When she was a girl, just weeks before King Robert rode to Winterfell and changed everything, Arya accompanied her father to the Weirwood tree. After they both took time to pray to the Old Gods, Ned removed his sword from the scabbard and began sharpening it. The young girl's eyes watched with rapt attention. She'd love a sword like that, one to call her own.

They sat together while the sun fell, the moon rose and with it thousands of tiny stars dotted the sky. Ned set the blade aside and pointed out the various constellations he knew. "Everyone has a purpose, Arya, a path," he told her, still looking up. "Every man, and every woman has a destiny, one decided by the Gods before they are born. It's written in the stars." He shook his head and Arya noticed that his eyes looked different, as though he was recalling something from long ago. "A person can fight against their destiny, but they'll never win. Fate will get its way, no matter how desperately we resist."

Like all the things her father told her back then, Arya was quick to believe. If he said the fates of men were written in the sky, then it was so. She didn't have even a moment of doubt. Then she'd been nothing more than a clueless little girl, incapable of protecting herself, and her family, powerless to stop the horrors waiting for them in the South. Still, despite all that her younger self did not know, Arya envied her. Timid, helpless and naive as she was, that girl still had a family, her father still lived, and she was blind to how horrid life was about to become for all of them.

It was rare that the Faceless Man who had once been Arya Stark thought about her past. To become the best assassin she could, she imprisoned her former self in a cage, locked the memories down deep in the most private part of her mind and avoided all things that might remind her. Now, years after arriving in Braavos with nothing but a coin, and her hate she could go weeks without remembering she had once been a noble Stark. Taking advantage of the magic bestowed on her by the God of Death himself she rarely wore her own face, even when she wasn't serving Him. For reasons she didn't want to examine too thoroughly, she found it easier to live without seeing a Stark's face in every reflection.

Tonight, she wore her true face, just as she'd done for almost a year. In that time, she'd gone from Braavos to Lys and then to Westeros. She arrived in the Riverlands weeks ago, and decided to stay. The choice seemed wise now. At her feet three people were huddled around her, assessing the damage.

A sharp pain pulled her from her thoughts and instinctively she reached down toward the source. When she pulled her hand back, the thin calloused fingers were wet with fresh blood.

A strong pair of hands pushed her flat onto the table and urged her to remain still. As another swell of pain crested she cursed in a language the others wouldn't understand. She was no stranger to pain, but this felt entirely different, likely because it was.

Her mind wandered and her vision blurred. Closing her eyes, she thought back to her father and the Weirwood tree. Was this her destiny? Was the path she'd been walking for years the one the Gods chose for her? She honestly didn't know. As a child, she was certain her father's word was true, but the woman that child grew into was cynical, too hardened by the world to believe in fantasy.

Was it her destiny to kill? If so she'd fulfilled it and then some. She'd slaughtered hundred and hundreds of men, likely thousands although she made no attempt to keep count. First, she killed to survive, as a wandering orphan, and then the Hound's captive. After passing under the Titan she learned to kill for other reasons; for coin, to consolidate power, or curry favor. For years, she was the eager disciple, learning the Art of Death like a Maester learns to heal.

Her clouded mind fought to reconcile the things she allowed herself to remember. If her father was right then her destiny was decided long before that night in the forest, before her father's death, and her mother's, before she fled to Braavos, and before she gave her name and face in exchange for the ability to kill. If he was right, then the Old Gods he loved so dearly had chosen a very dark path for his youngest daughter to walk... alone.

Crying out in pain she reached for her stomach again, only to be stopped by someone's sweaty hands holding her back. With tears threatening to spill from her closed eyes she tried to focus. She could have easily freed herself from the man's grip, but didn't. Somewhere under the pain, the memories and the fear she knew he was holding her wrists for her own good. The small fragment of her brain that remained logical reminded her that she'd refused to take milk of the poppy, insisting she needed to remain alert for all their sakes.

Time passed in a strange way she didn't understand. She had no idea how long she laid on the table in that tiny shack, it might have been hours or it could have been days. Finally, just when she felt ready to sleep, a woman appeared on the right side of her head. She used a damp cloth to wipe the sweat from her face. "It's time to push dear."

Those words changed everything and immediately the assassin was awake and alert. She blinked hard twice to clear her field of vision and then she looked down, over her bulging belly to the midwife positioned between her legs.

As she began to push a living being from her body she couldn't control her thoughts. Her mind went to the family she lost. It occurred to her that she thought about them more in a single day, than she had in the previous year but she didn't fight it. For once she allowed the memories to come freely. It seemed only fitting given her situation.

She thought of her mother and wondered what advice the woman might have for her now. Swords, daggers and death she could handle with ease, but babies were outside of her skill set. Sansa would know what to do, she was certain of that, but this was just one more example of how different the two sisters were.

As lost as she was, as rudderless as she felt, she knew she had to finish this. It was the reason she wore her own face for months, afraid that the magic of the change might affect the child. She also avoided Braavos, the only home she had left, worried what the Kindly Man and the others might do if they realized her condition. This child certainly wasn't planned and she had no illusions about who or what she was, she was No One, she was a killer, but she couldn't end the child's life, the thought alone turned her stomach. No, she would have this baby and give it the best life she could, and so she pushed and pushed again.

As she heard that the baby's head was crowning Arya felt completely drained, but she knew she wasn't yet finished. Laying her head back on the table she looked up and noticed a small gap between two of the boards that made up the roof. She looked through the space, into the sky and saw the twinkle of a faraway star. She allowed herself a smile then. Perhaps this was part of her destiny too? Perhaps the Gods fated her for more than just killing and pain. Before she could give that much thought, another relentless band of pressure across her stomach demanded her attention.

When it was over she had a beautiful baby girl. Her skin looked smooth and she had her mother's grey eyes. Arya stood over her, watching with wonder, despite her exhaustion. She was fascinated by the child, but refused each time the midwife offered her the chance to hold the baby. "What will you name her?" she asked sweetly.

"I won't, not yet anyway."

R-C

The assassin had been stabbed, sliced and nearly cleaved more times than she cared to remember and still she recovered far faster from those wounds than she did from the harrowing experience of childbirth.

For days after her baby was brought into the world she felt as if her insides had been ripped out with her. Slowly she began to heal, and eventually she allowed the midwife to teach her to hold the fragile looking thing, if only so she could feed her more easily.

For months, she waited. Her midwife stayed on as a nanny, helping the mother to care for her child. She taught the assassin to hold her, and feed her and change her. Despite her progress with motherhood Arya still refused to name her child and was constantly asking the older woman when it would be safe for her and the baby to travel.

When the nameless baby was a little more than five months old the midwife finally decreed to her nameless mother that she was healthy enough for a short journey. "We won't be going far," she promised.

As they were leaving the midwife surprised her with a hug. "You take care of that girl now, and yourself."

Feeling closer to this woman than she had to anyone in years she hugged her back and thanked her. She'd left a large coin purse in the woman's shack, one she would find long after mother and child were gone. "Thank you," she said sincerely. "I couldn't have done any of this without your help. I'll always be grateful."

"Give her a good life," the woman replied, echoing the mantra that had been playing in the assassin's mind since the day she was born.

"I swear I will," Arya said with intensity.

R-C

Bundled up in a collection of the softest, warmest blankets and furs she could find, her baby sat against her chest, held there by leather straps. The bouncing of the horse seemed to soothe her and she slept soundly as Arya guided them to their destination.

She stopped far more frequently than she would have otherwise. Choosing to sleep indoors rather than out, and opting for food served in a tavern over game hunted amongst the trees.

When the gates of King's Landing came into view she had to resist the urge to turn around and flee. Looking down at her baby, she found the girl staring back her, their matching eyes locked together. Dropping a kiss down on the child's head, she felt herself smile. "I'd do anything for you," she said kissing the girl's forehead, "even this."

With new determination, she remembered why she was doing this and she squeezed her thighs together around her horse, urging him forward. Three hundred yards from the gate she noticed a woman standing alone, she wore a heavy cloak with the hood up to hide her face. Although they'd met only one time she recognized the small woman, who stood with such confidence she seemed ten feet tall. She slowed her horse and dismounted, careful not to jostle the baby too much in the process. With her arms protectively covering the child she approached. "Do you remember me?" she asked the woman who still hid behind her cloak.

"Of course," the woman answered, taking a step forward while she pushed back the hood.

For a moment, her breath caught in her throat. It had been years but somehow Daenerys Targaryen had grown even more beautiful than she remembered. They met briefly after Arya had crossed the final name off her list, but she remembered the Queen clearly. She'd travelled all over the world and was confident few woman could rival her natural beauty.

"You're the woman who won seven kingdoms and kept only one for yourself." The Queen's words reminded her of the reason for her arrival.

Arya tensed. "I kept none for myself," she corrected coldly.

"Yes, well I suppose that's true. Your sister rules the North well," the Targaryen Queen said as she took another step forward.

Remembering the manners instilled in her during Arya's childhood the assassin dropped to one knee. "Your Grace."

"Stand, there is no need for that," Daenerys said with a warm laugh. "Come now, let us go and speak inside. I received your note and I must say I'm curious as to why you've come."

Arya returned to a standing position, still careful to hide the baby under her arms. She could see the Queen watching her closely, as if trying to solve a riddle. "Are you certain?" she asked with a rare twinge of humor in her voice. "The last time a wolf entered these gates things didn't end well for the Queen."

Daenerys gave her another smile, waving her hand toward the gate. "I trust you. Come inside now, you've travelled far."

The assassin didn't move and when Daenerys realized she wasn't being followed she turned back. "Thank you for the offer, your Grace, but I can't stay."

She could see the confusion on the woman's face as it shifted to anger. "What is this?" she demanded to know. "You send me a missive that is intentionally vague, ask me to meet outside the gates, alone and now you won't tell me why! I am your Queen!"

Unmoved by the outburst she remained calm, casually rocking the child in her arms from side to side. "The last time we spoke, you told me that if I ever needed anything, I could come to you. You said you were in my debt," she reminded her.

"Yes of course I remember," Daenerys said quickly, her eyes and posture softening slightly. "Do you have need of my aid? What can I do for you?"

For the first time since she dismounted her horse she lowered her hands to her sides and revealed the bundle of blankets strapped to her chest. The only part of the child visible was the oval of her face, showcasing a cute little nose, thin pink lips, and puffy, red cheeks.

"Is that…" her words trailed off, as if she had forgotten what she intended to ask.

"My daughter," she answered with a hint of pride.

The Queen gasped at the sight and hurried ahead until she was at Arya's side, peeking over her arm to get a look at the child. "She's beautiful," Daenerys said as she reached out and touched the girl's cool cheek.

"Yes, she is," the killer agreed. It was quiet for a few seconds, and then a few more. Finally, she managed to speak again. "She deserves a good life, I want her to have a good life." As she finished her voice broke, and she felt Daenerys's hand come to rest on her arm.

"She will! She will, we have peace now in all seven kingdoms, she can grow to be safe and happy. You can go to Winterfell, or stay here."

Without comment Arya began unstrapping the carrier that held the baby to her body. "I want her to have a good life," Arya repeated, sounding tired, even to her own ears.

"Of course you do," Daenerys agreed gently. "You love her."

"I love her enough to do this," Arya said as she removed the baby from the carrier and held her in her arms directly. The baby cooed and reached for her nose and the assassin could only smile. She kissed the child's forehead. "I love you and you'll always be my little wolf," she whispered, before she reached out in an attempt to hand the baby to Daenerys.

"Arya, what are you…"

"I heard whispers about you. They said that the Mother of Dragons gave birth to beasts because she couldn't have children." Arya didn't need words to know the tales were true, one look into Daenerys's violet eyes told her plenty. "You're a good Queen, I made a wise choice in choosing you and I'm doing so again. Please take her, and give her a good life, a better life than I ever could."

"What are you saying? She's your child you can't just give her to me," the Queen protested.

"Why not? I can't offer her any sort of life, let alone a good one. The blood on my hands is too thick, my life is too dangerous, I'm too dangerous." She paused and took an uneven breath. "When I left you with King's Landing you promised to help me, if you truly meant that, do this for me. Take her, raise her as your own and allow your heir and her heirs after her to rule Westeros fairly for thousands of years."

"You can't do this, surely Sansa in Winterfell would be a better choice."

"Starks die," she said grimly. "Even with everyone dead, being a Stark is dangerous."

"Being a Targaryen isn't much safer," Daenerys pointed out.

"If a baby shows up in Winterfell people will ask questions and word will reach Braavos."

"You think they'd harm her?"

"I won't give them the chance to even consider it. She's yours now."

Everything was glassy, tainted by the tears she refused to cry. Next to her Daenerys had no such reservations as tears streaked down her cheeks with abandon. The next time she tried to hand the baby off to her new mother, Daenerys took her, holding the bundled baby in her arms for the first time.

The knowledge that she was doing the right thing was almost enough to counteract the pain she felt seeing her daughter in the arms of another mother, almost.

"Arya, are you certain about this? You can come with us. She can have a good life in King's Landing with you there. Wouldn't that be better?"

Better? It sounded like heaven but she knew it wouldn't work. She had too many enemies, her heart and soul were weighed down by her many sins, her unrelenting pain and the never ending hate she still felt. She would love to be in her daughter's life but it was nothing but a dream. The reality was she didn't want anything or anyone as dark and depraved as she was within a hundred feet of her perfect little girl.

"I can't," she said simply. "I just can't"

When Daenerys said nothing, she assumed their conversation done. She went to her horse and stuffed the baby carrier into the saddle bag. She had no idea why she was keeping it, she'd never need it again, but still throwing it away felt equally wrong. She was climbing onto her mount when she heard Daenerys's voice. "Wait, are you leaving?"

"You should get her inside," she said with a nod toward the baby. "It's getting cold out here."

"You won't come with us?" she asked, her voice making it clear she already knew the answer.

She moved the horse slowly until she was towering over Daenerys and her baby. "I need to go, but you two take care of each other." Her mask finally broke and she was confident the Queen could see every ounce of pain she was feeling. "And thank you," she said quickly.

"W…what if we need you?" Daenerys asked. Her words were rushed, as if she were afraid Arya would dart off and leave her questions unanswered.

From the pocket of her trousers she removed a small dark coin. Flicking it into the air with her thumb she caught it in a flash of movement. Turning it over in her hand one final time she held it out to Daenerys. "If you need me, send a man to Braavos with this… they'll find me."

The child of Northern winters felt the Dragon's blood as their hands touched. She passed the coin and took one final look at both of them, each one breathtakingly flawless in their own way. Before she could lose her nerve, she pushed the horse to move, away from Daenerys and away from her baby. Every step she put between them hurt, but she also knew the further away she was, the safer they'd be. Which was why she'd be on a boat bound for Braavos before sundown.

The Queen's voice called to her as the horse trotted along. "Wait, you didn't even tell me her name."

"She doesn't have one," the assassin yelled back.

"What!?" she shouted, her disbelief was obvious.

"You're her mother now," Arya told her flatly, "you name her!"

R-C

Author's Note: Anything you like or recognize belongs to someone else. Beyond that, I have no idea if this is going to be a full story or not. If people are interested, I could continue, but if not, I'll move on to something else.

Thanks for reading.

Russell Craig