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She hadn’t wanted to go back to Winterfell. Arya put it down to her list, but it was really the questions her family would ask that stopped her from braving the winter breath and riding there immediately.
Ultimately, it had been the rumours that called her back. First it was a ballad of a White Wolf; the King in the North. Then had come news of Bran and Rickon – sweet Bran and wild Rickon, who had faced the horrors of the world as boys. They were supposed to be dead, but tales from the North spoke of stranger things. Her sister was there, too. Just the thought of the stories surrounding the beautiful Lady Sansa had Arya clenching hard on the hilt of Needle, willing to kill them all if it eased any of her sister’s pain.
But it was the news of a betrothal that had her riding hard along the Kingsroad. Back to the North; back home. It was a tiresome journey, with few and only necessary stops in-between. But all she could think as the days went by was how she was going to gut the lot of them.
Upon Lady Arya Stark’s return, she shall be wed to Lord Baratheon.
She did not know any Lord Baratheon, only the dead ones. King Robert was long gone; Renly and Stannis, too. So who was this Lord? If he was anything like his kin, he’d be an angry whoring drunkard, a stubborn angry fool or an angry man who had no interest what lay between her thighs. Arya preferred the latter. I bet it was Sansa, she thought sourly, or mayhaps Jon was angry that she had yet to appear.
After nearly a moons journey, she had finally reached the gates of Winterfell. And within the short time it took for the men on watch shout the command to announce herself, she’d already pushed back the heavy emotions that had risen at the first sight of those walls, and the Stark banner flying high above.
“Who stands before the gates of Winterfell?” The voice boomed and echoed, yet still fought with the heavy winds that billowed with ice.
“Lady Arya of House Stark.”
They had no reason to believe her. There’d been rumours of girls all over the North arriving at Winterfell with their captors hoping for a large sum of gratitude. And for a short time, they didn’t.
Until they spotted the great big Direwolf that carried her. When the gates were opened, Nymeria’s pack howled and heralded her homecoming.
“Welcome home, Lady Stark.” She did not know this man, but by his accent, she knew he was not of the North or nobility. “If you would wait here, I will be quick to fetch His Grace.”
“There is no need for that, Ser.” She said coldly, dismounting off Nymeria. She was quick to glance around the courtyard before turning back to the dishevelled man in front of her. “Tell me, Ser…?”
“Ser Davos Seaworth, M’lady.”
“Ser Davos, where might I find my brother?” When he blinked blankly, she continued. “My sister would do nicely, too. And I’m sure my other brothers were somewhat involved in this great scheme. Any one of them would do.”
“They are all gathered in the hall, M’lady, breaking their fast.”
“Thank you, Ser Davos.” When another Stark man moved to accompany her, she glared at him fiercely. “I am perfectly capable without an escort, Ser. This was my home for many years.” At Nymeria’s added growl, he was quick to back off.
She stormed her way through the courtyard, making way to the hall in quick stomps. Every person she passed stared curiously – especially with Nymeria at her heels. After all I have been through, she thought bitterly, stabbed and kidnapped, wounded and blinded. The scowl only deepened as her thoughts increased. And my own kin celebrate the return of our ancestral home with my fucking betrothal.
She clenched her teeth at her arrival at the doors and hesitated for a beat before slamming them open. Four people looked up at once, with little Rickon unfazed, continuing to shovel food down his throat.
“JON!” She screamed, beginning her walk to the dais. “Who do you think you are? What kind of king are you?!” Bran, Sansa and Jon stood out clear as a day. She barely had time to glance at the fourth. “Betrothing me to some Lord I don’t know! Some whoring drunk, most like, that is more interested in cock—”
And as quick as the words came out, they stopped. Her mouth still agape, sound dying after spotting that familiar smirk.
“Arya!” Her sister was quick to scold. “Forgive my sister on her brash behaviour, Lord Baratheon.” Sansa prattled on as Jon’s eyes went wide. The great big man just stood up quickly from the table, his chair scraping against the wood. “I am sure she is just weary from travel.” But even Sansa could not keep up as the dutiful Lady with her voice cracking slightly.
“I told you so.” Bran said smugly to the two of them, clearly some little jape they were all familiar.
The tears sprung to her eyes. Arya bowed her head down in shame.
“Arya,” Jon muttered softly. It was enough to make her turn and run. Physically, she was every bit a woman, but now she felt like a child. She had expected Jon; glancing it for the first time in years had her heart swarming with sadness and joy all at the same time. But she was not expecting him; her betrothed. How could Jon expect her to wed him when he abandoned her for the stupid Brotherhood? What right did they have to sell her away? Lord Gendry Baratheon; it sounded so foreign. Nothing made sense.
She fell to her knees in the damp snow at the foot of the Weirwood.
“Arya.” His voice was always rough and deep, but the years had clearly turned it more-so. “You were dead. Everyone thought it.” His footsteps came closer. “But here you are.”
She stood on unsteady feet and whirled around, her grey eyes blazing hot into his familiar blue orbs. “And here you are, away from your Brotherhood.”
“Aye.” He said. “A legitimised bastard; who would have thought?” His cool eyes raked down her figure, taking her in. “You’re a woman grown, now.”
“You picked them over me, but now you want to wed me.” He laughed.
“You ran away!” He argued back. “You could have stayed with us, you should have stayed with us with what happened at the Twins.”
“I did not mean to get captured, stupid!”
“You were such a brat.” He bit out. “Even now, you’re still difficult.”
“I will not marry! You cannot force me. Jon cannot force me.” He looked at her softly, then.
“Would it really be that awful? Wedding me?” He asked softly, taking a step in. She could smell him, then; he reeked of soot, like always, and still the smell was yet to be displeasing. “Or is it bedding me you fear?” Her glare was a fierce one. “I would be gentle, I swear it.” Another step closer. “I would kiss you softly, tell you how beautiful you are.” She scoffed. “But you will not believe me. No matter how many times I say those words, no matter how many times I say ‘I love you’. I do not care how long it takes for you to see how truly good you are. It may take my whole life. But you are worth it, m’lady. You always have been.”
“You do not know me.” She said suddenly. “The real me. You do not know what I’ve done. If you did, you would rather kill me than bed me. I promise you that.”
“And you call me stupid.” He took her chin in his hands and pressed a gentle kiss to her temple. “Nothing you have done could ever make me hate you.”
It took her so long to believe that. To trust him. But when she finally did, she wed him right there, underneath the Weirwood by the black pools. And just like he promised, he was gentle in the bedding.
But after some time together, he quickly learned that the she-wolf liked it hard and fast.