A/N: Finally got back to Arya here but the next chapter will be all Jon! Hope you enjoyed this chapter and please leave a comment if you did :)
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Year 300 AC
Torrhen's Square, The North
The wind screamed past Jon's massive head as Torrhen's Square grew from a speck to a sprawling fortress beneath him. His claws still gripping the makeshift vessel from a repurposed river barge that groaned with each beat of his wings. Inside, thirty northmen pressed against the sides, their knuckles white against the railings. The irony wasn't lost on him: here he was, carrying Tallhart men back to their ancestral seat in the belly of a boat suspended hundreds of feet in the air.
I've grown, Jon realized with a start. The comparison struck him as his wings adjusted to catch an updraft—which of the old dragons would I measure against now? The chronicles he'd devoured in Winterfell's library surfaced unbidden. Meraxes, Rhaenys's silver terror who'd died above Dorne, her skull decorating the Red Keep's throne room. Or Vermithor, the Bronze Fury, who'd served Old King Jaehaerys for half a century.
Vermithor flew four men to Dragonstone once, Jon recalled, the memory sharp as winter air. But Meraxes swallowed a horse whole at Harrenhal. His own talons, each the length of a greatsword, dug furrows in the frozen earth. The boat-vessel he'd carried would have been child's play for either dragon. Yet here I am, wondering if I've grown large enough to inspire the proper terror.
Screams rose from the castle before he'd even begun his descent. Men scrambled across the battlements like ants fleeing a kicked hill, pointing and shouting. Some dove behind merlons; others simply ran. Jon caught the glint of steel—crossbows being raised, then immediately lowered as their wielders realized the futility.
Good. Let them soil themselves. These reavers thought they could hold the North.
He circled once, taking in the scene below. The ironborn had made themselves comfortable, that much was clear. Their kraken banner snapped from the highest tower where the Tallhart three sentinel trees should have flown. But something was off. Jon had expected hundreds of reavers, maybe more. Instead, he counted perhaps forty men visible, with smoke rising from only two of the castle's five hearths.
They're undermanned, he thought. Holding with a skeleton crew.
Jon descended toward the open ground before the main gates as the courtyard would be too small for his current size. His shadow fell across the castle like a second night, and he felt a perverse satisfaction at the terror it inspired. These men had taken northern lands, northern homes. Let them know fear.
His talons struck earth with enough force to shake the walls. The vessel dropped the last few feet, landing hard but intact. Jon mantled his wings, stretching them to their full span after a few hours of flying. The castle looked like a child's toy beneath him, something he could crush with a careless movement.
The ironborn had formed a ragged line before the gates, shields locked but trembling. Jon could smell their fear—sharp and acrid, mixed with piss and steel. Most looked ready to bolt. But one figure stood firm at their center, a grizzled warrior with iron-grey hair and a cleft jaw that looked like someone had taken an axe to it years ago. The man held a massive two-handed axe, the kind the ironborn called a reaver's kiss, and though Jon could see the tremor in his arms, he didn't step back.
Jon lowered his great head until he was eye level with the defenders. His breath washed over them, hot enough to make several men stumble backward. When he spoke, his voice rumbled from somewhere deep in his chest, each word vibrating through the ground.
"You have two choices," Jon's voice thundered. "Surrender or death. I hold both Theon and Asha Greyjoy as my prisoners. This goes for any still hiding within these walls."
The shock that rippled through them was almost comical. One young reaver actually dropped his shield entirely, mouth agape. They'd expected roaring, fire, mindless destruction. Not words. Not ultimatums delivered with cold precision.
The grey-haired warrior with the cleft jaw muttered something Jon couldn't catch—a prayer to the Drowned God, from the cadence. Then he shook his head as if clearing it and took a single, hesitant step forward. His voice, when it came, was rough but steady.
"I am Dagmer Cleftjaw, holding this castle for Prince Theon." He paused, swallowing hard. "Is... is Prince Theon truly alive?"
Jon's eyes fixed on Dagmer. "He lives. Though whether he remains so depends entirely on what happens in the next few moments."
Dagmer's axe lowered, the head touching the dirt. "Then Torrhen's Square is yours, dragon. We yield."
But Jon didn't move. He continued to stare at Dagmer, unblinking. The silence stretched, broken only by the wind and the creaking of leather as men shifted nervously. Sweat beaded on Dagmer's scarred face despite the cold.
The old reaver understood. He spun toward his men, voice cracking like a whip. "Drop your steel! All of it! Now!"
Weapons clattered to the ground. When one man hesitated, Dagmer grabbed him by the collar. "You there, Grimm. Get inside. Bring out every man we have, and I mean every one. Check the cellars, the towers, everywhere."
"But Dagmer—"
"Either we all come out and have a chance at living, or we all die. Your choice, but choose quick."
The man ran, stumbling over dropped swords in his haste.
Jon watched as his northmen climbed from the vessel, shaky-legged but eager. They moved to secure the surrendered ironborn with perhaps more enthusiasm than necessary. He didn't blame them. These were Tallhart men, and this was their home.
The castle doors opened, and Jon's massive head swiveled toward the movement. Four figures emerged, and his heart clenched at the sight of them. They were thin, their clothes hanging loose on frames that had seen too little food. But they walked on their own power, heads high despite everything.
At least until they saw him.
Berena's scream cut through the air as she grabbed the youngest two, trying to shield them with her own body while the eldest, Brandon, tired to find a weapon. They scrambled backward toward the keep, and Jon would have laughed if he didn't see their state. Here they were, freed from their ironborn captors, only to flee from their rescuer.
"My lady!" One of the Tallhart men called out, Jon recognized him as Hal, a sergeant who'd served under Ser Helman. "Lady Eddara! It's alright! We're here to release you!"
The girl stopped but didn't turn, her whole body shaking as she kept herself between her siblings and the dragon.
Jon shifted his attention back to Dagmer, who stood perfectly still, awaiting judgment. "They seem unharmed, only underfed," Jon said, the words coming out as more of a question than a statement. "Why? You Ironborn aren't known for your gentle treatment of prisoners."
A bitter smile crossed Dagmer's scarred face. "Barely had forty men to hold this place, dragon. Knew it was only a matter of time before the North came calling. Dead hostages don't buy much mercy when that day comes." He paused, then added, "I served Prince Theon since he was a boy. Figured if I kept the nobles safe, maybe it'd get some clemency for Prince Theon."
Jon found himself oddly impressed by the pragmatism. It was a cold sort of honor, but honor nonetheless.
"I am Lord Commander Jon Snow," he said, watching the Tallharts freeze at the name. "You have nothing to fear from me. You're free now."
The gasps that followed were amusing but he kept it to himself. Eddara Tallhart turned slowly, her face a mask of confusion and disbelief.
"Jon... Snow? Lord Eddard's son?"
"The same. Though as you can see, things have become... complicated." He tried to inject some warmth into his voice, but it came out as a rumbling purr that made several ironborn step back. "I know you have questions. They'll be answered at Winterfell. For now, know that you're safe."
He turned his attention to his men. "Feed them. Get them proper clothes. They're coming with us."
"My lord," Torghen Flint spoke up, gesturing at the surrendered ironborn. "What about these?"
Jon's gaze swept over the prisoners. "They surrendered. They'll be treated accordingly."
"We should hang them," Torghen said flatly. "Ironborn reavers, the lot of them."
"No." The word came out with enough force to rattle shutters. "Put Dagmer on the vessel with the Tallharts. The rest will remain here under guard until I decide their fate."
Torghen's face darkened. "My lord—"
"They might be useful." Jon cut him off. "I wish to see them take their 'Iron Price' from the dead."
The pragmatism of it seemed to satisfy Torghen, though Jon could see he wasn't happy about it. The Flints had lost men to ironborn raids. They all had.
As his men organized the prisoners and helped the Tallhart children toward the vessel with Eddara still shooting terrified glances his way, Jon found himself thinking about the nature of mercy. Mayhaps he should execute them all. The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. But death is coming for them all.
Every man who dies fighting another man is one who can't fight the Others, Jon thought. Even ironborn.
The vessel was loaded now, Dagmer sitting with his hands bound, the Tallhart children huddled together at the opposite end. Jon could hear Berena whispering to the children, trying to keep them calm.
"Torrhen's Square is yours, Torghen," Jon said. "Hold it for the Tallharts until they return."
"Aye, my lord." Torghen's voice carried a note of pride. A Flint, holding a lordship, even temporarily. "We'll keep it safe."
Jon grasped the vessel again, his claws careful not to pierce the hull. As he spread his wings, preparing to take flight, he heard young Beren Tallhart's voice, high and wondering:
"Are we really flying with a dragon?"
"Hush," Eddara said quickly.
But Jon found himself almost smiling. "Yes, lad," he rumbled. "You're flying with a dragon. Try to enjoy it. Not many can say the same."
The child's delighted laugh followed them into the sky.
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Braavos, Essos
The Kindly Man's fingers traced the edge of the poison vial as he set it before her, the glass catching candlelight like trapped starfire. Something flickered behind his gentle eyes, a knowing that made Arya's skin prickle beneath her acolyte's robe.
"A gift for Veyro Tolarys," he said, his voice soft as silk sliding over steel. "A magistrate who has forgotten his debts to those who should not be forgotten."
Arya kept her face blank, her breathing steady. She'd perfected this emptiness, this absence of self that the Faceless Men demanded. Yet his gaze lingered on her longer than usual, as if he could see through the nothing she'd become to the girl still hiding beneath.
"The feast of the Moon Festival," he continued, placing a servant girl's face beside the vial. The preserved flesh looked young, perhaps sixteen, with a small scar near the left eyebrow. "Many will attend. Many will drink. One will drink more than wine."
She reached for the items, but his hand covered hers, warm and unexpectedly gentle. "A girl has learned much. But remember, child, the Many-Faced God sees all faces, even those we wear inside."
Her heart stuttered, but she gave no outward sign. "A girl serves."
"Does she?" The question hung between them like incense smoke. Then he released her hand. "Go then. Give the gift."
The palace of Veyro Tolarys blazed with a thousand candles, their light spilling through tall windows to paint golden rectangles on the canal below. Arya moved through the servants' entrance, her borrowed face itching where the edges met her true skin. The scar near her eyebrow pulled when she blinked, a constant reminder of her deception.
She'd studied the palace layout for three days, memorizing every corridor, every hidden passage the servants used. The kitchen chaos swallowed her easily with another girl in brown wool carrying another tray of honeyed figs toward the feast hall. Steam from the ovens made her false face sweat, threatening the edges where it adhered.
The great hall thrummed with voices and laughter. Braavosi nobles in their finest silks clustered around tables groaning under the weight of roasted peacocks and towers of lemon cakes. Arya recognizes the beautiful Bellegere Otherys mingling with the other nobles but her eyes spotted Veyro Tolarys immediately—a fat man with oiled whiskers, his fingers glittering with rings as he fondled a courtesan's thigh.
Pour the wine. Drop the poison. Walk away. Simple.
But the security patterns were wrong. Too many guards for a merchant's feast, even one that's a magistrate. Men in boiled leather stood at exits she'd marked as unguarded. Others circulated through the crowd, their eyes sharp despite the festive atmosphere.
Veyro rose from his seat, whispering something to his companion that made her giggle. He moved toward a side door, and Arya followed at a distance, balancing her tray as if searching for empty cups to fill.
The corridor beyond was dimmer, lit only by occasional torches. She expected him to head for the privy, but instead he climbed a narrow stair. Voices drifted down, low, serious, nothing like the revelry behind them.
Arya set down her tray and crept up, her soft leather shoes silent on stone. An alcove near the top offered concealment, and she pressed herself into its shadows just as Veyro entered a chamber ahead.
Through the partially open door, she glimpsed a surprising figure—Ferrego Antaryon himself, the Sealord of Braavos. His lean face was grave as he spoke to Veyro, though she couldn't make out the words. Why would the Sealord attend a corrupt magistrate's feast?
Heavy footsteps on the stairs made her shrink deeper into the alcove. A man in the black and gold of the Iron Bank swept past, his robes rustling like raven wings. She recognized him from her observations as Noho Dimittis, one of the Bank's senior representatives.
"Magistrate Veyro," his voice cut through the room like a blade through silk. "The Sealord and I have matters to discuss. Alone."
Fregar's protests died quickly. The fat man scurried out, passing so close to Arya's hiding place that she could smell his perfumed oils. She should follow him. Complete her mission. But something held her frozen.
"The reports from Westeros grow more troubling," Noho said, his voice carrying clearly now that the door stood open. "This business in the North..."
The North. The words hooked into her chest like fishhooks. She pressed closer to the wall, barely breathing.
"Old news travels slowly across the Narrow Sea," Ferrego replied, pouring wine. "Jon Snow's victory over the Boltons was expected. What concerns me are these newer reports."
Jon. Her brother's name hit her like ice water. Jon defeated the Boltons? But that meant... Winterfell. Home.
"Tycho Nestoris's latest raven is... difficult to believe," Noho continued. "As are the accounts from Bessaro Reyaan and Qarro Volentin. Three of our most reliable observers, all reporting the same impossibility."
"Nothing is impossible in this age of returned magic." The Sealord's voice carried a weight that Arya's couldn't discern. "Dragons fly again in the east. The dead walk in the north. Why should this be any different?"
"Because men do not become dragons, my lord. They ride them, they tame them, they die to them. They do not transform into them."
Silence stretched. Arya's heart hammered so hard she feared they'd hear it.
"Yet three separate witnesses say Jon Snow does exactly that," Ferrego said quietly. "Transforms at will. Becomes a creature of black scales and red of eyes engulfed in violet flames."
The cup in Noho's hand hit the floor with a crash that made Arya flinch. "Engulfed in flames?"
"So they report…."
No. The word screamed in Arya's mind. Jon can't be... that's not possible. Humans don't become...
"And there's more. The demonstration he provided with these 'wights' as they call them. Corpses that walk, that serve the enemy beyond the Wall. Nestoris saw them with his own eyes. As did Bessaro and Qarro."
Walking corpses? But she remembered Old Nan's stories. Remembered the fear in her voice when she spoke of the Long Night. The Others. The army of the dead.
"If even half of this is true," Noho's voice had dropped to barely a whisper, "then everything changes. Every loan, every alliance, every careful plan we've cultivated in Westeros becomes meaningless against such threats."
"Which is why Braavos must act decisively." Ferrego's tone sharpened. "We abandon all support for other claimants. No more gold for the boy calling himself Aegon. Nothing for the mad queen or the dragon queen when she arrives. We must show our support to Jon Snow."
"But the Iron Bank—"
"The Iron Bank will do what ensures its survival. A man who becomes a dragon, who fights the army of the dead, who has united wildlings and northmen alike... such a man transcends normal procedures."
Arya's hands shook. Jon. Her Jon. The brother who'd tease her for not being a 'lady' while teaching her how to hold a bow. Who'd said...
"Different roads sometimes lead to the same castle."
"I need more than reports," Noho said. "I need certainty before committing the Bank's resources so completely."
"You'll have it. Meanwhile, we maintain our current position but prepare for a dramatic shift. If Jon Snow is what these reports claim, Braavos must be his strongest ally. The alternative..." Ferrego paused. "The alternative is an enemy who commands both dragon fire and knows our city's secrets. The Stark boy is also Lord Commander at Castle Black. How many brothers of the Night's Watch have passed through our harbors? How many know our defenses?"
"You think he'd attack Braavos?"
"I think a man who can become a dragon and who leads an army against the dead is capable of anything. Better to have him as friend than foe."
Footsteps moved toward the door. Noho was leaving. Arya should shrink back, disappear, complete her mission. But her body wouldn't move. Every muscle had locked, her mind spinning with impossibilities.
Jon was a… dragon? This doesn't make any sense.
The words from the reports echoed in the chamber even after Noho's departure. Ferrego remained, alone now, swirling wine in his cup.
Her foot shifted. A tiny sound, barely a whisper of leather on stone. But enough.
"You can come out," the Sealord said calmly. "I know you're there."
Arya's training screamed at her to run, to fight, to do anything but step into the light. But her legs moved without her permission, carrying her into the chamber where Ferrego Antaryon waited with knowing eyes.
"The House of Black and White honors us with its presence," he said, not even looking up from his wine. "How may I serve the Many-Faced God this evening?"
The proper response rose to her lips. But what emerged instead was raw, desperate: "Tell me about Jon Snow."
Ferrego's eyebrows rose slightly. "An unusual request from a Faceless Man."
"Tell me!" The words ripped from her throat. "Is it true? Can he really... does he really become..."
"A dragon. Yes." The Sealord studied her with sharp intelligence. "Your order doesn't usually display such interest in Westerosi politics."
"But how can Jon be…?" Her voice cracked.
"He was murdered at Castle Black. And yet he lives. Transformed, they say. Reborn in fire." Ferrego set down his cup slowly. "You speak of him with surprising familiarity."
She should lie. Should maintain her cover. Should be No One. But the name burst from her lips like blood from a wound: "Jon."
Just Jon. Not Jon Snow. Not Lord Commander. Not the bastard of Winterfell. Just her brother's name, spoken as she'd said it a thousand times in another life.
Ferrego went very still. "You're not here for Veyro Tolarys."
It wasn't a question.
"Who are you?" the Sealord asked softly.
The smart choice was to run. To disappear into Braavos's maze of canals and shadows. To return to the House of Black and White and confess her failure. To become No One again.
Instead, her fingers found the edges of the serving girl's face. The preserved skin peeled away like old paint, revealing the face beneath. Her true face. The face Jon would recognize.
"My name is Arya Stark." The words felt like coming up for air after drowning. "And I need to go home."
Ferrego Antaryon, Sealord of Braavos, first among equals, keeper of the city's greatest secrets, smiled slowly. But his hand had shifted, now resting near a small silver bell that would summon guards.
"Arya Stark is dead," he said carefully. "Lost when her father was executed. Or perhaps drowned in the Riverlands. Or murdered at the Red Wedding. Many stories, all ending the same way."
"I'm not dead." She stood straighter, remembering who she was. Who she'd always been beneath the faces. "I'm going home to my brother."
"Even if you are who you claim, why should I help you? The Faceless Men and the Iron Bank have careful agreements. You've violated your oaths to them by revealing yourself to me."
"Because Jon needs to know I'm alive. Because..." She swallowed hard. "Because winter is coming, and the pack survives."
The Sealord's fingers drummed once on the table. Around them, the palace feast continued, muffled laughter and music drifting through stone walls. The moment stretched like a blade being drawn.
Then Ferrego moved his hand away from the bell.
"A Stark daughter," he said slowly. "Trained by the Faceless Men, arriving to support her brother who has become something beyond human understanding. Yes... that could serve Braavos well."
"I don't care about serving Braavos."
"No, but you care about Jon Snow. And Jon Snow will need allies in the wars to come. The Iron Bank. The Sealord's Fleet. Resources to fight enemies both living and dead." He stood, moving to a cabinet where he withdrew a rolled parchment. "Passage to White Harbor. You'll sail with the morning tide on the Titan's Daughter. The captain will be told you're a merchant's daughter returning from your Braavosi education."
Arya took the parchment with trembling fingers. "The Faceless Men will know I've abandoned them."
"Let me worry about the House of Black and White. They're not the only power in Braavos, whatever they might believe." He paused at the door. "Your possessions from the House will be delivered to the ship before dawn."
Needle. He knew about Needle.
"The candles see much, Lady Arya—more than they should, perhaps," Ferrego murmured, and something in his voice made Arya's spine stiffen.
"Why?" she asked. "Why help me?"
Ferrego turned back, his face grave. "Because winter is coming, Arya Stark. And in winter, even the mighty titan of Braavos can freeze. We need fire to survive what's coming. Dragon fire, specifically. Your brother's fire."
He opened the door, gesturing for her to leave. "Go. Veyro Tolarys will die another night, by another hand. You have a longer journey ahead."
Arya moved toward the door, then stopped. "Is it true? Everything they said? Jon really...?"
"See for yourself when you reach Winterfell. Though I suspect you'll believe it when you see it. Dragons are hard to deny when they're breathing fire above your head."
She slipped past him into the corridor, her mind already racing ahead to the voyage, to home, to Jon. As she descended the stairs, she heard the Sealord call out behind her:
"Valar morghulis, Arya Stark."
She paused, looking back. The proper response rose to her lips, but what emerged was different. Older. The words of her house, not theirs.
"Valar Dohaeris, Sealord Ferrego."
Then she vanished into the celebrating crowd.