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Before he comes to court, Arya heard little of Trystane Martell save that he had been a sweet boy. He had welcomed Myrcella then-Baratheon to the Water Gardens and grew fond of her. They played Cyvasse together and played in the pools of the gardens together and they laughed together as the little princess tried Dornish foods. They would have been a good match, everyone agreed.

Well, not everyone.

A good match, but a threat nonetheless. Daenerys Targaryen reclaimed her throne with fire and blood, but a threat was a threat. Myrcella and Tommen Waters could not be allowed to remain at Court and neither could ever form a union with another house. Whispers of putting one of them on the throne had not yet died. 

The Lord Hand begged for mercy on behalf of his niece. Made through perversion and a threat to the iron throne, but blood of his blood still. It had been a sight to watch a Lannister actually beg and it was enough to make the dragon queen to consider. To kill two innocents was a bad way to start out a new (and still fragile) reign. Mercy was the best option. Had the Wall still stood, Tommen would have been sent there, where he would defend his realm from Wildlings and the things that roamed beyond in the true North. The Wall was gone, though, and there seemed little intention to rebuild. What was the point? The Wildlings were already past it.

No, Tommen would not become a Brother of the Night’s Watch, instead he was to be sent to the Citadel where he would become a Maester. He would be surrounded by at least one loyal Targaryen soldier for the rest of his days. Arya guessed that Tyrion planned to make his nephew the Maester at the Rock when his chain was complete.

Princess Myrcella was a harder decision. Sending her to the Silent Sisters seemed cruel for a girl so young. Keeping her at court was practically begging for trouble. Making her a Septa, though, or at least having her spend her days among them was a rather nice idea. A pity, truly, but a necessary one.

Considering the other ideas that Council  floated, this was the kindest option.

Judging by Prince Trystane’s face as he knelt in front of Daenerys to proclaim loyalty, he did not agree with that assessment. There was something cold in those eyes, something hard.

Something Arya recognized.

…

“I believe young Arya would be the best to escort Prince Trystane.” Tyrion said, earning himself a glare from the she-wolf.

“Of course, Lord Hand, because I do not have actual duties to attend to.”

“I believe that speaking with a dignitary would fall under your duties.”

“Prince Trystane’s cousin sits on this council does she not?” Arya asks, glancing to where Sarella Sand sits in her position as Grand Maester.

“Prince Trystane knows his cousin. We wish him to know others in this court as well.”

“I agree with Tyrion, Arya,’ Daenerys says before Arya has a chance to respond, ‘Prince Trystane should be shown around by someone his own age. You are the best for this job.”

“We are all of an age,’ Arya insisted, ‘Would Edric not serve better?”

Half of the Small Council is made of people close in age with Arya. Edric Storm, Master of Ships, was closer in age with Trystane than she was.

“There is a trade dispute he needs to see to,” Tryion says before Edric can talk about the terribly important work he was doing. Arya is sure Edric is disappointed he cannot go into whatever he is working on. When the ships decided to favor a different wood for construction, he spoke about it almost nonstop for two weeks.

“We will leave this task to you, good sister,” Daenerys says. 

Arya knows an order when she hears one.

“Fine,” She consents, jaw clenched.

If nothing else, as Mistress of Whispers she needs to learn more about the Dornish party. While Dorne relented and accepted Daenerys as queen, the realm was not quite at peace. There were still mumblings of independence, no different than the mumbling in the North. Well, the mumbling was no different. Dorne, however, was much more precarious than the North. With Bran as Warden of the North there was little to worry about. With House Tully back in control of the Riverlands and Sansa Warden of the Vale in all but name, there is little to worry about. Tyrion holds the Westerlands and is unlikely to give up his position as Hand to throw a rebellion. In the Stormlands, all is well under the watchful eye of Shireen Baratheon. The only unknown is Dorne.

…

Three days after the Small Council meeting, Arya invites Trystane on a tour of what is left of King’s Landing. It is not the most exciting idea, but it is better than taking tea together or taking a walk in the gardens. Tyrion also insists upon it.

Though Arya does not think the excursion went the way he expected it. 

The tour is a rather morbid one. She is grateful that word of it is unlikely to get back to Jon. Her brother, the Prince Consort of the realm, has been in the North for nearly a week. The wildings and northerns are still finding ways to live with each other and Jon has been called upon to aid in negotiations once again. 

 She would have taken him to the gods wood or the Black Water or to the marketplace, but no. He wanted to see the arena where Oberyn Martell had fought the Mountain.

The princeling had stared at it for a time. Long enough that Arya was unsure of what he was looking for. If anything remained of Oberyn Martell or the Mountain in the dirt, it was not going to be found now. If not because of the years in between then because the arena had recently been rebuilt and before that had been covered in ash and dust and rot.

“This is where they killed my uncle.” The prince finally says.

Arya is not sure of what to say to that. Sansa would know, though. Her sister would have nodded gravely and spoke of how valiant the Red Viper was and how she had seen him when he came for the wedding of Margery Tyrell and Joffrey Baratheon. Maybe she would apologize for the loss before ushering the prince on to something else. Anything else.

But Arya is not Sansa and she does not really think before she answers.

“Mad King Aerys killed mine in the throne room.” Arya says.

Trystane turns away from staring at dirt and sand to look at her, as if he had not seen her before, as if they had not met Trystane’s first night in King’s Landing. She wonders if it was stupid to bring up Uncle Brandon considering what happened to Elia Martell and her babes. Neither of their families have love for the throne. Or each other.

“A Targaryen killed my brother.”

“Aegon?” She asks, perplexed. As far as she knew Quentyn sailed off the face of the world.

“One of the queen’s monsters,’ he explains with a shake of his head, ‘It burnt him to nothing.”

That certainly explains the look on his face when he knelt before Daenerys. He said all the right words, but the look in his eyes gave him away. His fury burned hot and bright like the sun. The Good Queen might have saved them all from eternal winter and vanquished Aegon the Pretender, but it was clear that none of that was enough for Trystane. Arya cannot blame him for that. She would never find forgiveness for House Frey in her heart.

“My brother didn’t die here. He died at the Twins.”

Trystane blinks, nods, and looks away from her, “I think this place must be the Seventh hell.”

“I hate it here.” Arya says before she can really think about it.

It is the first time that Arya has allowed herself to say it. To voice how little love she has for King’s Landing. She had tried to help rebuild this city, tried to help her brother create peace. Tried to help the small folk, remembering how it had been to live in such hard conditions not so long ago. None of it stops her from seeing ghosts around every corner. She still refuses to go to the Tower of the Hand after the first time she went. A part of her, unbeknownst to her at the time, expected to see her father sitting at the solar desk and when she found Tyrion Lannister there she burst to tears. Despite the humiliation, she is happy to say that she never saw Tyrion look so helpless, so off balance. It is worth it just for the look on his face.

Bran wondered if she wouldn’t be happier in the North, reminded her that Winterfell was as much hers as any of theirs. A spot in the crypts still awaited her, right between he and Sansa. Sansa had offered her a place in the Vale, telling her that she would like it well enough, especially the mountains. Besides, cousin Robyn was growing stronger everyday and could use a friend closer to his age who would not be pushed around by him.

Arya denied both of them. Jon asked her to be the Mistress of Whispers and so that’s what she would be. He had been reluctant to do it, but considering the skills she learned at the House of Black and White she was perfect for the job if rather young for it. But her youth made it easier, Arya had learned many things during her time on the road and one was that no one ever noticed girls.

“Why stay?” Trystane asks.

“What?”

“You hate it, yet you stay here.”

“Someone has to protect Jon,’ She says with a shrug, ‘the lone wolf dies but the pack survives”

Trystane says nothing in response. She is not surprised. What could a viper ever know of wolves?

…

“ Were you here when they burned King’s Landing?”

“No, I was in the North. I saw the Riverlands burn, though.”

“I was there when Euron Greyjoy burned the Water Gardens.”

“What did you do?”

“I ran,” he says bitterly as if there was anything else he could have done.

“When they imprisoned Father, I ran too.”

“It’s different.”

“Not really.”  

…

The tour around the city, while not the happiest, creates a sort of comradery between the two. A union of two people who were unlikely to forget what exactly happened in the capital. They are seated next to each other at communal meals. They go on happier walks through King’s Landing, she shows him the best markets. She shows him the more interesting parts of the keep. She tries to keep up with her duties at the same time, though, she admits Trystane makes for a nice distraction. She likes that in a place full of liars and people with talents for weaving words he is usually rather blunt.

She is still in no rush to meet him, however, and decides instead to spend her morn in the training yard. She is no great warrior, not like the women of House Mormont or Brienne of Tarth, but she can hold her own. The hardest part is finding a partner who is willing to go up against a different style. Arya is not willing to forego Needle in favor of the clunky movements of Westerosi warriors, so she always has to find someone flexible.

Her hopes for a good partner falter when she sees Podrick Payne putting the knights of the keep through their paces. Pod is one of her favorite people to go up against. His time with Tyrion and Brienne made him more open than most Westerosi men and while his skill with words is…lacking at times, his skill with a blade is not. Arya is sure that in due time he will take up the position of head of the Queens Guard. This, of course, is rather inconvenient for her. She is happy Pod is getting more responsibilities, but she would still like to have him for a partner.

She wishes Brienne had remained in the Capital. Instead of staying and taking her place among the White Cloaks, Brienne returned to her isle when her father passed. The sole positive point in the whole situation is that she took Jaime Lannister with her. Arya finds that she is better able to tolerate Lannister when Brienne is around, even if Arya cannot understand what she sees in him. Though, at least he could have made for a good sparring partner. 

Arya sighs, leaning against a warm wall of the keep. She scans the yard, looking over squires and hedge knights. She watches as an older knight shows younger boys how to hold a blade. She shifts her view to see a group of boys and men watching two men spar. In training clothes, it is hard to tell who is who, but judging by the blades, she is willing to bet they are Dornish.

Arya is trying to decide who the winner will be when she glances up and catches a pair of familiar eyes looking back at her. Trust Trystane to be somewhere she thought to escape him for a moment. She looks back to the men, hoping the stupid prince will take the hint. She gives a quick glance in his direction to find him gone.

Good.

“Good morning, princess.” Trystane says, beside her.

Of course, he could not leave well enough alone.

“Good morning, Prince Trystane.” She says dryly, adding a low courtesy for effect. She is proud when she manages to rise again without a wobble.

“What brings you to the training yards this morn?”

Arya holds up Needle in response. She is not particularly nervous about his response. The Sand Snakes are well known throughout Westeros. It is to Arya’s great annoyance that none of them made the trip north with their cousin to see the queen. The best she has is Sarella and while the woman is skilled enough with a small blade, it is terribly hard to pull her away from her scrolls and books.

“Ah,’ Trystane says, ‘I have heard of your water dancing.”

“For true?”

“Aye. Sarella warned me to be kind to you else you would run me through.”

“Sarella is the Grand Maester for a reason.”

“Will you teach me?”

The question startles her. While she can find sparring partners, few people ever ask if she would teach them. Granted, she knew only so much herself. During most of her time in Braavos, Needle was hiding under a pile of rocks. When Arya returned to Westeros there were more important things to worry about than proper Water Dancing. Even for most of the Battle of the Dawn she was in Nymeria instead of holding a blade. She has gotten better during her time in King’s Landing, but she is not sure what she does is really Water Dancing. It is dancing, but of her own kind.

Instead of voicing any of that, Arya asks, “What is in it for me?”

“You will please Lord Tyrion by keeping an eye on me and I will please my sister by being friendly with a Northerner.”

“I care little if I please our Lord Hand or not.” She huffs.

“I will teach you to use a spear.”

The offer gives her pause. She used a staff as the Blind Girl, but never as a weapon. The Kindly Man used a staff to hit her when she was Blind Beth, but never taught her any means of retaliation. Most of the strategies Arya knows are close contact. Needle is a short blade by Westerosi standards and daggers and finger knives are smaller still. She is fair at archery, but her spiced-wood bow is still smaller than one a knight would carry. A spear would be a whole new challenge.

Arya does not manage to contain her smile when she turns to face him fully, “It is a deal.”

…

They meet almost every other morning to spar. They start with Water Dancing. Arya, generously, does not force him to catch cats. She does convince him to go into what is left of the Gods Wood to catch birds. He is better than she thought he would be at it, but it is clear that it frustrates him. He lets out a quiet curse every time a bird launches into the air before his hands can close around it. He lets out a louder curse when he misses a fat pigeon to turn and sees her holding a small sparrow.

When he hands her her staff almost always mumbles threats about making her chase vipers. She may be good at catching fat birds, who were lazy from pampered life, but she would struggle with the slippery vipers. Arya always rolled her eyes and offered to take him up on the challenge. She is not sure she could actually catch one, and from what she knows of them she is not she is not sure she would want to. 

She can see, however, the benefit of it. Spears, though used long range, take some cunning to use. It does not work to simply swing at one’s opponent. That is the first thing Trystane has her do and when he catches the staff in his hand he uses it to force her off balance and on to the ground. 

“First lesson, never let your opponent grab your spear.” Trystane says, from above her. 

“You could have just told me that.” Arya grumbles. 

Trystane hands offers her his hand to help her up. She flicks it away with a sniff. 

They spend many days with him sweeping her into the dust. Every night as she looked over new bruises, Syrio’s words rang in her head. Every hurt is a new lesson. But there is a camaraderie between her and Trystane that did not exist between her in Syrio. It certainly did not exist at the House of Black and White, not truly. There was a separation between her and Syrio and her and the Waif – the closest thing she could call a friend in the House of Black and White – does not exist between her and Trystane. They laugh together, spend time sitting together after training sessions if only to take a moment of rest before going back to their respective duties. 

When she speaks with him, it is not always a lesson or involves her trying to discern the truth. Trystane spoke freely enough. They speak of the living and not just the dead. He tells her of his Aunt Ellaria who tries to help guide Arianne the best she can. He tells her of the infamous Sand Snakes. He tells her stories about Edric Dayne and the mischief they caused during their time together at the Gardens before Ned went to squire for Beric Dondarrion. 

She responds in kind. She tells him about her Uncle Edmure and his wife (she likes Roslyn well enough but it is far too soon to call any Frey “aunt”), about the babe they are set to have. She tells him about her cousin Robyn, who she has only met once but Sansa writes of every moon. She even talks about the sailors and the merchants and the fishwives she’s met recently. She is not sure if he has some underlying plan, but he listens to her. He asks not only about her family, but the small folk and the people she hears about and meets. 

He knocks her into the dust some more. She starts making him balance on his tip-toes on stairs the way her father warned her against so long ago. 

The smile he gives her from where he sits in the dust after she knocked him off balance with her staff reminds her of his sigil. She finds she cannot even be mad when he uses her moment of thoughtlessness to knock her on her back into the dust.

…

“What was your brother like?” Arya asks one day as they sit by the Blackwater, the day too hot for sparring.

She has other duties to attend to. She should be listening and watching all that is going on. There are grumblings from what had once been Flea Bottom that need to be followed up on. There are rumors of Asha Greyjoy making her way to the Capital that need to be confirmed. She needs to write to Sansa that she has heard that there may or may not be a plot against cousin Robyn. There is much to do.

Not that she could convince the council of that.

When Tyrion asked to continue to play prince-minder at the morning council meeting, Arya told him all she had to do. Reminded him that he was not the only one with duties around here. He was rather unsympathetic to her plight.

Trystane is silent for a while, looking off towards the horizon. He is quiet for so long that Arya wonders if she shouldn’t have asked. It had been rather spur of the moment. And after their first tour around the city, she hadn’t thought such questions were off limits.

“Quentyn was quiet, but he told the best stories.”

“For true?”

“Aye. He always told me tales of adventure and daring, though he never seemed much of an adventurer.”

Trystane pauses.

“We did not get to spend much time together,’ Trystane says and Arya wonders if he is talking more to himself than her, ‘I regret that.”

“Because he was older?”

“Yes and no. Father sent him to foster with House Yornwood when we were both young. Arianne says that is why Mother went to Norvos.”

Trystane pauses again and Arya lets him have his silence, choosing instead to not study him while he studies the water. He is not awful to look at. His hair is dark and thick which he wears shorter than is fashionable Kings Landing and towards the North. He is tall and lean with fingers slenderer than Arya knows most men to have. While he does not wear a beard, his cheeks are not fully clean, whether that is by choice or because he forgot to shave is not something Arya can tell. His eyes, she admits, are striking. Honey gold eyes that lighten and darken in the light under dark brows. They crinkle at the corners when he smiles.

His ears are a smidge too big for his head.

“When she left, I didn’t understand and I missed her terribly. I was so angry with her. Now, though, now I understand some,’ He says suddenly, nearly startling her, ‘I’m still angry, but I understand her more.”

Arya understands having complicated feelings surrounding one’s mother. She loved hers, though, she never felt she could please Lady Catelyn. She’d felt loved, but always lacking in some way. When she’d met her again, seen what she became she’d been conflicted. Lady Stoneheart was and was not her mother. She wore her corpse, but the being inside was not someone Arya knew. She’d tried to know her. Tried to find pieces of her mother in her and found little. Still, she wept terribly when she gave Lady Stoneheart the gift of mercy and had to be pulled from the body.

“I think I understand mine better too. I don’t think she ever understood me, though.”

Trystane shifts his gaze to her and she feels something twist in her stomach. Something uneasy and greasy, though she notices his eyes are shifting colors again. She knows the look in his eyes. Pity or something like it. Everyone in Westeros knows what became of Lady Catelyn Tully and it hurt that her mother’s memory co-existed with what came after. As if taking her life was not enough, the gods saw fit to take some of her memory away too.

“I’ve heard the story of what happened at the Twins,’ he looks as if he is debating something before continuing on, ‘And Edric Dayne told me of what came after.”

“I believe all of Westeros knows both tales.”

Inside, she felt a spark of something. In a deep, secret place where she did not often go, something stirred. The thought of it, that people told the stories was a hard one. Logically she understood it. What occurred at the Twins was news that traveled the continent. The story changed here and there, especially in the West, but the ending was always the same. The stories of what came after were worse.

“I hear that in the Riverlands, mothers tell their children that if they are not good then Lady Stoneheart will come and string them up.”

Trystane snorted, “A stupid threat. Edric Dayne told me Lady Stoneheart was no more.”

“It doesn’t matter if it is true or not,’ she says, venom lacing every word, ‘She was my mother. She was the Lady of Winterfell and loved my father and played with me and taught me to pray to the Seven and promised me a hawk when I was older and she murdered by the fucking Freys and now she is a monster used to scare children!”

At some point, and Arya can’t really remember when, she stood up. She can feel the tears drying on her face only to be wet again (and gods that felt good to let out. To finally tell someone about the injustice of it all) and oh.

She is crying and screaming in front of this man. And she can’t look at him because she just knows he is looking at her like she is a stupid little girl who weeps whenever things go wrong. And she can’t look at him because she suddenly feels like a stupid little girl who could never seem to make it to those who would help her. Could never make it to those who needed her.

She needs to go. Go anywhere that isn’t right here with this man who was too much like her for comfort. She doesn’t want the pity in his eyes, she wants the coldness from the throne room.

She is about to flee, thinking about leaving the city entirely, when a warm hand catches her ankle.

“My brother was said to be boring; they compare him to mud . He was a true hero.”

Of all the things Arya expects him to say, that is not one of them. She isn’t really sure what to expect, but that definitely is not it. The anger and the grief remain, but they are overshadowed by confusion.

“What?”

“Quentyn was a lot of things and one of them was a hero.”

“Yes…” Arya says, unsure of what else to say.

“In the story they tell everywhere but Dorne, Quentyn is boring and plain. And, well, he was but he was more than that. He was my older brother who was shy, but told the best stories and was bold enough to face a dragon.”

Slowly, Arya sits back down on the rocks. It feels wrong to leave now.

“Sometimes it feels as if I am remembering wrong when I hear the stories. As if I wasn’t there or I didn’t know my own family.” Arya admits. Her time with the Faceless men made this feeling all the worse. Sometimes her memory swam with dreams where she was a hundred different girls.

Trystane lets out a sigh and leans back on to his elbows, his long legs before him, “I want to write my own story.”

“The keep has enough parchment, I’m sure.”

“No, I’m serious. I’m tired of people telling me what my life is or was. I will say who I will be or what I was.”

The passion in his voice, takes Arya’s words from her. He turns to look at her and his eyes are lit with a golden fire of determination. Suddenly he wasn’t some sullen princeling whining terribly because his boyhood love was sent away. She saw herself in him, recognized the fire as the one in her eyes moments ago.

“Don’t you want that?” Trystane asks her, sounding almost desperate.

Arya has not really thought about it. She’s never really dwelled on the songs and stories about herself. But as she thought about it now, she could see his point. There were so many who judge her based on who her parents were or who her siblings are. They decide who she is based on them. They decided who she was because she is the mistress of whispers, because she is a water dancer, because she spent most of her childhood on the run. There are few people she met who had not already made their mind up about her before even meeting her. It is tiring.

“Yes.”

…

Arya does not see the prince for days after that. She is not avoiding him, not really. She has duties to attend to.  She has ears in the city, but she is no Varys and would not use children to do her work. Besides, when she was child, the Faceless Men used her as a pair of  eyes and ears for them in Braavos. Children could be bought and sold with their information, anyone could be really. If one wanted accurate information that would not spread they needed to do it themselves. 

Not that Arya was always accurate. More times than she cared to admit, she was wrong. A merchant whose books didn’t add up wasn’t stealing from his customers, but covering the fact he was giving some stock to feed his workers. A group of young knights weren’t training soldiers to bring a rebellion or another purge of great houses, but to teach some of the children on the street how to defend themselves. 

Arya finds it is harder for her not to automatically think there is a scheme or a plot of some kind. She is not wrong to do so, she reminds herself. After all, look at what Petyr Baelish and Cersei Lannister’s schemes cost her family. 

…

“What he was he like? Your blacksmith?” Trystane asks her one day as they sit against one of the older trees that have been left in the Gods Wood. They’ve been at it for nearly three hours, the first half being spent on Water Dancing and the second dedicated to the spear. Arya is glad she suggested the Gods Wood, she is not sure how long she would have lasted in the high heat of the day.

The question catches her off guard. Mayhap it shouldn’t, considering that fucking song had already been played and Gendry’s story was crooned almost as often as Jonquil’s. Besides, after speaking of their dead so often, speaking of the living should not have felt so off-putting. Yet, it did. Arya is not sure how to speak of Gendry without a bitterness she does not want to share slipping out.

“You already know. They played the song at the feast in your honor.” Arya says instead, taking a swig out of the water skin that Pod had pressed into her hand when he saw her leaving the armory.

“What happened to stories being wrong?” Trystane asks, taking the water skin from her for his own drink.

“Sometimes they’re right,” She mumbles.

In truth, the song is pretty accurate as far as songs go.

A bastard turned knight, saved the realm, and fought the Others just to return to the Riverland lass he loved. Sometimes even Arya made an appearance in songs, but not with any real role. Gendry was the real hero. Ser Gendry escorted the wayward Northern princess home, fought the Others, and would accept no reward.

He did not accept when the wise Prince Brandon offered him a keep in the North.

He did not accept when the valiant Prince Consort Jon offered him riches.

He did not accept when the good Queen Daenerys offered him a name.

He did not accept when the she-wolf called Princess Arya offered him her hand.

All he wanted was a horse that would carry him to a ship that would return him to the Riverlands. All he wanted was to return to his wife. 

Arya hated that song.

Hated it because it reminded her that when faced with the promise of everything, the promise of her, Gendry still chose someone else. And even if she could find it in herself to shrug it off and proclaim it a childhood fancy, she still has to deal with her own role in the song. It wasn’t much of a role at all. Gendry helps her North and she offers him a place in her household (any role he wanted) and then he just fucks off to go live out some love song in the Riverlands.

“I never offered him my hand,” Arya says, for it really is the only major difference.

“No?’ Trystane asks with a raised brow, he lets out a soft snort when she shakes her head, ‘That part never made sense to me.”

Arya feels a tightness in her chest which she ignores. She ignores his statement all together.

“And what of Princess Myrcella? They say you wept when they took her away.”

“I was not there when they took her.” Trystane says, a hardness entering his voice.

This is news to Arya. She admits that she has not paid as much attention to the Dornish other than Arianne and some major players than she might have considering her position. She’d assumed that Trystane and Myrcella fled together. Myrcella was found easily enough, safely in Sunspear.

“Where were you?”

“Planky Town,’ Trystane says, ‘Arianne was not sure which way the Dragon queen would go and planned to send me to Norvos.”

“Why keep Myrcella?”

“To trade if needed.”

Arya does not need to ask if Myrcella was traded, she knows well enough what happened. Dany defeated Aegon the Pretender and Princess Arianne handed over Myrcella as a show of goodwill. Between that and Arianne’s oath to never try to claim the throne (and the blood debt Dany owed House Martell), Dany allowed her to live. Besides, with Westeros threatening to fraction, it was in everyone’s best interest that Arianne continued to hold Dorne.

“Do you hate her for it?”

“Which one?” Trystane asks without his usual brand of dry wit.

“Arianne?” She can guess well enough how he feels about Dany.

“No,’ Trystane says, ‘I don’t hate Arianne. I don’t think I could ever hate her.”

Arya nods. For all their squabbles and the issues between them, Arya could never find it in her to hate her sister. Even in their childhood when they fought more than anything, Arya never hated Sansa.

“Besides,'' Trystane continues, ''Myrcella was only with us a few moons at most.”

“Ah. So had she been there longer you would have wept,’ Arya says before adding, ‘You look like a crier.”

Trystane rolls his eyes at her comment, silent a moment before admitting, “I did weep, but not for her. I wept for my home.”

Arya can understand that. She had not thought much about what Winterfell had become in her time away. Even when she knew the Boltons held it, she figured no harm came to it. It was such a sturdy structure. Hardy walls, cool stones that had seen her ancestors. The springs that ran through the walls had done so for a century at least. When she saw what the Bastard of Bolton had done to her home, she almost wept. What was such a permanent being in her mind, lay to ruin. 

Even now as Bran took after his name sake and rebuilt Winterfell, she felt unsettled. Winterfell was theirs and would be whole again, but it would never be as it was. She had seen her home a ruin, yet another reminder that everything had been taken from them. Not even their home was left untouched. 

Arya tells him none of this. She is not in the mood for sharing, for remembering her grief, for thinking about how Winterfell could fall yet again. 

Instead she asks, “What are the Gardens like?” 

Trystane thinks for a moment before beginning to speak. He describes to her a large garden along a coastal road. In the gardens children splash in the many pools, playing games with each other. They are surrounded by trees with dates, olives, figs, cherries. Birds nest in the trees and sing aloud all day, before new ones come out at night. He tells her about the warm days and the cooler nights, how he would lay outside with his brother while he taught him the stars. 

He tells her of the sea. How they can hear it crashing from inside of the Gardens and how older children venture out into it. He tells her of how his father was the one to take him into the open waters the first he swam in them. He tells her, with pride in his voice, how he taught younger children to swim in them. 

“I’ve never swam in the sea,” Arya muses. She swam in the springs of Winterfell and in the canals when she was in Braavos. She even dipped into the rivers in the Riverlands that her mother swam in when she was a child, but the concept of diving into the sea is foreign to her. 

“Come to Dorne and I will teach you,” Trystane says.

“I would like that.” 

…

Arya does not see Trystane for almost a week. She is simply busy. She has letters to write and leads to follow up on. She leaves early in the morning and usually does not return until after the evening meal. She has been helping Pod put the new knights through their paces. Westeros may stick to the ways of knights to fight, but it would not hurt them to face a different opponent. Spring had come and the second dance ended, but these were still trying times. The palace guards needed to be prepared for anything. Even slight women with daggers. 

Still, Arya does find some time for some people. Shireen Baratheon arrives at the capital as the sun starts to set and Arya enters her chambers with left overs from the evening meal she carried away from the kitchen. To her disappointment, Shireen does not even seem surprised when she finds Arya sitting on one of the benches in the guest chamber she has been given. 

“You need to take your cousin back to the Stormlands with you. He is driving all of us mad,” Arya insists. Edric Storm is competent enough, but he has the arrogance of a man who sat on the Small Council for a decade and not just for a year or so. 

Shireen snorts, “Edric is not so bad,”

“Says the woman who does not have to see him everyday.”

“Believe it or not, I do miss him. We grew up together.” Shireen reminds her. 

Arya focuses on the bit of boar in front of her. It is from the night before, cool and odd feeling now that the leftover fat has congealed. She is simply glad to have something other than a bird or rabbit. They came out of their burrows first and it took time for the larger game to come back to the forests of King’s Landing. 

“It is still too soon to allow him back,” Arya says, half statement and half question. 

“The Stormlands are a proud land and too used to being ruled by men,’ Shireen says, ‘I cannot have him close to those who would use him.”

Arya nods in understanding. After all the wars and death, ruling and succession remained chaotic. The North stood firm for the most part, but Sansa’s role in the Vale remained tentative. It was her sister’s cunning that kept cousin Robyn on his father’s seat, even as Valemen whispered of alternatives. In the Riverlands, House Tully regained their place but there was distrust everywhere one looked. House Frey stood even if the old lord did not. More than one Riverland house swore allegiance to House Lannister in the moons after the Red Wedding. It was not something easily forgotten. 

“I take it this will not be a long stay,”

“No,’ Shireen agrees, ‘But Davos is loyal.”

“He is a good man.”

“He asks of you.”

Arya raises her eyebrows at that. Davos Seaworth is a good man indeed and fought for them in the North. He reminds her, almost uncomfortably, of her father. He may have been a smuggler, but all could agree he was an honorable man. Who also had the patience of the Mother for his ability to deal with Stannis Baratheon according to Jon.  

“Tell him I am well.”

“Are you?”

Arya blinks at this question. Why everyone seems so hells-bent that she cannot be content with her life is beyond her. 

“Should I not be?”

Shireen shrugs, taking a sip of her mead. Arya studies her while she waits for Shireen to choose her words. 

“Are you happy here?”

“I am as happy here as I would be elsewhere in Westeros.” Arya says. And it is not as if she can go anywhere else, but she cannot tell Shireen that. After fleeing from the House of Black and White, it would be a mistake to go too far abroad. She could go West if she really wanted to, had considered it for a time. Then decided not to. She could not be so far from her family again. 

“You seem happier than last I saw you,’ Shireen says before she glances at Arya, ‘I hear it has something to do with a certain Dornish prince.”

Arya rolls her eyes at Shireen, “Please,”

“You two spend an awful lot of time together according to Pod.”

“Pod doesn’t know what he is talking about,’ Arya shrugs, ‘Tyrion has me playing prince minder while he is here.”

“You do not seem as put out about that job as one would expect,”

“He has his good points,”

“Like dancing,”

“Like teaching me to use a spear.” 

“Oh, good. I was scared you were going to run out of weaponry.”

Arya laughs at that. Shireen, for all she is a great lady of a great house, never made Arya feel odd. Granted, both of them seemed rather odd by Westeros standards. 

“As likely as you running out of books.”

“Well,’ Shireen says, ‘I am pleased you have found a…friend here.”

“I have Jon. And Missandei and Pod. And you when you bother to show up.” 

“Yes, but everyone is so busy,’ Shireen reminds her as if Arya is not aware. Jon lacks much time for her these days. She knows he feels guilty over it, but there is little to be done about it. 

“Am I not?”

“No, I just think you should find time for you as well.”

“There is little time when trying to rebuild an entire country, Shrieen.” Arya huffs. 

“Mayhap you should find a better place to be busy then.”

“Where would that be?” Arya asks. Leave it to Shireen not to let a topic drop. 

“You could come to the Storm's End, you would be a welcomed addition.”

“Is something amiss?” Arya asks, ignoring the drop in her stomach. She worries about Shireen. Her position is less precarious than some in the new country they find themselves in, but she is not wrong to worry about Edric Storm. She had heard the calls to either replace Shireen with Edric or force them to wed. The story of Argella Duranndon is not far from the mind of anyone who thought of the lands. It would be easier if Shireen wed Edric, but she had much to lose if she did so. If she denied a bannerman something, they may believe they could go to her husband to convince her. 

“No, I simply wish to see my friend more.”

“Why does everyone keep trying to drag me out of King’s Landing?,” Arya huffs.

“Who else has asked?” 

“Trystane asked me to visit the Water Gardens,” 

Shireen’s eyes widen almost comically, her lips parting. Arya is uncertain what to make of that, but finds some joy in seeing Shireen taken off kilter. She is usually so unruffled gives off the air of an old maester instead of a lady of an age with Arya. 

“What did you say?”

“That I would think about it.”

“You would think about it?”

“Aye.”

Shireen looks at her another moment before smiling and leaning back in her seat, “I take it back.”

“Take what back?”

“You are no longer welcome in my halls. If you wish to leave this place, go elsewhere.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“If you are to stupid to understand, Lady Stark, then I shan’t tell you.”

…

Arya is not terribly annoyed when they seat her between him and Missandei for the official feast welcoming Shireen Baratheon to court. She is still a bit irritated, though. She would have liked to have spoken with her, but Shireen was busy talking of business in the Stormlands with Daenerys. She would turn her attention to Missandei, but she was too busy speaking with Sarella about some old scroll that Arya cannot find it within herself to pretend to care about.

“Do you dance, princess?” Trystane asks her as they watch people spin around the dance floor. The music was more sedate for the main meal, but now that they have moved on to desserts, or what passes for dessert these days (gone were the days of sugar spun swans), the tempo picked up.

The prince is seated next to her and she finds she doesn't mind overly much. Should anyone ask, she would simply tell them she is becoming accustomed to his presence.

“You’ve seen me dancing.” Arya says, reaching for another piece of marzipan. In truth, they danced often. 

He is about to say something else, but Missandei speaks before he can.

“She’s a lovely dancer in the other way, too.” She says. Why she chose to peel herself away from her conversation with Sarella for this is a mystery to Arya. She’s got no idea what Missandei is up to, but she doesn’t like it.

“Thank you, Missandei,’ Arya says dryly, ‘Weren’t you discussing a scroll or something?”

“A historical account of Yi Ti was discovered.”

“Trystane is a fair dancer, I’ve heard.” Sarella says, clearly bemused. If she is amused by Missandei or the situation, Arya is unsure.

“Is he?” Missandei asks, ignoring Arya’s glare.

“So, they say, but I’ve never seen it,’ Sarella turns her gaze onto Trystane, ‘Go on, Cousin, show us if there are any truths to that. I’m sure our Arya would be happy to help you.”

Arya wonders why Sarella hates her. While she would not call the Sand Snake a friend per se, they got on well enough. They didn’t fight at council meetings nor did Arya ever hear Sarella say anything in particular about her. She has never heard that Sarella took any particular joy out of humiliating or torturing others. Maybe she is very good at hiding it. 

She is so busy glaring at Missandei that she does not realize when Trystane stands up, only noticing he has done so when he taps her wrist. “Dance with me, princess?”

Arya looks from him back to Sarella and Missandei. She catches a glimpse of Tyrion behind them watching with some interest. It takes but a moment to realize most at the high table is watching them. Her good sister and Lady Shireen have even paused their conversation to watch, both giving what she is sure they think are encouraging smiles. She wants to tell all of them to fuck off, but she knows if she says no, she will never hear the end of it from the council. Probably something about not being welcoming enough.

“I don’t see why we should.”

“Because,’ Tyrion interjects for reasons unknown, ‘it would be a good show of how welcome we have made our Dornish guests.”

“The tours and training are not enough?”

“It is a good tale. A northern princess dancing with a Dornish prince. When is the last time that has occurred?”

Trystane studies her, leaning on the table. She tries not to notice how he smells. He smells of clean skin and spice. Still there is a sweet undertone to it she cannot quite place. She decides to breathe through her mouth and focus on his face. A mistake as the torchlight turns his eyes molten. It takes her a moment to realize he is speaking to her.

“Scared you are worse on your feet without your blade?” he asks.

Arya knows a challenge when she hears one. Knows well enough that she should be the woman grown that she is and leave it be. Sansa is constantly advising Arya to simply leave things be.

 She will start leaving things be in the morn.

With a heavy sigh (she ignores Sarella’s comment of “By the Seven, this isn’t an execution”) she takes Trystane’s offered hand. “One dance,” she grumbles before he leads her to the floor.

Arya takes her place in between Jeyne Fowler and Wylla of House Wyl, the women shifting to give her space. Trystane stands in front of her, his gold circlet practically glowing in the torchlight. His circlet, a simple gold band, is the fanciest thing he wears. It is the only thing that really gives a clear indication of his station if one went by looks alone. His doublet and trousers are rather plain. A deep red doublet does not stand out in a Targaryen court. She wonders briefly if Arrianne put the little suns on his cuffs since his mother could not, the same way Sansa sends Arya gowns with snowflakes and blue roses now that their mother could not.

He gives her a smile from where he stands and she returns it with a grimace. It is not as though Arya hates dancing. She doesn’t if all is told true, in fact she has come to be fond of it. She does not, however, enjoy all of the eyes on her. It makes her feel as if she is being studied, inspected and they are all looking for flaws. It makes her uneasy.

The musicians start a Riverlands song, something popular and fast paced. It is an older song, but one that most in attendance should know. The more fashionable dances will follow, but it will leave fewer people on the floor. Teaching new dances takes time away from feasting and drinking. Arya is sure that if all goes well the dance master will be invited to more than one keep after this feast.  The castle only recently allowed for a dance master, the need for one seeming nonexistent after the war. But when Willem Flowers came to the Keep to beg for the position, the Council shrugged. The man agreed to work for next to nothing and would be helpful in entertaining more frequent guests at court. Arya rarely spent any time with the man herself, but he seemed to be popular.

There was no dance master at Winterfell, instead it fell to Septa Mordane to teach them. She remembers vaguely, learning to dance with Sansa. Arya remembers once or twice Father joining them, his large hands holding theirs as he tried to learn the steps with him. Her clearest memory of it does not have her dancing at all. Instead, her mind sees images of her mother as she was in the arms of Father with his head still on. She thinks that dance is similar to the one playing now, but she cannot be sure. Her memories swim, especially from before the purging of her house.

She pushes the thoughts from her mind as she finds herself in Trystane’s arms, having made a final pass of each other. Her thoughts must show on her face, though, as he quirks a brow at her.

Arya simply gives her best shrug in response. It is one thing for she and Trystane to speak of loss in the quiet of each other’s company, but she will not spill herself in front of all.

“It is true, you are a fair dancer.” Trystane admits.

“I am sorry to disappoint,” Arya says dryly, intentionally stepping on his foot. She hopes it leaves a scuff. In response, Trystane lifts her with a bit more strength and speed than needed.

Trystane gives a chuckle and slips by her again. He is a fair dancer himself. Lean and graceful, he makes for a good partner. He is good enough that she decides to stay for a second dance, some quick Riverlands dance. He stays as well, but as the music begins it is clear knows the steps less than the previous dance. She laughs as she watches him to try to figure out the movements. 

Instead of getting insulted, he laughs as well. He tries to match her, but at times decides he prefers the moves in his head better than the ones traditionally used. The others on the floor know their manners too well to glare too fiercely at the prince. By the time the song has ended Arya is rosy-cheeked and out of breath from the dance and the laughter. 

“Once more?” Trystane asks her breathlessly, his eyes sparkling. 

Arya is about to agree, but when the music starts, her mouth clamps shut. It’s Gendry’s song, in honor of their Stormland guests. She does not glance at the people around her, not caring to see the eyes on her. Arya looks at Trystane and he gives her a smaller smile.

“I find myself overly hot from dancing, princess. Take some fresh air with me?” he asks and Arya quickly agrees. She does not worry about the whispering or the looks as the two of them leave the hall. 

The keep is cool compared to the feasting hall they left. They walk in companionable silence, the music of the hall still following them. Arya stops by a window to look out at the stars above. She is still trying to learn them, to trace them with her fingers the ways she did in the North when she was young. 

Trystane comes to stand beside her, “It really is a rubbish song,”

Arya shrugs. She doesn't care to hear another rendition of that particular song, but it does not sting too badly tonight. Her blood is still cooling from dance and wine adds to the heat in her cheeks. She glances from the stars to look at Trystane and finds his eyes on hers. Arya Stark is no coward, but in that moment she aches to look away. She wants a moment to compose herself, to make her cheeks cool and to get her stomach to stop flipping. 

Instead, Trystane moves closer and she does not move back. She can hear the song has changed in the feast hall, but it is faint and barely noticeable. She is trying to get her mouth to work, to suggest they go back in, but doesn’t work. 

And suddenly Trystane’s lips touch hers and after the initial surprise wears off, she feels the flipping in her belly turn to heat, a thrill going down her spine. All of the sudden she is not Princess Arya Stark, Mistress of Whispers. She is not No One or Arry or Cat or a Bland Girl or Mercy or a failed acolyte. She is not someone’s little sister. She is not a Water Dancer or a wolverine. She is just a woman, tucked into an alcove kissing a man. A man who is pulling her closer, arm firm on her lower back.

When they pull apart, she feels heat rising to her cheeks, unsure of what to say. She doesn't know what to do with Trystane’s eyes on her, not when he looks at her like that.

Arya is no coward, but tonight is a strange night and she finds herself wishing Trystane goodnight before slipping away to find her chambers.

…

When she sees him the tiltyard the next day they do not speak of it. Arya does not think about what it was like to have him hold. She does not think about what it was like to dance with him. She certainly does not think of his lips on hers and the fire in her stomach.

Instead, she tells him to turn side face and pronounces him dead every time he forgets.

…

“I want to rebuild it.”

“The gods wood?” Arya asks dubiously from where she is dipping her feet into the cool pool. The woods are quiet and if she listens closely, she can hear Nymeria in the distance.

She has been thinking about talking to Jon about rebuilding the gods wood in King’s Landing. It wasn’t even a wood to be honest. Between the second Dance and the caches of wildfire that had been hidden throughout the city, little remained untouched. What remained of the wood was sparse. Though a few years had passed, repairing the woods had not been at the top of anyone’s list. Arya was thinking of asking Bran if he could have Rickon escort a proper Weirwood down. With she and Jon in the South it made sense that one of the trees would follow them down.

“The Water Gardens. I want to rebuild them.”

He looks so serious, that Arya is sure he means it. His face is so serious that he looks older than twenty years. But he looks hopeful, the coldness she saw in his eyes the first time in the throne room is warming. Not much, but just a little, much like the creeping warmth of spring that came after the long winter.

“Oh,’ she says, for she does not know what else to say.

“We can replant the trees and the pools are not beyond repair. I’ll write to Ned and see if he’ll send lemon trees down.”

Trystane keeps talking of all of his plans, of trees and flowers and pools, but Arya is not really listening. She’d known that Trystane would return to Dorne. She had. She just hadn’t thought the idea would make her feel so lonely. And she really shouldn’t be lonely. She has Jon and Missandei and Dany. She can write to Sansa and Bran and Rickon whenever she wishes and Shireen writes to her often enough (and is always so careful not to mention a certain cousin). Trystane going back to Dorne is fine. They can write too and at some point, he had to come back. Probably.

“I want you to come with me.”

“What?” she asks, startled.

“Come with me to Dorne. You’d like it there; I know you would.”

Arya knows she would too. She wants so badly to go there. To feel the balmy breeze that came from the sea at Planky Town. To wait out the sun and go exploring in the night markets that appear in Sun Spear at dusk. She wants to try new foods and gorge herself on the sweet fruit that she always felt so guilty for eating back North and in the capital, where memories of being a nameless little girl in Flea Bottom are never far. She wants to meet the other Sand Snakes and Princess Arianne and Trystane’s Aunt Ellaria. She wants to visit the Greenblood. She wants to swim in the pools that Trystane rebuilds. She wants to see the place that had made Trystane.

She wants Trystane. She wants to kiss him again and again and see if he ever stops tasting of spice and sunshine. She wants to laugh with him. She wants to explore his land with him. To watch him laugh with his family and smile. She wants to get to know him far away from the watchful eyes of the court and the ghosts that haunt Kings Landing. She wants to rebuild with him. To create something that she cannot create in King’s Landing or in the Vale or in the North where everything belongs to someone else. She loves her brothers and sister more than anything in this world, but she cannot create something of her own by living in their households.

She also knows that those dreams are just dreams, not something she can actually have. She has to protect her family, has to protect Jon from those who would harm him or try to use him. A million years ago Arya Underfoot could not convince her father that he was in danger and they all paid the price for it. Princess Arya, sister to the Regent of the Vale and the Lord of Winterfell, cousin to the Prince Consort, Mistress of Whispers is listened to. She is given a bigger voice than Arya Underfoot ever dreamed of having. She will stay because it is her duty. She will stay because they will have to cut her down before she allows for more Northern blood to be spilled in this twice damned palace.

“I can’t go. I have to stay, I promised Jon.”

“Jon would be upset if you left?”

“I-no…no, I-I don’t know. But that doesn’t matter. What matters is that I look after my brother.”

Though a few years passed since they were reunited, it feels as though she just got her family back and while they are still apart, she knows she can go to the Vale or Winterfell whenever she wants. After so long apart she finds a lot of comfort in having Jon so near. She can go find him when she has a problem or wants to go riding or simply wants the reassurance that he is still here and not hundreds of leagues away. How could she leave again?

“What happened to wanting to write your own story?” Trystane asks, confusion and frustration warring in his voice.

“There are more important things in this world than stories.”

“And what will yours be if you stay here?”

Arya does not have an answer for that. She has not understood her story for some time now. She knows the beginning bits of it. A little girl lost in a war zone, her part in the Battle for the Dawn, the part she played now. The question of where her story is going is not something she thinks about. She is not very concerned with the future, preferring the present. 

“Jenny of Old Stones is already taken.”

“What?” Arya demands, confused and irritated by this whole conversation.

“Is that not what you are doing? Living with ghosts?”

Arya can only stare at him. How dare he? He’d been here for what? A few moons? And now he thought he had taken the size of her.

“And what about you? The first thing you wanted to do was see all of the places your dead linger.”

“No,’ Trystane says intensely, ‘I came to be eyes in the capital for Arianne and to lay my dead to rest. I made my decision on where my path leads.”

“As have I.”

“You are making a mistake.”

Arya does not respond to that. Instead, she gets up wordlessly and stalks away.

…

Jon returns the night before the Dornish party leaves. He, traitor he has become, waits until the morn to find her. She flies to him as soon as she sees him, throwing her arms around him. 

“I have missed you too, little sister,” he says, ruffling her hair. 

He leads her away from the main dining hall, to the prince consort's solar. The servants delivered a light morning meal for them. Sweets meats with brown bread and a bit of fruit. The windows are open and for once the blackwater brings a breeze with it. 

“How are the Wildlings?” Arya asks, plopping down onto the cushioned seat. 

“They are better, learning our way as we learn theirs.”

Arya nods. It is a tricky thing, peace. It feels as if all of Westeros and beyond is learning to live with each other again. 

“Tyrion told me you have managed the Dornish.”

“Aye.” Arya says biting her lip without thinking, she would prefer not to think, especially about certain Dornish princes. 

Jon studies her, brows drawing together slightly. She looks back at him. She wonders how much like Father he looks. The memories she has of her parents are fuzzy around the edges and she is still learning to deal with the grief of what she has forgotten about them. She finds a part of her grieves not looking as much like Jon as she thought she did. For so long, she thought him her mirror, the version of her that would have been had she been born a son instead of a daughter. As she grows, however, she finds more of her mother in her. Last Uncle Edmure saw her, he even commented on it. 

Finding out about Jon’s parentage did not help matters. When she looks at him now there are parts she can tell are from somewhere else. The shape of his nose, the squareness of his jaw. Even his eyes look different to her now. Where she thought they were just a darker gray than hers, she swears she can see purple. Sometimes she found herself looking at her cousin-brother trying to find all of their differences. 

At the end, though, she still found Jon. Her brother who has known her before she ever truly knew herself. 

“Is something amiss?”

“No,” Arya answers, hoping she is coming off as nonchalant. She has not felt totally at ease since her conversation with Trystane. She found herself sad and angry by turns. Furious he would even ask her to go and to put her in this position. And sad that she must say no. 

“Arya you sure?’ Jon asks, "If one of them has harmed you, Arya, I will see justice delivered myself.”

Arya looks at him and considers lying. She does not necessarily feel like discussing it. But she has never lied to Jon in this lifetime. She told him of every kill, of every step she took to survive. She even told him of where she was across the Narrow Sea. She told him in nothing but a whisper in the crypts of Winterfell and when they returned to the living they never spoke of it again. If she can tell him that, how could she not tell him this? 

“He asked me to go with him to Dorne, to help him rebuild the Water Gardens.”

“What did you say?” Jon asks.

“I told him no, of course.”

Jon studies her while she goes on about what needs to be done and her own plans here. Without the princeling to distract her she needs to focus more. She’ll go into the city more; especially as other areas rebuild. And she really should start to check on other parts of Westeros, the Dornish are not the only cause for concern. The Stormlands fair well enough, but there are still those who would prefer to see a son head House Baratheon. The Ironborn still grumble, though, Arya is starting to think that is just how they are.

Mayhap she could go see Sansa in the Vale. It’s been moons since she last saw her and her name day was coming up.

“You should go.”

“What?” Arya asks, turning around.

“To Dorne, to rebuild the gardens with Prince Trystane. You should go.” Jon says, sounding resigned.”

“You don’t even know him.”

“I know you like him very much, Dany told me how much time you spent together. Tyrion confirmed it. I trust your judgment when it comes to the intentions of others.”

“No, Jon. My place is here with you. Someone has to protect you from these vipers.”

“We’ll be fine.”

“No, you won’t. You think you’ll be fine, but so did father.”

How could she leave him alone? Arya never knew what her father looked like at Jon’s age but when she looks at Jon she feels as though she is looking at him. How can she look at Father’s face and leave him here? She knows Jon is not Father, but she cannot do it. She cannot look in his eyes, her father’s eyes, and not feel like she must stay. No one could look after him like she could.

“Ary-”

“If he had listened to me none of this would have happened,’ she says, trying not to sound desperate and banish the tears starting to form in her eyes, ‘I have to be here to protect you. And Sansa and Bran and Rickon.”

“Arya, listen to me. None of what happened is your fault.”

“Bu-”

“No, listen. We’re a pack, right? That’s what you always say.”

“Yes b-”

“And packs protect each other. Arya, let us protect you too. You aren’t the only one who can look after themselves.”

“You asked me to be-”

“I asked to come to Kings Landing because I am a selfish man, Arya. I missed my little sister and wanted her close,’ Jon says, his voice growing with a strange edge of desperation, ‘I did not do it to trap you here.”

“I am not trapped!”

“You might as well be. You are unhappy, but you refuse to leave whenever anyone offers an alternative.”

Arya stands, biting her lip. She doesn’t know where to go, has nowhere to go. She glances around her, trying to stop the tears coming to her eyes. All of the sudden she is a stupid little girl again and she doesn’t know what to do. She’s back in the forests again, lost and alone and scared. 

And then Jon is hugging her, having gotten up at some point.

He presses her face into his shoulder the same way he did when they reunited. He somehow smells the same. A world away and far from their youths, Jon still smells like Jon. And Jon is here, holding her. He isn’t under the earth or in some land that she will never be able to reach. He is here and he is holding her and he is talking, but she hadn’t realized with the clamor in her head. 

“It wasn’t your fault, Arya, there was nothing to do.”

“But I could do something now.”

“You cannot live that way, little sister. I wont have you waiting for some assailant for the rest of your days.”

“But what if someone tries to hurt you?”

“Then I will deal with them. I have died before, you know.”

He pulls away with a chuckle.

“Besides, you are starting to make me look bad. You realize I’m older, right?”

“Sansa is in the Vale with Robyn. Bran is in the North with Rickon. Who will you have?”

“He will have me.” A voice says from behind her. Dany stands in the doorway, a soft smile playing out on her face. When she smiles the queen looks so much younger. Sometimes Arya forgets she is not much older than Sansa.

“Think of it as a change of position if you must,’ Dany says, coming to stand by Jon, `The crown is sending funds for the rebuilding of the Gardens, a peace envoy should be there to oversee it and your brother tells me you have a head for figures.”

“She is not supposed to have a new duty,’ Jon grumbles, ‘That’s not what this is about.”

“You should let her decide.”

Arya looks between them.

“You aren’t happy here, Arya,’ Jon tells her, his voice low, ‘You deserve to be happy.”

“I won’t be happy there either.” Arya says, her voice sounding weak to her own ears. She almost says she could grow to be happy in King’s Landing, but she knows Jon knows when she lies too well. Even after everything the House of Black and White put her through, she still cannot lie to Jon.

“You might be, though, and happiness is all I have ever wanted for you.” 

When Arya looks uncertain Dany steps in, “Should you not find happiness there, you are always welcome back, good sister. You will always have a place in our halls.”

“There are halls all across Westeros that would welcome you, Arya. Go and find your peace.”

Arya worries her lips, studying them. Jon looks encouraging, but she can see his nervousness. She cannot deny her own nerves. Half of her telling her to stay and the other half telling her to leave. It has been so long since she could say she was truly happy. When she reunited with her siblings there was a war on and they had no idea if they would survive through the night. Even after, there was little time for joy. Everyone was too busy trying to rebuild and bring the realm back to order. 

To go and explore and to see something new sounds so appealing. Yes, there would still be work but it would be good work. She would not be looking over her shoulder all the time, waiting for some plot. She could spend her time among the plants and in the sea. She could help give the children of Dorn a shelter again. She could find if not peace, maybe rest. 

“If you go now, I believe you will be able to catch them before they leave the docks.” Dany says gently. 

“But my things. I would need to pack.”

Dany takes one of Arya’s hands in her own, “Fret not. Get to the ship before it leaves.”

Arya studies her good sister once more before nodding and squeezing her hand. She gives Jon a hug, holding him tightly. He holds her tight a moment longer before letting her go to look at her.

“Should anything happen you write to me and I will be there.”

“I will. Goodbye, brother.”

Arya makes it four steps from the door before turning around. She runs to Jon, throwing her arms around him one last time. She squeezes him as tight as she can, wanting to keep the memory of him fresh in her mind. This moment, the moment where he encouraged her to find her happiness, will be one of her new memories, a new story to tell. She squeezes him tightly one last time, kisses his cheek and then nearly runs out the door. 

Had Arya looked back or found a reason to hesitate outside of the door she would have heard Jon ask his wife how she knew Arya had time to catch up. She would have heard Dany tell Jon how she’d asked the Master of Ships to tighten things up at the ports. With the rampant smuggling, it was important that all chests were checked very very thoroughly and they were sure to be confused as to why the Prince of Dorne had so many chests containing items clearly belonging to a northern princess.

…

If Arya found her ghosts in King’s Landing, then she finds pieces of herself in Dorne. She finds parts of the little girl who went South all those years ago every so often. She finds herself in wonder the first time she swims in the sea. She finds herself more trusting now that is not constantly looking for a plot or scheme, even if the change is minute. When she speaks with the smallfolk and merchants now she does so without trying to gather information. She finds it easier to laugh and joke and breathe now that she is no longer surrounded by the court and her ghosts. She enjoys continuing to learn Trystane. They put no label on the other, not putting any pressure or constraint on the other. Instead they take time to enjoy each other. 

And as they start to rebuild the Water Gardens, Arya starts to rebuild herself as well.