Arya

She walked out into the practice yard, smiling at the sight of her breath shining in the early morning sun. She felt better than she had in years. Jon didn't hate her. She and Sansa were getting on. True, things with Snsa and Jon had been tense, but still. They had Winterfell. They had each other. She was happy, really and truly…

And yet…

Her body thrummed with pent up energy. Keeping secrets from Jon made her restless, in a way that keeping secrets hadn't in years. She'd tell him most things in time. But last night she hadn't been ready. Her promise to Sansa had only given her the excuse she needed to keep him from seeing how dark she'd truly become.

"Lord Baelish, Sansa."

Jon's voice had been demanding and gruff, attesting clearly to his displeasure at having to ask what he was asking. Still, Sansa hadn't flinched, hadn't even lowered her gaze as she held his grey eyes with her blue ones.

"An accident. You can call Lord Royce if you don't believe me. He saw him get thrown from his horse on the bridge over the Wolfswood Fork."

"I've already spoken to Lord Royce. It's you I want to hear from now."

"I had scouts sent out, and they brought back his body Jon. Drowned, just like the men expected he would be after that fall. He's still in the crypt if you want to see for yourself."

Jon had banged his fist on the table in frustration.

"I don't want to go to the crypt Sansa. I want to know… dammit how can you expect me to believe that these advantageous deaths all have naught to do with you? With this, and Walder Frey the week before—"

"I did that."

She'd spoken up from the corner of the room, not quite ready to have Jon know the truth about her, but unwilling to sit by while Sansa got the blame for a life she'd taken. She was wholly unrepentant about killing Walder Frey, and she'd not apologize for having done so without Jon or anyone else's leave. Jon had just looked at her weakly, deflating at her words.

"You… you killed Walder Frey?"

"I did."

"And his sons?"

"Yes."

Jon had sighed at that, looking more defeated than she'd ever seen him. He rose from his chair, and came towards her. He was not so tall, Jon, shorter than Sansa she realized now that she saw them side by side. But he still towered over her, making her feel in that moment like the child he'd bade goodbye to before leaving for the Wall all those years ago. His eyes had locked on hers, as they had on that day and she realized that she really didn't know if she could bear to have him reject her for the things she'd done. She wasn't sorry – but she wasn't ready to pay the price of Jon's love either.

But he hadn't rejected her. Instead his calloused had had cupped her cheek, and he'd tilted her head up so she could see the earnestness in his eyes.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry you had to do that. I'm sorry I wasn't able to do it sooner. To take the vengeance our family was owed so you didn't have to. And I'm sorry – Gods Arya I'm so sorry for what you saw on that day. For what you went to. I'd move heaven and earth if I could spare you that pain, but I can't, and I'm sorry for that most of all."

Behind Jon, Sansa's eyes had widened in surprise. She had wanted to ask Jon how he'd known – where he'd heard that she was at the Twins that day. But her throat had glued shut at his words, as the memories of that day – that horrible, unspeakable day – came rushing back. She hadn't been able to speak, so instead she'd nodded and averted her eyes so he couldn't see the tears building there at his words.

"Very well. I'm sorry Sansa." Jon had said, sitting back down and swiping a hand through his dark curls. "I shoudn't have asked, I should've trusted you. I just, I can't help feeling that Littlefinger's death is too convenient, too great a blessing for us for it to be a random blessing."

"He drowned Jon. He fell from his horse," Sansa reiterated, taking a seat beside him. She would live with this lie, Arya realized, watching her. Sansa had made her peace with it and would take it to the grave if necessary.

"Aye, I suppose you're right."

Arya had let that be the last word on it, bidding them both goodnight a few moments later. She would keep the secret for Sansa – she understood now more than ever why her sister had asked for her secrecy. But that didn't mean she liked it. And so even though things were good, better than they'd been in years, she desperately, passionately, needed to fight.

Her eyes widened in delight as she saw who she was looking for. Brienne of Tarth, the woman who'd once offered to swear fealty to her before defeating the Hound. She was good – Arya had seen how good – and she was the last person who'd likely turn down her down on account of her sex and noble breeding.

Unfortunately, she was preoccupied at the moment.

The boy, or young man rather, who she was attempting to teach, was as flatfooted a fighter as she'd ever seen. He had no sense for his surroundings, no ability to concentrate on attacking and countering at the same time. He was awful.

After a particularly spectacular failure of footwork left him falling backwards having tripped over his own feet, Arya felt herself snort with laughter. Brienne's eyes flew to hers, angry at her rudeness despite her own frustration with the boy. Seeing her stern look, Arya wondered if Brienne had forgiven her for declining her protection all those years ago.

"You shouldn't taunt Princess Arya. It's harder than it looks."

She smiled at the squire, giving him what she hoped was a look of apologetic comradery. "I know that. It was painful and frustrating when I was learning, too."

"Have you stopped training then, Princess?" Brienne said in a light voice, reminding Arya that even though they'd only met briefly in the past, she had seen her practicing with Needle. They'd spoken then, and Arya had liked her, until the Hound had pointed out the lion on the pummel of Brienne's sword. She knew now, that Brienne had indeed been true to her mother, but at the time, she'd had no way of knowing…

"I was able to get in a lesson or two since we last met," she replied her voice matching Brienne's lightness. "I was hoping, perhaps, that you would train me. When you had the time, of course."

Brienne smiled a small but regretful smile. "I'm sorry Princess, truly. But I cannot raise a blade against you, not even in to instruct you until you obtain permission from the King. The risk is too great, and I am a guest in his castle."

Arya had planned for this. She smiled, and walked over to the armory, entering briefly to extract the two wooden staffs.

"Would these do then? They hardly count as raising arms against me – they're not even sharpened on the end…"

Brienne smiled. Not holding a grudge, then. More good news.

"Very well."

Arya threw her the staff and Brienne, after setting aside her sword carefully, began to circle Arya slowly.

"You go first," Brienne called out to her, clearly uncertain of how to proceed without knowing her skill level.

Arya smirked. "That's not how it's supposed to work…" she said, lunging and striking out at Brienne's left side quickly before changing direction and rapping her smartly in the knee. "But I will if you insist."

Brienne, not at all bothered by the fact that Arya had just gotten a strike in, grinned, recognizing the talent in front of her, and lunged into the fight in earnest. They went back and forth, meeting each other blow for blow as they danced across the practice yard. Brienne was slower than the Waif had been, but each blow had more force behind it, even when she wasn't trying, and her reach far exceeded Arya's. It was good for her to learn, good for her to adjust to move with the blows instead of trying to brace for them, to dodge completely when she could manage and save her strength.

"What a fucking sight – I haven't seen something this pretty since the last time King Crow shaved his beard."

Brienne's eyes flew up to where the red-bearded wildling stood, coming towards them, and Arya saw her moment. In one quick swipe she had Brienne off her feet and laying on her back in the practice yard.

Brienne huffed in frustration, realizing she'd been beat, but when she looked up at Arya the corner of her mouth was twisted up in a smile.

"I was distracted."

"Aye, I saw that."

"Cheap shot."

"Fair shot."

"Cheekly little minx this one!" Tormund roared in approval coming over to them and lending Brienne a hand. For a second the female knight looked like she wouldn't take it, but they were both sucking wind after the long minutes of fighting, and there was no way Arya would be much use getting her to her feet. So she accepted the outstretched hand, with a grudging look on her face.

"She doesn't have the problem that most of you Southerners do, with your notions of honor and fighting. She fights to win. You could've been a wildling, lass, would've passed far better than that uptight brother of yours."

Arya grinned up at him, liking him despite Brienne's clear annoyance.

"And you think you can do better?" Brienne asked, her tone full of skepticism, "with no training and no appreciation for technique?"

"Oh I appreciated your technique verra much," he said cocking his eyebrows at Brienne suggestively and letting his accent slip even further than usual into a brogue. "I'd love to learn all about it. But, there's times for technique and finesse, as it were, and times where ya have to brawl to survive. You're as fine a fighter as anyone I've ever seen, Lady Brienne. But no one brawls like Tormund Giantsbane."

Arya cocked an eyebrow, liking this wildling more and more by the second. Feeling recovered enough to have another go, she picked up the staff she'd laid on the ground and threw it to him.

"So show me then."

Jon

When she hadn't come to the Great Hall for breakfast, he'd waited at first. She'd always been an early riser, ready to wake up and make war on the day, but she'd been a child then.

She's not a child any more. Maybe she's different now.

Or maybe it had been years since she'd gotten a peaceful night's sleep. Both were likely given the snippets of information he knew about her life since she fled King's Landing. He screwed his eyes closed at the thought. Arya seeing her father executed. Arya on the Kingsroad with Yoren, presumably there when he and his party headed for the Nights Watch were ambushed by Lannister soldiers. Arya showing up a year later at the Red Wedding only to be dragged away at the last second by the Hound. Arya fleeing Brienne of Tarth and disappearing without a trace for years, only to reappear back at the Twins, to take vengeance against Walder Frey.

Arya standing in the middle of the yard, her hair flying about her shoulders her stormy eyes fixed on him, trapping him, pulling him in. At first he thought she was a dream, a vision his mind was projecting as it tried to make sense of what he'd seen in the Weirwood. But she was too different, too grown to be a product of his mind. When he thought of her, he'd always seen the child he left, the child whose eyes had widened with joy when he'd handed her her very own sword.

But the Arya who'd come home last night was not that child, she was real and she was changed, molded by the cruel world that had raised them both. He had to expect there would be differences. Still, when he realized it was past ten in the morning he called over one of the attendants standing in the great hall, in spite of the patience he'd promised himself.

"Please have a serving girl go to the Princess Arya's chambers to see if she has risen and has need of food to break her fast," he said, marveling internally at how easily the lordly order flowed from his lips. He supposed they'd both changed since he saw her last.

"I believe she's already left her chambers, your Grace. She is in the practice yard with the Maid of Tarth. Would you like me to fetch her for you?"

"No, no that's quite alright. Thank you," Jon said, feeling the tug of a smile playing at his lips. He should have known. Without waiting another moment he rose, sending the men in the Hall scurrying to their feet (the formal trappings of kinghood still surprised him as he went about his day) and made for the practice yard.

It was a crisp but sunny winter's day, and Jon felt himself smile in earnest as he emerged into the bright morning light. It was an excellent day for training. He might even get in a few hours himself, if the Northern Lords would grant him a reprieve from the planning of provisions for a few hours. There was much work left to do to make up for the negligent indifference of the Boltons, but still, there should be some time…

He rounded a corner, expecting to see Brienne instructing Arya on the basics of swordsmanship. Instead, he saw Arya and Tormund, circling each other, with wooden staffs in their hands, as Brienne, her squire, and nearly all the men at arms in the yard looked on. Tormund struck out, fast and hard, and Jon almost cried out in warning, but Arya's staff was there, countering his blow and catching the Wildling with a sharp rap on the forearm.

They broke apart again and the circling continued. This time Arya struck first, a well-aimed blow, meant to knock Tormund's hips off balance. Had they been wielding swords, it would have. But these were staffs, and Tormund, as a Wildling who had spent his life fighting with blunted clubs and staffs as well as blades, knew the differences in fighting styles better than anyone. He let the blow connect with his body, absorbing the impact, but caught the staff in his powerful grip wrenching it, and Arya, towards him forcefully.

Jon had seen him execute exactly this move of a number of grown men to deadly effect and stepped forward to intervene, feeling the anger build in his chest. What the hell was he playing at? She was just a girl.

But it seemed that Tormund had a better sense for Arya's skills as an opponent that Jon did. Instead of letting herself get pulled into Tormund's deadly grip Arya released the staff instantly, causing Tormund to stumble forward as the staff he was wrenching away from her shot behind him with the lack of resistance. As he bent forward to catch himself, Arya landed a swift kick in his ribs before retreating swiftly, rolling his discarded staff away with her foot as she went.

She was good. More than good, she was excellent. Had the Hound taught her this then? She'd traveled with him for months Jon knew, and his skill as a fighter, as a dirty, no holds barred fighter was acclaimed throughout the Seven Kingdoms. Had he taught Arya to fight like this?

Tormund laughed, clearly thrilled to have such a worthwhile opponent, and they began to circle again, exchanging a sharp series of blows but neither connecting with their intended target. Finally, Tormund caught Arya's staff again, and Jon saw her set to release it. But instead of jerking it towards himself as he had before, he pushed it back, catching her in the gut. She caught onto his game and her hands resumed their grip on the staff quicker than Jon, or Tormund, would have thought possible, and she struck him smartly under the chin, knocking his head back. They both moved backwards, laughing at the good sport of the fight, Arya gripping her stomach and Tormund massaging his jaw.

"Och, lass you're far too pretty to be so deadly. These poor bastards won't stand a chance," the Wildling commander said, good naturedly, clearly impressed with her performance. Arya, who had been bent double catching her breath, stood up and smiled.

"And you are almost cunning enough to justify your earlier boasting. I'd be happy to brawl with you anytime."

Tormund reached out a hand to shake on the end of the spar as was custom. Arya reached to take his hand, and at once shouts erupted in the yard. Her hand, which she'd pressed against her stomach after she'd been winded, was coated in blood.

"Look to the Princess!" Men cried and Brienne flew up to Arya's side as Tormund stood dumbfounded, his eyes wide. Vaguely Jon registered that some of the men at arms were shouting to at their comrades to restrain the wildling but he didn't have energy for them. All he could think about, all that mattered, was the blood he could see now seeping through the worn wool of Arya's tunic.

"Make way for the King!"

Tormund and Brienne's eyes flew to him as he stormed to where they were, wide with fear. Arya on the other hand merely looked annoyed.

"Jon, relax its not what you think."

"We need to get her on her back. We need to stop the bleeding, Brienne help me," he said, ignoring his sister's protests. The female knight complied immediately, lifting Arya as gently as could be an laying her down on the packed earth of the practice yard.

"Try to lay still Milady," Brienne said in a soft voice, her eyes filled with concern. Beside her, Tormund knelt too, his eyes full of worry and remorse. Jon was on his knees as well in a second.

"Tormund, your dirk."

The Wilding handed him the long knife without question, and Jon fixed his eyes meaningfully on Arya's, holding them, pleading with her to heed him.

"Lay still Arya, we must staunch the bleeding. Please."

She looked exasperated, but she nodded, and without seeking any further permission he dipped the dirk beneath her tunic and cut it clean through. She wore nothing but a linen shirt beneath it. It was damp from the sweat of her earlier exertions, clinging to every curve of her transformed body, but he didn't have eyes for that now. All he saw was the red shock of blood radiating out from her abdomen, soaking the shirt and beading on her pale skin below. He drew the shirt up carefully, folding it over her chest to preserve whatever modicum of her modesty he could, and surveying the damage below.

The perfect creamy skin of her flat stomach was marred by two angry stab wounds. One appeared to be a clean stab, but the other, the one that was bleeding with renewed fury now, looked as if the knife and been twisted after it was inserted. Whoever had stabbed her had not just wanted her dead, they'd wanted her to suffer in the process. Jon knew – he remembered the difference between a clean stab and a twisted knife in the gut. He'd felt both on the night he had died.

The wounds were nearly healed though, the larger one had merely broken open slightly with Tormund's blow. She was safe.

"I told you it was nothing," she said irritably, wrenching her shirt back down. "I'll see the maester about it. He'll probably do a better job of stitching it than I did anyway."

Although Jon's shoulders had sagged with relief upon realizing that she wasn't in mortal peril he still looked at her scandalized.

"What?" she said defiantly.

"What? What the bloody hell do you mean, what? You've been stabbed, that's what. You've been sewing shut your own bloody skin, that's what. You just spent the morning fighting, with someone near twice your size and thrice your strength, knowing full well you could do yourself further injury."

"Don't compliment Tormund like that Jon, his head's fat enough as it is already."

"BE SERIOUS, ARYA!"

He hadn't meant to shout, but his voice echoed throughout the practice yard causing an unnatural silence to fall over the men there. Everyone held their breath, waiting.

Arya propped herself up on her elbows and cocked her head to the side peering at him, her eyes glinting sliver in the sunlight.

"I've been serious Jon. For years. It's the only thing I've known since I was a child. I know how to be serious. I know when to be serious. But it's not necessary now, Jon. It's just a scab come open, bleeding more than it aught because I've been practicing all day. I'm not hurt, truly. I'm not in danger. I'm safer than I've been in years."

He blew out his breath in a sigh, not sure if it was one of relief or frustration.

"I just… I cannot lose you, Arya. Not when I've just found you. Please be careful."

She smiled, arching a mischievous brow at him, reminding him once more of the child she'd once been.

"I suppose I could try, since you asked so nicely."

He fixed her with a stern look and she threw back her head and laughed. The sound of it broke the tension, and around him Jon could feel the people in the yard relax. She was alright. They were alright.

Now that his fear had cooled Jon looked back at Arya, becoming suddenly aware of the state he'd left her in. Her tunic was destroyed, cut clean down the middle. Her shirt, which had been a clean white linen, was soaked through with blood and sweat, clinging to her every curve. In the cold winter air her nipples had hardened, and even through the shirt Jon could make out their sweet dusty pink hue. Her hair was a tousled mess, falling in layers around her face, with bits of straw sticking in it from the practice yard ground he'd just ordered her laid upon. Her cheeks were flushed pink with the exertion of the fight, and her mouth quirked upwards in a teasing smile. She looked like a woman who'd just sat up from an outdoor romp with a lover, if you could ignore all the blood, that is.

Brienne and Tormund seemed to notice her state of dishabille at the same moment he did, and Brienne began to busy herself with her armor, apparently intent on getting off the tunic she wore underneath to shield Arya from prying eyes. Tormund was having none of it though, and in one swift movement he took off his own bearskin overcoat and draped it over her protectively. Jon knew the gesture was significant to the Wildling commander - the free folk didn't have much, and Tormund's overcoat was both a testament to his skill as a fighter and a dire necessity in his violent, turbulent life. That he was so ready to lay it down for Arya, who they both knew would be fine, was a sign. Jon saw it, and all the Wildlings in the yard had seen it too. She'd earned his respect, and she'd have his protection.

With her covered to his satisfaction, Jon bent, lifting her into his arms. As he stood he looked down at Brienne and Tormund who stayed on their knees. The whole yard seemed to hold its breath again.

"My King, I accept full responsibility for the injuries to Princess Arya. It was I who initially gave her leave to practice without your permission," Brienne said, her eyes bent low to the ground. "I accept whatever punishment your grace sees fit to dole out. But the sin is mine, and mine alone."

Beside her Tormund's eyes widened. "Snow, don't listen to her. I crossed the line, fighting like I was. If anyone deserves a lashing for the lasses injuries, it's me. Forgive the lady Jon, she was only trying to help."

Arya looked at him sharply, her eyes promising retribution if he dared punish either of her opponents. His blood still burned with frustration, but he appreciated Tormund's showing of loyalty, and he knew Brienne had done nothing deserving of blame.

"There's nothing to forgive… for either of you. Arya's more than capable of talking people into doing what she wills."

She looked at him in annoyance but without the sharpness she had earlier, so he continued hoping his next words could strike some sort of bargain with her.

"She'll be permitted to spar with you, with whomever she chooses, once she's healed, so long as she lets herself heal."

Brienne nodded, gravely, staying on her knees. "Thank you, my king."

"Yer a good man, Jon Snow," Tormund said softly. Jon looked at Arya, who gave him a hint of a smile, her arms wound around his neck. Gods the thought of her hurt. He still wasn't pleased. He grunted in acknowledgement and turned to leave, intent on carrying her straight up to the maester. Still as he walked back towards the castle, he couldn't help himself. His blood was running too hot not to get out some of his energy, and so he called out over his shoulder.

"And Tormund?"

"Yes?"

"Don't go anywhere. I'll be back in a minute to spar. Someone needs to teach you to pick on people your own size."

"Ha! If that's the lesson you want me to learn Jon Snow, best have the Lady Brienne do the teaching, the only thing about you close to my size is your ego."