangled mess in place of the strong limbs he used to climb the towers around Winterfell.

She was only nine and clutching at the cloak of her brother Jon, sobbing and begging him not to leave her, not to join the Nights Watch. His face crumbled and tears were streaming down his own face looking torn, but still he turned his back and left her, the first of many to desert her.

She was ten and throwing rocks at Nymeria, chasing part of herself away and watching as a piece of her disappeared into the forest.

She stood off to the side as the Hound rode into a camp near the Neck. A boy gutted and slung over the haunches of his horse, like a deer he'd hunted down for sport.

She smelled the leather of Jory Cassels jerkin as she heard her sister's cries and the sound of her Father's great sword Ice as it looped off a gentle wolf's head.

She was water dancing in the Red Keep with the First Sword of Braavos looking on intently when men in white and gold armor barged in and Syrio Forel told her to run, choosing to face down her would be assailants with not but a wooden practice blade and giving his life for her own.

She was dirty, distraught, and hungry, following a crowd into a square full of people demanding the head of the person on the stand. Her father. She was pulled into arms fighting fiercely as she heard her sister's cries and the sound of a head rolling across the ground.

She was a boy named Arry, hiding behind a wall as men approached, surrounding a man in black before they took his life for trying to protect the identity of a boy with a bulls helm and a small girl with a dangerous name.

She was at Harrenhall, the cries of the women being raped only drowned out by those who had a bucket strapped to their middle, a rat trapped inside burrowing away from the heat of a flame and into their bloodied bodies as they cried for mercy and received none.

She was in the forest, begging the savior with a half head of red hair and half white to stay and protect her pack when he was only willing to leave her with a coin and some foreign words.

She was on her knees clutching the front of a man who was once her father's bannerman as he told her that her home had fallen, that Winterfell had fallen. A boy who was once like a brother claiming it as his own and the life of her two youngest siblings along with it.

She was in a yellow dress, devastated as her pack told her they weren't coming with her, the bull wanting to be a knight, and the round one deserting her for a hot oven. She was only worth the money that her name could provide the men they were leaving her for.

She was outside a castle spanning a river, a hideous melody in her ear as she watched in horror her brother's men being slaughtered. A corpse with a wolf's head being paraded around alongside that of a woman's who was actively being defiled.

She was stabbing the dead man in front of her over and over again, the man with the burnt face behind her stumbling outside to collapse against a tree where she left him to die, callously ignoring his pleas to finish him off.

She was offering a man with a strange accent an iron coin and watching in the distance as she said good-bye to Westeros, giving up hope to ever return, giving up hope of home, of Winterfell and the North.

She was accepting a goblet from a man with a kindly face and then waking up to nothing but sweet darkness…

…A darkness that was now deserting her for something profoundly more devastating...life

The sound of her sobs told her of her journey back to a horrid reality; a horrid reality with an even more shattering past. She felt her body curling in on herself even though something was restraining her hands above her head.

The senses she had so carefully tuned over the years failed her as they were drowned out by the terrible emotions flooding through her body and burning their way through her mind and destroying her heart. There was a hand under her chin and someone in front of her she hadn't known was there.

Arya Stark opened her tear filled eyes and met the emerald-gold gaze of a Lannister before looking away quickly. "What've you done?" She whispered to no one in particular, the hate she felt for the man forgotten in the wake of the vortex of unwelcomed feeling that was her mind, threatening to unhinge her.

The voice that spoke back to her was full of nothing but troubled curiosity as he forced her to meet his eyes. "Who are you?" He asked genuinely inquisitive.

She laughed bitterly at first but found she couldn't stop. It was a maniacal sound, a sound that chilled her to the bone and it wasn't until her abdomen began to cramp that she was able to stop. Catching her breath it was all she could do not to drown in bitterness as she considered his question and found an unwelcome answer.

"I am Arya Stark." She finally choked out looking up at the unsettled man in front of her as she flayed him with her hate. "A girl who I long thought died, a girl I had mercifully forgotten and so had the world."

She yanked her chin defiantly from his grasp and curled in on herself fully intent on finding the darkness that brought with it the suppression of her conscience and humanity. She sought out the tranquility of her facelessness, and afraid that she might not be successful she prepared to let herself well and truly die.

Jamie had absolutely no idea what he had done to make the girl crumble into such a pitiful state and so quickly. He was almost beginning to believe her sentiments that killing her would've been a better fate than whatever in the Seven Hells he'd done to cause such a drastic transformation.

One minute she's brutally and skillfully murdering three politicians within hours of one another and subsequently intent on having his head, and the next she's gotten herself tied her up and he's listening to the most agonizing cries of grief he's ever heard and for reasons he's sure he doesn't want to understand even if he is curious. He had never been one to be affect by the pain of others, being a disenchanted Lannister saw to that, but somehow there was something poignantly lamentable about witnessing the death of the Faceless girl and the return of Arya Stark.

He found himself oddly sympathetic to the plight of the girl who had come for his life. He could understand the desire to be dead. He had often struggled with his own dark thoughts after the loss of his hand followed by that of his sister's love and then his brother's. Death was too easy though, and he'd managed to find his own coping mechanisms. The guilt he felt at taking away Arya Stark's only method was more profound than he would've liked to admit. His unwelcome response was felt more acutely knowing that her demons were that of a child's, his were that of a man grown, a man with a better understanding of a cruel world having had time to come to terms with it.

He thought it was only for these reasons that he hadn't succumbed to her pleas to end her life. He felt culpable for her current state of mind, and after all that his family had done he wasn't willing to end the line of House Stark. Gods knows the smell of her alone after seven days should've been enough to grant her that mercy and overcome his qualms, especially because he kept her in his tent less his men decide to spoil her, but it wasn't. He just couldn't do it, and he wasn't willing to let her do it herself either, though she made it clear she would try.

The stubborn wolf hadn't taken food in days and he was beyond furious with her for that. To remedy the problem he was currently forcing a funnel down her throat as she struggled feebly in her weakened state to prevent him from force-feeding her wine and a broth made thick with crushed lentils. She was sputtering and glaring at him furiously, but what was really troubling was the fact that her heart wasn't behind the glare. In her grey gaze was nothing but despondence and a will to die.

He was all too happy to leave his tent and the pitiful girl in the care of the women he had hired from the city to come see her cleaned of her own filth. Hopefully that would work to get rid of the smell of piss and shit that reminded him too poignantly of his own captivity. She certainly needed a bath, and he figured she might be more amenable to conversation once she was more comfortable. As of yet she was a mute when awake unless to sob woefully or ask for him to kill her, and while asleep she screamed from night terrors and what he could only assume were the memories she had suppressed for so long.

He returned to his tent hopeful that she'd worked through some of her grief in a weeks time and that she might yet still have the will to live buried somewhere deep inside her, that mayhaps it could be coaxed out. What he found however made his stomach drop and had him calling for the company's surgeons immediately.

The fool women from the city had must've thought it a mercy to only chain her to the pole in the center of the space by one hand and she had been able to stretch and reach his writing desk to make use of his letter opener. Blood was pouring from a large diagonal cut along the pale skin of the wrist that was secured above her head and her skin had a deathly pallor.

He was yelling for help and then on his knees in front of her, removing his belt to tie around her arm like a tourniquet and then using his fingers to search out the artery she had sliced and pinch it closed delicately. "Fool girl." He whispered worriedly. "What've you done?" He asked quietly, slightly panic stricken.

Up until she smiled weakly he hadn't even know she was still conscious. Her words tore at his soul. "No one can come back from the dead. The Gift is a mercy." She told him weakly.

He didn't have time to really do anything but stare in agony and watch her grey gaze fade as men came bustling into the space and set about stitching her up. It wasn't until hours later that he found out just how close she had come to killing herself.

The surgeons said that if she hadn't cut through the ligament and her hand hadn't been held above her head by the chains she most surely would've died. If not from blood loss, which was stemmed quite a bit as it was being pumped against gravity, than certainly from a successful attempt at slicing her other arm. As it was she couldn't hold the knife in her hand to open her other vein due to the sliced tendon, though it was apparent she had still tried. Blessedly the dulled letter opener was rather useless unless there was significant force put behind it, a force she couldn't manage with her tendon sliced through.

She was given milk of the poppy and a foreign concoction he wished he had known about years ago that was supposed to permit dreamless sleep. When she finally woke three days later croaking for water he had hope that maybe she had found the will to live. He had her moved to his bed and tied there, though he was sure she wouldn't be going anywhere in her weakened state. The servants he'd hired to look after her came to him immediately once her eyes fluttered open and he dismissed them taking the bowl of broth and insisting he'd feed her himself.

"Eat." He instructed her bringing the spoon to her mouth. She still managed to look a bit defiant while simultaneously appearing defeated. It would've been almost laughable if it weren't wholly aggravating. He narrowed his eyes at her. "Eat or I'll fetch the funnel and force feed you again."

She glared but blessedly let the broth slide down her throat without contest, though she sputtered a bit most likely from not having received any sustenance for three days. The coughs wracked her whole body and she winced in pain as it caused muscles she'd rather not feel to flex gruesomely. Jamie set the bowl down and loosened some of her bindings before looping his arms around her waist to effortlessly sit her up, propping her against the wood headboard she was tied to in hopes that she could find a more comfortable position and minimize her discomfort.

When he finally brought the spoon back to her lips she was considering him with furrowed brows and a suspicious gaze.

"Why are you keeping me alive?" She asked between spoonfuls.

Jamie snorted, in all honestly he wasn't really sure other than the fact that he couldn't bear the thought of her dead, especially because of any action he may have taken. He didn't tell her that though. "Because I enjoy having my tent smell of piss and shit." He told her sarcastically bringing the spoon to her mouth. She wouldn't take it.

"Answer me." She demanded.

Jamie glared at her angrily and seriously considered fetching the funnel. The fact that she thought she was in any position to be ordering him around was incredibly absurd. He plopped the spoon back in the bowl and set it down roughly. "I will answer you if you tell me why you decided to stain my letter opener with your blood."

She didn't hesitate at all she was so in need of understanding. She just looked at him levelly and came out with it as if she were telling some boring tale. "I was a Faceless man." She stated stoically. "We are trained to forget who we once were, to kill our identities so we can take and shed new ones as easily as any other would don clothes." She explained before pausing momentarily, looking away to find the words to make him understand. "When Arya Stark traveled to Braavos using the coin gifted to her by another of the guild, she was running from her life so she could find a means to seek sanctuary and revenge. I was afraid, afraid to even live because of what had been done to my family and too afraid and too weak to claim the revenge I so desired or welcome death. I became a servant of the house of Black and White, welcoming the idea of being Faceless at first because I wished to gain the skills required to execute my retribution, and then eventually so I could learn to forget who I once was altogether. Everyone across the Narrow Sea who I'd wished to die by my hand perished at the hands of another. I thought taking my final rites given what little I knew of the transformation would work to suppress Arya Stark for good. I was wrong. Only with death will she be forgotten and being victim to her memory is far worse that living." She finished so simply.

Jamie wasn't sure at first if she had finished and scoffed audibly at what he considered too casual and too pathetic of a rational when he realized she had. He couldn't help but laugh derisively. "Such a Northern mentality you possess!" He chastised sarcastically. "What is it you say? 'The North Remembers'?" He questioned mockingly. "Isn't it so ironic that you can all apparently remember, but only what you wish to forget!" He snorted unable to keep the contempt from his voice as he shook his head and continued without giving her a chance to speak. "No doubt you are the child of Eddard Stark! No capacity to find or offer any solution, or come to terms with decisions that led you there. You've resigned yourself to death as a result of your own actions, actions probably believed to have been forced upon you when its only the result of choosing to run!" He lectured disdainfully. "It seems history is doomed to repeat itself. You're now reconciled with your own demise just as and your father had to have been when warning my sister before attempting to dethrone Jofferey. It is your choices that are haunting you just as letting Robert Baratheon sit on the Iron throne did your'e father, and just like your father you're too much of a coward to stand up and face it and do what must be done!" He added feeling his anger rise but quelling it as he finished. "Life is hard and ruled by choice, its weight bearing down can be heavier than a mountian. Death on the other hand, death is for the weak, death is light than a feather!"

Arya been frowning, but as he finished her face twisted as her rage swelled feeling the depth of his ignorance. Lashing out she kicked the goblet of wine he'd picked up after setting the bowl down and sat threateningly forward as far as she could, heedless of the pain caused by ropes on her stitches "Not for one second did I have a choice of the path I led in Westeros." She spat at him. "Or are you naïve enough to believe Westerosi women are afforded a say at all considering the age I was?" She seethed as Jamie sat there taken aback and surprised at the strength she managed to muster up. "You may have thought you had little choice as a Lordling and salve to duty, but my life has been out of my own hands since I was a girl and when I finally was making decisions for myself, what good did it do me?" She paused as her eyes began to gloss over and her voice became hoarse. "I escaped the Red Keep and was in the square to hear the sound of my father's greatsword remove his own head. I could do nothing to stop it. I escaped King's Landing posing as a boy and traveled with a Black Brother when the Gold Cloaks killed most of our party looking for a young smith with us who was King Robert's bastard. I could do nothing to stop it. I was taken to Harrenhall and only just escaped the eighth circle of hell to find the seventh as a refugee of the Riverlands and hostage of the Brotherhood without Banners where all my friends would desert me. I could do nothing to stop it. I was at the Twins, within reach of being reunited with what was left of my family when the Rains of Castemere rang out over the banks of the Green Fork and they began parading the lifeless bodies of my mother and brother around like the heathens they were. I could do nothing to stop it." Her eyes flashed suddenly in anger and pain and her voice was tense. "I wasn't there when Theon burned Bran and Rickon alive. I wasn't there when Lord Commander Jon Snow was stabbed half a hundred times by his Black Brothers in arms and slain by mutiny. I wasn't there when Sansa disappeared from the face of the earth after Joffery's death. Only whispers to speak of how your sister the Queen Regent had her raped to death when really she sought out the Stranger herself and it was Littlefinger who drove her to it. I wasn't there and even it I was, what choice did I have? Choice is illusion. I could do nothing to stop any of it. It didn't matter where Arya Stark was, she was powerless to stop anything." She paused momentarily to let it all sink into her own fragile mind for the thousandth time, attempting to hold back tears. "Arya Stark is a helpless little girl who has no one left in this world, and what revenge No One sought for her and her wolf by slaughtering those who did her wrong, and hundreds more who didn't, brought her no comfort, only more wretchedness. Arya Stark is an honorless grieving child slayer because she couldn't even prevent those she loved from meeting their gruesome ends and she'd rather die than live knowing there wasn't anything she could do to prevent it." Her glare hardened as she looked to Jamie. "Now, why is it you are keeping her alive?"

He wasn't sure how to respond at first. He wasn't expecting her to be so forthcoming and he certainly wasn't expecting to be so affected by such an outburst. His stomach was in knots and he had a giant lump in his throat. As a girl of one and ten she had seen more horrors than anyone deserved to and he was sure there was more she hadn't divulged. He felt new hatred for his own family roil up from somewhere he didn't think existed, and suddenly he found words. "I am keeping you alive because there is something I can do to prevent your death. I have a choice."

They stared at each other for a long moment carefully considering one another before Jamie picked up the bowl of broth and brought the spoon back to her lips.

The gentle knot in her delicate throat bobbed as she grimaced unhappily. Still she begrudgingly obliged and gave him no more trouble with the task of being fed.