C3

Catelyn was certain that if she had ever dared to dream about how her daughter might return home, it would have been like this. Catelyn had dreamed about Arya many times while imprisoned at Harrenhal. She'd longed for the day when she'd hear the sounds of hooves approaching across the river. She'd prayed for it, and so had Robb, but neither one had ever expected it to come true. Now, it was happening. She stood on the battlements above the main gatehouse watching as her daughter rode up to them.

Robb watched his wife as she watched their daughter ride past him. "I'd give my kingdom for a horse right now," he muttered under his breath, unable to contain his excitement. He'd ridden north to save the north, but he hadn't really believed that any of it was real until now. They were free and they were home. "I feel naked without my blade."

His mother heard the comment and gave her son an amused glance.

Bran was the next to notice Arya's arrival. He rushed forward from where he had been standing with Jon and Jon's direwolf Ghost. Bran leapt from the parapet wall and landed easily upon the cobblestones below, leaping gracefully over the low walls that separated the yard from the road. "Hey! Hey!" he shouted, waving his arms frantically at Arya. "Over here!"

As she neared the gates, Arya slowed the pace of her mount, turning in his direction. She waved back at him before reining her steed around in a circle before heading toward the house, her hair streaming out behind her. When she was nearly at the steps, she wheeled around again and galloped back to the top of the hill, shouting to Baelor. "Watch out!" she yelled as she reached the top of the wall. The old man jumped up from his seat on a bench outside his cottage, clutching his walking stick tightly in both hands. The old man took two steps backward, stumbling over his own feet as his heart thudded wildly within his chest. As Arya pulled her mount to a stop, she glanced back at her grandfather, raising a hand to wave at him as she waited.

Robb laughed aloud as the old man scrambled back to his bench, holding the stick in his fist tightly to steady himself. "Grandfather says hello," Rob called, still laughing. When Bran joined him, he added, "See? I knew we'd find each other eventually."

"Yes," Catelyn replied. She'd seen enough of their reunion by then; she needed only to watch them together. She felt happy that they'd found one another after all these long years apart. Happy that she'd managed to keep them all safe during those years of captivity. It wasn't so difficult to believe that God would spare the Starks. It seemed to Catelyn that every other family lost someone to death or disaster during Robert's rebellion, yet hers somehow survived. She'd tried her best to shield them from harm, but she knew that it never really mattered. Even a fortress as strong as Winterfell would fall if attacked from all sides. The gods favored no one except themselves, and Catelyn had always suspected that the god that loved the Starks was some sort of trickster god. She'd hoped that her children didn't pay too dearly for her shortcomings. That none of them died needlessly because of her ignorance and stupidity. She felt relieved that all her efforts hadn't gone for naught.

The two young men looked at her expectantly. It was Bran who broke the silence. "Mother," he said softly, "did you see what happened to Joffrey?"

Catelyn frowned thoughtfully, gazing off across the courtyard, down through the castle walls where the great hall lay dark and deserted. Up ahead, Arya climbed slowly off her horse when she came to the foot of the steps leading up to the Great Hall's double doors. She paused there, listening, before she turned back to look at the rest of her company. "Joffrey is dead?" she echoed weakly, stunned by the news.

"Dead," Arya confirmed with a shrug. "They threw him off the balcony at the end." She shook her head sadly before she continued. "It's bad luck for whoever kills a king."

"Who else did you kill?" Catelyn wanted to ask. "Is Sansa all right?"

But she bit her tongue hard as she reminded herself that she had no right to inquire further. No matter how badly she wished that it weren't true, it couldn't be denied. A king was dead, his queen taken hostage. And so were his nephews. "You killed a lot of people, Arya. Why?"

Arya lifted her chin stubbornly as she met Catelyn's eyes. "I killed them because they hurt us. Me and my brother."

"How could that possibly justify killing a whole city full of innocent folk?" Catelyn demanded angrily, feeling angry tears sting behind her closed eyelids.

She should never have agreed to bring her daughter back, she realized suddenly, realizing all at once just how wrong it had all been from the very beginning. She'd known it then and she'd done nothing. But it was too late now. They were here, they had to deal with the consequences. What else could she do? "Let me go to King's Landing," she pleaded desperately. "Please. Just let me take her back to Winterfell, to be safe at last."

"We're not taking you anywhere," Arya replied flatly, shaking her head resolutely, refusing to be swayed from her decision. She turned to her companions to share the news. "I'm sorry, Mother, but we're staying put."

"Then I won't tell you anything more about our lives," Catelyn replied bitterly, "because I don't care anymore." With that parting shot, she stalked away from them, moving quickly up the stairs to the battlements above the gatehouse as though the sight of the three of them might drive her mad.

The brothers exchanged glances, exchanging knowing looks as well. This had been coming since she set foot in Riverrun. There would be no peace between them until the girl was safely returned to Winterfell. "Well," Bran ventured, "we're glad you made it home safe. I'll be sure to tell Father you're here." He nodded his farewell as he moved toward the door, opening it wide to reveal a dim passage beyond. "Come on," Bran urged, "let's get you inside somewhere warm. I'll send word to your father."

"Wait," Arya insisted as she reached out to clasp her younger brother's arm gently. "Thank you. Thank you both."

Bran shrugged. "Whatever," he told her.

"He means it," Arya told Jon, ignoring Bran's curtness. "Don't worry. We'll help you."

Jon inclined his head graciously. "I know. For all that you've suffered on our behalf. You have my thanks."

"What about you?" asked Bran curiously, gesturing to Jon. "Do you mean to stay here? In King's Landing?"

"If I may," Jon began, "my duty lies elsewhere. My father has sent me to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. To serve the Night Watch."

"Night... Watch?"

"My uncle Qhorin Halfhand commands the Wall. The wildlings have broken through more often than not in recent years. Last year alone they raided twice. I am to stand watch at the Fist of the First Men." He paused briefly, gauging their reactions carefully as he spoke, trying to gauge how much he should say before revealing the truth of their parentage to them. Finally, he decided to speak freely. If the boy had the sense he claimed, he'd understand why they must remain silent about their own origins. After all, Jon knew as well as anyone that secrets could eat a person alive, and the longer you kept one, the harder it became to carry on living.

Bran was frowning. "Why?"

"Because," said Arya firmly, "if we don't want them to lock us in a cell someday, we need to learn everything we can about the world around us, even the things we think we hate. Especially the things we hate. So that when those secret names come calling for us, we can hide behind that mask and keep running."

"Hide behind masks?" Bran muttered, glancing around at the empty courtyard and wondering if there really were any secrets left for them to discover among the ruins of Winterfell.

"I suppose that does sound pretty stupid when you say it out loud," Jon confessed, looking apologetic. "All right, so maybe hiding isn't such a bad idea. We'll leave the fighting to someone else."

"Not forever, surely?" Arya protested, crossing her arms defiantly beneath her breasts as she glared at her cousin.

Jon grinned sheepishly. "Sorry. All I meant was—"

"—that you won't be leaving here without me this time, is what you were going to say," Arya finished. She turned back toward her horse, mounting once again. She held her reins loosely in one hand as she turned back toward them, smiling brightly. "We're all friends here now, aren't we?" She kicked her mount into motion again. "Goodbye!" she called over her shoulder, urging her mount forward toward the gates and her sister's waiting arms.

Once she'd mounted the steps up onto the cobblestone walkway beside her sister, Sansa reached out and caught hold of her cloak as she rode by, hugging her fiercely around the waist. Then the two of them embraced as well. "Welcome home, sweetling." Sansa whispered urgently against Sansa's hair. "Be careful. Be very, very careful!"

Sansa released her reluctantly, letting her go. Her face shone like fresh snow amid the drifts of black ash and ruin that littered Winterfell's yard. The sun was high overhead; the afternoon shadows had lengthened. She looked pale and drawn from lack of sleep. "Are you hungry?" she asked hopefully, reaching up to brush the loose strands of hair from Sansa's forehead and tucking them behind her ears.

"Starved," Sansa admitted, "but first... I need to see Robb." She took a deep breath. "Tell him..."

"No, love, not yet. Tell us something else first, please. Tell us that you're happy."

Tears filled Sansa's eyes as she smiled fondly at her sisters, who shared an awkward hug with their youngest sibling while the rest of the household waited patiently nearby. Only a few servants remained on the premises, tending the few remaining fires and the horses that had been brought down from the stables at the top of the hill. As she drew away from them, she saw the Lady Lyanna Mormont watching from atop the battlements near the front of the castle. The Lady of the Shields had ridden out to meet her, wearing a plain brown dress belted at the waist with the leather straps of the sword belt that hung at her side. The other women in her party were clad in similar dresses of homespun wool dyed shades ranging from dark indigo to bright vermilion. Their faces were clean shaven, although they wore long hair braided into heavy plaits. Each woman bore a bow and quiver slung across her shoulders.

"Where are all your men?" Sansa asked, curious to know where all her men were.

"They will follow later," she told her proudly. "When Lord Eddard sends them forth to claim Winterfell for his son, our brothers shall march with them. The clans have sworn it. Even old Flint and Osmund Kettleblack, though they never liked each other much. And all for Robert, my lord husband, and for his little bastard, too. I pray to the gods that he comes safely through."

"You have been blessed by the gods, then."

"As you have by theirs." With that, Sansa turned and hurried down the steps toward the stableyard. When she stepped off the last stair, the others followed her, the Lady of the Shields falling in at her side. "Robb! Wake up!"

She ran ahead of the others through the yard, heading straight for the stall that contained the horse her father had given her after her escape from King's Landing. His lordship had named her Sunspear, which he explained was the name of some great warhorse that had led its warriors into battle against the forces of House Lannister. A red bay, the creature stood tall and proud, with large, muscular forelegs, a long neck, and a massive mane and tail that cascaded in ringlets from the thick braid woven through it. From nose to rump, it measured twenty hands, and it carried himself as though the world belonged to him. He pranced and snorted and tossed his head whenever any stranger came within view, but once they entered the stall, the big chestnut settled down to chew contentedly upon a mouthful of hay as though he had only just woken from a refreshing nap in the warmth of spring sunshine.

"Sunspire," Robb murmured dreamily as he rubbed his face against the mare's velvety cheek. "Heh... I'm dreaming."

"It's morning, love," Sansa reminded him, kissing his forehead softly. "Your dreams always come true. It's the waking up part that's hard." She turned to the Lady of the Shields. "Lady Lyanna," she greeted her politely, "your horse is beautiful."

The older woman inclined her head graciously. "So is yours," she acknowledged. "May I?" she asked, indicating the reins. "I'd like very much to ride her today."

"Of course," Sansa replied, handing them over, then taking her place on Robb's other side so that she could guide him back into his saddle. "There," she said, giving Sunspire her heels, "all ready for you."

"Oh, good," Robb replied distractedly. "I was afraid I'd forgotten how to do it somehow." He shifted in his seat awkwardly, adjusting the girth as best he could as his mother helped his sister tighten it properly. They worked quickly, eager to be rid of their unwelcome guest, but they did their best not to hurry. After all, the sooner his lordship left, the better, because they still needed to find Bran before the king rose from his bed and discovered his absence. "Mother, I need to talk to you about something before you take me up to the castle. Can we wait until afterward? Please?"

Lyanna sighed regretfully as they climbed onto the backs of their mounts and headed slowly up the slope. "My sons have been asking me to visit them for months now," she complained to Robb as they cantered along the causeway, "and every time I try to make it happen, something else gets in my way."

"I know," he agreed sadly, gazing down at the small figure walking alongside their mounts through the gatehouse door. The girl was clutching at her skirts anxiously, tugging at her tangled locks, her face streaked with tears. "I wish I'd known you were coming, I would've gotten out of bed in a heartbeat."

"Me too," he added morosely, turning to glance at Sansa beside him. He was surprised to discover that he missed her, despite having seen her less than an hour ago. "But Father says I can't see her again until he knows I've made my peace with him. He thinks I'd run away if he tried to bring her here to Winterfell." He was quiet again, staring at the ground between his feet.

"What are you thinking about?" his mother asked gently.

"Father."

"Yes, I heard. What about him?"

"How mean he is sometimes. How much he hurts people." He glanced up as they rode past another group of soldiers posted on watch. These men had taken the oaths on his behalf and had pledged to defend Winterfell against any enemies—foreign or domestic. "I'm sorry," he muttered, ashamed by his own cowardice.

"Don't be sorry," his mother said comfortingly, resting her hand lightly on the back of his neck as they continued riding along beside one another. "Sometimes fathers can be cruel, especially when they're angry and scared. That's why we need to stay close to one another and look out for one another. You'll learn how to manage him soon enough. For now, remember that you're brave and strong, and that no one will ever hurt you if you stand together with your sisters. Do you understand?"

His head jerked up suddenly as he realized she wasn't looking at him, but rather off toward the west. "Look!" Robb cried excitedly as the road led them closer to the sea, toward the green shores beyond the mountains where the Wall used to reach out across the waters, sealing them all inside a fortress made from ice and stone. To his left, far below, the forest thinned out abruptly to reveal a wide stretch of grassy plains dotted with wild flowers and a scattering of trees here and there, broken only by the dark shapes of low hills and rocky outcroppings. In the distance, a huge white tower rose out of those hills, a thousand paces tall at least.

"That's Cairnswater Tower," Sansa explained. "King Stannis keeps it for his ravens to roost in during bad weather. See, they nest in the highest spires and fly out over the water when they want food brought to them, returning to feed from a trough of fresh horsemeat kept warm by magic beneath the earth."

Robb frowned thoughtfully. "Why don't they use birds from King's Landing? Why do they have to come all this way and spend their whole lives flying back and forth across the narrow sea?"

Sansa shrugged. "I suppose King Joffrey couldn't spare any more ravens from King's Landing since he has so many already, not counting all the ones that died on the Blackwater, poor things."

"Joffrey," Robb echoed, remembering what Jon Connington had told him about the Red Wedding. He remembered well enough the sight of the crows perched above the bodies of King Tommen and Queen Cersei feasting upon their flesh, pecking away at the soft parts as they watched with bright black eyes while Lord Walder Frey laughed and clapped his hands. "Do you think... I mean... I wonder... I wonder if..." He stopped speaking abruptly as Lady Lyanna touched him lightly on the arm. "I'm sorry," Robb told her, "it's nothing."

They crossed the causeway into Castle Black, weaving through the crowds that thronged its inner bailey. Many of these people were Northerners by birth, some had grown up in castles, some were refugees fleeing the war in the South, others had fled the tyranny of the Boltons who ruled in the North for most of the past hundred years, but everyone had gathered at Castle Black to hear word of Prince Rhaegar, hoping to find some sign that he might yet return. Some were dressed in homespun clothes, some wore silks and rich furs, some even wore armor. There were children among them, too, squirming impatiently in the arms of mothers who clutched the hands of infants, toddlers, and young girls. Robb was astonished to see that some of the men carried swords or spears, though he supposed it wouldn't be wise to travel anywhere unarmed in such uncertain times.

The sound of a horn call reached his ears, loud and urgent, followed almost instantly by shouts from the sentries atop the walls surrounding the castle. The castle gates opened and three great wagons pulled up to the outer ward. "Here they come," the Lady of the Shields whispered breathlessly. "Let's go!" she commanded, urging her horses onward as she urged her daughter forward behind her. The wagons drew up outside the main gatehouse, halting directly in front of the crowd, and the doors swung open to admit the royal party as the wights marched around to either side of them and raised the banners of House Baratheon, banner of the lion, the red stag of the Vale, and finally the golden sunburst of Dorne. Inside the wains, King Robert looked weary and ill-tempered, his crown heavy on his brow. Beside him rode his wife Maester Luwin and the lady Margaery Tyrell, heir to the throne and his queen. Her cheeks glowed with the flush of recent love. Behind her walked two dozen knights clad in plate mail and steel helms, each bearing his own greatsword.

Beyond them, Robb noticed a second wagon drawn by four large horses. A single figure sat upon it, leaning slightly to the right, his cloak spread out beneath him for ease of movement. His head was covered with a hood that concealed his face completely, leaving only a pair of glittering yellow cat's eyes visible in the gloom beneath it. He moved slowly, keeping pace with the rest of the column as it wound its way across the courtyard, heading for the keep. "Who is it?" Robb asked his mother curiously, as he gazed at the stranger.

"Lord Varys," she replied. She had never met him, but after all her time spent in King's Landing, she knew well the names of the eunuch's agents. "He works for Prince Oberyn Martell, who was crowned king last year following the death of Doran and the destruction of House Targaryen."

She was wrong about that, however; the true king remained alive and unharmed within his iron cage deep in the dungeons beneath Dragonstone. As they passed beneath the shadow of the Great Keep's high battlements, Robb glimpsed a tall man sitting on a bench beside the steps leading up to the drawbridge. He seemed to be talking to himself, muttering loudly under his breath as he leaned on his cane. When he saw the king approaching, he straightened up sharply and stood on his toes to greet his sovereign. "Your Grace," he said politely, bowing deeply. "I am Ser Kevan Lannister. I have served you loyally since we were both boys."

The old knight was bent nearly double with age now, his legs crooked beneath him, his back hunched so that the top of his skull brushed against his chin, making him seem to be smiling at whatever gods he prayed to. He wore a silver chainmail hauberk with a blue enameled lion on his breastplate, and a plain brown wool tunic beneath it. On his feet he wore thick leather boots, laced tightly at the ankle and calf, with short fur-lined leggings covering the lower part of his thighs. The only other ornamentation he wore besides his white hair and beard came in the form of a long wooden staff carved in the likeness of a wolf's paw with five claws. Its point had been sharpened to an inch and a half, and at the end of it ran a cord tied in a knot to prevent the weapon from slipping free. The wolf's mouth was sewn shut with crimson silk thread, but the teeth were still visible between the gaps in the stitches. The old man smiled weakly as he bowed again. "As always, Your Grace."

"Good morning, Ser Kevan." King Robert nodded curtly to the knight, then turned away without further word or greeting to speak to Lord Eddard Stark and Lord Tywin, seated on a bench beside the wall to their left, near the corner where the moat began. "Ser Addam," he greeted them with a smile, "you are looking quite fit. Have you put on some weight?"

Eddard Stark looked up sharply at the king before answering. "You may depend upon it, my lord." He was dressed in black as usual, wearing his mourning face like a mask as he regarded his son with thinly veiled loathing. "We were wondering when you would send us word of your journey here to Winterfell, my liege," he went on sullenly. "Our own scouts report that you and your lords were seen crossing the Trident just yesterday."

King Robert snorted impatiently. "What good did sending messages do the poor fools who perished during the Sack? Did their deaths not teach them anything?"

"They learned that the king does not forget those who serve him loyally," Lord Tywin said grimly from his place alongside Lord Eddard. "It is said that every man's death diminishes me, but yours truly, by your going, has lost a father. May God take pity on your soul for ever ending the life of another."

"I am sorry that I failed to make it sooner, my friends," Robert said quietly, "but I trust that your efforts to find me have made little difference."

"My lord father was well pleased by our news," said Jaime, standing next to King Renly. The princeling appeared pale and tired, but otherwise unchanged. His hair had darkened somewhat over the summer, and grown longer and thicker than ever. He'd added several new scars to his collection, including a shallow cut along one cheekbone and a more serious gash across his left eyebrow, and the gold of his hair had become so faded that it was hard to tell if it had changed color at all. Still, there was no denying that he was growing taller and stronger, filling out until now he could look his father squarely in the eye and stand proud and unbowed despite all his troubles. He held himself a bit stiffer too, and spoke more firmly whenever he needed to command attention from a roomful of peers. In that regard at least he had grown into the role of Hand faster than anyone expected, although his brother Stannis took much of the credit for this achievement.

In truth, Jaime felt relieved. After the Battle of Duskendale, it seemed likely that Stannis might prove an easy conquest for King Renly and King Joffrey; once he realized how hopeless his cause was, Stannis would march south and surrender rather than fight to the bitter end and die alone. If King Renly won Westeros instead, they might yet win back Casterly Rock after all, which meant the Kingslayer need never set foot north of the Neck again—unless some fool decided to turn him loose. So far none of King Renly's commanders wanted him back in the field; they were content to leave him to languish in the Tower of the Hand whilst the real fighting was done elsewhere. That suited Jaime well enough, as he had plenty to occupy him in the city, and as the years passed and his brothers grew older and weaker, and Cersei's affection for him cooled, his desire to return to the Seven Kingdoms dwindled as well.

Still, as they entered the castle through the Great Gate, he found himself watching the crowds on the streets of the outer ward as they streamed toward the castle to meet the returning monarch. "Where is the queen?" he asked as they mounted the stairs inside. "Has she joined you yet?"

Robert shook his head regretfully. "No," he told him, "she will stay behind with her ladies. It was not safe to bring her out in such uncertain times."