IV.

The problem with time travel, Arya was discovering, was that while they knew where things ended up, they weren't sure about the journey there. In the case of Lyanna and Rhaegar, for example, Jon (through Sam and Gilly) had managed to learn they were married on the Isle of Faces, in the God's Eye. From there, they had... somehow... managed to sneak through the Riverlands into the Crownlands and then through the Reach and into Dorne without anyone being none the wiser -- despite the party consisting of the Crown Prince and his two closest Kingsguard in Arthur Dayne and Oswell Whent.

The timing was off, it was odd, and Arya could only hope that by the time Jon and Rickard got to King's Landing, Rhaegar and Lyanna had already installed themselves in the Tower of Joy. It made sense: it was isolated, far from anywhere for information, and keeping Lyanna secret and safe would be necessary during the war, especially if she -- and here, Arya made a face -- was carrying Rhaegar's son.

Luck was on Arya's side when, after taking a young rapists' face, she arrived in Dorne. Information was sparse on a few weary travelers, but with Rhaegar's slight toward Elia Martell, Dorne and the Dornish were bristling, a powder keg ready to explode with the slightest provocation.

A nudge here, a suggestion there -- and Arya had her information. The Kingsguard had passed through the area several months previous, and they were at the Tower of Joy, absolutely confirmed.

A scouting session later confirmed that as well, with Arya not minding the baking heat of hard, red flaking rocks and sand when she pressed her body flat against the rocky outcrop and used a Myrish spyglass to survey the less-of-a-tower and more-of-a-mini-fortress of Joy.

Tall walls in sun-bleached red and yellows jutted up from the rocks of the elevated outpost, overlooking the valley below. There were several long, rectangular wings, with a narrow point facing the hill's incline, and a single tower reaching above the rest. But it would be far too much for only two - maybe three - men to guard. It would be easy finding an entrance that Whent or Dayne overlooked during their patrol.

Scaling the wall took the most time and was the more dangerous aspect of her trip - especially at night when she began -, but Theon's brags about the Ironborn and their techniques and the crumbling, dry wall had numerous natural footholds and Arya was lithe and capable enough. She pulled herself up and over the wall at the top, eyes sweeping the empty battlement. There were a few braziers lit, but they were so spaced out they were only pockets of light in the inky darkness, reminding Arya painfully of the Long Night.

She shivered.

Creeping through the Tower of Joy was reminiscent of her time in Harrenhal: whatever the Tower

had been once upon a time, it was a faded glory, a ruined castle that was once grand but was now barely held together with stone and mortar.

There were many empty rooms and Arya commandeered one for her own purposes, always careful to never leave clues to her being there, but spent the next few days watching the four people who were living in the castle.

Rhaegar and Lyanna were utterly disgusting: barely emerging from their rooms in the tower, as it was the most secured part of the castle with a single stairwell to the rooms at the top and only a few windows until the near 360-degree view of the tower's top floor provided. When they did emerge, they were sickeningly sweet with one another, closely pressed and whispering, glowing as newlyweds do, and feeding each other tiny morsels of food on a picnic blanket at the base of a bubbling fountain in the bailey, where a tiny garden of mostly weeds but some flowers and palm trees, grew.

Arya wanted to gag.

Whent and Dayne were boring: at night, they retreated into the castle and did patrols every six hours, barely getting enough sleep in their shifts -- they looked over Arya naturally three times during their evening patrols and she wasn't even trying to hide. During the day, neither remained inside of the castle, perching on the reddish rocks that surrounded the base of the castle, a natural stockade. They would impede anyone coming by foot or horse at the base of the hill.

Both men were exhausted, but holding up admirably when a horsed messenger cantered up on Arya's fourth day, stopping in front of Whent and Dayne.

Both men had drawn their swords but relaxed when they saw the messenger's colours and sword- and-falling star sigil. A rider from House Dayne, bending over to provide Arthur with a scroll and then taking off just as quickly.

He'll kill that horse at that pace, thought Arya with a tiny sigh from where she was watching well above the men and out of sight from the tower. She did move toward the inner bailey, though, and was in a perfect spot to see Arthur hand the scroll to Rhaegar, who reluctantly withdrew from Lyanna.

He read the scroll, paled, and then crumpled it. His voice was strained when he announced, "Ser Arthur, prepare my horse."

"What! Why?" asked Lyanna, jumping to her feet.

Rhaegar turned back to her, cupping her face. "My love, fear not. Something has occurred in King's Landing and I ride to verify its truth. I will be back before you know it."

Something shifted in Lyanna's face. "Rhaegar -- what happened--" She reached up and clutched at the man's wrists, still cupping her face. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Is it my family? Brandon? Father?"

There was a tiny grimace on Rhaegar's face but he shook his head and pressed his lips tenderly to Lyanna's forehead. "All will be well, Lya."

Lya, Arya rolled her eyes. But a return to King's Landing instead of the battlefield? Oh, dear. Jon fucked up somewhere.

Arya gave Rhaegar five days to leave the Tower of Joy and make his way through Dorne, as well as five days to let Whent and Dayne bring their guard down (as the Prince's final instructions were

"guard Lyanna with your lives" - prick ) before she made her move.

The job was simple compared to some of the things she used to do for the House: this was a snatch and grab, returning her aunt to Winterfell. The length of Westeros might work against her, but if Jon messed up in their plans - which, knowing his luck, was possible - then Arya just had to get Lyanna halfway up Westeros into the Crownlands and the Starks would do the rest.

Getting Lyanna away from the Kingsguard was going to be the hardest part, but Arya was prepared for that. She wasn't going to fight the men directly - she wasn't stupid - but she knew how to incapacitate them and was going to take pleasure in utilizing her skills.

First, she had to get Whent or Dayne out of the way before she went after her aunt. Arthur Dayne had drawn the short straw in checking the perimeter of the Tower, walking from one battlement to the other. The poor bastard would be at least four hours; five, if he walked the two inner baileys and the outer by Arya's estimation.

It was easy slipping the buckthorn into Whent's evening meal. The men had no reason to suspect that there was anyone else at the Tower of Joy, and Lyanna spent the majority of her time mooning for the prince in their shared rooms at the top of the tower, sometimes emerging only to goad the guard on duty into sparring with her, which they always said no to.

Arya then waited in the shadows, palming the thin, hollow pipe, until Oswell Whent stumbled past her hiding spot, arms wrapped around his middle as he sweated and groaned under his breath. He had discarded his white cloak, his sword, and even his distinctive helm with bat's wings. His dark head was bowed low as he moved, barely making it to the privy before loud noises emerged from behind the wooden door.

Grimacing, Arya sent a mental thank you to Tyrion Lannister for the idea of this plan (retelling how his father died was a past time he didn't avoid and the Free Folk loved hearing about it - so did Tywin's enemies), counted to ten, and then kicked the door open.

Whent's head jerked up, eyes wide. He was squatting, pants very literally around his ankles, and no sword in sight.

"What--"

Arya brought the pipe to her mouth and exhaled sharply, sending the dart - laced with curare - and it embedded itself in Whent's fleshy neck.

Shocked, the man reached up and yanked the dart out, staring at her and then it, and then back at her even as he struggled to his feet, his face flushing in anger. He almost reached his full height but ended up slumped against the wall with one hand on the dart and the other holding up his trousers. He began blinking quickly.

His mouth opened a few times. "I-- girl-- what did--"

Arya tilted her head to the side, and, given what she knew of the Kingsguard, decided to mess with

his head a bit. "Valar morghulis."

Whent's blue eyes went wide, wider if possible, even as he slumped heavily against the wall. He tried to take a few steps toward Arya, out of the privy, but he was already sagging as the curare raced through his system. She ended up pushing him back into the privy, almost gently, and he slumped against the back wall.

"Trust me," she continued as he struggled to remain conscious, "You're going to want to be in here

with everything still in your system."

His mouth opened once more, barely mumbling, "what?" out, before his head sagged forward. With a tiny smile, Arya began to tie the man up. One down, one knight to go.

Arthur Dayne finished his watch and went straight to his bedroom to remove his cloak and armour, a terrible breach given that had he returned to the mess where Whent had been, he'd have realized something was wrong.

But - habits.

Arya was waiting for him, knowing that he did this after each perimeter check. There was a bowl of water ready for him, and some rags that he would use to clean himself off from the dust and dry heat that lingered even at night.

Dayne moved purposefully, his strides indicating someone confident in his body's motions. Objectively, Arya could see why so many women still spoke about him in hushed tones in the future: he was a good looking man, with the pale, silvery hair of his Targaryen ancestors, and had the purple eyes of Edric, whom Arya had known once upon a time during the Brotherhood Without Banners.

But, as she watched from the rafters above him, there was something weary to his posture, the slump of his shoulders when he thought he was alone. Jaime Lannister often looked like him - at least, at one point - and Arya wondered if the man was having second - or third - thoughts about what he was doing.

She stifled a snort. Gods, I hope so . As far as she was concerned, Rhaegar, Lyanna, the Kingsguards involved with this stupid scheme, were all to blame for the war to come. Aerys wasn't alone in his depravity, but Rhaegar also did nothing to stop it, refusing to challenge his father or even depose him in a blood coup - it was clear he had the support but not the guts.

Dayne dipped the rag into the bowl, having divested himself of his armour and tunic, and began wetting down his chest, neck, and arms. Arya watched clinically, noting the muscles and the silver scars against the golden hue of his skin.

Then, Dayne paused. He stiffened.

With a frown, Arya watched as he slowly turned on his heels, eyes glancing around the room just as he moved cautiously toward his discarded sword, which leaned upright in its sheath against a table. He slowly withdrew it, the sound of steel against the leather twanging in the silent evening.

"Who's there?" the man demanded, voice firm and low. He withdrew a dagger from his boot and held it in the other hand that was not occupied with the ghostly shining Dawn.

Arya's eyes were wide. How did he know someone was there? Had something given her away? She fought with her own annoyance at the thought that she made a mistake, but did not move.

"I am a member of the Kingsguard and you will obey!" the man snapped, eyes darting this way and that. He continued to slowly turn in spot, peering into all corners of the room. He never looked up, though.

From one of the corners of the room, a lizard skittered out.

Dayne threw his dagger at it, registering the movement first and the being second. The lizard screamed as it died, eyes bulging and its tongue hanging out of its mouth.

The man grimaced, stalking forward and yanking the dagger out of the lizard and wiping it on his trousers. He sighed, lowering Dawn and his shoulders slumped once more. "Just a damn lizard, Dayne. Keep it together, man. You're better than this."

Now that's an idea, thought Arya, mouth stretching into a smile as she exhaled quietly, centering herself and casting her consciousness from her mind, seeking other lizards in the Tower. A few were nearby, and her mind caught one of them, sending the lizard climbing up the wall and then through one of the open windows. rocks from the window ledge were sent to the floor, and Arthur Dayne whirled to face the window, Dawn upright again.

The lizard flicked its tongue at him. Arthur Dayne gave an uneasy laugh.

Arya let go of the lizard and found another, this time high on the ceiling near her, and sent it creeping down the far wall.

Its shadow flickered against the few candles in the room, and Arthur Dayne spun toward it, both dagger and Dawn ready -- again -- but he paused at the lizard.

"Damn strange," he muttered, but put Dawn on the bed and sheathed his dagger, shaking his head as he turned back to the washbasin.

Arya let the lizard go and it skittered away along with its friend by the window, but this time Dayne did not react, having gotten used to their presence and noises. With him suitably distracted, ignoring what he thought were lizards, Arya dropped from the rafters of the room on the balls of her feet, curare dart ready.

She made the tiniest noise and Dayne stiffened. She froze.

He shook his head, the silvery strands catching in the candlelight. "Just a lizard, Art, stop being such a craven."

Arya fought back a grin and brought the pipe to her mouth, aimed, and exhaled.

The dart landed in the fleshy part of Arthur Dayne's shoulder, deep, and the man whirled with a cry, hand already reaching for his dagger as he did so.

He managed to take a step forward and then caught sight of Arya, partially in the shadows. Anger mutated into confusion as the man stuttered, "My Queen--?"

Arya grimaced. "Really? Lyanna's going to be queen ?"

Shock briefly flickered across his face before he frowned heavily. "You're not Lyanna..."

He wasted no time, lunging at her with the dagger, but Arya twisted out of the way, serpentine, as Arthur began to flag. She never raised her hands in response, only to bat away at his arm and redirect the attack, even when she could have taken the dagger for herself.

Eventually, the curare worked against the man and he landed heavily on one foot, mouth working as he blinked at the tiny Lyanna Stark lookalike. Even as he collapsed onto his knees, dagger still in hand, he murmured, "Why?"

"Why?" repeated Arya, kicking at his hand and sending the dagger sailing away and skidding across the stone floor. "Because the lone wolf dies but the pack survives."

Something clicked for Dayne.

"Stark?" he whispered hoarsely and then fell face-forward on the floor. "Aye," agreed Arya, despite the man being unconscious. "I'm a Stark."

She tied the man up as well - much better than Whent, if she was honest - and then rolled him under his bed. She left Dawn on the bed, and retrieved his dagger. She glanced between it and the bed, then shrugged, tucking it into her belt. Spoils of war, after all. How many could say that they bested Oswell Whent and Arthur Dayne?

The two Kingsguard were down from the count, and she had one last person to go after. Then, a return north.

There was no other word for it, thought Arya with a deep but silent scowl on her face. Lyanna was... mooning .

She was utterly mooning over the prince, the same way that Sansa used to moon over Joffrey, before he was an utter shite; the way she and Jeyne Poole mooned over Jory.

This was the girl that so many of her father's men and acquaintances said she reminded them of? This was the fierce, wolf's blood girl? The girl who fought with swords, who dressed up as the Knight of the Laughing Tree and fought for Howland's honour?

The same girl who was now sitting by a window, staring out of it and sighing as she awaited the return of the prince?

"I honestly expected better."

Lyanna whirled on her knees from where she was perched, barely catching her hands against the windowsill so she wouldn't topple forward. Her eyes were wide - the same grey that Arya had - and although they were of a similar age (although Arya was at least two years older than her, by her reckoning) and had similar coloured dark brown, nearly black, hair, and skinny, lithe bodies, it seemed that was where the resemblance ended.

"Who're you?" the girl demanded in harsh Northern tones. Her eyes darted to the open door. "Where's Ser Dayne and Ser Whent?" She raised her voice and shouted, "Arthur?! Oswell!?"

"They won't be coming," replied Arya, keeping her arms at her side as she watched her aunt stand from her perch and glower at the time traveler.

"Then who're you and why're you here?" the other Stark gritted out between her teeth, looking like a wolf cub baring its teeth at a bigger and meaner predator without realizing it. Her eyes looked around the room for a weapon.

Their eyes both landed on the heavy ornamental hand glass perched on a nightstand.

"Please don't," began Arya. "I'll have to hurt you."

Lyanna's eyes went wide and she lunged for the nightstand, just as Arya moved to block her and caught the girl's outstretched arm in a bruising grip. Arya pulled the arm up, upsetting Lyanna's

balance despite her being taller.

With a pinch of a specific nerve, the arm was rendered useless. Lyanna sobbed, "What did you do?!" as she clutched at her arm with her good hand.

"I just put it to sleep for a bit," sighed Arya, leaning a hip against the very nightstand the girl had been moving toward, and incidentally, blocking her from the potential weapon. "It'll be fine in a few hours."

"Who are you?" the other girl cried. "Why are you here?" She paled, and dropped her voice to a whisper, "Are you - are you here to kill me?"

"Gods, no." Arya rolled her eyes. "I'm here to bring you home." Lyanna blinked. "Home?"

Arya stared at her. "Home. You know - Winterfell ."

"But--" Lyanna's mouth opened and shut. She shook her head and began to step backward, away from Arya. "No. No, I won't go! I don't care who paid you - if it was father or Brandon, or, or Ned! I won't go back. You can't make me!"

"Gods," muttered Arya, refraining from rolling her eyes although she really wanted to. Was this what she used to sound like when asked to do something she hated? Like needlework, or her lessons with Septa Mordane? It was no wonder Sansa was so cruel toward her then. She owed her sister an apology because the Gods knew - Arya was finding Lyanna's obstinate words frustrating.

"They didn't pay me to get you," the time traveler spat. "No one paid me. If I had my way, I'd leave you here."

Lyanna jumped on that. "Do! Do leave me! Leave me with Rhaegar - we're happy, so happy - tell my father that - I can't marry that lout, Robert - I don't care what Ned says, he's terrible, he's already got a bastard--"

"And Rhaegar's got two trueborn children of his own, but that didn't stop you, did it?" countered Arya coolly. She crossed her arms, idly tapping her fingers along her arm. "So what was the real reason, hmm? Why did you leave Winterfell?"

Lyanna blinked and seemed to shrink into herself. "I didn't want to be trapped in a marriage." "And yet, now you're trapped as a mistress."

"I'm married!" shouted Lyanna, standing tall again. "Rhaegar and I married before a Heart Tree on the Isle of Faces! I'm married!"

"So it was never about being married, or married to someone with children," mused out loud Arya. "It was about getting what you wanted."

Lyanna flushed red. "Well, don't you ?" Arya blinked. "What?"

Lyanna gestured at her sharply. "You're a Stark - don't deny it, you can't deny our looks. You're older than me. Surely you must already be betrothed or married. Did you get a choice in who you'd marry?"

Arya stared at Lyanna for a few long, breathless seconds before she exhaled loudly and sharply. "You stupid, stupid selfish girl! Do you realize what you have done?"

"What I've done?" Lyanna looked insulted.

"Gods above," muttered Arya, "I cannot deal with this right now."

She moved quickly forward, toward Lyanna, who countered by quickly backing up. She edged toward a sideboard, eyes wide and she began crying, "What are you doing? Stop it! Stay away from me!"

She swept whatever she could to the floor from the board, sending vases of winter roses and crystal goblets to the floor, and threw dragon and wolf ornaments at Arya, who simply dodged the projectiles.

Lyanna soon reached the corner of the room, pressed in on both sides by the walls and Arya before her. She snarled and lashed out with her hands like claws, trying to rake them down Arya's face. But Arya caught one hand and then the other, pushing both down and then with a savage move, headbutted Lyanna sharply in the nose.

The other girl shrieked, blood erupting from her nose and cascading down her mouth and chin. "You bitch!"

With Lyanna's hands still in hers, Arya then yanked her forward and slammed a knee in the younger girl's stomach. Lyanna gasped sharply, wheezing and then sinking heavily to her feet, forcing Arya to let go of her as she bowed her head.

"If you're in there, sorry," Lyanna heard the girl mutter before she felt a sharp jab at the back of her neck, and then, everything went black.

Arya on the other hand, stood over Lyanna, a queasy look on her face. Her eyes dragged down Lyanna's prone body and lingered on her stomach.

I really hope Jon isn't in there yet, she thought, her face taking on a green hue. Oh, Gods, that's just - don't think about it, Arya, don't.

Forcibly dragging her eyes from Lyanna's middle section, Arya hefted the girl up over her shoulders and exited the room, carefully maneuvering her down the winding stairs that led up to the tower room. Once at the bottom, it was just as simple as walking through the many corridors, the baileys, and then to Whent and Dayne's horses.

Whistling, Arya thought: Damn, I'm good.

Lyanna came to consciousness slowly, a lingering pain at the back of her neck and in her stomach. Strong smells of ale and soup overwhelmed her and for a moment, she was entirely discombobulated. Then, the rousing noises of men jeering, laughing, and mixed conversation in Southern tone and voices. Someone, somewhere, was singing Jenny of Oldstones as a jaunty tune to various calls and boos.

"Whaaaa..." Lyanna's mouth moved slowly, sluggishly, as she blinked and pushed herself upright.

She was in a dark, earthy inn, tucked against a wall on one side of her and her Stark kidnapper on the other side. A bowl of stew and a mug of ale was in front of her, slightly off-centered, and the

girl at her side and heartily tucking into her meal and was nearly done, mopping up the stew with a bun.

Around her, men and women of various houses and levels of life were going about their business, and Lyanna picked out familiar sigils in a glance: Buckler, Errol, Horpe, Penrose...

"I wouldn't bother."

Lyanna jerked suddenly, inhaling as her eyes cut to her side. The other girl was watching her beneath hooded lids. "What?"

"I wouldn't bother trying to ask for help. You were unconscious when I brought you in, so I spun a tale of you being my younger sister, stolen by some rogue, fiendish Dornishman, against our father's wishes. I had to rescue you because my brothers were too useless, fighting; I snuck in and got you out but not without you taking a blow meant for me," the girl explained. She grinned, wolfishly. "They all thought that was rather heroic of you, by the way."

Lyanna wanted to whimper. She had escaped from Winterfell, made her own decisions, married Rhaegar, and now some slip of a Stark she didn't know had stolen that from her?

"Where are we?" she asked instead through her teeth. "Stormlands."

" Why ?"

"Easiest route to take to head back north."

Lyanna wanted to scream. She needed to find a way to contact Rhaegar! He had left her so suddenly, before; something about preventing war? Something about speaking with his father and stopping him from making a terrible mistake? -- whatever it was, he would come for her once he learned she was missing. She'd return to his side.

Her mirror image seemed to know what she was thinking if the irate look on her face was any indication. "Gods, you really are stupid, aren't you?"

"I am not!" she protested loudly, hoping someone would turn to them. No one did.

The girl scoffed and turned back to her food. She made a sharp gesture with her chin at Lyanna's untouched bowl. "Best eat that."

Glowering at the instructions, Lyanna slowly pulled the bowl toward her and sniffed it. She cut her eyes at the other Stark, who was grinning.

"I didn't poison it," she said, barely hiding her mirth.

Grumbling, Lyanna began to eat, enjoying the hearty meal compared to the cheese and crackers and delicate fruits and vegetables Rhaegar had been feeding her.

The two were silent, the other girl had finished her meal well before Lyanna when the group nearest them - a few seats down the bench - spoke in loud whispers while the bard was forced to

stop his rendition of Jenny of Oldstones.

"--Hear the news?" one man whispered, although in his drunken state it was clearly stated. "No, what?" his friend asked, thoroughly enchanted with the idea of gossip.

"The Mad King is dead!"

Lyanna stifled a gasp and the girl next to her jerked a bit in her seat before falling back into an easy posture. Lyanna was not fooled, as she could tell the girl's ears were turned in the group's direction despite her casual pose and pulling of her ale from her mug.

" How ?" one man gasped. Lyanna wanted to know that, too.

"Heard it from some farmers," the first man began, a bit more hushed now, if not reverent in his tone, "He tried to kill Rickard and Brandon Stark--"

Lyanna's mouth dropped open and the girl next to her elbowed her sharply in her side.

"--trial by combat with the demand that the King, and his sons, step down from ruling. Ol' Stark's choice of a champion was his squire. The King laughed and laughed and said his champion was going to be fire !"

"That poor squire," mourned one of the group.

The first man shook his head and next to Lyanna, the girl was quivering. "No, that's the rub, eh?" the man lowered his voice. "The squire won, he's a Blackfyre! He fought Jaime Lannister until the guard yielded, and then he killed the Bull!"

"Gods," breathed Lyanna, eyes wide. She turned to the other girl. "Did you know about that when you took me?"

She shook her head. "No. I knew that there was a plan, but... this is so much better."

Lyanna's face twisted into confusion. Better? Rhaegar wouldn't be king! He wasn't even a prince!

What did that make her? She was beginning to feel sick.

"--then Rhaella fell to her knees," the same man continued, and the other Stark girl didn't hide that she wasn't listening anymore - same with half the people in the inn. Everyone was paying attention to the man. "And declared the Blackfyre king of Westeros!"

There was silence in the inn, only broken when everyone erupted into shouts and demands for clarification or questions at the poor drunken man, but it was the Stark girl next to Lyanna who she fixated on when the girl groaned and let her head fall to the tabletop.