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Winterfell was not the same.
Arya Stark didn't much mind, because Arya Stark was not the same either.
The castle had been rebuilt. She had once known every curve of every corner of every hallway, but the imperfections of the stones beneath her fingertips were strange to her now. Every stone in every wall of every room was new. It eased the transition somehow, to know that the strangeness of the castle was not solely accredited to the fact that she had been gone for six years. This way it was not so much her fault.
The Broken Tower was nearly done being rebuilt, as well. "I suppose we'll have to find a new name for it now," Bran told her over a game of cyvasse one evening. Arya had learned to play when she wore the face of Beqqa the Beautiful, a whore who only took clients that could beat her at a game of cyvasse, and Bran had asked her to teach him. He did not, of course, ask where she had learned to play, and she did not, of course, tell him.
"The tower's been a ruin since before we were born. Why rebuild it now?" she asked, positioning her king at the far corner of her square.
Bran shrugged and moved his crossbowmen to the center of the board. Arya was unsurprised to note that he was learning the game much faster than she had. "The rest of the castle had been rebuilt, why not the Broken Tower?"
"And why did the castle need to be rebuilt?"
He looked up at her in surprise before remembering himself. "The Sack of Winterfell. You didn't hear of it?"
Arya shrugged. "Why should we care in Braavos?" We? When had she started referring to the Braavosi as we? Bran gave her a strange look, and she wondered if he was thinking the same thing. "The only Westerosi news that concerned us was that the Dragon Queen planned to take the Iron Throne."
Bran conceded this with a nod, and told her of how Theon Greyjoy had taken Winterfell. She laughed when he added, "Though he did not manage to hold it for very long," but felt her smile slip from her face when he went on to describe Ramsay Snow's attack in the night. "When I came back I was told that Ramsay Snow had thought he'd married you, for a time."
Arya snorted. "As if I ever would."
"It turns out they married him to Jeyne Poole instead. Do you remember her?" He smiled sadly and moved his elephant to the front lines. "Funny. She didn't look anything like you. She didn't even have your eyes."
* * *
To Bran and the rest, Jaqen was called Arron Snow, though they soon took to calling him Arrow after witnessing his skill with a borrowed bow. He spoke differently as Arrow, no more referring to himself as though from an outside source, only "I" and "he" and "you", and it led Arya to wonder if the way he spoke as he did with her was an act too, a habit he'd adopted from the Lorathi whose face he'd adopted.
She began to wonder if anything she knew about him was true, beyond his being a Faceless Man, but he came to her in the night with the face of Jaqen H'ghar and smiled at her in the morning with the lips of Arron Snow, and that was enough.
One night he came to her room and, instead of leading her to the bed (or the floor or the hearthrug or the windowsill) as he often did, he pulled her outside and took her across the courtyard into the Broken Tower. She did not wonder how they'd gotten past the guards this time - men could be suprisingly unobservant when Jaqen wanted them to be.
Only a small portion of the Broken Tower remained to be rebuilt, and all of the floors had yet to be furnished. Jaqen led her to the top floor, where a chunk of the ceiling was still missing and where the night sky shone brilliantly through. A light summer snow had fallen that evening, and the floor glittered with the faint dusting of snow. Arya walked into the center of the room and realized just how large the Broken Tower really was. Ruined, it was unremarkable. Half-finished and with a thousand stars twinkling in the reflection of Jaqen's eyes, it was cavernous. From where she stood in the center of the room Arya could not see where the floor met the wall, only darkness.
Jaqen's hand came around from behind her and slipped around her waist, fiddling with the hem of her shirt. He rested his chin on her shoulder and pressed his lips to the nape of her neck. "A lovely place to take a lovely girl, no?"
She turned around to kiss him, and he pulled her to the floor and out of her clothes, and she had never felt more open than in the center of this gaping hole of a room, the stars shining upon her skin and her fingers tangled in Jaqen's hair and her cries echoing among the rafters.
* * *
She went one afternoon to the forge to have two daggers made for her.
In Braavos, as Malena the Merciless, she had grown quite fond of fighting with twin daggers. She liked to hear them whirrr between her fingers as she spun and slashed and whirled, but she had left them behind when she left Malena behind. Besides, she was more than happy to leave a pair of knives in exchange for Needle. Needle was worth the trade every time.
The forge was dark and smelled of sweat and iron, and Arya was hit with a blast of hot air the moment she walked in. She wrinkled her nose and hung up her cloak. The blacksmith was nowhere to be found, but a red hot horseshoe told her he was not far off. She peeled her gloves off as she wandered around, examining the half-finished hauberks and breastplates. She trailed her fingers over a small wooden shield, the metal rim of which was waiting to be applied. Arya squeezed her eyes shut and thought of Mikken. He'd made Needle for her, and designed the bars in Bran's chambers that this new blacksmith had installed during the restoration.
Arya blinked away the stinging of her eyes and glanced over at a series of helmets arranged in a neat little row. Nearest to her was a wolf's head, teeth bared in a vicious snarl. Further down the row she saw a stag's head helm, antlers and all. She smiled and stepped closer to trace each dip and curve of the branches with her pinky finger.
"Oi! Don't touch that!"
Arya's hand flew to her belt, fingers curling around the hilt of her sword. "Oh." She exhaled when she saw the smith step out of the shadows and uncurled her fingers. "Sorry."
He stepped out of the shadows, eyes narrowed in suspicion as they darted between her and the helmet. "It's alright," he said gruffly, moving past her to the helmet. She tilted her head to the side and watched him run his palm over the metal. His hair was black and thick and fell in front of his eyes as he leaned over the helmet. The line of his jaw was familiar to her and her fingers twitched, itching to drag a fingertip across it and lift his chin so she could meet his eyes.
"You're the blacksmith?"
"Aye." He stepped away from the helmet, satisfied that Arya hadn't done anything to it, and turned to face her. He pushed his thick hair back from his forehead. His eyes widened in surprise the moment he saw her, and she was oddly pleased to note that they were a hot, shocking blue.
"Oh," he said, hands curling into fists at his sides. "So it is you."
"I beg your pardon?" She felt like Sansa just then, all curtseys and smiles.
He turned back to the row of helmets and picked up the one at the far end of the table. He paused. "There's been so many pretenders, you see."
"Pretenders?"
"Of you. Milady," he added gruffly.
"Do not call me milady."
The smith tensed. Arya saw that his knuckles had gone white from how hard he was gripping the helm. He let out a short, mirthless laugh. "Right. Sorry." Arya frowned and glanced at the helmet he was holding. The shape of it was... familiar, though she couldn't make out its exact form.
She leaned closer and saw it was the head of a bull. Her brows drew together in confusion. All the other helmets on the table were animals represented on various house sigils. Between the stag and the wolf there was a dragon, and at the far end of the table a falcon and a lion sat beside each other. But the bull, to her knowledge, had never been representative of any noble house.
"Why a bull?" she murmured, stepping closer. She reached a hand out to touch the helmet. The smith whirled around to face her again, blue eyes boring down into hers, and suddenly everything clicked.
Oh.
Blue eyes.
Black hair.
A bull's head helm.
Oh indeed.
"I..." She swallowed. Her mouth felt dry. "I have to go." She turned tail and fled from the forge, and as she left she thought she could hear a faint voice cry out, "Arya!"
That night, when Jaqen took her to bed, she closed her eyes and thought of a boy with black hair and blue eyes.
* * *
"This new smith... where - where did you find him?"
Bran gave her a strange look. "It's a bit of a long story."
"We have time." Arya leaned back in her seat. "I assume Mikken..."
"Yes," he sighed. "Theon." Arya bit back her scowl. "Well, he - alright, I - I did tell you of the Red Wedding?"
She nodded.
"Well, I fear I neglected to mention that our mother, once dead, did not remain so for very long."
Arya didn't bother to get her hopes up. Catelyn Stark was well and truly dead, this much was clear from Bran's tone.
"Beric Dondarrion led a group of men called the Brotherhood - "
"The Brotherhood Without Banners, yes, I know."
Bran blinked in surprise. "Then you know of Thoros of Myr. He brought her back. Dondarrion sacrificed his life for hers, and Thoros brought her back. But she was not our mother. She was a monster, intent upon avenging her first death and exacting cruel and terrible revenge upon all those who had wronged her. Those who were not with her were against her. No. She was not our mother." He glanced at the fire, a soft smile curving his Tully lips. "Meera killed her, because I could not, and Thoros of Myr." His voice grew low. "She told me he screamed when Mother died, as though a part of him was dying as well." Bran looked back at her, the flames casting weird and eldritch shadows upon his face. "Is that not strange?"
Arya bit her lip. "Yes," she whispered, "Strange."
Bran shook himself. "Anway, of the blacksmith... We had a smith, but he was young and inexperienced, and this man was brilliant. Is brilliant. Have you seen any of his work?"
"Yes," she answered without thinking, "A bull's head helmet."
* * *
Arya was sparring with Jaqen in the courtyard when Jojen Reed came running out of the maester's turret. Arya was on her stomach, Jaqen sitting on her back and pressing her face into the dirt, when Jojen stopped some feet away from them, a note clutched in his fist. He waited until Jaqen clambered off of Arya's back before he spoke. "There's been a raven from King's Landing."
Arya took the arm Jaqen offered her and pulled herself to her feet. She spat out a mouthful of dirt, and asked, "What of it?"
"I think you ought to be there when the king reads the letter." Jojen's green eyes bored into her own, wise and deep and dark. She could see why Meera had taken to calling him Mock-Maester. His rooms were officially in the Great Keep, like most everyone else's, but he spent so many night's in the maester's turret consulting with Maester Godric that a cot had been set aside for him there.
"Alright." Arya wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She glanced back at Jaqen. "Arron, you'll be alright?"
"It's no matter to me," said Jaqen, leaning down to scoop his knife up off the ground. "I had meant to see the smith anyway." He gave Arya a queer smile, and she frowned. Did he know?
The king had just finished holding court. A Karstark messenger stepped aside to let Jojen and Arya pass through the doorway before he exited the hall himself. "Troubles at Karhold?" Arya called to Bran, watching the door close behind the messenger.
"Not so much trouble as a marriage proposal."
"Oh?" Arya turned to look at Bran sitting on the throne on the raised dais at the end of the hall. "Who's the lovely lady?"
"Cedrik Karstark."
Arya raised her eyebrows. "Does Meera know of your appetite for men, Bran?" She walked to the edge of the dais. Meera was biting back a smile. Wylis Manderly, the fat man Arya had seen on her first day back at Winterfell, did not look very amused.
"The proposal was meant for you, my lady," he said gruffly. Meera and Jojen and Wylis were three of the four on Bran's council. The fourth, their uncle Brynden, was looking for Rickon. In truth, Lord Wyman Manderly was meant to be the third on the council, but he had grown so sick and old and fat that he had been bedridden for years - or so Meera told Arya. She was sure if she had asked Wylis the same thing, he would have a more delicate answer. Wylis had graciously taken his father's place and spoke for Lord Wyman on Bran's council.
"And which of the Karstarks is this Cedrik, if I may ask?"
"The third of Arthor Karstark's sons."
Arya laughed. "I hope you refused, Your Grace. The man must be ancient."
"Thirty three," Wylis answered gruffly. Arya remembered Wylis himself was almost forty.
"More than twice my age," she answered with a yawn.
"An age ripe for marriage," he insisted.
"Marriage to whom, I wonder?" Arya asked, arching her brow. "A man such as yourself, perhaps, Lord Manderly?" Behind her, Arya could hear Jojen choke back a laugh. "Forgive me, my lord, but I can't help but think our tastes are not well enough aligned for us to be happily married."
"That is not what I - "
"Enough." They both turned to look at Bran, whose eyes were dark. "Lord Manderly, my sister has been gone for six years. I should prefer not to have her carted away to be married any time soon, thank you." Arya smirked before Bran turned to her. "Arya. It would make me very happy if you were to treat Lord Manderly with as much respect as I believe he deserves. He is a member of my council. You would do well to remember that."
Lord Wylis bowed his head. "My apologies, Your Grace." Arya, fuming, did the same.
"Thank you." Bran turned his gaze on Jojen. "Is there any reason you came here?"
"There's been a raven from King's Landing, Your Grace." Jojen stepped forward to hand him the note. Bran unfurled it and Arya watched as his eyes darted across the parchment. A smile came to his lips. "Excellent." Noting Arya's confused expression, he explained, "We sent a raven to King's Landing the day you came home." He held up the note. "Sansa's on her way."