ARYA

"Bang!"

Bran looked back too late; she had already bounced from the low and crumbling wall of Moat Cailin, crashing into him and sending them sprawling to the ground. Bran didn't make any sound, just rolled and glared at her; he had probably fallen from so many walls that he was used to it. Arya laughed, rubbing at the knee she'd skinned in the drop, and sat up. A wolf with yellow-green eyes snarled over her, teeth bared, but she wasn't afraid.

"Bang?" Bran asked. "Back, Symeon."

Symeon settled back on his haunches, and Arya jumped up, offering Bran a hand. He took it, standing and dusting himself down. Bran settled a hand between Symeon's ears, fingers sinking into the fur like a thick carpet. The direwolf's tail thumped against the damp earth, rustling a leaf.

"Like the hammer of the gods story," Arya said. "That happened here, you know. Old Nan told me once."

She climbed back up onto the wall; it was black pitted stone, and every bit of it was covered in either soft green or slimy ghostskin moss. Uncertain footing, so she kept her arms out wide like Bran did. "That's the Childrens' Tower. Old Nan said they built the tower, the Children, and when it was done, they went—"

Arya held both of her hands to the sky, and slammed them down like slapping a table. She wobbled a little on the wall.

"Bang! And they smashed the Neck, and the water filled it up, and that's why it's all slimy here and full of lizard-lions and mudmen."

Bran, still not climbing anything, pretended to wobble around like Arya was. "You're remembering it all wrong! It's the hammer of the waters the Children called on. And the gods were the ones that destroyed the Neck, not the Children."

Arya frowned over at the Childrens' Tower. The lunchtime sun and morning rains made Moat Cailin glitter; all the slimy moss and the dark green water-weeds and rain-slick walls, shining like stones polished by the sea.

The wooden fortress had collapsed hundreds of years ago, and Arya couldn't even see a shred of it left. Rotted by the sins committed on it, or so Old Nan had said. The towers, though, were built by the Children in that dark stone. The bottom of it was sunk into the bogs, but they still stuck out of the waters. The Drunkard's Tower was almost all gone, and the bits that were still there were all at a lean like it was about to fall over. The Gatehouse Tower was intact, and it stood up straight and you could probably live in it, but it was dull and boxy. Darker stone, but like any other tower Arya had seen.

The Childrens' Tower was something different. She wanted to stare at it. It was long and thin. It looked like some huge creature had taken a bite from the top, then gnawed at it 'til it was sharp as a sword. All the towers were covered in moss, but the only moss that ate at the Childrens' Tower was ghostskin, long grey fingers stretching into the mortar.

"You probably don't remember it right anyway," Arya said to Bran finally. "You didn't even get the Star-Eyes one right."

Bran had gotten more and more annoyed by this every day.

"It's not about the-"

"'Symeon Star-Eyes, the most famous knight in the age of myeh myeh myeh'," Arya mocked, jumping down from the wall on the other side. She rubbed her hands in the thick plush of Nymeria's neck, and patted her long snout, before crossing behind a ruined staircase sunk in the earth. She emerged from the other side holding thumb and forefinger in a circle over each eye. "The most famous blind knight of all time? Who had star-sapphires for eyeballs?"

Bran glared.

"His eyes don't have to be blue," Bran said, hand unmoving from Symeon's head. The wolf's eyes were yellower in the sun, but seemed to go green in the dark; he had grown much slower than Lady or Nymeria, and his fur was patterned with dark and pale browns.

Nymeria, on the other hand, was grey all over. Her body was grey, her head was capped with a darker grey still, and even her eyes were kind of a grey-brown. She was paler than Grey Wind, too, who was dark as a smudge of soot. "You'll lose her in a fog," Robb had laughed when he'd handed her the pup.

"You've been boring all week," Arya complained, rushing up the smashed staircase and sitting herself down at the top. Nymeria barked and followed, poking her large long head over the edge. Arya swung her legs over the edge and kicked them at Bran; they were too high up to get his head, but they sailed just above. "Dare you to climb the Childrens' Tower."

Bran shook his head. "It's wet from the rain," he said. "Next time."

"Who knows when we'll ever be back? Go on!"

Bran looked up at the towers, and Arya looked over too. The sun was just starting to pass behind the Gatehouse Tower; a bird flapped past it like a little blink of the sun's eye. A long shadow was starting to cast across the sparkling bog; she could see a gentle ripple near what could be either a log or a lizard-lion, just emerging from beneath a pile of water-weed.

"There you are!"

Jory Cassel walked over to them from the trees, a frown on his face.

"What did I say to you both about walking off?"

Arya groaned, kicking her legs in the air.

"It's nice here," she said. "It's not going to be near as nice back with that wheelhouse rattling all the time." She picked up a stone and threw it as far as she could into the water. It made a satisfying plop into the bog.

"There's been talk of people disappearing in the Neck, the last few days," Jory said. "It's not safe for young lords and ladies to go off alone."

"We have Nymeria with us, Jory, and Symeon," Arya said. Jory eyed the direwolves thoughtfully.

"Fearsome beasts when they'll be grown," Jory replied, "But they're not grown, and neither are you. Come on now; don't want to keep the King waiting."

"The King can wait," Arya tried, but Jory looked like he'd pick her up and carry her back to the Kingsroad if she complained again, so she sighed long and loud and went back down the stairs instead. She slid on the last step, covered in ghostskin and slime, and landed back on her bum. Bran huffed out a little laugh just like his wolf. Jory smiled a bit and tried to help her up; she batted his hands away and used Nymeria's big neck to pull herself up.

"This whole place is falling down," Jory said. "Best not to climb it, my lady."

"I was doing fine 'til you turned up," she said. Jory just shrugged and turned to walk them back.

"And you best not be getting any ideas, young lord," Jory said good-naturedly, ruffling Bran's hair as he passed. Bran wrinkled up his nose and buried his hand further in Symeon's ruff, but started walking back too.

"He hasn't been," Arya said, watching Nymeria snuff at the weeds they passed as they walked back to the road. "He's boring."

And he hadn't told them about his dreams. Bran had been the only one, when Father had asked, who'd said he'd not dreamed of anything at all that night. Arya didn't believe it for a second. Symeon had barked and barked just like the other wolves had, and Bran's face had been damp and red with tears just like everyone else's.

Arya wondered what had been so terrible that Bran wouldn't say anything about it at all. After all, Robb and Jon had told all three of their dreams, and Sansa had said she'd seen something with long curling arms tear Lady into bits, and Rickon had howled as loud as his wolf when Mother had asked him to say more about the lion.

And she'd told Father and Mother and the King her dragon dreams, both of them. She had sniffled into Nymeria's fur so they wouldn't see her cry, and so she didn't have to see them while she explained something so stupid. They had just been dreams, nothing she ought to have to tell the King of Westeros.

She shivered in the humid air and tried to think of something else. If she thought too hard about it, then she'd feel the cold jaws around her body— the long, hot fall from the sky.

Getting back on her horse felt like the worst kind of torture. The Kingsroad was maybe the most boring part of the whole journey south. Every day they'd pass exciting things, like Castle Cerwyn, or the Barrows of the First Men, or the Tyroshi with their forked dyed beards trundling their wares from White Harbour, but every day they'd pass over them and move on. Today, finally, they'd stopped somewhere interesting for lunch, and they hadn't even stopped that long. She badly wanted to whine to Father, you'd promised us an hour, but he had been quiet ever since the night of the dreams, even quieter than usual, and he hadn't been happy even to let her and Bran explore.

She had at least been looking forward to Harrenhal, near the end of their journey, but they were going to some inn nearby instead, she had heard one of the Kingsguard talking about it.

Arya really wanted to spar with Needle, but she knew she couldn't risk taking it from its hiding-place in her trunk just yet. Mycah had promised to teach her once they reached the Trident, and she'd just have to wait 'til then.

At least, today, she got to be on her horse. All day yesterday, she had to ride with Sansa in the Queen's wheelhouse. Queen Cersei was boring, and rude: she spent the whole time keeping Tommen and Myrcella from looking out the window, and because they weren't allowed to, Sansa said that they weren't allowed to. And Septa Mordane had said it was an honour: it was boring was what it was. Arya had hoped Prince Joffrey would have been there, so she could ask him about the lion, but he'd chosen that day to ride ahead, of course. Sansa had seemed relieved he wasn't there.

They rode slow all day, as they did every day, so that the wheelhouse didn't get left behind. It was colder than yesterday, and it snowed a little, but the further south they go, the faster the snow melts. The southron riders always look nervously at the sky, Arya had noticed, when the snow falls.She supposed King's Landing didn't get many summer snows.

A cold day always leads to a clear night, and when they finally made camp for the night, the moon's turn shone bright and clear in the sky, almost as bright as the sun. Arya wished they had made camp at Moat Cailin instead: then there'd be something to see, and lizard-lions to spot. This is high forested ground, a dull clearing near a small hamlet. She watched the servants carry her trunks into her tent. She knew which one had Needle in it.

When Septa Mordane and Sansa were finally asleep that night, Arya unpacked her trunk, as quick and quiet as she could. Needle's sheath glittered in the moonlight filtering through the tent's roof. Lady woke up as she and Nymeria crept from the tent, but only blinked her large yellow eyes and returned her large head to her paws.

There were Kingsguard and courtiers and servants everywhere: the King's camp never really sleeps. Arya knows, though, that none of them go near their tents, because they all mistrust their direwolves. She made a direct path from her tent to the nearby forest, and nobody notices her go. Nymeria makes for a great sneaking companion: she's quiet and fast, and Arya's been training her not to howl when the hunting dogs howl.

Arya did not walk far: she wanted to keep close enough that she wouldn't get lost in the dark. Father's tent was right next to hers: if she called from here, he'd hear her.

She unsheathed Needle. It was still almost unbelievable to think that it was hers: it was so sharp and beautiful that it seemed impossible that she could own such a thing. She held it out in front of her, and tilted it this way and that so that the moon ran off the steel, like melted silver.

Then Nymeria growled.

Nymeria's big ruff of fur had risen up, stuck on edge like a thousand pins in her fur, and she was growling at a rustling in the trees, coming the other direction from the camp. Arya could feel her arms prickle and a cool rush of fear in her head. The direwolf's yellow teeth bared. Nymeria came over to stand between Arya and the mysterious rustling, her swishing tail warm against her leg. The warmth gave her courage.

"Who is it?" She demanded. She held Needle out in front of her, pointy end levelled at the bushes and trees.

The rustling got louder, and as a dark shape emerged from the shadows she could see it carried a sword. Fear overtook her again. If she screamed loud enough, perhaps Father would hear―

The figure dropped the sword and raised his hands.

"No harm meant," he said, and it was Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer. The moon was obscured by the trees overhead, but Arya could still see his golden armour, blond hair and white cloak. He glanced down at Nymeria and looked worried. "Call off your wolf."

Nymeria didn't want to be called off. Arya had never seen her this angry: the direwolf looked close to pouncing. The Kingslayer flicked his eyes down to Needle.

"Does your father know you have that?" he said, a corner of his lip curling up a little. Arya's eyes widened.

"Down, Nymeria." The direwolf, for a moment, did not respond; it just continued to slowly inch forward, crouched low and growling, preparing to strike. If Nymeria bit him, Arya could see she would lose Needle, and probably never get another one again.

"Down, Nymeria!" she insisted, and the wolf relented; her ruff of fur stayed raised, but she stopped baring her teeth, and slinked behind Arya, all the time keeping her eyes locked on the Kingslayer. Arya slowly lowered Needle's point from where she'd aimed it to his belly.

"Better," Jaime Lannister said. "Keep your dog on a leash." With that, and with an exaggeratedly slow gesture, he picked up his sword by the blade— it was wood, Arya realised— and walked on past her, rustling through the undergrowth again and into the shadows.

Arya shivered. She had just held up her sword against the Kingslayer. Would she get in trouble? Would he tell on her anyway and get her sword taken? She entertained a brief, terrifying thought; of Nymeria chained in a pen, of her sword shattered in bits and thrown in the Fever River, and of Father sending her back to Winterfell to sit and sew.

She thought of Winterfell. She thought of a dragon crushing her bit by bit in its mouth, and the taste of its flame.

She blinked the dream away, hard enough to make her eyes hurt, and chopped again at the bush hard enough to crack the branch. Nymeria growled low and harsh again, and she turned around to see the Kingslayer was still there, and was watching her. His tall silhouette and his stillness chilled her as much as the dream had. Why was he still here?

"No," the Kingslayer said, "No, that won't do. You never use an edged blade to drill."

Arya furrowed her eyebrows, and the Kingslayer held up his wooden sword, clutching it by the blade part as if to demonstrate its lack of edge.

"You'll roll the edge hitting it that hard, or snap it in two. It's a poor way to treat good steel."

He flipped the wooden sword, hilt facing towards her, and threw it a little way ahead of him, to the wet dirt. Nymeria jolted as the sword thumped down and snarled at it, then the Kingslayer, in a way that seemed to crack at the back of her throat. Arya put Needle in her other hand, and stepped forward. She picked the wooden longsword up by the hilt. It was so heavy she couldn't even hold it properly in one hand; she had to let the end drag against the ground.

The Kingslayer looked at her like he expected her to do something, and she looked down at it and let the useless thing thump back down to the ground. "It's too heavy," she said.

"If you didn't have that little sword of your own," Jaime said, "Would you use the sword you could find, or would you let your opponent kill you?"

Arya glared. "I'd use it, obviously."

"Then get used to it being heavy."

"I have my sword."

"And a fine piece too," the Kingslayer replied. "But young ladies do not carry swords. If you're attacked on an hour you do not have your…"

The Kingslayer tilted his head to her sword.

"Needle," Arya said, clutching the hilt a little tighter.

"Your Needle there," he said, "What then? Do you scream for help? Stand and fight?"

"Fight," she said, like it was obvious, thinking guiltily about how close she'd come to calling for Father.

"Hard to fight without a sword," he says. "How much do you know about fighting, truly? Have you been trained?"

"Lots," she said in a rush. "Mycah teaches me all the time, I know lots."

"Mycah?" The Kingslayer frowned. "And what, exactly, is a Mycah?"

"He knows how to spar," Arya said. "He's a butcher's son, spends all day holding knives. He's taught me."

The Kingslayer exhaled through his nose sharply. If Arya could read his face better in the dark, she'd be able to tell if he thought that was funny or not. "And what has this butcher's son taught you?"

"I know blocks and cuts," she said, trying to think of anything she'd heard Robb or Jon say; she didn't think 'stick 'em with the pointy end' would gain her any favours. "All kinds of them." She held up Needle above her head to demonstrate the block all the southron swordsmen used.

"'Blocks'," the Kingslayer said. "You mean guards."

"We call it something different in the North," Arya insisted. "You must not have heard of it."

"I suppose I must not have," he said. "Show me a block, then."

Arya had watched her brothers fight for years with Ser Rodrik and yet every lesson she'd ever stolen glances of had disappeared from her head. She twisted her mouth up.

"No."

"No?"

"I don't want to," she said, letting the tourney sword lower in her hand to the ground, holding Needle a little tighter.

"A block," The Kingslayer said, "Is when you hold off a blade's edge with your own. A guard is what you did. Either your butcher's boy is a fool or he's a liar. Which is he?"

Arya's face was hot with anger and embarrassment. She tried to think of what answer to give.

"No matter," the Kingslayer cut in quickly. "Your butcher's boy might hold knives and get into spats in the courtyard, but he is not a swordsman, and he is not a master of arms. Never trust the advice gleaned from fools."

"Mycah is not a fool," Arya said before she can help herself.

The Kingslayer did that nose exhale laugh again. He reached out and snapped, then twisted off, a long switch of wood from a bush. He levelled it in front of him, inspected it, plucked off a few leaves, and then held it low at his side. "Block me, then."

He moved like lightning. Arya, in a rush of fear as the dark silhouette swept forward, dropped the wooden sword entirely, jabbing Needle at the Kingslayer. The switch snapped against her belly, the Kingslayer sweeping by her like a shadow. Needle didn't even cut his cloak.

Nymeria snapped at the air the Kingslayer had been in just a moment before, and started to rise, but Arya put a hand on her head and pushed it firmly down. Arya had a sword, and a direwolf, and the Kingslayer had given himself a twig. It's hard to be that scared, really, of a Kingsguard who arms himself with a twig. Not to mention, he was Robert Baratheon's sworn sword, and her father was Robert's best friend, so it would be insanity for the Lannister to actually harm her.

The Kingslayer had returned to stand exactly where he had stood before, leant casually against a tree trunk.

"Poor form," he said. "First you drop your sword, and then you use steel to spar. Still, not the worst I've seen. Your reflexes are there."

"How am I meant to block you if you go that fast?" Arya said, the rush of fear to her head warming her and making her brave. "Go slower."

"How often do you think the people swinging a sword at you are going to go slower just because you asked? I'm an opponent, not one of your father's men. Get used to it being fast." He gestured to the wooden sword on the floor. "Put away the edged steel before you injure your dog, and hold the sword with both hands."

She sheathed Needle, picked the wooden sword up, and held it in her hands. The Kingslayer tilted his head at her in the dark. The moon emerged through the trees: Aryas saw Jaime's expression for the first time. He was frowning at her hands holding the sword.

"What hand do you write with?"

"My left," she said. In the moonlight, she could see him smile at that, and she frowned. "What? The Sword of the Morning fought with his left!"

"Arthur Dayne," Jaime said, still clearly finding something funny, "Could fight with his right hand as well as he could his left, and only bards carry that 'left hand sword' rumour."

"Father told us, and he knows! He defeated the Sword of the Morning, in single combat!"

Something shifted in Jaime's face. "I think that had little to do with the hand he fought with. Put your left hand high, against the crossguard. Right hand low, near the pommel."

She did it. He nodded. "In time, you'll have to learn to hold it one-handed, but if you had to fight for your life tonight, you would hold it in both hands, and so we'll start there. In the army, we don't allow a man to hold a blade in his left hand: Lannister footsoldiers hold their shields in the left, spears in the right, and any man out of formation is a liability."

Arya interrupted, confused. "In the army?" she asked. "I thought Kingsguard don't fight in any army."

"They don't," Jaime said. He blinked at her. "No, they don't. Knowledge of military strategy is a necessary need for any swordsman. You, however, are not in the northern army, nor should you wish to be. If you ever find yourself in need of a sword in your hand, you're likely to be fighting in single combat, and when you are, you're going to be at an advantage fighting with your left hand."

"Why?"

Jaime hesitated, and then switched the twig from his right hand to his left.

"Strike at me, slowly. Like you're stuck in treacle. Push the sword with your left hand and let the right hand take the weight."

Arya started a swing, slow like he said to. She tried to do it like Robb and Jon and Theon do: one foot steps forward, and you raise the sword from low to high. It was really heavy, even holding it with two hands, but she tried not to show that her arms were shaking from the weight. Jaime moved slow too, the twig moving to block the sword. Nymeria was watching carefully, big grey eyes shiny in the moonlight, but when they moved this slowly, she didn't snap at them or growl.

"And lower it."

She dropped it down instantly, her arms aching. He switched the twig from his left hand to his right.

"And again. Just the same as you did it before."

Arya copied the same movement again, but this time she saw the difference: to meet her sword, he had to do a lot more moving to meet his stick to the blade part.

"And down."

She lowered it again, rubbing at one wrist with the other.

"Do you see why?"

"It's easier to get them before they get you," she said.

"Not… exactly," he said. "Yes, if they're a poor swordsman. But it forces them to fight in a way they aren't accustomed to. You, on the other hand, will be fighting in the way you're used to, and so you gain an advantage."

"Why doesn't everyone just train with their left hand, then?"

Jaime looked up to the moon in the sky, and, briefly, mouthed something she couldn't lip-read.

"How often do you train your right hand to write words?" He said.

"Sometimes," Arya said, which was true. "Maester Luwin says that the King's Hand is always the right hand, not the left."

"Maester Luwin might have a point," Jaime commented. "But hold the sword in your left. Or, with two hands, left in front. You might find it harder at the bind, but that's an issue for another time."

"Another time?" she said. Jaime made a vague gesture with the hand not holding the stick. He didn't say anything for a moment.

"Well," he said. "If you want to know how to hold a sword, and you're travelling with the Kingsguard, what would be the point in asking a butcher's boy?"

"You'd teach me how to fight?" Arya asked. She wasn't sure if this was some kind of funny joke to the Kingslayer.

"As your father so often reminds us," Jaime said, "Winter is coming. Even ladies have use of swords in winter."

"I'm not a lady," Arya said. "Sansa's a lady. Even her wolf's a lady. That's not me."

"Fine," he said. "Then don't be. The king rides each dawn: I'll expect to see you awake and dressed an hour before sunrise. There's two weeks before we reach King's Landing: if you haven't sickened of it by then, we'll see what can be made of you."

Then, the Kingslayer stepped back and looked at her, up and down. That frown had come back.

"You won't enjoy it," he warned. "Every person you attack is likely to be larger and stronger than you are, and unless they're a babe in arms, more proficient with a sword. It's going to take twice as long for you to get any strength in your sword arm."

"I can do it," Arya said. "I promise, I'll be up every morning! I'm better than half my brothers at archery. Way better than Bran, and he even wants to be a knight, but I want to fight with Needle."

The moon went behind the trees again. Nymeria's eyes still shone in the dark, and so did the Kingslayer's golden armour. The Kingslayer's face slid beneath the shadows.

"Get some sleep," Jaime said. "We start tomorrow."