Witnessing the Mad King’s daughter descend from the sky, land in the largest open space in Crown Town, and then enter the castle accompanied by Aegor before being politely escorted into the tower on the Lake Isle, Arya felt truly unsettled.

From the time she was a little girl, full of knightly dreams and innocent admiration, her Master had been her idol. Back in King’s Landing, when Father, as Robert Baratheon’s Hand, was constantly occupied with cleaning up the drunken King’s messes, he had little time for her. It was Aegor who filled her dull days. To her, the world of the Night’s Watch Chief Logistics Officer—so tall she had to stand on tiptoe to meet his eyes—seemed dazzling and full of color.

Bonds, trade routes, enterprises, and industries that bought low and sold high, new armies and weapons beyond their time—she neither understood nor cared about any of that. What Arya remembered most was that, following Master, she had visited many corners of King’s Landing and beyond, met countless people she otherwise never would have, seen many things unknown to her before, and spent many happy hours.

Those were the happiest days of her life.

In her eyes then, Master was the most romantic adventurer in the world, the bravest slayer of Others, the most capable officer of the Night’s Watch, the most patient and skillful sword master, and the most imaginative playmate.

Of course, as she grew older and her mind matured, she began to realize that all her impressions were childish fantasies. Master was not the invincible swordsman she once believed him to be, nor an all-powerful genius with endless energy. He was simply a Lord who was wiser, kinder, and more understanding than most men, and perhaps, a bit more handsome.

But the bond between them had already been forged. His image and place in her heart not only did not diminish but were elevated by the great events that followed.

When the Iron Throne changed hands and chaos swept the realm, Arya, separated from her family after a reckless adventure, had fallen into the bloody, terrifying world of adults. At that dangerous time, Master, who should have remained neutral, abandoned his position for her. He left his comfortable life in the Seven Kingdoms, carefully hid her identity, and personally brought her to safety. Later, when the Ironborn invaded and the North fell into peril, it was again Master who led the Gift’s army like soldiers descending from the heavens, drove out the raiders, brought Robb and his host back, and restored the North to the land she loved and knew.

Perhaps Master had done these things for various reasons, but Arya never cared to think too deeply about it. She simply believed he had done it all for her.

By that time, Master’s image had transformed magnificently. He was no longer just a close friend, but also the most powerful protector and one of the pillars supporting the North’s safety. He filled the void left in her heart by her father’s death, shielding her from despair and insecurity.

But there were also things… more private, things no one else knew.

When returning North from King’s Landing, just as they neared home, the twelve-year-old girl had her first period—awkwardly, among a group of men. That night, ashamed, frightened, and in pain, it was Master who held her in his strong arms, speaking softly and comforting her as she lay trembling on a thin mat until she fell asleep. It was on that night, amidst the comfort and closeness, that something deep within her awakened.

She first realized the difference between men and women. The tall, strong Master seemed as solid as a mountain, his warmth like the perfect fire to ward off the cold. Even the faint scent of him, neither fragrant nor foul, became strangely pleasant. Nestled in his embrace, she felt as dizzy and flushed as she had the first time she tasted Arbor wine, almost wishing she could melt in his arms forever.

To Master, that night had likely been awkward and uncomfortable, perhaps even forgotten entirely. But to Arya, it became an unforgettable memory—the moment she crossed from child to maiden.

From that day, her feelings for Aegor, once pure admiration and affection, began to mix with something new, something deeper. A subtle fondness, not merely from admiration, but from the budding heart of a woman.

She refused to believe that such a perceptive man could not feel her affection. Yet Arya understood that, to Master, the fondness of a twelve or thirteen-year-old girl, a Stark no less, could only be troublesome. He could not return it, and so he had to pretend not to notice.

Arya also knew he had his own world, his own duties, and his own life. Her attempts to follow him everywhere, desperate to enter his adult world, were mostly futile. And besides, Master was a Lord. He likely preferred mature, graceful, and alluring women—like Nina, Melisandre, or even Asha Greyjoy.

To him, she was nothing more than a mischievous girl, to be humored and indulged, nothing more.

But she was not sad about this. Because Master was a man of the Night’s Watch, sworn to neither marry nor leave the Gift, she never had to worry about another woman taking him away.

His closeness with Nina was only because she was capable and trustworthy. His connection with Melisandre was out of necessity, to use her influence over the followers of the Red God. As for Asha, her master was not such a vulgar man. He paid her no real attention.

As for Myrcella, though beautiful and kind, her closeness to Master was clearly born of fear and the need for protection, not love. Master’s affection for her was pity, not passion.

Only for her, his only apprentice, was his affection pure.

She was special to him—the only one.

Although she could not say what made her special, the thought gave her confidence. As long as she waited patiently, until she grew and matured, until the day he looked at her and thought, “this is a woman, not a child,” she would gain his attention and his heart.

People often said she resembled Daenerys, that famed beauty who could tempt the Mad King’s son into folly. As long as she stopped being so wild, learned from Myrcella how to dress and behave, she would be charming too. She had already started practicing, and the way the young men from the Mountain Clans and the Free Folk at Crown Town’s school stared at her proved that it was working.

That gave her confidence. She might not be the most beautiful girl, but she was far from plain. She was already tall enough to reach Master’s height when standing on tiptoe. In another year or two, she would surely have the charm to attract him. There might be women more beautiful than her, but none could ever be his second apprentice. And she was Arya Stark, one of the best young swordfighters in the Seven Kingdoms.

She had heard the guards brag about her talents. A woman’s skill, bloodline, and spirit could make her all the more captivating. Surely, the pride of winning the heart of a Stark, one with the “wolf’s blood,” would tempt even him.

On the surface, she remained an innocent girl. But in the quiet of night, in her wildest thoughts, she often imagined it, blushing with secret delight and drawing courage from those dreams.

…

She had never been flustered before.

But now, seeing Daenerys Targaryen ride a dragon down from the sky, land in the middle of the archery field, and walk beside Master before being escorted into that lakeside tower, Arya felt something she had never felt before—panic.

Why was Master being so polite to the Mad King’s daughter?

Wasn’t she just someone who called herself Queen, the last Targaryen, with an army and three dragons, burdened with titles, and beautiful enough to move even women? Wasn’t she just…?

But no matter how many times she repeated “wasn’t she just,” Arya knew that what Daenerys possessed could not be dismissed so simply. If she could defeat Stannis and reclaim the Iron Throne, she would even have the power to pardon the Night’s Watch, to free Master from his vows.

Daenerys had the means to tempt anyone—man or woman.

She was an opponent Arya could never hope to match, no matter how much she waited or grew. For the first time, Arya felt true jealousy, a fierce and painful jealousy that bordered on hatred.

After brooding in anger and envy, Arya suddenly realized something. No, why should she be jealous? The issue was not Daenerys’s beauty or charm. Wasn’t she, right now, at war with King Stannis over the Iron Throne?

The North supported Stannis. As a Stark, didn’t that make Arya Daenerys’s enemy? And since Master was the North’s ally, wasn’t Daenerys his enemy as well?

Moreover, her grandfather and great-uncle had been murdered by the Mad King himself. There was blood between their houses. How could she see Daenerys merely as a rival in love? That was absurd.

At that thought, everything suddenly became clear. Her training, her sword Needle, even her Mother’s rare permission to come to Crown Town—it all had meaning now. Master was making a mistake, and she had the means to correct it.

Since she could not become a knight, she would become an assassin, one who killed only the wicked.

She would kill the Mad King’s daughter—for the peace of the Seven Kingdoms, for the safety of Westeros, and to avenge the Stark bloodline.

Arya felt something awaken within her, the “Assassin’s Soul” that had slept deep in her heart. A fierce killing intent surged through her. She rushed back to her room and found her thin sword, Needle, which had never been stained with blood since it was forged.

Today, this small sword would taste blood for the first time—the blood of a Queen.

(To be continued.)

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Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep