The midday sun had warmed the ground; the thin morning frost was gone. Under the eyes of soldiers, officers, and lords, two lean figures — older and younger, eerily alike — found each other again, a small island of warmth in a sea of war.
"Jon!"
"Arya!"
One glance at those matching grey eyes was enough.
To Arya, Jon looked taller, steadier — more like Eddard Stark than in any memory. To Jon, Arya had been sanded down by the road, sharp and scrawny as a feral cat.
No awkwardness. No distance. Blood bridged everything. They embraced, and the watching crowd noticed the unmistakable Stark long faces and storm-grey eyes mirrored in the two.
"Arya? Arya Stark — Lord Eddard's youngest?" Dondarrion blurted, stunned.
The last word most of them had heard placed Arya in King's Landing. But few truly knew the girl: not a court-bred ornament but quick-witted and iron-willed.
Jon hadn't expected to meet her here either; he'd imagined crossing paths on the way to King's Landing. She explained it simply: she'd heard of his march south — and of the Mountain's death by his hand — and had hurried straight for Harrenhal. On the road she'd fallen in with the Brotherhood Without Banners and so arrived sooner than fate had planned.
The Eastern Army's string of wins had kept Tywin from freely savaging the Riverlands — and that, more than luck, had opened her path.
Ghost whuffed softly, nosed her, then slathered her face with a great wet lick, cutting muddy tracks through the grime. Arya laughed and hugged the direwolf tight. The joy lasted a heartbeat, then memory struck: a wolf driven away, a father lost.
"Jon, Father… Father is dead. Joffrey killed him!" She buried her face in his chest, trembling like a wounded kit.
"I know. I know, Arya. We'll avenge him. I'll kill that bastard Joffrey myself."
She was tough by nature, but still a child. She'd shaved herself down to a boy, hiding inside revenge. Seeing Jon loosened all the seams. Tears flooded, repainting her cheeks with fresh streaks.
Old York watched, moved despite himself. So did Thoros, and many more.
Before Thoros could lose his own composure, Jon asked him to see Arya bathed and changed. Weeks on the road would sour even a perfumed lady, and Arya was more boyish than most boys; even her hair was matted.
But the safety of a brother's presence was hard to release. She held his hand like a lifeline.
"Go on, little sister. Be good. After your bath, we'll sleep together tonight."
"Really?"
"When have I lied to you?"
As Arya went, Jon's thoughts turned heavier. He was about to move on something large; her sudden arrival meant Roose Bolton would hear soon enough. And if—
Wait.
He turned to Dondarrion. "Lord Beric, did you meet a Night's Watch brother along the way?"
"We did," Beric said, surprised. "How did you know?"
"And where is he now?"
The Watch kept "wandering crows" to recruit. Jon had met one — Yoren — in Winterfell just before taking the black. Yoren knew Arya's identity; it was thanks to him she'd slipped King's Landing at all. In the original tangle, Amory Lorch slew Yoren despite his neutrality — but Jon had captured Amory at the Green Fork. Perhaps Yoren had lived. Jon's real interest, though, was the Faceless Man Yoren had been escorting — Jaqen H'ghar. If Jon could barter a dragon egg for Jaqen to remove Roose Bolton, it would be a bargain beyond price.
Dondarrion hesitated, uncertain, and Thoros stepped in. "Yoren, yes. He said you were the only deserter he'd seen in thirty years who now commanded an army — and he didn't want the new recruits getting ideas. He took them straight to Riverrun. We parted four days back."
"I see." Jon felt no sting. If anything, Thoros's next words surprised him.
"He doesn't dislike you. Said it's unfair to chain a boy your age to the Wall's cold before he's lived at all."
"Oh?" Jon hadn't expected that much tenderness. In truth, it was more mercy than he'd ever felt from Eddard. Jon was Lyanna's orphan; to send him to the Wall and close the book — was that kindness from a maternal uncle?
Thoros cleared his throat, eyes twinkling. "By the way, Jon — you've not lain with a woman yet, have you? That handmaiden of yours seems—"
Jon gave him a flat look. So: a lusty priest, then.
Across Harrenhal, in the Tower of the Wailing, a maester brought a letter. Roose Bolton read it, and his pale lips thinned into a smile. He handed it to Polin.
Polin scanned the lines and grinned. "My lord, no one will threaten you now."
Robb's order was simple: Jon was to hand over his command and present himself at Riverrun within half a month to receive Edmure's orders. He could take at most a thousand men.
So — word of Jon's refusal of Catelyn had reached Robb.
Polin ventured, "They say the Brotherhood brought Eddard's youngest. Why not send Jon with her to Riverrun?"
"No," Bolton said at once. "I'll see the girl first, confirm she's truly Arya. Then we write to Riverrun to say we found her. Robb will trust us more that way."
Polin praised the plan. Bolton stood by his window, looking out over Harrenhal. Jon's Tower of Dread sat squarely in view. The moment Jon left, the full twenty thousand would be his to command — and without Jon in camp, those fractious lords wouldn't dare defy him.
After her bath, Arya pulled on clean clothes — too big in sleeve and hem, but gloriously fresh. She smelled faintly of crushed grass when she returned.
Roose Bolton's invitation arrived. Jon took Arya and a dozen guards toward the Tower of the Wailing.
"Jon, when do we strike King's Landing? We have to avenge Father." Arya's hand in his was calloused, small, and burning warm.
"Roose Bolton commands the army," Jon said gently. "We obey for now. And avenging Father is for Robb and me. That's enough. Tomorrow I'll send you to Riverrun. Your lady mother should be there."
He smoothed her hair. Predictably, she bristled. Jon didn't add that she'd already been promised in a Frey bargain; with her temper, she'd vanish the first chance she got.
"No!" She stamped, yanked free, and sprang into a quick display — blade flashing, feet precise, the pattern a liquid dance.
"Water Dance," she said, fierce and proud. "I can kill, too!"
Jon eyed the slim blade. Against armor, it would snap. His decision held. Sending her to Riverrun would steady Catelyn — and might keep her from some mad act like releasing Jaime.
Then Arya offered a coin Jon could not ignore. "I know a secret way into the Red Keep."
He stopped dead. The guards halted, hands drifting to hilts.
"A secret way?" he asked, crouching to meet her eyes.
"I remember it perfectly!" She lifted her chin, triumphant. She'd been hunting sparrows when she'd stumbled on it — and heard muttering from the shadows. She hadn't seen the speaker, but the path was etched in memory.
If Jon could seize that passage, he could seize Joffrey and Cersei in a night. Even if Lannister and Tyrell joined, he'd have leverage enough to break them. Joffrey was the keystone of their alliance; snap it, and the arch would fall.
As for Myrcella and Tommen — they'd been spirited to Rosby before the war. A small town, guarded by an old man too slow to flee. Jon could take Rosby swiftly, reclaim the children, and only then fall upon King's Landing.
Everything was in place now but the final key: he needed Roose Bolton firmly in his hand.
Control Bolton — and march.
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