Lady Winter and the Red Wolf (GoT/ASOIAF)

[Epic Reader]

Note that this work was once meant to be easy writing to keep my muse engaged while stalled on my more serious work, Patton's Third Army. Unfortunately, it appears I am incapable of writing without significant research and a longer story, so this has hit 200,000 words and still growing!

Hopefully this will showcase more of my own feelings on the growth of the Stark sisters through their ordeals, with the board more or less wiped clean of the old guard.

Season 7 events and history outside of Littlefinger's view will mostly derive from the show, but diverge quickly in various ways as I feel make sense for this story, as opposed to the rather narrow view we see on the show.

Season 8 will not be considered in any way.

Chapter 1
"The North Remembers. Winter came for House Frey."

Kitty Frey watched in shock as the Lady wearing her husband's... her husband's... who had just killed every male Frey walked out of the great hall with an even, controlled pace, barely even noticing as she stepped over the bodies gracefully and exited the hall.

After another few minutes of being in shock once the door had closed again, she looked down at her cup of wine, remembering her husband... that Lady... dismissively telling her 'not you'. She started, one hand reaching out to knock over the cups before her quickly, her own and her husband's silver goblet, both untouched.

The three serving girls that had seen everything looked up at her for direction. To her! Just her! She shivered again, not ever having seen this many dead men before. Her chest felt tight as she looked out and thought, strangely enough of the future, not what was before her.

The castle still had a garrison, mostly of smallfolk and a few bannermen, now without the Freys to direct them. There was a small contingent of Lannister soldiers who had their own ravens. The poor serving girls looked to her. Her own Ladies would look to her. None of them had husbands anymore to keep them safe... for whatever safe meant.

They couldn't stay. They couldn't go anywhere in the Riverlands without being caught. They couldn't go North, not after the Red Wedding...

She blinked, looking out at the scene before her. The great hall's doors were closed now that the Lady had gone, no-one would enter. There hadn't been any shouts, any screams. Lady Winter had already come for House Frey, had already avenged the Red Wedding and had spared the maids, had spared her. Had forbidden her to drink, personally.

Perhaps she had also spared other servant girls, her other Ladies.

There was only one thing to do.

She hoped it worked.

Halfway across the Twins, Arya slipped into a rarely used storeroom where three of her agents were already waiting for her in her maid's face with the supplies she'd need for her trip to King's Landing; she'd give them their instructions and be on her way before the Lannisters could respond.

************************

Sansa looked up from her paperwork as one of the gate guards entered her solar, looking quite disturbed. She spoke smoothly and steadily, her voice raised slightly over what she would have preferred to ensure she could be heard clearly over the sounds of the construction and preparation below, "Yes, what is it?"

"M'Lady, The Twins, err, Freys, umm..."

"Is there more news of what happened at the Twins? The raven wasn't very helpful," said Sansa.

"Er, yes. The Lady of the Crossing is at the front gate."

Sansa stood, her face going cold and blank, "And no alarm was given?"

The young guard flinched back, reminded of the tales that Lady Stark had fed Lord Bolton to his dogs... alive. For all that she was beautiful and kind, she was a Stark, and dangerous. "No, milady, it's just her and some women. No men, no guards. Umm... horses! They have horses. And packs. And carts. And some children. Young ones. Umm... maybe some chickens? And..."

"Thank you, I will visit them myself. Call for another set of guards to escort me," said Lady Stark, cutting him off and gesturing for the guard to precede her out the door as she headed down to the gate. She paused briefly to look down at the gate from a high window, verifying the guard's tale, and looking out at the horizon to make sure she couldn't see anything else. The raven they'd received had mentioned only that the Freys were 'destroyed', whatever that meant, and the Lannisters were heading up to the Twins.

Not for the first time did she wish she'd spent more time cultivating a spy network when she had the chance, rather than being a silly girl waiting for others to rescue her. What she had now was poor compared to Littlefinger's, but sufficient to get immediate word of at least major events and force Baelish to divulge a little more of his own information. Knowledge is power, Littlefinger liked to say. She knew it was true, just as she knew there were many other kinds of power. Brienne's kind, Jon's kind... her own kind.

Approaching the gate just ahead of the contingent of hard-eyed veteran Vale and Northern forces, she looked at the group gathered outside of the gates. A pitiful group, really, small and nervous and scared; certainly not appearing to be a threat. A teenage girl was at the front, reminding Sansa rather strongly of herself in King's Landing, surrounded by those who wished her ill, forcibly married to a man she did not choose. She called up the many lessons she'd learned from Cersei and Baelish, and gave a small, courteous smile, "Lady Frey, what a surprise. I'm sorry that my brother the King is unable to greet you himself; he left some time ago on a journey. Could you please tell me why have you come, alone, to the North?"

Kitty visibly gathered herself together, looking up at the tall, strong Lady of Winterfell, and replied, "Because you're our only hope. After the... after... after, we knew that someone would come, the Lannisters or the Mountain. We've been married off before, and... and we were still alive, even though the North remembers. So we knew we could come. It's just us; most of my handmaidens and Ladies, a few of the servant girls, and our children." She brightened, turning briefly to gesture to the back, where a few of the girls flipped back the ratty cloth covering a heavy cart, then opened the lid of one of the many chests, holding up a handful of mixed gold and jewels. The Lady of the Crossing continued, "We won't be a burden, I swear to you. This is all the treasure we could take from the Twins, as our repayment for what the men we were married to did to your family. We just want a place to be safe."

Lady Stark looked at the chests, and turned to speak softly to her guards, "Bring bread and salt. Have chambers set aside for Lady Frey and her entourage as our guests. Put the gold and jewels in the treasury, and see that they're given warm baths, clean clothes, and a hot meal." She turned back to Kitty, "Lady Frey, if you don't mind, I would be pleased if you would speak with me in my solar after your bath and meal."


************************

Lady Stark smiled, more comfortable now that she'd had time to think a bit, and gestured the clearly warmer Lady Frey to a chair, "Sit, please, Lady Frey. Are your new chambers to your satisfaction?"

"Yes, thank you, Lady Stark."

"I'm pleased to hear that. Now, tell me, what happened at the Twins? Start at the beginning, please."

Kitty's face paled dramatically and she grasped the arms of the chair tightly for a few seconds before she said, "After Ser Jamie left, Lord Frey ate alone with Black Walder and Lothar, became cross and sent them away towards Pinkmaiden on some sort of errand. He wouldn't tell anyone else what it was, but he was out of sorts. A few days later, he called for a feast. All... forgive me, my lady, all the men who... at the Red Wedding were invited, except Black Walder and Lothar. They... they're all dead. All of them are dead. She said... she said to say The North Remembers. She said Lady Winter came for House Frey."

Sansa tilted her head, puzzled. While she quite sure that the girl was either Cersei's long lost sister, or was telling the truth, that really didn't answer much. While she felt a slight sympathy for Kitty - Lord Tyrion had certainly been kind to her, as Walder clearly had not - she felt mostly a great satisfaction at the idea that her mother had finally been truly avenged. Well, except for two, but without their family and the Twins, Black Walder and Lothar were little threat. "How did they die?"

Kitty looked up at Sansa seriously, "The North Remembers. Lady Winter came for House Frey. That's what she told me to say."

"She told you? Who was she - what did she look like?"

"I don't know who she was. She looked like the very face of death."

Kitty Frey would say no more than that on the subject, then or ever.

************************

In the crypts beneath Winterfell, Sansa's steady voice continued their conversation, an undertone of sadness clear in her voice, "Arya," she said as they released their embrace, "Bran's home too."

Arya smiled, though as she watched her sister's expression, her smile slowly diminished. Arya watched carefully for another moment, thinking, then spoke quietly, "And he didn't come with you... no, you didn't invite him, or even send word to him. We need to talk, then, Sansa, don't we."

"Yes, we do," Sansa said as they turned and headed deep into the crypts, Arya picking up her saddlebag and Sansa taking but a single candle for light as the sound of Sansa's light footsteps echoed quietly, Arya's own stride nearly silent beside her. Arya tilted her head slightly at the spot Jon had once jumped out covered in flour, miming a punch, and Sansa returned a slight, wistful smile, murmuring, "We were so young, then. I wish I had been a better sister to you, to Jon, to Bran and Rickon and Robb. But that we can talk about later."

Some minutes later, their steps came to a halt in a cavern far beneath the surface, past the statues of the Starks throughout the ages. Sansa spread her cloak atop a large rock to make a clean seat for them in the warm temperatures of the deeps, near the source of the more commonly used hot springs that bubbled up in caverns far above them. She reached out to clasp Arya's small hand, feeling her calluses, mentally comparing them to Brienne's hands as she spoke in a near-whisper, quieter than the dripping of water from stalactites into the underground lake before them, "Your dancing lessons, in King's Landing. You didn't come back bruised because you were clumsy, you came back bruised because you were learning to fight."

Arya nodded, clasping her sister's soft hand, watching her in the flickering light as she assessed the changes her sister had been through herself, "I was studying water dancing with Syrio Forel, who was once the First Sword of Braavos. He died, protecting me from Meryn Trant and four other knights with naught but a training sword." She paused, then pointed at Sansa's nose with a smirk, "You've learned to rule your face, Sansa."

Sansa paused a moment, then laughed quietly, happy they could laugh and joke together now in a way they never could when they were young. "I did. I was trapped with Cersei first, then with Littlefinger, then... then with," she paused briefly, closing her eyes and remembering the sight of Ramsay, his jaw torn off, the sounds as he was eaten behind her, "Ramsay. I learned quite a lot from Cersei and Baelish, and even - gods curse him - from Ramsay. Littlefinger, though, is the first reason we need to talk. He's gotten himself declared Lord Protector of the Vale, and has declared for House Stark... for me. He wants to rule, and he wants me as some sort of prize, though I know he wants power more than he wants me."

Arya took her sister in her arms, hugging her as she whispers in her ear, "I'll add his name to my list, then. My sister is not a prize to be wanted like that. Would you like him dead in public, or as a quiet accident?"

They looked at each other for a moment, Sansa thinking furiously, kept her voice curious as she asks, "As a quiet accident? What do you mean?"

"I left Westeros and spent the last two years training at the House of Black and White, in Braavos, to become a Faceless Man. I'll kill him for you however you like," said Arya with quiet confidence and utter sincerity.

"A faceless man? Was it you then, at the Twins? Did you kill the ones responsible and scare Lady Frey near to death?"

"I did. Every Frey who killed Mother and Robb and our good sister is dead, now. How do you know about Kitty, though?" Arya asked, curious, "You sound like you know her. Is she here, then? She is, isn't she. And you were surprised it was me, still. She's a good girl, who only wanted to be a good wife and mother, the poor thing."

Sansa nodded, "She is here; I've taken her as a handmaiden. She showed up looking broken and lost with carts full of treasure, a few dozen women and children, and a very strange, very short tale," she said as she remembered the precise wording of the tale, then giggled, "You still don't want to be called Lady Arya, do you?"

"I'm not a Lady. You are."

"Well, as Lady of Winterfell, I will make sure that you aren't called Lady Arya or Lady Stark, or any title of Princess, though I don't think that will be a difficult task," said Sansa with a slight smirk, "I want Littlefinger dead, but we can't afford to lose the allegiance of the Vale, nor shake the faith the Lords and Ladies of the North have in Jon. And he has spies everywhere - all over the North and the South both, more than Lord Varys has, though I don't know why Varys still has any, he's been gone for ages."

Arya shook her head, looking up at her sister, and nudged her with a shoulder, "You Westerosi, so provincial! The Spider still has spies because he joined the Dragon Queen in Meereen years ago and serves as her Master of Whisperers, alongside your ex-husband Lord Tyrion, who's been Hand of the Queen for even longer. Really, I don't think any of you would last a month in Braavos during the Choosing of the Sealord, when you have to see the knives in the dark just as much as the knives in the light, even the ones you don't know about... even the ones across the Narrow Sea."

Sansa gaped for a moment, then giggled, setting Arya off as well, "Arya! You're just as much a Westerosi as I am! It seems you've learned some politics in your travels, even if you're still not a lady. I've missed you, you know. It's so good to have you home."

They were quiet for a moment, for the first time taking true comfort in the other's presence, as they had never done as children.

"More pressing, Baelish must have known about Tyrion and Varys both through his spies, and he didn't mention Varys to us at all. Tyrion signed the note from Dragonstone, so we knew about him just before Samwell Tarly discovered proof of dragonglass under Dragonstone and Jon set off." She huffed, remembering the council sessions where Jon refused to discuss his plans with her first, forcing her to try and give advice, and ask questions, in public. She loved her brother, but he was exasperating as King.

As Sansa's expression dimmed, Arya narrowed her eyes, "I have learned some politics, though I'd rather leave them to you, along with the sewing needles. You advised Jon not to go, didn't you? You did. Good. Jon can be stubborn, though, and he doesn't like to take advice, he likes to act, like me." She nodded quietly at Sansa, "I've learned I need to take advice sometimes, too, and hear the words between the words, and in the silence. Has Jon told you how he's doing? Asked how the North is? Asked your advice?"

"No. He landed at Dragonstone, he's been seen on the battlements and the cliffs unguarded and safe, sometimes alone, sometimes with Tyrion, sometimes with the Dragon Queen. He's sent no word of any kind. I'm worried."

"I am too, but there's nothing I can do to help him, here. I couldn't help Father or you in King's Landing, I couldn't help Mother and Robb at the Twins, or Rickon at the Battle of the Bastards, but I can help you now. You've learned to lie, to act, haven't you? Well enough to fool Littlefinger and his other spies?"

Sansa smirked, "I have; as long as he doesn't see a chance to gain power while I dangle myself outside his reach, he won't see what I don't want him to. He can't get more power in the Vale... and he can't get any in the North without me. You mean for us to fool him while we find his spies, and take them from him, don't you? And his brothels, too, with his books, whores, and money. If we can contact Lord Royce, we can keep the loyalty of the Vale... yes, that'll work. He has more than spies, Arya - he has cutthroats, too, like the one that attacked Bran. Brienne swore to protect me - to protect both of us, both of Mother's daughters, but she's only one knight, and I don't want her stabbed in the back or poisoned."

Arya's face grew blank and her body still, her eyes empty in the candlelight as she spoke quietly, without emotion, "Don't worry about the cutthroats, even if Littlefinger hires those pathetic Sorrowful Men. No One is the best in the world, and no one is going to be killing anyone I don't want dying today."

"Arya?" Sansa asked, worried.

The shorter girl blinked, emotion returning to her as she heard her name in her sister's voice, "It's all right, Sansa. There are different kinds of spies - spies for money, for loyalty, for power, for revenge, for glory, for fear, for excitement, for sex, for love. I'll take the fearful ones and those who want vengeance and excitement and their own power. You can take the ones who want money and glory and political power. We'll have to kill the loyal ones, but with Littlefinger, there won't be many of those. We can split the ones we can turn who are in it for sex or love. Most important, we have to fool him until we're ready, then we kill him in a way that leaves the Vale loyal to you."

Sansa nodded, "He killed Aunt Lysa after he married her, because he wanted Mother, and now me, more than her... and because he wanted to be Lord Protector of the Vale, even more than that. I lied for him at the Vale, but if you can contact Lord Royce without Littlefinger knowing, we can prepare him for the killing and what comes after, and keep the Vale, with stronger ties than now. I can't talk to him without Littlefinger knowing... and you can't be seen by anyone. There are some secret passages, but Littlefinger and Varys both have spies who use them. You must be very careful of Littlefinger - he sees every small detail."

Arya shook her head slowly, squeezing Sansa's hand, "Sansa, you aren't understanding what I've trained to be. I won't be seen when I don't want to be, and when I want, I won't be noticed even when I am seen, because he will see what I have presented myself to be first. I'll show you more, but later; we'll need to be careful any time we may be observed." Arya's face grew still again, and she spoke softly, without emotion, "I will say and do things to hurt you, to make you afraid. Know now that is just a face I wear to trap Littlefinger, but know then that you are hurt and afraid."

"Of course, Arya," Sansa said, returning the squeeze, "I've been learning, too, from Littlefinger, and Cersei, though I hate them so. What do you mean, a face you wear?"

"Don't worry about that yet," Arya said, then laughed, and smiled, delighted by an idea she'd had, "We can do something other sisters do; have a set of secret signs. Not for talking about boys, but for our work, and as reminders of what's the truth, and what's a lie until it's time to end the game and kill Littlefinger."

Sansa glanced at the shortening candle, and nodded, "We need them to be subtle, unobtrusive, even in front of many people; we have to have several to choose from for the most important ones. All right. We can start with this..."

************************

 

[Epic Reader]

Sansa strode from Arya's room late the next morning after finding her sister had already left, a pair of bundles in her hands, footsteps echoing past the guards and through the empty halls. Her sister had of course been given quarters next to Sansa's, but she had also requested a... workshop... in the remotest room in the castle, so Sansa made her way there. She strode past the storerooms full of food, salt, furs, leather, and other supplies for the winter and past the rooms still empty, their previous contents looted or burned, and she worried how she was to feed the North through the long winter to come. Defeating their enemies only to starve would not be the fate of her people.

She paused, then, looking up at her sister and remembering her, smaller, happier, in the same pose in the Red Keep, though back then when Arya was standing on one foot at the top of a set of stone stairs, she would hold her arms out and move around unsteadily to keep her balance. Here and now, Arya was on one foot, moving smoothly and precisely as she practiced some sort of sword drill.

One one foot. At the top of the stairs. With her eyes closed.

She loved her sister... but there was no denying it, her sister was very strange.

After a couple of minutes of Sansa watching her, Arya spoke, though she never opened her eyes, "Hello, Sansa. What did you bring me?"

"New clothes. You can't go around dressed like a poor sellsword anymore. Come to your workshop and let's get you outfitted properly," said Sansa, her voice carrying. She deliberately let more of her desire to see her sister dressed properly as a princess of the North and her irritation that Arya wouldn't bother to dress herself properly color her emotions.

Arya gracefully finished her current set, then sheathed her sword and once Sansa had made her way up, walked together with her to her workshop. She had not sensed any strange air currents at that location, and given that this floor and those above and below were entirely devoted to storage, she did not believe there were any secret or forgotten passages here that even a cat could get through. Sound traveled far through stone passages, though, so even here, she was proud that Sansa was wearing a face of mild disapproval.

Arya opened the door to her workshop slowly, watching carefully for the two tiny fragments of dark hair she'd planted to be revealed and fall, showing the door had not been moved since she'd closed it. Once the door had closed and been locked and barred as was Arya's new habit, Sansa turned the bundle of fine leathers and thick cloth around, handing it over before placing her sewing kit on her sister's workbench.

She had folded the clothes specifically so that only the soft outside had shown while she carried it, where now the strips of leather armor she'd sewn on the inside were visible, "Come on, let's get you out of that awful outfit and into something proper. You can't go around Winterfell letting people see a Stark dressed like a beggar. Try this on, let me see how it fits."

Arya took the clothes to a table she had set against a wall, shifting her whetstone aside and unfolding the clothes, setting the soft under-layer aside as she flexed and rubbed the jerkin, watching it flex easily. The armor strips were sewn in a cunning arrangement she'd never seen before that kept good coverage while not being obvious on the outside. She felt them carefully, and noted they were indeed extremely good quality, and definitely selected and cured to be armor for protection, not for show.

"I didn't know you worked leather," she said as she ran a finger over the neat stitches in the thick, hard strips of armor. There was no-one who could see them here and now, so they only had to be careful with their sounds. She'd tried sewing leather as a child, to see if she could use the lessons she hated so in the stables, for something she'd considered worthwhile at the time, and she'd found that even normal leather was quite difficult to work with. Her sister could have done the soft outsides easily, but the strips of armor was a different story, both the placement and the sewing itself.

"There's a lot of things you don't know about me anymore. There were also are a lot of people that were lost to the Greyjoys and the Boltons, and even to the South. We have all stepped up to do our parts. The Vale has generously provided some craftsmen to make armor, but I had to point out that up here they needed leather over their plate, and wool underneath. I've been putting my skills to good use - there's no reason to have idle hands when discussing things in private. We must all pitch in." She made the one of the signs they had worked out for truth, a subtle and natural positioning of the fingers, made briefly and without drawing attention.

Arya returned another variation of the same sign, then stripped down, since her sister had provided a complete outfit. They were both still getting used to using them naturally in conversation, and knew that while they were rarely necessary now, at the beginning of the game they were playing with Littlefinger, they would be vital later, and they needed practice. Arya had specific training to notice tiny details that might spell a lie from her time at the House of Black and White, and she had seen that Sansa must have learned to notice the minute as a survival skill as well.

Sansa took in a breath at the scars she saw on Arya, her lips thinning briefly. She recognized gut wounds that looked very similar to Jon's, one a rather gruesome, twisted scar, not just a straight cut, as well as a long slash Jon didn't have. They were clearly scars from battle, and her sister had been so confident under the keep, but still she worried.

"Arya, where did you get those?"

"In Braavos. Being stupid, and relaxing when I shouldn't have. Don't worry, I killed them after I got patched up," said Arya, making sure to phrase it ambiguously as she made the sign for truth. She hadn't heard anything, but she didn't yet know how sound carried here, and there were no other sounds to mask their voices. Everything had to be carefully considered in light of Baelish's spies - she'd spotted two of them last night, and she was sure they were the least skilled of the lot.

Sansa watched Arya start putting on the outfit, and reached out to help her make sure it went on correctly, giving Arya's shoulder a gentle squeeze as she did so, "Jon has battle scars much like that, from when some of the Night's Watch killed him after he let what was left of the Wildlings, the Free Folk, through the Wall. Lady Melisandre raised him from the dead somehow, before Theon helped me escape."

"Melisandre? The Red Woman - tall, creepy, priestess of the Red God like Thoros is? I was there when Thoros raised Beric Dondarrion from the dead for the sixth time, you know, after the Hound killed him. I'm not sure how, though it was very fast - a few words, and Beric's shoulder wasn't split open down to his heart anymore. All three of them are on my list, you know. Only death can pay for life. Where is she?"

Arya made the sign for truth as she waited for Sansa to step back, and then she went through a simple training drill briefly, pausing and pointing to the areas of the new outfit that weren't quite right for fighting in. When she had heard the tales on her way North, she had certainly expected Sansa to try and dress her in nice clothes, but hand-made armor overnight was not what she expected.

Sansa tugged on it briefly, stalking around Arya, then said, "All right, take it off again, I need to adjust it. You're a little bigger than I thought you were," as she patted Arya on the biceps with a slight smirk. She continued, "Jon banished Lady Melisandre after Ser Davos found out that she'd burned Princess Shireen at the stake to get King Stannis a victory. She went south, I don't know where."

Sansa thought back to when Brienne had told her about finding Arya and fighting the Hound. Perhaps soon she'll hear more of what had happened on the road. She watched as Arya took the outfit off again, pulling out a needle and settling herself on a chest to adjust the outfit right then. Arya herself started flipping the cutthroat's knife around casually, tossing it from hand to hand, spinning it, whether to play with it, as a habit, or to be able to better fight with it Sansa didn't know.

Sansa found herself looking at Arya's scars from time to time, comparing them to her own. While she didn't care nearly as much about being beautiful as she had when she'd last seen her sister, she did find herself caring about the scars. Arya's scars were borne of combat, of fighting back, of honor and of action. Her own were scars of shame... of being Joffrey's toy, of being Ramsay's toy, of dishonor and inaction.

She looked up when Arya stopped moving to see Arya watching her intently.

"When I was coming back North, you know, I heard stories of what happened to the North, to Jon, to you. You've told me what I heard of Jon is true. You're looking at my scars. Why? They aren't something I'm proud of; I got them by being foolish, by letting my guard down when I shouldn't have. They remind me of that, and I don't let me guard down anymore."

Arya set the knife down and hugged her sister quietly, then reached down to pull Sansa's sleeve up for just a moment, so she could see the fine scars laid on pale skin, and so Sansa could watch as she saw. She looked at her sister steadily, looking for the truth hidden beneath, what Sansa wasn't willing to talk about yet, but which was hurting her.

"I've traveled far, and seen a lot of different people. I've seen a lot of different scars, too. From burns, swords, axes, arrows, knives, fists, clubs, whips, belts, fingernails. I've seen them on lords and ladies, on courtesans and fighters, on people who have been freed from slavery. No scar I've ever seen has been shameful," Arya reached down to pull Sansa's sleeve up again, making the sign for truth as she made sure Sansa watched her look, "none of them. Not those from slavery. Not those from accidents. Not those from evil men like Sandor's scars. They simply show that you have survived. They can help you learn."

Sansa drew in a deep breath, then nodded. She still felt that her scars were shameful... but perhaps her nosy little sister had a point that she should consider. She finished the adjustments on the front, and turned the outfit over.

Arya continued speaking, her voice louder, her tone sharper now as she made the sign for eavesdropper, "I don't know why you're so insistent on this. I don't care about fancy clothes. I'm a fighter. Clothes like this don't mean anything to me," she made the sign for lie.

Sansa let her tired irritation rise up, encouraging that inside herself. She'd stayed up all night working on this, and her sister wasn't saying she was grateful to be dressed as a Stark of Winterfell, she was complaining about it!

"You are a Stark, Jon's sister, and third in line of succession of the independent kingdom of the North. You need to be dressed appropriately," Sansa fingered the strip of armor she was repositioning, looking at Arya seriously, though her voice was sharp, "and I will not allow you to go so much as one day in those merchant rags you arrived in now that you are here. You need to step up and make yourself useful. We need to prepare for the dead, prepare for Cersei, and if Jon fails, prepare for the Targaryen and her armies and dragons."

Arya handed Sansa some travel bread from a cabinet she'd stocked, then picked up the Valyrian steel knife again, resuming her drill. The knife was far lighter than it should have been, and she needed to spend some time ingraining exactly how it moved and balanced in every position into her reflexes.

While she did this, she spoke seriously, getting down to the business of protecting the North, "I heard Jon ordered everyone, without exception, to be trained to fight. The smallfolk I passed were trying, but no-one knew how the enemy fought. I know how knights fight, how the armies here fight. I know how a water dancer fights, how the Unsullied use their spears, how the Dothraki screamers fight. I even know some about how dragons fight, and I've seen what they did to Harrenhal. Who do we have who can tell me how the dead fight?"

Sansa settled down as well, her mind turning to business, "Tormund Giants bane is up at Eastwatch. I'll have a raven sent immediately. We have some w... Free Folk here. Always call them Free Folk, never wildlings. They do not kneel to anyone, but all of them have seen the army of the dead. I'll take you to them as soon as we're done here and have eaten."

"All right. What do we have for weapons, blacksmiths, armorers, steel, leather, shovels, pitch, tar, arrows, ballista, scorpions, trebuchets, horses, particularly garron, ships, sleds, and wildfire?"

They each continued doing their tasks while discussing matters of logistics, which turned out to be an area where their skills crossed. Sansa had the current information, and knew what could be done and exactly what would have to be sacrificed to make more of each of them. Arya knew their martial value and tradeoffs, and what kinds of enemies each might be best against. Fire was best against wights, but useless against dragons. Scorpions could be used against dragons, but were a waste against wights, and so on.

One thing was clear to both of them. They didn't have enough of anything, and time was short.

When Arya put on the new outfit for the final time, she spoke, "It looks like Father's."

"You look like Father. Like a Stark."

"Thank you, Lady Stark."

************************

Later that week, Arya padded up the ravenry, her steps quiet, but not silent... her Littlefinger step, as she thought of it sometimes. She had spoken with soldiers and lords, with the Master-at-arms and Brienne, with the wil... the Free Folk, and with Sansa. They'd worked out everything they could made, and the best few options could be.

There was no option with a real chance of success that the North and the Vale and the Night's Watch could manage by themselves.

No option that included the Dragon Queen and her armies as they were now would likely succeed either. Arya had spent weeks studying a little bit of every fighting style that the House of Black and White had access to, for even No One needed to know how to act, how to walk, and how to fight enough like whatever face they were wearing to not give away that they were No One and not the face.

The North had few natural resources - what they did have was ice. Lots of ice. Lots of trees. Fresh water in plenty. The best furs in the world, but there were none to spare. The best garron in the world, but no-one else needed them. Silver from the Manderlys, more valuable now that it was clear the Lannisters were conserving their gold for a change for reasons unknown. Beer and ale, of course, thick leather, and other goods, but not enough of what they needed for these wars.

Arya had listened to the Maester as he sent off Sansa's messages long enough. Now, she slipped into the ravenry behind Maester Wolkan, her left hand resting idly on her Valyrian steel dagger, and spoke softly, "If you ever open any message to me, or from me, you will die. If you try to read them in any way, you will die. If you send them to the wrong place, you will die. If you try to use a bird that isn't the best available, you will die. Do you understand what I am telling you?"

The Maester had jumped and spun around before she had spoken her third word, and continued looking at the finely dressed young killer before him while he listened to that deadly voice speak to him, "What? Yes! Yes, I understand!" He'd been the Maester for both Roose and Ramsay Bolton, and whatever those Maesters who stayed at the Citadel might think about his lack of logic, he'd learned to trust his instincts. Those instincts told him that this girl was dangerous, deadly... and completely serious. She'd do it herself, without telling anyone, without any warning, he just knew it. She'd sneak up behind him like she just did and just stab him, right here, or shove him off the tower, or take that Valyrian knife and flay him alive!

The Maester closed his eyes and counted to ten. When he opened his eyes, the killer continued.

"I have five scrolls. I've already put them in cases. Do not open them for any reason. Do not shake them, pull them open, or twist them. Do not let the wax seal be broken for any reason. Do you understand?"

"Yes, my... yes." He'd already been told by Lady Sansa not to call Lady Arya Lady Arya or my lady, or any type of Princess. He wasn't about to ask either one of them why not.

"This one goes to the Sealord's Palace in Braavos, for Qarro. This one goes to the House of Black and White in Braavos, for No One. This one goes to Eastwatch, for Tormund. This one goes to Castle Black, for Edd. This one goes to Sunspear, for Sarella."

She watched carefully as the Maester sent the messages, noting every detail of what was done. She watched the ravens leave, one at a time until they were out of sight. None were shot down, or even shot at.

She'd get the answers soon enough. She knew she'd get answers from Eastwatch and Castle Black, and that the First Sword would provide her the introductions the North needed. Sunspear's answer was for Sansa, who was hoping that Arya being a deadly killer would play well with who they thought was the new Dornish ruler.

What the House of Black and White would say... what Jaqen would say, that she did not know. He'd told her she was truly No One and nodded when she'd announced her true self and intention, but what that meant now... No One would wait, and find out soon enough.

Maester Wolkan shuddered at the utter lack of expression on the girl's face, the stillness of her body, and tended to the ravens until she turned and left, quiet footsteps fading quickly. She sometimes seemed like a frightening, deadly killer of a girl... and then there were the times like this, when she seemed like a statue of the coldest ice come to life, moving without any trace of humanity or emotion. Or, perhaps, she was like no one at all.

************************

Sansa faced her sister in her new chambers after another frustrating meeting with the Lords, noting the brief moment Arya's fingers made the sign for eavesdropper before her sister accused her, "You always liked nice things," and made the sign for truth, "made you feel better than everyone", the sign for lie. She felt herself start to smile as the childish insult amused her now rather than angered her, so she turned to put her papers down and present what Baelish's spy needed to hear as their argument intensified and became political.

Arya turned the argument to Sansa's ambitions, which they both knew were real enough, though not the threat she made them out to be for their unseen audience. The greedy maid down the hall should just be able to make out the voices and pass the argument on to Littlefinger for his coin, keeping him focused on what he sees and hears, just as her training with Brienne showed him that she was one of the deadliest fighters in Westeros. That first impression of her as a fighter appeared to be shaping his perception of her, and he wasn't looking deeper. His thinking she was a warrior foolishly and poorly playing at being a spy would cost him everything, in time.

Meanwhile, Sansa lectured sternly, "Winterfell didn't just fall into our hands, we took it back. And the Mormonts, and the Hornwoods, and the wildlings, and the Vale. All of us," she made the sign for truth, "working together." She made both the signs for truth and lie, while she let her voice turn sarcastic, "Now, I'm sure cutting off heads is very satisfying," she hesitated a moment, and then made the sign for truth, "but that's not the way you get people to work together."

"And if Jon doesn't come back, you'll need their support, so you can work together to give you what you really want," said Arya, making the sign for truth.

"How can you even think such a horrible thing?"

"You're thinking it right now," said Arya as Sansa stood still, "you don't want to be," the sign for truth came from Arya as she continued, "but the thought just won't go away." Sansa reluctantly made the sign for truth.

They had somehow fell into the habit of baring their souls to each other, of not hiding themselves from each other. Neither had the kind of honor their father had learned in the Vale, so there was no censure from the other, no shame, no judgment. They lied to each other every daily, of course, but always made sure the other knew it was a lie.

"I have work to do," said Sansa, her voice rough as she let the pain wash through her. She'd become well acquainted with pain over the past years, physical pain, emotional pain, the pain of hopes destroyed over and over. This pain cut deeper, delivered as it was by her sister, and deeper still given she knew her own mind, her own selfish desires. Yet this pain could be washed away easily enough - Arya was stating painful truths to be hurtful, true, but it wasn't to punish, or to enjoy the pain they cause, or because Arya actually disapproved. Valar Morghulis, after all, as her sister had told her more than once. This was pain caused for a purpose, to serve their family, not to destroy it, and Arya was not judging her, not looking down on her, just speaking truths.

Sansa knew, too, that they could do now what they never could manage as children. Both sisters made a final subtle sign to each other as they parted, the last sign they'd worked out, and the only one not directly required for their plan to work.

The sign for forgiveness.

************************

 

[Epic Reader]

Arya followed Baelish in her own face, even the echo of her Littlefinger step footsteps loud in her ears after being blind for so long during her training, though they would seem quiet to those of normal hearing. Someone where Littlefinger was, she estimated, would be able to hear one step in five. One step in four, if he had exceptional hearing... which it appears he did, at that. What would be a liability in most cases actually make this a little easier and more believable, since she was here specifically so he thought he knew all of what she was doing.

He approached a few people while she watched him in his own face... but when he knew she was out hunting, surveying the new watchtower system, checking on Winter Town or any of the other outlying settlements, planning out the defensive rings or otherwise somewhere he was sure he knew where she was, then he visited other people, left other messages, said other things.

And right now... yes, he was leaving. Well, 'leaving', unless he intended to take a nice easy nap while standing up on the stairs, and he was too soft for that. His footsteps were about as quiet as hers were now, and had she normal hearing, she would have heard them fade away naturally.

So, she took the bait, and noisily and slowly picked the ancient and simplistic lock, then clumsily searched his room, as a warrior without true patience might, her steps even louder now that she was 'safe' from being caught.

She left no traces left for the unobservant, but plenty if he'd left any little traps behind, as she was sure he had. Perhaps he'd not find the tiny piece of dark hair she'd seen fall as she ran her fingers over the mantelpiece where he left it. Perhaps he'd notice the slight alteration to the angle of the cabinet door when she'd closed it. Perhaps something she hadn't even noticed; this type of search, done properly, would take hours of exquisite care.

Still in her own face, she had to hold back a blatant Arya Stark sigh at how blatant Baelish had made the bed covers in the corner, and then she had to hold back from a smirk, since that gave a clue as to his estimation of her skills. The ruffling of the bed covers was so out of place that her 11 year old self would have noticed it!

Checking carefully for any hint of poison or other dangerous trap, she pulled out the raven scroll and exited, planning out how she'll take the bait.

Once back in her workshop, she unrolled the scroll and read the message from her sister to her brother. It wasn't what she expected, but was clearly written before her father died. She'd reclaimed Needle, killed the stable boy, and was living alone on the streets in King's Landing then. Her sister had been unable to flee, held captive by Cersei... as she herself had been held captive by Tywin and the Hound.

No, it wasn't the same, indeed. The Hound had been a good enough captor, helping to teach her how to get by on her own in the world, and generally providing for her as best he could. She would have truly had a worse time after she'd left him to die without his teachings. He'd never beat her except to train her. All good training hurt, every hurt is a lesson, and every lesson makes you better. He'd made her better.

Tywin, too, never beat her. He'd never let others beat her, or put rats against her chest to chew on her, or let his men rape her. He'd taught her in his own way, too, not dismissing her from hearing range during his war councils, not preventing her from reading the maps. Sometimes even asking her questions for a time, or using her as a sounding board for his thoughts. She'd learned every lesson she could of the war between Robb and Tywin, remembered every success and mistake Robb and his men made, and every success and mistake Tywin and his men made.

Sansa, though, was held by Cersei and Joffrey and Meryn Trant. She knew very well what Meryn Trant was, she'd used it to trap him, to cross his name off her list, after all. He would never have taught Sansa anything. Nor would Joffrey, the cowardly little cunt, as the Hound might have said.

Cersei, of course, would have taught Sansa quite a lot, as Tywin had taught her, but Cersei would never have interfered beyond the minimum required to keep a hostage alive.

No, whatever Sansa wrote to Robb, it was little different than when she herself served Tywin and his generals food and drink while they planned to defeat Robb's Northern army.

Arya re-rolled the scroll and 'hid' it in a cabinet under her collection of arrows, as she was sure Littlefinger expected. She then sat and thought of precisely what he expected her to feel, how he expected her to act... and how the face of Angry Distrustful Arya would, in fact, feel and react, for that was the face she'd need to wear when she confronted Sansa with this scroll.

************************

Arya followed Maester Wolkan up to the ravenry, her steps loud and solid, the steps of a warrior, of a great killer of the sword and bow. He'd come to fetch her so she could remove the raven scrolls herself, as he was too wary to so much as touch them. Perhaps he showed some wisdom after all.

Eastwatch and Castle Black had already responded, detailing their collective knowledge of the dead - of wights and White Walkers and how they different, of how fast they moved, of how they attacked, of what paths they liked to take. They'd both sent messengers throughout the North to the farthest Northern holdfasts, villages, and farms. She and Sansa had worked it out together - now that the snow prevented the land from producing food, everything north of Winterfell was to evacuate. They were to do so carefully - everything of real value for surviving either the wars to come, or the long winter to come after, was to be moved first, dependents next, and soldiers last. The far North and the coasts were evacuated first, since both the dead and the fleets of their enemies and possible allies were dangers.

Dorne's response would go to Sansa when it came - after Arya's initial contribution, they expected it to be politics, though Arya or Lady Mormont would be consulted each time, since their outlook was remarkably similar to what the Dornish sand snake Sarella's outlook would likely be, they thought.

When they approached the ravenry, Arya was surprised to see not one or even two ravens, but five, all from Braavos. One from Qarro, three from the House of Black and White, and one from the Iron Bank?

"Thank you, Maester. You may go."

After he'd somewhat hurriedly left, she carefully collected the scrolls. The ones from the House were certainly poisoned in at least three different ways, and she assumed the others were too, and treated them as such. She went back to her workshop, carefully checking each room around her before locking herself in and carefully opening the scrolls.

The First Sword's reply stunned her. He opened by greeting her as the First Sword of Westeros (not, she mused, that she had any competition for the title, being the only Water Dancer in Westeros in the first place). He wished her well, expressed his confidence that she was improving herself as a Water Dancer, and listed a contact at the Arsenal, and several merchants, all of which he had gone to on her behalf already. Weapons, ammunition, tar, pitch, arrows, and components for defenses were all available.

One surprise was that it appeared there were Meereenese merchants with a huge surplus of naval trebuchets they would certainly be willing to sell at a discount! After the Dragon Queen had burned a couple slaver ships and convinced the rest to surrender, she had landed both the weapons and the fiery ammunition to use the ships for transports. To the Meereenese, they were simply taking up space they could better use for other things, and the Dragon Queen's own armies had no interest, since neither Dothraki nor Unsullied used siege engines.

Qarro had consulted the Sealord, too, who had given his approval of trade with the North as long as No One approved as well. Further, if No One assured them that a particular trade was primarily for stopping the army of the dead, then there would be no taxes, no tariffs of any kind. Braavos was the bastard child of Valyria and did not doubt that magic existed, and could be turned to evil ends.

The House of Black and White's missives were next on her list. The first she read had been trapped with Jaqen's favorite poisons.

A woman has always been a poor servant. A god, like a man, does not only want servants. A man once told a girl she had many names on her lips, names she could offer up to the Red God one by one. A woman has been doing so, but not as a servant of the Many-Faced God. A woman learned something that was not taught. A man tried to teach a girl to become No One, and put on the faces, for the faces are as good as poison to someone. A woman instead learned to be someone who could put on No One's face, and then put on the other faces over that.

A woman cannot be a servant of the Many-Faced God, for she does not serve. Yet a woman offers up many deaths to the Many-Faced God, and the Many-Faced God accepts them gladly. The House of Black and White in Braavos has no place for those who do not serve. The Many-Faced God, then, would be well pleased if a woman would don the face of No One when she represents the House of Black and White in Westeros, and accepts those who wish to serve the Many-Faced God in a way that the woman who wears No One's face believes is pleasing to the Many-Faced God, who shows a different face to a woman than is shown to a man.

As a woman cannot serve, a woman must lead. A woman knows the faces of death well.

A woman will know who to give the gift to, who not to, and how to determine which is which.

No One

The second case from the House contained two scrolls. The first listed many, many examples of prices that had been charged for death, and how they had been determined, with explanations of how the means of the requester or set of people requesting the death played in, how the target played in, and how other factors played in. Examples of those attempting to cheat the House were also listed, with the penalties that had been assessed in the past.

The second scroll was for Sansa. Even with the Waif killed by her hand, clearly what she'd told the Waif about her family had been recorded, for the first drawing for Sansa was the exterior plan of a copy of the House itself so that a suitable amount of land could be set aside. The second drawing was a pattern of the hooded robes of a Faceless Man for Sansa to craft for Arya.

The third case held summaries of the latest intelligence available to the House of Black and White across the entire world. There was considerably more detail regarding Slaver's Bay than on other areas. Arya thought that indicated that both they knew she was concerned about the Dragon Queen. and that there had been more names from that area of late than the others. There was also considerable detail on the Golden Company.

The note ended with a both a condemnation that the dead living forever was an affront to the Many-Faced God... and a warning that fighting only the enemy in front of you was a good way to have your name given to the Many-Faced God by being stabbed in the back.

The Iron Bank offered its customary line of credit at its best rates to the House of Black and White in Westeros. The Iron Bank also offered a line of credit to the Kingdom of the North at moderate rates, with one exception. There was a separate line of credit available for the specific purpose of fighting the army of the dead, at extremely preferential rates. Instructions on how to provide a draft on the bank, particularly for international trade, were included.

Arya slipped these messages carefully back into their cases and hid them in her belt. No one could be allowed to find them. She wasn't comfortable with this sudden responsibility, and yet she did want it. She'd not liked the way the House of Black and White in Braavos took jobs - the thin man certainly deserved death, but Lady Crane did not. She could change that here, in her House.

She wanted to discuss her new position with Sansa, who had been put in a similar situation, suddenly responsible for the North. She'd overheard the tale of how Jon put her in charge without warning and left for Dragonstone right after, and Sansa had coped. Arya shrugged slightly, as Jaqen liked to. She couldn't discuss or show anything about the House to Sansa until Littlefinger was gone.

For now, she had work to do - the weather was cloudy but without snow, so she could make good time on a public round of the outer ring of watchtowers, and check on the other defenses. She'd make some detours instead of actually sleeping the night through, and check on the last of Littlefinger's spies that she'd be able to get to.

She'd tell Sansa about the Iron Back link of credit for the North and for the war against the dead first, as well as the list of merchants and wares Qarro had told her about. Sansa would work out the quantities of each they could afford, and how much food was required before they could think about buying gear for war.

They hadn't received a reply from Dragonstone, yet. One of Sansa's ravens had been to Jon, and the other to Tyrion, with detailed lists of what was required to survive and fight in the North in winter. Arya had described the uniforms of the Unsullied and the outfits of the Dothraki, and the climate they were made for. Sansa had drawn up patterns for how to supplement them and the options for types of cloth, leather, and furs that would work. They'd also listed what kind of food was required - men and animals both needed to eat more in the cold, and southrons were perpetually surprised by that. They had sent the information on to Jon and Tyrion with the news that Arya was alive, and were hoping for a response soon.

************************

Sansa crept into Arya's room carefully. Her sister had lied about going to train in the courtyard before she'd stalked off after the last meetings of the day, and there was still a little time before dinner. The invitation was obvious... and the elder sister had been very curious ever since their first conversation, so she'd taken the bait and strode towards her sister's room soon after Arya had vanished. While she was taking the shortest route, if Arya went up a level and over, her sister could easily be there first.

Could be here already.

Sansa strode quickly through the room, trying to open the trunk - no good, locked. Wait. There, half-under the bed, a saddlebag, in open invitation She opened the bag and reached in; that wasn't parchment, it was some sort of thin, soft leather. Pulling the first one out, her face paled, and she felt a shock of fear as she found it was a man's face cured as if for a mummer's mask, and there were more.

The fear was almost comforting, in a way, clean and sharp, putting her on edge. Her sister had told her she wore faces, and with this, she didn't mean it figuratively, she meant it quite literally. She felt the leather, thin, naturally smooth despite the wrinkles... Ramsay had had leather like this. Leather made from human skin he'd flayed off of people. Sansa looked down at an old man's face when she started, interrupted.

"Not what you're looking for?" asked Arya coldly, somehow standing in front of the closed door, making the sign for 'eavesdropper'.

Sansa stood and deliberately brought up the memory of Ramsay stalking towards her with the Bolton flaying knife. She let her fear flow through her as she replied hurriedly, keeping her thoughts on holding a man's face in her hands, not on the sister she was facing, "I have hundreds of men here at Winterfell," the sign for truth, "all loyal to me," and the sign for lie.

They'd each made a practice of identifying loyalty and motives in those around them, taught by painful lessons indeed. They knew their soldiers, those loyal to the Northern Throne, those loyal to the Stark family, those loyal to Jon, those loyal to Arya, those loyal to Sansa... those loyal to their pay, to their food, to the North, to their lord or lady in particular, to Bran, to themselves, to Littlefinger, to Royce, to others.


"They're not here now," said Arya menacingly, running through the subtle signs to indicate she'd identified the last of Baelish's agents and spies that she was going to be able to any time soon. She'd been as far as a week's hard ride on a garron from Winterfell once, and it was time for the final preparation to give the Many-Faced God another name.

Sansa felt her heart racing... it was to be one of those conversations. Her breathing quickened as she deliberately let herself continue the flash of thought that her sister might, in fact, harm her. She'd spent years learning to present what people wanted to see, and then what she needed them to see, and the best way, the only way she had to genuinely fool experts was to genuinely feel what she needed to show in the moment she needed to show it, so she did as the tremulously asked, "What are these?" while making the sign for more.

"My faces," said Arya's words, as her signs indicated 2 for Sansa, 1 for herself, and 2 to kill. Sansa understood this, and underneath her fear felt pleasure that they were working together even now... and, selfishly, that she was getting two spies allocated to her compared to Arya's one. She was also grateful that she could trust her sister now, and grateful her sister clearly returned her trust - Arya was doing more of the allocation of spies than she was, and it was not uncommon for Sansa to get more.

Sansa knew part of that was the means by which Baelish recruited his spies and agents suiting her better than her sister... and part of it was them trusting each other. She knew her sister well enough by this point to realize that killing those they could not turn would please her sister, and being truthful with herself, she was happy to kill their enemies, too.

Dead enemies didn't come back to haunt you. Well, if you burned them, and burning all corpses had been one of the first rulings she'd made once Jon had left her the North.

"Where did you get them?"

"In Braavos, while I was training to be a faceless man," and the sign for lie.

Sansa ignored the hint that Arya had carved them off people here in Westeros, and instead asked the question she'd been wanting to ask for weeks, "What does that mean?"

"Back in Braavos, before I got my first face, there was a game I used to play, the game of faces. It's simple. I ask you a question about yourself, and you try to make lies sound like the truth," the sign for truth, "If you fool me, you win. If I catch a lie, you lose. Let's play."

"I don't want to play," said Sansa as she made the sign for lie. Under her ebbing fear, she wondered how just a game like that could have turned her outspoken, wild sister into the skilled liar she was today. She suppressed pride in her sister, and in herself, as she realized that not only did she and Arya now have some skills in common, but they could actually play a simple game together, as sisters, even while playing a much more serious game with Littlefinger. For all their differences, they had both turned out to be exceptional liars, far from their roots as an outspoken, wild girl-child and the worst liar in King's Landing.

"How do you feel about Jon being king?" asked Arya as she strode around a table... a table with her weapons on it, silently pointing out that she was, apparently, unarmed, and that her questions would be sharp instead of her blades, "Is there someone else you think should rule the North instead of him?"

Sansa enjoyed the slight relief for a moment, then pulled her fear up again, "Those faces, what are they?" She was retreading familiar ground with these questions, which meant she needed to be more strident.

It was time to bait the hook.

"You want to do the asking? Are you sure," asked Arya, "The game of faces didn't turn out so well for the last person who asked me questions," as she made the sign for death.

"Tell me what they are," demanded Sansa, determined to get an answer from her sister, both for herself trying to understand Arya, and for the eavesdropper to report to Littlefinger.

"We both wanted to be other people when we were younger. You wanted to be a Queen, to sit next to a handsome young king on the Iron Throne. I wanted to be a knight, to pick up a sword like Father and go off to battle," said Arya, making the sign for question to Sansa, who replied with the sign for truth.

"Neither of us got to be that other person, did we? The world doesn't just let girls decide what they're going to be," Arya continued as Sansa made the sign for truth again.

"But I can now. With the faces, I can choose, I can become someone else, speak in their voice, live in their skin. I could even become you," continued Arya quietly as she picked up the Valyrian steel dagger their brother had given her. Sansa shuddered; the eavesdropper must be close for Arya to be that quiet, and while that blade hadn't ever cut her, and she hadn't been cut in this room, what Ramsay did was still too near for her to bear easily.

She was a Stark, though, and a load did not have to be easily borne to be borne. Sansa kept her eyes on the edge of the blade as Arya approached, the blade held casually by her side. Sansa stayed focused on the fact that casually by her side was not how Arya held it when she fought, or trained, or whatever it was she did with Brienne.

"I wonder what it would feel like to wear those pretty dresses, to be the Lady of Winterfell. All I'd need to find out... is your face," continued Arya, pausing for a long moment so Littlefinger's whore, acting as a maid and crouching by the door could, if she had good ears, hear Sansa's frightened, rapid breathing.

Sansa made the sign for lie, then the sign for truth, and Arya then flipped the knife around, curling three fingers in and holding it between a finger and thumb only, her right hand making the signs for agreement and forgiveness as she turned and strode to the door once Sansa took it, her footsteps echoing over the frightened escape of the spy.

Sansa looked down at the knife in her hand, then over at the faces, and mastered her fear. That was her sister, another Stark. She knew more of what her sister was, now, and was glad of it. Her sister had a different kind of power. Some of her sister's power was like Brienne's, the power of direct combat at the highest levels. Some of her sister's power was in attacking from stealth, misdirection and deception. Some was doubtless like Littlefinger's, poisons and indirect combat. Some like... Ramsay's... the power of fear, though somehow cleaner and more pure than how Ramsay used fear. Lady Frey had been afraid, yes - but of the act itself, of the swiftness and thoroughness of the retribution, not of 'Lady Winter' in particular.

Each of them would use what skills they had so painfully learned, and they would show what it meant to be the Starks in Winterfell, holding the North.

They were going to be able to take as much of Littlefinger's as they could, now. There was no more reason to delay.

It was time for the end of Petyr's games.

************************

 

[Epic Reader]

Arya left the corpse of Littlefinger's messenger atop the snow, stripped of his clothes and his face, his horse tied up. Both were left for the wolves to feast on; there would be no evidence if anyone came looking. She'd gotten what she wanted from him, and now she needed to make up time. She moved her saddlebags to the garron she had been riding, and mounted the second, bringing both up into a very quick trot. It wasn't quite dawn yet, so she'd bring the horses down to a walk five or six miles before they'd be able to first see her.

Just after noon, she shifted partway out of the shade of the trees, automatically noting the time it took before a horn was blown. The outer ring of watchtowers was only partway completed, as Sansa had to allocate not enough men and women to far too many tasks, and only so many were available for so long to do this work. Arya herself had set the priority, with the North and South towers first, as well as the rule that those clearing the forest were those who were best suited to fight with axes and hammers regardless, so the work could at least pretend to fulfill her brother's rule of training everyone for warfare.

The spotters and archers at the top of the watchtower had better see her soon - four people should be able to watch four directions all the time. A blind Faceless man would have seen her by now at this distance! When she got there, she swore she was going to... there was the horn. Immediately upon hearing the start of the blast, she turned her garron out of the shade entirely to stand still, broadside to the tower while she raised her arms, waving back and forth four times.

Arya watched the tower, and as no second blast rang out, she turned and continued on her journey as the faint call of the next watchtower ring's repeating the signal rang out over the snows. She reminded herself the guards here were new and mostly untrained... still, none of their enemies would care about that any more than No One did. She'd have to talk to Sansa about budgeting for more of those fancy Myrish far-eyes in addition to glass-makers for more glass gardens. While they weren't of any use when visibility was bad, Arya felt there were enough clear times to make it a worthwhile military expense.

She tied up her garron, surveying the men and women working here - all were adults here on the outer ring of watchtowers. The few wil... Free Folk, dressed in a little less than she herself was wearing, while the other Northerners were dressed in about the same as she or a bit more. No Southrons here - they were obvious when they either bundled up as if they were in the Land of Always Winter, or were freezing to death.

Here, in the frozen lands of winter, with the snows three or four feet deep in most places, and twenty feet deep in drifts, she felt like a Stark. These men and women, too, they were Northerners - tough, stubborn, argumentative, and willing to sacrifice of themselves in winter. She could see several of them were older, or had old injuries. Those men and women would, if they survived the army of the dead and made it to the winter to follow, 'go hunting'. It was the death of the Old Gods - freezing to death. A pleasant face of death - one of the most peaceful forms of the gift, in the end.

Soon enough she would provide an alternative for those who wished it. That was her duty as the only priest of the Many-Faced God in all of Westeros. She mused for a moment on this - she had found her role in the world, finally, or perhaps the Many-Faced God had found her. She was Arya Stark of Winterfell, yes. But she also wore No One's face, and when she did she was the representative of Death in the world, here to give the gift by the rules of the House of Black and White of Westeros. She knew the one true god well, and knew deep inside herself what she could and could not change. She sat in the snow, still and without expression, eyes closed and neither cold nor asleep as she planned.

The men and women of the watchtower stayed well away from the King's sister for the hour she sat, still like winter air before a storm. The remaining Starks were very strange, it was true, but they knew the Starks were theirs. No other lands could boast such as their leaders, it was true.

After a time, she put No One's face away, returned to Arya Stark's face, and turned her thoughts to her discussions with Sansa. Her sister's new handmaiden had shown up with carts - more than one - of treasure, so it looks like poor Kitty did a masterful job of looting the Twins. Old Walder liked to check and make sure his damn moron sons weren't stealing anything, so she had a good idea how much it was. She'd heard Kitty was doing well, which pleased her, though Sansa was arranging things so she and Walder's former wife never crossed paths, and she trusted that it was for a good reason. Probably something to do with Littlefinger.

Between that treasure, the lines of credit from the Iron Bank, and the stores her family had made the Northern lords keep, they could feed the North for years. They could also work out some trade and be able to make enough to survive indefinitely... if not for the wars. In Westeros, the Riverlands usually had some food, the Reach always had food, even Dorne might have some, if they could trade for it. The Riverlands were under Lannister control, the Reach was allying with the Dragon Queen, so Dorne and Essos were all they had now.

Worse, Winterfell and Winter town's stores had been looted and burned. Many of the other stores had been spent on Robb's war, and the war had taken valuable workers away at the end of autumn, just when the last harvests needed them the most. They had two to four wars left to fight, back to back or all at once - the war against the dead, the war against Cersei, the war against Daenerys, and the war against Euron.

A concern for when she returned. She stood suddenly and climbed the watchtower, gave three hours of instruction on what to watch for and archery, then climbed down. It was a calculated risk - these men and women were stationed out here for at least a year, so it was doubtful Littlefinger would hear any of this, but it was possible... on the other hand, his days were numbered.

The logging crew was doing well - trees were being felled quickly, roughly stripped of major branches, and a few made into rough-cut sleds. The rest of the lumber was bundled onto the sleds for the convoys going south to White Harbor in anticipation of trade. Arya pointed out a few prime trees, good for masts, and one tree the crew thought was prime that had a flaw which would crack a mast... Salty had learned much about ships, and had seen a cracked mast once in port, being repaired.

She spent another three hours training them on purely fighting axe skills, modified based on what she'd learned from the Free Folk at Winterfell and had the Free Folk here tell the others as much as they could. She went over basic tactics, the warning signals with the horn, and their preparations - everything must be ready all the time. The first scorpion would be mounted atop the watchtower in a few days, and the second hidden nearby in a few weeks when it was ready.

Night had fallen, and she'd spent enough time with this crew to know they were safe to sleep around, so she lay down with her garron to take a few hours nap. She'd wake at the hour of the eel, make one last check of the pathetically narrow, shallow moat of pitch surrounding the camp, and continue on.

In winter wars, there was no time to waste.

************************

Sansa handed Lady Frey the raven scroll she'd finished to roll up, encase and seal while Sansa herself started on another. The Lady of the Crossing had turned out to be a pleasant companion, and willing to do anything to help out. Sometimes Sansa wondered just what had happened at the Twins, but never for long; she'd be able to ask her sister soon, after Baelish was gone.

Carefully doing the sums, Sansa showed no sign of the frown she felt inside. A ruler of multiple kingdoms should have a Master of Coin to do much of this work, and other Small Council members to do other work. Instead, Jon had naught but a Hand skilled at convincing strangers, and Jon had taken that very Hand with him, leaving Sansa to handle the North by herself.

Not entirely by herself, now, she reminded herself. Arya had taken on the military side of the logistics entirely, simply delivering summaries to Sansa regularly. Her sister had also given her some raven scrolls, and an hours long briefing on the various trade goods in Essos, what a ship could hold, travel times... enough that she and Brienne could plan while Arya went out to inspect the defenses and do whatever it was she was doing to trap Lord Baelish.

"Lady Stark, Maester Wolkan is here to see you."

Sansa straightened herself slightly, pulling a much more innocent set of papers over the trade plans she was actually working on, then glanced at Lady Frey, who had flipped Sansa's current sewing project over, before speaking in her typical calm voice, "Send him in."

Maester Wolkan entered, looking around a little nervously before he relaxed. With only the three Ladies present, he wasn't worried, even delivering bad news like this. King Snow was a good man, but Arya Stark scared him as much as Roose Bolton had. Lord Baelish was one of the most dangerous men in the Seven Kingdoms, and the less he thought about Lord Bran, the better.

"My lady, I am sorry, but I have received ravens for you. The Archmaesters at the Citadel have received Bran Stark's raven, but the only action they are taking is to request further information. There is no warning going out, and they are not doing research of their own. I'm sorry, my lady. Those Maesters who stay at the Citadel do not always understand what it's like to live in the real world."

Sansa shrugged slightly, "As I expected. People aren't willing to see what they don't already expect to see unless it's of clear benefit to them. Those hidden away behind thick walls and layers of servants even less so, until it attacks them personally."

She smirked internally, her face placid as she briefly thought on how she and Arya were closing in on Littlefinger, and how, as far as they could tell, he had no idea whatsoever... and would not, right until they attacked him. Personally. It would be soon - she'd given Arya approval to talk to Lord Royce. She didn't trust him to be able to keep from asking questions where Baelish's spies could hear for very long, but he wouldn't give any sign of what he learned, as long as she confirmed Arya's words.

Maester Wolkan continued heavily, "You also have a report from the South, my lady. Lord Jamie and Lord Tarly attacked Lord Tyrell, and sacked Highgarden of both gold and food stores. Lady Olenna is dead, along with the rest of the Tyrell family."

"Cersei... she has an Iron Bank debt that needs payment, badly, and without Casterly Rock's gold, she needed another source. She got the gold, is now prepared for a siege, has a new, powerful ally, and eliminated both her own enemy and turned an ally of the Targaryens to her own ally," said Sansa, her voice colored with rueful admiration for a bold, successful move by her enemy.

Maester Wolkan shifted uncomfortably, "Forgive me, Lady Stark, but there is another part to the message, written later, though before the agent was able to send a raven. Lady Targaryen sent her Dothraki to attack the supply train at the Blackwater Rush, as well as attacking herself on one of her dragons. It is certain that a large part of the gold had already made it to King's Landing, perhaps all of it, but the food stocks were destroyed by dragonfire, as well as thousands of Lannister and Tarly troops by her cavalry. Lord Tarly and his son were killed afterwards, by dragonfire, as they would not bend the knee, and the Targaryen would accept nothing less. There is no word of your brother."

Sansa narrowed her eyes in careful thought even as Lady Frey gasped in shock and horror at the loss of life. Arya had lectured her on the strengths and weaknesses of the Dothraki, raiders of the Grass Sea, and on the strengths and weaknesses of dragons. Clearly, Cersei's forces had not been properly prepared, nor have they found a good Master of Whisperers yet. Or, perhaps, they were desperate. Arya would do the specific military analysis when she returned and they could learn what Bran saw.

For now, Sansa considered carefully. Kings Landing had the same amount of food that it had before, but less mouths to feed with the deaths of the Lannister soldiers and removal of their short-lived Reach allies. Cersei was in a better position for a siege and for winter, and a worse one for attacking the North. The gold had made it, so the Iron Bank would play no favorites, no more than they were already. The North's own treasure, supplied primarily by Lady Frey, was secure, and their own freshly forged ties to the Iron Bank unchanged.

The Targaryen was in a better position to attack anywhere... but she'd lost a strong ally in Lady Olenna, and replaced her with weak allies borne of fear. Her Dothraki, too, would make her no friends, even if they were perfectly behaved by Westerosi standards. Arya had assured her that if left unchecked they would be as bad as when Lord Tywin unleashed the Mountain on the Riverlands, and Arya had described scene after scene of that in hellish detail.

Sansa spoke quietly and calmly, "Maester Wolkan, thank you. Please send a reply and see if an estimate of how much food is left in the South, now that the Reach has lost theirs. A large part of the South depends on food from Highgarden and their vassals, ex-vassals, and if too much of that was burned, they're going to learn what winter is truly like even without the army of the dead. That will make them desperate, which I need to know about as soon as possible without endangering any of our agents."

Maester Wolkan smiled a little, happy to be able to deliver good news as well, and hoped it made the Lady of Winterfell happier with him, "There is one more raven, my lady. Lord Manderly reports the first shipment of dragonglass has arrived. As you had instructed, two barrels stay in White Harbor, half the rest is continuing north to Eastwatch, and the remainder is on its way here by the fastest sled teams available."

At Lady Stark's polite thanks and dismissal, the Maester bowed and left the ladies, who waited for Brienne to re-lock the door before uncovering their previous work.

Sansa reached out to put a hand on Lady Frey's shoulder, "Do you want to go to the kitchens and have some bread to settle yourself? You seem uncomfortable."

The Lady of the Crossing looked up at Lady Stark, marveling at how composed she was, at how quick to react and how certain in her response. She was of an age with Sansa, and yet felt younger - the Starks were truly a different breed than the Riverlanders she'd grown up with, harsher and colder, but willing to take her in after what her family had done. Lady Sansa was gentle and soft-spoken with others, though she had a sharp tongue in private, constantly focused on the North and their allies. Lord Bran was cold, creepy - the Three-Eyed Raven, he called himself.

She hadn't seen the younger sister, but the rumors she'd overheard... almost as strange as Lord Bran, though in the North women warriors were apparently welcome. Lady Brienne wasn't scoffed at, here, and Lady Mormont was an imposing, if tiny, figure. If any woman in her husband's domain had dared to do what they did... well, none had.

They all had such strength... she just had to find her own.

"I'm all right, Lady Sansa. I don't need anything"

Sansa set her papers aside and picked up her new sewing project, turning it over and picking up a strong needle and white thread, "Very well. Thank you again, Lady Frey, for coming North and bringing the treasure you did. I cannot express how grateful King Jon and I are for both your generosity and your willingness to help me here. If you do need a moment, or need to talk about it, I have time."

"You're very welcome, my lady. It was the least I can do after what my husband did. What do you need of me?"

"Take these messages to the finished pile, and tell me how the Free Folk are doing, if there are any complaints about them, and if we've asked every one of them about their wargs, experts on the dead, and dragonglass craftsmen yet."

Lady Frey picked up the messages Lady Sansa was done with, wincing from her sore muscles as she stood to put them aside until it was time to send them. She was in the North herself, now, and in the North, every man, woman, boy, and girl trained to fight, and they trained hard. She just wished it wasn't so cold.

"Of course, my lady. I'll start at Winterfell and work outward, as usual. We have found..."

************************

Lord Royce stood still, hidden behind a small hillock, listening as the sounds of the mounted knights came closer. Lady Stark had come to him just after an argument with her sister, and asked him to send a letter to the other Vale lords. As she passed the letter over, she had very quietly instructed him to be at this place, at this time, under the pretense of checking on some of the Vale forces outlying Winterfell.

He respected Lady Stark - she'd come a long way from his first glimpses of her in the Eyrie, and he'd come to realize that even then those glimpses had shown only the tip of the mountain, not the richness hidden in the valleys beneath. Her sister was a terrifying girl - he knew Brienne was an incredible swordsman... woman, the equal of the best he'd ever seen. And then came Lady Stark's sister, many years younger, a tiny little thing, vanished for years, and Brienne's equal in single combat in that foreign style of hers. Jamie Lannister was the last person he'd seen to be so skilled, so young.

Terrifying, too - she'd often just stand there, her face as if carved from ice, staring ahead. She was never surprised, never caught off-guard, and ghosted through the castle. The rumors of her being a Faceless Man had seemed ridiculous, like the stories of snarks and grumkins... then he'd seen her watching him, once, her eyes as empty as if she were the Stranger himself. Just then, he'd remembered that the Night King was real, Wildling wargs were real and here to help Jon Snow, and Lord Bran had visions, true ones. A Faceless Man... he could believe that, now.

It scared him. Lady Arya - not that Lady Stark allowed anyone to call her that - sometimes was heard to argue with Lady Stark, and it was getting more vicious. Sisters often had their differences, and brothers too, but to argue like that where it could be heard by a passing servant? Clearly what he'd heard about Arya when she was young was true. What would that mean now?

Other times, she seemed different. A few times he had seen Arya laughing and japing with the guards and servants in the stables or kitchens. The younger Stark woman almost seemed like a different person at times - it puzzled him. Then again, it wasn't his place to say, or to judge. He was here to support Lady Stark, to fight for the living, and to represent the Vale as best he could while that scum Littlefinger was pulling young Robin's strings.

He stepped out of the shadow when the four knights were almost to him and hailed them, "Hold there, men. I need to see the messages you carry."

They all looked at each other oddly, and he placed his hand on his sword hilt, "Show me the messages, Ser Robert." They were far from the best of the knights of the Vale, but four to one with them mounted were poor odds indeed.

Ser Robert and the others drew their swords, and he drew his, slashing at Ser Robert's horse, unseating the traitor as he stepped around towards the oth... Lord Royce watched as Ser Bradley sidestepped his horse as he drew with his characteristic swirling flourish, but faster than he'd ever seen before. That very flourish, combined with the sidestep neatly decapitated Ser Mandon and then turned into a unusual thrust into the back of Ser Hugo's neck, quick as a snake. He'd seen that thrust and that speed before, from Lady Arya, when sparring with Lady Brienne.

Ser Bradley began cleaning his sword, his body language suddenly shifting to be cold and still, without any wasted motion, or pretense of emotion. He spoke in a flat tone, "If you'd like to ask Ser Robert some questions, read the messages, and carefully inspect the contents of the secret compartment in Ser Mandon's saddlebags, I'm sure we'll be able to have a more productive conversation. If you want to be sure, the next time you see my sister, she'll step forward with her left foot and use her right hand to brush her hair back. Her thumb will be curled in as she does so."

Lord Royce suppressed a shiver. He knew very well he wouldn't be able to survive fighting her... him... the Faceless Man before him.

"The secret compartment contains a diluted poison, intended for my cousin Robin, to keep him from being a threat to Littlefinger. Ser Robert knows the dosing... don't you, Ser Robert? I promise I'll send you to the Many-Faced God painlessly if you answer fully and truthfully."

Lord Royce began to ask questions.

************************

 

[Epic Reader]

Arya inspected the two guards outside Bran's room. One was loyal to Bran in particular, the other to the Starks as a whole. They still weren't very good, but they were at least attentive and serious - with Littlefinger still alive, she couldn't train them properly, but they were good enough for her to visit. She strode into Bran's room, smiling briefly at Sansa as she closed and barred the door, and then sat beside her sister in the dark shadows in the corner where they usually sat, far from the fire, warmed only by the hot water flowing through the walls. They were Starks of Winterfell, and the castle needed no hearths to be comfortable to them.

This corner happened to be quite dark, out of line of sight of any eavesdropper at the keyhole, and for some reason, the water flow here was much louder than normal, masking soft voices. A skilled eavesdropper could still make them out, but they could speak without the Northern lords hearing, at least.

Arya enjoyed the darkness, using the sound of water to train her hearing and other senses further, while Sansa could relax just a bit even with Brienne away. When she was protected by her sister, sitting with her brother, her flashbacks to Ramsay were fewer, shorter, and weaker... and she didn't have to hide them.

Bran's chair was before them, far from the fire as they listened to Bran speak. Sansa thought his voice was nearly as dead as Arya's when she was being a Faceless Man. Sometimes she mourned the man he could have been if he hadn't gone beyond the wall, if he'd grown up to be the knight he'd wanted to be. Even then, though, she knew very well that he'd almost certainly have been killed - climbing was his skill, not fighting. Arya and Jon had been the most skilled of all of them for their ages, better than Robb, better than Theon. And now, with the wars happening, without the Three-Eyed Raven, they would never have had the knowledge they needed to survive.

"The Dothraki galloped forward, covering the land, in no formation. The Lannisters and the Tarlys formed a single line of shields, with a single line of archers behind. Daenerys rode Drogon directly over the Dothraki, about twenty yards over the ground. Drogon's wingspan is about fifty yards. The archers did not fire. Daenerys said 'dracarys', and Drogon breathed orange fire, burned them. She turned Drogon along the road, burned the wagons. They were full of food. There was only one wagon full of gold, in the middle. Jamie Lannister gathered two dozen archers in formation. When they loosed at a hundred and twenty yards, Drogon turned. The arrows bounced off his chest. They had one scorpion in a covered wagon, hidden. Bronn loosed, missed, Drogon circled. Bronn reloaded, loosed again, hit Drogon in the wing. Drogon landed, still able to breathe fire and fight. Jamie charged him. Bronn saved Jamie from being burned alive, threw him in the river, went underwater."

Arya rested her hand on Sansa's knee, hidden in the shadows as they were, with loyal guards at the door and no secret passages around, above, or below the room Bran had chosen. She knew her sister often had a hard time hearing Bran. Arya herself, well, she knew she wasn't quite what she had once been, either, being both more and less now, changing depending on which face she was wearing, even only in her mind.

Arya thought back to Harrenhal, to the damage the castle had, and to the many lessons she'd learned from Tywin. She spoke, quietly, matching Bran's lack of inflection, "Describe the fire. How long was each breath, how long was it, how wide?"

The Three-Eyed Raven, who remembered everything he'd ever seen, closed his eyes and spoke, "Drogon was sixty to eighty yards away when he fired. The fire was narrow. When it hit the road, it spread out to be a little wider than the Rose Road. It was hot - men in the middle were turned to ash. It lasted three to eight seconds per breath."

"And the river, what happened to it? To Jamie and Bronn, underwater?"

"Nothing happened to the river. They came up and left."

Arya narrowed her eyes, "They weren't scalded?"

"No."

Sansa looked at her sister, "What are you saying?"

"Harrenhal's towers were melted like a candle in a torch's flame, but unevenly. A few seconds of flame that doesn't heat a river enough to scald can't do that without taking quite a long time. Birds can't spend a long time like that, but flies can. Can dragons hover? Does Daenerys hover?"

Sansa smiled, remembering when they had been children. Mother had not been happy with Arya's 'clever' solution to lighting dozens of candles for a feast more quickly... by using a larger flame to do so. That memory warmed her - memories of Arya and Jon that she cherished today were many, but much fewer were the memories of them she had appreciated when she was a child herself. Those memories she could enjoy without any regret whatsoever.

"Yes. Yes, sometimes, but not often," said Bran quietly after a moment.

"Can you write up a list of count of men each Lannister and Tarly lord lost, Bran?"

"Yes. I'm the three-eyed raven, now, Arya. I've told you that forty-three times," he said, the faintest shadow of his old smile on his face for barely an instant. Sansa reached out to smack her brother lightly on the shoulder with a smile as she saw that change in his expression. Her sister had managed to do what she herself could not, and started to get a hint of reactions from Bran, and she was grateful for it.

"Thank you, Bran. I'm going to ignore that for the forty-third time - you're our brother," Arya said, smiling with shades of both sadness and hope. Bran's face had completely changed, it was true, but so had her own. The difference between them was that she'd learned to put the face of No One on and off when she needed to, she'd been trained to become another face, and then take it off, after. Bran, perhaps, needed to be shown how to take his new face off again, or at the least to put his own face back on. He was connected deeply to the weirwood face of her god, so he would never manage more faces than that... but she would help him regain his own face as best she could.

She continued, "What about the trade ships?"

"The ships from Braavos are nearly to White Harbor, with cargo and guests. The first mate says he's going to see Salty again. A set of sleds are ready on the White Knife, and another set for overland. There aren't enough horses for all of them. One ship from Myr is coming, very fast. The Meereenese ships are slower, but coming. They took their payment from the Iron Bank already. Dorne is sending two ships, one with food and one with yew bows and fletched arrows without heads," said Bran, his voice flat again.

Sansa spoke to Arya, "I'll send a raven to Barrowton for more horses, any that are trained enough to move sleds at all will help. Who is Salty?"

"Thank you, Sansa. Salty is the name I used on the ship to Braavos - she learned the names of every crew member, and as much about seafaring as she could. Now, the two most important things in a long war are useful knowledge and transportation. That's how Robb captured Jamie, you know - he fooled Tywin's scouts, led the main army astray. We're gaining the intelligence, now, but we have to get the supplies and people to the places that matter in time for them to matter. Those arrows will help, too - we can produce a lot more if we're simply making and attaching dragonglass heads and truing them."

Arya squeezed Sansa's knee. She'd heard enough now on the military situation around the world, fleets and armies both, and on their trade. It was her sister's turn, now, to cover the other important aspects they needed to know, the first of which would doubtless be Jon.

Sansa spoke now, "What about Jon? Is he still with Daenerys on Dragonstone?"

"No. He, Davos, and Gendry have arrived at Eastwatch. You'll get the raven later today."

Sansa smiled, deep in the shadows of Bran's room. The Starks would be together again, soon enough, but the King did need to see the men and women defending the North, even before family - the Stark blood was stronger, after all, than her own Tully blood, and winter was here.

The elder sister said, "Did our dragonglass get there before he did? Were there weapons ready? And who is this Gendry?"

Arya visualized the map in her head, travel times and elapsed time simple enough, and spoke up quietly, "Yes, our dragonglass must have been there first. They should have had enough time for their Free Folk dragonglass craftsmen to start on the arms before Jon arrived. Gendry is someone I traveled with from King's Landing to Harrenhal, and after. Did the Red Woman kill him and bring him back?"

Bran spoke up, "He's King Robert's bastard. He never died - Davos freed him before she could."

Sansa peered at her sister with exaggerated interest, her voice still quiet, "So... Gendry, hmm? Did you.. like... him?"

Arya shoved at Sansa lightly, "He was a friend when I was alone, along with Hot Pie and Lommy. I told him he could be my family, but he chose the Brotherhood without Banners, he chose Thoros and Beric and the others, and they sold him to the Red Woman. I thought he died. Hurry, now - we don't have time for memories."

"If he was a friend of yours, I'm glad he lived, whether or not King Robert was his father. Bran, how is the Faith of the Seven doing?"

"They are trying to recover, but Cersei isn't allowing the Faith Militant to exist anymore. The Sparrows are not recovering. The outlying Septons do well where they work to help the people."

Arya was silent for a moment, focusing fully on all her senses, then asked quietly, just at the limit of Sansa's hearing, "Why do you care about the Seven? You don't believe in the gods anymore, just magic, and certainly not the Seven."

Sansa leaned in, murmuring quietly - Arya swatted at her every time she tried to whisper, "The Faith and the Crown are the two pillars on which the world rests, Cersei once told me, though she meant only the Seven Kingdoms and the Iron Throne. She tried to use the Faith herself, and then started its destruction when it did not act as she wished. She has an iron grip on the Crown, but only where her armies reach. The Faith cannot be allowed to regain the power to support the Iron Throne again, and thus we have to watch it, and work to prevent it."

Arya replied in that same barely-audible tone, "That won't be a problem. You handle their politics, and I'll handle their faith - that face of the Many-Faced God provides no power, sends no miracles, uses no magic. For that religion, it's only the people and their belief that matter."

"You're going to have to show us your magic someday, little sister."

"I can't tell who you are or where you are when you use it," said Bran.

"Soon," replied Arya with a smirk. She hadn't known Bran couldn't see her when she wore her faces, but that when he said it, it seemed right. The Many-Faced God gave that gift to hide No One, and the Faceless Man had started deep in the slave mines of Valyria, who depended on magic. The Faceless Men have given the gift all over the world - to all kinds of people. Priests and priestesses of the Red God, sorcerers, dragon-riders, dragons, giants, Children of the Forest, wargs, greenseers, and others. It felt right, that the greatest single magic of the Faceless Men, whose only purpose was to disguise the priest using it, was able to do so against any of the other magics of the world.

"It had better be. Have any of the Targaryen forces begun equipping themselves for the cold?"

"Yes. Some of the Unsullied and Dothraki have been given new uniforms. The Dothraki are nearly refusing to even try them on. They're using wool and thick cotton."

"Cotton? Tyrion went to the Wall, he should know better. I'll send another raven. They can wear them or freeze to death, but we should at least warn them if they come to assist us. Who do we have that knows Dothraki?"

"I know enough to get by, and I know enough about their culture to know how to phrase it. Remember, the Dothraki are like even more savage Iron Islanders - you need to bare your fangs to them, Sansa. Your pretty courtesies will be taken only for weakness, and Dothraki hate the weak."

"Thank you for the lesson, Arya," said Sansa as she smirked, poking her sister in the side, "I'll leave the Dothraki to you and Lady Mormont, then. Bran, what's happening in the Reach?"

************************

Arya watched Lady Mormont and her house very carefully as her sister greeted the lady and her Maester with bread and salt, welcoming them into Winterfell. The girl reminded her of herself as she had wished to be when she was that age - a fierce warrior, ruling a demesne, trained to lead her bannermen in a fight. Arya had time to watch - Littlefinger had stayed in his rooms in the castle tonight, and guest right was sacred.

Much more interesting right now was how Lady Mormont's house had arrived. The Umbers had arrived in a big group, and the Glovers had arrived in a long column like the armies that the Targaryens had butchered, but the Mormonts... they arrived in three main groups of sleds with a wide ring of mounted scouts around them and each group had a sled with an empty post in the middle, a dozen scorpion bolts, two dozen pieces of shot, some barrels with pitch stains, and the framework for a scorpion awaiting the critical pieces. They were all well armed, the dependents were in the center with the supplies, dragonglass had been distributed to all, and while they had only a score of veteran soldiers, quite a few smallfolk looked very comfortable with their spears and bows, with the rest of the smallfolk having spears, longswords, and crossbows.

Arya strode down the stairs and headed out to meet up with her sister. Not for the last time, she wished Brienne was still here. She couldn't be certain without testing it, but she knew Brienne was one of the deadliest fighters in Westeros, and she thought that Brienne might have the true seeing, and her sister would need that. But needs must, and even if Sansa would ever leave the North again, she would never go south of the Riverlands, and Jon was going to the parley and still wanted another representative of the North.

As the smaller Stark sister approached them, the even smaller Lady looked her over without fear, clearly assessing her weapons, outfit, and skills. Arya maintained her water dancer walk, light and if it had been on stone instead of snow, loud, enjoying how the girl was clearly attempting, and failing, to place exactly what fighting style produces a walk like hers.

"Is this your sister?" asked the small bear bluntly.

Sansa turned to look at Arya without so much as glancing at any of the other people in the courtyard. The game they were playing was very difficult and deadly now, like dancing on the blade of a knife. Brienne was gone, so they had one less buffer for Littlefinger's spies. On the other hand, Brienne was, quite rightly, beginning to suspect too many things, and she hadn't learned to be a liar capable of fooling Littlefinger or his better spies.

Sansa put on an expression of hidden irritation masking even more hidden fear underlying her professional Lady of Winterfell face, calling up the appropriate memories to aid in her lie, "This is indeed my sister, Arya Stark, returned to us after training across the Narrow Sea. It is her contacts in Essos that are selling us the parts and flaming ammunition for the scorpions, and she has been handling all the logistics and training plans for our banners. Arya, this is Lady Mormont. Her troops will be next to the Umber camp, on the opposite side of the Glover camp."

Arya nodded briefly, getting straight to the point, "Have your scorpion sleds brought to the armory tomorrow morning for weapons fitting and an additional issue of dragonglass. The craftsmen will take your scorpion frames and fit you with one fully completed scorpion. We'll provide the other two scorpions after the Braavosi caravan arrives. Tell me, why did you alter the scorpion design?"

Lady Mormont raised her voice and called a girl and a young boy over to show their crossbows to the younger Stark sister, the girl's first, "These are winch-wound, like the scorpions. The original design is like this one, quicker to winch, quicker to fire, but it requires more strength. Now see this one. Maester?"

The Mormont Maester pointed to the winding mechanism, "The changes made for Liam's design use the principles of leverage to make it just as powerful as the previous design even while requiring less force. Naturally, they take longer to winch, but these allow Bear Island to put every skilled man and woman on the field, using the very old and young to man the scorpions and use the crossbows."

"When can your men train with us?" asked Arya.

Lyanna held up a hand to stop her Maester's attempt at giving advice in its tracks and spoke without hesitation, "We have traveled from Bear Island with as little rest as we could. We are not at our best, but our enemies would rather attack when we are weak than when we are strong. The men and women of Bear Island do not submit because we are tired or hungry! We will train now."

Arya considered the girl she'd heard so much about, and clearly a girl with the disposition to lead who had worked hard to do so as a child... and who was doing better than Arya herself had at her age. She'd listened to Syrio, yes, but hadn't led anyone until she had led Gendry and Hot Pie into the Brotherhood's hands. The girl wasn't a politician like Sansa, or a killer like she herself was, but was perhaps the greatest example of a truly Northern leader she'd seen yet.

Sansa, too, both respected and approved of the young girl, counting her as a solid political ally of the Starks, as fierce a Northerner as any, and as both cunning and clever. Lyanna had lost the rest of her family, believing herself the last Mormont, just as they had each thought they might be the last Stark. Lady Mormont's pain had only made her stronger, just as their own pain had made them stronger.

Arya turned her head to look at Sansa's moderately well hidden polite boredom and made the signs for learn and recruit, a combination that had come to mean see if someone was worth recruiting. Upon receiving Sansa's response, she sniffed slightly and turned her back on her sister, listening to her walk away with her guards as Arya pointed at what appeared to be the most tired group of Bear Islanders, "Bring that entire group out to where the Hornwoods are camped, then turn northeast and continue just as you traveled here. Your scorpion crew will pretend they have a working scorpion, and everyone is to be careful to do no more than bruise. Any fighters who aren't skilled enough for that with their training weapons will call out their actions without making them - this training is in working together and tactics, not in individual fighting. I will watch and judge who is injured and dead."

Arya turned and jogged over to the gate, giving instructions that resulted in a pattern of drumbeats from atop the wall, and then a repeat of it from much further away a few seconds later. She mounted her garron and rode down to observe how the islanders reacted to the discontent imposed by expecting food and rest by a fire, and instead being turned around and sent out immediately, not for an attack, but for so-called training by a girl who hadn't been in the North for years.

As Tywin had said, this was war. No one was content in war.

She observed the entire exercise of fake wights and white walkers attacking, listening and watching. The veterans were quite impressive, but they weren't who she was here to evaluate. It was the smallfolk that truly impressed her, not because they had suddenly become as good as a passable warrior like Pod, because Pod would have killed them, one on one. It was because they fought within their strengths, because they planned to fight within their strengths, and because they were led to cover their weaknesses. The scorpion team had two winching teams of the eldest and youngest who would be of little use on the field, and the teams traded off since they tired so quickly.

Lady Mormont stayed near to her scorpion and her archers, directing the scorpion fire herself while giving broader instructions to the leader of the archers and crossbowmen. Overall, they had a solid system set up and plans to deal with both wight mammoths and wight giants. While Arya could see some changes that should be made in general, and the entire setup was clearly designed to combat the army of the dead rather than their other possible enemies, it was impressive.

Best of all, there was no pretense of honor or hope of glory crippling it or weakening it. What Lyanna Mormont had forged was a system designed to bring death, true death, to their enemies as well as they could with what they had. This wasn't some tournament, or combat for reputation and political points, this was a war for survival. Scorpion and ballista bolts, flaming shot, crossbows, poison, burning moats, wildfire, the faces of death were many, and all had their place now.

Sansa had a better eye than she knew when she had noted the small girl for recruitment, but Arya had first dibs for the war. Arya ended the exercise, judging it a costly Bear Island victory against overwhelming odds - they had fought off three waves of Free Folk and Glovers pretending to be the dead with increasing numbers of wights and White Walkers and increasing speed and intelligence. They'd made many mistakes, but had recovered and learned from each of them - not just the Lady, but the soldiers and even smallfolk as well.

Arya spoke, her own voice carrying clearly to the exhausted islanders, "Come back to camp. You fought well, all of you, and will all have a place in the Great Hall tonight. We don't have a feast, but we'll have stew and ale and hot, fresh bread. You should be proud of your house - you've done better at this exercise than any other group so far," said Arya, then turned to face the men and women, boys and girls of Bear Island, raising her voice for effect as Lady Crane had on stage.

"You have all done better than any other group. You work together well, use the right weapons on the right targets, reload quickly. Releasing your skilled hunters to loose arrows and throw spears at the enemies that might overwhelm your lines is excellent, and will be needed when we are attacked. You came a long way, were directed directly into this training, and still gave it all your effort. You are all a great credit to the North, and to your Lady."

Lady Mormont nodded curtly, "An islander is worth 10 mainlanders, and everyone on Bear Island has worked as hard as any ten men to be ready for the dead."

"Lady Mormont, you are invited to join us at the Stark table tonight to discuss your trip and our preparations. Bring along your steward and Justin. Sansa will go over the supplies during the meal, and after dinner, you, Justin, and I will discuss the military situation," said Arya, using just enough of her sister's courtesies to avoid simply ordering Lyanna and her scorpion commander around. Sansa was the diplomat of the family, while Arya knew herself to be the great killer. This was wartime, a time for great killing, and until Jon was done putting Eastwatch to rights and returned, she was in charge of the military. That said, the little Mormont was shockingly straightforward herself, even for a Northerner.

"We'll be there," said Lady Mormont in her clear, serious voice with a small nod before turning and directing her people back immediately, wasting no time and no words.

They would have great need of leaders, and after dinner, Arya would offer the small girl overall command of all the siege engines of the combined army. She couldn't do everything herself, and she could clearly see that she would have other pressing needs soon enough, both in her own face and in No One's face. Others would need to handle the army, and she would not make the Lannister mistake of appointing people with the right name even when they were incompetent.

The North and the Vale had never used large numbers of crossbowmen and siege engines before, but if they were to fight hundreds of thousands of the dead, including giants and mammoths, they would need all they had and more. They would need leaders without preconceptions, leaders who were willing to study and learn, leaders who wouldn't slack off and complain about benefiting from some sleep when there was no time to waste.

Later, when the younger sister made the offer, Lady Mormont accepted, and spent until the hour of the owl meeting with her new subordinates, being trained on her new duties and tactics by Arya and the various siege engine unit commanders.

************************

 

[Epic Reader]

Sansa stood atop the battlements, looking out at the growing host of all the houses of the North, alongside their Free Folk allies and the growing hosts of Vale forces. The first shipment of supplies from Braavos was almost here, along with whatever mysterious 'guests' Bran wasn't telling them any more about. She was glad Bran was back, truly, and his visions were invaluable, but the Three-Eyed Raven was a pain to deal with. Glimpses here, glimpses there, and then back to the Night King.

She'd seen Baelish heading back from Winter Town, and on her morning rounds of the castle she'd asked the one gate guard loyal to Baelish himself on duty to bring Littlefinger directly to the Great Hall when he arrived. She remembered the instructions she'd given Lady Frey this morning, and suppressed a smirk.

That memory led to the memory of her conversation with Baelish last night. His trying to lead her to believe Arya was going to murder her to wear her pretty dresses and be Lady of Winterfell had been almost more amusing than anything else. Arya didn't want political power to keep herself and the North safe - that was what she herself wanted. Arya didn't want to wear pretty dresses and be admired for her beauty - that was what she herself had wanted as a stupid little girl, true, and part of what Brienne wanted as well, but never her sister. Never mind that while she didn't fully understand Faceless Men, she was quite certain that her sister wouldn't need an elaborate charade to murder anyone, though, it's true, she might enjoy the drama.

More concerning was the raven from Jon that he'd bent the knee to the Targaryens. She and Arya and Bran had all been working for months to prepare for the wars and for the winter after. They had all been working together to survive, all the houses of the North, and the Vale, and the tribes of Free Folk, and even others in Dorne and Braavos and Myr, and Jon threw it away without so much as consulting her!

And for what? Southron spearmen without a clue as to how to survive in the snow? Hordes of savages famous for slaving, raping, and pillaging on their grasslands horses? Dragonglass they were already getting? Another shipment had arrived just before the raven from Jon's ship, and they had used their Iron Bank line of credit to hire sellsail traders go to Asshai and purchase dragonglass there, as well as others to find dragonglass in Valyria and elsewhere Bran had seen it.

The wealth the Lady of the Crossing had brought was disappearing like wine at a Lannister reunion.

Three dragons, yes, but the reports Arya had brought from Essos were that those very dragons were wild and uncontrolled, eating whatever meat they found, including at least one little shepard girl. Daenerys Targaryen had apparently locked up only two of the three dragons after that, for a time, but then let them loose later. They were fearsome, to be true, but without a rider they were far less of a threat, not even trained like Ramsay's hounds had been trained. With a rider... well, that was her sister's bailiwick.

She looked over at the battlements, then up atop the tall round towers at the three ballista Winterfell currently boasted. Those few holdfasts which were still populated, like Barrowton and White Harbor, had a few ballista as well. Many of the smaller scorpions were out in the army beyond on sleds, and more still at the two rings of watchtowers surrounding the area she and Arya had designated as the last stand of the North. The North and their landless allies would gather here, and then they would either win, or they would die. There was no middle ground.

She'd spent enough time thinking on the future. Sansa turned, looking down at the Great Hall, and saw that Littlefinger had just come into view. He hadn't had time to go anywhere else, since not long ago she'd had the bread at the gatehouse fed to the animals and the platter returned to the kitchens for fresh bread and salt, since the caravan was due soon. She watched Littlefinger enter, then she turned to approach the single guard near her, conveniently easily visible through the windows in the hall.

He had them right where he wanted them, and he knew it.

"Have my sister brought to the Great Hall," she told the guard, who she knew was loyal to Lord Baelish. The guard went on past her, while she strode down the battlement to the opposite tower, descending the stairs to the ready squad of guards. These wouldn't do - there were two whose loyalties she wasn't sure of, so she continued on to the next tower. These would do very well indeed, a mix of those loyal to the Starks, to herself, and one to Arya for interceding in some smallfolk matter that helped his wife.

"Say nothing to anyone. You six go to my sister in the Mormont camp and do anything she commands. It doesn't matter what she orders, or who she orders you to do it to, you are to do as she asks instantly and without question - we will explain later; there is no time now. You two, run to the northern gates and circle west - Winterfell is to be sealed, no one is allowed in except my sister and these six guards. No one at all is allowed out until a Stark orders Winterfell opened again. You two, the same for the southern gates, also circling west."

She watched them just long enough to see their confusion dissipate with no signs of hidden betrayal and snapped, "Go!"

Arya was right, she did need better guards.

Sansa strode towards the Great Hall, Ghost rising from the snow and padding along beside her. She wondered just what it was Arya would do before the trial, and after. She knew her sister, and when Arya was being more human, she showed a few of the tells she had as a child that a grand prank was in the making. Deliberately, to be sure, but Sansa and Bran were the only people in the castle who could possibly know what those tells meant, so she knew Arya wanted her to know something was up.

For a moment she imagined how Arya would react to her own little 'prank', and then she was in sight of the Great Hall again, and it was time to be angry, fearful, heartbroken, determined, and unjust. Luckily a sullen silence would work well enough, and Littlefinger wouldn't break it first... he'd want to savor the suffering he'd caused and the power he was consolidating.

************************

Lady Mormont was in the middle of telling her new siege engine commanders and Arya Stark her thoughts on how trebuchets should be used differently than the ballista or scorpions so they could critique her ideas and use that as a basis to continue her education in the new field of siege weaponry when Lady Stark's sister stood and drew her blade Needle so fast none of them could follow the motion, right hand gesturing for silence, then freezing in place as if turned to ice. Lyanna spent a moment processing this, noting that the castle-forged steel had been drawn, not the Valyrian steel. Men, then, not the dead or dragons.

Arya listened to the sounds of six men approaching - tall, heavier men, armored in leather... weapons in sheaths, still. The next sounds were of Lady Mormont standing and drawing her steel hatchet without a word, the other warriors in the tent following suit at the small bear's gesture, standing in a small circle behind the tent door she was facing. Again she approved of their actions - if they closed ranks with her, or tried to get in front of her, they'd only get in her way, so they prepared themselves behind her.

The veteran islander guards posted outside the command tent announced a party of six Stark guardsmen. At Arya's tiny nod, Lady Mormont spoke without changing her stance, her voice clear and carrying as always, "Send them in."

The tent flap opened, and the Stark guards paused in shock at the scene before them, dominated by the deadly presence of the young Stark for a moment before humanity bled back into her eyes and she sheathed her weapon in one sharp movement, speaking in a quiet, menacing voice, "Come in and stand on the east side. Who sent you here, with what orders?"

The lead guard explained, his voice trembling a bit. When he was done Lyanna Mormont settled her hatchet in her belt, across from the dragonglass shard hatchet, and with a single gesture her commanders followed suit.

"It's begun. The official messenger will be next, probably one of Petyr Baelish's, knowing Sansa. Lady Mormont, if we could get those two bedrolls spread out across the ground, I'll have them replaced after. As soon as the next messenger leaves, spread the word - we are having a surprise drill today. We will pretend the army of the dead is surrounding us on all sides, use the ring defense. Also, we will pretend enemy dragons have already landed in Winterfell behind us. No messengers, no drums, no horn calls, and any raven coming out of Winterfell is to be shot down for real. Anyone coming in is to be let into the inner defense ring and kept there for the duration of the drill politely, but with force if need be. Anyone leaving is to be captured if possible and killed otherwise. Only a Stark can alter these orders, be it myself, Sansa, or Bran."

Lyanna Mormont narrowed her eyes in thought. Six guards, told by Lady Stark to do literally anything her sister commanded. Winterfell sealed off, people and messages let in but not out, no attempt to hide this from herself or any of her commanders, who were each of a different House of the North or the Vale, or her one wilding commander. It was, therefore, not treason of the army or their Houses, and yet the next messenger was somehow Lord Baelish's...

Lyanna asked, "Lady Stark is finally going to deal with Lord Baelish?" even as one of the Vale knights shifted uncomfortably, the other glancing at the Northerners all around them.

"We are," said Arya as she smirked darkly, the tips of her teeth showing as she drew her lips back and reached beneath her fur cloak, withdrawing a sealed letter, which she handed to the more nervous Vale knight, "I spoke with Lord Royce recently, and he supports these actions, as he has written here. I presume you recognize his hand and his seal? Lord Baelish has betrayed the Vale, and Bronze Yohn will be present at his trial, alongside Ser Arnold, Ser Lymond, Ser Elbert, and other knights of the Vale."

The Vale knight laboriously made his way through reading the note and was comforted by having it, unaware that No One could have forged it easily. Her words, confirmed by the assurances in the letter she'd given him, resulted in a solid nod from him. If Lady Stark and the Lord of Runestone trusted her, he could do nothing less on his honor as a knight!

The next time a messenger was announced, he was invited straight in and given no chance to do anything but repeat his message. At the end of his message he looked around at the solemn reaction he was getting, caught sight of the other Winterfell guards, and started backing up. The next thing he or anyone else knew, he was clutching at the slender knife which had sprouted in his throat while he collapsed on the bedrolls. Arya yanked the throwing knife out, wiped it clean with some snow and the bedroll he was bleeding out on, then replaced it somewhere beneath her cloak.

Lady Mormont watched the wolf leave the bear's tent at a steady jog, followed closely by the six Winterfell guards Lady Sansa had sent. She hadn't even noticed the knife until the traitorous guard was dead on his feet - that was no honorable death in combat. There was no trial, no defense, no accusations, no chance to prepare or fight back fairly, not even so much as a single word.

Then again, her family and bannermen had been killed dishonorably at the Red Wedding. The Tarlys had been roasted alive in the South even after an honorable surrender, not sent to the Wall. The Valyrian dagger she had yet to see drawn had come from a dishonorable cutthroat sent to kill Lord Bran. Cersei Lannister had dishonorably destroyed the Sept of Baelor and a large swath of her own capital city. She'd heard what Stannis Baratheon had done to his own daughter and to his own brother from Ser Davos and Brienne of Tarth themselves, and had no words for kinslaying like that.

She looked over at the Northern and Vale commanders, and saw they were coming to the same conclusion she was. Her wildling commanders looked like she thought they were all slow, which infuriated Lyanna for a moment. Then again, Fjornel was a cunning tactician, a fantastic shot with a scorpion sled on the move, and her crews respected her. Perhaps her thinking they were slow was a bit deserved, at that.

"I do not believe they have their father's honor, Lord Jon Arryn's honor, but I do believe they have honor all the same. They are our Starks, and they will make our enemies shit themselves," declared the small bear.

"When Mance had to deal with one tribe or another's leader causing problems, he would go to them with many other leaders of our tribes. Everyone could see they all stood together as a group, and that settled everyone down right fast," said Fjornel.

"All right. You're all with me," said Lady Mormont, while she stepped over the warm corpse and strode into the light snow while calling out orders, her commanders joining her.

************************

Sansa watched as Arya entered, flanked by two guards. Both were loyal to Arya herself, which meant they were likely some of the best fighters available. Her sister had her sword and knife sheathed, but her hands were behind her back, just as she liked to have them when she waited for Brienne to attack.

Sansa breathed deeply, once, both to let Littlefinger see, and because she was relieved. She had been a little nervous until Arya arrived - there were some with loyalties to Lord Baelish in the room, and he himself was still a dangerous man, but she would be as safe as she could be now that her sister was here.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" asked Arya just loud enough for the guards in the back to hear.

"It's not what I want," said Sansa as she made the sign for lie, "it's what honor demands," and the sign for truth.

"And what does honor demand?"

"That I defend my family from those who would harm us, that I defend the North from those who would betray us, that I defend the Vale from those who would betray them."

Arya cocked her head to the side for a moment, listening to the sounds coming through the open windows, hearing the sounds of her orders being followed without trouble. She'd killed the few truly dangerous agents of Littlefinger who were in the castle already, and set extra guards on the ravenry and the gates. A few of the guard units had been moved around to ensure his people couldn't collude together.

"All right then, get on with it."

"You stand accused of murder, you stand accused of treason. How do you answer these charges... Lord Baelish."

Sansa watched Littlefinger blink in confusion, look up at her slowly, turn to see Arya watching him with the smuggest little smirk she'd ever seen, and then turn to glance at Lord Royce. For all that he talked about imagining every battle in your mind all the time, every possibility happening all at once, it was quite clear he hadn't thought this possibility possible at all. She met his eyes as he turned back to her.

"My sister asked you a question."

And then he stared at Arya again. Sansa thought he understood, now.

"Lady Sansa, forgive me, I'm a bit confused."

Sansa leaned forward, posture and tone chosen to imply she thought he was being a bit slow, "Which charges confuse you? Let's start with the simplest one. You murdered our aunt, Lysa Arryn. You pushed her through the moon door and watched her fall. Do you deny it?" She watched him looking at Lord Royce, who she had once lied to about that very incident. Her sister had handled that already, though she didn't know when or how, and it was clear Lord Baelish didn't have the slightest hint about that either when he didn't get the reaction he was hoping for.

"I did it to protect you."

Sansa hid her surprise. Of all the ways this could have gone, she hadn't expected him to fail to defend himself against the very first statement of the very first charge. He'd admitted guilt, in public, right here... she realized he was going to appeal to her personally. He was throwing the dice one last time and hoping she, Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell, would personally pardon him.

She was going to enjoy this.

"You did it to take power in the Vale," she said, pausing as Lord Royce stepped forward. She sat back to let him have his say - it was his right and his duty to tell whatever he'd been shown or told. That, and she was quite certain he hated Lord Baelish after being slandered in his own home while she was a captive of the Boltons. Allowing Lord Royce his say was to her advantage on every level of this game.

"I encountered Ser Robert, Ser Hugh, and Ser Mandon on the road. When I commanded them to show me the messages they carried, they attacked me. Once I and my companion defeated them, I was able to interrogate Ser Robert. He and other knights of the Vale have been passing secret messages from Lord Petyr Baelish to certain Lords of the Vale. Worse, they have, on Petyr Baelish's orders, been dosing Lord Robin Arryn with the intent to stunt his development and render him vulnerable to Lord Baelish's vile manipulations and slanders," said Lord Royce as he approached the table, set a small vial on the corner of the table by Bran, gave a long look at Petyr Baelish, and returned to his place.

Maester Wolkan stepped forward to pick up the vial, opening it and inspecting the contents, "It is definitely poison. I can identify two different poisons, but I don't see how they would do what you say they said. Do you know what the dosing was?"

"One drop in a cup of water. One seventh of that cup every day with his nighttime drink," said Lord Royce even as Lord Baelish smirked at the Maester's refutation of Yohn's accusation.

Arya strode up to the table, picking up the vial, rolling it in her hand, holding it up to the light gray snow clouds out the window to see the color, and opening it long enough to wave the scent towards her nose, "These two by themselves would not, no. But when combined with one other substance, they would, in the way some slavers use it in Volantis and elsewhere. Tell me, who puts sweetsleep in my cousin's nighttime drink?"

Sansa said, "My aunt, Lysa Arryn had always given my cousin sweetsleep each night. Her husband, Petyr Baelish ordered that to be continued. Ser Elbert, while I was at the Eyrie, I saw your son has been a guard to my cousin at night. Did he ever mention the sweetsleep?"

Ser Elbert stepped forward to respond, "He did, three drops before bed every night."

"Lord Baelish, you do favor poison, don't you? Earlier, you conspired to murder Jon Arryn. You gave Lysa Tears of Lys to poison him, do you deny it?" asked Sansa.

"Whatever your aunt might have told you, she was a troubled woman. She imagined enemies everywhere."

Arya spoke up, "A small dose of Tears of Lys would exactly match Jon's symptoms - a fever that burned through him, leaving no trace afterwards. Correct, Maester Wolkan?"

"Exactly," replied the Maester, a little uncomfortably. Arya stared at him for a moment... he should indeed feel uncomfortable, since he had certainly read the raven scroll he found for Littlefinger, recognized the handwriting, and yet handed it to him anyway, instead of giving it to her sister directly.

"You had Aunt Lysa send a letter to our parents telling them it was the Lannisters who murdered Jon Arryn when really it was you. The conflict between the Starks and the Lannisters, it was you who started it, do you deny it?" asked Sansa sharply. They had no hard evidence of this, and it wasn't worth asking Bran to get visions of, but this wasn't necessary for Littlefinger's trial itself. It was, however, necessary to set the stage for hosting Tyrion in the North or the Vale, as well as for dealing with him as the Hand of Daenerys Targaryen. Blame needed to be shifted, with or without proof. In a happy coincidence, shifting the blame to the actual perpetrator was actually possible in this case.

"I know of no such letter."

Sansa recognized the technique; he wasn't issuing an actual denial that not enough people would believe, he was simply attempting to sow doubt as much as he could.

"You conspired with Cersei Baratheon and Joffrey Waters to betray our father, Ned Stark. Thanks to your treachery, he was imprisoned and later executed on false charges of treason. Do you deny it?"

"I deny it," said Lord Baelish, for the first time issuing an actual denial rather than the circumventions he'd been using so far. Sansa noted he was using a stronger voice, striding out onto the floor now. For whatever twisted reason, he appeared to care much more for the charge of treason against the North than against the Vale.

Lord Baelish continued, "None of you were there to see what happened. None of you knows the truth."

"You held a knife to his throat. You said I warned you not to trust me," said Bran in the Three-Eyed Raven's flat, factual tones. Sansa watched the reactions, satisfied that the rumors of his greenseer powers had spread wide since Meera Reed, the Free Folk wargs, and others had spoken of them. Jon having been raised from the dead, and Arya's own strangeness only added to the mystique. The wargs, she thought, had turned the tide on that first, and now there was no doubt that Bran's visions were trusted.

Top military leaders received regular summaries of the reports the wargs made. As Arya had put Lord Royce in charge of all cavalry, he had received them, and as a good leader and a trusting man, he had made sure the various commanders under him also received them. Since this had happened, the army's views of wargs and greenseers had shifted from being tales of snarks and grumkins to statements of fact.

Now that very fact put another piece of wood on Littlefinger's pyre, and she was glad of it. His expression was also amazing to behold, and she committed it to memory carefully. His showy style may have worked well in court at King's Landing, but here among Northerners and knights of the Vale with the blood of the First Men, who had seen the results of wargs for months, had heard recountings of Bran's strange visions... no, these people believed her brother the Three-Eyed Raven.

"You told our mother this knife belonged to Tyrion Lannister, but that was another one of your lies. It was yours," said Arya as she drew Valyrian steel.

Baelish strode towards the table only to stop as Ghost stood between Sansa and Bran, growling, warning him to keep his distance and clearly showing the direwolf's own opinion. He paused, rethinking his words given the distance and the volume of the growl, "Lady Sansa, if we could speak alone, I can explain everything."

"Sometimes when I'm trying to understand a person's motives, I play a little game," said Sansa as she made the sign for lie, and as she watched Lord Baelish close his eyes in acknowledgment of her gaining a point, as he had when she reminded him she was the worst liar in King's Landing... according to himself, "I assume the worst. What's the worst reason you have for turning me against my sister. That's what you do, isn't it, that's what you've always done, turn family against family, turn sister against sister, that's what you did to our mother and Aunt Lysa, and that's what you tried to do to us. I'm a slow learner, it's true, but, I learn."

"Give me a chance to defend myself. I deserve that."

Sansa sat back and cast her gaze down to his hands, just in case, even as Arya spoke, her voice cold as death itself, "I am not Uncle Brandon, Littlefinger, but I'll gladly kill you and your champion, if you can find one, in a trial by combat, in this room, right now. Know that if you truly wish to defend yourself, then you're going to make a lot of people very angry, because I will make sure you and your champion don't die until supper is cold and hard. Are you sure you want to do this?"

Arya cast her gaze about the room, the Valyrian dagger in her right hand spinning from finger to finger so fast it blurred. Those few of Littlefinger's supporters were clearly rethinking their loyalties, and considering how they might have a future past tonight. He promised nothing that would last beyond his death, so with his death before them, their loyalty withered and died too.

As she spun the dagger, she saw Lord Royce looked to be quite enjoying the show, underneath his stern exterior. For some reason she did not yet know, he was also feeling just a bit proud of Sansa, a little like Jaqen had been proud of her when she took No One's face off and left him in the House of Black and White after killing the Waif.

Littlefinger looked over at Bronze Yohn briefly, then turned back to Sansa suddenly, a new way to buy time occurring to him, "Guest right is sacred under the old gods and the new!"

Sansa pursed her lips, and spoke, her tone reluctant for a moment, "It is, as Walder Frey found to his family's detriment. However, you seem a bit confused. You are not a guest, Lord Baelish."

"I sleep under your roof and eat at your table, do I not?"

Arya turned casually to a knight of the Vale at the end, "Ser Nicholas, tell us, when you were visiting Rosa at the brothel last night, did you see any Lord Protectors of the Vale there? At about what times?"

A shorter knight stepped forward, waited for a slight nod of approval from Lord Royce even as his cheeks grew red, then answered, "I saw him in the common room at dinnertime, and then I... wasn't in the common room for some time. When Rosa and I went back out for a nightcap and a snack, I saw Lord Baelish go from the privy to the back room."

Sansa then spoke up, her voice curious, "Michael, you were the gate guard on duty this morning. Describe when Lord Baelish arrived, and everything Lord Baelish ate or drank once he set foot inside Winterfell."

An older Stark guardsman stepped forward, "Begging your pardon, m'lady, but you'd already sent the platters back for fresh bread for the caravan, you did, before he arrived, and he came right here. He din' eat or drink anything!"

Arya casually rested the naked blade of the knife across her thigh, "You are not a guest, Littlefinger."

Sansa watched him finally start to panic, and like Joffrey had along the river so long ago, he nearly collapsed in on himself, his strength gone. Despite how long he'd played the game, how many times one of his maneuvers had failed and he had to recover, he'd never found the kind of strength her sister had. The kind of strength she had found within herself.

His voice broke as he spoke, "I beg you. I loved your mother since she was a child."

"And yet you betrayed her."

"I loved you. More than anyone," he sobbed.

"And yet you betrayed me. When you brought me back to Winterfell you told me there's no justice in the world, not unless we make it. Thank you for all your many lessons, Lord Baelish. I will never forget them," said the elder sister, looking to her left and receiving a tiny nod from Bran, then looking to Arya, receiving another tiny nod, "I judge you guilty of capital crimes against the North, the Starks, the Vale, and the Arryns."

Arya strode towards Littlefinger, speaking in the same tone she discussed whether the snow had a crust on it, "I sentence you to death," even as she angled the blade just right and swung, slicing through his neck as she stepped to the side to wipe it off on his clothes and sheath it. Gore didn't stick to the Valyrian blade; it was unusually easy to clean, almost as if it wanted to be clean, to be ready to kill again.

Lord Royce watched the scum soak the stones in blood stoically as he thought about three things that were significant about the end of the trial.

The first, of course, was the unusual split between the judgment and the sentencing. He wasn't entirely certain if this was a Northern custom, a Stark custom, or a deliberate callback to the old ways, but he could see several advantages. There were now at least two judges required - not counting Lord Bran's subtle agreement - to sentence a man to death, which struck him as a wiser course than allowing addled boys to throw people out the Moon Door on a whim. Additionally, they had set it up so the girl who treated killing a man like another might treat taking a drink of water was the one to make the kill.

The second was that regardless of who made the kill, Lady Stark watched the entire event with open eyes and a hint of a smirk. She was a much harder woman than he remembered from the Eyrie, though she had lied right to his face about Lady Arryn's fate, then. While he wasn't pleased by that lie, he'd had some time to consider what Lord Robin had almost done to him based on Littlefinger's own lies. It remained to be seen how often death was handed out when other punishments were available, and he would withhold judgment while he served. This was, he suspected, the harsh justice of the ancient Kings of Winter returned in these new, equally harsh times.

The third thing he'd noticed is that Baelish was lying in a puddle of blood, with a small pattern of splatters around him, like you'd see from a much smaller wound to the neck than he'd gotten. Despite that, there was not one drop on Lady Arya's clothing, not even on her hand. He wasn't sure how he felt about having shared meals and battle planning with a Faceless Man, but if it resulted in this, and in Lady Sansa being so well supported, he could live with it. By the grace of the Seven, perhaps he would be able to live with it, even through the battles to come.

Arya strode up to the table to stand beside Sansa, who had watched Littlefinger's last breaths carefully, listened to the garbled attempt at, presumably, saying Sansa's name. Once he ceased breathing, Sansa spoke.

"We are Starks. We are not Baratheons, not Targaryens, not Freys, not Lannisters, not Martells, not Greyjoys, not even Tullys or Tarlys. Starks do not turn on one another. We have different lives, different experiences, different skills, and even different opinions, but Jon, and Bran, and Arya, and I do not turn on each other. While my brother Jon, King in the North is away, Arya is justice in the North."

Arya glanced across the gathered bannermen. There were two here who would be good candidates for a trial, and a few outside. They would be short trials, since they had quite a few more to do after this that they must get through today, following up on the support Sansa gathered with how she conducted Littlefinger's trial.

Those disloyal men and women who they could not reclaim needed to be rooted out now, one after another, as an example to all. The Starks would see supposedly secret betrayals, would root them out, would never forget, and would forgive only to a point. Some of these would go to the cells, some to the Wall, and some to the pile of corpses they'd leave over the next hour or two. Arya thought that Tywin had been right, that a house had to be feared, though Cersei had shown another truth, that a house could not afford to be hated. Their father, too, had shown that it was good to be a house that was loved.

Arya spoke, "Ser Elbert, please take four knights and bring Ser Lyncan. Michael, bring us water. We will be here for some time."

************************

Hours later, Arya and Sansa rode back through the gates after having briefly visited every encampment within the inner defensive ring to personally invite the Lords to gather in the Great Hall. Tens of thousands of their people who had been worried were now reassured, they had been seen by every house, hearty and well, and they'd both gotten a read those they didn't often deal with.

Sansa had seen and interacted with, albeit briefly, hundreds of the smallfolk defending the North, which she had left to Arya before. Arya had spoken to members of every noble house on the inner ring, those that Sansa was usually the one to speak to. They had made it clear to each house that Arya was not to be called my lady, Lady Arya or Lady Stark, and that there was no snub or slight intended or taken - Arya did not like using those names for herself.

Arya dismounted from her garron in one smooth motion, watching Sansa dismount from hers as they passed the reins to a stable boy and strode towards the inner gates. Arya leaned over to Sansa, murmuring quietly, "Did you know you've got blood on your dress? When you stopped to talk to Lord Royce, some soaked into the hem at the back and coated the sole of your boots."

"Arya! Why didn't you tell me?" asked Sansa, shooting a look down at her smirking little sister.

"Because you just went through the entire camp, graceful and with all your little courtesies, while your dress was soaked in the blood of your enemies. What do you think they're saying about you now? No, nothing like that, nothing bad. They're proud of what you've become, Sansa, and so am I," said Arya softly as she made the sign for truth and clasped Sansa's arm, squeezing lightly. Sansa looked across the courtyard where a chambermaid wearing a wooden dagger with dragonglass shards on the edge and tip was staring down at a few red dots in the snow from where Sansa had passed through.

Passing through the gate to the next courtyard, Arya caught sight of Kitty and many of the Riverland women she'd arrived with, waiting for them. Three of the serving girls from the Twins and Kitty herself started to greet Sansa when they got a good look at the younger Stark, at which time they dropped instantly to one knee.

"Lady Winter," Kitty whispered even as the women and girls from the Twins who had not seen the massacre dropped to one knee as well. They drew their weapons, placing them point down as they saw for the first time the one who had destroyed the entirety of Walder Frey's male descendants.

Arya narrowed her eyes at her sister, taking in the slight smirk and the dancing light in her eyes as the eldest surviving trueborn child of Ned Stark watched what she had arranged for so long come to pass. Sansa spoke, her voice warm, filled with pride, "That name you earned yourself, by your training and your deeds. It is about Winter coming for those who break the most sacred laws of the gods, Winter in the form of you. Lady Winter."

Arya looked back down at those swearing fealty to her, personally. She'd imagined a scene like this as a child, herself as Lord of a holdfast, soldiers bending the knee to her for her valiant actions in battle. To be sure, they were in armor, not dresses, and armed with swords, not a collection of goat's foot crossbows, daggers, staves and spears with dragonglass bolts or shards or heads. And somehow they had been all men in her dreams as a child.

Arya pitched her voice to carry across the courtyard, "Rise. Thank you, Kitty. You and yours did nothing wrong, committed no crimes, made no betrayals. You did your best to be a good wife and mother after your parents married you to Walder. You came north to my sister, provided the gold that is paying for a mountain of supplies for these wars, and have been a loyal handmaiden for her. Even when she's having fun with me," she smiled at Sansa for a moment, watching Sansa make the sign for truth.

"I am not a Lady like my sister. I do not need handmaidens, or other ladies to attend me, or even soldiers. I am a Faceless Man, No One, and you would all be better off serving me by continuing to help my sister, rather than traveling across Westeros and Essos with me like a troupe of mummers, pretending to be other people while I kill."

Lady Frey inclined her head deeply, then rose, bracing her staff between the inside of her arm and her side as she took a large bundle of dark leather from another girl before she approached Arya and offered it with an intensely earnest face, "Lady Winter, Lady Stark asked me to bring this to you. She's been working on it for weeks."

Arya heard the name and glanced at Sansa's amused little smirk and dancing eyes, then looked back at Kitty and took in the tone of her voice, her posture, her expression, and even the expressions of the other Riverlanders and Northerners in the courtyard. She decided that she did not, in fact, have the heart to refuse this name from this girl, nor did she have the same gut-level instinctive refusal she did of other lady this or lady that or lady the other titles.

This title she was being offered wasn't about her being expected to bear children, or marry, or run a household on her husband's behalf, or even about who her father or the House she was born in was. This was a name given to her in the same spirit as names like the Red Viper or the Bold, for deeds performed, for how she'd used the training she'd received from Syrio Forel, Jaqen, the Waif, the Handsome Man, the Kindly Man and many others.

She took the bundle with a nod, dismissing her... bannerwomen, she supposed, as she turned to ascend the steps to the battlements with her sister, waving off the normal complement of guards until they had a section to themselves, facing southwest that hadn't yet had work started on the hoardings, the wind whistling through their hair from behind, muffling their already quiet voices.

"I promised you wouldn't be called Lady Arya, Lady Stark, or my lady," said Sansa, smirking slightly, "And you deserved it, after not telling me I was dripping blood all over."

Arya set the bundle down, unfolding the top item, a new tunic, armored on the inside as before, but with embroidery this time. She held it up to herself, looking down at the intricately detailed image of a winter storm with the clouds in the middle of the storm hinting at the shape of a direwolf's muzzle and eyes, "I suppose you just whipped this up on the walk through the courtyard, then, after I mentioned that?"

They both laughed with each other, Arya giving Sansa a tight hug before Sansa nodded at the next item in the bundle, tall and thick when folded, thick brown leather on the outside. As Arya opened what turned out to be a full length hooded leather cloak, she frowned, turned it over and stopped cold at what she saw.

Sansa reached out to hold it up, turning the edge back and forth to show both sides, "The raven your Faceless Men sent with the pattern, I modified it. I've watched you, you know, and I want you to always remember than whenever you're an assassin, you're still Arya inside, just as I know when you're Arya, you're always an assassin inside - a deadly and cunning warrior I'm proud of. There are some little hooks hidden in the fabric, and small loops - there's a couple inches more than it needs, so you can fold the edge and use the loops to hold it, hiding the inside, so you should only the outside you want to, Arya's side or the Faceless Man's side. I hope your god doesn't mind the alterations?"

Arya swirled it around in a flamboyant move, causing Sansa to half-step and lean back with her much improved footwork, recovering easily to see Arya in the traditional robes of a priest of the Many-Faced God, hood up, hands folded inside her sleeves as Varys used to stand, a hint of brown leather showing here and there as Arya hadn't tried to use the hooks or loops. The younger sister's face stilled, and she spoke, her voice flat, "God has many faces, as do I. Clothing that can change its face as well is a fine present indeed."

Sansa pointed subtly at each place brown leather was showing where the fabric hadn't fallen quite right, not quite hiding her smirk "Perhaps you'd like some help finishing changing your cloak's face?"

Arya looked down, and the stillness fell away as she again flipped the cloak around herself quickly, settling it leather side out, then tried to fix the garment to show nothing but leather. She laughed out loud, "Sansa! I'm not an acolyte, I can dress myself!"

Sansa raised her eyebrows, "So you don't want help?" she asked before she laughed as well, then started helping Arya - there were only a few loops, but she'd hid them as well, and they had to line up just right.

"Congratulations, Sansa. You've successfully made a cloak that requires training to use properly!"

"Just for you."

"Thank you. It's the nicest clothing I've ever had."

"You're welcome. You are going to tell the Lords and Ladies when we return, aren't you?"

"I am."

"Good. Try not to be too frightening."

"You think a joke would help?" mused Arya.

"A joke? Now you're frightening me instead, Arya," Sansa said teasingly, pressing her shoulder up against Arya's companionably as they looked out over the camps and the growing defenses.

"Are you feeling all right after killing Littlefinger?"

"You did it. You passed the sentence, you swung the dagger."

"Father always said swing the sword. Are you making fun of my size?"

"Of course not, I was married to the Imp," She leaned in and bent her head to look down at Arya, "You'd know if I was making fun of your size."

Arya poked her in the side, "All right, Wun Wun. In recognition of your great improvement, of your keeping Kitty hidden until just now, and of a sudden inexplicable absence of Littlefinger, you're graduating to full contact training. Tonight we speak with the highborn and the caravan arrives, tomorrow I need to ride out and deal with as much of Littlefinger's spy network and whorehouses as I can in the time we have. Kitty will escort the first set of new spies for you to run to you tonight."

"I've meant to ask - why do you call her Kitty?"

Arya half-smiled, shrugged, and picked up the bundle of clothes, "That's a tale for another time. Let's get me redressed at my workshop. We can speak of the other news you have there. By the time you're done playing dress-up with me, the Great Hall should be full."

They descended quietly, enjoying each other's company, each with a small smile and a definite and unusual air of happiness about them. Arya narrowed her eyes upon seeing that new banners were standing up along the walls outside her workshop, the previously bare halls now decorated with the heraldry Sansa had created for Lady Winter, "You've had far too much time on your hands."

"I've had a lot of intelligence reports to sort through. I prefer to keep my hands occupied."

Arya sent the guards, both loyal to her, to the far end of the hall and set the bar across the furs that covered the door to help insulate and muffle sound both, before she stripped down and stared to put on the new outfit Sansa had made, one layer at a time. When she tried the tunic, she paused to feel the strips of boiled leather on the inside, "You sewed castle-forged steel rings into some of these, one at a time?"

"Yes, to keep it lighter, the rings are only sewn in over your heart, lungs, and down your spine, everywhere else is just strips of leather armor like the one you've been wearing. The padding is a little thicker there, too; Brienne showed me where they should go, and I sewed them in one at a time so they wouldn't make any noise to give you away," Sansa said quietly, then continued in a lighter tone, "Remember, that outfit took as long as six of my gowns, so I don't want to hear any comments about my clothes being excessive!

Arya pulled the taller girl into a tight hug for a minute, then continued the comfortable exchange of trying the clothes on, adjusting them, and trying them on again. Sansa passed a raven scroll over to Arya before taking up her needle, murmuring quietly, "Jon's bent the knee. I don't know any more than that, yet - we'll see Bran before we go to the Great Hall."

Arya narrowed her eyes at Sansa's statement, then read the scroll carefully, closing her eyes as she felt disbelief, disappointment with Jon, anger at Sansa, at Jon, and then let them all bleed away, leaving her calm as still water. She thought back through all the many lessons she'd learned, through truth and lies and in between.

"Did he?" Arya asked calmly.

"That's what it says," replied Sansa with irritation. Here with only her sister, a locked and barred door covered in furs protecting them, Baelish dead, and guards loyal to a member of her family on the hall far away, she felt safe showing her actual feelings. She reached out to clasp Arya's arm briefly, reveling in being able to do this without hidden meanings, without hiding anything, then returned to adjusting the outfit to accommodate her little sister's amazing flexibility.

"When I was in Braavos, for a time I was Lana, an orphan selling oysters, clams, and cockles along the docks. There was a man there, a gambler of sorts. Sailors would bet with him, bet that they would die on the voyage. If they live, they lose. If they die, they win, and their wife could collect. At least, that was what the gambler said, but often he didn't pay. The bet, you see, was very specific," said Arya, her voice low and steady.

"While I do enjoy hearing about your journey, what's the point?"

"This doesn't say Jon bent the knee. Nor does it mention the North or even the Vale. It says 'I pledged to fight for Daenerys Targaryen'," said Arya, winking at her sister, "That's different. There are no words about 'now and always', or 'forever', or 'in perpetuity', or 'and all my family and descendants and bannermen and horses and dogs and ravens and field mice and even my annoying little sisters'. Just Jon. What did Littlefinger say when you asked him?"

"What?" asked Sansa, a little startled, then glared briefly before she smirked, "He thought Jon might want to marry her, said she was beautiful, young and unmarried, and Jon was young and unmarried."

Arya rolled her eyes at her sister, then spoke in a teasing tone, "That doesn't make him want to marry her, silly, that makes him want to fuck her. Haven't you ever been in a brothel or talked to a courtesan before?"

"Arya!" exclaimed Sansa, then tossed the finished tunic at Arya's head, "Of course I've talked to a courtesan. I'll have you know I not only am half-owner of a chain of brothels across the entire Seven Kingdoms, but I also kept a whore as a handmaiden in King's Landing. He's always hated being a bastard... because of me, and of mother, so I didn't think he'd be risking having a bastard of his own. Now, what were you doing in a brothel yourself? Do you often patronize brothels? Are you going to use up all our profits for your own pleasure?"

Sansa watched the faint traces of surprise and amusement on Arya's face and in her eyes at their teasing, seeing that both of them were showing their true reactions to each other. It was strange that they could be comfortable with each other now, tease each other now, as adults, the way they never could as children.

"I never patronized them, but once I pretended to be... Sansa, do you really want to hear? No man has ever touched me like that, but I don't want to hurt you, and you might not like hearing this.."

"Avoiding things only lets them grow stronger. His words will disappear. Go on."

"All right, then. I pretended to be a young whore after I saw Meryn Trant go into a brothel and ask for younger ones. He switched me, not very hard, really, broke a thin stick on me, and punched me in the belly... then I showed him my face, cut both his eyes out, and stabbed him in the belly and the back several times before I told him he'd killed Syrio Forel, my dancing teacher. I listened to him whimper, and then cut his throat. My training with the courtesans is another matter entirely, though I suppose I could teach you a dance or two someday, after the wars."

Sansa's eyes widened at Arya's tale, a dark smile growing on her face at the description of how the man who had beat her on Joffrey's orders had died whimpering, "Ser Meryn? The Kingsguard? You killed him?"

"I did. I was punished for it - I wasn't supposed to kill him, but someone else entirely," said Arya, watching Sansa carefully for any signs of flashbacks, of which there were none this time.

"Thank you, Arya. He beat me for Joffrey, tore my clothes in front of the whole court for Joffrey. I'm glad he's dead," said Sansa, then bent down to kiss her sister's forehead, "I'm glad it was you who killed him."

Arya settled her various weapons about herself, ran through an acrobatic drill to make sure she knew how the cloak would work and to ensure she knew to compensate for the different armor, then strode to the door, unbarring it to escort her sister out after replacing her little traps and locking up, "Let's see what Bran can tell us about just what happened when Jon 'pledged', and why he did it."

"Of course, Lady Winter."

"Saaaaansa!"

"Lady Wiiiiiiiiiiinter!"

Their laughter carried through the stone corridors.

************************

 

[Epic Reader]

Sansa and Arya strode into Bran's room after the guard on the door announced them and opened the door, closing it behind them.

"She gave it to you," said their brother.

"You could have told me, you know, Bran," exclaimed Arya, swatting at his shoulder.

"I could've," said Bran with a fleeting expression of amusement, giving Arya and Sansa just a hint of the Bran they remembered.

"See? He likes me better," said Sansa quietly, leaning over to press her shoulder against Arya's as they sat in their normal shadowed corner. Littlefinger was dead, his spies removed or turned, spies for others removed or turned, but that was no reason for them to forget basic precautions.

Arya gasped, looking between the two quickly, an expression of shock on her face, "A conspiracy! Conspiracy in the castle!"

Sansa laughed quietly, "You started it!"

"Oh. I did, didn't I?"

"We need some more signs, but that's for later. Sansa, what do you think about how to approach this with the conclave?"

"I think we should do something that Littlefinger never did, that Cersei never did. I think we should show the scroll, tell the truth... carefully."

"Are you sure? That will work with many of them, but there are some that won't like it at all, and they'll be loud. We'll have to head them off quickly."

"We can. This way, we won't have to fight the same battle again, and it can't be held against us. Bran, here's a raven I got from Jon. We need to know more about what's happened with Jon that caused him to send it. Was he forced to write this? Does Arya need to rescue him?"

"He wasn't forced. He wanted to. He's with Daenerys on the way to Cersei's parlay. He has a wight in a box. He's not injured seriously."

Sansa and Arya glanced at each other, then Arya made the sign for you. Sansa recalled Arya's tale of the gambler, and asked, "How did he tell Daenerys Targaryen that he 'pledged to fight for her', exactly?"

"He said 'How about 'my queen'? I'd, uh, bend the knee, but... ' She said 'What about those who swore allegiance to you?' He said 'They'll all come to see you for what you are.' She said 'I hope I deserve it.'"

Arya rolled her eyes. Bran's Three-Eyed Raven face, for all its powers, was frustratingly literal most of the time, had a one-track train of thought, and rarely considered context, "Describe the physical area and actions."

"He was in bed on a ship sailing south past Eastwatch. She was sitting by his bedside. Two dragons were flying above. He woke up, turned his head a little to look at her. They spoke. He went back to sleep."

"Who else was there?" asked Sansa.

"No one."

"Very funny."

"Has he said anything about bending the knee, or made any of the physical motions of bending the knee? Mentioned the North owing fealty?"

"He send the raven to you. Nothing else."

The sisters looked at each other. This time Sansa made the sign for you to Arya, who spoke, "What happened to injure Jon? Why did he call her his queen?"

"He went to capture a wight. The army of the dead chased them. They sent a man to send a raven. They were stranded on a small island. Daenerys Targaryen rode Drogon to save him and the others. The Night King threw a White Walker's spear and killed Viserion. Jon attacked the dead while the others brought the wight onto Drogon. The Night King was handed another spear. Jon told Daenerys to go and was thrown into the lake. Drogon took off. The Night King flew. Drogon banked and dodged and flew off to Eastwatch. The Night King and the dead walked off slowly. Jon emerged from the water. Uncle Benjen rode to him, gave him the horse. Jon rode to Eastwatch. Uncle Benjen attacked the dead with a flaming ball on a chain."

Arya went still and silent while she thought for a moment, "Viserion was killed while Drogon was on the ground. Was Viserion on the ground?"

"No. He was attacking the dead from the air with his fire."

"What happened to Viserion?"

"The Night King had him pulled out of the lake and raised him as a wight."

"What."

"MESSENGERS!" shouted Arya in a commanding tone Sansa had never heard before as she strode to the door, yanking it open and breaking into a jog as the children serving as runners came quickly, "Bran, find Viserion! Sansa, with me. You two, walk to the horns, sound for White Walkers and armies both. Drums to sound prepare for dragon attack, one dragon, unknown location. You two run to the Maester, one take him to the ravenry to prepare all the ravens, the other to bring as many quills, ink pots, and raven scrolls to the great hall as possible. Everyone else, the wargs are to search for a wight dragon! Go!"

Sansa jogged just behind Arya, grateful for both her longer legs and the training she'd been participating in every day since Jon ordered it, "Why are they not running to sound the alarm? Why are we sounding an alarm? What Bran saw was beyond the Wall!"

"We'll get to the Great Hall first - we need the literate to write raven scrolls, not scatter to their fighting posts. With a wight dragon, the Night King could be overhead right now! Or over Eastwatch, White Harbor, or Moat Cailin, or Barrowton, or he could have flown to King's Landing and have an army a million strong in the South already, or in Essos. Dragons could fly White Walkers over the wall - good thing you already ordered corpses burnt."

Sansa marveled at her little sister - jogging down steps while talking and she wasn't even breathing hard. More than that, Arya had just taken command of two kingdoms without a second's hesitation... and, as usual, without asking permission. Sansa kept her words short to save her breath, "What do you need from me?"

"We need to concentrate our people in as few places as possible - Winterfell is necessary. Moat Cailin is necessary. White Harbor is necessary. In the Vale, we need the Eyrie, Gulltown, and the Bloody Gate. We have to concentrate our ballista and scorpions around our people - nothing less can handle a dragon of any kind, and they'll be destroyed very quickly once they're seen."

They jogged through the courtyard, drawing sharp looks and whispers. While Arya had been known to move quickly from one place to another, Lady Stark normally had a graceful, controlled gait and a steady walking pace.

Arya slammed the doors open, Sansa on her heels as she vaulted atop a table and spoke, her voice clearly heard throughout the Great Hall, "Stay here when the horns sound! Everyone who can write legibly, to the tables! Everyone who can't will prepare for a wight dragon - load dragonglass plate-cutters and spread out so you won't all be hit by one breath! Prepare flaming bolts and anything else that might take down," the horns started sounding outside, followed by patterned drumbeats. Arya simply raised her voice further, "an undead dragon. This is a precaution; we are not under attack yet, and may not be for weeks - Bran and the wargs are looking for it now. Everyone with necessary duties should continue them. Keep knapping obsidian, storing food, fetching arrows and bolts, making shields, logging, and so on. When your people are settled and steady, return here to continue the conclave. Go!"

A few of the lords and ladies reacted with hesitation or confusion for a few seconds, while the rest started moving instantly. Fjornel had been sitting at the front of the room with Lady Mormont, who gave her second in command a nod. The spearwife stood, looking at the mass of people trying to exit through the doors, then was the first of many to jump up on a table and leave through an open window.

A runner came in through a window with blank scrolls, ink and quills even as the last lords were leaving, and then it was Sansa's turn to speak, "Everyone will write copies of this message: One wight dragon has been created, location unknown. Prepare for attack from the air or ground from anywhere. Total evacuation should start immediately. Bring perishable food, leave nonperishable for later use. Raven to be returned immediately."

Arya spoke up, "Raven to be returned as soon as fresh raven available." They couldn't afford to lose ravens, and even rested ravens had a hard time in bad weather.

Sansa nodded sharply, designated each table to write a different specified destination on their scrolls, then turned to the map Arya had unrolled. The sisters quickly worked out exactly which scroll would be sent to each place they still had groups of people, communicating with little but subtle gestures, facial expressions, and pointing fingers.

After the excitement of earlier that day, the obvious close coordination was not missed by the lords and ladies of the North and the Vale. Nor was the instant, decisive action being taken on both the military and civilian fronts. They didn't even need to look up, they could hear a steady stream of quick, clear orders being issued one after the other. Through the windows the sounds of hasty preparation died down. There was some confusion, of course, but here in the castle it was very brief.

Undead dragons? This was the North, and their ancestors had faced the Long Night before, and won their battle. Their ancestors, too, had been led by Starks, for eight thousand years, complaining generation after generation about how much food the Starks wanted saved away, about how they had to eat the older grains first, even in summer.

They themselves had complained, if quietly, about having to train to fight the armies of the dead, Lannister armies, Ironborn armies, Frey armies, Tyrell armies, cavalry armies, infantry armies, and even damned dragons. Now, with reports of dead dragons flying the undead over the Wall, there was fear, certainly, but no panic, no indecision.

The sisters wrote a few scrolls themselves - Eastwatch was to evacuate immediately, one ship to watch the castle and the Wall while a warg hid further south with a Winterfell raven to provide warning of what happened, since the ship could be obliterated by a dragon in seconds. That scroll was sent by the fastest raven available, then the rest, north to south until all the remaining settlements had been warned.

When the last scrolls had been sent to the ravenry, the sisters sat at the head table, Sansa's staff leaning beside her. They spoke to the gathered nobles and leaders about what they'd learned of the wight dragon. Everyone had already been given lectures on the capabilities of dragons, so there were few questions there, but many on what the Night King might do. Arya fielded those, as usual, repeating that the Night King could be anywhere, but the bulk of his force was probably still marching slowly on Eastwatch as before.

When the last of those who had gone to see to the troops had returned and readiness reports had been given, Sansa looked out at the hall. A leader of nearly every House in the North, and many of the Vale, was present, and representatives from the rest sat among the Lords, and Ladies, as well. The Free Folk had their own leaders attending, much more casually, but attentive all the same.

This was not the court of her childhood dreams, dressed in finery, the men handsome and the ladies beautiful, everyone dancing and eating fine foods as minstrels played in glittering halls. This was the Northern Court, rough, crude, uncultured, fractious, scruffy and plain... but also fierce, independent, caring, decisive, diligent, and willing to positively eager to get their own hands dirty.

She wouldn't trade them for all the beautiful, perfumed vipers in the world.

"My lords and ladies, thank you all for coming. The Three-Eyed Raven will not be joining us, as he is searching out the wight dragon Viserion. My sister and I called this meeting to discuss Lord Baelish, his crimes, and what will happen after his sentencing and execution," said Sansa, watching carefully. If anything, concern over the army of the dead having a dragon had resulted in this part of the meeting being much more relaxed than she'd expected.

"Lord Royce and the soldiers and knights who were present can provide more specifics to any who wish to know, but in short, Lord Baelish engineered Jon Arryn's murder, my father's murder on false charges, the War of the Five Kings, the death of my aunt Lysa Arryn, the slow poisoning of my cousin Robin Arryn to stunt his growth, the Purple wedding, and many other crimes, all for his own selfish reasons."

The lords spoke to each other briefly, the hall filling with conversation and then falling silent again, allowing Sansa to continue.

"Many of you have seen or heard of my sister and I arguing, with your own ears, general gossip, or for some of you, your own spies. I am happy to report that the reports of our arguments are entirely true," said Sansa as she smiled slightly, "Allow me to re-introduce my sister, Arya Stark of Winterfell, Lady Winter, No One, Justice in the North, First Sword of Westeros."

Arya smirked out at the assembly, pausing a moment before continuing the explanation, "Sansa knew what Littlefinger was, how he worked, and many of his spies. You've all seen or heard of my skill as a dancing master of the Water Dance, the sword style of Braavos. That is what I showed to focus the attention of Littlefinger and his spies. As he had the truest sight of anyone except Brienne, and the best spies, we had to show the same things to all of you."

"We are sorry for the confusion and doubt we sowed. It was, regrettably, necessary - we had to keep our plans secret from Lord Baelish, who was one of the most cunning politicians in all of Westeros, and who had an extensive and skilled spy network across the seven kingdoms," said Sansa evenly.

Arya gave a proud smile at Sansa, not large, but enough to be noticeable to the audience, knowing the redhead was on the short list of most cunning politicians in Westeros. Arya continued, "As a result, together we have identified many spies, a few pathetic excuses for local cutthroats, as well as much of his finances. The most dangerous I killed before they could cause damage. The rest were given trials, the results you've seen," she gestured to the prominent bloodstain before the head table, "some sentenced to death, some to the Wall, and some to the cells."

Sansa glanced at Arya, who made the sign for yes, both judging that this was the best chance they had to tell the truth and get the results they needed, "There are no more trials for those in Winterfell, or any of your bannermen. Lord Baelish's brothels are ours now; there will be no change except a ten percent discount for all those working against the army of the dead, taken out of the house's cut, and that a very few services are no longer provided."

Sansa made the sign for you to Arya. The younger sister would provide a strong opening for many of the individuals, but to turn the group to the consensus they needed was better done by Sansa. Arya spoke, her voice colored with honest regret.

"Many of you have spoken with Littlefinger and his spies. None of you knew his true evil or his purpose. Many of you supported Jon and my sister when they brought the fight to Ramsay Bolton, and for those, we thank you for your purity of purpose and faith with House Stark. For those who joined with House Stark later, we do understand. After I escaped the Red Keep and was smuggled out of King's Landing, my friends and I were captured by the Lannisters."

Arya saw with her eyes the reactions of those of the North and Vale and from beyond the wall, all reacting differently. So far, so good - the ruffled feathers would be smoothed over shortly, "I did what I had to do to survive. I pretended to be a highborn from Barrowton who was pretending to be a lowborn daughter of a stonemason. Tywin Lannister took me as his cup-bearer, and I served his meals and fetched for him while he was fighting my brother Robb. I thought about killing him, planned how to kill him, but I did not - I chose my own survival, chose to be a prisoner but not a corpse or a hostage."

She glanced at Sansa, who made the sign for forgiveness and the sign for you, so Arya continued, "Had I not fetched for him, someone else would have. Had I not brought his meals, he would have eaten his fill regardless, so I told myself. I did survive, though, and I learned how to fight wars. I learned out to organize an army, a supply train, handle morale, how to scout, how to lay traps, from both Robb and Tywin, because I was there for every meeting Tywin had with his generals. That is how I know how to organize all the forces of the North and the Vale and the Free Folk, because I learned from Tywin Lannister, from his victories and his failures, from his wisdom and his folly, before I escaped from Harrenhal some time after Littlefinger visited Tywin, offering to help him. I led a group out, was captured by the Brotherhood, escaped them, captured again by the Hound, and then left for Braavos."

Sansa let them talk briefly, let them just barely start to come to terms with the idea of Arya as a child compared to Arya the general they knew well. She carefully gauged the mood and how the little groups were leaning, then gathered her courage, pushed her fears down as she'd seen her sister do, and stood to command their attention.

"You have all heard tales that I screamed for Ramsay, no doubt, those that did not hear my screams yourself. I screamed when he cut, and burned, and did other things, but I survived, just as my sister did alone and without family or bannermen or anyone of the North or the Vale to help her. Just as I had before, a hostage in King's Landing, a plaything for Joffrey to torment, to be beaten with swords. I sang pretty songs for the Lannisters, told them what they wanted to hear, what would keep me alive. I wrote a note before my father's execution to my brother Robb as Cersei dictated to me. I begged for my father's life, and saw the so-called 'mercy' Joffrey Waters gave myself."

She looked over at Arya, who made the sign for forgiveness and you, as well as a small supportive smile and a tiny nod for their audience to see.

"Just as my sister did, I learned, too, slowly, but I learned. I learned how the Southrons lie, and manipulate, and stab each other in the back over pointless rivalries. I learned, too, different ways of ruling, of maintaining strong alliances. I learned some from Lord Tyrion, who was kind to me, who never touched me. I learned some from his stories of his father, Tywin Lannister. I learned some from my handmaiden, who listened well, and from Margaery Tyrell. I learned much from Cersei, who is as evil a woman as you will ever find... but who is also as dangerous as anyone still alive today. I learned from Lord Baelish after he stole me from King's Landing and hid me in the Vale, as Alayne Stone, where I hid and lied as I must to survive."

The room was quiet, now, though many of the lords of the Vale looked to Lord Royce and were reassured by his clear support for Lady Stark. They knew he was a truly honorable man, that he had helped investigate Lysa Arryn's death, and that he had been present at the trial. If Bronze Yohn supported her, that had weight enough that they would listen.

Arya spoke, now, "Fear cuts deeper than swords. Joffrey threatened by pointing a crossbow - a blatant, visible, obvious threat. Ramsay threatened with a smile and nice words that everyone knew meant he wanted to flay you and your family alive. Cersei was similar. Littlefinger threatened even more subtly than that. There are no honorable means to fight men like that, because men like that twist honor's rules. It is a crime to strike a king, but what of when a king harms the innocent? Littlefinger only once ever gave a reason for an honorable duel. Cersei blew up the Sept of Baelor rather than be tried. The Mad King killed our grandfather and our uncle when they made honorable protest."

"When honorable men," Arya nodded to Lyanna Mormont, "and honorable women disagree, they use honorable means. But the world is full of dishonorable men and women, great and small, and to win against them without great cost one cannot always have perfect honor. Even to survive them requires compromise. Jon Arryn was honorable, and he was killed for it. My father was so honorable he warned Cersei that she should take her children and as many men as she could, and flee as far as she could, for when Robert came back from his hunt, my father would tell him his children were bastards. My father was killed for his honor, for his very honor gave Cersei time to prepare."

"When those with honor want to fulfill their ambition, they better themselves, they better their families, they better their bannermen and their smallfolk and their lands. The sad truth is that there is no justice in the world, not unless we make it. And we cannot always make justice by adhering to all the rules of high honor, because our enemies will not, though I have said things and done things to survive that I regret," said Sansa, looking at Lord Glover, "A woman can only admit when she was wrong, and ask forgiveness."

"I, too, have done things I regret," said Arya, then with a fleeting, wistful expression that only Sansa noticed, said, "A girl can only admit when she was wrong, and ask forgiveness."

This was the crux - they'd weighted the scales as best they could, and now they would see the results. Lord Glover stood.

"There's nothing to forgive, my lady, Lady Winter," he said.

As he sat, the hall was quiet.

Lady Frey stood nervously, shifting her cloak back to display the change in the embroidery on the front - the Twins were exactly as they were before, with a single addition, a winter storm-cloud which hung over the tops of the towers. She looked out at the assembly, seeing a mixed reaction. Many of the older lords were looking at her with disdain, though others were neutral. Alys, Ned Umber, and a few others she'd trained with regularly seemed to give her supportive smiles as they listened to her. To her! Her small voice trembled slightly as she addressed the hall.

"My Lords, my Ladies, I know I have no place here. I am just a girl from the Riverlands whose father married me to Lord Frey after the Red Wedding, but I know the shame of that treachery. Lord Frey was proud of it - proud of his victory," she risked a glance up at the high table. Her voice strengthened as she saw two looks of approval.

"Then, one day... The North remembers. Lady Winter came for House Frey. House Frey is gone, now, but I am not. My ladies are not, the servant girls who had no part in the treachery are not, and their children are not. The smallfolk were not raped and slaughtered, the Twins were not destroyed, the towns and stocks of grains were not burnt or stolen."

Lady Mormont stood even as Lady Frey sat, and Sansa knew the small bear would be the deciding voice. She had no particular rapport with Lady Mormont, but she knew Arya did, and that the siege engine commander had been studying battles, and leadership. Sansa did, however, believe that majority of the Northerners felt that the leader of Bear Island was perhaps the single most purely Northern person in the room, giving her voice great power to sway the entire North. She herself would never be that pure, or that Northern, and never was. All there was now was patience. She and her family would survive either way.

Lyanna gave a brief description of what had happened in her tent earlier, and then looked up at Arya directly and continued, "My family, my bannermen were butchered at the Red Wedding. Lady Winter gave us vengeance, and delivered retribution for breaking the laws of the old gods. She did it without armies, or wars, or harming innocents. She killed a man in front of me in cold blood, and others without a trial. Yet which of us was fighting the battle Littlefinger brought among us? I was not. Which of us knew his plans, his spies, his assassins? I did not. Which of us would have seen his treachery before it happened? I would not. We must learn from our mistakes. I'm proud to be a Northerner, but we must have leaders who can fight Southron ways on their own terms, or we will lose to dishonorable attacks again and again."

She gave a small nod to Sansa, and then another to Arya, then sat. The sisters looked out at the hall, signing yes to each other as they watched the consensus form. It was quieter than it was for Jon's coronation, despite the larger crowd, but solidly behind them all the same.

Sansa and Arya stood together, Sansa staying behind the head table as Arya strolled casually to the side, closer to the decorative changing screen at the corner by the fireplace, farthest from the windows. The half nearest the fireplace and the head table had her new heraldry on it, the other half was that of the House of Black and White, though only Arya, Sansa, and Kitty knew that.

"As Lady of Winterfell, in the absence of both our King and his Hand, I have named my sister Arya Justice in the North. We are of the North, and in the North we follow the ways of the First Men. I will judge crimes, and decide if a crime is a capital crime, but I will not sentence. The Justice in the North will decide if a capital crime merits death, or if the Wall or even a lesser punishment is merited, and pass the sentence. She will kill by her own hand, right here where she and I can both look into their eyes and hear their last words. The men she killed without trial we had discussed in secret, and I believe were both guilty of capital crimes and too dangerous to let live during Lord Baelish's trial."

Bronze Yohn stood, "I am not of the North, but I am of the First Men. My House goes back thousands of years, before the Andals invaded, and we still use their runes on our armor. I believe that having crimes judged by the Lady of Winterfell and sentenced by the Justice in the North shows wisdom, and I have faith in their decisions."

"Thank you, Lord Royce. Your faith honors us. Speaking of faith," said Sansa as she turned to Arya.

"When I went to Braavos, I studied at the House of Black and White. After some time, I became No One, a Faceless Man. We will be building the House of Black and White in Westeros on the large hill to the northwest of Winterfell after the war with the Night King is finished. Anyone who needs the gift of death can see any priest or acolyte of the Many-Faced God, and we will grant it. We will care for the bodies of the dead, as well. If anyone gives you a coin like this and says Valar Morghulis," she said as she passed her iron coin, which was once Jaqen's iron coin, to Clay Cerwyn to pass around, "then you are to take every effort to get them to the House of Black and White, either here or in Braavos, whichever they request. The House will repay any legitimate expense. Priests are called No One."

Arya took this chance to consider her decision one last time. For any of the many so-called assassins of other groups, this would be suicide. For a Faceless Man, well, that was a different matter entirely. She'd risk people trying to attack her personally in her own face, or in any other face she showed in this way... a small enough risk, since at least some of the most dangerous people in the world wanted her dead in her own face regardless. She had a few other faces already, and would be get more naturally enough as people came for the gift of death, or corpses were brought to be taken care of by the House.

What she was doing wasn't exactly normal, but wasn't unheard of in and of itself, either. The Waif had taken her face off on the bridge in plain sight, Jaqen had shown her another face just outside of Harrenhal, and she herself had already shown Kitty and the girls her changing faces. There had been Faceless Men for thousands of years, even, and it has always been known who to contact for the gift of death. Long ago, by slaves in the deep mines of Valyria, they were of course kept secret from the dragonlords. Then, when the Faceless Men moved to Braavos, they built a vast temple, and walked about in public - Jaqen moved through the hall of the gods in his own face, as she had, and had changed his face on the front steps when he invited her into the temple.

She reached deep inside herself, to the place where she kept her list, her earliest prayer and deepest connection to the Many-Faced God, and thought of what she had planned. She thought of how it was the same as what had been done before, how it was different, and of the various plans she had for the House of Black and White in Westeros, of how it would be different than the House in Braavos, of how it would be the same. Then she was calm as still water, and knew a face of her God she had not known before, a face of humorous acceptance, and she knew she had her answer.

While Arya was quiet, Sansa listened to the fragments of conversation carefully, with unseen amusement.

"What, like a Silent Sister?"

"They're assassins!"

"That's a bit creepy."

"Like a Septon?"

Sansa interrupted, her voice tinged with amusement and pride, "A High Septon, in Arya's case, actually."

While they were paying attention to Sansa, Arya stepped silently behind the privacy screen, swirling the cloak around and fastening it properly, striding out of the black and white side and watching the lords and ladies notice the change. Her face smirked as Sansa's eyes widened briefly, while the rest of the lords and ladies started, jumped, explained in shock, were puzzled, gaped in disbelief, and even drew their weapons in a few cases. Kitty, alone of all, simply gave a deep nod.

"What, you never saw a Faceless Man before? Heh. Heh. Heh. Close your mouths, you look like a bunch of damn morons," said No One in Walder Frey's rich, deep voice.

************************

 

[Epic Reader]

Sansa suppressed her surprise, returning to a calm and still expression even as her sister taunted the conclave. This was clearly the first face that she'd found in her sister's saddlebag, and judging by the age and Lady Frey's response, it was her husband. The cloak was that of a priest of Death, the hem inches farther off the floor than it had been before Arya had disappeared behind the screen, showing that her footwear was the same leather she'd sewn herself.

Ever since her sister had first returned, hints had been there. Sansa remembered their trip deep into the crypts, when she had heard only her own footsteps, when Arya had confirmed she'd been at the twins. The Lady of the Crossing had called her the very face of death, and here was yet another show that her sister, like her brother, had returned not just very different than when they left, but also with strange powers.

This was no mummer's trick, no tall boots or high heels or faker's skill, it was true magic. She knew makeup and cosmetics, how to change the look of a face. She'd learned from her own mother, from Shae, even from Cersei herself. She knew how to change color, highlighting certain features, to look more or less attractive, she'd even learned how to hide bruises from Cersei one night the queen had been particularly drunk and was dwelling on her earliest days with her late husband. All those took many cosmetics, great skill, and above all time.

Her sister had had no cosmetics and only a scant few seconds, was inches taller, looked ancient, had a completely different voice. There was no trace of any of her normal mannerisms, or even the cold stillness she fell into often. The expression was different, the cadence of the words were different... and her sister was eyeing up Lady Frey with familiarity and Lady Karstark with apparently fresh interest, in a way similar to what she remembered King Robert doing.

Well, that was a little disturbing.

"You didn't believe in magic, not truly, not even after all you've heard. No no, that was your mistake. Doubt no longer - there is only one god, and his name is Death. He has many faces. If you are willing to pay the price, you may approach the House of Black and White in Braavos with a name, or the House of Black and White in Westeros for just vengeance. Make no mistake, if you need No One, the price will be high," said No One.

"This is the face of No One. This is the vestment of No One. When you see this, you see No One, you hear No One. No One is the priest of the Many-Faced God, and that is No One's interest. Not the interests of men, or women, or holdfasts, or kingdoms, but the interests of the many faces of death, whether giving the gift of a peaceful death to those who ask, or providing the services of the only truly professional assassins in the world."

"Sansa Stark, the Red Wolf, will see to the interests of the living, as will her sister when she wears Arya Stark's face. We do have shared interests, however, the living and the Many-Faced God. Valar Morghulis, the common greeting, is often translated as 'all men must die'," said No One as he winked at Lady Frey, "by men. We of the House translate it as 'all must die', just as the response Valar Dohaeris is best translated as 'all must serve'. The Night King profanes the sanctity of death - he is a blasphemer that neither dies nor serves, and must be destroyed."

With that, No One turned and slowly walked behind the black and white side of the screen. Arya Stark strode out to return to her sister, shrugging a little in a 'what are you looking at' manner at Sansa's subtle head-tilt and hidden exasperation.

"My Lords and Ladies, we have called you all here for another reason as well. We have received a raven from our brother Jon. As Lady of Winterfell, I ask that we discuss the contents here, in conclave with our allies of the Vale and the Free Folk, as is our custom in the North."

"Once Sansa reads the raven, you will all have a chance to see it as well. Before that, I would like to hear some of what happened before I returned. Alys, which weapon did you use when you bent the knee?"

"My sword," said Alys a little uncertainly, still unsettled by the old man's gaze a moment before having come from the small girl before her, a girl only a year older than herself.

"Ned, which knee did you bend when you bent the knee?"

"My right knee."

"Just so," said Arya, "And when Jon was declared King, who brandished their unsheathed weapons and declared him King in the North here, in conclave, in the sight of god and men?" Arya made the sign for you.

Sansa watched the response for a minute, then spoke, her voice calm and relaxed, "My brother wrote, in his own hand, 'I pledged to fight for Daenerys Targaryen', from his sickbed after the Queen of Meereen flew north on her dragon, based on a raven telling her he and a small group of men were trapped by the army of the dead. My brother is alive and well, thank you for your concern."

Arya stood before the exclamations and various conversations could really get started, pitching her voice to carry in the way she'd heard Tywin's carry, "Bran has not seen Jon draw his weapon to bend the knee before he sent this note. Bran has not seen Jon kneel before he sent this note. The note says 'pledged', not 'bent the knee' - that word is very different. In Braavos, for example, that would mean a personal oath, not the oath of a ruler on behalf of their people. Remember, Bran only sees small flashes of vision, and my brother is not here to answer in full the questions that will determine which he actually did."

Sansa watched as Wyman Manderly stood just after her sister sat, his clothing starting to show a few signs of being loose on his frame. She was glad to see he was both following her orders on rationing, and choosing to wear clothes that were still tailored to match his previous girth. That, by itself, would do more than a dozen speeches and two score side conversations to enforce the rationing - all knew how much he loved to eat, and when all could see he was eating both in public and in private little enough that he was losing weight for the first time in decades, there would be a great shame in failing to follow his example. She resolved to thank Lord Wyman for his not just setting, but showing off the example to all who saw him, lords and smallfolk alike.

"The Manderlys came to the North from the Reach, as all know, in the time of the Gardener kings. Our family alone came North, those with the name Manderly, and we brought with us our faith, our industry, our expertise with ships and commerce. Our bannermen did not come with us, and we did not hold them to need to do so! The oath we swore here in the North to be always be loyal subjects to the Starks of Winterfell did not bind those who had been our bannermen south in the Reach!"

"Most of you know the laws and history of bending the knee in the North far better than I do," said Sansa as she made the sign for lie, "so it is the duty of this conclave to discuss and determine what is required to bend the knee on behalf of your bannermen, and what is simply a man, or a woman, pledging their personal loyalty and abdicating their previous responsibilities as is done when one joins the Night's Watch, a responsibility which supersedes previous ones. As Lady of Winterfell, I welcome what our Vale and Free Folk allies have to say as well."

"We will discuss this for an hour, and then leave for supper in the camps. My brother is sailing south with Daenerys Targaryen to Queen Cersei's parlay, so we have time before any decision is required. We do not have to decide today, my Lords and Ladies, we only need to speak of the different points we must all consider. The Great Hall will then be left to those of the Vale for their supper, for they have lost the Lord Protector of the Vale today and are owed time to decide important internal matters of state," said the Lady of Winterfell, leaning forward to listen intently to the next to speak up, her sister sitting tall, but not entirely still. She wondered if having been openly a Faceless Man in front of all had been good for Arya, as she felt being Lady of Winterfell was for her herself.

During the next hour, they watched the various Lords and Ladies debate with the usual Northern... enthusiasm... each of them stepping in from time to time to bring the discussion back on topic from the inevitable digressions, or to resettle overly heated arguments. This was the normal course of any conclave in the North - without any particular time pressure, they'd never come to agreement on their own.

Lyanna Mormont was silent, listening intently to the various opinions. Fjornel and the other Free Folk said little, merely bringing up the way the various tribal leaders or the King Beyond the Wall had been named, and how those who hadn't died a King had been unnamed or abdicated the position. The small bear watched the Stark sisters do little but keep the discussion on track and make it clear they supported their brother, as their brother.

They, however, made no real statements at all about their opinions on King Jon as King, on bending the knee or abdicating. She wondered why that was - both women had strong opinions about nearly everything, and had just gotten done corralling the conclave regarding Littlefinger. It was the same tactic Arya used in military discussions, picking a partner and going back and forth, verbally attacking the flanks of the herd. A tactic she'd used herself with Fjornel as her partner when a set of new Houses arrived and were being idiots about siege weapons. Lyanna resolved to think further, and see if her Maester had any information that would help her make her own decision.

At the end of the hour, Sansa stood, "Thank you all for your frank discussion. It is time to leave the Hall to the men and women of the Vale for them to decide their own future. Before that, though, I have one last request for you. Many of you have long-standing arguments with other houses or tribes. If you can, try to forgive each other. We are all here, working together to defend our peoples. All our peoples."

Arya stood as Sansa finished, thinking of the best example she could, where she was sure that mutual respect had formed and solidified, "Bronze Yohn, I hear tales that you were upset at the idea of fighting with the Free Folk before my brother left for Dragonstone. Your cavalry has trained with Skamund and his ice-river clan dogsleds for months, now. Would you rather fight the Night King with them, or with Southron knights or Dothraki horselords?"

Bronze Yohn stood, turning to the Free Folk man who had been named leader of the Free Folk 'cavalry'. He thought of the knights he'd seen in the South, of the tales of Dothraki he'd heard his whole life. He thought even of the marvelous Dornish horses he'd seen, perfectly suited to a parched desert environment with light riders. He thought of the mountain tribes of the Vale, who had women fighters just as the Wildlings did. Then he thought of the training he'd done, hour after hour, day after day, week after week with the Wildlings, in the day, during the night, in the snow and sleet and blizzard winds.

"I was angry, and insulted, and I said so, for we have been enemies for millennia. Since then I have trained with them most days, and my forces have done so every day without fail. Skamund, you and yours are no knights, nor do you follow the Seven or our code of honor. You and yours are fierce, cunning warriors who hit and run, who do not charge directly, who do not strive for honorable one on one combat during a battle," said Lord Royce, looking across the hall as he raised his voice slightly.

"You have taught me and my cavalry, all our cavalry, a great deal about how to fight enemies who care not about honor. Enemies like ours are now! You have taught us about the dead, about how they fight, and how they never break and always attack. You have learned tight discipline, and we have both learned to work with each other. I would rather fight with you than with any knights of the Stormlands, the Crownlands, the Riverlands, the Reach, the horsemen of Dorne, or the Dothraki screamers!"

Skamund rose, made his tribe's sign of respect to Bronze Yohn, and sat. He could understand the tongue spoken south of the Wall better than he could speak it, though he was quite fluent in the horn calls the combined cavalry forces used. What he didn't understand of the speech, the cavalry commander's tone of voice and expression told him. They were the edge of the blade and he the back of the blade, without both there would be no cutting down the dead.

Sansa noted that neither Lord Royce nor Skamund had mentioned the stealing of women or the raids which had been part and parcel of the hatred for millennia, and mentally thanked both for avoiding the topic. They needed unity, not dissent - dissent and redress could come after the wars, when the unity and bonds of mutual interdependence were stronger.

Sansa dismissed the gathered Northerners and Free Folk, then caught Arya's attention, glanced at Lady Reed, and made the sign for recruit, the closest sign they had for what she meant. At Arya's return sign of yes, Sansa approached her, "Lady Reed! I'm very pleased to see you again. If you have some time, I would like to invite you to supper in my chambers. There is a small matter I would like to propose to you for your consideration."

Arya clapped Bronze Yohn on the shoulder affably after telling him where she'd be if he needed her to provide any testimony during the meeting for the Vale, then followed a Free Folk man out the window with a slight smirk. The Red Wolf had decided to be a bit more free with her japes, it appeared. That her sister was willing to do so with Meera was certainly a good sign.

Arya headed out to the closest camp the Northern wargs and skinchangers who could handle birds used at her usual jog to get an update on what was happening. She expected they'd be able to call an end to having everyone ready for an attack, but they couldn't all do so. They'd need to rotate, just as night watchmen do, and keep a substantial presence available in case a wight dragon appeared.

Once she gave those orders, she'd head back to collect Sansa.

************************

Arya entered Sansa's solar after having been announced and sending the guards to the ends of the halls, closing the door behind her as she saw Meera Reed looking uncertain, worried, and sad in the chair across from Sansa's divan. Sansa looked up and smiled, making the signs for recruit and you as she said, "Arya, welcome back. Do you think we have a little time to talk?"

"There's no sightings of the wight dragon at all, and the caravan's just passing the outer watchtowers. I have time," said Arya in the soft voice she used with visitors to the House of Black and White, sitting down next to her sister on the divan, leaning against Sansa.

Meera looked up at the younger girl she'd spent time training with, teaching about the wights and the White Walkers, and discussing how the archers should best be used against different enemies. The young Stark had been a mystery, a great fighter with all kinds of weapons and a true prodigy with her little sword, skilled in wide-scale military matters. She was usually an intense, driven person, though occasionally she became creepy, cold and still in a way Jojen or even Bran had never been.

And then half an hour ago, she'd seen why. She hadn't heard much of them in her life - while Greywater Watch was less than a hundred miles from the sea, few sailors came through to tell tales of the Faceless Men. Still, she'd heard some, and they were frightening. She'd thought the Night King was the god of death... apparently not. That didn't help her with her difficulty in resolving the tightly controlled but warm person before her and the deadly killer she'd glimpsed, and even the old priest, the old male priest, she'd seen.

"You act one way, then the same, then different again. Then you're a man. Then you're the same again. Bran didn't become the same again, he got more and more different, stopped caring about anything but the Night King. Jojen, even," said Meera, her voice breaking at the end.

"We know what it's like to lose a brother. I'm sorry his death hurt you," said Arya in that gentle voice, then leaned forward with her usual intensity, "You'll keep what is said here private, won't you? Just between the three of us, not spoken about except with us. Yes, you will. Not even with Bran - he has no sense of others listening. Good. Thank you, Meera."

Arya waited a moment while Meera processed that 'exchange', then continued quietly, "I am a Faceless Man, trained specifically to change my face, inside and out. I spent years before that training on the same kinds of skills, being other people to survive, to hide who I was. Part of that was my learning to be who I am underneath, to not lose myself entirely in the new face, to be able to take the face off again. My brother never had that training, that practice. He was always himself, climbing and happy, and then crippled and devoting himself to the weirwood face of the Many-Faced God. He needs to learn how to find his own face again, to put it on again."

"Arya's good for Bran. They jape with each other, and I can see Bran's joy. It's well hidden and only appears in brief flashes, but you can see it shine through if you've learned how and you know him. Remember, we're not asking you to spend your life doing nothing but caring for him - you may do as you like. Arya says you're a good archer, respected by the others. You can continue that, or turn your hand to whatever else you choose. We take care of our family."

"Jape with each other? You're the one he conspires with, hiding things from me for weeks on end," said Arya with a playful nudge at her sister before speaking.

"Meera, Sansa spoke for both of us. You're a good archer, good fighter, and you care about our brother and the North. The Three-Eyed Raven isn't all he is, but even if he never learns to put his own face on again for more than a moment, you can be our family as well. We're not quite so stuck-up in private," said Arya with a smirk directed at her sister, then her expression saddened, "but we and Bran are the last. I never wanted children, never wanted babies, and after being wounded, I can't have them anyway."

"After what Ramsay did, I have no desire to bed a man, and will never. I do not wish to marry again, and will never marry again; I will die as I have lived, a Stark."

The sisters stood, heading for the door as Sansa gave one last comment, "Some of us are still very strange and annoying, of course. Stay here as long as you like, Lady Reed, if you'd like to spend some time thinking. It is, of course, entirely your choice. The guards will let no one in, and this No One and I will be busy with the caravan for some time."

Lady Reed watched the two Starks rub their shoulders together as they left. In a way, they were the last two Starks who had any measure of themselves left. She settled back in the chair, pulled her legs up, and pondered what they had asked of her... offered her, in a way.

************************

Arya and Sansa waited; the horns and drums had signaled the caravan's arrival time to be about now. The leading edge of the caravan's scouts had come in already, and the main body of sleds was approaching, a few with passengers as well as cargo moving to the front.

Sansa watched her sister carefully, seeing well-hidden, restrained eagerness shown to her briefly before it vanished entirely from Arya's bearing. This would be her first time meeting any of their foreign allies, or perhaps her sister's friends. Some of them were simple business partners and allies, but some of them were those Arya had sailed with, who had been her friends when she was calling herself Salty.

The first group which approached them was easily recognizable by their vestments, two people in the garb of the House of Black and White without a hood, and three with a hood. The one in the lead had a hood over distinctive red and white hair, and greeted her first, followed quickly by the others.

"A man greets a girl."

"A girl greets a man."

"No One."

"No One."

"Valar Morghulis."

"Valar Dohaeris."

"No One! It's good to see you!"

"And you, No One!"

"No One, thank you for receiving me."

"Thank you for coming, No One."

Arya turned from the second acolyte to Jaqen, "A girl wasn't expecting guests from the House."

"A man is only visiting to complete a girl's training. The others will be more comfortable serving the Many-Faced God's Westerosi face than his Braavosi face, and so they will stay with the House to assist you. A man also brings gifts for the House, and a loan until the blasphemies have had their names returned to the Many-Faced God."

Jaqen led her back to the sleds they'd come on, showing her briefly the gifts - a full stock of poisons, an assortment of weaponry, two score ancient Faceless Man coins for future Faceless Men, a selection of faces from dozens of cultures going back to the very first Faceless Men, and lastly a selection of copies of scrolls from the House. Scrolls about magic, and dragons, about how to kill dragons and dragonlords, and about the mysteries of the Many-Faced God.

He then beckoned to Sansa, inviting her closer, "This is the loan. This will be provided to you until the Night King no longer profanes Death. Then it must be returned, though what face it wears matters not."

He opened up a chest, within which was a set of metal slave collars, manacles, and thin chains. Sansa watched as Arya lifted one out reverently, stroking a finger across the collar. When her sister tilted it so it caught the light, Sansa suppressed a gasp. These were made of Valyrian steel - a literally priceless treasure, if they could find someone to reforge it as Ice had been reforged.

"A girl thanks a man. A wight dragon has been raised, and this may be what is needed to send it back to true death."

"A man is aware."

Sansa wasn't sure just what was going on, though she thought she understood Arya's expression earlier as 'a girl' asked forgiveness. She wondered if Lord Glover had quite known what he was saying when he said it, then dismissed the thought, guessing at the odd syntax in her head, "A woman thanks a man, and assures him that they will be weighed carefully, and the same weight returned."

Jaqen made his characteristic slight nod of approval, then gestured behind him, "A girl has more guests to greet."

Next strutted up a young man in the most bizarre outfit Sansa had ever seen, tight-fitting furs overlaid with thin, colorful finery, with a thin sword at his waist. Not quite like her sister's, the scabbard was a little wider and much longer, while the hilt lacked the extra section of guard. She watched Arya stalk forward with more than a hint of aggressive swagger, flicking her cloak behind her sword hilt, though without placing her hand anywhere near her sword.

"Valar Morghulis," said Arya after looking him over carefully. Not as a woman looks a man over, but as a fighter looks another over.

"Valar Dohaeris, First Sword. I am Irresso Hestar. The First Sword of the Sealord has sent me with a letter of introduction," said the bravo as he withdrew an envelope with Qarro's seal from inside his furs, offering it to Arya with a bow.

Arya inhaled subtly, then reached out with her gloved hand to take the envelope after scenting nothing. She wouldn't put it past Jaqen or one of the others to have set this up as a test, though she wasn't detecting any falsehood. She inspected the letter carefully, looking with her eyes, smelling with her nose, feeling with her skin. It was, indeed, an introduction - he had sent Irresso to her, though he did not say why. She refolded the letter and stowed it.

"Why would Qarro send you here, to me, rather than another dancing master?"

"Because my father was a good friend of Syrio Forel, and you are his greatest student. And because my father was killed by two of his rivals. It is said you understand vengeance. That is why I was sent to you."

"Just so. You'll have to pay for lodgings, or work for them. I have duties to attend to for some days; until then, you are to catch cats in Winter Town."

Irresso nods, leaving Arya and Sansa to continue through the others.

A pair of Braavosi in fine, darkly colored furs were next, the Iron Bank representative for Sansa and a representative from the Arsenal for Arya. The Arsenal had built and sent the first order of ships that the North had purchased, as well as the large numbers of torsion springs, universal joints, and fletched artillery bolts they'd ordered on Iron Bank drafts. The Arsenal representative also informed them that three score artillery ships from the Braavosi navy had been provided as allies against the dead.

In Braavos, the dragons of the Valyrian Freehold and how they fought and could be fought were still remembered well indeed. When the House of Black and White says there is evil magic beyond the wall, the Sealord listens. When the First Sword agrees that the source is reputable, the Sealord acts.

From Myr came two pyromancers, several glassblowers, three score far-eyes, several sleds with barrels of wildfire packed in snow, and a full hundred glass spheres sized for scorpions and very carefully constructed to contain that wildfire and burst upon impact, not upon launch.

Sansa stood back, thinking that she'd traveled to King's Landing and the Eyrie and back to the North on carriage and ship, and had been well known in Westeros then by her family's name, then by being a frequent spectacle in court. Now she was well known everywhere in Westeros north of the Twins on her own merit. She'd remembered the wildfire Tyrion had used at the Blackwater well, but Cersei had every pyromancer in Westeros working for her.

The Lady of Winterfell looked at her sister as Captain Ternesio Terys and his first mate greeted 'Salty' warmly. Arya had been on a different, much farther journey than her own, one with only a few stretches of time where she had been truly on her own. Now Arya was back, and with only whatever she did to slaughter the Freys and a few ravens had set in motion events that moved half the world to their aid. With Frey gold and Iron Bank loans, yes, in many cases, though even then Arya's unsupported word was enough to move dozens of armed ships and more Valyrian steel than she'd ever seen. Arya had known where to get pyromancers, wildfire, far-eyes, artillery, and had contacts that were providing even more.

Sansa felt her own envy rise, and turned away from their discussion of ship's rigging for use getting to and from artillery engines in high places. She herself had endured much, and come out stronger - even Arya had recognized that, showing both pride and love in her own way. Sansa looked back at the lights of fires from all the many camps behind the inner defensive moat, and the lights in the windows of Winterfell's towers.

That, she reminded herself, was her own doing - Jon may have brought the Free Folk and Arya those from Essos, but bringing the Vale and keeping them and the North working smoothly together with each other was hers. Keeping the Free Folk in the mix with the rest of them was hers. Keeping two entire kingdoms - and foreign guests - fed and warm despite conditions not seen since the last Long Night, that was hers.

She stilled herself for a moment, as she'd seen Arya do, then turned back, in control of herself again. There was work to be done - it was up to her to talk to the merchants from Essos about trade deals for food, for citrus fruits, and for the long list of military supplies Arya had compiled for her to add in to the winter supplies.

Sansa strode through the snow with a welcoming smile towards the merchants.

Behind them, the next group of sleds were being directed elsewhere as they came in with their cargoes of hundreds of barrels of pitch, tar, oils, and the worst rotgut in the world.

************************

 

[Epic Reader]

Maester Wolkan waited at the gates, checking on the inventory of the supplies pouring in from the terrifying young killer's contacts across the Narrow Sea. Pyromancers, even - she'd hired pyromancers from Myr! Foolish foreign fakers preaching nonsensical mysticism... he stopped himself from continuing that thought.

He was a Maester, and he'd always been taught that magic was nonsense, that the tales of the North were nonsense. Yet here he was, watching the largest system of fieldworks he'd ever heard of being constantly enlarged to hold off not only dragons returned, but dragons returned and raised from the dead along with wights, white walkers, wight giants, and probably other magical enemies they hadn't seen yet.

Nonsense, the Archmaesters had said. Send more evidence, the Citadel's reply had sanctimoniously stated. He'd never seen a wight himself, but he'd conducted extensive interviews, and the stories were consistent. Free Folk of twenty three tribes had used six different languages through fifteen different translators, the Lady Reed had spoken at length, and members of the Night's Watch had corroborated. The dead did rise, did have glowing blue eyes, and tens of thousands could be raised all at one, over a huge area, with a simple gesture at most.

The testimony was overwhelming and consistent. Worse, he'd seen direwolves and giants with his own eyes. His King had been brought back from the dead, by reliable testimony and scars that should have been, were, from fatal wounds. He'd seen a tiny killer become Lord Walder Frey.

He'd seen magic. It was real, here and now.

The Archmaesters were wrong.

Had always been wrong.

Well, the Starks required he work with the pyromancers to determine the best weapons and delivery systems to defeat white walkers, wights, wight giants, wight mammoths, wight dragons, and plain old everyday dragons. Perhaps he could introduce them to a disciplined, rigorous testing method. Yes, they could plan it all out properly, find out exactly the best options!

He'd have to get some time with a scorpion, and then a ballista and a trebuchet - the big enemies should be taken out as far from the castle as possible, so range was essential. They'd need to do trials on accuracy, too - did lighting a bolt on fire change where it hit? What about different heads, or fletching? He'd have to talk to Lady Mormont about taking a scorpion and crew away from her training schedule. Lady Lyanna wasn't as frightening as the young Stark sister, no.

He should find Lady Lyanna and ask her to interrupt her training. She'd understand, surely. Yes. He should do that soon.

The Maester spied Lady Sansa returning, her staff cradled elegantly in the crook of her arm, the ends with their sharp dragonglass shards kept away from her thick Northern gown. That's right, he had important news for the Lady of Winterfell! News that should not wait another minute!

"Lady Sansa!"

"Maester Wolkan, what is it?"

"The order you gave to burn all the corpses in the North and the Vale is almost complete."

"Good. What's left, Maester?"

Maester Wolkan swallowed once, then continued, doing his duty to the Lady of Winterfell, "Your ancestors. The lichyard has been exhumed, burned, and the ashes reburied, but in the crypts... the men didn't feel it right to touch your ancestors in their tombs. The others are all ashes, and the tombs were opened, oil drizzled on the remains. There's more oil and torches at the entrance for you."

He watched Lady Sansa nod, her expression steady as she replied, "When my sister returns, let her know and send her to me."

"Where should she meet you?"

"She'll know where I am."

He turned back to the dark night outside, looking for the faceless killer. Sometimes he wished he'd stayed at the Citadel to do research.

************************

Sansa stood before her mother's empty tomb, and her father's bones, the air still and quiet around her, much warmer than the chill winter air above. When she first heard the faint rustling of cloth, she spoke quietly, in remembrance of their reunion in this very spot months ago, "Do I have to call you Lady Winter, now?"

"Yes," murmured Arya from right next to her, setting a large jug down with a faint clink, wrapping an arm around her sister's waist as Ghost padded up as well. One of the still rare, difficult to craft solid dragonglass daggers had replaced the Valyrian steel dagger on her belt, though Needle was still present.

Sansa put her arm over Arya's shoulder, "Thank you for avenging them. I could never have done that."

"You can uphold father's legacy as a great leader, and mother's as a woman and a great lady. Jon has father's honor, and Bran has the legacy of the magic of Bran the Builder," said Arya. She could look at each of her siblings and see the Stark in them. When she thought of herself, she could see Arry, and Salty, and Blind Beth, and No One. She had not her mother's looks, nor her father's honor, nor the magic of her ancestors.

Sansa squeezed Arya's shoulder for a moment, not having thought her sister couldn't see the Stark in herself. They were all, she supposed, a little damaged. She was proud they all stood tall despite everything, or perhaps because of it, though it appeared all of them doubted themselves sometimes. Oddly, that made her feel a little better herself, about her own doubts.

"Remember when Maester Luwin taught us the history of the Starks? I always hated the older stories - they were dark and terrible, burning villages and bringing back heads to put on spikes, killing other kings and taking their daughters to marry. Massacres and warfare and cruelty is all I saw then, though now I see ruthless rulers who attacked their enemies to protect their people. You uphold the legacy of the Starks of old, our ancient ancestors."

"Perhaps you're right. Sometimes I wonder what father and mother would have thought of what I've become and done. I don't think they'd approve."

"Mother would have. You've grown into a beautiful woman, and she was a Tully at heart - family comes first, including avenging family. Father... his honor, Jon's honor, is a noble idea, but it has little place in this world. Still, we're together again, protecting the North, and our loyal allies. He'd approve of that, even if not of how we do it, either you or I."

Arya gave the briefest hint of a smile, then picked up her jug, carefully using a Myrish glass rod to spread a few drops of glowing green liquid on their father's bones, "I brought some wildfire to make sure there's nothing left to be profaned."

Sansa waited for Arya to recap the jug and move it away, then ignited the bones. As they began to burn green, Arya solemnly intoned, "Valar Morghulis."

They watched in silence for awhile, then moved to Rickon's tomb, Arya treating his broken, trampled remains, and saying the words as Sansa touched torch to wildfire. They were silent but for Arya's prayer through Robb's, and Talisa's, and their mother's empty tombs as well. As they continued on more quickly through tomb after tomb, they started to speak, just loud enough to be heard over the crackling flames.

"I'm sorry about Lady."

"I remember you fought for her. I'm sorry about the butcher's boy."

"His name was Mycah. I put the Hound on my list for him, I got the Brotherhood to try him for murder. He won, killed Beric, then Thoros raised Beric from the dead in front of me with just a short prayer to his Red God. After the Hound lost to Brienne, I left him for dead. The Many-Faced God didn't take him then, though, and now he's with Jon. God likes his little jokes, I suppose."

"Arya... I'm sorry I lied, sorry I got Nymeria sentenced to death. If you hadn't sent her away, Cersei would have killed her too."

"She's doing well, you know. She found me when I was on my way back to Winterfell, she and her wolves. I asked her to come with me... but that's not her, not anymore. She's a leader, now, responsible for her pack," said Arya, falling into silence for a time, remembering when she had been first presented with her pup. She remembered immediately thinking of the name of her favorite ruling warrior queen, no hesitation, no doubts as to the name of her direwolf. Nymeria had never learned to fetch for her, she had been a killer, a wolf, not a servant or a lady, just as she herself was a killer. All killers need to keep the environment in mind, where the threats were, who the allies were, how much food and water there was, where was safe and where was not, who and where the scavengers were. Who would support you when you were strong, and turn on your when you were weak.

Arya came back to the present, set the jug down carefully, then pulled Sansa into a tight hug, "I'm sorry I didn't understand the politics. There was nothing you could have done to prevent it. Robert didn't think Father, or I, or Lady was worth a word against Cersei and Joffrey, for all he claimed father was his brother. You didn't lie about what happened, you just said you didn't know. Cersei would have poisoned both of our wolves, or burned them like the tower was set afire as a distraction for the amateur they sent to kill Bran, or killed them some other way, because she couldn't control them."

Sansa held her sister tightly for a time, then they separated and continued down the tombs. The statues here had crowns on their heads, old Kings in the North, from before Torrhen's time when the Starks truly ruled.

"I'm sorry I didn't try to help you escape," said Arya sadly.

Sansa made the sign for forgiveness, and asked, "Could you have?"

"Now? Easily. Then? No. Syrio held off Meryn Trant and I ran to get Needle, then to the tunnels beneath and out into the city. I killed pigeons to survive in the alleys of Flea Bottom, then when I went with the crowd to father's execution, Yoren of the Night's Watch smuggled me out as a boy, using the name Arry."

Sansa was the first to reach out this time, wrapping an arm around Arya's shoulders as they opened the gate to a slope down to the next level underground. Her voice was understanding as she spoke, "Then I'm glad you didn't try. I'm glad you survived."

"Gendry was with the Night's Watch - he was a blacksmith, apprenticed to Tobho Mott of Qohor. He talked about blacksmithing, sometimes, like Hot Pie talked about cooking all the time. Castle-forged steel needs to be tempered properly to be good - the better the temper, the better the steel. Heat it properly, quench it properly - none of it sounds good to the steel. Heat too much, or too fast, it doesn't work. Quench too fast, it's brittle and breaks. Do it just right..." mused Arya.

"And you get what, us? Just enough suffering, just fast enough?"

"More or less. I'm home, you're home, with the capacity to change the world of men. We're not going to break, are we?"

"No, we're not. It's still a terrible analogy; Septa would have hated it. Maester Luwin would have made you find a better one."

"Yes, they would have. Now you have Wolkan, the timid Maester who gives scrolls to your enemies."

"He's too trusting, more than a bit foolish, and easily terrified by obvious threats... like you, as you well know. I'll thank you to not scare him entirely to death - he's actually quite skilled and very smart in a bookish sort of way."

Arya made a soft humph noise and a little shrug, "No promises. Kitty's storing up a collection of raven scrolls she's writing by herself, you know, waiting to send them."

"I know. She's actually very sweet."

"She is, more than you know. She had dreams like you did, once, of being a good wife and mother, I think. She used to cry at night, as quietly as she could," said Arya, before her expression shifted slightly to one of hidden frustration, easily apparent to her sister, "Mother sold me for a single trip across a bridge. I would have been married to a Frey boy, under Walder's rule, with nowhere to go, surrounded by his sons and grandsons."

Sansa tightened her arm around her sister's shoulders, feeling her shift closer, "I'm sorry, Arya. I'm sorry about what she did. We'll never let anyone do that to either of us again."

"The worst thing is that it didn't even matter," said Arya as her tone and expression showed honest anger, "Selling me didn't matter at all, and would have gotten me killed, or imprisoned like Uncle Edmure, only forced to bear one child after another! Robb could never have won in the long run, not if he kept trying to go South with only the forces he had. Robb and Mother's deal didn't even get the Frey bannermen, just a trip over the bridge. The rest of the Riverlanders weren't able to do more than occupy the northernmost Lannister forces. The other kingdoms and forces were aligned with Tywin or one of the other kings, until those kings were killed, and none of the rest would have joined Robb regardless."

"Leaders start wars for insults to their own wives, daughters, sisters, and betrothed, but they never join someone else's war unless there's something in it for themselves. I told Jon he had to be smarter than Father, smarter than Robb. Then he did this, sailed away by himself. I love him, but," said Sansa in a tone as annoyed as her sister's had been angry, shaking her head. Here, with only her sister, Ghost, and the bones of their ancestors they could be open with each other.

"Did he learn politics? Do you think he phrased it exactly this way to give us an out?" asked Arya. She remembered Jon well as he had been before she left for King's Landing. Subtleties and precision like this would be beyond him, though it was likely enough that once he'd said something once, he'd keep saying the same thing the same way. She also remembered Sansa as she'd been before she left for King's Landing, and if her sister could change, perhaps her brother could have too, fooling all those she'd heard stories of him from.

"No, he didn't. He made his decisions on the spot, in front of all the Lords and Ladies, without consulting me, without consulting anyone. Without thinking of the effect his words would have, his decisions would have, except for the one effect he wanted," Sansa said, exasperated at his constant refusal to listen, to think, to consider all the ramifications.

Arya rubbed her back, replying, "I wish we knew more about what he was like in the North, before he was killed. Beric said he was 'a little less' every time he was raised from the dead by the Red God's power. Jon was raised by that same power, so in some way, he is less than he was, too."

"What do you mean, less? Jon seemed fine to me, if single-minded, though I never paid him enough mind when I was a child. You'll see him soon enough, if he can escape Cersei's so-called parlay. Dragons can fly, that might help."

"I don't know what less meant; that face of the Many-Faced God is closed to me. Just... less, somehow. If you didn't notice anything, it can't be too much, I hope. I'll keep an eye on him when he returns, especially since he clearly needs a minder! Now, back to business, Sansa. We have time, but not time without limit."

"All right. I'm sure the conclave will settle on his having abdicated his throne to personally pledge himself to the Queen of Meereen, though what they'll do after is less clear to me. They might declare you Queen in the North, you know. Lady Mormont idolizes your military skills, and she has the most powerful voice in the North. You've taken command of the entire war effort, and this is a time of war, so this might be your time to be like that Rhoynish queen of yours," said Sansa warmly, reaching out to try and ruffle Arya's hair, remembering Arya's little lectures about why she'd picked the name Nymeria.

Arya bent swiftly to avoid the vile attack, sticking her tongue out at her sister as she replied, "I left behind my dreams of being a warrior queen like Nymeria or even Visenya long ago. You'd be a far better queen than I, though I may end up with no better choice than to sit a throne, depending on how things go. If so, I'll need a Hand to do the actual ruling, and I can think of no better Hand, and official heir, than you."

"Thank you for your kindness in the unlikely event you reach a social standing worth your breeding," said Sansa with her nose in the air and a haughty voice, "When I am queen, I'm sure I'll find something menial for you to do. Listen to whispers, mayhaps, or grub around in the dirt with all the common soldiers."

Arya narrowed her eyes, "Keep that tone up and the queen will smell of shit every morning when she wakes up."

"I already smell badly enough that it wouldn't be noticeable, Arya, thanks to your infernal bathing schedules," muttered Sansa as she nudged Arya, then pretended to wipe her hand off on her sister's cloak.

"They're Tywin's infernal bathing schedules, so blame the Lannisters, not me, I just stole them. We're packed in tight enough now that disease is a serious threat. When we have to pull everyone we can behind the walls we'll be packed in like sardines in a fisherman's hold, and then it'll be just as vital to stay clean enough as to have food," said Arya, turning her head to look up at Sansa, remembering a few of her happier memories with her sister from when they were young children. A hint of hope crept into her expression, and she let it remain for Sansa to see clearly, "We can bathe in the pool we plotted next to when I arrived, after we've burned the last of the bones, if you like."

Sansa smiled in the light of their one torch and the wildfire flames on the bones of whichever ancestor had been in this tomb for millennia, "I'd like that. If they elect no queen, nothing changes. If they elect me Queen, little changes - I continue as I have been, as do you. I'll name a Small Council to help with the administration, of course, though I'll keep duties minimal for your major commanders."

"You're not going to let them elect anyone to rule until Jon returns, are you?" asked Arya.

"Of course not. We need to get a better idea of just how this Daenerys will react before we let them commit us to any one course. She likely thinks that at least the entire North has bent the knee already, if not the Vale as well, though I'll bet Jon never mentioned them. He never does. I'm concerned about how she'll take the news that the North and the Vale have not bent the knee. When a toy they think they already have gets taken away, it makes most rulers, most men angry. If it makes her angry, too, and she had two dragons and thousands of troops..."

"We aren't in Torrhen Stark's position, Sansa, knowing nothing about dragons or how to fight them, with no time to prepare and the full might of five kingdoms arrayed against us. This isn't the Sept of Baelor, either, where we can be wiped out all at once. If we can keep her armies outside the gates, or at least cooped up in the baileys, perhaps the broken tower now that you've rebuilt it, or if we must the first keep. That'll keep them out of the main areas and cooped up where a good shield and pike wall will hold them while the archers kill them."

Arya continued, "The dragons are deadly on the attack, but that's what we've been planning and building for - Lyanna's crews can handle them. If Daenerys doesn't attack immediately, I'm sure some of the books No One brought will help deal with her dragons quietly. Daenerys herself is as easily killed as any other person except by fire. She hatched the dragons and frightened the Dothraki into submission, by being fireproof and killing all their Khals, their leaders who relied on strength of arms to lead. The unburnt, they call her."

Sansa thought through the conditions of Winterfell briefly, then replied, "The tower's not good enough, but I can have the first keep readied just in case easily enough and with little effort - we haven't had enough supplies or smallfolk brought in yet to have used it for storage or bunking. We aren't providing the luxury of a Southron court, after all - this is the North, and we are at war. I'll leave the military works to you, though what are we to do with the Valyrian steel your House brought to fight the Night King's army with? I didn't think we had anyone who could work Valyrian steel, and getting a slave collar on the toe or tooth of a wight dragon seems strangely difficult."

"Gendry can work it - he told be about his master showing him how once or twice, and he's a truly gifted smith. He'll be here in the next couple days, too, so I've left a small chest for him in your room. Please see that he gets it and follows my instructions. Please have one of Kitty's ladies read the letters and instructions I left for him, don't do it yourself. Treat him well, Sansa, he was like my family on the road, like a brother I chose."

"All right, but you do have to tell me... a brother you chose? Only a brother? Blacksmiths are usually strong and in good shape. Are you sure you don't want more from him than his Valyrian steel?" teased Sansa.

"Only a brother. When he told me he knew I was a girl he started calling me m'lady, so I shoved him into the dirt," said Arya steadily, with a smirk, "He reminded me of Jon, a little, defending the weak and trying to do the right thing, always worried about being a bastard."

"Well, bastards can be King in the North - there will be no worries for your brother by choice here, though you know I will watch him as well as watch over him. Now, you pushed him into the dirt? Where were you when you did that to him, hellion sister mine?" asked Sansa with a matching smirk.

"With Yoren, heading North to Winterfell for me, and to the Night's Watch for the rest of them," said Arya with a slight, wistful smile, "I had some good times on the road with them, before Yoren was killed and we were captured by the Mountain's men. I learned anything can be a prayer, if it comes from the heart and matches what the god can give from Yoren, you know. He had a name he'd done that with, without a god... I had my list, and the Many-Faced God listened."

They were nearly silent for a time, setting one tomb's contents after another alight with green flame, 'Valar Morghulis' the only words said as Arya remembered her times on the road sadly, Ghost rubbing up against one side while Sansa stayed close on the other, lost in her own memories.

After descending the next set of steps and starting the next set of tombs, Sansa spoke up thoughtfully, "Assuming, as I expect, that the conclave judges Jon to have abdicated and is willing to wait until we can talk to him to name a new ruler, we need to work out how to present ourselves to Queen Daenerys and her court initially. You can't avoid showing some of your fighting skills and all of your leadership of the military, just as I can't avoid being Lady of Winterfell and managing the food stores and winter preparations. Beyond that, while our people aren't going to hide things for us, they won't share freely with outsiders, either."

Arya chuckles dryly for a moment, "The stories they'll tell will conflict with each other wildly, of course, especially if we encourage them to tell taller and taller tales now. They'll only do more with foreigners than they do with themselves. That'll keep Varys guessing for a time, but we'll need to cripple his ability to build an intelligence network here. Daenerys is reputed to be hotheaded, prone to hear petitioners in person and make a decision on the spot."

"Sounds like Jon. Tyrion must have his hands full! That's good and bad for us, then - she won't be inclined to take her time and ask advice in private as her first option, so she'll make poorer decisions. However, it'll be more difficult to predict what she does decide, since she does so alone and not always in the best service of a steady long-term plan. Does she ever change her mind after she makes a decision?"

"Yes, sometimes. In Braavos, we heard quite a lot about her outlawing slavery in the cities she conquered - she was very popular for awhile. Then she allowed slavery again, with some sort of so-called time limit - a year was the most popular rumor," said Arya, letting her sister see she was hiding more. The deeper details of the intelligence reports of the House of Black and White were not for this face, only for No One. Arya could see Sansa understood that, so she continued easily.

"She wasn't very popular among the Braavosi after that, of course. You already know about the dragons and the shepard girl from the reports. I'll take the lead on reading Daenerys, then, whatever we decide. You can watch Varys and Tyrion, you know them better, and we'll consult together on them as a whole."

"All right, though I don't actually know Varys. He only spoke to me once, telling me Father was an awful traitor, when I penned the note Cersei dictated. Do we try and put all our political cards on the table first, or do we simply avoid mentioning much? If so, how?" asked Sansa.

"If Jon's with her, we can greet him as family instead of a formal reception, especially if I take the lead, not having seen him in years. If not, it's difficult - we can't afford to make them feel too slighted, or cause them to start digging too early. He hasn't seen me, probably hasn't heard anything of me personally, and probably didn't believe it if he did. I do have an idea I'd like your help with - I want to get Daenerys to sign a contract hiring No One to kill Cersei and her people at standard rates in golden dragons. I can be fully up front with it, make sure she knows it's totally serious, or I can sneak it in; if Jon's there, during the family reunion would be easy enough. I'll tell the truth, certainly, but in a way she won't believe. Anything Jon told her about me would be about how I was as a child."

"Dangerous. Very dangerous. You're certain you want to assassinate Cersei and some of her people?" asked Sansa, looking down at Arya, letting her worry play across her features and in her voice naturally, despite how odd it felt to set aside her control, "Are you sure you can get out of the Red Keep again, after? Bran's said she has many more guards now, and has locked down the keep. It's not like it was, and Qyburn's creations won't turn on her even after she's dead."

"Quite sure, thank you. That's what I do, you know, assassinate people and leave afterwards. Cersei's on my list, of course, but that's no reason not to get paid as well," said Arya with a mercenary smirk.

"Of course not, Lady Winter. I'm glad you learned that your fancy toys cost real money," said Sansa with a pointed look at Needle and her eyebrows raised.

"Oh, yes, my toys cost real money compared to owning a huge castle, Red Wooooooooooooolf!" howled Arya, laughing.

"Laaaaaady Winter!"

"I'm not a Lady!"

"Just a season, yes, yes, I know. Why do you want that contract so much? How important is it to you?"

"That's a secret. It's not important enough to sacrifice anything serious for, either politically or materially, but if we can manage it in a way that doesn't cost us much, I'd really like it," said Arya as she gently shoved Sansa, smirking, "How did you get Kitty to call me Lady Winter, anyway?"

"What do you mean? You told me you killed the Freys, those are your own words. 'The North remembers. Lady Winter came for House Frey' is what you told her to say. The only other thing she'd answer me was that you were a she, and you looked like the very face of death."

Sansa smiled slightly as her little sister actually growled for a moment. Arya replied after taking a breath, "I said Winter came for House Frey. Winter, just winter, not Lady Winter, not lady anything," she said as she sighed, lighting more wildfire, saying the words, and moving on, "I suppose the poor girl was in shock. She didn't look entirely lucid when I left, and she was so earnest when you finally let me see her that I couldn't just reject her, not in this face, anyway. I owe you one for that, Sansa, don't think I won't get you back."

"Letting me tour the camps with blood on my dress and naming me the Red Wolf wasn't enough?" asked Sansa, laughing.

"No," said Arya as she laughed as well, then returned to the more serious topic, "What do you think?"

"If we're fully up front in other matters, we should be on your little side contract too. If she seems stable enough, and we're downplaying quite a bit, trap her with enough of the truth that the words can be said to have warned her sufficiently in retrospect. Above all, we have to make sure to let her save face. It's the same with the conclave - they'll hate Jon if he really did pledge the entire North, because that means they made a foolish decision naming him King. Lady Mormont's words would lose quite a lot of their power, too, in that case, since she was the kingmaker. If he only pledged himself and abdicated the throne, though, they'll be happy - they obviously made a good choice. They can't predict a man changing his mind later, but they can, and will, simply find someone else to rule."

"We'll have to work out our options in more detail later, and when we'd pick each of them, so we're ready. We don't have but a handful of ravens left now, but when we get them back we need to send warning to all the houses and all the Free Cities. I'll leave that in your hands, since I need to get to Littlefinger's spy network quickly - you know the best words for each of the houses. They need to know about the wight dragon, about the night king, even if they don't believe yet. We can have the Arsenal and Iron Bank representatives sign them as well as Lord Royce. I'll be ordering a segment of the combined fleet north past Eastwatch to scout, strike at whatever of the dead are on the shoreline, and, if we're lucky, give the foreigners a good view of the enemy. Even now I see doubt on many faces."

Sansa looked down at Arya's darkened expression, "I'll take care of it, though if you can write a few notes about the various rulers of the Free Cities, and handle Braavos yourself, that would help. We'll have to follow up later after more people see the army of the dead with their own eyes. Arya... do you think we can win? Truly?"

Arya sighed, going through a few more tombs before answering, "Before idiot girl gave the Night King the ability to fly? Maybe. We're still trying to catch up from the mess you had before I got here. Honestly, the only reason Westeros isn't overrun is the same reason we still have a chance even after he can fly. The Night King's army moves very slowly outside of battle, and he moves with them. Why that is we don't know, but I've spoken with the Free Folk. If the Night King had moved faster, he would have gotten to the Wall years ago."

"So, if he keeps doing what he's been doing, he'll get to the Wall soon. It's winter now, he can just walk around it on the ice at Eastwatch or Westwatch. His spear went through a dragon, will it go through the gates on the tunnels? Or can his dragon just melt the Wall?" asked Sansa.

"I don't know, but we can't count on the Wall stopping his army at all, and him and his dragon even less. If we have another week or so for your craftsmen to put together the rest of the scorpions and ballista we have springs for, and our ammunition actually works against dragon scales, we can handle the dragon. In a few hours we'll have the outer lines ready to be lit on fire and kept on fire for a lot longer. It's not much longer till the Dornish arrive with their arrow shafts, a little after that and we'll be able to hold out against what hit Hardhome for as long as we can bring in supplies."

Watching Arya carefully spread droplets of wildfire on the last set of bones on the deepest level of the crypts, Sansa let her determination show in her voice, "That reminds me. Arya, I want half the glassblowers working on new glass gardens. I know you want more of your wildfire balls, but we need them for two reasons. The first is morale - our people need to see that we believe there will be a future. The second is less solid, but I don't believe we call it the Long Night because it was short. We need to be ready for the long night and then the winter after, so we don't all starve to death."

Arya carefully placed the rod back in the jug, capped it, then carefully cleaned her fingers off with cloth, then sand, putting all of that in the tomb next to the bones before she lit them and answered, "Are you sure about the morale? Only some of the people will notice, and only some will care."

Sansa nodded, heading towards the pool, noticing a few additions - there were small barrels of supplies, a few unlit torches in holders, quills and inkpots and parchment, a few weapons, and some furs over some of the flatter rocks. She stopped, hesitant, and answered instead of undressing to bathe, "Yes. They'll talk about it to each other, and others will hear. Our military morale's much better now than it was before you came, but the civilian morale's important too. We need everyone working together for however long the war is, and for all the winter after."

"All right, you can have half the glassblowers," said Arya, then she paused, watching Sansa's hesitation to disrobe. She'd undressed herself when Sansa was fitting her armor, but she'd never once seen Sansa undress.

She was glad Ramsay was dead.

Arya spoke quietly, gently, "Would you like... no, you wouldn't. It's all right, I'll light one candle and then douse the torch, Sansa. I'm the only one here, there's not anyone else to see. If anyone comes, I'll hear them long before they arrive."

Arya put actions to words, setting the single lit candle away from the pool and undressed herself, quick and efficient. Once Needle and the dragonglass dagger set on one side of the pool, and a couple other weapons of dragonglass shard and steel were set out around the pool, Arya submerged herself, asking quietly, "Did you have any good times, Sansa, before you met Jon again?"

Sansa hesitated a moment more, then slowly started disrobing. Her sister wasn't trying to hide what she was doing, which helped her push down her feeling of shame and distract herself with answering, "A few. Shae, my handmaiden, once told me to tell her if Tyrion ever touched me, and she'd make him stop. I think Margaery Tyrell propositioned me, once - she talked about bedding all kinds of different men, and then looked at me and mentioned pretty girls, too. I was too naive to understand, then, so I asked her if her mother taught her that!"

Sansa giggled as she remembered her own silly response to Margaery, carefully laid her clothes on the clean furs, and slipped into the water next to Arya. She wrapped her arms around herself, feeling again the patchwork of scars over nearly her entire body, reminded of her shame. She shuddered briefly at Arya's hands on the scars covering her shoulder blades, guiding her deeper into the pool.

"It's all right, Sansa, it's just us, just family, just me. You were strong enough to survive, to keep yourself, to take back Winterfell and kill him. You fed him to his hounds already, he's gone. His hounds were like his family to him, weren't they, and you fed him to them," murmured Arya to Sansa.

"His words will disappear. All memory of him will disappear. His words will disappear. All.."

Arya listened to her sister repeating the phrases over and over, calming slowly even as Arya kept rubbing her back gently with callused hands, cataloging the scars by touch. Blade and rope, wax and flame and dog's teeth, the scars were many and nearly everywhere - she didn't think Sansa would ever be willing to wear a Southron dress again for any reason. It had looked like she'd have a hard time feeding a babe now, too, if she'd ever want that, either. Arya closed her eyes, mourning the perfectly poised, well-praised, nearly Southron bitch of a sister she'd known before.

When Sansa's was calm and silent again, Arya spoke up, "I fed Walder two of his sons, baked in a pie, before I cut his throat. He liked it so much he asked for a second slice, even though I didn't know I should have browned the butter before making the crust. He must have had shit cooks."

"You really, truly enjoyed killing him like that, making him suffer, didn't you?" asked Sansa, curious. She had the brief thought that once this would have horrified her, which she dismissed immediately. She wasn't that stupid little girl anymore.

"I did. One of the best moments of my life," Arya answered, watching, feeling, hearing her sister's reactions, "Just as you enjoyed killing Ramsay. That doesn't make you Joffrey, you know."

"Killing is the sweetest thing there is. Sandor told me that, once, in King's Landing. He said killing gave him joy, that Father lied when father said he did it for duty. I've never felt so good as when the knights of the Vale rode in to kill the Bolton army, as when I heard the sounds of the dogs eating. I don't want to become Joffrey or Cersei."

"For the Hound, it did, and it did not. The fight gave him joy, I think, and the victory and triumph. I don't think he would have found much joy in being an executioner or a torturer. He's not like me - he cares about the fight, while I care about killing and vengeance. You care about political power and vengeance," Arya said as her sister made the sign for truth beneath the water's surface, "Joffrey was a pathetic coward who cared about cruelty and torture. Cersei cared only about herself, not about others. She could never have the knights of the Vale actively wanting to be loyal, she could only make them afraid."

"One of us will very likely be Queen in the North and the Vale, and we both enjoy killing. How do we ensure we don't become monsters ourselves, Arya? How do I make sure I don't become a monster? Everything I do now, I learned how to do from monsters. That's how I keep the knights of the Vale loyal, you know - they don't stay that way without my help, nor do the Northerners."

"No, they don't, but what you do isn't evil. You aren't torturing them, you aren't taking their food to feed the North and let their children starve. You don't threaten them with assassins or creepy religious fanatics," said Arya as she laughed briefly at herself, turning serious again immediately after, "despite having a creepy religious fanatic priest as a sister. I've heard some of the men talk about Robb, and Mother cared about vengeance, too, about killing all the Lannisters, very deeply. She was no Joffrey, no Cersei, and yet it is from her we both got our love of revenge from."

Arya wrapped her arms around Sansa, holding her as she reached inside herself to where she could feel the Many-Faced God, then murmured quietly in the cave, testing what her sister truly felt to see if the one offer she could make would be welcome, "Are you satisfied with your vengeance against Ramsay? Do you want to ravage the rest of the Boltons? Men and women, boys and girls on Bolton lands, Umber lands, Karstark lands? From what I have heard, you wanted to dispossess the Karstarks and Umbers, give their castles to new, loyal families, but you didn't want to slaughter them?"

Sansa made the sign for truth, prompting Arya to continue, "I was satisfied by killing every Frey who was directly involved in the Red Wedding, yet I let Kitty and the others alone. You wanted to dispossess those whose families were disloyal but who were not personally involved, not kill them. I am a priest of Death; death is all I can offer."

Arya released Sansa, moving around in front of her, still and cold in the candlelight without so much as a ripple of water from where she was, "If you like, the House of Black and White in Westeros will entertain an ongoing, long-term contract to give the gift to an unjust ruler of the North and the Vale whose people cry out for vengeance. Another Faceless Man would have to be selected, if the time came, though that is easily possible now. The Many-Faced God cannot prevent you from becoming a monster... but Death can prevent you from being one for very long."

Arya suddenly lost that stillness, "Should I become a monster, of course, there are different problems, though raising a rebellion against me should be easy enough. I do not believe the Many-Faced God would allow me to be the kind of monster you fear, though. Nonetheless, the House of Black and White in Braavos would certainly accept my name, for an appropriate fee. Only they would truly have a chance at finding me."

Sansa smiled a small, wry smile, "Death is your only answer, isn't it? You're right - only death has stopped any of the monsters I've known. Perhaps the certainly of death would help remind me that I must take care to act for the best interests of the people, not just myself."

Arya smirked, "Death isn't my only answer."

Without warning, Arya swung her arms across the water at Sansa, soaking her entirely. Sansa yelped and splashed back, knowing they had the time to play for just a bit, now. Perhaps that, too, would keep them from becoming monsters.

Ghost looked back and forth between his pack members, then threw himself into the pool as well.

************************

 

[Epic Reader]

Sansa strode from her sister's room towards her workshop the next morning, carefully running through staff moves as she moved through empty corridors. Arya had arranged for her to start full contact training practice in the inner bailey today, and Sansa was nervous. She had never been a fighter, had never wanted to fight, had never wanted to learn the sword or spear or bow.

She'd done all right compared to the others she trained with, neither very good nor very bad; she knew she had a good reach even compared to the men, and she was fairly precise. She wasn't very strong or fast, though, and soon she would be forced to put all those weaknesses on display for whoever Arya had training her, whoever else was being trained, and anyone that came by to watch.

Well, at least there wouldn't be many onlookers. Between Arya and herself, there were very few idle hands anymore, certainly not in the castle. Anyone able-bodied was working when they weren't training, and training when they weren't working. Dragonglass crafting was in full swing, at the cost of some of the less skilled of those who had been fletching arrow shafts now knapping instead, since they had boatloads of shafts coming in from Dorne already. That had been an easy discussion with Arya, since careful allocation of men and material was a common concern of running castles and running armies.

The discussion on her doing her live training in private had not been so easy. Sansa hadn't been comfortable with even the drills and exercise she'd been doing so far being done in groups, though that wasn't much different than Septa Mordane's needlework lessons in the circle. The criticism was public, to be sure, but it was delivered for the purpose of fostering improvement and helping others, and there was no direct winner or loser.

Live melee training, however, was different. She'd seen it often enough, sometimes between experts like Arya and Brienne who gained respect whether they won or lost or fought to a draw. Sometimes she saw the novices, who made mistakes, lost their heads and made the wrong moves, cried out like babes as they were hit with the heavy, lightly padded training weapons, even threw up in the bailey to great laughter and ridicule after they got hit in the belly. Novices like she was.

She knew very well she'd never fight on the same level as her sister or Jon, much less as their equal. The ridicule, above all else, was what she knew she feared. Bad enough that she'd screamed for all to hear when Ramsay tortured her, but to do so in the training yard when others did not? Never had she been struck with real weapons or even played at fighting - she could only imagine how it would hurt, differently than what she'd grown used to.

Worse, probably, than being beaten in the Red Keep had been, since then all she had to do was fight back the pain and sing pretty songs. Now she had to keep her demeanor up, show the right expressions, mind her footwork, mind her weapon, mind her opponent's weapon, figure out how she was 'wounded' and compensate for it, determine how she could counterattack, decide if she should try, plan out and execute the next steps, and be careful of the next stroke from her opponent as well.

Just thinking about it made her nervous. Still, her sister had insisted that she would do better than she thought, and that it was necessary for her training to advance, since battles would by nature have audiences. Sansa repressed a huff of annoyance; at times like this she regretted putting Arya in charge of all things military. Anyone else she could have overruled, but not her stubborn little sister!

She slung her staff into her normal carry position; unlike a purely wooden staff made for training, or even one with metal caps on the ends for battle, the dragonglass shards embedded in the ends of her staff and secured with pitch meant it could not ever be used as a walking staff, since the fragile material would shatter when the staff hit the stone floor.

As Sansa turned the corner on the staircase, she recognized the man set as the very first guard to the area Arya's workshop was in as loyal to Arya, which she expected. He was posted on the stairs themselves, holding a set of bells loosely in one hand. Clearly her sister had expanded security on this area; Sansa assumed her fellow House of Black and White clergy were now inside along with the treasures they had brought, though she was sure she'd never get a direct answer on that. He looked up and greeted her loudly, "Lady Stark! I'm afraid your sister has already left, m'lady."

"Is No One who might sometimes wear my sister's face in?" asked Sansa, guessing at the particular phrasing that might work, watching the guard carefully for clues in his reaction as to how good her guess was.

"No? I don't think so, m'lady. That is, no, she's not in, m'lady."

Sansa nodded gracefully, "Excellent. I'm sure you heard that Kitty and the others from the twins bent the knee to my sister, who asked them to stay with me rather than travel across Westeros and Essos with her like a troupe of mummers, pretending to be other people. I'm seeking out volunteers to do just that for her whenever she needs to leave - to do whatever she needs doing, to help her blend in, to guard her on her travels and do whatever else she needs."

The guard looked slightly confused. Clearly he wasn't going to be suitable, but he wasn't her only candidate here, so it mattered not. Her sister had always been quick-witted, and she knew from experience that the most important trait in pretending was a quick mind under stress. She herself had had to think up lies and stories quickly as Alayne in the Vale, when her life was on the line. Guards gossiped the same as maids, she'd found, so this would do well enough for now.

"Please tell anyone who serves Arya and who is interested in this duty that they are to come to the chambers two floors above this one immediately after the midday meal for a lesson in hair coloring and other makeup, and a discussion on what this might mean. I'm sure anyone who desires to attend can find someone to fulfill their normal duties," said Sansa. She would give them an evaluation of her own then, see who was worth offering to her sister first. Arya hadn't said, but it seemed likely she'd deal with Winter Town first, then return for mounts to head off to White Harbor. Perhaps Moat Cailin, but right now White Harbor was much more critical to them.

So, Arya's workshop guards had been informed, Lady Frey was making the overture to her own people and gathering the makeup supplies. She had time to inspect the guards on the wall, check on those stonemasons adding crennelations to the walls which needed them, and continue to pass along the offer to those loyal to her sister before her training started. After her inevitable embarrassment, lunch and the hair-coloring session.

The Lady of Winterfell pushed down her discomfort at what will happen soon, put a small serene smile on her face, bid goodbye to the guard, and strode to her next destination, Blackfish-style armored dress swishing as her staff moved once again in the drills she'd learned while she was still in empty halls. Whatever her performance in the training, she could and would set a good example for her people.

************************

The old beggar one-armed Harry watched the new beggar who'd taken his spot. The unknown beggar was small, and sat huddled in a corner - his own corner - of Winter Town, pus-stained rags wrapped around his feet and lower legs instead of boots. One leg was twisted oddly, a couple inches shorter than the other. His hair was unkempt, dirt-filled, small lines on his face, his facial hair short and patchy, oozing sores peeking out from under the rags he was using to ward his face against the cold.

This arrogant newcomer had shown up this morning and settled into one of the prime begging spots before he himself had crawled out to claim it. The winds in the dark of morning were fierce and chill, and one-armed Harry knew there wasn't enough of a take at that hour to make it worth risking real frostbite. The newcomer, though... he'd gotten a couple coppers in his bowl already.

Well, he wasn't going to let some up-jumped out of towner take his spot! That was one-armed Harry's spot, it was, and he'd arranged with the Beggar King for it years ago. The tithes had gone up with this being one of the places the entire North was coming to, just as they did every winter.

The old beggar waited for a break in traffic, and then approached his corner, pulling out his old iron knife. It wasn't too big, but it was certainly better than the little piece of branch with a single shard of dragonglass on the end he'd been given by the guardsman 'in case of wights'. There was still bark on it! Just like the new beggar's knotted, twisted staff, a single piece of dragonglass stuck in the end. Up close, he could see the rot on that staff - that thing would likely break apart if the squatter ever tried to use it.

The newcomer was probably in his forties, small - perhaps from the Neck by the cast of his features and the slenderness of his frame. The leg twisting wasn't real, but it was really well done - by the size of the wrappings, the short leg was probably mummery as well, also very good, but he'd been around, he'd seen the tricks. Those sores were first rate, too, but the flesh underneath was too smooth.

He'd never tried getting the flesh under the sores right - almost no one would ever notice, and the materials you needed were too expensive to be worth the extra little bit from a healer or someone who might notice and provide medicines. Those medicines were worth a pretty penny to fence, sure, but were very hard to get even in summer, so you'd starve to death paying for the makeup.

The little beggar was looking up at him with cold gray eyes, now. He wouldn't stand for that!

"You're in my spot. I don't know what it's like where you come from, but here we have rules! That spot's mine. I paid for it! I still pay for it - that's what my tithe is for," said One-armed Harry, pointing, "Out there in the camps is where you newcomers can stay, unless you want to buy a spot from the Beggar King with your tithes."

"You too lazy to show up, you lose you spot! I got here first, it's mine, you lazy old cunt. You can go into the camps yourself," said the little beggar. The spot-thief was definitely a crannogman by the accent, and probably from Greywater Watch, given his skills with makeup. He had no skill at acting, though - disrespectful and unpleasant, he was! Probably kept his mouth shut and mewled piteously at the suckers.

Harry raised his knife up so it was visible, then stopped. The newcomer hadn't moved, hadn't said anything, but there was something... unnatural about how he was staring up icily. Harry lowered his knife slowly... maybe he was a little too old to be evicting squatters himself.

Yes, he paid his tithes! The Beggar King owed him, he did! Maybe the new blood just didn't understand that they had to make sure everything was in order here, something they'd learned when the Boltons were flaying anyone who stood out!

Harry spoke harshly, "You don't get it! We here is organized, we are - you start out and you prove yourself to be quiet, to be no trouble. If you're also a good earner, then you get a little better spot, a little higher tithe. Then you keep doing that. We survived the Boltons that way, you know, and they was right vicious, flaying people left and right whose made a fuss. Youse makin' a fuss right now, you are, taking a prime spot like mine. You'd best move on, or Beggar King's gonna make you."

That icy stare continued for a long moment, then the new beggar responded, his voice cold and rough, crannogman accent distinct as he spoke very slowly, "Tell the King he can go fuck himself."

"Youse gonna get it, then. Beggar King don't tolerate no disrespect like that! Youse gonna see - he'll school you proper, he will! Git, before he sends for ye!"

The small beggar just stared, his face still and evil as he sat in the stolen spot. One-armed Harry shuddered a little, then turned to go. He was no cutthroat, no enforcer, no brawler, no thief, not even a cutpurse, just a beggar. He turned to go. The Beggar King would hear of this, he would, and set things to rights!

Behind him, as he expected, the sound of a pain-filled moan sounded, then coins rattling lightly in the wooden bowl as the squatter stole his rightful earnings.

************************

Sansa strode into the inner bailey deliberately, placing her war staff against the wall near a long, wide-bladed spear and taking up a training staff with light padding on both ends. She then lined up with the others, who had their own armor on, either what they wore normally, or padded armor for this training. Her own armor should be enough - Arya trusted her work, and she trusted Arya. She looked over the instructor, a hard-faced woman in good leathers with a steel knife at her belt and a training staff in her hand.

Arya had chosen one of the mountain tribeswomen of the Vale - Chella, daughter of Cheyk, leader of the Black Ears. The Black Ears were one of the tribes the Lannisters had rewarded with gold, solid armor, and good steel for helping Tyrion, and were allied closely with the Moon Brothers clan.

None of that boded particularly well for her dignity in the new couple of hours, though, she supposed, it did bode well for the quality of training. She'd heard Chella's name spoken with respect even by the men of the Vale for her skills with a spear, and Arya had carefully gone over the similarities in wielding a short spear and the staff she was learning now.

She was in a line with the others of her skill level, all learning the staff. There were a few early teen boys and girls, several wives and mothers, a few merchants, and several guards who were learning a more appropriate weapon than the sword, and a couple of Lady Frey's girls. She waited patiently, doing her best to set a good example for the others, both for her own dignity, and because this truly was important to the wars to come.

And, she supposed, because her brother had issued his command without so much as talking to her about it first, regardless of what her counsel would have been in the end.

Sansa watched as Chella swaggered forwards, scowling at each of them, "You lot are the latest set of valley cunts, then? Any one of you sods think you're good enough to take me?" The clan leader twirled her staff once, briefly, though Sansa's eyes were well enough trained now to see that it was well controlled. It seemed like Chella was looking to find the most uppity person among them, goad them, and then take them apart to show her competence.

Sansa maintained her quiet, unchallenging but unwavering demeanor as Chella glared right at her. While she admired the effectiveness of the technique, she wasn't about to either volunteer herself or cower back.

While a guardsman in his early twenties, too young to have fought in Robert's rebellion, stepped forward she indulged in a quiet little daydream of using this very technique on Daenerys Targaryen, first in politics and then in training. She knew she wasn't very good at fighting, would never be good like Arya or Brienne or the Hound... but all their intelligence reports showed Daenerys to be completely untrained herself. Beating the girl who'd led her brother to drop them in this mess black and blue would be quite fun, she thought.

The cocky young man was off in the corner puking, now - Chella clearly held back only enough to avoid lasting injury, and had tagged him twice in the belly. That was enough for her to determine that she'd do her best and would take her lumps with dignity. They needed every advantage, and hard training gave the best results. She remembered in King's Landing, Arya had come back from her dancing lessons bruised and sore day after day, and look at her now. She did need to remember that this was the North, not the South - bruises from training weren't going to lower her standing with the lords and ladies... not with Lady Mormont in the conclave! Everyone but the very best fighters were bruised and sore often enough.

The next guardsman lasted long enough to get smacked on the arms and legs first, crying out once even as Chella used the opening his pain provided to sweep him off his feet entirely, leaving him groaning in the dirt as she stepped on him to get over him. After that, one of the merchants limped off from a hit to his thigh after only a few exchanges, still coughing from a precise hit to his solar plexus.

Then it was her own turn. Sansa stepped forward into the circle, holding the padded staff defensively. Chella struck twice, testing her basics, and she blocked both before she found herself falling backwards. She rolled back as she'd been taught and stood quickly, knowing her ankles would end up with a mild bruise - not anything she needed to worry about. Chella jabbed at her face, which she moved sideways even as she interposed her staff to block the sideswipe, but pushed too far. She was out of position as the Vale woman jabbed her in the shoulder, then the side before she could recover.

Sansa thought Chella must be going easy on her - she'd just seen the reactions the others had had to Chella's strikes, and these didn't hurt any more than Ramsay's lightest warm-ups. Nonetheless, she was doubled over without breath the next moment. Sansa remembered how Chella's staff had come in, and stepped back, moving her own staff to try and block what she thought would be the next blow... only to be again swept off her feet, rolling away from Chella and up again.

Chella came at her twice more, the attacks quick, but only strong when she blocked. If they hit here, it was for light bruises at most - not disabling blows. Sansa was panting after a few minutes, having had to recover her breath several times already, when Chella sent her back to the line and called up one of Lady Frey's girls.

Sansa rested the training staff in the carry cradle she'd grown used to, knowing that to lean on it like she wanted to, like some of the others had, was to show weakness. She was Sansa Stark of Winterfell, and she would not show weakness here. As she caught her breath, she started listening to the murmurs around here now that she didn't have to pay her full attention to losing with as little embarrassment as possible.

What she heard surprised her. Well, parts of it - she certainly wasn't surprised to hear her skill, strength, and speed were mediocre at best, but the others didn't think Chella had been going easy on her. On the contrary, they thought she was tough, that she could take a hit very well, that she was determined. She suppressed a proud smirk as she overheard one guard quietly comment to his buddy that the Red Wolf was a damn tough bitch.

That had gone better than she'd expected, though she still wasn't sure if they were correct or not. Watching Chella train the others, she realized that no, she really hadn't gone easy on her... either her armor was much better than she thought, or she'd learned to deal with pain. She let no hint of being reminded of what Ramsay did to her show, then shifted her staff to the other hand. She used that to remind herself that while she would never match Arya or Jon at fighting, she was already better than Joffrey ever had been. Arya and Jon, too, would never be the politician she was, though they were each leaders in their own ways.

Sansa learned everything she could watching the others train while she awaited her next turn.

************************

Arya heard a group approaching; four heavy treads and one light one, traveling together in her direction. It was time, then, finally. They weren't as quick or as prepared as their Braavosi counterparts... then again, they didn't know who they were dealing with yet, either. While in Braavos the beggar training was known well enough - staff training in the streets was hardly subtle. Here, though, not only was it as yet unknown, but her brother's order meant even beggars were expected to have some weapon against the army of the dead.

She touched up one of the fake sores just before they arrived; they'd notice and appreciate it. This little outing would serve several purposes; aside from the obvious, there would doubtless be rumors of her new working face from the conclave - an older man. She'd used nothing but the mummery she'd learned here, though at different skill levels, layering the mental faces she was wearing just as she layered the mummery.

This would produce rumors, too, that would provide anyone looking for a more... conventional... explanation with one they would more readily accept. Competing rumors could only be to her advantage - rumors could not be suppressed, not without wholesale slaughter, of course. Wholesale slaughter was within her reach and her god's domain, of course, but it was wasteful - not a face of her god that she wanted to see often.

Thus, her current plan - acquire a better spy network, and sow competing rumors for anyone and everyone to hear, all of which were unbelievable to one extent or another. Spymasters like Varys would catch many of the rumors, of course, once they had a chance to talk to people in the area. Which would Varys think more likely - that independent little Arya Stark had learned some mummer's skills while on the run, skills likely exaggerated by the beggars and rumormongers... or that the youngest Stark girl could literally wear Walder Frey like a set of clothes because on this continent, she was High Priest of the God of Death.

Little did Varys know. She hoped, at least, since being underestimated just enough was quite useful, and gave Sansa more options.

When the group came into view, she stood as a middle-aged man in a hard-worn body pretending to be slightly deformed stands, the wooden platform under her 'longer' leg's foot hidden by the rag wrappings, while the rag she used as a scarf concealed her lack of an Adam's apple without arousing suspicion during a Northern winter. She leaned heavily on her 'rotten' staff, the single dragonglass shard on the top as she put her 'twisted, shorter' leg down, the pebble under her foot altering her gait. Not for the first time, the wind brought her own stink to her nose.

"Wot's all this? One arm not good enough, so you bring nine to do for me?" asked Arya in the accent she'd studied in the Reed camp.

"You dumb little shit, you're coming with us to see the Beggar King."

Arya glared at one-armed Harry, and then as the four cutthroats spread out around her, glanced nervously around at them, her best impression at a rough crannogman's voice quavering a little, "I was here first! It was empty! It's mine! Your king can piss off!"

She'd already assessed their skills. Even the best of the cutthroats available to the Beggar King weren't a threat to her in a group of four, up close, and these weren't the best. They were, for beggar standards in Westeros at this time, decent to good... but that was after many of the thugs and cutthroats had already been pulled into one of the many military forces fighting the Army of the Dead. By Braavosi or King's Landing standards, they were no threat as long as she didn't let her guard down.

Of those that were still on the streets, a handful of the very worst had turned up missing in the last few months. Strange, that, but no one had been seen to kill them. No one had seen anything at all, they'd just vanished, as had a few more this morning, before they'd had time to pass on word about Baelish's fate, given the continued 'exercise' she'd ordered impeding outbound news.

Evaluating the four more carefully, Arya saw that the swaggering beggar was moderately strong, but clearly used to the life of an enforcer - vicious with his club, but not deadly, and not much good in a deadly fight. The stinky beggar was no more than that - probably good at sneaking by the standards of normal beggars, but not more. Clubfoot beggar looked to be the most dangerous of them - he moved like a knife fighter, and carried four decent knives in addition to the dragonglass shard he'd been issued. Young beggar was a couple years younger than she was - he could probably run pretty quick, but in a fight, he'd swing for the face like any green boy, wide and easy to counter.

For now, though, she let them 'intimidate' her, her head whipping back and forth rapidly as they tried to menace her. Really, they'd have been better off with a few crossbowmen from across the street, though the alley behind her would let her escape had that been the case.

"You don't have no choice, see? You come with us right now," said swaggering beggar, grabbing her upper arm as she let him, clubfoot swiping her staff at the same time, the soft, rotten wood and bits of fungus she'd put on the outside smearing on his hand.

She let them manhandle her some, keeping up her limp, her twisted leg, and the many other aspects of her layered disguises. This was the most critical part of the long-term ploy; if she could convince these people that whatever rumors they heard, of her becoming a taller man, were all mummery, then they would do the rest of the work for her. Letting them see through the top face she'd put on but not the face underneath was critical to this, and difficult when she was using nothing but mummery - no faces, no glamour.

Through the twists and turns of the back alleys they went, her abortive, futile, fumbling attempt to twist out when she caught sight of a pair of town guards earning her a quick punch to the side, a filthy hand over her mouth, and two blocks of being carried. Arya thought the local beggars were almost cute - they had a secret knock pattern! And a password! A pointless one, to be sure, but a password nonetheless. It must be, she thought, like watching a small child earnestly dressing up like their parents and pretending to go off and work like mommy and daddy.

Any real professional would be able to tell who was on the other side of the door by their gait approaching, their breathing, the sounds of their clothing, where they placed their steps on the ground or the rubbish covering it, the height of the knock, the particular way the door vibrated for each person, the scent wafting through, and so on. So many, many more effective ways, and yet they were so proud of themselves.

Arya noted two unusual breezes once she was brought in, and sure enough, there was a trapdoor under a pile of rags. She put up a feeble struggle, then a stronger one, abandoning the 'twist' on her leg and using the wooden platform she knew they'd already spotted to kick one in the shins. The beating they gave her after was haphazard - not nearly as strong as the punch Meryn Trant had given her in the brothel, just before she took his eyes. All she really had to do was make sure they didn't notice that her body was much fitter than it should have been, and that she was a girl.

Easy enough - Faceless Men were the best in the world, and that wasn't just due to the Many-Faced God allowing them to wear people's faces. Wearing faces by itself was nearly worthless; it was all the other skills required to act as someone else, the state of mind required to truly be someone else, to be no-one before you were someone else, those were the keys. Without those skills, wearing a face was no better than putting on a uniform and a helmet and hoping nobody noticed.

While she was 'recovering', they brought her into a final room and shut the door behind them, so she could have even less dignity upon meeting the Beggar King of Winter Town.

"Ere's the new one that don't get the rules," said the swaggering beggar as he shoved Arya towards the desk behind which the fat beggar sat. Clubfoot beggar was behind and to her left, while the other two stood on either side of the door.

At the fat beggar's gesture, the swaggering one went for a kidney shot, which Arya took with a hoarse shout of pain, turning just enough to avoid the kidney itself getting hit. The next two blows to the belly drove much of the breath out of her, but weren't placed quite right either. Clubfoot joined in with a few hits to the ribs with the hand not claiming her staff as she gasped for breath, keening in pain as she knelt on the floor.

"Stop. E's learned 'is lesson, hasn't he?" asked the Beggar King, "Git to the camps, beg there. Two coppers a day tithe. Ye pay a month without missin', you get a spot in the town. We gots to stick together, we do. Boltons be gone, but we's still here, see. I's the Beggar King here... who be you?"

Arya coughed up a glob of phlegm, hacking it onto the floor, and whispered roughly with her Neck accent flavoring her speech, "You didn't give me bread and salt."

"Wot? Ye ain't a guest! Ye's a dumb cunt needin' another lesson!" exclaimed the Beggar King as he gestured for another beating.

Swaggering beggar hadn't quite processed the order from his boss before Arya was in motion, her right elbow slamming into clubfoot's crotch as her left claimed her staff from him. She spun to stand up nearly directly under him as he hunched over, sending the most dangerous of her opponents to the ground even as she spun the staff, catching the swaggering beggar properly in the kidneys.

She took two steps towards the door, then held the staff just below the dragonglass tip, slipping the staff through her right hand to slam the end into the belly of the young beggar. As the stinky beggar lowered his hands to defend himself, she carefully smashed the end into his ankle and then his solar plexus.

Turning, she spun the staff again, cracking clubfoot across the head enough to daze him, ending up with the single small shard of dragonglass resting at the hollow of the Beggar King's throat before he'd been able to open the drawer with his own knife.

Her voice rang out strong and cold in the room as she stood up, quiet and still, "I am Arya Stark of Winterfell, Lady Winter, and you will be speaking to me with more respect."

"Wot?"

Arya kept the point at his throat as she stalked closer and shifted the primitive spear to the crook of her right arm, freeing her left to reach up and remove her mustache and scraggly beard to show smooth teenage skin underneath, opening up the rags over her neck to expose the apparent skin of a middle-aged woman. She reached behind her and fiddled with something under her rags, suddenly gaining a female figure.

"My sister won't bother with the likes of you, but I'll take the time to. You will report everything you and your people hear back to me or those who I tell you to in the future. I don't need or want your money, but I do require your information. All of it. You will continue to care as best you can for the beggars and outcasts who cannot or will not accept any official help. You will convey this message to the rest of the underbelly of the North."

Scooting back even as the sharp dragonglass tip nudged his throat, the fat man growled, "Ye gunna keep them guards off us? Pay us?"

"No. I will let you live, and have the worst of the stored grains moved apart from the rest, under a guard suitable for the least valuable of all our stores. Anyone caught stealing food in winter will face the usual punishment," said Arya as she heard the others getting up and carefully stepping back to the walls. She watched the Beggar King's expression and body language shift to greedy acceptance as he understood the word 'caught' exactly as she'd meant it.

Arya withdrew the staff, resting it in the crook of her arm while she pulled out an old, small, ragged little pouch she'd had on a tie under her rags, applying the makeup inside to the freshly exposed skin of her lip and chin carefully with twigs and scraps of cloth she'd kept in it, applying her new face.

The Beggar King watched as the flaws in the image of an old woman were wiped away one after the other, and nodded slowly, "Done."

Arya leaned forward and caught the second wooden shoe platform from where it fell; she'd attached it with her chest binding, after all, and with that loosened, it had to fall. She suppressed a smirk as she undid the coverings on her 'short, twisted' leg, dropping the pebble on the ground and gaining a couple inches of height from the platform, and more from proper posture and rearranging the rags she wore atop her head.

The beggars murmured indistinctly, unwilling to risk a second bout with Lady Winter, while the Beggar King asked, "Wot're you doin' now? Gonna keep beggin'?"

Arya scowled at him fiercely, leaning heavily on her staff, and growled, "A woman is not a beggar anymore," as she turned her back on him, striding to the door irately. She pulled out the coins she'd begged, making sure they were seen as she withdrew them, and clapped them to clubfoot's chest with a clinking smack, shoving him farther back as she swung the door open and left.

Striding to where the more organized of the thieves hid, she wondered when he'd notice his best knife was missing.

************************