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Chapter Text

Direwolves are a wild, ancient type of magic.  The Old Gods had tried to warn the Starks when they sent the wolves to them.  The parent had been lost to the stag, and the stag to her, leaving behind six babes.  Two girls and four boys, each loving each other and holding tight ties to their siblings.  The wolfpups had a sense of each other that their humans would have done anything to possess themselves, but all were fiercely protective of each other regardless.

The Little Sister, called Lady by her girl, had been lost when they were still pups, and the five who were left howled their grief to the heavens.  Her girl howled with them, in her heart of hearts, and the girl who was half-wolf herself howled aloud.

The Oldest Brother, called Grey Wind, had not been a great deal older when he, too, had been lost.  The Wild Sister, Nymeria, knows that her girl had been there.  Even though she had been separated from her girl, Nymeria could still feel Arya in the back of her head, and they had howled together throughout that terrible night.  The others had joined them – Brindled, White and Black, scattered across the land and past the humans’ Wall, all had mourned the eldest of the Pack.  The three boys who remain take a while to figure out why their wolves grieve so, but Nymeria’s girl knows, and she is shattered for it.  Lady’s girl will not find out for another week, and when she does she will first hide her grief, and then mourn terribly in private.  Her dreams will show her what she has missed.

In the Riverlands, Nymeria’s girl wanders in pain and alone except for the old Hound.  And in the Riverlands, Nymeria’s pack grows larger. 

The Brindled Brother, the last to be named by his human, was far, far to the North – where their mother had first carried them from, and far beyond any of them, even the quiet White Brother.  The Black Brother was the closest to her pack out of all of them, and sometimes Nymeria wished that she could run to him, grab him and his boy and bring them with her to these southern Riverlands.  If they were here with her, Nymeria knew that she could keep them safe with her pack of hundreds.  She could keep them fed, even the boy, with all of the prey in these lands she called her own.  Winter was coming, and monsters came with it, and she wanted her family as close as she could get them.  She wanted her girl back, from beyond the Dead Water, wanted her brothers altogether with her pack, and she wanted the threats gone.

There was something wrong with her wild Black Brother, and as the eldest born pup left, it was her job to keep him safe.  With a howl, Nymeria gathered her pack, and headed North for the first time in years.

A girl woke to darkness in Braavos, howling.  The direwolf that had once been Arya Stark’s shared a girl’s head every night, but this time the beast had been trying to talk to a girl, not just sharing headspace.  Nymeria had been trying to talk to Arya Stark, but Arya Stark was dead.  There was only No One left, now.

A girl locked away her dream, prayed to the Many Faced God in the form of the Northmen’s Weirwood-faced Old Gods, broke her fast, and went to train with the Waif.  A girl lost.  A girl tried not to think of Rickon Stark, direwolves or Westeros.   A girl may have been successful, for Jaqen H’Ghar gave her another test.  A girl was asked to prove she was No One, to drink a potion without fear.  And so a girl did, and had her eyes returned to her.  A girl showed no emotion, and a girl was asked to give the God’s Mercy via poison.  A girl was to go to the Mummers Square, find this Lady Crane, and give her the Gift.  A girl was now called Mercy.

A girl watched a play.  A girl was watched.  A girl watched the mummers backstage, found Lady Crane’s wine, discovered that she always had a cup after each performance in celebration.  A girl’s path was clear, but first she wanted to know why Lady Crane was to receive the gift.  And so, a girl watched some more, listened hard, and gathered rumours.

A girl went back to the House, and asked for a face.  A girl was denied, and a girl dreamed again.

Nymeria ran North, to her wildest brother, the closest.  There was something wrong – he and his boy and the woman who looked after the boy had gone to one of the big man rocks for protection, but it didn’t look like the right kind of protection.  The woman had chased the Black Brother, Shaggydog, away from the man rock, had tried to make the boy run, but they had been run down by the men’s horses.  Shaggydog had been hit with the flying claws as he retreated, and Nymeria and their other two brothers had all howled at the knowledge.

So now Nymeria was running north, north, North to find her wounded brother, and to take back his boy.

Her pack ran with her, hundreds of wolves and dogs of all sizes, all smaller than Nymeria.  She was the alpha of this pack, and if she told them she was going North, then they were all going.  It’s when her forerunners tell her of a man that she starts to sense an issue might arise in her pack.

The Hound, her girl’s voice drifts through the back of her head.

The man had been pack-not-pack to her girl, had kept her alive when Nymeria couldn’t.  He had fed her and sheltered her, and the girl had thought that he’d died for her.  Nymeria knows that the man can help her with her little brother and the flying claws he was attacked with, and even though he is a massive man, she is a massive wolf, even for her kind.

Nymeria stalks towards the man, growling a warning.  The warning is for her pack, for the ones who want to run and for the one’s who want to feast, but the man is made wary by it too.

Good.  She didn’t think he was a fool, but it was hard to tell with men; even her girl had had her moments.

“And which one are you, then?”  The Hound growls, dropping his wood-and-metal claw and watching Nymeria closely.  “You’re not Lady, I know that, and you’re not the King’s.”  Nymeria starts at the sound of the Little Sister’s man-name, ears flicking up and down once.  “If you were wild, I’d be dead.  So then.  Are you Nymeria?”

She whined at her man-name, and cocked her head at the man.

“Of course you’d belong to the little wolf bitch.  Leaves me for dead so her wolf can kill me off, is that it?”

Her girl is in the back of her head, helping the man-tongue make sense to Nymeria; they shake their shared head, stalk forward, and sniff him all over.  Once she is satisfied with his scent, she crouches, and gestures to her back with her head.

“Fuck off,” The Hound snarls.  “Your girl almost killed me, I’m not letting you finish the job!”

Nymeria huffs, narrows her eyes at him and tosses her head again.  She snarls at her pack, sends them running towards the North once again.

“North, maybe?”  The Hound whispers.  “Well, they say the Little Bird is in the North – maybe she’ll want a dried out old cunt for company.  Will you let me gather supplies?”

Nymeria rocks upright and nudges the man with her head – hurry up, she tries to say.  The message must cross over, because the man hefts his odd claw and makes a quick, limping pace back towards a man-den being made out of stripped trees.  Nymeria wants to hang back, but her girl is so curious that she goes close enough that they can see and hear clearly.

“Septon Rae!”  He calls out to a short man with dark skin and darker fur.  “I’ve got to go.  Don’t get killed.  Don’t touch those fucking mushrooms again. And burn that fucking helm already.  What did you do with the rest of my armour?”

“You’re leaving us for wolves?”  The little man askes, teeth flashing.  “Your plate and chainmail are in the river where you threw them, and you gave your sword to Stig’s son, remember?”

“Seven hells,” The Hound growls, stalking over to a bedroll and pack, throwing only a few things together and slinging them over his shoulder, hefting the man-claw and growling his way back to Nymeria.

“Listen here,” He snaps at her, ignoring the gaping smaller man and pointing a single finger in her face.  “I’m only coming because of the wolf girl and the little bird, d’you understand?  You be straight with me, and I’ll be straight with you.  Let’s go.”

Nymeria crouches again for him, and once he seems to have settled, she takes off.  It is not as easy to run with such a large man on her back, but Nymeria is strong, and her girl is more present in the back of her head since … well, since she sent Nymeria away, the wolf supposes.

Come back to the pack, Nymeria thinks to her girl.  To our brothers.  Help me save them.

Her girl is hesitant, but finally Nymeria can sense she has just nodded.

A girl is Arya Stark of Winterfell, her girl thinks to her.  And I’m coming home.

It is the middle of the night when Arya awakens.  It is the hour of the wolf, and there is no one else in the House who should be awake right now.  It is better safe than sorry though, so Arya travels quietly and quickly, finds her way to all of the little places across Braavos where she had hidden away coins, provisions, a change of clothes, and the spot off the harbour where she had tucked away her Needle.  She has made it a point since she first landed in this country to always know which ship is what, where it is from and when and where it is going next.

Right on dawn she finds the small trader from White Harbour that she had been looking for, and just as it is taking off she races across the jetty and launches herself on to the decking.  The men all turn to her in shock and anger, but she turns to the captain and speaks calmly and clearly.

“I would like to book passage home.  I can pay, and I brought food enough for the journey.”

The captain sneers at her.  “Get off of my ship.  I wouldn’t give you passage if you were Sansa Stark herself!”

“It’s a good thing I’m only her little sister, then.” Arya says bravely.  “My name is Arya Stark.  I have a castle to retake.”

“Arya Stark is dead,” Snapped the captain.

“No, that’s her alright!” One of the deckhands exclaimed.  “Arya Underfoot!  I took a delivery to Winterfell just before old King Robert arrived, and you and your little brother, the one what was crippled, you two was chasing each other all over the castle walls!  What are you doing in Braavos?”

“It doesn’t matter now.” Arya says simply.  The ship has continued to move towards Westeros the whole time they’ve been talking, but she wants to make sure.  “Can I strike a deal, Captain?”

The captain makes a disgusted noise, before turning to his first mate.  “You, get us home.  Lady Stark, in here.”

She resists the automatic I’m not a Lady, and follows him in to his cabin/study.  He wants to know why she was in Braavos, but she won’t tell him.  He wants to drop her off in the ocean, but she promises it won’t be worth it.  He wants her to pay an extravagant fee for her charter, but she had been Cat of the Canals long enough to know what the average price for a ship to Westeros should be, and she knows what a last-minute passenger might be charged, and had eventually whittled his fee back down to something reasonable enough to leave her money for when they made land.  He said if she wanted to sleep anywhere, it would have to be on deck.  She said that there would surely be room for someone her size in the cargo hold, and they had then gone round and round in circles trying to find somewhere where they were both happy for her to spend her nights.

She was not a child any longer.  She was not going to sleep somewhere it might cost her.

The man is grumbling and growling to himself when Nymeria finally calls for the pack to rest.  They have made it from the foothills of what was called the Vale, and have reached the very edge of the marshlands.

“Fucking Neck,” the man snarls when he hops off of Nymeria and sinks almost to his knees in the mire.  “Fucking Starks.”

Nymeria ignores him, and her pack give him a weary berth.  As well as they can with the terrain, they sleep in a massive circle through the grey dawn hours, the man sleeping against Nymeria’s flank.  Once the light of day is certain, Nymeria sends members of the pack to hunt for the whole group, and takes the time to try and see if she can’t find her girl.  Arya Stark had run with the pack on and off throughout the night, and Nymeria knew this to be because her girl did not trust the men around her.  Her girl was on a big man-wood structure on the dead water, and was still some distance away – would not arrive in this land for many nights yet.  Nymeria was impatient for her girl to come though; she wanted to rescue her brother, and his boy.

Her girl is lurking in the corners of Nymeria’s head when a scuffle breaks out between members of the pack.  One brindled female, Good-Mother-*particular pitched whine*, had snapped at another female over her treatment of the pups.  The last batch of pups were half-grown, and were struggling with Nymeria’s unforgiving pace.  Good-Mother-*particular pitched whine* wanted to let them rest longer, but the other female, one of the previous litter, wanted to show them how to catch the rain-singers, the small, quick, slimy creatures who tasted nice.  Good-Mother-*particular pitched whine* snapped at *huff*-young-quickbite, and Nymeria snarled at both.  Her girl told Nymeria to take blood from *huff*-young-quickbite to set an example, but Nymeria snarled at her too.  That wasn’t how to run a pack.  Both females were snarled and snapped at, and Nymeria told the pups to rest while they could, and drink plenty of water.  She told *huff*-young-quickbite that she could demonstrate how to catch the rain-singers, and told the pups to wait until they were finished going North before trying it for themselves.  Good-Mother-*particular pitched whine* she told to step back a little, and to rest as well.

Her girl is quiet, but present, in the back of Nymeria’s head.  You didn’t draw blood?  She asks.

Nymeria sends back a head-shake.  Injuries will come later, she says.  No need for blood yet.  Both females can offer more if they are kept happy.  The pack must work together.  Don’t forget again – you have been lone-wolf too long.

Her girl sends back her own nod, and then disappears again.  Nymeria misses her.

The crew of the ship eventually find out that she had been of service to the House.  Whilst it does not get her free passage, as she might have expected of an Essosi ship, it does guarantee her secrecy.  There was still a price on her head, and Cersei had revealed herself to be almost as mad as her firstborn.  The sailors agreed that they were likely to be hung for treason, if it was found out that they had had Arya Stark, and not handed her over to the Queen.  There was a girl a few years older than Arya who was the sole non-Westerosi aboard, and she suffered of a wasting disease.  She was a believer of the Many Faced God, and she had begged the mercy of the Gift, offering her face as payment.  She was pretty, a merchant girl from Volantis, and Arya knew she could use this face to get what she wanted, once they made port.  She had the girl, Ghita, tell her all she could about her trade, and then had given her the Gift.  A slip of a certain herb in her cup at dinner, and it appeared as though Ghita had simply succumbed to her disease earlier than expected.  Arya had taken her face, wrapped the body, and said the prayers of the Old Gods.  She hoped the poor girl found something better, more peaceful, in death.

As soon as the ship had made port, Arya put on Ghita’s face and one of her dresses, and made her way to the Merman’s Court.  She sneaks in to the castle, follows the shadows until she finds her way to the Hall.  Lord Wyman is easy to spot, and easy to approach; he is stuffing his face and trying not to listen to his Lannister-faced Maester.  Arya has not been herself – Underfoot, Horseface, the daughter of Winterfell – in a very long time, so it takes her a moment of standing in front of the Lard Lord in order to regain that person.

“You’re pretty, lass, but our grandfather is busy,” A young brunette to the left of the Lord says firmly, mistaking her staring for desire.

“This face is, yes.”  Arya agrees, keeping her eyes on Wyman.  “But that is not why I am here, Lady Wynafred.”  This had to be Wyman’s older granddaughter – Arya had only ever met the younger, and knew Wylla to be cheerful and to be fond of dying her hair a lurid shade of green.  They had made fast friends over Harvest Feasts, mostly because Arya had thought her hair amazing, and because Wylla was trying to win Jon over for her sister.  Bastard Arya’s favourite brother may have been, but he was Ned Stark’s bastard, and that held sway in the North – especially for two ambitious daughters who did not wish to lose their House names. 

Finally, the fat Lord looks at her, eyes gleaming as much as the fat on his face.  “What do you want, girl?”

“Valar Morghulis.”  She says, watches the recognition flash briefly through those gimlet eyes.  “The Harvest Festival of my oldest brother’s tenth year, I made you choke on your soup, my Lord – I wanted to know why they called you Lord So-fat-he-can’t-sit-a-horse, and I wanted to know how anyone managed to get so big.  When King Robb went to war, you sent both your sons to fight for him, and lost them at that Red Wedding – one to the Gods, and one to the Freys.  I would avenge them, and my own brothers, if I am able.”

Wyman’s eyes flick to the Maester, blonde and green-eyed and beautiful, and then back to hers quickly.  In a simpering voice, he says, “I am old, my lady.  My memory is not what it was, but… I could have sworn you looked like your father, gods rest his soul.”

“I have come from Braavos,” Arya says simply.  “I picked up a trade, whilst I was there.”

“So I see.  Valar Dohaeris.  What do you need to serve your vengeance?”

“A horse, for now.  My baby brother needs rescuing, and once that is done…”  She tails off, watches him carefully, keeps an awareness for the Maester beside him.  “I plan to make for the Twins, after.”

“Very good, my Lady.  Though, not further North?”

Arya tips Ghita’s face in to a moue of distress.  “Justice must come first, my Lord, no matter what else I wish to do.”

He nods a few times, at that.  “You are your mother’s daughter, truly.  You must contact me when you have need of me again, my lady.  Wynny, take the girl to the stables, and find her a good sturdy mount.  Wylla, make sure she has enough food and drink.  We will talk again, my lady.  I pray the Seven keep you safe.”

Arya inclines her head.  “May the Old Gods watch over you and yours, my Lord.  And may the Many Faced God have no need to grant you his Gift any time soon.”

Wynafryd Manderly rises gracefully despite her sudden pallor and understanding, steps around the table, and escorts Arya to the stables, whilst her green-haired sister dashes away to the kitchens.  Once Arya and Wynafryd have passed the last of the crowded corridors, Wynny spins both of them in to a spare room.

“You are truly the lady Arya Stark?”  She whispers quickly.  “Prove it.”

Arya slips Ghita’s face off long enough for Wynafryd to see her dark hair and grey eyes, and then pulls it back on again.  Wynny grins brightly, hugs Arya tightly, and then proceeds to sneak her out of a window.

In the stables she is given a roan mare by Wynny, heavily-packed saddlebags by Wylla, and oaths of fealty on behalf of House Manderly.  Arya thanks them both, and then turns the horse’s head North and East.

Rickon, Shaggydog, she prays.  Stay safe.  I’m coming!

The man nearly seems to do nothing but grumble, snarl and complain.  Nymeria now understands why her girl had wanted to tear out his throat more oft than not, and struggles to resist the urging herself.  She needs the man alive to tend to her little brother.

The little men of the swamplands let them pass without issue, and none dare to stop the pack of hundreds.  None dare to stop the Direwolf from returning to the North.

Except for one.

He stands alone, waiting for them in the middle of the Neck.  Nymeria does not know him, and neither does the Hound, who growls out a who the fuck are you?

“My name is Howland Reed, Lord of the Neck.  You are Sandor Clegane, yes?  Who is that wolf you ride?”

“Nymeria,” He grunts.  “The direwolf of Arya Stark.”

Howland cracked out a quiet chuckle, and stepped forward slowly.  “The last of the family left unaccounted for is Ned’s fierce little girl.  Do you know how she fares?” 

“She was fine enough when I saw her in the Vale two years ago.  I don’t know where she went after that, though.  Probably Braavos – she had friends there.”

In the back of Nymeria’s head, her girl is touched that the growly older man remembered what she had once told him.

Howland Reed nods, and ignores the shifting of the regular wolves.  “Lady Sansa passed through here some time ago to be married to Roose Bolton’s bastard.  I have not heard good things about their marriage.”

The scent that comes off of the Hound at that puts Nymeria’s ears back and hackles up – the sheer ferociousness of his rage at that sentence is a terrible thing.

“He won’t be in power for long,” He growls low, as wild as any member of the pack.

Howland watches him calmly.  “Then I wish you good luck in your endeavours.  Should you see any of Ned’s children, please let them know that the Neck still remains loyal to House Stark.  The Mormonts, Manderlys, and all of the Mountain Clans will all back them as well – especially with Nymeria to remind everyone to whom we owe the North.  Safe travels, Sandor Clegane.”

Once again, they move North.

The Lord of Winterfell is the Bastard of Bolton, and all of the intelligence that Arya has gathered has led her to add his name to her List.  The three days of hard riding she had done from White Harbor to Winterfell, she had been recreating her childhood home in her head, trying to recall every secret passage way, every single entry-point, conventional and otherwise, the sounds and colours and backdrops, until Arya is certain that she can blend in anywhere.

Once she hits the Wolfswood, she hides her mount and leaves Ghita’s face in place.  With this face she intends to gather information. She spends three days in Wintertown doing just that, and three nights sneaking through the shadowed corridors of her childhood home and refamiliarizing herself with the castle and all its secrets, and discovers that she missed the chance to rescue her sister as well by only a few days.  On the fourth day, Smalljon Umber arrives at Winterfell, so Arya disguises herself as a server and sneaks in.  She finds out that it is baby Rickon that the traitor has brought as a bargaining chip, and the Wildling woman who has been looking after him.  Ramsay is very excited about this, and his good humour sends chills running up and down Arya’s back, arms and neck, raises her hackles and has her half-slipping in to Nymeria’s skin to beg her to hurry.  

She is surprised to find that Nymeria is already past Winterfell, and has found Shaggydog in the northernmost section of the Wolfswood.  The Hound is being pushed forward by an equally impatient Nymeria – an arrow sticks out of Shaggy’s flank, and there are bloody, matted stains littering his dark fur, and man-paws are better suited to this task than a wolf’s.  She leaves the Hound with Shaggydog, leaves all forty-seven of the actual dogs, the five pups and three of the wolves as their protection (Good-Mother-*particular pitched whine* and two males), and then wheels south.  Back to Winterfell; back to Arya.  She ignores the Hound’s roars as the pack disappears south.

As quick as a deer and as silent as a shadow, Arya slips through deserted corridors until she can finally duck out of the window of what was once Robb’s room.  Bran had shown her this once in a fit of boredom, how to sneak from each of their bedrooms in to Mother and Father’s chambers without every using a door; she chose Robb’s simply because it was closest, and left her exposed less than any other window might.  She had heard Ramsay order the Wildling woman be scrubbed and then brought to him in his chambers, and had easily deduced that he meant her parents room.  Taking Bran’s “short-cut”, Arya sneaks in and tucks herself away in the shadows at the back of the room, out of the way and facing the door.

The man who fears losing has already lost, Syrio’s voice drifted to her from the past.  Her training in the House helped her untap the almost overlooked magic of being unnoticeable – something that all bastards of the Seven Kingdoms had managed to unlock, to some degree, on their own.  Calm as still water; I am dust, I am stone, I am the background.  I am No One, I am nothing.

Eventually her patience is rewarded.

Ramsay enters, putters around with some paperwork and writes a letter.  A terrified servant serves him a small lunch, and departs as quickly as possible to the Maesters Tower to post the letter.  As Ramsay is cutting in to an apple to finish up, Osha is brought in in barely more than a shift, looking clean and perfectly nonchalant.  But Arya is now a master of reading people’s faces, and she can see that calculating, desperate gleam in the Wilding’s eyes.

She watches their interaction, as this woman kisses and plays with the Bastard, and she sees Osha’s eyes cut to the paring knife on the table.  Of course – this woman has been looking after Rickon for nearly five years now, and she is a Wildling.  She is a Northerner, and they are nothing if not loyal.

Boltons are not.  Arya might not have Sansa’s memory for all the Houses and their histories, but she knows the North, and she knows the scariest stories of the Houses pasts, the Old Kings.  She knows why the Boltons bare the Flayed Man for their sigil, knows why they were the Red Kings, and knows why Roose, the traitor, was called the Leech Lord.  So Arya will help this Wild woman who protected her baby brother, and then she will reclaim her family’s home.

Quick as a snake and as silent as No One, Arya darts forward and slits Ramsay’s throat from ear to ear, even as he’s raising his own dagger to cut Osha.  She grabs his hand, vice-like, and whispers in his ear, “My name is Arya Stark.  This is for my brothers and sister, bastard.”

Osha keeps her mouth glued to Ramsay’s until he has breathed his last, covers his death rattles with moans.  Once he is finished, she raises herself carefully from his body, spits out blood, and never once takes her eyes off of Arya.

 “Rickon?”  Arya asks, almost gently.

“The little wolf was taken to the dungeons, I think.  Aren’t you supposed to be dead?”

“Many times over,” Arya grins back at her.  “But so is Rickon.  The only reason I went to Braavos was because I thought I didn’t have anyone left, and I couldn’t get to the Wall and Jon.  Rickon is the reason I came back.  Help me shift him?”

“What are you going to do with him?”

“I’m going to steal his face and retake this castle.” Arya answers simply, tearing a rag from his sheets and beginning to clean his face.  “Will you help me?”

“Steal his face?” Osha demands, tying the paring knife to her calf and Ramsay’s dagger to her forearm.  “What bloodmagic is that?”

“Braavosi, I think.  Or, perhaps Valyrian, at it’s roots.  It doesn’t matter – tell me all you can of him.  Please.”

“He was wedded to your sister.  We heard about it when we was with the Umbers.  They were good to us only until they could find a way to lock Shaggy up, and then we was tucked into the dungeons until they could find something to do with us, and even we heard what that pale-eyed freak was doing to her.  Heard she would scream every night from when they wed to when she escaped, but no one was game to do anything against the Boltons.  This one’s father killed your brother the King, but then this one killed his father too, and his step-mother and baby brother.  I hear the dungeons are where he does his torturing – heard they had that Theon Greyjoy, but he helped get your sister out when Stannis attacked.”

As Osha is speaking, Arya finishes cleaning the face, and then proceeds to remove it with her own dagger, making sure to cut all the way round in order to collect the hair.

“Thank you,” Arya tells her quietly.  “Can you make it sound like you’re having sex with him?  I need noise for cover.”

Osha grins quickly, wicked sharp, and then starts moving to the bed, moaning loudly.  Arya had spent enough time in brothels over the years to know a convincing act when she heard it.  With a harsh grin of her own, Arya began to quickly rifle through his desk, skim-reading what she could, and taking mental notes of what she would need to translate later.

Eventually she signals Osha to “finish”, and heads back over to the body, stripping him and pulling the clothes on over her own.  “Thank you.  I – I need to maintain a cover, so I need to send you down to the dungeons, but I can’t escort you myself.  If I put you in with Rickon, can you tell him that I’m here?  That I love him and miss him, and I’ll do everything I can to keep him safe.  Please?”

“I can do that.”  The woman says calmly, biting in to Ramsay’s apple.

“Can – ”  Arya began, stopped, and then whispered, “What does he look like now?  Rickon.”

“A bit like your King brother,” Osha says around a mouthful.  “Them red curls of his are as wild as they was when he was a pup, but his eyes have changed a fair bit – they’re almost like yours, but a bit bluer, I think; it’s a pretty blue-grey.  Looks a bit like the sea sometimes, them – whitecaps?  He’s tall now, too, near as tall as me, for all he’s one and ten.  Shot up like a weed, so I made him learn how to make his own clothes.  Him and that wolf o’ his, they was close, warg close.  He’s not gonna be good, after what Smalljon did to Shaggy.”

“Warg?”  Arya asks around a choked up throat.  She’s trying to picture little baby Rickon, and all she can imagine is Robb with a black direwolf.  But she knows this word, warg, and senses this to be of great import.

“Skinchanger.  Someone who can walk in the skin of an animal.  Rickon could do it with Shaggydog in his dreams, and knew whatever the wolf knew.  Bran, he could do it with Summer and with others.  I heard Robb and Grey Wind could do something similar, too.”

“When I was in Braavos,” Arya whispers, “I had my eyesight taken from me for a time.  I used a cat to help me see, in the beginning.  But I’ve always seen Nymeria in my dreams.  She called to me, told me to come back to Westeros for the Black Brother – Shaggydog.  He’s fine, by the way.  Nymeria found him, and has a man with her who can stitch him back up, and she left some of the pack behind to protect them.”

“How’re you going to take this castle?”  Osha askes carefully, mouth full.

Arya pauses, and thinks deeply.  She has plenty of strategies, and she thinks to run them by this Osha to see what her take is on each plan.

“There are many options.”  She settles on finally.  “I could call everyone who supports the Boltons in for a feast, poison the wine and have them drink that.  But that’s what I had thought to do to the Freys, and I don’t know how many of the people here might still be loyal to House Stark, and are just pretending loyalty to Ramsay.  I’d also thought about just cutting the throats of the Bolton men and the attending Lords in their sleep, just ask ‘em who they truly serve, but that won’t work.  I could even do an announcement that I have Rickon, the last trueborn son of Ned Stark, in my dungeons, and see what sort of reactions that gets me, and kill off the ones who aren’t still loyal to my family.  Or, I could even use the wolves to terrify them, start a whisper compaign with the smallfolk about how only those loyal to the Starks will survive, and ask the pack to remove the others.  The simplest option, of course, would be to mount this head atop our outer wall and work from there.  I hadn’t really decided yet.” 

“You are vicious, aren’t ya?” Osha says approvingly.

“I want to avenge my family,” Arya answers honestly.  “And I want to protect those who remain.”

Osha nods a few times, mulling over Arya’s plans.  “I’m a Free woman.  We’re simple folk, up past that Wall o’ yours.  I’d just stick him up where they put your Ser Rodrik’s head, and watch the rats scamper.”

Arya nods slowly.  Osha’s answer has merit, of course – Arya wanted to save the poison for the Freys, wanted to use the tale of the Rat King, wanted to see their faces when they realised that the North truly remembered.  Waking and killing men in the night may have suited the House, but it could not serve House Stark – Nymeria had been right to say that Arya had been lone-wolf for too long.  So, perhaps a combination would be best.  Play the part of Ramsay today, place his face back atop a severed head tonight, loose the wolves around these walls from the hour of the wolf till dawn, and watch as the household panicked.

“A good plan.  The screams of wolves are frightful things, and to find the Lord’s head after such a night would be… troubling.” Arya’s smile is one she saw on the Waif’s face when she contemplated killing Arya, one she has felt on Nymeria’s face against swordsmen.  Osha’s smile matches it.  “Well then.  Valar Morghulis.”

It goes even better than Arya had hoped.  Nymeria’s pack had had a great deal of fun themselves, singing the wolfsongs as though they meant for Summer and Ghost to hear it beyond the Wall, for Lady’s and Grey Wind's spirits to partake from Death’s embrace.  Arya had loathed herself most yesterday afternoon, for the farce of playing Ramsay Snow, but had come to enjoy herself throughout the night.  Ramsay’s body had been arranged on the bed, the head spitted on the wall, Rickon and Osha freed and tucked away, and herself once again donning Ghita’s face in the kitchens. 

The reunion with Rickon had been bittersweet – he looked more like Robb than the child she remembered, and he remembered almost nothing of her except she had once bested Bran at archery, and that she had named her wolf for a warrior queen.  In fact, he had trusted in Nymeria more than he had trusted in Arya, which had stung.  That announcement had convinced Arya to be less of No One and more of herself – the most she could remember being since Ned Stark’s head had left his body.  There was to be no more lone-wolf for Arya Stark from here on out.  The princess of Winterfell was about to become Alpha of the pack of the Northern Lords, had one of her beloved little brothers returned to her, and she could no longer afford to be the shade she had been in Braavos.

Those who were loyal to Ramsay are panicking, and those who served for lack of a better choice are panicking.  None know who is responsible, none know which allegiance will let them live.  Arya tries not to let that little, terrible wyrm in her heart enjoy that too much.  The Pack stopped their howls at dawn, and resumed again at sunset.  The men were discouraged, and not even the pillow girls could distract anyone from the terrible song.  At Osha’s and Rickon’s encouragement, Arya took Karstark’s head that night, and Smalljon’s the next, with the wolves singing all the while.  The talk she picked up said that few of the other Lords backed the Boltons out of anything more than necessity, with the exception of Lady Dustin.  Ghita’s face gets Arya in to her chambers, a few drops in the Lady’s tea gets a story, and without any regret, Arya adds another head to the wall and decides to sort out the matter of inheritance later.  On the fifth day, the head torturer and flayer of the dungeons is put atop the wall too.  The sixth, Ramsay’s next-best torturer, and all of the Bolton banners are burning.

People are well and truly talking about running, now, and that little wyrm raises its head once again.  Arya tries not to let it get to her, and Nymeria’s presence in her head calms her some.  So it is on the seventh day that Arya, Rickon and Osha take their place on the Winterfell dais.  Ghita’s face had been used to assure the cooks that the dais would be sat at, and all of Arya’s practice in Braavos was needed to keep the smug expression off of her face.  The order had been sent to gather all the living souls to the main hall, and the expression on their faces was priceless.  Arya wished desperately to have Jon and Bran and Robb by her side too, so that they might fully appreciate the hilarity of the situation.  Arya’s mood was so buoyed that she even wished for Sansa – bratty and eternally thirteen in Arya’s mind eye.

There were shouted questions and demands and Underfoot and Horseface and Stark!  Arya raised her own hand, however, confident as her mother, calm as her father, and the hubbub quiets.  Needle’s weight on her hip was as reassuring as it ever had been, and Rickon’s warmth at her side gave her more meaning than her own desire to survive. 

The room is silent.

“The North remembers.  You remember our father, Lord Eddard, and our mother, Lady Catelyn.  You know House Stark, and you know us, know Arya and Rickon Stark.  Ramsay Snow is dead by my hand.  Harald Karstark is dead by my hand.  Smalljon Umber is dead by my hand.  Barbrey Dustin is dead by my hand.  Shall I continue?”  She is met with silent stares and pale faces.  “When I was eleven, I watched Ilyn Payne take my father’s head – your liege lord’s head – with his own sword.  I escaped only by luck.  I took my first life.  And time after time after time, I had to hear from gossip that my family was dead.  I heard that my home was sacked, and my little brothers’ dead with it.  I heard that my sister was married to the Imp.  I made it to the Twins in time to see my mother’s body tossed in to the river, naked, to see my brother’s direwolf killed and his body paraded around with that same direwolf’s head sewn atop his shoulders.  I killed one of the men who did that.  I heard my half-brother was lost beyond the Wall.  And so I went across the sea.  I had friends in Braavos, in the House of Black and White.”

Arya allows a moment of silence, and watches as understanding blooms on the faces before her.  She feels Rickon glance up at her face, keeps her own blank, ignores his nudging elbow.

“My wolves have been in the North for weeks.  You have listened to them, this last sevennight.  They are led by my own direwolf, Nymeria.  She will be joined shortly by Rickon’s wolf, Shaggydog.  Smalljon tried to kill him and was … unsuccessful.”  The silence stretches once again.  “You must have questions?  … No?  Rickon, anything?  Osha?”  Two heads shake.  “Hmm.  Once again there is a Stark in Winterfell – there’s two, when all the world thought there was none.  I intend to keep Starks in Winterfell for a very long time to come.  I want people to continue as they were under the rule of my father – I want people preparing for Winter as best they can, and I want the Wintertown to be shoaled up.  My wolves know what they can and cannot eat, but even they will give way to temptation.  I want riders sent out to all the crofters to inform them about the pack that will guard the North from now on.  Rickon and I will take our meals in the hall with everybody else, and at each meal I would have someone sit with us and tell us of the week’s occurance, as with our own father.  On the fifth day of each week, I would ask that any complaints be brought forward so that we may offer council or insight.  Does this agree with everyone?”

There are murmured yes m’ladys.  “Now I know you are lying.  No one ever completely agrees with their lords.  Come – what ails do you have with me so far?”

One of the stablehands is finally brave enough.  “Lady Stark, the dungeons?”

“Will be emptied today.  Those beasts of Ramsay’s shall be put down, too, and can either go in to a stew or to the wolfpack, I don’t care.  Anything else?”

There were shifty looks and nudging elbows.  “Milady,” The Kennelmaster began tentatively.  “Your sister, the Lady Sansa, would be the next in line for Winterfell – that’s part of why they married her to Lord Ramsey.”

“You are correct,” Arya nods to him.  “Forgive me, but where is she?  I understood that she was no longer at Winterfell.”

“Aye, milady, she and Reek – that is, Theon Greyjoy – they escaped not long before Lord Umber’s party arrived.  They say she’s gone to the Wall, if the Wild hasn’t gotten her.”

Rickon glances up at Arya, eyes flashing through a number of emotions.

(He remembers Sansa better than Arya only by a little bit, which also stings.  He knows she looks like Mother, that she used to sing to him and let him play with her long red hair, that her direwolf died early.  He has been anxious to find Sansa, and nothing Arya says on the matter has been able to calm him properly.)

“The pack is searching for her as we speak.  I intend to send a letter to our brother Jon at the Wall as well – I understand he is the Lord Commander now.  Is there anything else?  Very well.  Break your fasts, and go about your day as normal.  I will see you all at lunch.  Maester, steward, I would speak with you this morning once you are free, if you please.”

The servants mill about uncertainly, only eating out of a desire to not go without.  Arya takes Rickon’s hand under the table where no one can see, and gives him a reassuring squeeze.  Quietly, Arya questions her baby brother about how well he remembers his letters (very little) and his other lessons from Maester Luwin (even less).  His swordplay with Ser Rodrik he remembers bits and pieces of, his archery he remembers better only due to Osha’s tutelage.  Thanks to Osha, he is instead quite skilled at the pike, and Arya askes him if he would like to learn the staffwork she had been taught in Braavos.  By the end of the meal, Arya has decided that she will help Rickon and Osha both with their letters and numbers during mealtimes, and would just let Rickon learn everything else by doing throughout the day.

After breakfast, for example, she has the steward and Maester walk the three of them through an inventory of Winterfell’s stores, and uses this to help teach Rickon how much food is needed for how many people for how long – planning long-term, and for more than a handful of people, is an almost foreign concept to him after living as a Wildling for so long.  With the Maester, they have to carefully word the letters that they want to send to Jon at the Wall, and to the Lords of the North, and figure out just how much information they want to share with their Lords – and of course, there is the issues of inheritance, since Arya has beheaded the Lords of Karhold, Last Hearth, and Barrowtown.

“The Greatjon died protecting Robb,” Arya tells Rickon, pointing to The Twins on a map of the Seven Kingdoms.  “Here.  Their Holdfast, Last Hearth, is there.  Smalljon was next in line after his father.  Had he no children, one of his brothers or even one of his sisters would have inherited.  The Greatjon’s Uncles and their get would have come next.  Luckily for us, though, he had a son, Ned, after our father.  Did you meet him at all?”

Rickon is scowling at the map, his eyes tracing the lines fiercely to commit the image to memory.

“Aye, he seemed alright – he was more scared of his father than anything.  I could smell fear on him all the time.  He would sneak in to the dungeons to speak to me.  He said I was the rightful leigelord, and that his father shouldn’t have done what he did.”

Arya nods approvingly.  “Good.  We’ll write to him to let him know that he is the new Lord, and have his father’s bones sent back as a sign of good faith.  We’ll keep the head, though, as a warning.”

Rickon gives her a wolf grin, all teeth, and asks about the Karstarks.

Arya points to the Riverlands.  “This is Riverrun, where Mother was born.  This is the Karhold.  Rickard Karstark, the last Lord, killed prisoners Robb was going to ransom, so Robb took his head.  Rickard’s elder sons, Harrion and Torrhen, both died fighting for Robb.  Old Rickard had a brother and nephews that the title could pass to, but Harald had a daughter, Alys.”

“She’s next in line?”  Rickon asked.  

“Aye.  We’ll write to her too, but we might have her come to Winterfell and swear allegiance to the Starks before we make her the Lady.”

“Should we have Ned come too?”

Chewing her lip, Arya nods.  “It’s for the best.  We can’t let it look like we’re favouring the Umbers, or letting them get off easy, either.”

“You took their Lord’s head,” Rickon said, puzzled.

“It might be considered a favour, and we could be called weak for not following through and making sure the right oaths are sworn.  We can’t trust in people’s good nature, Rickon, even in the North.  You can’t pick a monster just by looking at them.”

Her baby brother nods in understanding, furrows his brow and asks, “What about the lady you killed?”

“Barbrey Dustin of Barrowtown.  Here.  She felt slighted because Uncle Brandon was betrothed to Mother, even though she gave him her maidenhead, and then Father married Mother when Uncle Brandon died.  Her husband died protecting Father during Robert’s Rebellion, and instead of bringing back her husband’s bones, Father only returned his horse.  He died before they could have any heirs, and his brothers also died fighting for Father…”  Arya trails off, and tries to remember her Houses as best she can.  I wish Sansa was here for this, she thought.  She was always the best at this!

“House Dustin was one of the oldest in the North,” She finally said.  “They say they came from the First King of the First Men, and from the Barrow Kings who followed.  We’ll have to look through the lineage books to see if there aren’t any left through the female line.”

“So another House will take over?”

“Almost.  The new heir, if we can find one, will take the Dustin name.  If the Lady Barbrey’s goodfather had any sisters or nieces, we’ll see if those women had any second sons or daughters, and then see if they had any children.  If we’re lucky, there’ll be a daughter or younger son who will be happy to run Barrowtown for us.”

“And the Dreadfort?”

“By law it belongs to Sansa as Ramsey’s widow.  If she doesn’t want it, they say that Jon let Wildlings over the Wall, they can have it.”

“They won’t want it,” Osha pipes up.  “The Free Folk have no holdings with holdfasts.”

“Even the King?”  Arya asks, curious.  “Mance something, wasn’t it?”

“Mance Rayder.  Stannis killed him though, it’s said.”

“There isn’t another King?”

“Not that I’ve heard.  Besides, I can’t see too many of ‘em wanting to live inside them stone walls.”

“Winter is coming,” Arya shrugs.  “I’m sure they won’t mind it too terribly, for a little while.”

“My lady, my lord,” Maester Wolkan begins hesitatingly.  “There is also the issue of inheritance to Castle Hornwood.”

“Hornwood?”  Arya demanded.  “What happened there?”

“Lord Ramsay was married to the widowed Lady Hornwood,” Wolkan said delicately.  “She, ah, did not – ”

“She died?” Arya asked bluntly.  “How?”

“She starved, my lady,” Wolkan whispered.  “Though her marriage was legal in the eyes of men and gods, and her will named Lord Ramsay as her heir.”

Arya’s eyes narrowed.  “So you’re saying that Sansa is heir to the Dreadfort, Hornwood Castle, and Winterfell?  Seven hells, no, she’d go mad.  There was a Hornwood bastard, wasn’t there?”

“Yes, my lady!”

“Does he live?”

“Yes – he was fostered at Deepwood Motte until the Ironborn attacked, and then was kept prisoner until the Motte was recovered.”

Arya nods quickly.  “Bring me pen and paper, ravens and a book of genealogy, please.  Now.”

The Maester practically runs away, and Rickon turns to her curiously.  “What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to summon the Hornwood bastard here too so that we can meet him, and make him the Lord.  We’ll have to see if he’s been educated first, and send ravens to find out what sort of state Hornwood is in.”

“How much food, and everything?”  Rickon tries.  Arya smiles at him and ruffles his hair affectionately.  He grins back at her, then frowns and asks, “But, can you do that?  Make a Bastard the Lord?”

“Ramsay was Lord here, wasn’t he?”

“He was legitimised by the King,” Osha said from where she was cleaning her nails with a dagger.  “Or something.”

“We can’t exactly write to him, now can we?”  Arya scowls.

“Your brother was King,” Osha offers.  “Doesn’t that mean one of you are … something?”

Arya freezes.  “… yes.  We were called prince and princess before.  Rickon, you’re the boy – want to be King?”

“Nope,” her brother says carelessly, picking his nose.  “You can be the next King.”

Arya makes a high-pitched noise in the back of her throat.

“You Southerners like symbols though,” Osha mused, inspecting her cleaned nails.  “You’ll need a crown.” 

“Robb had one, didn’t he?”  Rickon pipes.  “Wear his.”

“It’ll be at the Twins,” Arya says.  “… I’ll wait for Shaggy and the Hound to come, and try and teach you as much as I can first, and then I’ll go to get it.  It shouldn’t take more than a week if I ride Nymeria there.”

“Take some of the pack with you too.”  Rickon says firmly.

“I won’t need them.  I’m going to poison the Freys, not battle them.”

“We have a cousin there though, don’t we?”

“Aye, apparently.  What, do you want me to retake Riverrun too?”

There is a light in Rickon’s eyes that she had seen in Robb's and Jon’s in the practice yard; in Sansa’s when she was trying to master a new stitch or song; in Bran’s when he was trying to figure out how to get to the newest heights; in her own, she was sure, when she was looking at how to get away with her next bit of unladylike behaviour.  It was calculating, sly, and wolfish.  It was hungry.  “Give half of the pack back to the Riverlands.  Have vengeance on the Freys’ who killed our family, and leave someone of your picking in charge of the Twins and loyal to Riverrun.  Give Uncle Edmure back his wife and son, and allow them a chance to remove the Lannisters from their lands.  Get Robb’s crown, and come back in time to deal with the Lords.”

Arya’s returning smile was vicious.  “Careful, little brother.  They’ll call you the Cunning Wolf before you know it.  Alright then.  Two days for Shaggy and Clegane to arrive, and then I’ll go.  Ah, Maester Wolkan!  Just on the table there.”

“My lady, you won’t have me write it?”  The Maester asked, shocked.

“What’s the point of knowing how to read and write, if I don’t do it myself?”  Arya scoffed.  “Rickon, here.  We’ll write to the Umbers first they’re furthest away – Maester, a seal, please?”

“At once, my lady!”

Nymeria had left him near a week ago with a monstrous black direwolf stuck full of arrows, three regular wolves, the five half-grown pups, and forty-seven dogs.  Sandor wasn’t overly impressed, especially when it became apparent that the whole reason he had been brought North was so he could play nursemaid to the black beast.

Once the arrows were out, the great direwolf had taken a day to recover, and then seemed ready to head back down to Winterfell.  One of the dogs had, somehow, fetched a sturdy horse that had tolerated the wolves enough for Sandor to hop on it and match the pack’s speed.  It had taken eight days all told, but finally the walls of Winterfell were before them, surrounded by that pack of hundreds.  Another member of the pack – one of the wolves who had left with Nymeria – was waiting for them with a big doggie grin on it’s face.  With a low yip, the new wolf led them straight up the road and through the fucking gates, and waiting for them was the she-wolf herself – both of them.

“Shaggy!”  A tall boy-child with Tully-red curls launches himself at the monstrous direwolf, and the pair fall over in a cacophony of giggles, growls and human snarls.

There’s a dry snort from behind him, and there’s the wolf-girl, leaning up against her own direwolf.  She’s not grown much since he last saw her, though Sandor can see that she has put weight on from finally receiving regular meals, and for now has left behind her skeletal thinness from their time in the Riverlands.

“Thank you for looking after Shaggydog, even though Nymeria didn’t exactly give you much to work with.”

“What, did the beast talk to you?”  He scoffs.

Arya smirks at him.  “Something like that.  I have another favour to ask of you, though.”

He sneers at her.  “Why should I?  I asked you for a favour once that never happened.”

Arya looks at him with those hard Stark-grey eyes.  The anger that had once defined her was not present – her face was blank, without even that faint shimmer of humour tucked in the corner of her eyes that he remembered from the last few months of their shared company.

“You asked me for the gift of the Many Faced God.”  Arya agrees.  “I did not give it to you.  I decided that if you were meant to die, you would, and if you didn’t, then I would take you off of my list.”

“How generous,” He snarls.

“There are only three names left,” Arya continues to keep that calm look on her face, one hand buried in Nymeria’s fur and the other resting lightly on her Needle’s hilt.  “Cersei Lannister, Walder Frey, and Gregor Clegane.”

This is a much smaller list than he is used to hearing from her.  He had heard stories when he was recovering with Septon Rae, and decides to pry a little.  “They say Meryn Trant died in Braavos.”  It is a leading statement, the sort of casual not-quite-bait that he had used on her in the past.

“In a whorehouse,” Arya says brightly.  “Belly stuck full of holes, both eyes gutted, and his throat slit at the last moment.”

“It was you?” He asks curiously – he remembers her anger at missing the chance to kill Joffrey, and knew that Trant had also been someone she desperately wanted to kill herself.

“Aye, it was.  I’ll tell you about it over some ale later, if you want.”  She straightens, and says, “I need my horse back first, though.”

“This nag?  A dog brought it to me.”

“The pack are loyal to Nymeria, and by extension to me.  That horse was a gift, it’ll need to be returned eventually.”  One of the pups is sniffing at the end of her cloak curiously; she bends down to let it sniff her hand, and to ruffle behind its’ ears.  “That favour I need – I’ll put you in back in contact with my sister, so long as you help protect my baby brother for me while I’m gone.”

“Where’re you going?  How long?”

“Shouldn’t be more than a week, but Rickon knows how to check for an actual date if I’m gone to long.”  Picking up a set of saddlebags and a bed-wrap by her feet, Arya moves towards him, her great wolf at her heels.  She and the wolf both loosed a loud howl, answered by the wolves.  Half of the pack that had been around the castle separated from the rest and ran South; Arya looked him in the eye, expression suddenly fierce.  “Look after Rickon.  I’ll be back as soon as I can.  The rest of the pack are searching for Sansa, and will let Shaggy know what they find.  Don’t die on me.”  She punched his shoulder affectionately, ruffled her little brother’s hair as she moved out of the courtyard, and swung herself atop Nymeria.  “Winter is coming, Rickon!  Osha, Sandor, look after him!”

The great direwolf wheeled away, a second howl echoing eerily off of the masonry and around the moors. 

Sandor turns to look at the boy beside him, and decided to try again.  “Where’s she going?” 

“I’ll tell you over lunch,” Rickon says, his face an obvious copy of his sister’s blank mask.  “Come on – you like chicken?  Arya had some prepared for you.”

Until Samwell Tarly’s return to act as Maester of the Night’s Watch, the Lord Commander, Eddison Tollet, had taken it upon himself to look after the ravens.  Typically a job for the stewards, Edd was doing it to make sure that he actually received the letters coming through. 

Jon, his sister and the Wildlings had all left two days, and it looked as though they had gone just before something truly interesting could come their way. 

Edd was opening and reading all of the ravenscrolls.  After Jon’s departure, a letter had come addressed to him from Winterfell – Edd had assumed it was some other piece of piss from Ramsay Bolton, except for the Direwolf seal on the outside in black wax.  Once he was safely back in the Commander’s office, Edd had gone through the correspondence that was meant for him – promises of men from some of the Northern Lords, queries about whether it was true that Jon Snow had let Wildlings past the Wall – before finally opening that letter for Jon.

Ghost, Lady

In Winter we must protect ourselves; look after one another.  First lesson:  stick them with the pointy end.  Come home – Lady, you have quite a bit of inheritance.

Nymeria and Shaggydog

Once upon a time, Jon had told Edd and their friends about the direwolf pups he had discovered, and how they had matched up against himself and his trueborn siblings.  Grey Wind, Lady, Nymeria, Summer, Shaggydog, and Ghost the odd-one-out.  In a literal sense, if someone wanted a very basic code that only the Starks and their very closest allies could understand, this was the way to go about it.  Edd assumed that the other bits about Winter and lessons were references to things only the Starks themselves would know, as confirmation that whoever had written the letter was who they claimed to be – the Lady Arya, most like.  Jon’s favourite sibling, who no-one had heard about since Ned Stark’s execution.

This was definitely something Edd had to pass on – the only trouble was, where on earth had Jon and Sansa gone after the Wildling camp?!

Chapter Text

The wildling woman who guards the youngest Stark is called Osha, and by the time they have made it to the dais for lunch, she has twice offered Sandor a roll in the hay.  Sandor doesn’t know how to answer that question, so he has pretended not to have heard her on both occasions, and had to put up with the tawny woman’s cackling.

Despite his colouring, the little lordling reminds him more of the Wolf-Girl than the Little Bird – fierce and sly, often being reminded to use his manners, with a banked anger burning in his eyes like coals in the hearth at midnight.  Rickon Stark uses a few scattered pleases and thank yous to get them lunch, and then begins tearing in to the food as though someone will take it off of him if he is too slow.

“We’re in a fucking castle.”  He growls at the boy.  “You don’t need to eat like that.  You’re the lord here, no one will deny you food.”  Cheeks stuffed full to bursting, the brat actually growls at him when Sandor tries to hand him his knife and fork.  Sandor growls right back.  “How old are you, boy?  Thirteen, fourteen?”

Osha, who had been eating just as quickly, if a little less explosively, grunted out, “One-and-ten, he is.”

“Ah, a tall man you’ll be, then.”  Sandor says.  “I knew your sister at that age – tiny, weedy little thing.  She hasn’t grown much since.”

“Arya’s gonna be the King until Bran comes back,” Rickon Stark says amongst a shower of crumbs.  “Don’t talk about my sister like that.”

“Knew the older one too,” Sandor continues deliberately, flicking crumbs off of his own plate, dragging it closer and placing one hand up as a blockade. 

“Sansa?”

“Aye, that’s her.  I tried to keep her safe from the cunts down in Kings Landing, and sometimes I could.  A lot of the times I couldn’t.  I tried to get her out of there, and when that didn’t work, I rescued the Wolf-Girl.  Tried to get her to your King brother and mother, but we got there too late.  Tried to get her to your aunt in the Eyrie, and was too late then too.  We ran out of money, and we ran out of food.  We knew hunger, like you have, but you don’t see me or her eating like some wild thing from the forest.”

Rickon eyes him warily, and actually finishes chewing and swallowing his mouthful before he speaks again.

“So you want me to slow down, in the man-rocks?”

“The fucks a – yeah, fine, whatever you want to call a fucking building.  If you’ve got a roof over your head or walls on either side, you eat like a proper little lord, d’you understand?”

Osha is watching him with those obsidian-bright eyes again, and Rickon is staring at him like a starving wolf.  An eleven-year-old should not look so predatory, and Sandor had spent enough time with a bloodthirsty Arya Stark to say that with a good deal of confidence and discomfort.

“Alright,” he finally agrees.  “But in return, will you teach me how to use a sword properly?  Arya said you were good.”

He considers saying no, but it’s been a while since he taught anyone anything (this is where the heart is) that he lets the nostalgia sway him.  “If you eat everything on your plate, slowly and with the cutlery.”

A chicken-filled mouth opens, and he hurriedly corrects, “Knife and fork, boy.  Those.  Now, where the buggering hell has your sister gone?”

“Sansa went North to Jon, we think,” the boy says as he awkwardly tries to use knife and fork to cut up his chicken.  “And Arya has gone to the Twins.”

The memory swims unbidden to the surface – the burning Direwolf flags, the screams of men cut down and alight, the glassy eyes of the tiny girl he held close to his chest as they galloped away from the slaughter.  “Why the fuck would she willingly go back there?!”  He hisses.

“She’s going to get Robb’s crown back,” The little boy tells him solemnly, that dull-ember rage brightening to a roaring hearth.  “And she’s going to avenge the North.  We remember, Clegane.”

“And how’s she going to do that?”  Sandor snarls.  A vein of fear trickles down his spine.

“Poison,” Osha says from the other side of the boy.  “in the wine, she said.  Though she has something special for Walder Frey.”

“Special how?!”

“Something about a Rat King,” Osha shrugged.  “But I think she’s gonna steal his face, like she did Ramsay’s.”

Steal his face … I have friends in Braavos … I know a real killer.

That trickle of fear down his spine now has a vice-grip on his heart.

“She went to the Faceless Men?”  He demands.

“She went from Saltpans to Braavos,” Rickon shrugs instead.  “She stayed in Braavos’ House of Black and White until we were captured, and then Nymeria called her back.  Will you help me with the sword later?”

“… Aye, boy,” Sandor agrees quietly.  “But I won’t go easy on you, understand?”

Rickon’s cheerful babble passed over and around him, and all Sandor could do was think on those little girls – one full of songs, the other full of rage, and both with a belly full of fear.  He had never been a religious man, despite Septon Rae’s best efforts, and yet he offered up a prayer to the Seven all the same.  You keep these Starks that are left alive, and safe, and bring them home, you gods.  They have suffered well enough.

With fewer pack members and a much slighter weight on Nymeria’s back, the Pack was making great time.  As dusk was setting, they had already crossed in to the Barrowlands, and Arya and Nymeria expected them to hit the Neck by the same time tomorrow.  Hunting is easy for the Direwolf’s Pack, and Arya had packed well.  It is her nature now to preserve her food stores for as long as possible, however, so she only nibbles on a little bit of bread and cheese. 

The spruce trees here in the Barrows produce a sap that is rubbery, and can be chewed on to enjoy the flavour and trick the body into thinking itself full.  The inner bark is also edible, if not particularly tasty.  Maester Luwin had taught Arya of it once upon a time, and she takes the time to collect globules of the sap from a couple of the trees, wrapping it in the inner bark and slipping some in to her pockets, and the rest in to her sack.

Nymeria tugs at the edges of her mind, and Arya goes willingly.

Need to stop being lone wolf, Nymeria whispers.  Will show you how to be Alpha.  Need to practice, for when the older sister comes back, and the White Brother.

Arya sent back her confusion.  Sansa is older than me.  So if she comes back, that means she would inherit Robb’s crown.

Nymeria scoffed at that, at such a human concept.  You think I became Alpha because of my brothers?  Because of my dam or sire?  No!  I made these others see me, me, as the best choice for Alpha.  You will have to do the same with your silly humans.

Wry amusement filled Arya’s chest at the actual disdain in her wolf’s mental voice.

Prove your strength.  Take back the big man-rock of your dam, avenge your brother and punish your pack’s betrayers.  Help your pack survive the Winter, and then avenge your sire too.

Surviving the winter in the terms of a wolf meant shelter, food and water, company.  Which meant that Arya was going to need to have inventories conducted at every single castle, holdfast, hamlet and farm in the North, take stock of all of the stock, all the grains, all of the fruit and vegetables that had been harvested already.  She would have to speak properly with Lord Manderly and his granddaughters about trade agreements with Essos, Dorne and the Reach.  She knew from experience that the Riverlands would have to have agreements drawn up too, after the raids of the Lannister forces.

Fuck.  Was she about to make herself King of the Trident too?  Fucking Rickon, and his big ideas, and his stupid dreams.  She’d thought he was like her, a realist, and like Robb, a planner; but of course, Sansa had been his favourite when theirs was still a happy family.  He was a dreamer, and ambitious, and greedy and hungry as any of the wolf-kings of old.

Nymeria huffed a laugh at her.

The little wild brother is greedy, is hungry, is a wolf in a man’s cloak.  And he is right; he makes you a fine Beta.

You have no Beta, Arya observed, scowling. 

Nymeria bares her teeth.  I don’t need it – my pack is hundreds strong.  Yours will be even bigger, and you cannot rule your men as I rule my wolves and dogs.  My lessons are just… guides.

The wolves were snacking – frogs, small rodents, ground-dwelling birds, just enough meat to give them energy until the pack could find something bigger to take down.  Nymeria had caught a quail earlier in the evening, just before Moat Cailin, and of course Arya had her bark and sap to nibble on.

Alpha.  King.  Doesn’t matter what you term it, my Arya Stark.  You and I, we are going to rule our lands, save our people, and survive the Long Winter.

Aye, Arya thought back to her.  We’re still here.  We’re here to stay.

Arya’s Hound had not lied, when he’d told Rickon that he would not hold back.  Initially he had walked Rickon through grips, strikes and blocks – easy, simple things that the little prince had once been taught by Ser Rodrik and his big brothers.  He had shown Rickon how to swing the blade, and then the dance had begun.

Dance was only a pretty term to dress up what was happening.  Rickon was a half-step away from being beaten more brutally than anything he had ever seen – if he slipped, if he was too slow, he could not say that the Hound would stop to spare him.  It was thrilling!

“Dog man!”  Osha called.  “Are you going to let the little Lord do his princeling duties any time today?”

The Hound pulled back, and Rickon scrambled to put distance between them himself, panting and grinning and flicking sweat out of his eyes.  Shaggy finally came forward, licking him all over as if Rickon were a newborn pup, which made him laugh.     

“Aye, alright.  Well then, boy, how was that?”

“Great!”  Rickon grinned back at him.  “Arya didn’t lie when she said you were good!  Did you train her like that too?  It doesn’t feel like anything she tried to teach me.”

“She taught you?”

“Aye, down in the crypts, where we were hiding.  Her style was more dance-like than this, but she said you travelled together for a while.”

“… Aye, we did.  I can’t say I much trained her in the blade.  Her water dancing was taught to her by a Braavosi.  Syria something.”

“And he died, didn’t he?”  The Hound only nods at that, and Rickon isn’t sure how to continue the conversation – so much of the time he spent with Osha and Shaggy was spent not talking, and if they had to communicate something, then they would use their bodies to do it.  The Hound doesn’t look like he knows much of the wolf-language, so Rickon takes a type of pity on him, and tries to use man-language instead. 

He needs to work on that, if he’s going to be surrounded by men again.

“Arya said you could help with the Lord stuff?”

“I can try.  What are you to work on, boy?”

“Reading.  Inheritance.  Stockpiles and arithmancy and planning.”

Learning to read is fun.  Seeing how the castles and lands pass from one hand to another is stupid, but he’s making himself learn.  Stocktaking is interesting, but arithmancy and planning are just dumb, and Rickon hates them.  Arya said he had to learn them though, so he’s trying his best, even if it is boring him to tears.

“Not a reader, boy?”

“It’s been so long since Mother and Maester Luwin taught me that I forgot it all,” he answers honestly.  “I had to learn other things, so I let it go; it wasn’t helpful.”

“I’ll bet.  Well, where are we going, then?”

“To the library for relearning letters, then to the stores to stocktake, then to the kitchens for reports, and then we’ll go into town so I can talk to the smallfolk.”  Rickon pulled a face.  “It’s busy today.  I want people to forget that Arya is gone, and concentrate on getting the pack through the winter.”  Shaggy nudged his shoulder.  He wants Rickon to hop on his back, but Rickon is still worried about the wounds the Umber’s flying-claws caused, and wants Shaggy to heal faster, not slower.  So he gives his Direwolf a good scratch around the ears instead, and takes off at a trot. 

He is tired and sore from the lengthy spar, but he has been tired and sore before, and no doubt will be again.  All he needs is a drink of water, and maybe a snack, and he will be fine.

“Are you coming, Hound?”  He calls.  Osha joins him quickly, and with a put-upon sigh and grumbles about brats and cunts, the hulking man follows too.

Relearning his letters goes about as well as it has any other time – slow, boring, and almost condescending from Maester Wolkan, now that his scary sister is gone – and the stocktake of the stores is not greatly different to what they had anticipated it would be from last weeks stocktake.  Rickon spends most of it sticking his nose into whatever he can so that Shaggy might smell everything, as the poor wolf has been banned from both the stores and the kitchens. 

And the kitchens!  Rickon spends the whole time pretending he isn’t drooling over the honeycakes that had been made for tonight’s desert, honestly, and he knows everybody else knows exactly what he was trying not to do, which is irksome.  The Hound only snorts at him and chivvies him from one task to another, but once they are making their way to the Wintertown, he gruffly gives Rickon a stolen cake and pushes him down the main road.  Rickon thanks him brightly and gives the old dog an affectionate headbutt, splitting the cake up carefully so that everyone has a bite, with Shaggy licking the crumbs and remaining honey drizzles from their hands.  Shaggy agrees with Rickon that the honeycakes are the best deserts, and Arya and her almond cakes can suck it.

Their first stop in Wintertown is the brothel, which makes the Hound choke. 

“I’m not letting you in there!  Your sisters would both string me up by my balls, and I wouldn’t stop ‘em!”

“Sansa might, but Arya won’t,” Rickon scolded.  “She’s the one who told me to go in here.  We need to make sure that the girls are being looked after properly, that everyone is healthy, and that the sums are all in order.  We’ll go to the next seamstress, then the masons, the carpenters, the markets, the farrier and the smith, and then the inn.  From there we can visit whatever farms are closest, and check the further ones tomorrow.”

There is a pained look on the old dog’s face, as though he isn’t sure how he is to respond to the information.  “Anyway, old dog, if Osha isn’t to your liking, I’m sure we’ll find you someone here,” Rickon called carelessly over his shoulder.  The Hound spluttered behind him and Osha cackled.  Shaggy collapsed with a huff by the front door, and Rickon let himself in.

The whores were just as shocked to see him as the Hound had been and tried to politely kick him out, but Rickon didn’t take offense.  His pelt was thick and his mind quick, so he looked at what he needed to and stuck his nose into each room while he was at it.  The whole place smelt like mating, and Rickon could feel Shaggy getting excited outside, but he ignored him.

“And how many how your girls were hurt by Ramsey?” Rickon asked the matron as he took down the rest of his figures in the little pocket book Arya had given him for this purpose.

“Three, m’lord,” the matron said, wringing her hands. 

“Did they leave any family behind?  Pups or litter-mates?”

“Pu - Babes?  Only the one, m’lord, but the babe was lost to the colic not long after we lost the mother.  The other two girls had nothing and no one.”

“I’m sorry to hear it,” Rickon said honestly, looking up from his painstakingly slow notes.  “Is there anything I can do?”

“No, Lord Rickon.  But we thank you.” The matron hesitated, then begged, “Only, could you move your Direwolf?  He’s not good for business, he turns the appetites.”

Rickon grins at that.  “Done.  Send a messenger for me should you need anything, though.  I mean it.  Well, old dog?”

“Fuck off,” the grump growled under his breath, leading the way out of the brothel.  Osha and Rickon laughed with each other all the way to the loomhouse.  Shaggy stuck his head inside of this wooden-little-man-rock, but the women inside screamed so much that he ducked back out again.  This time it was the Hound who roared with laughter, and Rickon couldn’t really deny the humour of the situation. 

“Sorry!” He called ahead, giving the cheekiest grin he could manage.  “Can I speak with someone about the accounts, please?”

“Lord Rickon, you have a steward to ask these sorts of things!” An older lady that sparked some half-forgotten memory swept forward looking worried.  “You’re a prince now, m’lord, really!  Are you shirking your duties again?”

“Not me,” Rickon informed her proudly.  “Arya put me in charge of this until she comes back.”

The older woman huffs, but gives him a fond look all the same.  “Well then, my prince, let’s go over everything together.  Through here, if it pleases you.”

They go upstairs and past the seamstresses into the office, where information is stored in locked drawers.  This is easier than the brothel had been because all the interesting sounds and smells are in specific spots, and they are all half-remembered and not as interesting for it.

As they are leaving though, they come across one of the girls giving Shaggy a good scratch behind the ears and under the chin, which is his Secret Scratching Spot.  Rickon is impressed that she is brave enough to come close to his partner, and impressed again that she would scratch such a large creature.

“Go left more,” Rickon advised, causing the girl to start.  She looks up at him with bright blue eyes set in a square-ish face, jagged black hair cut short and left free about her face to try and hide the terrible fresh burns on her left cheek.  “Don’t stop.  Shaggy was enjoying that.”

The girl curtsied hurriedly, stammering out apologies that Rickon waved off.  “Who are you?  You’re new, aren’t you?’

“Irene, if it please my lord.  I’m still new to the loomhouse, yes.”

“Where are you from?” Rickon asks.  She does not smell like the North, not really.  And she doesn’t smell the same as the seamstresses, even if she smells of them.

“Here, now, my lord.  South of the Neck originally, though.” 

Rickon can practically hear her heartbeat and smell her fear himself.  “I’m not like Ramsay Bolton,” he tells her with a frown.  “I’m not going to hurt you.  Stop being so scared.”

“Don’t ask for miracles, little prince,” the Hound drawls behind him.  “Let the girl be.  We’re losing daylight.”

He’s right, unfortunately.  Rickon gives him a nod, before turning back to Irene.  “If you need anything, you send for me at the castle, alright?”

She ducks her eyes and nods, giving Shaggy a last scratch and Rickon a quick curtsy before disappearing back into the building.

Rickon looks at Osha first and then the Hound.  “You both picked up on that, didn’t you?”

Osha hums idly, eyes trained on the door and fingers dancing on the handle of her dagger.  The Hound has a perfectly blank face on when he says, where to next, princling?  They are all the answers Rickon needs.  He turns to Shaggy, slipping his skin briefly.  In Nymeria’s absence, Shaggy has taken up as alpha of the pack.  The pack are given Irene’s scent, and asked to set a watch to her. 

We’ll see what happens now, Shaggy thinks at him with a huff.  She gave good scratches. 

Arya had thought it would take them another day or two to make the Twins, but she had been thinking in man-terms of horses and roads.  Nymeria had scolded her for forgetting, trying to share the wolf-knowledge with her, but it was too much too soon for Arya.  Instead they had slipped in to a comfortable, shared mind-space, Arya running her plans past Nymeria to see what the she-wolf thought.

Nymeria was not human.  She liked things simple, but she also liked Arya’s revenge for their brothers.

When they reach the Twins, Arya has Nymeria order everyone to take a break.  They will sleep away the rest of the night and then the show will begin.  Until then, Arya has some spying to do.

It takes nothing for her to slip in to the keep on their side of the Green Fork, Ghita’s face once again in place.  She regrets her choice quickly, however – there are not many pretty girls in the Twins, and Ghita was an Essosi beauty.  There are hands and touching and offers, and Arya is hard pressed to get away without drawing attention to herself.

She wishes she had another face, but if she changed now it would be even more suspicious than a new face in the castle.  Continuity demands that she stick to it.  Vengeance demands that she start taking fingers.  Justice demands that she bide her time.  She needs to find Walder Frey, and get everything out of him – Robb’s crown, Uncle Edmure and his wife and babe, Robb’s bones, if it’s possible.

The old Lord of the Crossing is easy enough to find.  Heavy application of wine and flirting gets her the answers she wants, and a sleepy powder in his last cup gives her the space she needs to slip away. 

The crown is kept in old Walder’s bedroom, so she gets another maid to help her carry the Lord back to his chambers, goes back to the kitchens, and waits.  She scrubs dishes and listens, as Syrio and Jaqen both had taught her.  When all is dark she sneaks herself back upstairs, quiet as a shadow, and slips back into Walder’s room.  Step one, completed.  Next step – find Roslyn Frey and toddlering Robin Tully. 

She isn’t sure how to feel, that her uncle’s wife decided to name her son for the goodnephew she had allowed to be murdered under guest right.  The old Arya, No One and nothing, would have simply killed the woman with all the rest of her horrid family, and taken the babe with her to Riverrun.  She cannot be that person, so instead she decides to question Roslin for herself.

Despite the late hour, Roslin Frey is yet awake.  She calls a quavering come in to Arya’s my lady?, her chubby-cheeked son as red-headed and blue-eyed as Rickon had been at that age.  There is no doubt in Arya’s mind that this is her cousin.

“I don’t know you,” Roslin says, dragging her son behind her and up on to the bed, stepping in front of him.  “Who do you serve?  Why are you here?”

“Valar dohaeris.  I serve the North.”  Arya tells her plainly.  “Winter is coming.”

Roslin’s breath is shaky.  “You can kill me for that farce of a wedding if you must, but don’t touch my son!  He had no part of it – I knew nothing of it until that morning, I had been so, so happy until they told me what would happen!  If I could have done anything to stop them, I would have, but I couldn’t!”

“People will say anything, when they think that they’re about to die,” Arya says coldly, watching closely.

Roslin is blinking tears from her eyes, shaking but standing firm between Arya and her son.  “On my honour as a Frey, on my honour as a Tully!  I swear to you and all those my family have devastated; I didn’t want that!  I wanted to marry my husband, whomever my family thought best, and give him children and help him run his household, and maybe have a better marriage than my parents and grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins!  I wanted my children to have a future, and live long and happy lives!  I swear it!”

The Faceless Men taught Arya how to read every single tell in a person.  Roslin Frey is telling her the truth.

“And if you could do those things?  Go to your husband, run Riverrun with him, give him more children?  Would you do it?”

“What would I have to do?”  Good, Arya thought.  She’s clever, at least, and cautious.

“Would you trust a Stark?”

“If there is a Stark left, I would hear their words.”

Arya grins at her brightly, holds her fingers to her lips, and then removes Ghita’s face.  “My name is Arya Stark.  I’ve come to reclaim my brother’s crown, and both his titles.  Will you help me?”

Roslin is still shaking and still scared, but there is a light in her eyes that Arya approves of.  “Do you swear that you will allow no harm to come to Robin?”

“My cousin has the protection of House Stark and the great wolf pack, of this I swear.  I want you to know that I will be taking my brother’s crown and my country and House’s vengeance before I go to reinstate Uncle Edmure as the Lord of Riverrun.  I want you to tell me those who are innocent, and I want you to have everything you and Robin will need ready to go soon.  Will you do this for me?”

“You will spare the innocents?”

“Aye.  Who of them would you have me place in the Lord’s position once the guilty are gone?”

“Anyone?”

“Anyone.”

“Tyta.  They call her the Maid, even if she’s six-and-thirty, but she has a solid head on her shoulders, and she would be the next eldest of Father’s children to yet live when you finish.  She will do whatever she must to keep the others in order.”

Arya gives her that hungry wolf smile, bows, and says be ready.

“Your grace!”  Roslin calls just as Arya touches the doorhandle.  “If – when I have a daughter, my Queen, would it be alright, if, could I name her for your mother?”

Arya’s hands spasmed on the knob, and it took all her courage and all her training to keep her face blank.

“My title is King, Lady Tully.  And if my uncle is amenable to it, then I would be … honoured.”

She sneaks from the room and ghosts up to Lord Walder’s once again.  She will have her vengeance on the blight of a man.  She will avenge her family.  And in only a few years, if everything works out, there will be another Catelyn Tully in the world.  For now, Arya has to contend herself with that.

“Lord Walder.  Wake up, my lord.  Wake up!”

She has donned Ghita’s face once more, and gives the prettiest smile she can, copying the early memory she has of her sister in the presence of Joffrey and overlays the whores of Braavos atop it.

“Eh?  What do you want, girl?”

“You, my Lord.”

Rheumy eyes drag up and down Ghita’s figure.  “…You’re not one of mine, are you?  No, too pretty by half.  Eh, eh.  Well then, girl, come here.”

Keeping the pretty, vapid look upon her face, Arya settles herself on the edge of the bed.  Closer, Walder urges, and closer again until she is nearly in his lap.  She promises herself that she will have the longest, soapiest bath of her life when this is over.

“I want to tell you something, my lord,” She whispers, copying the sultry tones of the whores who had bought the oysters and clams and cockles from Cat of the Canals, back in Braavos.  She learns forward, and asks, “Will you hear it?”

“Eh, eh!  What is it, girl?”

“My name, my lord!”  She giggles, leaning close enough that she can smell his horrid breath, feel it puff across her face; she stays far enough away that he cannot easily kiss her.  “Will you hear it?”

“Well, get on with it, girl!”  He growls, eyes hungry on Ghita’s face and chest. 

She fingers the knife she tucked up one sleeve.  Her smile changes from love-struck to a hunger of her own, and she breathes, “My name is Arya Stark.  I want you to know that.”  She leans back, pulling Ghita’s face from her own.  “The last thing you’re ever going to see, is a Stark smiling down at you as you die.”

She wants to cut his throat, as Mother’s was.  She wants to stab him in the heart, like Robb, or in the belly a half-dozen times, as Robb’s mate had been.  She wants him to choke on his own blood, on poison, to drown in his tub, to strangle him with his own belt or chain of office.  She wants him to suffer, gods be good, she wants to pay him back for everything that had happened at the Red Wedding and after, and she can’t.  A King ought to be just, even in vengeance.  So she plants her knees on his upper arms, places her own forearm against his throat and pushes.  And she makes him suffer.

“I’ll call them all back; all your blood who participated in the murder of my family.  I’m going to poison the wine and kill them slow for what you did.  And I will make sure that they know it was a Stark who did it.  I’m going to give Riverrun back to my Uncle, I’m going to be King of Winter and King of the Trident, as Robb was.  And Walder of House Frey is going to vanish into the history books.”  The light is disappearing from his eyes when she spits, “Winter has come, my lord.”

It doesn’t take much to call all of the Freys together.  There are many who are participating in the siege of Riverrun, and the pack would deal with them in time.  In the morning Arya slips about in both old Walder’s face and Ghita’s, and even her own when she goes to Roslin for information on who to kill.  Roslin offers her tea and biscuits, and though her belly rumbles and her throat is so dry, Arya declines.

“Your Grace, you must eat!” Roslin stammered, brown eyes worried.  “You are already so thin, so small!”

“And break guest rite, myself?” Arya snaps.  She doesn’t mean to be angry with this wisp of a woman; she is just so hungry.  “Tonight, and all shall be well.  Have you spoken to Tyta yet?”

“A-aye, my king.  She begs you spare the innocents, but elsewise accepts your terms.  House Frey will serve House Stark from now until the end of time, on pain of the extinction of our house.”

“And have you packed everything you and Robin will need for the journey?”

“Everything bar food is ready to go, your Grace.  I didn’t want to be too suspicious.”

Arya nods at the sense of it, and looks about the room.  “May I?” She asks, gesturing to Robin.

“If he’ll let you, my king.  He’s slippery as a river-polished, algae-covered rock.”

Arya smiled, and whispered, “Nay, sweet aunt.  He is as slippery as a Trout.  Robin, come here, please.”

The boy stumbles towards her, babbling something or another, and Arya scoops him up.  It both was and wasn’t all that long ago, that she did the same with Rickon, or the smallfolk of Winterfell.

“You will be lord of Riverrun, one day,” Arya whispers, tickling the little boy’s tummy and making him squeal with laughter.  “And you are going to remember your cousin Arya, and know for whom you were named, and how you were spared.  Family, Duty, Honour, Robin, remember that.”  Turning back to Roslin, she says, “Please make sure you have two sturdy horses ready to go.  One will take you and Robin, and the other is going to carry your supplies, alright?”

“Aye, your Grace.  When, ah, when will we leave?”

“On the morrow, I suppose, if not as soon as my business is concluded,” Arya hums.  “Long enough for me to install Tyta and make sure that her will is followed, and that my will is followed, first and foremost.  We’ll be traveling with the pack, too, so make sure the mount you pick isn’t too high-strung.  I’ve already sent half of them on to Riverrun to harass the seigers there.”

“Yes, your Grace.”

She flits about for a few hours longer, even stopping in to speak with Tyta the Maid for a short time herself, hashing out exactly what she wants, and reminding the new Lady of the Twins just what was at stake if she did not follow Arya’s rules.  There is an agreement to send the Northern bones back to their families, where possible, and a request to foster one of the babes.  And then finally, it is time. 

Wearing Walder’s face once more, she sits upon the dias and watches the gathered monsters just below her.  Catching the eyes of Roslin and Tyta, Arya inclines her head.  Both women stare back at her, sad and resolved in equal turns, and give nothing away when Arya thumps Walder’s goblet a few times to grab the men’s attention.  She gives them a pretty enough, realistic enough speech about the greatness of this House, makes a joke about Walder’s tight pockets, and then raises the goblet of poisoned wine.

“A toast!  Now this isn’t that Dornish horse piss; this is the finest arbour gold!  The finest wine, for proper heroes!  Stand together.”  The men drink, and Arya stops the poor new wife, widow, of Walder Frey from partaking too.  “Maybe I’m not the most pleasant man, I’ll admit it, but I’m proud of you lot.  You’re my family, the men who helped me slaughter the Starks at the Red Wedding!  Yes, yes, cheer.  Brave men, all of you.  Butchered a woman pregnant with her babe.  Cut the throat, of a mother of five.  Slaughtered your guests, after inviting them into your home.”  Those who Tyta and Roslin had advised against drinking are looking about them in apprehension.  The men who drank are all starting to cough, and clear their throats, and Arya knows what is coming.  But, you didn’t slaughter every one of the Starks.  No no, that was your mistake.  You should have ripped them all out, root and stem.  Leave one wolf alive, and the sheep are never safe.”  She pulls off Walders face, and smiles down at the dying me.  She is the last thing that they see.  And fear is all she can see in their eyes.  This went better than she thought it would.

Turning to Kitty Frey, she smiles again and says, “When people ask you what happened here, tell them the North remembers.  Tell them, Winter came, for House Frey.  Lady Tyta, I leave you in charge of this Castle.  From this day, until the end of your days, House Frey will serve House Stark, and all mine rules.  Roslin?  Fetch your boy.”

She calls upon her memories of her lady mother, and does her best to glide from the room.  (she is not a lady – it is less a glide and more of a shadow’s slide, an assassin’s prowl).   She will not clean up this mess.  She shall leave it to the Freys, to drive her point home.

She cannot stop at the kitchens, for she fears what the Old Gods might send her if she did.  So she goes to gather Robin and Roslin’s luggage, and has Roslin do it in her stead.  Outside of the castle, Arya chews on some of the sap and bark she had prepared back in the Barrowlands, and calls for the pack.  Nymeria and half of the hundreds of wolves who had come back south with her swarm in to the castle grounds, howling and baying a frightful song.  Arya asks for volunteers; those who agree will bare her words to all those who need to know – Northmen and Riverlords and all.

The North Remembers.  Winter came to House Frey; Tyta Frey is new Lord of the Crossing, by my hand.  Valar Morghulis.

It is signed with a Direwolf in white-on-black wax, in what is to be her own personal sigil.  It is signed Arya Stark, Daughter of Winterfell.  King of Winter and King of the Trident.

The little wolf-bitch had been gone for a week when a wolf appears with a missive tied to it’s neck with a strip of leather, and the lead for a pony held in it’s jaws.  There’s a little rat-faced girl seated in the saddle, looking at her surroundings miserably.

Shaggydog,

Rat King given his due.  Twins handed to new mistress.  The girl Della I have taken on as a handmaiden.  She is deaf and one year younger than yourself, so be kind, and have her assist you however you best find her able.

I’ve gone on to the River with our cousin, as you suggested.  Perhaps another week, dear brother, and then I shall come back to you.  Send missives to the holdfasts to conduct an inventory of their stores, and please return that horse.  The Moose should be close, don’t do anything stupid, lean on Hound for advice where necessary, look in to marriage with the female line.  Any word from Ghost or Lady?  There are rumours about what stirs beyond the Wall, talk to Osha.  Will we need to open lands up after all?

All my love, Nymeria

“Another week?”  Sandor demands, having read over the little lord’s shoulder.  “What’s all this mean, anyway?”

Rickon gives him a biting smile, and instead says, “Let’s settle Lady Della in.  Would you see to her horse, Hound?”  The prince gives the lady a good attempt at a gallant bow, and offers his hand to help her down.  She squints back at him suspiciously, but more-or-less allows Rickon to help her dismount.  She doesn’t do or say anything when Rickon takes her bags and offer his arm, and she only looks a little panicked when Sandor takes her horse.

“Shaggy?” Rickon calls, and to the girl’s credit she doesn’t react when the massive Direwolf launches himself at Rickon, tongue lolling, and then proceeds to sniff and lick her all over.  Rickon smiles brilliantly, pats the little Lady’s hand, and starts to tug her towards the main keep.  “We’ll put Lady Della in Arya’s old room, please,” the boy calls to the stressed steward.  “Arya will be back soon, too, so please ready the Lord’s chambers for our King.”

Sandor thinks that when the boy forgets that he’s half-wolf and half-wildling, he does a spectacular impersonation of his lady sister and her courtesies. 

Rickon takes them to what had once been Eddard Stark’s solar, escorts Della to a chair and gives her a bow.  The wolf who had born the message had followed them cheerfully, stopping by the front door to piss and to nip at one of the larger dogs, and had taken up a guard post by the solar door.  The dog and one of the half-grown pups joined it; the princeling snorted at them, gave them all a scratch behind the ears, and then closed the door once Shaggydog had taken his place by the hearth with a huff. 

“So who’s this then?”  The wildling woman asks, leaning against the wall and watching the little lady with cold eyes.

“Della Frey,” Rickon says, rummaging through the desk draws.  “She’s gonna be Arya’s handmaiden, whatever that is.”

Sandor snorts.  “She’s supposed to help your sister look appropriate; do her hair, set out her clothes, run missives for her, make sure everyone knows that the King is coming.  Those sorts of things.”

“That’s stupid,” Rickon scowls at him, a goosefeather quill tucked behind one ear as he mixes up some ink.  “Arya’s grown, she can do all of that herself.”

“Kings and Queens and Lords and Ladies are supposed to be fancier than everyone else,” Sandor tells him, trying not to laugh.  “So they have people to do everything else for them.”

Rickon snaps out something in what is probably the First Tongue that makes Osha give a harsh cackle.  Sticking his tongue out in concentration, Rickon writes out a scratchy note for the lady – do you reed?

“Read has an ‘a’, not two ‘e’s,” Sandor offers whilst the Lady is looking over the boy’s terrible handwriting.  “Otherwise you’re talking about the plant.”

Rickon bites at him half-heartedly, and the little Lady looks up to give a nod.  Rickon grins at her, and pulls out a sheaf of papers and hands over the quill and inkwell.  She takes it, and sets up a growing list of questions.

As she writes, Rickon straightens out Arya’s note once again.

“Walder Frey is dead and replaced.  Arya’s gonna be longer since she’s taking Uncle Edmure’s wife and babe back to Riverrun.  She wants us to send out missives to all of the castles to see if we can last the Winter; if they cannot, Arya has plans for foreign trade.  I need to take Lord Manderly back his horse, so I’ll probably talk to him while I’m there about some of the plans she sketched out.  The Hornwood bastard should be arriving soon, so we need to get his mettle, and see if there are any daughters from the female Hornwood line that might accept marrying him to rebuild the House.  We should probably send another message to the Wall to see what is keeping Jon and Sansa; the pack who went to track them were confused and lost the scent at a river, but they’re still looking for us.  Osha, that thing that wasn’t Bruni, the reason you left the Real North – is there more of them?”

The woman has gone white.  “Aye, little lord.  There’s a whole army of the Others up Beyond the Wall.”

“Fire stops them?”

“It stopped Bruni.”

“Then we’ll write missives warning about the dead men who walk, and advise that all holdfasts, villages and hamlets keep a central fire burning.”

Della looks up at them then, tapping on the desktop to grab their attentions.  The letters were far neater than Rickon’s, but that wasn’t particularly hard to begin with.

I am Della Frey.  I have been sent to act as a handmaiden to the King of Winter and the Trident, Arya Stark.  Who are you?  Why is the King not here?  Why is she not called Queen?  How long am I to act as handmaiden?  Am I supposed to marry in the North?  How did her grace become King?  Why are your letters so terrible? 

“We’ll be waiting too long if we let you answer all of that,” Sandor growls, dragging a new sheaf towards himself, and writing large enough for the other three to see.

Sandor Clegane; Prince Rickon Stark; Osha; Shaggydog.

Arya retaking Riverrun, should be back in a week.

King because she wanted to be, it’s King in the North or King of Winter, not Queen.  Took the title for her people, for her home, for her ghosts.

Don’t know anything about your future.

Rickon hasn’t had to know his letters in years and forgot.

There is a fine tremble in the little lady’s hands, but otherwise she is perfectly poised.  

“What army are you talking about?” Sandor growls at them, whilst they wait for Della to finish reading his replies.

“The dead are marching South,” Osha says simply.  “It’s the reason why so many Free Folk were tryin’t cross the Wall.  We want to live.”

“You expect me to believe that horsepiss?” He snaps back, hackles raised.  He nearly died for the Wolf-bitch in the War of Five Kings.  He does not wish to risk the same again in this war for the living, especially if fire is the only thing that will beat them.

Della taps her forefinger to the desk twice, almost delicately.  It grabs their attention, and postpones the fight before it can truly begin.

The Frey army has been trying to reclaim Riverrun for near two years.  How does her grace expect to reclaim it within a week?

Sandor looks to Rickon, reading the question aloud for the little prince.

Wolves and poison, is apparently the answer.  Sandor wishes he could see that!

Am I to be confined until the King returns?

Rickon takes the quill back, and painstakingly scribes, Do you no know how to run a household?  At Della’s nod, he continues.  Then you shall follow me and help me until she comes home.

They are nearly to Fairmarket when the scouts, or vanguard, or whatever other human words want to be applied to them, have found a cottage up ahead.  Nymeria sees it through the eyes of the scouts, and Arya sees it through Nymeria.  She knows it.  This is where Sally and her father had taken Arya and Sandor Clegane out of mercy; Sandor had robbed them so that he and Arya could live.

The scouts say that they yet live, if barely, so Arya begs them find father and daughter and bring them to her alive.  The scouts aren’t impressed, but comply all the same.

She and Roslin keep moving forward at a steady pace; Ayra explains the basics of what is happening to Roslin, before looking through the pack’s eyes. 

Sally and her father, understandably enough, aren’t impressed either when a handful of wolves let themselves in to the cottage, sit, and glare at them.  White trouble-mischief-quick and brown steady-*growl*-cranky don’t really know how to handle humans, so they try and treat the terrified people as wayward, slightly slow pups.  Whining, growling, gesturing their heads and even snapping, Trouble and Steady herded Sally and her father northwards and east in to the path of Arya and the rest of the pack.

It takes time on both accounts for them to finally meet in the middle.  Arya has her cowl bound to her head with a scarf, the former low on her forehead and the latter high on her nose so that only her eyes are easily visible.  Roslin and Robin are equally protected from the harsh almost-winter winds; the three of them must strike an impressive figure.

“Who are you?” The man demands.

“My name is Arya Stark, of Winterfell,” She says softly, tugging at her scarf and cowl.  “Once, some years ago, you harboured a giant man and a girl he called his daughter.  The man was named Sandor Clegane.  The girl was me.  We did you a disservice, and I’m sorry.  I should have tried harder to get your coin back to you, but we were starving too.” Arya looks to Trouble and Steady, through her eyes then Nymeria’s then her own again, and the two back away from the humans.  “You are suffering because of our actions.  Let me repay the debt I owe you.”

“Have you any more coin or food to your name than when last we met?” The father sneered.  Arya stares at him, so he spits, “Then we shall survive on our own.”

“You won’t.  You can’t.  Winter is coming, and you have nothing left to your names.  Let my wolves take you to Winterfell where you can find work and food and shelter.”  She dismounts from the second horse, and strips what she and the Tullys will need, and leaves enough for Sally and her father.  “Trouble and Steady will go with you and keep you safe, and guide you to Winterfell.  My brother Rickon will look after you until my return.”

“And where are you off to, that you will not escort us yourself?” 

“I have to return my aunt and cousin to Riverrun, and help my uncle and great-uncle take it back from the Lannisters.  It shouldn’t take too long.”  Arya rummages through her bag for paper and quill.  “I’ll send a message with you.”

“What would you have us do, m’lady?”  Little Sally asks, voice quieter than a sept-mouse.

“Your Grace,” Roslin corrects gently.  “Arya Stark is King of the Trident, and King of Winter, as her brother before her.”

“There is much farmland that needs tending, in the North,” Arya offers.  “Elsewise, there is plenty of positions to fill in Winterfell itself; in the kitchens, as a maid or manservant, the kennels, the stables.”

“You carry a sword?”  Sally whispered again, black eyes wide.

“I do.  I don’t have a squire, if you’d like to fill that position instead.”

“It isn’t a girl’s place to fight,” Her father spat.

“And yet, it’s something I happen to be very, very good at.  If you would like, I’m happy to teach you your letters, Sally, your numbers, the running of a holdfast – gods know I’ll need a hand keeping my brother in check, in the years to come.  But if you want it, I can teach you the sword, the staff, knifework, poisons and antidotes.  I can teach you how to be anyone.  But that is up to yourself.”

She turns to Roslin and says, “We may as well break here.  Let Robin stretch his legs, the wolves will mind him for us.”

“Are you sure, your grace?”  Roslin asks, worried for her son.

Arya ignores the doubt – her own mother had been worrying about such things right up until they left for Kings Landing, and her children had been six and ten and eleven and thirteen and seventeen, and well past the age of being worried over – and instead sets about setting up a simple camp, cookfire and blankets beside it.

“Your name?”  She asks the father.

“Lothor,” He growls out. 

“Lothor, Sally, would you like to come with me to Winterfell, then?”

Lothar grumbles and growls, far crankier than Arya remembers him being – hunger does that to a man, Arya’s found – but eventually, he acquiesces.  Arya offers Nymeria to take him back to pack up what he needs from the cottage (not that she imagines that there is much, but all the same), and says she will have food ready by the time he returns.  He is unwilling to leave his daughter behind with Arya, but Nymeria doesn’t really have the room for two.  He could take the horse, he argues, but Arya isn’t a hundred precent sure the beast would come back to her, elsewise.

The fire is built and a pot of tea is burning when he finally takes his leave.  As soon as Arya knows that he cannot hear her, she turns to Sally and gives her a smug smile. 

“Sword, staff or dagger, then?  It’s your choice.”

Larence Snow is the bastard of Hornwood.  His father died at the battle on the Green Fork, and his half-brother Daryn had died at the battle of the Whispering Wood.  The best he could have hoped for, whilst they lived, was to perhaps become Daryn’s Master of Arms, or Steward, or something similar.  Certainly, that was what was covered in his education at Deepwood Motte, where the Glover’s had kindly fostered him over the last six years.

But now his family is all gone, even Lady Donella, and he is the only Hornwood left.

(Father’s sister is Lady of Torrhen’s square, and Father’s aunt had been the wife of Arnolf Karstark – there are yet those with the Hornwood blood.  His is just the closest claim to the name, even if he is a Snow.)

The summons to Winterfell worry him.  He has been on the road all week, since the message first came, and the whole time he has been thinking of Lady Donella.  They had not been close, not by any stretch of the imagination, but to starve to death is not something he would ever wish on anyone.  Even if the summons had been signed with a Direwolf, the wax used had been black instead of white or grey, and neither Lord Glover nor the Maester had known what that meant.  Was it the Lady Sansa, who had been forced to wed the Bastard of Bolton?  Was it a trick?  Or perhaps it was something else entirely – could Jon Snow have left his position as Lord Commander to rescue his true-born sister?  That’s what little Lady Erena said, but she was not even eight yet, so what did she know.

But a summons from the Liege Lord was a summons from the Liege Lord, so here Larence was.  Lord Robett had wanted to accompany him, but just in case it was for the worse, Larence had begged to go alone.  There had been times when he had regretted it, when he was lonely or when there had been strange noises at night, or the sounds of large companies of men racing past, but now he was here.  Winterfell loomed above him, and Larence found himself shaking with his nerves.

What was to happen to him?  Was he to be flayed?  Fed to dogs?  Instated as Lord – hah!  Not likely, that last one!

“Staring at it won’t open the gates, y’know.”  Larence nearly fell off of his mount he jumped so, when a voice piped up from his elbow.  It was a boy, young and willowy, with copper curls and icy eyes.  “Who are you?  Why are you here?”

“L-Larence Snow!”  He squeaked back, before calling on what courage remained to him.  Righteous in Wrath.  “Who are you, boy?”

The return smile was sharp, and far better suited the wolves that had risen up out of the snow than the boy they flanked.  He shifted so that his cloak revealed a leather-backed gorget with twin direwolves.  “I’m Rickon Stark, Prince in the North.  My sister has been expecting you.  Come – we have much to discuss.”

A massive black Direwolf rose from the clump of bushes beside Larence’s mount, but despite the horse being a spirited mare who was known to jump at kittens, the beast held steady.  Prince Rickon’s eyes looked to roll in the back of his head for a moment, but were back to their icy blue-grey once again.  The boy swung himself atop the great Direwolf, and gave Larence such a cheeky smile that he felt a matching grin sneak across his own face.

“Shall we?”

Boy and wolf took off at a quick pace, and Larence tapped his heels to the horse’s withers and tried to catch up to them.  The regular wolves who had originally flanked the Prince split in to two factions – three followed the road with them to the castle, whilst the remaining four spun and started to run a perimeter. 

As they came upon the gate, Rickon called out to the guards, “Larence Snow, bastard of Hornwood!  Stand down!”

They cantered in to the courtyard, the young prince jumping from his wolf as the great black beast skidded to a stop.  There was a little girl waiting for him, arms folded like a perfect lady and dress finely cut in a dark blue, rat-like face serene.  Rickon bounded up to her, a massive grin on his face and fingers twitching about in slightly exaggerated descriptions.  A thumb was jerked back at Larence, and then a soft, almost wavy motion with both hands above the head, drifting down like snow.  The girl only raised her eyebrow haughtily, before turning away from Rickon to sketch Larence an elegant curtsy. 

“Larence Snow, this is Lady Della Frey.  Put your horse away over there, and Shaggy will bring you to us.”  The wolf panted happily at being addressed, giving a doggy grin.  Rickon turned back to face the young lady once again with a smile, only for her to lean forward slightly, raise both brows and shake both flat hands at shoulder height.  Rickon pointed again, hands flying up to demonstrate something in the odd language of the pair.  Larence felt a moment of jealousy – what a great friendship the two must have, to have a secret language together.  What it must be like, to be a young trueborn noble and carefree.

The black Direwolf escorted Larence to the stables and back to where Rickon and Della continued to wave their hands at each other.  Before he could do more than draw his breath to announce himself to his lord, there was a most human growl behind his back.

 “There you are you little shit,” the man himself was tall, tall as the Umbers, with North-dark hair and bright eyes and terrible scarring across the right of his face.  He was dressed in the Northern style with three black dogs stitched at the collar of his jerkin.  “First I chase the Little Bird across the Red Keep, then I follow the Wolfbitch across half the Riverlands and back again, and now I have to deal with you?  It ain’t happening, boy, I do this only as a favour to the girls.  Stop leaving me to the tender mercies of the wildling bitch of yours!”

Rickon gave a hard look to the tall man.  “Don’t call Osha names.  If you don’t want to bed her, just tell her so and she’ll leave you be.  What did you want?”

“The Wolfbitch sent another message whilst your lordship was hiding from his duties in the wild,” the man snarled sardonically, handing a small scroll to the prince.  “Also, the steward wants you.  Stop running off.  You – who are you?”

“Larence Snow, ser.”

“I’m not a ser, boy.  Come on then, let me test your mettle – you know how to swing a sword?”

“Yes!” 

“Good.  Brat, what does your sister say?”

“She’s taken a squire, she wants to know my opinion of the new lord, if I did the research she wanted me to and if I’m looking after Della properly.  If Jon and Sansa have contacted us, again.  If I’ve been practicing the staff moves she wanted me to, and whether or not I’ve shown them to Della.  If I’ve killed you yet, or you me.”

“She has such faith,” the burnt man growled.  “Write her back, then, and once you’ve finished you and the girl come back for another round at staves.  You, Snow – with me.”

Lothor doesn’t like Arya, and thinks her mad.  Sally idolises her, and thinks she’s amazing.  Little Robin loves her dearly, and Roslin thinks her too clever for her own good, and too brave by far.  Nymeria is amused by the new additions to their tiny pack, and most of the rest of the wolfpack is too busy harassing the Frey siege to really care.

What ought to have taken Arya and the wolves another day and a half, what would have taken her with Roslin and Robin nearly four, ends up taking close to a week.  It would have gone quicker if Lothor and Sally had just taken the second mount and headed for Winterfell on their own, as Arya had intended.  Instead the grouchy farmer had insisted on travelling with the girls and babe, as “protection”.  Arya had shown off some of her water dancing and House-trained staff techniques to persuade him of her capabilities, but all it had done was have him insist that she teach him and Sally both in the way of both instruments.  Arya was at her wits end with him, and held him responsible for the babe trying to take up the sword too.  All three girls were in agreeance that Lothor’s insistence on taking up arms was the reason they all had stick-bruised shins.

It was with great relief that they finally spotted the smoke of the camp fires of the Freys.  Arya and Sally had snuck to the top of the ridge to spy on the encampment, Sally’s sharp young eyes and Arya’s experience favouring them indeed.  It was clear that the Freys had no idea about how to lay a siege, and clearer still that the wolves had been successful.  Through Nymeria, Arya had warged the great pack to pick certain herbs and sneak them into the campfires for hallucinations, into the cook pots for the runs, and into the water barrels to slow and poison the general troops.  To see the results of everything brought a truly wicked smile to Arya’s face, and a savage pleasure to roost in her chest.

“How many do you count, squire?” She whispered.

“Shy of three hundred, my King.”  Sally answered promptly.  The girl was quiet, certainly, but that did not mean she was anything less than sharp.  “But a company approaches from further South.”

Surprised, Arya flicked her eyes where Sally pointed.  Calling to Nymeria, she sent the wolves out to terrify and harass, and bundled Sally back down towards their little group.

“Lothor, Sally, stay down and stay hidden,” Arya snapped.  “Roslin, mount up.  Our chance here is slim.”

Pulling a face from her pack, Arya drags herself up on to the spare horse, turning to Roslin and asking quickly, “Tell me of this brother of yours, Roslin, quick, all that you can!”

Roslin shrinks back at first, before spilling a thousand stories about a terrible brother who took great pleasure in being as horrible as possible and fucking anything that would stay still long enough.  Arya wishes she’d taken literally any other face than Walder Rivers, but it’s too late for that now.  Between Roslin’s memories and the Faceless magic, Arya feels that she will be able to pull everything off.  Their combined Frey faces are enough to get them through the milling “warriors”, enough to get them to just behind Black Walder and Lame Luthor. 

“I slit your niece’s throat from ear to ear!”  Walder calls up to the battlements, to an elderly man with Mother’s nose and a fish centred on his armour.   “Where were you?  Running and hiding like a fucking coward!  Yield the castle, or I cut his throat!”

“Hail!”  Arya calls, dismounting and striding over to the two Freys and a battered Edmure Tully.  Roslin and Robyn she has remain astride, just in case.  “I bring word from the Twins!”

“Fuck off, Rivers, we’re busy,” snapped Luthor. 

“Lord Walder is dead,” Arya projects, so that all might hear.  She is not as good as Sansa, cannot make it seem as though her voice cuts across all distances clearly without any effort, but she does her most subtle best.  “As are most everyone who was involved with the Red Wedding.  Tyta’s been put in charge, by order of the King.”

“What the fuck?”  Gasps out Black Walder, grip on Edmure Tully going slack.  Arya moves closer.  “What King?”

“Arya Stark, daughter of Winterfell.  She poisoned everyone with the wine.”

Lame Luthor hobbles closer, rubbing at his jaws. “But you and Roslin –?”

“You need to return Roslin and Edmure to Riverrun, and hand the castle back to the Tullys.”  Arya says firmly.

“But how are you here?”  Black Walder demands.  “You’re as guilty as any of the rest!”

“I’m the messenger,” Arya says simply, trying for a touch of fear.  “The North remembers.  Winter came for House Frey, and unless we give the castle back to the Tullys, we’re all dead.”

“A girl calling herself King can fucking try!”  Luthor snarls, releasing Edmure to stalk towards Arya.  “We’ll turn the brat back and show her!  We stand together!”

“Well,” Arya sighed back to Roslin.  Her aunt took her cue well, turning Robin’s head to her chest to hide his eyes.  “You had your chance.  You,” she snaps at her uncle.  “On the horse.”

Needle practically jumps from its scabbard to her hand, flashing out to poke clean through both Walder and Luthor’s necks, and slice Edmure’s noose.  Grabbing her uncle and tearing Luthor’s face from her own, Arya swings them both up on to the spare horse and kicks them straight for Riverrun, even as the remaining members of the pack loose a death knell, tearing through the camp and attacking whomever they can, sowing discord in their wake.

The two horses are racing for the bridge, and the blasted thing is still raised.  “Lower the fucking bridge!”  She screams.  Nymeria is racing for them too, Lothor and Sally on her back with their staffs to hand, knocking heads of any who are fool enough to race towards the Direwolf.  “Your King commands it!”

Perhaps it is her Stark face.  Perhaps it is her title, or the bronze-and-iron crown she draws low on her brow in place of Walder Rivers’ face.  Perhaps it is simply Nymeria.  It doesn’t matter; what matters is that they lower the bridge with just enough time for both horses and Direwolf to jump to safety, galloping into the main courtyard and skidding to a stop.

Arya flings herself from the mount and stands proudly before the soldiers of Riverrun, one hand on Needle and the other holding her bag of tricks close and closed. Her great-uncle stands before her on the bottom step of the battlements, something like wonder on his tough old face.

“My name is Arya Stark, King of Winter and the Trident, if you’ll have me.  Please have baths drawn for Lord Edmure, Lady Roslin and little lord Robin.  If meals could be spared for myself and my staff, I would appreciate it.  If any ravens yet live, might I borrow them, great-uncle?”

“Heh.  For all you resemble your father, your grace, you open your mouth and all I hear is your mother.”  The Blackfish says fondly.  Whilst Arya is jerking back in surprise – she has never been compared to her mother before, ever – her great uncle turns around and bellows, “You heard the King!  Hop to it, lads!”

He approaches her slowly, taking her in and taking her mettle both, and finally sinks to one knee five paces from her.  “Riverrun is yours, your Grace.  Our steel and counsels are yours to do with as you like.”

He thinks she is like Mother – her – so Arya drags the memory of Catelyn Stark about her like a cloak.  “Thank you, Ser Brynden.  You have my word as King – Riverrun is once more under House Tully; arise.  Be prepared, though, for the Lannister army marches upon us with a force of eight thousand.  Lothor, would you attend to the horses?  Squire, with me.”

She never managed to master the proper Ladies Glide like either her mother or sister.  But she did master the assassin’s equivalent, slipping like a shadow those last five paces to the Blackfish, every movement deliberate and deadly.  She stares up at him, taking in what is familiar and what is different with Sally at one elbow and Nymeria at the other.  “I have an army stationed outside the walls, and already they move against the Lannisters.  I need a bow and a writing desk before anything else.”

Brynden inclines his head, and rumbles, “At once, your Grace.  We’ll station extra guards at the Southern wall.  The ravenry is this way, if it pleases you.”

Arya nods back at him, back straight.  “Valar morghulis.  Winter is Coming, and we have much to do.”

Chapter Text

Trying to beat Maester Theomore to the ravens was a battle of persistence, patience and caution.  It was a battle fought on a knife’s edge, forever careful not to tip the balance and give themselves away.

In other words, Wylla had to play distraction so that Wynafryd could get there first.

It’s not that she minded – Wylla was best suited for the back-alley streets of White Harbour, and Wynny the castle life, and both sisters knew it and played the stakes in their respective favours.  However, it meant that Wylla had to keep coming up with different ideas for distraction that were not obviously a distraction.  On top of that, she also had to organise the underworld of White Harbour and the North, which meant she was getting by on maybe three hours of sleep a night.  She was going to slip one day soon, and whilst they had contingencies drawn up for those eventualities, and a half-dozen plans to remove Theomore whilst they were at it, Wylla was proud enough to not want to need to use them.

Today’s distraction was that Wylla had made sure that Theomore had caught her and a “scullery maid” kissing most fiercely in a corridor.  The maid (one of the sailors, in actuality, but one who was willing to help just this once) had fled in “tears” once Theomore had threatened to evict her from the castle, leaving Wylla behind for a thorough scolding.  The burgeoning actress had slipped into the kitchens, played out her part in front of those who were foolish enough to report to Theomore over Lord Wyman, and then had returned to the docks to mend her nets for the morrow.  Wylla did her best to look resentful, embarrassed and dour throughout Theomore’s rant on her fast-approaching marriage to Little Walder Frey, and her now “tarnished” reputation.

Finally, after Theomore’s shouting has dropped back to a puffed-up rebuke, Wylla is frog-marched back to her chambers, and she is left alone with a guard at the door and instructions not to leave the room until she is summoned.  She hopes that the near-hour distraction was enough for Wynny to get what she had needed, and is glad to find her sister skulking inside of her cupboard once the Maester has locked her in her rooms.

“Well?”  Wylla demands, removing layers of Southern snobbery for her shift, getting ready for a long-overdue nap.

“Sansa Stark and Jon Snow are marching to retake Winterfell from the traitorous Boltons,” Wynafryd whispers.  Wylla catches herself with one of the necklaces she is removing and chokes.

“What?!”

“Here,” her older sister says, handing over the raven scroll.  There is a sad-sounding caw from the cupboard.

“Why is there a raven in there?!” 

“Don’t shriek Wylla, your voice is already high-pitched enough.”  Wynafryd scolded gently.  “I couldn’t think of anywhere else to put the poor thing where Theomore wouldn’t find it.  Go on, read the letter.  Either Lady Arya was unsuccessful, or else Lady Sansa and the Lord Commander have missed their sister.”

Wylla gathers up all of the unnecessary emotions and shoves them to the side, focussing on the letter (stamped with a Direwolf on grey wax) and what repercussions this spelt out for Houses Manderly and Stark.

“Lady Arya wrote to us when she took back Winterfell,” Wylla states.  She does not need to remind Wynafryd of this.  They had shared the letter between themselves and a bottle and laughed for joy.  It had said only Valar Dohaeris, Winter has Come and been stamped with black-on-white wax.  “They have missed each other.”

“Or else something has gone wrong.”

“If Ramsay had Arya Stark, surely he would have announced it to all the high heavens.”

“He’s smart – only your network could confirm the rumours of Lady Sansa’s tortures.  D’you really think he would brag about killing the missing princess?  No, better to kill her and let her disappear into history as lost during the War of Five Kings.”

“So we need proof, before anything else,” Wylla said, combing her hair back with a sigh.

“I want you to go to Winterfell.”  Wynafryd says firmly in her best Lady-of-the-castle voice.  “House Manderly swore oaths to the Starks once, and you and I renewed them only weeks ago.  Take whomever of your network you think will best support you, wear whatever disguise you deem safest, and head inland.  I will tell Theomore that you are sulking and refuse the eat in rebellion for earlier, and will tell Mother and Grandfather what is happening in the Hour of the Wolf.  I’ve packed a satchel for you already, but check it and see if there is anything else you will need.”

Wylla draws in another deep breath, nods, and immediately upends the bag her sister hands her.  There is enough food, water and wine to last one person a week, or two people three days without any extra additions.  Longer, of course, if the food was eaten sparingly, or added to.  There are spare socks and gloves, a paring knife and carving knife, a lantern with steel and flint both, bandages and herbs, paper and ink.  Yes, for a race for Winterfell, this will do perfectly.

Shoving it all back in again, Wylla immediately begins to dress herself for the job ahead, pulling on stockings that go all the way to her hips.  She slips her shift for a moment so that she can bind her bosom, slipping her lockpicks and a small shank between her breasts, and tugging the shift back up again.  She straps daggers to each ankle, the small of her back and each wrist.  The jerkin she pulls over top of her shift is designed especially for her, gives her a masculine outline and hides another small knife at the nape of the neck.  She tugs on another set of men’s pants, a padded vest, boots that go half-way up her calf, and she slips a dirk into one in an attempt to draw attention away from the smaller daggers at her ankles.  Gloves and leather vambraces, a cloak, and she is almost done.  Carefully she braids back her hair, twisting it up and around her skull with pearl pins stuck through for emergency bribes.  She pulls on a wig of short brunet hair that she had paid a performer quite handsomely for, and presents herself to her sister with a wry twist to her mouth.

“Passable?”

Wyn scuffs some ash from the fire into the clothes, instructs her to find some more grime along the way, and then drags her into a hug.  Wynafryd is not a hugging person, but Wylla is, and she knows that this is the closest her big sister will get to showing fear for her.

“Be safe, Wylla.  Don’t be caught, find out what has happened to our liege, and come home when you can.  Please.”

Wynnie doesn’t say please sincerely much, either. 

“By the old gods and the new, I swear it.  Don’t be caught yourself, sweet sister.  Give Theomore hell where you can, and I’ll organise for Netta and Scales to keep you up-to-date on the seafront and the underworld.”

Wynny’s smile is a small thing, but genuine.  “I love you, Wylla.  Remember our teachings.”

“Might of the River,” She whispers their words of old, known only to the immediate family, closely guarded.  Says their new words, their Stark-men words.  “Strength of the Sea.”

Arya has drawn up three scrolls, reading each aloud to Sally in an attempt to teach the girl her letters.  One is for the Wall, asking for the whereabouts of her brother and sister.  One is for Rickon, letting him know what has happened and to see what is taking his reply so long.  The last is for Jaime Lannister, offering a parlay.  Once night has fallen, she shall give the notes for Rickon and the Wall to ravens who will drop down to the pack to be taken a safe enough distance away that they will not risk being shot down.  Until then though, she bids a raven to flit down to the encampment, herself and Sally watching for archers, just in case.

One archer thinks it best to aim for the bird.  Arya shoots him before he is even at half-draw.

Once the bird has disappeared into the mess of tents that are now popping up, Arya sets Sally to watch carefully, and beckons Nymeria over.  She and the wolf join as one, and they send their awareness out into the pack.  Many are only now running from the remains of the Frey camp, mouths bloody and stomachs full.

Take the caravan, they tell the pack.  Arya provides the images, gives the instructions on which parts of the train to attack, the hows and whens of the whole scenario.  Shows them again the herbs that she wants snuck into the evening meals, begs them watch for the men who think to duck off and make water in the woods.

Nymeria tugs at Arya’s mind, twisting them sideways to slip into the awareness of the pack they left in the North, and into Shaggy too.

Wild Sister!  Shaggy called them cheerfully, even as the pack howled their greetings to their alphas.  A series of images flashed through Arya and Nymeria’s minds, all of the mischief the pack had been up to, and all of the new/old things that Shaggy and Rickon had been able to see and smell and taste.

You have been busy, Black Brother!  Nymeria gave a wolfish laugh, and the sensation of a fond headbutt passed from one Direwolf to the other.  The White Brother?  Little Sister’s girl?

No sign-sight-sound of them.  My boy has sent many man-signs by bird, and still nothing has come.  The Moose boy has appeared, though, and my boy has been in talks with him all day.  He is there now, else I would bring him in too.

Any word from the other Lords?  Arya asked.

Little-Alphas?  No, and it worries the old one you sent for my wounds.  My boy is starting to worry too.  When will you return?

As soon as this business is done – not long.  Mayhaps a fortnight?  Fortnight is not a word that wolves understand, so at their confusion Arya sends the impression of the moon changing, offering what she thinks the cycle will be when she returns.

I shall let my boy know.  Be safe, sisters.  Any orders?

As you were, Black Brother.  Let my girl know if the other two sing back.

Arya slips back into her own body and rises swiftly, peeping over the parapet.  “Well, squire?”

“The Lannister reinforcements have arrived, your grace,” Sally says promptly.  “Between five and ten thousand men.  The last of the wolves have slipped away, but there aren’t very many Frey men left, if any.  The raven left the camp and landed on the horse of a man in golden armour.  Father has taken care of the horses, and Lord Brynden sent him to eat something and check in on Lord and Lady Tully.”

“And you?  Have you been fed?” 

“I will eat with your grace,” the little girl says firmly.  Arya smiles and ruffles her hair.

“Then let us go find a meal.  You, what’s your name?”

The guard she had indicated started, swallowed, and stuttered, “T-Thom, m’lady – Your grace!”

“Thom, how long is your shift atop the wall for?”

“Four hours, your grace; I’ve just started.”

Arya nods, takes his arm and drags him to a spot between crenulations.  “Here.  I want you to look at everything.  At the end of your shift, I want you to be able to tell me exactly what has happened, and where everything is.  Do you understand?”

“B-but, your grace, from this distance –!”

“Watch.  Observe.  I’ll be back in a bit, and we’ll see what you have seen, and then I can give you a better idea of what to look for.  Understand?”

“Yes, your grace!”

“Thank you.  Sally, let’s go.”   Arya leads them back down the steps, eyes sweeping the courtyard and looking for the most likely entry to the kitchens.  A page is waiting for them at the bottom of the steps however, and shakenly offers to lead them wherever they need to go.  The cooks try to make a feast, but Arya knows that their supplies are limited, and instead asks for a hunk of bread and some cheese each.  Sally is young, still growing and constantly hungry, so Arya also slips her one of the sap-and-bark balls that she had made back in the Barrowlands, and explains where it came from and how to recognise the tree.  They eat as they walk about the castle, taking in everything that they can.

“Your grace,” a maid exclaims, finally catching up to them when they are examining a tapestry upon one of the hall walls.  “Ser Brynden and Lord Edmure wish to speak with you, if it pleases your grace!”

Arya nods, and has the maid lead them to the two Tullys.  The maid and page both station themselves outside the room awaiting further directions.  “My lords, has something changed in the Lannister camp?”

“Niece,” Edmure begins, only for Ser Brynden to snap overtop of Sally’s high-pitched squeak. 

“She is your king, and you shall address her as your grace!”

It is only thanks to her Braavosi training that she keeps her face blank at all.  She wishes things had been different.  She wishes that she could have met this great-uncle under better circumstances and at an earlier age. 

Once she would have insisted that they not stand on formality – but that was before she trained in the Art of Faces.  A King’s Face could not be anything but formal, and she could not afford her usual disregard of the rules.

“Lord Edmure,” She says in her clearest voice.  “I trust you have spoken with your wife and son?”

Edmure Tully had no chance at winning the Game of Faces.

“I see.  My Lord, Roslin had no part in that farce of a wedding.  She has forsaken those of her blood who killed and defiled those of our blood.  Her son she named for my brother, the last King in the North.  It is thanks to her support that my justice was as swiftly served as it was.  When we are finished here, you will go and speak with her, and shall share with her your council and listen in turn when she shares hers with you – actually, no.”  She stuck her head back out the door, and (asked firmly? ordered nicely?) Kingly decreed that the page fetch Roslin, Robin, and Lothor.

Edmure’s face does something complicated with a range of emotions, but Arya ignores that in favour of the knight to his left.

“Ser Brynden.  What ailments would you bring to my attention?”

“The men are concerned about the Lannister army, your grace.  They want to know what your orders are.”

“Wait.  My pack has routed the Frey that survived and as we speak, they move against the Lannister reinforcements.  I’ve already sent out a raven to the Kingslayer to see if he won’t parlay with me, and finish this without any further bloodshed.”

“After all the Lannisters have done to your family, our family?!” Edmure demands, having found his voice. 

“I will have my vengeance against the Lannisters,” Arya corrects him in a voice like ice.  “But I supped on blood and misery enough at Harrenhal and the Twins; I have no need for thousands of souls to weigh me down.  These soldiers aren’t the ones who killed my family, so I have no need to offer their names to the Many Faced God.”

“And the Kingslayer?” Edmure demanded.  “He’s the one who crippled your brother!”

Everything sort of … stops.  Nymeria starts up a soft growl, and Arya puts an absent-minded hand to her ruff.

“I hadn’t known that.  Thank you, Uncle.”  She will think back over this; she needs to think in the now.

“Squire, go to your father.  Tell him that we will be atop the wall should he need us, but otherwise I request he stay at Roslin and Robin’s side as guard.  When you return, make sure that it is with another inkwell and more paper, please.  Have the maid outside direct you.”

“Yes, your grace!”  Sally is off and scampering away like some human-shaped rabbit, and Arya allows herself a second of fondness for the quiet girl.

“Quickly, now.”  Arya tells the men firmly.  “What has happened in Westeros over the last two years?  Everything that you can remember big or small, I wish to hear it.  And once we have caught up on the state of affairs, please – tell me of the holdfasts in the Riverlands.  How likely are they to last the Winter?”

“Thom, what do you have to report?”

“Your grace!” The guard jumps half his own height, Arya has spooked him so.  She kind of likes it.  Sally, hiding a giggle behind one tiny fist, is also impressed.  “I, um, they are setting up camp?”

“So I see.  But what, specifically, are they doing with this camp?  Have they altered the terrain?  Have they done anything about the bodies my pack have left behind?  Are they moving faster or slower than one might expect of a sieging army?”

“Uh –?”

“Have they shifted the layout of the camp? Are there set sections for different groups – and if so, what sort of groups have been placed where?”

“They’ve started digging trenches five hundred yards from the camp perimeter, your grace, and set picket lines every hundred” Sally pipes.  “There are cooksites per every hundred tents.  Common pike men, knights, and archers make up three sections of the camp, with blacksmiths scattered for every thousand tents.  They haven’t done anything to the bodies that I could see, but they are keeping a wide berth.”

Arya gives her the proud smile Syrio had once used to reward correct form.  “Well done, Sally.  Thom, turn back around.  Can you see what my squire sees?”

Quiet, a rough cough, before, “Aye, your grace.  How, uh, how did you see all that from up here?”

“Let your eyes fade out a bit every once in a while,” Sally told him, solemn.  “Your grace, the items you wanted.  What shall I do with them?”

“Keep them close – we might need to write down notes or send another letter yet.”

“Your grace, there’s a raven from the camp!”  Thom exclaims, leaning back from the wall. 

Sally watches it intently, but Arya does not look at the bird itself, not for long.  She is trying to spot whoever sent it, looking for ridiculous golden armour, gold hair.

There he is.  Front of the campsite, open and exposed and ready to offer his name to the Many Faced God for his crimes.

She holds her arm out and ready for the raven, staring at the Kingslayer until the bird has made itself comfortable.  She takes the scroll from its leg, opens and reads aloud to her squire and the guard.

Let us parlay, Daughter of Winterfell.  Just you and I atop that solid drawbridge your family has raised against all the world.  In one hour.

“Sally, you will watch from the battlements.  You will not be seen, and you shall listen and tell me everything that you hear and what you think it all means.  Understand?”

“Yes, your grace!”

“Thom, protect my squire.  Nymeria, to me.”  With that she stalks from the battlements, lets Nymeria lead the way to Brynden and Edmure, who are still in the solar where she had left them only minutes before.  They have been joined by Roslin, a sleeping Robin, and Lothor, and that page is once again awaiting further instruction outside.

“My lords, my lady,” Arya snaps out, voice as ice.  “The Kingslayer requests a parlay.  Let me hear your council.”

“Did he send a note, your grace?”  Brynden asks, face folding into a heavy scowl.  She hands it to him, and turns to Edmure and Roslin.

Both are pale, and Roslin has a cant to her eyes that makes Arya suspect they had been arguing prior to her arrival.

“He wishes to intimidate you, n – your grace.”

Arya allows her lips to quirk up in a sharp smirk.  “He shall find me somewhat unintimidated, then.  Roslin?”

“He doesn’t have to offer it, my king.  He believes himself to hold the upper hand, this is a show of good faith.”

“Or a trap,” Lothor grumbles.  “Your grace, my daughter?”

“Sally is atop the battlements taking notes for me.  I assigned a guard to her for the interim, too.  Great-uncle?”

“Solid points all around, your grace.  I’d do it, to gain his measure if nothing else.”

Arya nods back to him.  “That was to my thinking, as well.  Can you present yourself to the battlements in another half-hour then?  I would appreciate your interpretation afterwards.”

Uproar.

“Your grace, you can’t!”  Edmure exclaimed.

“You mustn’t!” cried Roslin.

“Send another, your grace, allow me,” Brynden growled.  “You should not risk yourself so!”

Arya bares her teeth at them all, and snaps back, as close to Arya Underfoot as she has been in years, “A man with one hand does not frighten me, and cannot best me at arms, I assure you.  I am going to this parlay, and you shall either present yourselves atop the wall and offer me your council, or you may stay here and dither, it is all the same to me.”

With that she stalks back out of the room with Nymeria at her heels and anger singing in her bones.  It is always close to the surface, this wolfsblood that had led to her Uncle’s death in Kings Landing, had led her to offer up names to the Many Faced God one by one.

It is unwise to go into peace talks with such wrath so close to hand.  Nymeria she sends to the battlements to mind Sally and Thom.  Herself she takes into the dungeons and across the lower halls of Riverrun.

A half-hour is enough time for her to chase cats and let off some of her rage.

It is only Arya and Nymeria that greet the Kingslayer, despite Brynden and Edmure’s follow-up protests.  He rides to them atop a white horse with a banner bearer at his side on a darker mount.  Arya raises her brow at the show, and looks up at Nymeria.  The massive direwolf is better than any flag, and the crown atop Arya’s head catches enough of the light that she feels it makes her point for her, too. 

His armour is red with gold highlights, rather than all gold as she had initially thought.  It is dulled from travel dust, and he stops just in front of where the drawbridge will go, and watches it passively as the bridge is lowered. 

Ready, my girl?

Arya swings herself atop the alpha, pulls up the face of Northern diplomacy, and together they drop from the battlements to the bridge.  To his credit, the Kingslayer doesn’t curse at the great crash brought about by Nymeria’s weight hitting the hardwood from such a height, though he does stumble back with wide eyes and a particular pallor to his cheeks.  Arya appreciates it.

“Kingslayer,” She greets him, slipping from Nymeria’s back and making a show of looking him up and down.  “I accept your surrender.”

Straightening, Ser Jaime returns, “The She-Wolf from the seventh hell, they’re calling you.  I think you might be mistaken – I have come to accept your surrender.”

Arya gives him a pleasant smile.  “Now why would I do that?  You have no support, you are surrounded, you have no prisoner of worth.  No One is the only one who could take this castle from me, and even you cannot afford them.”

Lannister barks a laugh at that.  “For all you look like poor old dead Ned, you open your mouth and the Lady Catelyn just pops right out.”  This is only the second time she has been compared to her mother.  She does not appreciate that it is one of her enemies who is doing so.  “Lady Arya –”

“Do I look like a Lady?” Arya scoffs at him.

“You are outnumbered,” he steamrolls on.  “You are surrounded by eight thousand Lannister troops, and I have your Uncle Edmure and his wife and babe in my custody.”

Arya snorts at him.  “Do you?  And do you have much in the way of food and provisions?”

“We have more than you do, She-Wolf.”

“There are enough provisions here to last two years.  Somehow, I cannot see you lasting that long,” A cat had led her a merry dance through the larders, and she had once been taught to gauge such things by Septa Mordane.  But now she calls upon the Waif and Lady Crane – cocks her head to the side with a curious, knowing smirk in place.  The smirk does its purpose, making the Kingslayer step back again unconsciously and discomforted.  “They say that you are the reason my brother Bran was crippled.  Is that true?”

He looked pained.  “I – I was.”

“He had discovered you and your sister, hadn’t he?”

“He had.”

“The fall was supposed to kill him.  And when that failed, you sent an assassin after him.”

“That was Cersei.”

Her face doesn’t change; she does not let it.  What she does do is send a tendril of thought to Nymeria, which makes her wolf give a huffing laugh.  Nymeria stands and shakes herself all over, gives the Kingslayer a wolfish smile, and slowly swaggers back inside of Riverrun.  Arya steps forward, grabbing his attention when she sways enough to show that Needle is still at her hip beneath the cloak she wears.

“When Winter comes, you’ll hear no lions roar.  No stags will graze in the fields.  No roses will grow in the meadows.  No snakes will be in the sands, and the krakens will freeze where they swim.    Not even the dragon’s breath will warm you in your halls.  You shall hear only the wolves howl, and then you will know that winter has come.”  She gives her own approximation of Nymeria’s smile, and says, “Now is your only chance to surrender.  Spare the lives of your men, Jaime Lannister.  You won’t like what will happen if you do not.”

“I understand that your education is lacking, Lady Arya, but this isn’t exactly how one conducts a parlay,” Jaime scoffs.

The Waif had held a knife and looked at Arya with a feral hunger, once.  Arya pulls that bloodthirsty baring of teeth over her own face now, sends a thread of herself to Nymeria.

Nymeria howls, and is answered on all sides by her pack.  There is a cacophony of sound from the Lannister camp, man and wolf alike, and then the pack are streaming back towards the bridge with their bounty; some of the younger wolves held only ham hocks in their mouths, but many had teamed up to carry or drag bags of grain or flour, whole chickens or share a carcass of lamb or calf between two or three bodies.  trouble-mischief-quick had convinced a few others to help him muster a handful of cattle and one fat pig towards the drawbridge, the rest having been freed and scattered over the course of the parlay per Arya’s instructions.

Arya continues to smile at the Kingslayer, and watches as horror and understanding bloom across his face.  The pig nearly knocks him into the moat as it charges past.  One of the steers flicks him with its tail hard enough that the rough hairs cut the skin of his cheek.

Arya walks up to him, steps steady and silent.  “My name is Arya Stark.  I am King of Winter and King of the Trident.  The North remembers, Jaime Lannister.  You have until sundown to surrender.  Otherwise your lives are all moot.  I will not make this offer again.”

With that she turns sharply on her heel and slinks back towards the castle.  Her ears are trained for any sound of movement behind her.  If Ser Jaime had been willing enough to push Bran – sweet, loveable and all of ten years old – out of a tower window and to his death, she did not want to risk being run through the back by his sword.

“King Arya!”  She pauses.  “The Lady Knight, Brienne of Tarth.  Did she find you?  Did she fulfill her oath to your mother?”

“Big woman, broken nose, scar on her upper lip, high-quality armour and a Valyrian sword with a lionhead pommel?”

“Honour a mile wide and almost as stubborn as your great-uncle,” There is a fond smile in Lannister’s voice as he makes his claims.

“I last saw her fighting the Hound atop a cliff in the Vale, two years ago.”

“And how did that fight end?”

“Sandor Clegane is now the Master at Arms in Winterfell.”

Was that ambiguous enough?  Would that cut at his psyche?  She fucking hoped so.  Ambiguity was a tactic the Waif had enjoyed, and Arya does not feel even a little bit sorry to utilize that here and now.

After Bear Island, the closest and largest holdfast was Deepwood Motte, Seat of House Glover.  Sansa had run up and down the family’s history and ties to House Stark with Jon to make sure he knew what angles they might come at them from, and both siblings had spent the whole trip rehearsing how they would best introduce themselves and act around the Lord.  They were not going to have a repeat of Lady Lyanna, if Sansa had anything to do about it!

And yet their arrival at the Motte had been fraught with tension from the beginning.  Guards and servants alike had watched them, wary, had let their eyes drop more than anything, racing to comply with any comments or suggestions Jon or, in particular, Sansa put forward.  It was almost like being back at Winterfell, under the Boltons – but Sansa felt that this wasn’t the normal state of the Motte.  She felt like they were afraid of her.

When Lord Robett finally meets them (in the courtyard rather than a solar or hall, as courtesy dictated), he is grimfaced and stern, moreso than either had expected.  His first words to them are neither greeting nor slur to Sansa’s character or honour, as they had feared.  It was a question that threw both Starks.

“What did you want the boy at Winterfell for, if you were coming here yourself, Lady Bolton?”

“I beg your pardon, Lord Glover – which boy?”  Sansa’s heart was twisting itself up in knots upon knots, thinking that this had been Rickon’s hiding place, that Ramsey had found out somehow and used her seal to trick the Lord –

“Larence Snow, my lady.  The note came by wolf nearly three weeks ago, with a Direwolf stamped on black wax.”

Sansa shakes her head and bites her lip.  “My seal is a Direwolf on grey, my lord, not black.  I escaped Ramsey’s tortures just over three weeks ago.”

A look of pain flashes across Lord Robett’s face.  Eyes closed, he draws in a deep breath before asking, “Escaped?”

“The things that Ramsey Bolton did to me are not those that a Lady is supposed to know about, let along say aloud.  The things he did to me – well, I imagine that they would be acceptable ways to get information out of prisoners, certainly.”

“Why are you here, Lady Bolton?”

“I am Sansa Stark, my lord.  And we ride to take my home and little brother back from a monster.  Roose Bolton killed our brother and King, Robb Stark.  Ramsey killed him, and his Frey wife and son.  My brother Jon and I are looking for loyal houses to help us.”

“We’ve only just taken this castle back from the Ironborn, and it was the Boltons who helped us do it.  Now you want me to fight against them?  I could be skinned for even talking to you, that boy could be skinned, for all I know!”

“The Boltons are traitors,” Jon snapped.  “Roose Bolton –!”

“What other Northern Houses have pledged to fight for you?”

“House Mormont,” Jon admitted.

“And?”

“We’ve sent ravens to houses Manderly – ”

“I don’t care about ravens.  You’re asking me to join your army.  Who is fighting in this army?”

“… The bulk of the force is made up of Wildlings.”

A dark chuckle.  “Then the rumours are true.  I didn’t dare believe them.  I received you out of respect for your father, and now I would like you to leave.  House Glover will not abandon its ancestral home to fight alongside Wildlings!

“Lord Glover!” Jon tried again.

“I have nothing else to say,” The lord snapped, stalking back into his keep.

“I would remind you that House Glover is pledged to House Stark, sworn to answer when called upon.” Sansa snapped.  That got the grumpy lord to stop, at least, got him to turn around and walk back to face her squarely.  Sansa raises herself higher, looks him in the face with her old court mask pulled down tight.

“Yes,” He breathes at her, rage simmering behind those dark old eyes.  “My family served House Stark for centuries.  We wept, when we heard of your father’s death.  When my brother was lord of this castle, he answered Robb’s call, and hailed him King in the North!”

Robett Glover moves closer to her still, pain plain on his worn face, and Sansa can tell that she will not like what next comes out of his mouth.  Jon hovers on the side, face pinched with worry, but unsure and unwilling to intervene.  He may have been the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch – but he is not a Black Brother any more.  He is only Jon Snow, in the eyes of the Glover men, and he cannot help her here.

There is a whine behind them that disrupts the growing tensions, revealing a scruffy brown wolf with a note tied about its throat.  It gives them a doggy grin, shakes itself all over, plants itself in front of Lord Glover and presents its note.  When nobody moves to take the parchment, the wolf gives a huff, and shuffles so that it is facing Sansa instead.

Cautiously she moves to take the scroll, noting that the wax seal holding it together is white-on-black, though no image has been pressed into it.  The wolf sniffs at her sleeve, and she offers her fingers to it once she has the scroll.  After a few more sniffs, the wolf gives a happy wuffle, and starts to jump around her feet, tugging at her sleeve and trying to leave the castle grounds.

“What on earth?” She murmurs, tugging backwards.  “No, bad wolf!  What are you doing?”

It flops to the ground pathetically, whining up at her and giving her big, pleading eyes that remind her of Lady.  Sansa cannot look at it for long else risk giving in, so turns her back and cracks the seal, reading the note aloud.

“The North Remembers.  Winter came to House Frey; Tyta Frey is new Lord of the Crossing, by my hand.  Valar Morghulis.  Signed, Arya Stark, Daughter of Winterfell.  King of Winter and King of the Trident!”

The Direwolf seal is white-on-black wax.  The handwriting is atrocious, slanting backwards and written with the left hand.

“This is her,” Sansa breaths to Jon excitedly.  “She’s alive, and in the Riverlands!” 

Another whine, and a second wolf appears.  This one was silver and grey, with a slightly thicker scroll to its’ name.  The brown wolf makes the same happy noise from before, headbutting the silver over to Sansa.  Again, she is sniffed at and the wolf grows excited, grabs at her skirts and gives a tug.  Sansa scolds both wolves, and takes the scroll once more.

The handwriting this time is styled to the right, but almost as bad as Arya’s for how small and cramped the writing is.  This one is addressed to Lord Glover directly, so Sansa hands it to him, even as she is trying to get the wolves to let her be.  To her surprise, Robett hands her the note once he has read it himself.  Sansa angles herself so that Jon may read with her, over her shoulder.

Lord Robett,

I have made Winterfell safely, and am in great spirits!  It seems that it was the missing princess, Arya Stark, who has replaced Ramsey at Winterfell, and has taken up her brother’s title.  The King of Winter has gone to avenge the Red Wedding, and also to break the siege of Riverrun.  Lady Erena was correct after all, my lord – her grace the King means to legitimise me and make me the Lord of Hornwood!  There is talk too of a betrothal to one with the Hornwood blood, most like one of Lord Arnolf Karstark’s girls.

Prince Rickon has been kind to me in the interim, though merciless in the training yards.  I am better with the sword and axe, but I fear the moment he has a staff or spear of any sort within a foot of him, the prince is truly a fierce and fearsome foe.  Even with the lance, for the prince scorns horses in favour of his wolf, and there is neither man nor beast alive who could stand against a Direwolf racing towards them down the lists.

Her Grace has taken a handmaiden from the Twins, one Della Frey.  She is deaf, but competent, and she and the prince have developed a language of their own entirely out of hand gestures!  She helps the prince with his writing and numeracy, and he returns the favour with staff practice.  One of the weaver apprentices, Irene, is also a confidant of sorts to the prince and the lady.  She has terrible burns, but is clever and quick to learn whatever it is that the prince needs of her.  The Master of Arms at Winterfell is a giant of a man whose name I have yet to learn, for all here call him simply the old wolf.  He is a hard taskmaster, and trains everyone – boy AND girl, noble or common! – in swordplay and staff work.  There is a Wildling woman who serves the prince most faithfully who helps with the staff training, too.  Please tell Lady Erena that she is a Spear Wife, and that Prince Rickon has offered to foster and train her should she be inclined to learn.  That is how he phrased it too, my lord – when I asked if he meant if you permitted it, the prince gave me the strangest reply. 

Before I run out of parchment, let me solve that riddle of ours – it seems that the black wax seal is Prince Rickon’s; Her Grace uses white-on-black.  Supposedly she went to a House of Black and White – that is how the prince says it, with capitals – in Braavos, after the death of King Robb.  She pays homage to her trainers and her history, isn’t that fascinating?

Her Grace will be calling all of the lords to Winterfell to swear their loyalties to House Stark upon her return to the North.  Prince Rickon says that you are welcome to come earlier should you wish it, as it is such a long way from the Motte, and as you were so worried for me when last we spoke.  The prince is also hopeful that his sister and half-brother are found by then – Princess Sansa escaped the Boltons days before her sister was able to serve justice to the traitors, and neither the prince nor king have been able to find her.  If you hear anything, or see them, would you please pass on that her siblings are worried for her, my lord?

I look forward to your reply,

Larence Snow, soon to be Hornwood!

Sansa looks at Jon then with shining eyes.  Her emotions are too tumultuous, she cannot bring herself to say anything at all.

“She’s alive,” Jon croaked.  “They’re both alive and safe!  I thought –!”

She nods wordlessly; she had believed their vibrant little sister long gone from this world, too.  “Only Arya,” she breaths, “Would call herself King instead of Queen.”

She clears her throat, reins in her emotions as best she can, and turns back to Robett.  “Well, my lord.  Thank you for your hospitality, and perhaps we shall see you at Winterfell, before our sister’s court.  Good day to you.”

It is discourteous for her to go so without the lord’s leave, but he hasn’t exactly been a paradigm of courtesy, either.  And if Arya Underfoot is the new King in the North, well, manners aren’t about to be very high as anybody’s priorities, she imagines.

The wolves are excited by this, flanking Sansa on either side, pushing her forward and yipping happily.  And really, isn’t that just Arya too, to use wolves instead of ravens – to have giant puppies instead of fearsome beasts, besides!

They re-join with their army, and Ghost and the Wildling Tormund both come galloping out of camp.  Ghost does not make any noise, as is his nature – Tormund is whooping and carolling, as is his.

“Pretty Crow, how many men can we expect for this fight?”

“None – and, there’s no fight, Arya and Rickon have already taken the castle without us!” Jon exclaims, accepting the great hug from the ginger with only a feigned reluctance that Sansa can see.  Ghost is sniffing at the two wolves who had continued to flank Sansa’s horse as they returned from the castle, paying no heed to how they stirred up her mount.

“What’s this?” Tormund chuckles at them, ruffling Jon’s hair in what Sansa would call a far-too-familiar fashion.

(Though, all things told, she cannot begrudge her brother this.  True and loyal friends are few and far between, if you are a Stark, even an illegitimate one.)

“Our little sister, and baby brother.  They’ve already taken Winterfell back – and Arya has declared herself King!”

“Well, why shouldn’t she?” Tormund asks in a reasonable tone.  “The King is the most powerful person, the one who draws everyone together and protects them, leads them right.  You told me your sister has been missing for years – she must be strong to have survived so long, and to rescue the little one while she was at it.”

Sansa and Jon both still at that.  How logical.

“But, King is a man’s title, not a woman’s,” Sansa said.

“You Southerners!”  Tormund scoffed.  (“We’re Northmen,” Jon growled under his breath.)  “Boy, girl – it doesn’t matter!  Strength is what’s important, and brains after that.  King, Chief – they are the leader.  The one at the top has these titles.  But if you don’t like it so much,” here the ginger turned sly.  “Fight your sister for it.  Or, better yet – let one of my boys try and steal her!  A Stark King and a Wildling, wouldn’t that make a song!”

Tormund is giving a big belly laugh at his own wit, but Sansa and Jon are both giving each other eyes.

“He has a point,” Sansa says softly.  “There are peoples across the sea who have a title for leader, and a title for leader’s partner.  In the Westerosi tongue we say King and Queen, and ours is a male-dominant people, so the King is always male, and the Queen is always female.  But, there isn’t actually anything that says a King must be a man, anymore than there is any law stating that a Queen must be a woman.”

Jon opens his mouth to answer her, but before he can say anything Ghost steps up and looks into his eyes, and before either Jon or Sansa can say anything, Jon’s eyes have rolled up in the back of his head, and Ghost howls.

“Jon!  Jon!” Tormund catches her around the waist when she goes to clutch her brother, and despite herself Sansa struggles.  “No nononono!  Everything was good, they’re alive and he can’t die, not before we get back to them!”

“Easy, girl, easy!” Tormund growls in her ear.  For a moment she could almost pretend that it is the Hound behind her, but Tormund is too short and far too hairy.  “He’s warging.  Didn’t know he could do that!”

“What is a warg?” Sansa demands, spinning and shrugging out of Tormund arms, taking three perfunctory steps backwards.  She cannot bare for anyone not her brother or Brienne or Theon to touch her, and none of them are present or in a state to offer her the physical comfort she needs here.

“Skinchanger.  One who enters the mind of an animal.  Didn’t take the Pretty Crow for one, though, he’s never mentioned anything like it.  Never heard the wolf make any noise at all, neither.”

Jon’s eyes are Stark-dark again, but before they can do anything he whispers Rickon, staggers a step forward and collapses in a dead feint.  Sansa panics again, struggling to reign her terror back so that she can help Tormund lift Jon onto Ghost and take him back to his tent.  They have him settled, and Sansa is desperately trying not to cry, when Jon stirs enough to whisper,

“We ride for Winterfell on the morrow.  Sansa, we’re going home.”

They’re in the middle of staff practice when Shaggy tugs at the edges of Rickon’s mind.  Larence, Della and Irene are all racing for him, from either side and the front, and Rickon has seconds before Shaggy pulls him under completely.  His motto in life is be unpredictable, which means that in the five seconds he has left Rickon races straight for Della, plants the butt of his staff into the ground and launches himself up and over all of them, tumbling to his knees and spinning his staff out and behind to sweep everyone off their feet.  Before he can even register the three thumps as they land in heaps on the ground, Rickon is off and running for Shaggy and Osha, skidding forward to take Shaggy’s ruff in one hand.  His eyes roll back in his head as Shaggy takes him under his own skin, fur and four legs and even keener ears.

There is the sense of Wild Sister and Quiet Brother, of Nymeria and Ghost.  But behind and to the side of their senses there are other presences.  Arya Rickon recognises immediately, as this is not the first time they have joined via their wolves over the weeks since Arya went South.  The presence by Ghost, though, Rickon only has a vague recognition for – sad and sorry and dead-not-dead-not-Undead – and an image of dark curls and lots of black feathers and fur.

Who are you?  Rickon demands,

Jon?!  Arya exclaims, giving the impression of shock and too-big eyes.

Joy bounces back to them across the bond, the impression of tears.  You’re both alive!  Alive!

Rickon is half-in-half-out of Shaggy, hiding himself behind his wolf’s impression.  Are you Quiet Brother’s partner?  Are you our brother, too?

Aye, I am.  Oh, Rickon, look at you!  You’re practically a man grown!  This makes Rickon bristle.  The old wolf says as much sometimes, when he wants to trick Rickon into doing something Adult and Lordly.  And Arya!  They’re calling you King, little sister, what have you been up to?

It’s a long story, Arya answers, voice bland and all emotions locked down.  I imagine yours is too.  Are you going back to Winterfell?  Where are you now?

Deepwood Motte, now, but we’ll head for home at first light!

We?  Sansa is with you, then?

Aye, she is.  She misses you both, too.

Brief disbelief comes from Arya, before the emotion is pushed down again.  How many in your company?  How long will you take?

A fortnight, perhaps?  We travel with two thousand Free Folk and sixty-two Mormonts.

Then I shall aim to meet you on the Kings Road.  Rickon, I won’t be much longer, can you hold Winterfell until then? 

I already said so, didn’t I?  Rickon scoffs at her.  I have to go.  I was training with Della and Larence and Irene.  Old wolf is going to yell too, I can tell already.

Yell at him back, I have Lannisters to kill, Arya states, ignoring the shock-horror-fear that lances through their brother.  Be safe, both of you.  The Many Face God shall not have your names anytime soon, if I have anything to say about it.

Valar Morghulis, Rickon says solemnly.  Winter is Coming.

Valar Dohaeris.  Winter is Here.

His eyes open to Shaggy’s green, to Irene’s concerned voice, Della’s shaking hands and Larence’s static energy.  Osha is curious, and the Hound worried.

He smiles at them, the brightest smile he has given anyone since – since Mother and Father and everyone left Winterfell, surely.

“Jon and Sansa are close,” He says.  He signs brother and sister, shuffles his fists against each other at chest height, and taps the knuckle of his curved index finger of his right hand against the bridge of his nose.  For home he holds his right hand up at shoulder height, palm to Della, and raises it up to head height and curves it back down again.  The Hound starts, Irene’s eyes blowing wide.  “Arya will be back about the same time, too.  She takes on the Lannisters tonight with the pack.  She’s going to paint the fields red and gold.”

“Who are you?”

“No One.  And that is who a girl must become.”

“How do I do that?”

“A girl must watch.  A girl must be able to see everything, copy everything, blend in anywhere and be any one.  To be truly no one, is to be everyone and anyone at any time.”

“Show me how.  Please.”

A head inclined towards the door.  “By serving the Many Face God, a girl may become anyone.  All must die.  But first, all must serve.”

She wakes with a start.

She had been napping before Nymeria dragged her into the shared mindspace with the wolves and her brothers, preparing for what would come in the night.  She had dreamt of when first she was taken into the House, of her first studies of human motion, facial expressions, ways of walking, talking and emoting.

“Your grace?”  Roslin is at her bedside, sewing red and blue tunics for her son with little silver trouts at the breast.  Sally is balancing on one leg with a wooden sword in each hand, and Lothor had also been dozing.  Robin is toddlering from one side of his mother’s new chambers to the other and back, chasing the same grey queen cat who Arya had caught in the larders hours earlier.  “Is something wrong?”

“No, my lady.  I now have knowledge of my brother and sister.  Once I finish here, I’ll head straight home again, and meet with them on the Kings Road.”

“That is wonderful, my king!” Roslin cried, carefully setting aside her stitching.  “Do you have a plan for tonight then?”

“Aye, it’s no different to what I was going to do anyway,” Arya returns, cracking her neck and rolling the kinks out of her shoulders.  “How long was I asleep for?”

“Just over an hour and a half, my king.  None have entered, as you ordered, though I heard your great-uncle on the ramparts earlier, following out your previous orders.  And, there was someone who was let through the Lannister Army to the gate, for I heard the portcullis rise and fall.”

“When was that?”  Arya demanded.  It must have been whilst she was with the wolves, for surely she would have heard that, light sleeper that she was these days.

“Only just before, your grace.”

“Right.  Squire, with me.”

Arya pulled her cloak about her again, made sure her belt was secure, and swept out of the room with Sally at her heels.  The halls were easy enough to navigate now, the Lord’s Solar a familiar path after the trips she had already taken to it, though it wasn’t hard to follow the sound of raised voices, besides.

“I’ve said no three times already!”

“I have a signed letter from your niece, Sansa Stark –”

“I haven’t seen her since she was a small child, I don’t know her signature, I don’t know you, and we will not surrender!”

Well, well.  This is curious.

Arya gives the watching guards a look, jerking her head out of the way and holding a finger to her lips to prevent them announcing her.  This is not an aspect of the face of a King.  This is the aspect of No One, of Arya Underfoot, of the Ghost of Harrenhal and Lanna and Mercy and Salty and Cat and Beth and all the rest.

The door of the solar is well greased.  The latch is easy enough to quietly ease open, and it is nothing for Arya to throw the door open for affect.

“Brienne of Tarth,” She says, dipping her head cordially. 

“Arya Stark - you are alive!”  Brienne gasps.  “My lady, I am glad to see it.  We searched for you for three days, when last we met.  Where did you go?”

“Braavos.”  Arya says, feeling Sally vibrating indignantly next to her.  Her eyes flick to the man beside and behind the lady knight, says, “We were not introduced, last time.  Who are you?”

“Lady Arya –!”

“That’s my name,” she corrected.  “You are?”

“Podrick Payne, my lady.”

“Your grace,” Sally snaps from her elbow.  Arya does not allow her face to change from the smirk she had favoured since first opening the door.  “Arya Stark is King of Winter and King of the Trident!”

“You have a letter from my sister?”  Arya asks the big woman, shifting her focus from the squire to his master.  “Would this be to ask for help in retaking Winterfell and rescuing Rickon from the Boltons?  She is too late.  I retook the castle days after her escape.  Ramsay Bolton is dead.  I cut his throat myself.   Rickon I have left in charge of our family home, until my return.  I had planned to head North with the first light tomorrow – you are welcome to join me.”

“I beg your pardon, my – your grace, but how?  The Lannister Army is outside these gates.”

The smirk grows teeth.  “For now.  They will not be there by morning, I assure you – unless, of course, the Kingslayer listens to my advice.  They have ‘till sunset to surrender, or else all lives are forfeit.”

“Your grace!”  Brienne exclaimed.  “There are over eight thousand men out there!  You cannot possibly take all of them out!”

“Oh, I think there’s just a few less than that by now,” Arya muses, striding to look out of the window.  “My pack have been into the cookpots already.  Their food stores are rapidly depleting – some has been brought here, some has been sent out to whatever farms are still inhabited.  Their weapons are being stolen, buried, pissed on, shat on, snapped and chewed.  And besides, I have my own means to implement tonight.  But tell me – Sandor Clegane spoke true, when he said that it was Lannister gold that paid for your arms and armour.  And I imagine it was Lannister favours that allowed you two to pass and enter this castle.  So I do have to wonder: what is your reason for being here, Brienne of Tarth?”

All of her training – every tick of the face, every shift of the body, every inflection of the voice – she concentrates onto the woman before her.  For Sansa to trust this lady knight so much, either there is a strong history between them, or else she has not grown from the brat of three-and-ten that Arya remembers.  Surely not.  Surely not after everything that they have been through; Sansa has to have learnt something. 

“As I told you in the vale, your grace,” Brienne said, drawn up proudly, honour and determination in every line of her tall body.  “I swore an oath to your mother, who was my mistress.  I swore that I would find you and your sister and return you to her, and with that no longer possible, I instead vowed to keep you both safe.  I was charged with returning Ser Jaime Lannister to Kings Landing in exchange for yourself and your sister, though we were captured by the Boltons at Harrenhal.  Ser Jaime lost his hand in defence of my honour, and nearly gave his life for mine as well.  He, too, swore to return yourself and the Lady Sansa to your mother, and gifted me this armour and this sword to help me with my mission.  He allowed me to pass through the siege so that I might continue to protect the Lady Sansa.”

Well.  The Kingslayer certainly hadn’t lied when he’d said that Brienne of Tarth was honourable and stubborn, Arya would give him that.  She truly believed in everything that she had said.

“If I may, your grace – there is almost nothing that pains me so much as your mother’s death.  I had sworn my life to defending hers.  If it would make anything right, I would offer my life in an instant.  However, I have sworn myself to the Lady Sansa, and would return to her at the earliest convenience, with your grace’s permission.”

Arya hadn’t met anyone like this in a very, very long time.

She hums, trailing a finger across the window ledge.

“You want me to spare the Kingslayer?  Do you not think that he owes me, owes the Many Faced God, his life?  He pushed my little brother Bran out of a window and tried to kill him.  He tried to kill my older brother Robb.  His son took my father’s head, his father planned the murder of my mother and brother.”

There is conflict written all over that battle-worn face.

“It would be your right, your grace,” she says, head bowed.  “I would not presume to tell a king what to do.  However, I would ask that you at least consider keeping Ser Jaime as a prisoner.”

Arya hums again, face frozen in that toothsome smirk.  “The letter, if I may?”

“Of course,” Brienne bows, hands over the letter, and suddenly Arya is eleven-years-old again, and Septa Mordane is telling her how beautiful her sister’s handwriting is, and why can’t you be more like Sansa?

Ser Bryden,

You do not know me, my lord, but you knew my mother.  She would speak of you fondly, and often.  We grew up hearing tales of your exploits.  I would ask you now, despite our lack of knowing each other, to lend your experience and your forces to our cause.  My mother and older brother were murdered at the Twins.  They were betrayed by the Boltons, who were once our bannermen.  I was married to Ramsay Bolton, in a ploy to take back my ancestral seat, and was betrayed myself. 

I call upon our familiar bond.  This is unfair of me, but I beg you come North with the Tully army, great-uncle.  I beg that you help me take back Winterfell, and release the North from these usurpers.  We would then, of course, assist in throwing back the forces of Cersei Lannister from the Riverlands.

We must take back our homes, for the true enemy is to the North.  Speak with Brienne for any further information.

Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell.

It was signed with a Direwolf on grey wax.

“The true enemy is to the North – what does this mean?”

“The Wildlings and your half-brother claim that the Dead are marching south, your grace.”

“White Walkers and Others?”  Arya askes, head cocking to the side and face slipping back into a neutral mask.  “I thought them only stories to scare children.” 

“Your brother insists, your grace.  It is why he let the Wildlings through the Wall when he was Lord Commander.  He speaks of many horrors Beyond the Wall, including an Army of the Dead lead by a Night King.”

Arya hadn’t planned for this.  She had heard Old Nan’s stories, same as all her siblings.  If the Night King is real, if he raises an army whilst she sits here waiting for the sun to go down, then she needs to go back North.  She needs to ready the North, she needs –

She needs more information.  She needs to speak with Jon directly, needs a plan and needs to inform Rickon.

Suddenly, she has more things to do than even she had expected.  Winter really is coming, she thinks to herself wildly.  And coming fast.

"From the beginning, Lady Brienne.  Tell me everything you know, please."

Chapter Text

Three hours later Arya has the full story from Brienne of Tarth and Podrick Payne.  Another hour she spends in conference with Jon and Rickon, getting further information regarding the White Walkers and Wights and putting in place countermeasures for the coming Long Night – and how that makes her shiver, makes the part of her that still holds true to Him of Many Faces shy away at the thought of such an abomination as the walking dead.  Jon she instructs to ride for Winterfell with all haste and to not wait up for her, to have Sansa write and sign letters to give to the best spear wives who travelled with him, and to send each of them to whatever hamlets or villages that the company passed through or close to on their way.  Rickon she tells to draft up letters for her Braavosi contacts, trade agreements and a warning both; gives him instructions on how to up the staff practices, to start instructing every living person in and around Winterfell, to look into any and every mention of dragonglass mines, and to prep the smiths of the North for the incoming shipments that they will soon turn into spears and glaives for her.  Demands an increase in woodcutting, setting much aside to be dried and turned into massive bonfires to better defend everyone, but also so they will have something to trade with Essos.

It is nearing sundown, and she has had poor Sally running every which way, delivering notes and collecting information.  The final job was to fetch a raven, and once Sally and the bird have returned to the office that Arya has commandeered for herself, Arya makes her squire take a break.

“Sit, eat, and rest,” she decrees, holding the smaller girl firmly by one shoulder.  “I’ll have a job for you and Podrick both shortly, and I need you at your best.”

“Aye, my king!”  Sally is petty and Arya loves it.  The smaller girl has been insistently (and occasionally unnecessarily) referring to her as your grace or my king for the last four hours, and Arya knows that every message or errand she has run today started with the King requests, or something to that effect.  It is nothing short of entertaining, but Arya is trying very hard not to laugh and risk losing the perceived professionalism of her Kings Face.

Putting her shoulder to a startled Podrick, Sally sits down next to Arya and pulls a tiny roll of bread from her pocket, stealing an apple from Ser Brynden’s desk, and accepting the waterskin that Arya passes her.  She does not offer to share with Podrick or Brienne, and is Very Obviously not giving either any attention.

It’s adorable.

“Ser Brienne, I would have you and Podrick speak with the Kingslayer on my sister’s behalf once again,” Arya says, jotting down more notes on precautions that she wants Rickon to put into place for her whilst there’s still daylight.  She’ll call him via the wolves once this has been finished.  “Speak with him.  Either he agrees to lend his forces to the battle for the living, or he forfeits their lives to the Many Faced God.  Sally will go as my representative, I’ll write up a note to send down with you, and if anything happens to my squire, Tarth, I’ll kill you first and I’ll kill you slow – do you understand me?”

“Of course, your grace.”

Arya gives her a wolf smile at that ⎼ bared teeth and the promise of blood ⎼ and looks up when Roslin is announced at the door.

“My King, the numbers you requested,” she says.  She has Robin on one hip, and has pulled on a mask of her own, a Lady’s Face, soft and demure and revealing absolutely nothing.  Perfect.

“Thank you.  Anything else?”

“I’ve written a note for Tyta, your grace, if a raven might be spared.”

“I’ll send it with a wolf tonight, with instructions to cater to whoever it is for the evening before they take a note on to the Neck.”  She leans back, pinching the bridge of her nose.  She had hated penmanship as a child, and found paperwork to be both tense, tedious and headache-inducing as an adult.

With a quick curtsy and a thank you, Roslin turned as though to return to her rooms.  “Stay with me a while, sweet aunt,” Arya asks, sending the pageboy for more tea.  “Tell me all that you have learnt.”

Roslin returns, takes a careful seat, and pulls a sheaf of papers from up her sleeve.  “Of course, my king.  Where would you like me to start?

She stays by Jon’s bedside all throughout the morning and afternoon both.  At the grey of dusk, he awakens, and the first thing he tells her is “Ser Brienne made it to Riverrun.”

It is unbecoming of a lady to cry so much, but Sansa cannot help herself.  Her sister and baby brother are still alive, her bastard brother has finally awoken, and her shield is safe.  Things are starting to look up again.

“How do you know so?”

“Arya.  The wolves are connected Sansa, Ghost and Shaggy and Nymeria, and I could see them!”

“The … wolves?”

“No – well, yes, but – Arya and Rickon!”  Well.  The Starks of old had been wargs and skinchangers, and Sansa cannot say that she is surprised that wild Arya and wilder Rickon had figured that out for themselves.  “Oh, Sansa, they’ve grown so much!  You would hardly recognise them!”  He turned sad, then, lines drawing down at his mouth and eyes so much so that Sansa wanted to give him a giant hug.  “Rickon looks just like Robb.”

She clasps her hands together in her lap to hide how much they shake.  “And Arya?”

Jon hesitates.  Ever was Arya his favourite sibling, but here he…  she cannot place a name to it.

“She is … not like she was before.  I suppose – well, it’s foolish of me to think that she would be, but … She kept her emotions tight to her chest.  She held everything back, and was cold when it came to the enemies of House Stark.  She said she was going to kill every one of the Lannisters, in the beginning, but she came back again later to ask me questions about the White Walkers.  She said she’d spare the Kingslayer and his men if they pledge to help with the Night King, else she’ll kill them all in the night.  Eight thousand men!”

“Could she do it?”

“She seems to think so.”

Jon’s right.  This is a very different Arya to the little girl who lived in their memories.

“Then we must have faith, and make what preparations we can to help them, and to prepare the North.”

Jon gives her a small, proud smile.  “She sends instructions for us both, and has plans that she has spent half the day concocting with Rickon and myself in the shared mindspace.  Her squire she sent to parlay with the Kingslayer, though she hadn’t yet heard from him when I was last with her.  How many letters do you think you can scribe?”

“As many as is needed of me.” She tells him firmly.  “Who am I writing, and what am I saying?”

“Here, let me show you,” Jon says; there is a fluttering at the edges of her mind, and Sansa rears back immediately.  “It’s alright!  It’s me!  Trust me.”

“My mind is the one part of me no-one else can access,” Sansa snaps at him.

“I know, and I’m sorry – but it will be easier if I can give you the memory for yourself.”

“How can you even – what are we?  Tormund called you a warg, but he didn’t mention that wargs could do this!”

“I think… I think that this is a Stark inheritance, Sansa.  I’ve been with wargs and Wildlings before, and they’ve never said anything about what I’ve just seen Arya and Rickon do, what Ghost and Nymeria and Shaggydog have all done.  This is – this is ours, in a way so few things have been recently.  Lady’s echo still lives in you, I could feel it.  Please, let me show you?”

Her hands are now tucked beneath her cloak to disguise their shaking, and she takes three deep breaths and stares her brother down before she carefully, oh, so carefully, allows her mind to open and reach for his.

She shies back again, before rallying and reaching once more.  There is something in the back of her heart, something that feels almost like the long-dead Lady, that reaches eagerly for her brother, that twines itself around Ghost, the hints of Nymeria and Shaggydog, and gives a happy all-over wriggle.  The rest of her, however, is shaking.  She may love and trust her brother, but he is so close, is in the only solace she has left to her, and he is gentle.

It has been so very long, since someone was gentle to Sansa Stark.  It is all she can do not to cry, but the sensation is still passed on to her brother, close as he is.

There is the sensation of a whine from both Jon and Ghost, and the sensation of a hug, of wolf-kisses, of protectivebigbrother and pack, a push and she has a memory before her, the impression of AryaAndNymeria, the impression of RickonAndShaggyDog, and oh, look at them!  Arya Horseface has grown into a woman, looks like Father but commands like Mother, smiles and doesn’t mean it until she does.  And Rickon!  Their baby brother has grown, is nearly as large as Sansa herself (and she is not a small woman, and her brother only one-and-ten, gods be good!), and his eyes no longer are the toddlering Tully-blue of their childhood, but some amalgamation of Father’s grey and Mother’s blue, and he holds himself like a warrior and is alive!  The aches of her body that are the remnants of her marriage are more bearable with these new images to hold to her chest.

“Sansa,” Jon breathes, eyes wide as he gets the phantom sensation of her aches across the wolfbond.  “What – ?  Sorry, no, I’m sorry!”  He feels her panic at his questions, even though her face does not betray her.  He pulls back instantly, only offering up the memories of the notes that Arya wants her to write and giving her back something like privacy, despite the bond.

The part of her that is Lady sings, aawooooOOOOOOooooo!

The part of her that is Sansa thanks her brother, takes the memories, and throws herself into them wholeheartedly to avoid her brother’s pity and sorrow.

By order of Arya of House Stark, King of Winter and King of the Trident, the bearer of this note is charged with the duty of training all those aged between six-and-ten and five-and-forty, who are of sound mind and body, in the art of the spear or of the bow in preparation for the Enemy to the North.  Have every household start to stockpile what reserves they can for the Long Night and following Winter, and report back to Winterfell those areas who have limited resources due to the War.  Have every household stockpile for this time as well, and report back the expected fighting body so that appropriate weapons may be supplied.  Any known sources of Dragonglass, or obsidian, are to be reported as well.  Any and all comments or queries are to be directed to Winterfell…

When they ride into the Lannister camp, Sally holds the flags.  The pole she uses is stout, straight, with a white banner atop and a smaller Direwolf pennant (hastily sewn by Roslin) below.  Brienne had had the fortune of seeing the King and her tiny squire training earlier in the day with sword, knife and staff, and had little doubt that if the need arose, the pole could be repurposed as a weapon.  A new squire holding onto the banners was common, acceptable, and unremarkable.  If nothing else, Brienne was impressed with how this young King had multiple purposes for each and every action.

“Turned away so soon?”  Ser Jaime asks impishly, when she is shown inside his tent once more.  Again there is that soft turn to his mouth, that sheer relief that she had seen when they were escorted in the first time, when he had moved as if to hug her and pulled back bright-eyed, saying he was glad that she yet lived.  “I did warn you, my lady, just as stubborn as yourself.”

“I bring demands of her grace, King Arya Stark,” little Sally injected, stony-faced. 

Ser Jaime’s brows shot up, and he snorted.  “Does she again offer me the graceful opportunity to surrender?”

“She does,” the little squire says smartly, one hand on the banner pole, and the other buried in the ruff of the wolf Trouble.  “Her grace asks that you and your men commit to the War for the Living, Ser Jaime.  Dead Men walk beyond the Wall, and we will need numbers to defeat the monstrosities.  This is the only other warning that you will receive on the matter.  If I am to take back a negative response, then your lives are all forfeit.”

 Ser Jaime snorts a laugh at her, calls her cute, a babe playing at war, and then turns dismissively to look at Brienne, as though inviting her to join in on the joke.

“Lady Sansa is preparing for the Army of the Dead as we speak, my lord,” she tells him, honest as ever, carefully eying the vibrating squire beside her.  “Her grace the King acts in good faith, by sending her squire to speak on her behalf.”

“You believe this?”  He demands.

“I believe that my lady believes it, Ser Jaime.  I believe that her grace believes herself capable of wiping out all of your men.  I believe that a truce is the course of action with the least amount of bloodshed, and unnecessary loss of life.”

“I have been ordered by King Tommen Baratheon to retake Riverrun from the rebel Tully army, as I told you before, my lady.  I agreed to your mad scheme to let the Tully army ride North unscathed so long as they conceded the castle, and as you are here, I can only assume that you were unsuccessful in convincing the Blackfish to leave.  I can’t just take the army away!”

“Send a raven to your King explaining the whats and the whys, and just do it anyway,” Sally shrugged, both hands now on the banner and leaning on it heavily.  Trouble is still seated on his haunches, but is watching Ser Jaime closely and licking his chops. 

“And would you do such a thing to your King, little girl?”

“Her grace would already know everything before I had anything to report,” Sally shrugged.  “And if the options were save the lives of our fighting force, versus sentencing them all to death in the night?  I would choose the men’s lives.”

The squire is tiny, has been training under Arya for not-yet a week, and reportedly was shy and timid at the start of her training.    Yet she looks Ser Jaime in the eye when she speaks to him, is confident in her King’s abilities, and holds herself ready for verbal and physical battle both.

“You are a child –”

“From the mouths of babes, Kingslayer,” Sally snaps back, fingers flexing on the pole.  “Do you have an answer for my liege or not?”

“Welcome to the Wolfswood,” Wylla said, hands steady on the rudder.

“It’s bigger than I thought,” her companion said, staring up at the ancient conifers with awe.  “How big do you think these are?”

“Some would be close to a hundred yards tall, I’d reckon,” she mused, flicking her eyes about carefully.  They had been fortunate so far, in that seemingly no one had spotted them on their race up the White Knife, but one could never be too careful.  “Well, Yorko?  Have we a deal?”

“What is it you say – aye.  Aye, Fin of the Harbour, we can make a deal.  Braavos will make many a penny working this timber!”

“As will the North, I trust?”  Wylla asked coolly. 

“Aye, of course!  My father told me I was a fool to trade with Westeros, but I knew I was right!  Salty would not lie to Yorko.”

“Salty?” 

“You would like her, I think.  She was a Northern girl dressed as a boy too, wanted to go to the Wall and her brother, but my father could only offer passage to Braavos.”

Something twinges in the back of Wylla’s mind, and she stares.  Surely, surely, this is too great of a coincidence.

“Oh?  What did this Northern daughter look like?”

“Ghost eyes,” Yorko says, making the sign against illfortune.  “Grey, you call them?  Small, hair darker than yours.  A little bravos blade at her hip.  She was right to sail with us; Saltpans went up in flames to that Hound soon afterwards.”

Wylla kept herself carefully fluid, breaths even and muscles unlocked and eyes clear.  Inside, she feels like laughing.  Of course her grace is the reason that the mother of all trade deals has landed in Wylla’s lap!  She swears to put out offerings for all of the Seven when they reach Winterfell, and to spend some time in the Godswood besides.  This could be nothing but divine intervention, Wylla was certain.

“Very lucky,” She agrees, beaching the boat and getting Yorko to help her drag it up and out of the water.  They moor the boat, cover it in brush, and dust away their tracks.  “Right!  This way, then.  We’re about a day’s ride from Winterfell, so on foot it’ll take us – fuck!”

They had been alone when they moored, Wylla was sure.  On the path in front of them stands a horse with its lead held in the mouth of a shewolf.

Divine.  Intervention.  Maybe Maester Theomore was right to threaten to send her to the Sisterhood?

“You are seeing this too, yes?”  Yorko asked tentatively.

“Aye, I see it.  Here, wolfie wolfie wolfie…?”

The wolf snorts at her, scratches at its throat, and shows off a leather thong with a scroll attached.  Because why the fuck not?

The handwriting is the atrociousness she might associate with a small child first learning their letters.  The wax is black, and a single black wolf hair and an auburn curl are caught in the middle.  Because nothing says subtlety like attaching hair to wax instead of your actual seal!

Here’s your horse back.  My sister wished to return it herself, but she has been delayed South.  There will be pie for dinner, and Frog will show you the quickest way back.  Travel safe – Valar Dohaeris.  Winter is Coming.

 No!  Subtlety!  Whatsoever!

“What’s it say?”  Yorko asks.  “Is this your – how you say, Forest Children?”

“Children of the Forest,” she corrects automatically, staring.  “I, uh.  Let’s mount and go?  The wolf will take us to Winterfell.”

Yorko makes the sign against illfortune again, and Wylla half wants to copy him.  Instead she pulls herself atop the beast, and extends a hand to the Braavosi.

“I think I will walk,” he says faintly.  She grabs him by the collar and pulls him halfway up the horse.  He scrabbles at the saddle briefly, then joins her astride the mare.

“Alright, Frog,” Wylla says to the wolf.  “Take us to Winterfell!”

She yips, and they are off at a fast lope.  Yorko makes a high-pitched noise of his own, and Wylla holds her breath.   

Frog is at least somewhat considerate of the horse, alternating between the lope and walking every half-hour, and stopping to let the humans off and to spell the horse every two hours.  The path they take is meandering through the Wolfswood, until both sailors are utterly turned around for the trees and strange deer tracks that they have been following.  Sometimes it seems as though the only path they are following is Frog’s fancy, but by the end of the day they can see the castle out on the moors. 

The Ironborn and the Boltons have both held the castle since the last time Wylla was here; the Harvest Festival the year before Fat King Robert took the Starks out of the North.  The damage she can see even from this distance is nearly enough to bring her to tears, but she holds them back and breathes as evenly as she can so that Yorko doesn’t pick up on it.

At the gate they are greeted by a grinning black Direwolf, and a tall boy with red curls and light eyes.

The moment that they are close enough, Wylla is dropping from the saddle and giving a flashy bow.  “My prince,”

Rickon Stark looks at her, looks through her, and says with a cocked head, “I don’t know which one you are.  Frog spotted you yesterday and told Shaggy, and Shaggy told Nymeria who told Arya, who told me where you were from.”

“Fin of the Harbour is fine for now, my prince.  My companion is Yorko Terys of Braavos – Yorko, may I present his highness Prince Rickon of House Stark.”

The man-child nods regally, pulls himself atop his Direwolf, and heads inside the gate.  “Valar morghulis, Yorko Terys.  Well met, Fin of the Harbour.  Dinner first, and then we’ll talk; Larence will take care of your mare, he ate earlier.”

Somewhat in a daze, the pair follow the young prince into the castle, the main hall, and atop the dias where bowls are waiting for them.  Rickon eats like the meal will be taken from him if he isn’t quick enough; Wylla supposes that they’re lucky the boy uses his cutlery at all, she’s sure that the woman to the other side of him, Osha, is a Wildling.

Once all have eaten what they can, Rickon takes a sip of the small cup of ale before him, and invites them to tell him what brings them to Winterfell.

“I bring a trade preposition for you, your grace!”  Yorko says cheerfully.  “I wish to sell your timber to Essos!”

Prince Rickon’s eyes take on an excited gleam.  “Oh?  My sister will be interested to hear your proposal.  Until she returns, tell me: which timber, what trade routes, what prices?”

Wylla has already quizzed Yorko thoroughly about his proposal, so she schools her face into one of deep interest, but castes her senses about to assess the state of the smallfolk.  She remembers the Arya and Rickon of before, but, what sort of people are they like now? 

The smallfolk have the haggard look of ones recently starved, but their shoulders are straight and there is chatter and laughter aplenty.  There are few rumours floating down the river, so there is no scuttlebutt for Wylla to fall back on.  Ramsay is dead, she knows, and King Arya was probably responsible for it, but the how is still unknown.  The sheer amount of damage done by the Boltons is still unknown.  How her grace had managed to completely avenge the Red Wedding is still unconfirmed (Wylla had heard no less than five rumours before she came up the Knife with Yorko, some as tame as poison and some as outlandish as an army of wolves that ate the whole of the Frey’s household before transforming into bats and flying away).  What was still keeping her grace in the South was still unconfirmed, though she suspected that the prince might yet be able to enlighten her, and what was happening with the Lady Sansa and the Lord Commander was also yet unconfirmed. 

Fin of the Harbour was as much a title as a name, the ear to the rumour-mill for the North and the Master of the Underground.  Few things happened in the North without the Manderley’s knowing about it – or at least that had been true, before the War.  Wylla already had a long list of questions she needed answers for before she set sail, and Wynnie and their Grandfather had had even more.  The moment that she politely can – the moment that Yorko is shown to bed, or the moment that she can sneak out of whatever chambers she is assigned to scout out the night staff – Wylla intends to learn everything.

She listens again as Yorko tells Rickon of the timbers he desires, the amounts he will require per ship to make a trade worthwile, the businesses that have provided expressions of interest in Braavos, and she watches the people in the Great Hall.  She notices when three younglings – two girls and a boy – come in along the side of the room with two wolves at their heels, and especially when they join the dias.  The boy is tall and broad and brunette, one of the girls had a rat-face and dark eyes, whilst the other had short black hair and fresh burns on her face.

Prince Rickon is talking to Yorko, but he still offers a bright smile for his companions and two hand gestures that Wylla hasn’t seen before: the curved index and middle fingers of the right hand hooking in front of the face, and his right hand coming up to cover his mouth and nose like a muzzle before pulling it away from his face.  The rat-faced girl looked to the other two, and the boy jerked his thumb over his shoulder.  They sit on the prince’s right, leaving a spare seat between themselves and the Wildling Osha; rat-face, boy, burns.  The wolves settle under the table, and the burnt girl tears her bread roll into quarters and gives a piece each to Shaggydog and the wolves and keeps the last piece herself.

Wylla doesn’t have to wonder too long over the matter, because the Hound of all people appears then, and he joins them on the dias?!  Wylla’s hand drifts to her belt-dagger, but the Prince holds up a hand to interrupt Yorko’s selling pitch.

“Yorko Terys of Braavos and Fin of the Harbour; my Master of Arms, Sandor Clegane; my companions, Della Frey, Larence Snow, and Irene Weaver.  Yorko wishes to set up a timber trade between the North and Braavos.”  He signs as he speaks, and cocks an eyebrow at the end, inviting his companions to offer their own input.  The rat-faced girl, Della, signs something quickly and tightly, her motions close to her body, like the equivalent of a whisper.  The prince pulls out a pocketbook and stick of charcoal and hands it to Osha and the Hound to pass to her in turn, which gets him a grateful nod. 

“What timbers, and what sort of turnover?” The burnt girl, Irene, asked excitedly.  She signed as she spoke and caught Della’s eye before she began.

Yorko launched back into his pitch, with the Prince signing to Della as the Braavosi spoke.  Once everyone was caught up to where Yorko had been before, Rickon gestured to Irene, who started to ask the sort of questions Wylla would expect from a hardened tradesman or fishwife – this is someone who knew finances, knew business.  Wylla didn’t allow her face to change as she watched closer, and took in what she could of the girl, for no Northern weaver so far inland should have this sort of knowledge.  So who she? 

The black Direwolf raises his head and looks at Rickon, who huffs and signals to Irene before his eyes promptly rolled to the back of his head.  Wylla and Yorko both exclaimed in shock, Wylla standing abruptly and reaching for her liege, only for the Hound to raise his hand to her and say gruffly, He’s fine.

“The Prince is speaking with his siblings,” Irene tells them calmly, still signing to Della as she does so.  “It may be but moments or a few minutes, it depends on what is being said.  They are wargs, these Starks who are left, and they speak with each other via the wolves.”

Yorko curses in Bastard Valyrian, and sketches the symbol against illfortune, and another against magic.  Wylla almost wants to join him on principal.

Rickon makes a highpitched noise, his eyes rolling back to normal for only a second before he is gone again.

Osha narrows her eyes, and takes his hand.  “You alright, Little Lord?”

The eyes roll back again, and he gave a brilliant smile.  “It’s Bran!  He found me, he’s coming back!”

“Thank the gods!  You was telling the others, when you warged the second time?”

“Aye, I had to let them know he was ok.”  Rickon licks his lips, and drains his goblet dry.  “He says that the Nights King marches on the Wall, and that we need to prepare for the Long Night.  Irene, Old Wolf, stay with Yorko and get all of the information we need to start preparing for this trade venture – write everything down.  When you’re done, Irene start drafting letters for the Karstarks, Glovers and Umbers to tell them the requirements for the timber, and again for the Manderleys to let them know what to expect and when.  Larence, Arya should be here within another week to legitimise you, and then you can go to Hornwood to do the same, so stay and learn from Irene.  Sansa and Arya will head to the Dreadfort to sort out that disaster after they have returned here, while Jon and I increase the training and distributions of Free Folk to train the people.  Della, Osha, and Fin, you’re with me.”

The light of the candles caught his grey-blue eyes and set them alight.  When he drew himself upright and settled his shoulders, Wylla had to hold her breath; in that moment he looked so much like King Robb.

“Winter is coming.”

Chapter Text

Chapter Warning for period-typical language, Ramsay Bolton, and everyone's general potty mouths.

It is nightfall, and on Davos' suggestion they have stopped their march of Free Folk and Northerners only a few leagues away from Winterfell – the lights of the Wintertown are visible over the moors, and it aches at Jon's heart that they cannot advance, cannot meet their baby brother at the castle and spend the night in their childhood home. Sansa, he thinks, is perhaps happy to have another night to prepare herself before returning to what had been the latest in a long line of prisons.

They are gathered round their fire, Tormund, Davos, and the 'wolves their only company, with Lady Lyanna and Lord Robett keeping to their own men for tonight. A squire in a dusty brown cloak sown from many, ill-treated rabbit furs comes up to them, and asks if they would be wanting anything else.

"No, thank you," Sansa smiles prettily, looking up at the hard-faced boy before them. "I'm sorry, I do not know your name – did you join at the last village?"

The squire looks star-struck, asking how Sansa had known.

"We cannot lead who we do not know," Jon offers with a small smile. "Sit and drink with us a while, if you like, and tell us of yourself."

The squire chuckles softly as he takes a seat beside Jon, and behind him comes a chuffing wolf laugh. A great black Direwolf flops down in front of the fire beside Ghost, the wind from his movement throwing sparks into the air. Jon and Sansa gasp out Shaggy Dog!, and gasp again when a lanky man-child throws himself down between the two 'wolves.

"Rickon?" Sansa warbles, half-rising. Jon is frozen in his seat, and the squire takes his alehorn and drinks.

Grey-blue eyes skip over Sansa's face and Jon's both, then flicks to Tormund, Davos, and lands squarely on the squire. Rickon snorts, pulls a wineskin from within his cloak and throws it to Tormund.

"Heill ok sæll, Mead King. I want time with my siblings, so fuck off."

"Rickon!" Sansa and Jon both exclaim. "Manners!"

Tormund roars with laughter, gives a fake, flashy bow and calls Rickon Prince amidst a flurry of First Tongue on his way past, dragging Davos along behind him. The squire continues to drink, watching Shaggy with awe.

"That was the First Tongue," Jon said to Rickon slowly.

"Aye, Osha taught me," Rickon nodded, easing himself back up from his slouch on the ground and stretching. "Arya, get that face off, I didn't spend the last three hours sneaking out to play pretend now."

The squire stared at Rickon before huffing, amused and voice somehow different from before, and then he reached up to pull his pockmarked face away and reveal the familiar long Stark features of Jon's youngest sister. "How did you know it was me?"

For the second time, Jon and Sansa both exclaim their younger sibling's name. Rickon scrunches his nose and huffs, tilting his head so his wild curls fall in his face.

"You stink, when you're wearing another's face." He grumbles. "Magic stinks. I got turned around before because I followed the Magic smell to some fire-kissed woman." Here his eyes cut up to Jon. "You smell like her magicks, but not like you mated her."

"Melisandre, Priestess of R'hllor of Ashai," Sansa says in her calm Court voice, "is who brought Jon back from death."

"Her?!" Arya demanded, face twisting before she wrangles it back into her own emotionless mask. "And what was she doing at the Wall, to bring Jon – bring you back from what, brother?"

"He died and came back," Rickon says, leaning forward and making a cup-tipping motion in front of his face with his right hand, twice. Arya jerks back and away from Jon (he tries to hide his hurt, but doesn't think he's successful), her eyes tracking over his form again and again.

"Him of Many Faces doesn't return what he takes," she snaps. "Dead is dead! I've seen Berric Dondarrion, and every resurrection cost him more and more of his soul!"

"'Every' resurrection?" Sansa demands.

"He'd come back eight times, when I knew him."

"I don't think all of me had died," Jon tells her with a shake of his head. "After they stabbed me, I was inside of Ghost."

"You warged on your deathbed," Rickon nods sagely, making the drinking gesture at Arya again. "Osha says that if you're ever going to kill a warg, you need to kill their familiar first, so they don't come back in the animal."

Arya stands and sits beside Rickon, passing over Jon's alehorn. That stings, again. His little sister, who had always been his favourite sibling, and his closest confidant after Robb, wants nothing to do with him and is almost afraid of him, and it hurts, godsdammit!

"Your squire?" Rickon asks Arya, sipping from the horn.

"Sally and her father ride with the Lannister army I stole, as does the Lady Knight and her squire. I also took on a second squire at the Twins – he served Robb, and apparently he tried to fight for Robb's right to life before the Red Wedding. They're perhaps a half-day ride behind me, I'll slip back again in an hour once Nan's rested."

Rickon huffs and leans up against Arya's side. "Old Wolf will have figured out where I am by then, so I should leave too."

"Who is the old wolf we keep hearing about?" Sansa asks.

"Sandor Clegane." Arya says softly. "Rickon made him the Master of Arms while I was away, but if you're uncomfortable with him I can send him somewhere else."

Sansa stares at her with wide eyes, before finally breathing, "He's alive?"

"Aye."

"Please, let him stay. He was my one friend in Kings Landing, and I would thank him for his kindnesses."

Rickon chokes on his stolen alehorn, gasping out kindness?! before passing the horn back to Arya with force.

"I travelled with him, for a time," Arya says, taking a sip herself. "Your shield knocked him from a cliff, and he begged I put him out of his misery. He told me he should have taken you, should have fucked you bloody. Are you sure you want him to stay?"

Of all things, Sansa laughs. "He would never hurt me. He meant to take me from Kings Landing, but I denied him. I gave him a song and he gave me a cloak, and I have not seen him since. I should like to see him again."

"As you wish," Arya nods, taking a sip.

"Can," Sansa begins, stops briefly, before rallying herself and asking in a small voice, "can Jon and I hug you both? Please."

Arya shrugs carelessly, moving to Sansa first and then, hesitatingly, to Jon. Rickon watches her, and when Arya has stepped back from both of them, Rickon huffs again and hugs Jon first, nose shoved into Jon's neck, before doing the same quick, firm hug to Sansa, as well. Rickon steps back from her with a frown, and Shaggy rises and comes to sniff her too.

"What is it, sweetling?" Sansa asks him.

Rickon licks his lips, exchanges a look with Shaggy, then looks back to Sansa. "You – um. You're with pup." Sansa's face drains of blood so quickly Jon worries she will faint, and the way she staggers worries him further. "I know the herbs to help you lose it, if you want!"

Jon reaches a hand out to Sansa, which she takes with a death grip before collapsing back onto her seat.

"You're sure?" Arya demands.

"Aye, Shaggy checked too. And Osha's been teaching me how to help with babes, so I know what to do either way."

Sansa sways again, and now Arya is beside her and taking her hand as well.

"You don't have to carry the babe," Arya says, fervent. "If Rickon's method doesn't work, I have one too – straight from the brothels of Braavos!"

Sansa chokes on a sob, and Jon wraps her in a hug, holding her while she shakes. "I thought I would finally be free of him!"

"You don't have to –" Jon starts.

"It's not the babe's fault!" Sansa wails. "And it would help cement our line, besides!"

"It doesn't have to!" Arya snaps. "Sansa, you can lose the babe and no one will be the wiser! House Bolton can die with Ramsey Snow."

Sansa sobs into Jon's chest; Rickon growls at her, and then snaps his teeth and snarls.

"Look at me!" Sansa jolts into Jon further, gulping back her sobs with obvious difficulty. Rickon snaps his teeth again, stands tall with neck and teeth bared. "You are Sansa Stark of Winterfell, and Ramsay Bolton is dead. We are your pack, we are here and we will protect you and support you however you need us to. No one else can tell you what to do with your body, sister, and if they do then I will help you take their throat!"

Sansa grabs him by the shoulders and tugs him into a tight hug, her whole body shaking. Tentatively, Jon and Arya lean in as well until they are all mushed together like a human-shaped puppy pile. When Sansa's shakes have stilled, she grits out,

"His Words will disappear. His House will disappear. His name will disappear. All memory of him will disappear. I wanted him dead and gone and forgotten, and I wanted him to suffer as I had suffered…. But for so long, I had wanted children of my own to love and hold dear, and to name for our fallen family."

"You can be in two minds over it," Jon says softly. "None of us will hold that against you, Sansa. But when you have decided what you will do, we will back you without question."

"I used to think Joffery was a monster," Sansa whispers. "And he was, of course – but there are worse monsters than Joffery Baratheon in this world."

Rickon is the first to stretch out his mind, rubbing up against Jon's consciousness like Shaggy had done to Ghost when first he arrived. Arya's soul joins them quickly, her emotions still locked down tight but her presence larger than life. Together the three of them brush against Sansa's mind, again and again, until she lets them cuddle up against her, too.

They remain wrapped, physically and mentally, around each other until Nymeria appears, sniffing excitedly at Shaggy and Ghost.

"We shall all meet in the Great Hall tomorrow," Arya says decisively, in what must be her Kings Voice, pulling back from their tight group hug. "Rickon, have your herbs prepared quietly and without anyone's awareness just in case, as will I. We shall not speak of this again until Sansa wants to, and when we do we'll do it in the crypts where there are no ears."

They all nod in agreement, but Jon has to ask before she disappears again, "Arya, what – how did you wear another's face, before?"

"I did try to get to you, you know," she says softly. "After the Red Wedding, and Aunt Lysa's death, when it seemed as though we two were the only Starks left – I tried. I caught a ship at Saltpans, and tried to find one going to East-Watch, or White Harbour, but there were none. So I went to Braavos, and while I was there I trained to become a Faceless Man. The Wolfblood meant that I excelled at the arms they taught me, and I can act well enough, but – I could never forget Arya Stark enough to become truly Faceless. Nymeria called me back to save Rickon, which was probably well-timed. I think they had tired of my failures to forget." She swings herself back atop of Nymeria, and in the blink of an eye they were both gone.

"She can act, alright!" Rickon scoffs, cracking his back and then swinging atop of Shaggy. "Well, we better go too. See you tomorrow?"

Jon and Sansa voiced their reassurances, and then he was gone, too.

"Are you alright?" Jon asks Sansa softly, one hand on her shoulder.

She choked out a bitter laugh. "Would you be, in my position?"

"Well, that's fair enough?" He chuckled awkwardly, before tugging Sansa into a gentle one-armed hug. "They were both right. Whatever your decision, we'll stay by you."

She's quiet for a long time, mulling over her words as she has always been wont to do, before finally saying in the quietest voice yet, "I want my own baby. But I didn't want his baby."

"Then take Rickon's herbs, and we'll find you someone worthy of you. We'll find you someone who you may love, who will be brave and gentle and strong."

That startles a laugh out of her, though that was not his intention.

"That, uh, that was what Father said to me, before he tried to get us out of the city," Sansa tells him, voice still soft but louder than it had been. "Thank you, Jon. But, I don't think I could marry again, not for –"

"A good long while," Jon says diplomatically, when she trails off into quiet. "Shall we to bed, as well?"

Shaggy had gotten them to the Godswood quicker than anything; Rickon had climbed the walls and back into his room via the window, whilst Shaggy took the corridors and pretended he had simply gone out for one of his nighttime pisses. The plan was simple, with little chance of failure. Before climbing over the window sill, he even scented the air to be sure there was no one else in his room – he was cautious, dammit!

As he was slipping off his second boot, Clegane's voice growled out, "For fucks' sake."

"Beiskaldi!" Rickon jumped backwards and pulled his dagger out with one hand whilst trying to correct his balance with the other.

"Went to your siblings after all, did we?" Clegane was without his armour and dressed in only trews and undershirt, wrapped tightly in Rickon's blanket by the fireplace – he had learnt quickly then, how strong Rickon's nose was, and hidden his scent under Rickon's own.

"They're close," Rickon snapped at him, sheathing his dagger and slipping it under his pillow. Rickon removed his cloak and spread it over the bed, unbuckling his belt and armour. "I haven't seen Arya in weeks, and I barely even remember Sansa or Jon."

Clegane scoffs, unwraps the blanket and spread it back on Rickon's bed. He's quiet – he's hesitating, which is unusual. Rickon throws his gloves and vest onto the foot of the bed, tucking them between the blanket and cloak, and watches. When he matches Clegane, he pours them both a cup of water and says softly, "I have had no swestrigin since Bran and I split our bands nearly four years ago. Can you really blame me for wanting to be with them again?"

"You're a prince," Clegane growled. "And Starks are few and far between. How many of you have they gotta kill before your kin learn sense!"

"Oh, and you're a part of why Sansa survived Kings Landing?" Rickon pounces, eyebrows arched.

Clegane jerks as though he's been slapped. "… Some, mayhaps. The Little Bird stayed alive through her own chirping."

Rickon hums, eyebrows raised. "Oh? She spoke of you, when we said you were here."

A hidden flinch; the scent of shame, fear, sadness. "Where am I going and when do I leave?"

"What?"

"Don't what me, boy!" A cornered dog with a game leg, lashing out at the wolf because it finds it threatening. "Your pretty sister wants me gone, so where shall I go so she doesn't have to see my ugly mug?"

Rickon clicks his teeth, taking a seat himself and sitting in it backwards, chair back to his front. "Arya offered to send you away from wherever Sansa is, but she refuted. She called you her one friend in Kings Landing," Rickon tells him honestly, elbow on the chair back and chin on his propped fist. "She was glad to know you weren't dead, and that you had done so much for Arya and now for me."

"Liar," Clegane croaks out.

"Dogs and wolves aren't so different, you know," Rickon shrugged at him, smiling lazily. "We are killers, true, but not liars. Believe me or no, that's your business. She'll be here tomorrow by midday, so you can ask her yourself."

"We still have practice at dawn," Clegane grunts, making a quick exit. Rickon smirks to himself, and when Shaggy lets himself back inside they have a quiet laugh to themselves, before they both flop onto the bed and go to sleep.

The next morning, Clegane is a monster in the yard, pushing Rickon and his pack harder than he ever has before in the grey of dawn. Della taps out first, gulping big lungfuls of air whilst signing stop over and over, a flat palm at waist height. Irene isn't too much further behind, choppy black hair in disarray around her burnt face – which is telling, because usually Clegane has a softspot for her, since her facial burns are almost as extensive as his own. Reney ends up slouched and gasping against the castle wall with her staff in hand. Larence doesn't last too much longer after her, her stubbornness matching his pre-existing experience in the training yard. Rickon has experience, stubbornness, and wolfsblood to keep him going, but even he eventually must admit defeat.

"The fuck is your problem today?!" Rickon snarls once he has enough breath back. "Sansa can't be that scary!"

"Fuck off," Sandor snaps back.

"No! Why are you so scared?!"

"I'm not –!"

"Bull-fucking-shit, you reek of it!"

"The fuck did I say about sniffing me, you animal!"

"Oh I'm the Hound, I'm the scariest motherfucker in Westeros but I'm afraid of a lady!" Rickon catcalled, standing straight from his slouch and readying his staff once again. Sandor only sneered at him, so Rickon pushed some more. "She named you her one friend in Kings Landing, and you won't even face her? You're ready to run, even after I said she wanted you here? You're punishing us so we'll punish you – why? What did you do, that you won't face her?"

Shaggy sends a sliver of thought to him, but Rickon can't afford the distraction now that Sandor is swinging for him again. Sandor might be more emotional than he is, but Rickon is still smaller and weaker and less-experienced than he, and if he doesn't want to accidentally lose anything, he needs to concentrate.

"What, do you blame yourself for my sister's misfortunes?" Rickon demands in an almost-lull. "Should have taken her with you, after all?"

Had he blinked, it is likely Rickon would have lost a limb if not his life. Sandor stinks, painsorrowrageregretshame burning Rickon's nose even as he lunges, spins and deflects the leaping steel.

"If I had taken her with me, none of this would have happened!" Sandor growls wetly. "No Littlefinger or Ramsay or whichever other cunt has hurt her; I could have kept her safe, like I promised! Like I promised the Wolfbitch, before she left me to die."

"Without Littlefinger and Ramsay and all the rest of them," Sansa's voice rings across the courtyard, and the both of them spin to see her perched atop of Shaggy. Jon is beside her atop of Ghost, and two wolves lie panting at Shaggy's feet. "I'd have stayed a little bird all my life."

Rickon bounces back a few steps, and then staggers over to his sister to help her dismount and give her a hug.

"You're early," He croaks. She swats at his shoulder gently.

"And you have nothing to do with Shaggy insisting we ride ahead of the march?" She asks him archly. She draws him into another hug while Jon is dismounting, and breaths at his ear, I'll take those herbs.

Rickon forces a laugh to disguise it, and moves into Jon's waiting embrace, both of them watching as Sansa glides across the courtyard to where Sandor has dipped down to place his sword at her feet.

Princess, he addresses her, soft in a way that Rickon has ever known him to be.

"You have never held with titles before," Sansa says, amused. "And Rickon is right, that you cannot blame my misfortunes on yourself. Mayhaps I should have gone with you, mayhaps I would have dodged the blows that fell upon me – gods know I've had the thought myself, often enough. But, Sandor," and here the big man jerks, and Rickon smells his sheer shock from across the courtyard, "do not blame yourself on my account, please. And do not stand on ceremony. Come - Arya says you're our Master at Arms, now, would you speak with Jon and myself on Rickon's training, and his running of the castle in our absence?"

As they walk back over to Rickon and the wolves, Rickon turns to Jon and whispers, "That was strange, yeah?"

"It was different," Jon whispers back, before gesturing to Rickon's friend-pack, still plastered to the wall. "Would your friends like to come over too?"

Rickon flashes him a brilliant smile, turns to his friend-pack and waves an arm for attention, before holding his right hand up palm up and fingers bent up a little, and curls his fingers into his palm five times quickly. Della is still leaning heavily on her staff, and Larence is trying to offer Reney his arm, but she has her head bent and seems to be ignoring him; they all make their way over.

"Why didn't you just call out to them?" Jon asks.

"Della is Deaf, so she wouldn't have heard. I want it to be fair amongst my pack, so I get everyone's attention and teach everyone the signs so that they all understand."

Jon beams at him, eyes bright with pride, and then the pack are by them and Rickon is signing and speaking at the same time, body angled so that Della can see his signs clearest.

"Brother, this my pack: Lady Della of House Frey, Lawrence Snow of House Hornwood, and Irene Weaver."

The girls execute curtsies and Larence bows, eyes shining himself. Rickon knows that Larence looks up to Jon – bastards don't have much social standing by Westerosi law, and Jon had risen as high as he could in a very short amount of time. Irene called it hero worship.

"Unless Arya goes ahead of her group as well, she shouldn't get here until midday," Rickon says, cracking his back. "Is the plan still that she and Sansa go to the Dreadfort?"

"Aye, while you and I wait for Bran. Once the Dreadfort is sorted and Bran is back, you and I are going to Hornwood with Larence, here, and will stay as long as it takes to settle ruffled feathers."

"Hm. Arya's Braavosi friend, Yorko, he's set sail down the river with Wylla Manderly to start the organisation of everything for his trade on the Essosi side, now that he knows his venture will bear fruit. When Wylla comes back, I want to sail with her and Osha to Skagos."

"What?!" Jon demands, while Irene's head shoots up and she snaps,

"My prince, you cannot! That's not a part of the plan!"

"Bran's last message says that dragonglass works best on the walking dead," Rickon says calmly. "And I know for a fact that there's lots of dragonglass on Skagos, and Osha and I can speak with them and trade with them for it – it's just a pretty rock to them, and we can let them know what's about to happen while we're there."

"But my prince, it won't affect them on an island!" Irene tried again.

"Might do, if the ocean froze over enough for the dead to walk to the island," Rickon shrugged, finger moving from signs to pick his nose only for all three of his pack to swat at his arm. He scowled at them all, but continued. "Even still, we need the 'glass. We can't afford to ignore a perfectly good deposit just because everyone's afraid of a little cannibalism."

Lawrence groans into his hands and Irene mouths a little cannibalism in mounting horror. Della is still training herself out of the Court Mask her 'family' had forced her into, but Rickon sees her fingers twitching as though she wants to wrap them around his neck.

"Maybe it would be better if Osha went with someone else," Jon offered weakly. "A seasoned warrior – the Hound, whenever Sansa is finished with him!"

Rickon sneers at them all in disgust; he raises his right hand in front of his head, palm to his face and just touching his nose, before pulling it away to the side, palm outwards, and then down to be about level with his clavicle.

"I cannot and will not call myself Prince, call myself Beta of the Northern Pack, if I won't trade for my people's safety," He snapped at them all. "I'm going to Skagos, and none of you may say otherwise."

The shock on Jon isn't nearly as strong as it had been on Sandor before, but still he reeks of it.

"Rickon, what mightn't we speak against?" Sansa calls, herself and Sandor – herself with her arm tucked into the crook of Sandor's, what the fuck – almost upon them again.

"I'll go to Skagos when Wylla Manderly comes back, and do a deal for us to mine their Dragonglass," Rickon says, holding his head high as he says-and-signs it. Something flickers in the depths of Sansa's eyes, but she responds with her own Court Mask still in place.

"Let us wait for Arya's return, shall we? We may speak of the matter with her grace later."

Rickon has no Court Mask, though not for lack of trying from the girls' part. Rickon raises his eyebrows and looks down his nose, disdain clear, and says and signs as clearly as he can, "Arya will agree with me. We can't expect the Skagosi to take us seriously if we don't send one of our litter –"

"Just say your fucking family, you animal," Sandor sighs, signing family to Della: the pointer and middle finger of both hands crossed, left hand over right, coming out in a wide circle and then joining together with the right over left.

"– and we need someone who speaks their language, which is Osha and I. So, we'll both go."

Sansa has another look in her eye, but it is buried too quickly for Rickon to determine what it was.

"Have you finished your session?" she asks, speaking clearly and slowly for Larence, who's turn it is to translate for Della.

Della nods very emphatically at that, and when Sandor opens his mouth to say something she shakes her head fiercely, and signs stop again in his face.

"Yeah, we're done, Little Bird,"

"Break your fast with us?" Rickon asks. "I'd asked the kitchens if anyone remembered what you liked, but they could only recall lemon cakes, and we didn't have enough lemons."

Sansa smiles softly at him, agreeing for both Jon and herself after shooting their brother a look. "That would be wonderful, sweetling, thank you. Sandor, would you tell us of your stint as Master at Arms while we walk to the Hall?"

She asked him and he did it!

His signing was slower than the rest of Rickon's pack, so he only signed the key words of any sentence so Della had some idea of what he was saying, but when they query her, Della says she isn't so fussed on hearing their progress now, and they can tell her whatever she needs to know later.

Jon tries to leave both Ghost and Shaggy outside, and Rickon looks at him oddly for it. "They're our pack too," he says, signing as he does so. (He says it often enough to the various workers around the castle that Reney and Larence sign it with him, smirking at Della and including her in the joke. She puffs a laugh, which is always adorable.) Rickon swats at his pack, and continues to talk to his siblings, signing even more forcefully at his pack because this is important, even if the three of them are signing with him in jest. "We are Starks and Direwolves both. Direwolves and their small cousins will always be welcome in the halls so long as I have any say in the matter. Ghost and Shaggy are coming."

"Well said," Jon ruffles his hair, and Sansa smiles proudly, and Rickon feels like things are finally coming together.

"Lord Baelish," Arya mused from Nymeria's back. "Would there be a reason for all of these Vale men to be in my Kingdom?"

"... Arya Stark?" Baelish looked shocked, eyes calculating behind a façade of feigned shock. "You're alive!"

"As you already knew, no doubt," Arya corrected him, raising her voice subtly enough that the gathered Knights might overhear. "I threw three of your spies from Winterfell before I went to the Riverlands, and Rickon has tossed another two since. Tell me, if you were already aware of the tortures my sister was going through, why did none of you act?"

"Tortures?" Piped the young Lord beside Baelish – her first cousin Robin, no doubt. "What happened to Sansa?"

"Ramsay Bolton," Arya tells him coolly, "made my sister scream every night throughout their marriage through his depravities. Much of the bruising has yet to fade, and many of the scars never will. She's lucky she did not birth him a son, else she would no doubt be dead."

"She had a girl?" Demanded an older man in bronze, rune-inscribed armour. Arya recognises him from her girlhood,

"She has had no children, Lord Royce, and she is luckier for it," Arya informs him sharply.

"Your Grace asked you a question!" Sally pipes from her pony, previously hidden behind Nymeria's bulk, and glares down at Baelish.

"Your Grace – you are Queen?" Baelish demands, only for Arya to smile the Waif's coldest, hungriest smile at him.

"Arya Stark is King of Winter and King of the Rivers," Sally informs him, slipping to the ground and glaring up at him fiercely.

"Thank you, Sally – Lord Baelish, why are you on my land?" Arya slipped from Nan, too, and flipped her hood back to bare Robb's her crown.

"We were running training exercises for our Lord, your cousin, Robin Arryn," Baelish says quickly.

"In the North? I was under the impression that those of the Eyrie wintered at Runestone, not the Barrowlands."

"In case your sister called upon us, we would be available." Baelish oozed.

"Really?" Arya hummed. "Sally, go and fetch our two companions, please. I'm sure they'll love this conversation. Have my new squire lead the rest of the contingent North, and tell him that we'll be along shortly. Cousin, would you have any tea, perhaps?"

"You have a squire?" The young lord asked with stars in his eyes.

"I have two; Sally was the first, and Olyvar we picked up most recently on our return journey."

"But you're a girl!"

"My first sword-master informed me that those who dedicate themselves to a weapon are neither male nor female, but simply an extension of the weapon," Arya says. "So I suppose the correct term for me would be sword, not girl."

"My lady –"

"Your Grace," she corrects him absently, eyes flickering around the gathered crowd of Knights.

"It is good to see you again after so long, your grace," Baelish tries again.

"Harrenhal was not good, Littlefinger. I watched countless tortures and rapes before Lord Tywin took over the castle from the Mountain, and watched a few score more after. My sister tells me you had informed her of my presence there when you first tried to squirrel her away from Kings Landing – tell me, did you tell my mother too? Did she die knowing I was alive, and that you could have delivered me to her but chose not to?"

She keeps her voice pleasant, her face as open and as pretty as best she can, trying to summon her sister. She knows how mentally throwing such dichotomy can be, after all.

"I beg your pardon?" Baelish chokes out.

"Then beg," Arya returns, seemingly dismissing him as she turns to Robin, and inquires after his training.

Robin chatters blithely about his progress with bow and blade, and Arya invites him to take a few passes at her with his sword, drawing Needle.

"Your blade is too small!" Robin insists. "I'll win super easily!"

Arya gave him another pretty Lady's smile, and assures him, "I won't cut you, don't worry."

Robin readies his sword and runs at her with a yell; she sidesteps neatly, tapping his turney sword on his way past. She tutts, and summons the ghost of Syrio Forrel and his valued lessons.

"You are too stiff, cousin. Be like water and flow."

"I am a Falcon of the Eyrie!"

"And I am a Direwolf of the North, and as necessary, a sword that flows like water. Come at me again."

Instead of charging like she expects, Robin squares up and comes at her carefully, blade held in front of his body in a guard position. She smiles at him and nods encouragingly, and when he does not swing at her, she pokes at him. He smacks at Needle, but she swivels and ducks and has the point of her blade against his throat in a moment. She steps back once he registers that he has lost this round, and then she gestures again. They continue thusly for the entire ten minutes it takes for Sally to return with Ser Jaime and Lady Brienne (and Podrick Payne).

There are shouts and cries from the Vale men, and Arya and Nymeria are immediately between the two factions.

"Ser Jaime has been kind enough to lend me an army," Arya smiles that sweet Lady smile again, Needle balanced and unwavering from her ready position. She hears Ser Jaime draw in a breath, and she twists the hand that she has behind her back so that she is flipping him off. "I would appreciate it if you would keep a lid on any murderous desires you might have against him."

"My Lady –!" Lord Royce begins, only for Sally and Podrick to immediately correct him, Your Grace! "Apologies, you grace, only – you are aware of what this man has done to your family?"

"Of course," Arya answers, glib like Ser Jaime and all the more frustrating for it. "As I am aware of how most people in Westeros have betrayed my family. And like with those others, I will have my justice, when all is said and done. Until then, we have rather more pressing matters to attend to."

"And what might that be, your grace?" Baelish oozes.

"The Nights King and his army of the Walking Dead march on the Wall," Arya says with her Kings Voice and Face wrapped tightly around her shoulders. "With Winter upon us, they are rather more threatening to me at this time than Cersei Lannister and her pet pyromancer, or Daenaerys Targaryen and her Dragons."

"The Targaryen girl won't come to Westeros," an older Lord towards the back of the crowd scoffs.

"She will and soon, if she isn't here already," Arya says firmly. "I have spent time in Essos rather recently, and can assure you that she and her Dragons and her hoard all plan to sail at the earliest convenience. I do not believe that she will come North with any sort of hurry, so she and Cersei can fight it out amongst themselves and keep themselves busy while I deal with the Nights King." She gives a wry smile. "It appears that the War of Five Kings and the War of the Dawn are about to repeat themselves. Oh!" She exclaims, as though she has just had an excellent idea. "Why don't you and your men travel to Winterfell with us, cousin? That way the Vale can be included in the preparation – or at the very least, become aware of what approaches."

Before anyone can stop him, Robin Arryn shouts, "That's a great plan! And, and I can see Sansa again, can't I?"

"Of course," Arya smiles brightly back at him. "I'm sure she will be glad to see you again! She spent time in the Vale with you, didn't she? Would you tell me about that time, please, cousin?"

Robin babbles about Sansa, the Vale, and what happened whilst she was there; the Knights break their camp, and finally they all join back up with the army Arya had pinched from under Cersei Lannister's nose.

She had hoped to be at Winterfell in time for lunch, but considering the extra warriors she has now accrued, she hopes that her siblings will forgive her for her delay.

Later, when Robin has lulled off in his babbling, Ser Jaime rides abreast of Arya and says lowly, "Daenaerys Targaryen was not a part of our deal, She Wolf."

"No, she wasn't. My plan for your men is to have them assist with fortifications, arms training, and distribution of foodstuffs, and then you can all fuck off back down South again straight after."

"Kind of you," Ser Jaime drawls.

"Practical," Arya corrects. "Your army is full of Southerners who won't believe anything I say without proof, and will believe themselves above me and mine because we're Northern and I have breasts and a cunt. May as well get their worth in labour while I can, and deal with whatever comes afterwards, afterwards."

"No need for vulgarities, She Wolf," The Kingslayer hums, fingers tap-tap-tapping away on his reigns. "Your little squire – she says you met Baelish at Harrenhal. Did you ever meet my father?"

Arya snorts with amusement. "I was his cupbearer. He had figured out that I was a Northern Highborn girl, despite my lowborn, Southern boy disguise – and yet despite it all he never figured out that I was missing Arya Stark he was searching for. It was a near thing, when Baelish recognised me; I was sure I was about to be sent back to Kings Landing in shackles, and my friends beheaded."

"It must have been difficult."

"Compared to when the Mountain ran Harrenhal? It was a walk in the park. At least the rat and fire tortures stopped when Tywin took over; it was blunt force or rape afterwards, and half the time the prisoners had already been beaten into submission and gave whatever answer the guards were after when asked."

"... How old were you?"

Arya shrugged, nonchalant. "I don't know, thirteen, maybe?" Twelve. She and Hot Pie had been twelve, and Gendry only a handful of years older than them, when they first arrived at Harrenhal. She had hoped to ride as far South as the Inn that had bought Hot Pie, see if he was still there and see how he was all these years later, but the opportunity hadn't arisen. Maybe she would have the time to do so after the Nights King was dealt with?

The ride from the Barrowlands to Winterfell was steady and mostly quiet. Ser Jaime kept his chattering to Lady Brienne or the Ser Bronn that rode with him, and Arya kept herself to her squires and occasionally a Lord or her cousin, whomsoever was after her attention at the time. The wolves loped up and down the company line, making sure all knew who it was that they rode for and with.

Arya was coaching Sally and Olyvar through the motions for juggling when they finally reached the moors of Winterfell, and she felt it when Shaggy could keep himself in check no longer.

Howls echoed from the forest, bounced over the moors and ululated from the throats of hundreds of wolves. A great black beast raced from the castle with a tiny spot of colour on his back; Shaggy and Rickon. Jon and Ghost followed only moments later, a black spot on a hulking white wolf. Arya whooped a laugh, threw her head back and howled for her pack, Nymeria launching herself ahead of the company joyfully. They meet somewhere in the middle between the castle and the company line, Arya flinging herself from the back of her wolf to scoop her baby brother up into her arms and spin him around, both of them laughing and hollering. Jon slips, silent, from Ghost's back and watches them fondly, waiting until they are finished before offering an arm to Arya. Now that she has had the time to think on Rickon's stories of wargs living on in their animal companions, she isn't as afraid of him, so goes to him gladly and sweeps him into the bear hug she denied him in the night.

"That army is huge," Rickon whistles appreciatively.

"That's two armies," Arya tells him smugly. "Westermen and Valemen. Sansa's earnt their favour, or perhaps the other way round, and the Vale have been wintering in the Barrowlands whilst they awaited instructions from their lady."

"That's unusual," Jon murmured, a line across his brow.

"Mm, and they're led by Petyr Baelish," Arya says grimly. "We've already tossed five of his spies from the –"

"Six," Rixkon corrects. "Sansa tagged another at the morning meal, she and Old Wolf are interrogating them now. Della and Reney are watching."

Arya hums again. "Ask Old Wolf what he remembers of Littlefinger, and have him confer with Sansa on what his motives might be. We'll have a meeting after lunch, with our immediate staff, the Lords, and any of the people who are interested and can squeeze into the Great Hall. Jon, speak with the leaders of the Free Folk, I want them in attendance and ready to add their voices as they see necessary. Rickon, I want your pack, my squires, Old Wolf and the Lady Brienne close to the dias but not on the dias, alright? We need to set people's impressions, and reinforce that we are Northern and not Southern. Make sure the kitchens are ready for the numbers we have coming through, and send half of the wolfpack out to act as guides for each segment of the army. I'll start sectioning and advising, and we'll go from there."

Rickon nods, hugs her fiercely, and then launches himself atop of Shaggy right as the great Direwolf takes off, clinging to his back like a limpet, cloak flapping behind him as they went.

Arya and Jon both snorted at his dramatics, but recovered quickly.

"The Free Folk are camping in the Wolfswood?" Arya asked, reconfirming.

"Aye, just to the other side of the Godswood. I'll make sure Tormund and some of the others are in attendance. We put Lady Mormont and Lord Glover and some of their higher-ranked lords in the castle already, but most of their men are on the northern side of the castle just outside of the 'Wood."

"Lovely – I'll put the Lannisters here on the Southern side, and the Valemen can be on the Eastern side between the two."

"A defence on all four sides," Jon says admiringly.

"Or an attack," Arya corrects grimly. "It wouldn't take much for the Lannister Army to decide that the Kingslayer is no longer worth following, or for Littlefinger to try and incite someone. Advise the Free Folk to avoid the Southerners as much as possible."

Jon nods, hugs her tightly, and swings himself atop of Ghost with far less grace than Rickon had Shaggy. "I'm proud of you, Little Sister," Jon tells her. "Father, Robb and your Mother would be, too." Before she can respond to that, Ghost turns and takes off for the castle, too. Numbly, Arya swings herself back atop of Nymeria, and turns around to start directing and distributing her two new armies, wolves pouring out of the castle and Wolfswood to help with directions. By the time she is finished, and it is only the Lords who will be staying in the castle left.

"Lunch, and then we can start to iron out the details for the Winter," Arya calls to the thirty-odd Lords and knights before her, Sally and Olyvar on her right and Brienne and Podrick on her left. "It is, after all, Coming."

AN

Norse/Free Folk Translations:

Heill ok sæll – be healthy and happy, traditional Viking greeting.

Beiskaldi – bitch

Swestrigin – siblings, one's own tribe/clan/family

AusLan Translations:

Cup tipping motion in front of face – drink, cup in proper AusLan with one tip motion, but this is the outback version where two tips in front of face usually means "share ya grog" or "do you want a drink"

A flat palm at waist height – stop, halt, decease, to no longer do a thing

Brother – fists shuffled against each other at chest height

Sister – knuckle of curved index finger of right hand tapped against the bridge of the nose

Come here – right hand up, palm up and fingers bent up a little, and fingers into palm five times quickly

Family – the pointer and middle finger of both hands crossed, left hand over right, coming out in a wide circle and then joining together with the right over left.

Disgust – right hand raised in front of head, palm to face and just touching nose, pulling it away to the side, palm outwards, and then down to be about level with clavicle

Chapter Text

I'm so sorry to everyone who has been so patient waiting for the next update! Unfortunately I am without a computer (Rest In Pieces 😭 Lappy Toppy) and don't know when I will next be able to update any of my works. Until such time as I can replace my laptop (and get back the few works I hadn't managed to back up before LT blew), I am going to be podficcing my works. If that's your jam, I'm going to try to upload at least one chapter a week. As always, you can check in with me for questions and queries or even prompts on my tumblr or tiktok.  

I'm so sorry again, and hope to hear from you on my other socials in the interim.

- Friz

Chapter Text

Sansa Stark

Sansa remembered the small lapdogs that some of the Court Ladies had favoured in Kings Landing: fluffy, yapping little things or else soft, silky dogs whose only role was as a companion. Creatures that were either all bark and no bite, or placid and unaffected by human voices or goings on.  A lady-in-waiting had once described Sansa as one of the silky breeds, called her soft and docile and placid, when she wasn’t terrified.  Sansa had wanted to point out that one needed only to threaten those whom those dogs owed loyalty to, to see their ferocity.

Sansa would like that lady-in-waiting to see her now .  Her baby brother and her sister, who Sansa had thought long dead, were alive and had rescued themselves; Baelish now threatened that safety.  So Sansa holds a knife to the neck of his operative and smiles and says, “Wrong answer.  Try again.”

She ignores the looks that Sandor Clegane is throwing her, as well as ignoring the looks of young Della Frey and the weaver girl Irene (who Sansa was almost certain was one of Robert Baratheon’s bastards who had somehow escaped Joffrey and Cersei’s purge).  Sansa is the monster the South and Ramsey created, but she will wield her new claws in defence of her family like she wishes she could have all those years ago.

“I’m loyal!  Milady I swear, I serve House Stark!”

“Winter is Coming, as is her grace King Arya,” Sansa smiles that soft, docile smile she perfected at Court.  Littlefinger’s woman, already pale, whitens further.  “She brings with her her army of wolves, all so very hungry after their trip South and back.”  A pause, a breath, and the poor woman bursts into tears.

“He has my family , milady, he said he’d protect them only as long  as I answered to him!”

“Try again,” Sansa shakes her head, takes the woman's hand, and moves as if to cut off one of her fingers.  At the woman's panicked screams, Sansa looks at her and says in a quiet voice, "How could Lord Baelish have access to Northern smallfolk?"

“I’m from Kings Landing!”  the woman howled.  “My mother and sisters all work in his brothels!  Milady I’m sorry, I’m sorry!!  Don’t hurt me, please don’t, I'll tell you everything, I swear it!"  

Sansa places the woman’s hand back on the table, sheathes her dagger, and looks the woman in the eye expectantly.  “What is the purpose of your being here, why did Baelish assign you Winterfell, and what information have you already passed on to him?”

While the woman answers her questions in-between sobs, Sansa finally allows herself to look at Clegane.  He is older and more worn than when she had last seen him, which was, of course, to be expected after almost-five years.  He's watching her with a combination of pride and apprehension and an emotion that she refuses to name.  Behind him, Rickon's "pack members" are much easier to read, despite their own Court faces.

Della is stuck in the middle of terrified and enchanted, watching with big eyes set in a pale face.  Irene is afraid, yes, but not the same terror that Della exhibits - Della believes Sansa will actually remove fingers-from-hand, whereas Irene sees it as the particularly convincing bluff that it is - and Irene acknowledges the necessity of the lie with resignation and expectation.  She wants to see how else Sansa will operate, and Sansa is glad for it.  These girls have no-doubt seen plenty of cruelty and hardship already in life, and now Sansa has the chance to show them a way to snatch a tiny portion of power back for themselves and their liege.

(or at least, she hopes that that is how the pair will continue to view her baby brother, anyway.)

Once the spywoman has finished singing her secrets, Sansa smiles even more beautifically at her, and directs Sandor, “Lock her in the cells in the kennels, if you would.  Her grace will want to speak with her upon her return.”  The woman sobs even harder, and tries to thrash out of Sandor’s grip, but he does not allow her.  Once Sandor has stepped outside to hand the woman over to the guards, Sansa turns to the two girls and asks them clearly, 

“Did you have any questions?”  Irene translates for Della, and the little Frey girl immediately signs back, Irene speaking for her.

“If her grace is to question the woman herself, what was the point of our questioning her now?”

Sansa nods at Irene, and faces Della when she answers.  “My questioning has given us a timeframe of urgency; we now know how much information and of what sensitivity has been passed on to Lord Baelish,” she pauses to allow Irene to catch up, then continues.  “Arya may yet have more in-depth questions that I did not think to ask, but now we have a starting point of information for her to work off of.  There is, of course, the added fact that once she has been ‘broken’, so to speak, the first time, she is more likely to answer Arya when she does her own questioning.”

Sandor steps back into the room.  “Well done, Little Bird; you scared the shit right out of her.”

Sansa smiles a true smile at him this time - at her earlier insistence, he has stopped censoring himself in her presence.  She had started to worry, when he first used shift instead of shit whilst discussing the martial abilities of the Winterfell guards before she’d spotted the spy.  “Thank you, Sandor.  Any news?”

“The she-wolf has returned with an extra army she somehow managed to steal from right under Cersei Lannister’s nose, as well as the brute you call a shield.  Arya’s joining your brothers in the Hall now with her stolen lords and her two squires.”

“Two!” Sansa exclaims, smiling brightly like she hasn’t in years - gods, since she and Margaery had first started their friendship! “Well then, we had best not keep her grace waiting!  Lady Della, Irene, you are dismissed.”

Irene had been translating for Della, and as soon as they had leave the two girls shot out of the office and away.  Sansa hoped that they were going to collect Rickon and share their new knowledge with him; that would be one less job for Sansa to do later.  Sandor offers his elbow to her, and she smiles large enough that her cheeks hurt.

It was nice to know that, no matter how many other things have changed over the years, she can still trust that Sandor Clegane will not truly hurt her.

Rickon Stark

Della and Reney race up to Rickon in the corridors, grabbing him and Larence and dragging them off to a quiet corner at the end of a table, where they would have room to sign.

Your sister is scary , Della signs the moment they are seated with a pot of tea and a split small-loaf of bread between them.

You haven't spent any time with Arya today?  Rickon signs back, confused - the younger of his sisters has only just arrived at Winterfell, and the girls were with Sansa for the last hour.  Della had spoken of his Alpha-King-sister once or twice before, but had used descriptive words like mirror or ice or stone to describe her, not scary .

Not the King , Della signs back, Princess Sansa .

Rickon lowers his hunk of bread before he has a chance to taste it.  Sansa? he fingerspells.  Scary?

Glad I am deaf and could not hear the screams , Della says, which answers exactly nothing.  Rickon flails, and asks her to explain.

Torturing the spy, Della signed, frowning at Rickon as though he were slow (which , rude !).  Your sister's face never changed .

Rickon frowned.  The memories that Arya had shared with him of Sansa had painted the picture of an expressive person, but maybe that was only true of her childhood?

And Old Wolf?  Rickon asked.

Della tapped her fingers together, frowning and biting her lip.  This was the face she wore when she wanted to say something she thought rude or improper.

I don't know if he's scared or impressed or turned on, she finally said.  I don't think he knows, either.

Rickon, Larence and Irene all spat out their tea.

I don’t need to know that Old Wolf wants my sister!   Rickon signed furiously, cheeks no-doubt as bright as his hair.

Nothing can come of it, Irene signs slowly.  He’s from the Westerlands, and only barely noble besides.

What’s that matter? Rickon asked indignantly.  He might not like the idea of his sister with the greybeard Master of Arms, but that was because Rickon did not like to think of any of his siblings with another.  Rickon remained of the strong opinion that bloodlines should not play into a match between humans.

She is one of the Northern heirs, Irene says simply.  There was discord because your lady-mother was Southern, because your sister-by-law was foreign.  You and your siblings must marry Northerners to secure the future of your Kingdom and loyalty of your men.  

What’s that got to do with anything?!   Rickon demanded.  

It is how things are done , which is Irene’s answer for something being Old and Political in nature.

(when Irene uses this answer, Rickon knows that he’s going to find a way to Fuck Shit Up.  Irene will be very disappointed in him, but that’s a problem for future!Rickon)

Rickon snorts at that, and casts his eyes about the hall whilst scenting the air for Sansa’s perfumery; he spots her entering the hall on Clegane’s arm, and the two move immediately for the dias where Arya and Jon are just making themselves comfortable at table, Jon on Arya’s left.  Arya nods to Sansa, who curtsies deeply before taking a seat on Arya’s right; Arya casts her eyes about until she spots Rickon.  She signs at him, her arm on the table to keep the sign subtle, crooking her finger a couple of times at him, and Rickon knows a Summons when he sees one.  With a gusting sigh he tells his packmates he’ll find them later, grabs his teacup and trots to the dias.  

“Beta,” Arya greets him with a quiet smile.  “You’ve looked after our home and people well in my absence; thank you.  These are my squires, Sally and Olyvar.”  The young girl and young man are seated to Jon’s left.

Rickon cocks his head at them, and casts his mind back to the greendreams of his childhood.  “Arya and the Old Wolf robbed you and your sire,” he said to Sally, throwing bared teeth to Clegane who is sitting, quite uncomfortably, by the girl, “and you served Robb and let him die.” he told Olyvar, watching the pallor come over Della’s uncle.  His scent is ripe with pain - Robb had meant something to this Frey, and the Red Wedding seemed to be something he deeply regretted.  Interesting .

Arya raises her eyebrows at him, and gestures to a tall woman in armour on Sansa’s other side.  “Lady Brienne of Tarth, and her squire, Podrick Payne.”

Rickon sniffed, uncaring, and takes a green bean from Arya’s plate.  He eyed the blond man beside the Lady knight’s squire, looked him up and down, and asked with a biting smile, “Is there a reason you have the hrafnasueltir gargan who crippled Bran at your table, Alpha?” he licks his lips as he says it, thumb slung through the belt that holds his dagger.  One word from his sister and he will gladly take the Lannister’s throat.

“Ser Jaime is lending us an army,” Arya says archly, sipping at her ale.  “Our contract is that he lends his men to help us, temporarily, prepare for the coming Winter.  Afterwhich, he shall return his men South to prepare for the Dragon Queen’s arrival.  We have it well in hand.”  She smiles at him, places the tip of her leading index finger to her lips, and then turns it outwards, finger like a striking snake.  

Rickon bares his teeth victoriously, but covers it by signing for Arya’s drink, two cup-tipping motions in front of his mouth.  Arya hands her cup over with a small smile of her own, before asking Rickon, “How far away is Bran, do you know?”

Rickon shrugs, supposedly uncaring, and hands back Arya’s drink.  Ducking under the table, he pops up in the empty seat between Arya and Sansa, sits, and casts his eyes over the lords below them on the closest table.  Taking in the House banners that Reney has gone to such pains to teach him, Rickon asks Sansa, “You brought Mormonts and Mazens and Glovers?”

“And Arya has brought Westermen and Valemen,” Sansa smiles, and her scent is bloodthirsty.  Rickon casts his eyes over the lords, searching and looking and - there .  There is a man amongst the Vale lords with a stupid beard, who the Old Wolf glares at and who watches Sansa greedily.   “Where’s Osha, sweetling?”

“Mating,” Rickon shrugged.  “She’ll be back when she’s done.”  He made grabbing fingers at Sansa’s cup, which she surrendered gracefully; he sculled the cup, carefully tipped the herbs he’d hidden up his sleeve into the cup with one hand whilst dragging the water jug to him, topping the goblet up before passing it back to his sister.  Rickon had gone to great pains to make sure that people did not expect subtlety from him for times such as this, and was confident that none had noticed his sleight of hand (except for Arya and Sansa, of course, but they seemed to see everything ).

He looked back at his pack, and saw Larence signing excitedly to Reney and Della, gesturing to the Northern lords - to Lord Glover in particular, who had fostered him.  Reney is scrunching herself smaller and smaller in her seat, and Rickon casts about to see what or who she is hiding from - there .  The Red Witch that brought Jon back, who Arya seemed to have some grudge against already.  Rickon licks his lips and casts his eyes back to his Alpha-King, and thinks back to the List she had offered to her death-god when she first rescued him from Ramsey.

“What’s the plans for after Lunch?” Rickon asks Arya brightly, playing the child he longer feels.  It can wait, for now, but eventually he will have all of the information, and will support his sister and his friend however they need him to.

Jon Snow

Once lunch is finished, Arya runs her version of a War Council.  She has the men seperated by Northern, Vale, Westerlands, Stormlands, and Always Winter, with a smaller table set aside to house Rickon’s pack, Arya’s squires, a recently returned Osha, and Sansa’s shields.  Jon and the three Starks are seated on the dias, Arya in the center with Sansa on her right, and Rickon and then Jon himself on her left.

“Thank you for travelling all of this way,” Arya smiles, face unreadable.  “This meeting is, of course, two-fold.  For those who do not know me, I am Arya Stark, daughter of Winterfell and King in the North and of the Riverlands.  For the Northern Lords gathered here today, I will be accepting your oaths of fealty after this business is concluded.  The main business we must discuss today is the matter of the walking dead Beyond the Wall.  Jon?”

Arya sat gracefully - almost exactly the same way that Sansa had when she had joined them at the dias - and Jon rose amidst the mutters, swallowing down his nerves.  He looked to Tormund amongst the Free Folk, who gave him an encouraging nod back, and stood straighter.  

“My lords, I know that it is a hard thing to hear - many of you grew up hearing tales of the Others at your nurses or grandmother’s knees, but I can assure you that it is true.  I have seen the Walking Dead myself - I even fought against them at Hardhome and lost good men and women both.  The only things we know of that can best them are fire and dragonglass, or obsidian, and Valyrian Steel.  I have petitioned her grace, and ask that all able-bodied Northern people between the ages of six-and-ten and five-and-forty are trained in bow or spear.  The Free Folk have offered to act as instructors for those who will learn from them.”

Arya rises then, and when Jon goes to sit quickly, she raises a hand to still him.  She looks to Tormund.  “I understand that you had a King?”

“Had!”  Tormund agrees, baring his teeth viciously, before jerking his head to where Lady Melisandre sits with Davos and the few remaining Stormlanders.  “She and Stannis had him burnt at the stake, before your brother put him out of his misery.”

Arya arches a brow at Jon questioningly, so he answers her.  “Your Lord grandfather and uncle were both burnt alive, your grace.  We may have been on opposite sides, but Mance was a decent man, and I wished to spare him a slow death.”  

Arya nods at him once, before looking back to Tormund.  “Do you have another King?  Or Queen?”

The Free Folk look amongst themselves; there’s a few scattered comments in different dialects that Jon barely catches, though Osha and Rickon both cock their heads at a few phrases.

“We’ve thrown our lot in with Jon Snow, King,” Tormund finally speaks.  “He died for us - the least we can do is the same.”

Arya’s face nevers changes from its polite mask, though her smile seems a touch more genuine.  “I am glad to hear it.” she looks to Jon, who straightens immediately under her gaze; her eyes warm, briefly, before returning to the mask.  “Well then, I’ll ask now in front of everyone - are you still prepared to send representatives to the different castles and villages and hamlets to train Northmen in bow or spear?”

“Aye, so long as they’ll learn from us and offer no issue,” Anjij, one of Mance’s generals and the current head of the largest dog-sled clan, speaks this time in her booming voice.

“Thank you.  Ser Jaime,” the Westerman started at Arya’s address. “I would request a man or two to go along with the Free Folk representatives to help provide assistance to the people as needed.  Though, considering the history between our kingdoms, I will add this - any murder, raping, looting, pillaging or otherwise loss of life, income or safety that Lannister soldiers cause to Northern people, the Free Folk have my full and enthusiastic permission to deal with said wrongdoers however they see fit.”

She smiled , and Jon had never thought that he could possibly be scared of his little sister - either of them, really, but especially this one - and now here he sat, cold with fear.  The Kingslayer didn’t look much better where he sat at the head of the Westermen’s table.

 “Understood, King Arya,” the blonde says, and Arya’s enigmatic smile becomes a satisfied smirk directed at him, before she turns to the rest of the room with the enigmatic smile back in place like it had never left.

“Are we in agreeance thus far, my lords?” Arya asks.

“Do you honestly believe that there’s Dead marching on the Wall?”  Lord Glover demands, standing.

Arya arches an eyebrow.  “I have never known Jon to lie, certainly not about anything important, and especially not to me ,” she says, chillingly polite.  “And I doubt that so many of the Free Folk would band together, despite their differences, to escape something they all collectively made up .  This is a threat, Lord Glover, and I will be making sure that it does not stay one .”  She casts her eyes about the room.  “Any other questions?”

Lady Lyanna stands on her bench with her head high, “We know no King, but the King in the North who’s name is Stark.  Tell me, your grace, why are you King over your older siblings, or your trueborn brother?”

Rickon cackles, and Arya kicks him under the table.

“Because I took back Winterfell,” Arya says with a biting, wolf-bright smile.  “Because I took vengeance at the Twins for the Northern Host, and took back Robb’s crown.  Because I freed Riverrun from the Frey-Lannister siege, and I have brought two armies to help me protect our Kingdom from further ruin.”  A pause, and then, “And Rickon didn’t want it, and no one knew where Sansa or Jon were.”

Lady Lyanna nods once, thinks, then bows and says your grace before retaking her seat.  Thank all of the gods for small mercies!

“I will be speaking with the Free Folk as a whole later on the matter of who will be going where,” Arya continues.  “I understand that my Master of Arms has been instructing the Wintertown small folk in the art of bow and spear at my directive, and will be taking a turn through the yards later to see their progress.  As Jon says, fire and Dragonglass are the best weapons against the marching dead, so we will be sure to stock what we can of both.  Sansa?”

Sansa stands gracefully to speak.  “Rickon has already sent missives to the major castles of the North instructing them to mass-collect what dead wood they can and to increase defenses around village perimeters wherever possible.  Per your instructions, I have drafted over four hundred copies of your letter of introduction for the instructors, and reports of dragonglass sources have already started to trickle in, as have audits of the pantries and anticipated stock declines over a long winter.  White Harbour has sent word that a favorable wood trade has been brokered with Braavos thanks to your grace’s connections, with secondary agreements being brokered with Pentos to secure food deposits for the coming Winter.”

Rickon stands now, leaning on the table with a wolfish smile of his own.  “There are great deposits of dragonglass on Skagos, Alpha.  Osha and I can deal for it, and then come back to help Old Wolf train everyone.”

“It’s about time we taught these boys of Summer how to fight!” Lord Glover declares.  Arya’s eyes narrow imperceptibly, but Lady Lyanna beats her to it, standing abruptly and then climbing atpo of the bench once again with one of her men keeping her steady.

“Rumour has it that Prince Rickon has been training boys and girls both,” she snaps.  “Her grace is a woman, and one of her squires is a woman.  I don’t plan on knitting by the fire while men fight for me.  I might be small, Lord Glover, and I might be a girl, but I am every bit as much a Northerner as you.”

“Indeed you are my lady, no one is que-”

“And I don’t need your permission to defend the North!”  Lady Lyanna growled sharply.  “We’ll begin training every man, woman , boy and girl on Bear Island.”  She sat to rowdy applause.  

Arya smiled at her, said just so, my lady , and looks at Rickon for a long moment, before asking, “How large of a party will you need?”

The wolfsmile becomes something more human, more childish delight and less bloodthirsty dare.  “No more than three others; a small party is best.  If I am Northern and Osha is Free Folk, then lend us a Valeman, a Westerman, and one of the remaining Stormlanders so that we are a well-mixed group.”

Lady Brienne exchanges pointed looks with the Hound, before standing herself.  “Your grace, Lady Sansa - if it pleases you, I am of the Stormlands and my squire is of the Westerlands.  We would be honoured to serve your brother for this retrieval.”

Arya raises an eyebrow at Sansa, who smiles softly and nods to Brienne.  “Lady Brienne and Podric have served me well since they assisted in my escape.  They will help Osha keep Rickon safe.”

Rickon raises offended eyebrows, but Arya nods before turning to the Vale table and asks, “Well then.  Lord Robin, who of your men would you send to help my baby brother on his venture?”

Robin has a slightly manic look to his eye when he cheerfully announces Ser Lyn Corbray without any hesitation.  On Arya’s other side, Sansa looks like she has turned to stone, though her polite interest never leaves her face.  Arya’s eyes flick from Robin to the knight in question, eying him up and down, before she looks at Rickon with raised brows.

Rickon looks ready to eat the Vale knight, and Jon fears that they might yet have a secondary inter-kingdom war on their hands sooner than later.

“I hope you’re skilled with that sword,” Rickon smiles bitingly.  “There’s cannibals on Skagos, don’t forget.”

Jon is missing something, he knows it, and unbidden Ygritte’s voice hisses at him from his memories that he knows nothing.  Only this morning Rickon had been blasé and flippant on the matter of the Skagosi cannibals; what had changed that he now mentioned it like a threat?

Arya Stark

“With that settled,” Arya smiles smiles smiles at her gathered men.  “does anyone have any grievances to bring before myself or my siblings?”

Lord Royce spoke, “What is to become of the Houses who betrayed your family, your grace?”

“I took the heads of Ramsay Bolton, Lady Dustin, Harald Karstark and Smalljon Umber myself,” Arya gives a real wolfsmile this time, instead of her carefully crafted Lady Crane smile.  “Ned Umber and Alys Karstark are here today, and I would ask that they swear oaths of fealty to House Stark once again.  They have kept faith for generations, and from what I have been able to gather the younger generation are aware of the faults of their elders, and wish to honour their previous loyalties.  We shall reassess after Winter, of course.

“Alys Karstark, Ned Umber.  Please stand.”

Alys is a willowy redhead, Ned a skinny brunet boy with a blade of a nose, and both are doing their best to not appear terrified.

“I ask you both now to pledge your loyalties once again to House Stark, to serve as our bannermen and to come to our aid whenever called upon.”  Both draw swords and kneel before her, say together, this I swear!  “Will you stand beside us, now and always?”

“Now, and always!”

“Thank you.  Please be seated.” 

Arya raises an eyebrow at Rickon, who stands with a grumble.  “Per your instructions, my pack and I have been going over the family genitalogies -”

“Genealogies,” Arya correctly, fighting desperately to keep a straight face.  Tarth’s face goes pinched and Clegane chokes to hide a laugh - Rickon almost certainly did this on purpose - whilst Rickon’s pack members look defeated.  Larence Snow stops signing for Della Frey to put his head in his hands with a very put-upon sigh.  A resigned Della signs something at Irene Weaver, who finger-spells something back at her with a put-upon look.

“That’s what I said,” Rickon says cheerfully.  “Them, we looked through ‘em as far back as we could to try and trace a possible heir for House Dustin, and we think we found one in House Harclay.  Their heir is the firstborn Jon, but he has a sister who is yet unwed, Lady Berena.  I sent the letter you wanted me to, asking her if she would be Lady Dustin, and we haven’t received a response yet.”

“Hopefully she will provide it in person upon her arrival with the other Mountain Clans tomorrow,” Arya smirked.  She had a good feeling about the Mountains.  “The Dreadfort, of course, goes to Sansa - give it another day or two to settle, and then we shall go and assess it together, sweet sister.  You are also, however, the heir to Castle Hornwood.”

Sansa immediately shook her head.  “It was never Ramsay’s to begin with, and thus I have no claim to it, your grace.  However, young Larence Snow does.”

Arya nodded, and turned to Rickon.  “Larence has served in your pack these last few weeks - what have you to say of him?”  

Her baby brother’s smile is proud and fierce.  “He lives by his House words, and the teachings of the Glover’s who have fostered him these last six years.  He has served me well these few weeks he has been at Winterfell, and I would be honoured to have him as a bannerman of House Stark.”

Arya nods at him, and turns back to the bastard in question.  “Larence Snow, please rise … My brother speaks highly of you, and Maester Wolkan’s reports say you are educated and capable.  In exchange for oaths of fealty, I would raise you from Bastard of Hornwood to it’s Lord.”

The tall boy trips over his feet in his haste, nearly careening into the comparatively-tiny Della Frey and Irene Weaver.  Osha laughs, though not unkindly, before hoisting the boy to his feet by his collar.  Rickon signs something no-doubt cheeky, and Arya holds onto her professional face by the skin of her teeth.

Drawing his sword, Larence just about throws himself on the ground and gasps out, “This I swear!  Now, and always, your grace!”

“You may be seated, Larence Hornwood,” Arya tells him, and pretends not to see the tears gathering at the corner of his eyes.  “Lady Alys, I understand that your uncle Arnolf did not ride with you - did your cousins?”

Alys rises again, and gets out a tentative, “Donnor, Brandon and Edwyle came with me, your grace, as did Miriame and Lysara.”  The girls in question stand, flanking their cousin with worried resignation on their faces.

“I understand that your mother was born Lady Jeyne Hornwood.” Arya says calmly.  “I’d like for you both to spend some time with Lord Larence, and let me know if either of you might consent to a marriage pack.  If neither of you are, of course, it will be your job to search the genealogies for another Lady of the Hornwood bloodline.”

The room is quiet enough that Arya suspects one could hear a pin drop.

“You… you’re allowing us a choice?” Lady Miriame asks, voice quavering.  

At Arya’s nod, the room explodes back into sound.  Arya gives them to the count of five, and when there has still been no lessening of noise or an obvious leader in the pack, she turns to Rickon with a raised eyebrow.  Rickon flashes her a blindingly bright smile, stands, twirls his staff and then swings it down onto the table with a great crash .

Blessed silence.

Arya stands and s m i l e s like a threat.  “We have time to celebrate the reinstatement of House Hornwood tonight, my lords and ladies.  We do not have the time to question someone’s right to agree to a marriage this afternoon, or indeed at all .  Do we have any other points to discuss before we go about our businesses?”

Davos Seaworth stands, and little Irene Weaver squishes down even further in her seat.  Rickon narrows his eyes, and in the back of her mind where Nymeria lives, where the wolves cross over, she can hear him think that’s blood on the wind!   Davos tosses a hunk of burnt wood to Arya, which she catches deftly.  Rickon stills beside her, nose twitching, and Sansa and Jon both lean over to see for themselves.  Arya puts it on the table for them, rolls the half-destroyed stag from side to side.

“What is this, Ser Davos?”

Davos glares at the Red Woman opposite him, and spits, “Tell her!  Tell her grace what it is, and who it belonged to!”

“... It belonged to the Princess Shireen,” The Red Woman said slowly.

“Tell her what you did to her. … Tell her!”  The second shout was full of pain, the agony of a parent without a child.  Arya’s breath is frozen in her chest, and she looks at the Red Woman.

“... We burnt her at the stake.”

“ Why?! ” The Onion knight nearly sobs the question.

“The army was trapped, the horses were dying!  It was the only way.”

“You burnt a little girl alive !”  

“I can only do what my lord commands!”

“He commands you to burn children?!  Your lord is evil!”

The Red Woman rallies herself, before finally saying, “We are standing here because of him.  Jon Snow is alive because the Lord willed it.”

“I loved that little girl like she was my own!  She was good , she was kind , and y’killed her!”

“So did her father.  So did her mother.”

Arya stands, and slowly walks around the dias with her rage on the tightest leash she can possibly keep it, and her face in the emotionless mask of nothingness from her time in the Riverlands.  

“I have two questions, Red Priestess,” Arya says, coming to a stop in front of the small table that houses the remains of Stannis’ army.  “You are saying, before these people here today, that you sacrificed a girl to your god, the girl known as Shireen Baratheon, Princess of the Stormlands and Lady of Dragonstone?”

The Red Woman raises her head, and agrees.  

Arya keeps her face neutral, and asks, “When last we met in the Riverlands, you bought my friend Gendry from the Brotherhood Without Banners.  What became of him?”

“He was one of Robert Baratheon’s bastards; King’s Blood.  We had meant to use him as the sacrifice to win the war and secure Westeros for King Stannis.”

Wolfblood surges , and Arya throws her mind backwards and into Nymeria to reign herself in.

“The boy is alive,” Davos grits out.  “I released him and helped him escape myself.  There is obsidian on Dragonstone, I can lead the retrieval and then bring the boy back with your grace’s permission.”

Nymeria nudges her back into her own body, and Arya realises that there is a fine tremor wracking her body.  She collects herself, breathes , and nods at the old greybeard.  “Thank you, Ser Davos.  How big of a party will you need?”

“A ship and a handful of able bodied persons willing to mine it, your grace.”

Arya nods at him, smiles, and goes to turn back to the Red Woman, but - Clegane stands, grim faced.  Arya cocks an eyebrow at him, and he growls, “Shoulda been three questions.  What is your name, Priestess?”

Is he on your little list? 

How can he be?  I don’t know his name.

“I am Melisandre of Asshai.”

“Thank you,” Arya smiles.  Needle jumps into her hands and up, lancing through the Red - through Melisandre ’s throat, like a pin through cloth.  “Those brown eyes you said I’d close forever - I thought they’d been Walder Frey’s, but it looks like my List is ever closer to completion.”  Melisandre chokes, Arya withdraws Needle, and when the older woman has collapsed onto the stone floor with a gurgle, Arya says.  “Valar Morghulis.”

Arya wipes Needle perfunctorily on the red dress, face once again emotionless.  “Rickon, fetch me a bucket and brush, please.  Take your pack and party, as well as Ladies Miriame and Lysara, and draw up the supplies you will need for your trip to Skagos.  Ser Davos, if you would go with my brother Jon and select a crew to go with you and draw up your own list of supplies and expected time away; take my squire Olyver with you.  Free Folk, if you would like to take your leave, I will join you in another two hours to speak more on our matters of business.  Lord Robin, if you and yours would also like to return to your lodgings, I will join you at dinner to further discuss how the Vale may assist in the coming Winter and War.  The same again for the Westerlands.  My Lords and Ladies of the North, I will accept your oaths of fealty now, if it pleases you.”

She is Arya Stark, Arya Underfoot, Arry, Nan, the Ghost of Harrenhal, Cat of the Canals, Blind Beth… She is the Winter King and King of the Rivers, and Winter is Coming .  

She smiles.

Translations:

hrafnasueltir - raven starver (coward), Norse

gargan - snake, Norse

*leading index finger to lips, then facing outwards like a poised snake* - poison, Auslan

Chapter Text

Rickon Stark

Rickon could smell blood, and it wasn’t just that of the priestess who had killed some Southron princess and taken Arya’s friend, since Arya had cleaned that mess up herself.  It wasn’t someone’s moontime blood, though he could smell a hint of that on many of the women throughout the castle.  It wasn’t animal blood, though he knew a mutton killer had been done last night by the kitchen staff, and some chickens were being done today.

It was old blood, bad blood, magicked blood, and Rickon did not like it one little bit.  

He was the Stark in Winterfell once again, and it was his responsibility as the Pack Beta to protect their home until the Alpha returned.

“Something’s wrong,” he told Jon lowly over a cup of tea and some correspondences, two days after Sansa and Arya had ridden for the Dreadfort with the Knights of the Vale.  Rickon had sent both Brienne and Clegane with them to keep them out of his hair, leaving Rickon and Jon to deal with all of the nobles (bleagh) themselves.  

Jon carefully lowered his mug and murmured, “Where, and what?”

Rickon grimaced.  “I don’t know yet.  The closest to explaining it I can get is, when Arya’s wearing Faces?  But it’s not exactly like that, it’s still a different smell again.”

“Can you follow the smell to the problem?”  Jon asked even more softly, spotting Reney and Della entering the dining hall.  Rickon’s pack was smaller today, since Larance had gone with Arya and Sansa to run a preliminary assessment of the Hornwood lands, with Arya’s two squires and a contingent of Free Folk and Mountain Clansmen to accompany him.  Arya and Sansa would pick him up upon their return, which would allow for the ladies Miriam and Lysara to decide which of them, if either, would become the new Lady Hornwood.

Rickon shrugged back at Jon.  “Not without raising suspicion.  It’s a thin smell, it’d be obvious if I was sniffing for it and people are starting to listen and believe about our wolfgifts.”

“What do you need, how can I help?”  Jon asked immediately, securing his new position as Rickon’s favourite sibling.

“I need to be able to sneak around the castle to track the smell, without anyone noticing what I’m doing,” Rickon huffed, watching Reney and Della closely to see how much longer he could speak on the matter before they could see/hear the subject.  “It’ll have to wait until the hour of the wolf, I think.  I’ll let you know.”

His pack sat down from him and Jon, and immediately Della signed, I do not like Berena Harclay .

In the week that the Mountain woman has been in residence, Della has made this fact quite clear to Rickon’s pack.  Rickon is still unsure of what incident occurred, as Della refuses to speak on it and Lady Berena has yet to be asked, but the tension will snap before it resolves, Rickon suspects.

If you tell us what she did, we can sort this out, Irene signs sympathetically.  She has more patience than Rickon.  He’s ready to push the two ladies into one of the thermal pools to see if that won’t settle the matter.

(Jon and Reney have informed him that that is a Very Bad Idea.  Rickon has tabled it for now, but if this isn't resolved soon he will do it, dammit Reney! )

Della throws her hands up, not in any sign that they have devised together but in pure frustration.  If she was even a token less of a lady than she is, Rickon bets she would be gnashing her teeth.

Nevermind, Della signs, petulant.

She's Lady Dustin now, too , Rickon reminds her, and watches in rising amusement as she stiffens up and fumes all over again.  Reney looks at him with the "did you have to do that" look she had perfected since joining their pack all those weeks ago, and Rickon smiles brilliantly at her.  For one of the smallfolk, Reney has very little fear when it comes to reprimanding Rickon, which is perhaps why he arcs up around her so much. 

I’ll dust her!   Della signed, furiously.  Reney reached around Jon to thwack Rickon on the elbow, making him cackle.  Jon is still struggling to pick up their signed language, so Rickon doesn’t think he completely understands what they’re saying, but he at least gets the gist of it.

“Rickon,” Jon says reproachfully.

Rickon shrugged, scooting his chair back enough that he could both see Jon and sign to Della without putting his back to either of them.

“If Lady Della told us her grievance with Lady Dustin,” Rickon smiled-and-signed, “then we could resolve the issue, and put this all behind us.”

 Della’s mousey face was turning a brilliant shade of red that rivaled even Rickon’s own curls.  Rickon looked at her expectantly, eyes as wide and guileless as he can make them.

It was a personal insult, Della finally signed sharply.  My prince need not concern himself over it .

If words were arrows, then these had struck true and struck hard.

You are my pack , Rickon signed, growling the words aloud as he translated for Jon.  Your victories are my victories, your pains are my pains, and your grudges are my grudges .   I will do whatever I can in my power to help, if only you would tell me what and how!

Della visibly wavered, and then finally, finally, after a week of stubborn silence on the matter, Della answered them.

Lady D-u-s-t-i-n , she fingerspelt acidly, Rickon translating for Jon, believes that I am stupid, since I cannot hear.  Because I am a Frey, I will eventually betray you, and as such I should do the world a favour and remove myself from Winterfell before I can embarrass my prince or my king for taking me on in the first place.  Lady D-u-s-t-i-n also believes that she can make a good case for the two of yourselves to be wed, and does not mind if Irene went to the Barrows with you as a mistress so long as any baseborn sons are “disposed of” .

Rickon sees red , and reaches automatically for his glaive.  Della snaps one hand around his wrist and shakes her head at him, her Lady’s Mask pulled tight about her face.  Irene is choking on spit, apparently, and Jon is pale-faced in amongst them all.  Della squeezes his hand tightly in her left hand, and with the right she signs stay : her hand a fist except for her pointer finger, which was curved like a hook outside of the fist, moving from chest high to waist high.

Taking her left hand back, Della signs again, this time with Irene whispering the translations aloud for Jon.  She is not the first to say so, and she will not be the last.  My rage is for Irene, and for you.  D-u-s-t-i-n is only five years older than you, so she thinks her chances are good for a marriage pact.  There aren’t many other Northern brides of an age with you, after the war.  That is why when they think that there is something between you and Reney, they will wish to make themselves stand out from the other bride candidates by being ok with any bastards between you.

Ten-and-two is too young for mating , Rickon signed and said disgustedly.

You are the prince, Irene signs and whispers even more quietly.  Menfolk are scarce, especially highborns.  Of course they would fight for you .

Rickon slashes his hand through the air, cutting off the conversation with his own snapping teeth.  I’m not marrying anyone, Della is not an idiot, and Irene isn’t having bastards - and it wouldn’t matter if she did!  The Long Night is coming, and we have to ensure that our people survive and that the dead stay dead.

Now, he raised his chin and pulled up his own Lord’s Face.  How goes the planning for our Skagosi adventure?

Sansa Stark

“What a cheery castle,” Arya says, amusement clear in her tone.  Sansa resists the urge to smack at her elbow, because a) one shouldn’t lay arms against one’s king, and b) she didn’t trust this mare not to spook and bolt if Nymeria took exception to her actions.  “Very toothy .  Looks like it was made for you , Hound.”

“Fuck off,” Sandor growled, but both of them were almost playful in their tones, and it seemed like there was no longer ill-intent between them, thankfully.  It probably helped that their party was only themselves and Brienne, the Free Folk and the Vale Knights scattered across the moors with Arya’s wolves and awaiting Nymeria’s signal before raining down upon the Dreadfort.

“Not until I’m sure my sister has everything well in-hand,” Arya says brightly, though there is steel beneath the chipper tone.

“Between me and the big woman,” Sandor growled lowly enough that Sansa wasn’t even sure if Brienne, riding ahead of them to scout, could even hear him.  “Nothing’s gonna happen to the Little Bird.  Send more of the Wildlings here if you need to, overwhelm the Boltons with numbers, but she’s going to be safe .”

“Nowhere is truly safe,” Sansa called back to him, equally softly.  He startled, so he mustn’t have expected her to overhear.  “And noone can keep anyone safe.”

Arya burst into startled laughter at that, but waved them off when Sansa and Sandor both looked at her in confusion.

Sansa sighed.  “Shall we enter, then?”  She nudged her mare into a trot, catching up to and then slightly overtaking Brienne before the lady knight rode abreast of her.  Podrick, Arya and Sandor made various exclamations and caught up within twenty yards, but it served the purpose Sansa needed it to.  Arya cannot afford to worry about Sansa now, and between the Knights of the Vale and the handful of Wil – Free Folk who have ridden to assist her, Sansa will be fine.  The forces of the Dreadfort are outmatched in both numbers and in skill, and Sansa knows the sort of depravities their previous lord would have sunk to, so she will not be caught unawares by the men left behind.

The keep is frightful, though, Sansa will give it that.  The crenulations do look like a maw of teeth, and the stone is an unsettling colour, though Sansa could not say what about it unsettles her so.  Maybe it is less the colour, less the stone, and more the horrible, chilling feeling that the rumours about the torture room in the dungeons are true, and perhaps so are the stories of cloaks made from the skins of men.  The skins of Starks , and of Winter Kings.  Sansa could not say what made her so sure – but Rickon could not say why his nose nor Arya’s ears were so good, or even why Jon’s strength was so effortless.  Perhaps Sansa has a wolfgift of her own, after all?

Their approach to the castle drawbridge is uncontested, and when finally they are at the front gates, Sandor calls hail, the Dreadfort!

“Who goes there?”  A man-at-arms (presumably) calls down to them.  

“Sansa Stark,” Sansa answers, making sure that her voice carries seemingly-effortlessly.  “Lady of this castle.  Open the door.”  She does not say please , or by your leave .  She is the Lady of this horrible place, no matter how much she hates it already, and she will be respected here.  She does not name her King sister, at Arya’s own request.

There is a moment of silence, before finally the gates are eeked open.  Sansa keeps her emotionless mask of the Capital firmly upon her face, and waits, and pretends not to notice that Arya is now in front of her, and Sandor and Brienne have shifted closer to flank her.

“Lady Bolton,” the guard says with a short bow that is barely deep enough for a Lady as highborn as Sansa is, nevermind that she is now, once again, a princess.  

“ Stark ,” Sansa corrects immediately.  “Despite my marriage, I am of higher birth than Ramsay and thus my name remains my own.”

“Lord Ramsay –” the guard begins, but Sansa speaks over top of him.

“Is dead, and was a bastard risen to the status of trueborn by another bastard besides.  I am the trueborn daughter of the Warden of the North and his lady wife, herself the daughter of the Lord Paramount of the Trident.”  Sansa says firmly.  “Who holds the castle in the stead of the Boltons?  I wish to tour the castle, and to meet all of those who have been running the Dreadfort.”

Looks are exchanged by the men-at-arms, and Sansa raises a single, cold eyebrow expectantly.  The man on the left quails, but the other puffs up indignantly.

“What did m’lord die of?”  he demanded.  “No news has come from Winterfell in weeks .”

“A Faceless Man executed him, as I understand it.”  Sansa says honestly. A small tremor shakes through Arya before her, which Sansa suspects is her little sister trying to contain her amusement.  “I believe you were about to tell me who has run of the castle?  And you were going to let me enter? ”

Both men jump to attention, allowing Arya, Sansa, Brienne and Sandor to step over the threshold, hands tight about the reins of their horses.  The moment Sansa’s foot went through the gate and stepped upon the first cobblestone, she fought with all of her hard-won, court-won ability to not react , to hold back the howl wail that was building behind her teeth.  Starks had bled here; Starks had died here, and their spirits still haunted the grounds, she knew it.

This was not going to be a pleasant castle to rule, Sansa had already known, but… but now she felt it all the way down to her bones .

“I’ll take the horses,” Sandor grunted, the agreed-upon distraction.  Let these men of Bolton dismiss and underestimate three women, and make the take-over of the castle that much easier for House Stark.  “Mine won’t let anyone else at him.”

“Thank you,” Sansa says graciously, handing him her reins, then turns a hard look on the less-forceful of the two Bolton men.  “If you could escort my shield to the stables?”

He jumps to attention, yes m’lady! ing as he rushes to take Brienne’s gelding and Arya’s old mare.  Sansa draws a fortifying breath in the brief exchange, and turns her eye back upon the less-cowed of the two.  “Tell me of the men and this castle on our way to the lord’s solar, please.”

She does not ask , as Father might have, or even Mother.  She requests , a politer version of Cersei’s demand, but with the same amount of you will tell me as the Lannister Queen.  A slow learner Sansa might be, but all the same, she learnt .  These men of the Bolton’s would learn, too.  She was a Little Bird no longer; she was Winterfell’s daughter, the Stark Princess, the Red Wolf.  She would find the skins (andor bones) of her ancestors and have them returned to Winterfell’s Crypts, and she would take 

every 

        single

                mention

of the Bolton’s and their history and slowly relocate it somewhere out of everyone’s eyes.  Their words would disappear, their house would disappear, their very name would disappear by Sansa’s own hand.  All memory of House Bolton and their atrocities would disappear into the mists of history.  By the time Sansa was finished, the generations to come would know this place only as the Redfort, home of a Stark cadet branch, and nothing else .  She would make sure of it.

Bran Stark
The Three Eyed Raven

Benjen Stark delivers them safely to the Wall, and Meera Reed gets them through to the Northern side.  The body that had once been Brandon Stark watches everything around them quietly, speaking as little as possible while all of the visions and memories and prophecies settled in their mind.  Dolorous Edd gets them a lift on a horse-drawn cart carrying supplies from Eastwatch to Winterfell, and still they watch as the leagues disappear under their wheels.  Meera tries to speak of it with them (becoming the Raven, Hodor, Summer, Jojen, the Children), but words come to them with varying levels of difficulty now, and she let’s it be.  Once they have left the Wall, they feel a connection in the back of their mind tug, and they follow it back to Shaggy Dog and Rickon.

Bran!   Rickon’s impression shouts through the mindscape.  The youngest Stark follows the mental lead back enough to catch a glimpse through their eyes, and recognises the terrain as somewhere near the Wall.  You’re alive!  I knew it; are you returning to Winterfell?

Yes , the Raven says, not bothering to correct the little boy on whom he addresses.  We must.  The Night’s King marches upon the Wall with his army, and we must all prepare for the Long Night.  We will return within a couple of weeks .  Rickon Stark’s emotions zing down the line – ragefeardetermination and joypridelove pack – and after shouting a be safe he is gone.  This is very interesting; the Raven has no knowledge of wargs sharing such a close connection like this before.  This is not a story that they have ever heard of, nor seen through the Heart Trees.  Research will be needed upon their return to Winterfell.

Their party remains a quiet one until they are roughly two leagues away from the castle of Brandon Stark’s ancestors, at which point a host of wolves howl a greeting and a warning and a mourning both.

From the castle come two streaks of colour – black Shaggy with a grey and red blob on his back, and white Ghost with a black blob of his own.  It is the direwolves that lead the call, their two voices rising and falling with every pound of their feet on the ground as they eat up the distance between the castle and the company.

“Is that your brothers?”  Meera gasps.

“It is Rickon Stark and Jon Snow,” the Raven agrees.  It would take too much to explain at present, and they are disinclined to hurt Meera Reed after all of her service.  Meera gives them a strange glance for the turn of phrase, but by that point the two Starks are upon them.  Rickon flings himself from Shaggy’s back and lands in a roll, straightening up and flinging himself at them to wrap both the Raven and Meera in a hug.

“You’re alive!”  Rickon yells, drawing in a deep breath between their necks - and jerks back with a sound of disgust, rubbing viciously at his nose with his wrist.  “What the fuck , Bran, you stink of old magic!  What did you do ?!”

Jon Snow jumps from Ghost’s back and is moving to embrace the Raven as well, but stutters to a stop at Rickon’s words.

“I’m the Three Eyed Raven now,” they tell him.

“What does that mean?” Rickon growls, unsure and fearful with it.  

“It is difficult to explain.”

“Try, Bran,” Jon Snow says, voice soft.  “Please, for us?”

“It means I can see everything.  Everything that’s ever happened, to everyone; everything that’s happening right now; it’s all pieces, fragments.  I need to learn to See better.  When the Long Night comes again, I need to be ready.”

“The Raven taught you that?” Rickon demands.  “The one you went Beyond to find?”

“Yes; he did not finish his teachings before we had to flee.”

Rickon tch ed.  “He mustn’t have been a very good teacher then, you’ve been gone for years .”

Jon swipes a smack at him, but Rickon only raises an eyebrow defiantly and leans out of the way.  

“Brandon Stark was not a very good student,” they say with a shrug.  Rickon’s eyes narrow , and Jon's cloud with doubt .  “But, we do not have time for all of this.  The Long Night approaches, and there are things I must tell you both in private.”

Rickon is now scowling, and Jon looks confused but agrees.  Rickon swings himself back atop of Shaggy, and then says with a sweeping bow and perfect courtesy, “Lady Reed, I would be honoured if you were to ride with me to the castle.”

Meera stifles a snort of laughter, but allows the boy the lordling to pull her atop of Shaggy; they speed away, back to the castle, and the murmur of their voices drift back on the breeze.  Jon Snow rides beside the cart, exchanging words of gratitude to the cart driver and trying to get information out of the Raven.  The Raven tells him that all will be answered in time, but the answes are too sensitive to be discussed out in the open like this.  They continue to the castle in awkward silence, and the Raven tries to order their thoughts.  

Rickon and Meera are not waiting for them when they return to Winterfell; a rat-faced girl meets them at the gate with a graceful, highborn curtsy, her hands moving in some strange language unknown to the Raven.  A Harclay woman calls to Jon from across the courtyard, and something like anger and something like awkwardness paints the skin around Jon’s eyes.  Jon signs something quickly (clumsily) back to the (Frey?) girl before them, instructs the Harclay woman to take charge of the cart driver and assist him in finding lodgings for the duration of his stay at Winterfell, picks up the Raven, and moves quickly to the Godswood on the heels of the girl.

“I am not too heavy for you?” Bran the Raven asks of Jon.

“I can barely feel you,” Jon says reassuringly, if worriedly.  “We’ll make sure you get plenty to eat over the next few days, little brother.  If you’re worried though, I can put you atop of Ghost?”

“I would fall off without a saddle,” the Raven says dismissively.

After a brief look with Ghost, Jon says, “He can hold us both, and I’ll ride behind you?”

Something warm stirs in their chest, some remnant of Brandon Stark and his love for his family.  The Raven dismisses it.  "No, thank you.  It would take too long."

“Well, true enough,” Jon says with a tight chuckle.  When they reach the entrance to the Godswood, the girl spins around and curtsies, taking her leave.  Jon signs a final time at her, his right hand coming up as a flat palm to touch the pads of his fingers to his chin, just below his lips, before moving outwards.  The girl smiles at Jon, and leaves again.

“Does she not speak?”  Bran the Raven asks.

"She's Deaf," Jon says simply.  "Rickon helped her put together a signed language, and his whole pack knows it - ah, that is, his friends.  Larence Hornwood is out with Sansa and Arya, that was Lady Della Frey, and Irene Weaver is leading the planning of Rickon's expeditions while he does... whatever it is he's doing today, I'm still not sure."

“Hurry up !”  Rickon’s voice echoes through the Godswood.  Jon laughs at that – at the childishness of it – and calls an affirmative back to him.

“Yes, my prince!”

“What?”  The Raven barks out, confused.  Robb Stark was dead, and the Northern Crown with him – what made Jon Snow refer to little (not so little, these days) Rickon as prince ?

Somehow, Jon Snow knows what they mean.  “Arya took Winterfell back, and took Robb’s crown too while she was at it.”

“Arya was in Braavos, training to be Faceless,” the Bra they said.  “How is she back already?”

“She’s been back for weeks,” Jon says, as they walk around the last line of trees and come into view of the heated spring, Rickon, and Meera.  “She’s keeping it quiet for now, just until everything is settled – though, that being said, she’s stolen an army from Cersei Lannister and swindled another from Petyr Baelish with Sansa's help, so it mightn’t stay secret as long as she’d like for it to.”

Intriguing, indeed.  They’d had no idea.

“Right,” Rickon says obnoxiously loudly, cracking the knuckles of both hands and then his neck .  Pop-pop-pop-pop-pO P .  “What do you need to tell us that’s so secret?  We can trade adventures later.”

With a mental shake, the Raven nods.  “I am the Three Eyed Raven now.  I can See things that happened in the past.  I can See things happening now, all over the world.  Before I became the Raven, I was looking into the past of House Stark, and Robert’s Rebellion.  I Saw Eddard Stark and the Tower of Joy, and I saw Lyanna Stark’s last moments.  You are not a Snow, Jon, you’re a Sand.  You’re Rhaegar Targaryen’s final surviving child.”

Jon staggered back like he’d been dealt a deathblow.  Rickon’s head cocked to the side, wolflike, his eyes at half-mast to hide his thoughts and his shoulders deliberately relaxed.  Meera drew in a sharp breath, and said nothing.

“I–” Jon choked, stumbling backwards until he sat on the bank of the spring.  “What?  Bran, am I the product of rape ?!”

The Raven cocked their head and cast themself backwards, concentrating on Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryn.  “... No.  They were wed in secret in a Godswood, with Elia as witness.  Sorry, you aren’t a bastard at all.  You are Valerion Targaryen, heir to the Iron Throne and King of the Seven Kingdoms.”

Chapter Text

Jon Snow
Valerion Targaryen

“...Sorry, you aren’t a bastard at all.  You are Valerion Targaryen, heir to the Iron Throne and King of the Seven Kingdoms.”  Bran says emotionlessly.

“No,” Jon says immediately.  Bran blinks at him, confused.  “No, I don’t care what you’ve seen.  I’ve never wanted a lordship, nevermind a crown!  I’d have taken Robb’s under duress if they hadn’t accepted Sansa’s claim, but Arya is King and has three heirs before me.  I don’t care what you say about Rhaegar and Aunt Lya – my mother.  I am Jon Snow, and Jon Snow I’ll stay.”

“Was there anything else you wanted to say?”  Rickon asked Bran coolly, leaning against Shaggy Dog.  

“The Nights King is Coming, and Winter with him,” Bran says, but Rickon scoffs.  

“We already knew that.  The Lords of the North have provided stocktakes of their pantries, those north of Winterfell are readying their people and their stocks to retreat southwards for the coming Long Night if necessary, and trade agreements have been struck between the North and Essos of supplies in exchange for timber.  Once the Free Folk have finished training the smallfolk, they will return to the Wall to help man and fortify it against the coming Dead.  I thought you were all-seeing?”  The last sentence was said derisively.

Osha was a terrible influence on Rickon, Jon and his sisters had decided fairly early on (well, Jon and Sansa had, really.  Arya thought it equal parts brilliant and hilarious).  Their wild little brother now wielded a tongue as sharp as his massive spear.

“I need time to see things,” Bran said simply.  “I can see everything, but I need to look for it.”

“Hmmf,” Rickon sniffed, sounding terribly like a much younger Sansa.  “Excuses, excuses.  Lady Reed, would you like to dine with me?”  He swept a gracious bow to Meera and held out his arm.   She disguised a laugh as a cough but accepted his arm, and he walked her out of the Godswood, collecting the silent Lady Della from the gate as they went.

Jon turned back to his brother cousin brother.  “Would you like to eat as well?”

Bran blinked owlishly at him, but inclined his head.  Jon helped Bran back onto his back, arms under thighs, and whispered, “Is there anything else you’d like to say while we have privacy?”

“No,” Bran says simply.

As a child, Bran (and Arya, and Rickon) had constantly been chattering, words blending together and coming out like a waterfall.  It continued to take Jon aback, that all of them were more likely to hold their tongues than to share their thoughts, now.

Jon sighs, but as they walk to the castle proper, he tells Bran where their sisters are, and what other actions they are taking in preparation for the coming Long Night, as well as what justice Arya had dispensed in the Riverlands for Robb and the rest of their family’s ghosts.  When they enter the main hall, Rickon is seated upon the dias and holding a court with Meera, Della, Irene and Osha, looking every bit the little princling he ought to have grown into, had Robb not been betrayed in the Riverlands.

“It is good to see you again, little lord,” Osha smiled at Bran sadly.  

Jon has barely settled Bran into a chair and taken a seat himself when Rickon turns around with a fanged smile, interrupting Bran’s reply to cheerfully to ask, “If the Raven is all-knowing, tell us – when Jacaerys Verlaryon flew Vermax to Winterfell on behalf of his mother in the Dance of Dragons, did the dragon truly lay a clutch of eggs in the Crypt?”

Rickon has not cared one iota about Targaryens in his life .  Rickon has not said a word about dragons since Jon got here, has not been interested in history that was not immediately helpful to the present, even if it was the history of House Stark.  This question is not Rickon’s, Jon would wager – he would lay money that the question had come from the strange, burned little Irene Weaver, who did enjoy histories and dragontales.  The girl was almost cripplingly shy, though, insofar as Jon could tell, especially around highborns and knights.

Bran cocks his head and rolls his eyes back in answer to Rickon’s question.  When Rickon freezes and Jon reaches for Bran with worry, Lady Meera reassures them both again that Bran is simply looking backward to answer their question.  She pours herself a tea, and starts in surprise when Osha pushes a honey flatcake onto her plate.  The Free Woman pointedly ignores the heir to Greywater Watch, and Bran’s eyes roll back again before anything can be said further on the matter.

“Yes,” Bran says in a faraway voice.  “Vermax laid five eggs whilst at Winterfell as part of the pact of Ice and Fire.  Jacaerys Velaryon pledged that his daughter would marry Cregan Stark’s son, if only the North would back the Black’s in the Dance.  The eggs were hidden in the Crypts where the thermals would keep them warm, until the grandchildren of Jacaerys and Cregan were ready to receive eggs in their cradle.”

Rickon had gleefully translated all of this to Della, and looked amongst his gathered council excitedly with flashing fingers, no doubt planning mischief.

“Finish your meal before you go haring off for dragon eggs,” Osha interrupted him as he made to stand.  

“But, Osha!”

“You have jobs to do yet, little soldier,” Osha scolded.

“ Dreki eggn , Osha!”  Rickon hissed at her.

“I don’t care,” Osha growled back.  She swung around and levelled a finger at little Irene as well.  “And don’t you go sneaking off neither, princess!”

“Osha,” Jon sighed.  “Please stop calling Irene that, you’ll get her in trouble with the wrong people.”

Della signed something to Rickon and Irene that had them both snorting, but Rickon flopped back into his seat and handed an apple to Meera.  

“ Fiine ,” Rickon sighed and signed dramatically.  “We’ll go looking later , ugh.  Jon, what other jobs did I have today?”

Jon ran a hand through his curls.  “I’ll take Bran to the Maester and the head carpenter to see if we can’t come up with something a bit easier for him to get around the castle in, if you and Lady Meera could review the latest ravens that have come in, and then do the check-ins with the Smallfolk?”

“Já,”  Rickon sighed, accepting a cup of tea from Irene and handing the plate of smoked fish to Osha.  He looked to Irene and Della, who both gave him a thumbs-up back.  “Reney and Del’ll look into the ravens, and Osha can come with me and Meera to town – ooh, and then Meera can spar with me when we’re done!  Please ?”

“I’m not the best with a sword,” Meera began to demure, but Rickon waved her comment aside.

“Neither am I – I want to test my spear against your frog trident and net, please !”

Meera huffed a small laugh, but agreed so long as Rickon did all of his duties for the day first.  The lunch is quickly finished between them all, with Della and Irene leaving to attend to the correspondence as soon as they had finished eating, and had a “whispered” conversation, whereby their signs were smaller, and kept closer to the chest than the usually large gestures Jon was used to seeing.  Rickon, Osha and Lady Meera left soon afterwards, leaving just Jon and Bran at the dias.  

“Did you have any ideas for what might be an easier transport for you around the castle?” Jon asked casually as he piggybacked Bran up to the Maester’s tower.  

“Yes,” Bran said simply.  “King Daeron had a wheeled chair made for his nephew a hundred-and-twenty years ago.  It will work.”

“Oh, that’s good!”  Jon said, trying for cheerful.  “You’ll be able to push yourself around in it, or should we assign someone as an attendant for you?”

Bran cocked his head.  “It will work both ways, though I will need one for outside and one for the first floor.”

“... Because of the stairs?”  Jon asked carefully, trying to run the problem through as many angles as he could in his head.  Bran had been an active, free-spirited child before everything had gone to shit, and no doubt the lack of autonomy and power over his own body chafed , to put it politely.

“Yes,” Bran said, and then nothing else the whole trip up the stairs to the Maester’s rooms.  Jon wasn’t sure how to feel about the changes that the war had wrought in all of his siblings, and could only hope that, in the days and months and years to come, they would eventually come to resemble the children they had once been again.

Sansa Stark

She hated this castle with every fibre of her being.

Stark blood Stark skins Stark bones Stark ghosts , they all howled in the back of her head and down her spine, and every step she took within these walls felt like she walked upon glass one minute and hot coals the next.  Arya seemed unaffected, but for all intents and purposes, on the outside so too did Sansa.  When they reached the Lord’s (now Lady’s) solar of the Dreadfort and Sansa settled herself into the chair with poise, it took everything within her power not to shudder or twitch.  She almost didn’t hear Arya ask if tea mightn’t be brought before the Lady of the castle, and when Sansa raised an eyebrow at her, received only a shrug in response.

Brienne took up a position to Sansa’s left, whilst Arya leant against the wall on Sansa’s right.  She hoped that Sandor was fine, and would join them soon – she wanted all of their small party where she could see them, until it was time to call upon their ambushing Free Folk and Valemen.

“Walton Steelshanks, m’lady,” the guard who had seen them in here said upon his return, considerably more politely than anything he had said to them thus far.  Sansa immediately sensed a trap.

“What position do you hold within this castle, Walton Steelshanks?”  Sansa asked brusquely.

The man starts, blinks stern dark eyes, and answers gruffly, “Captain of the guard, m’lady.  I’m told that Lord Ramsay is dead, is this true?”  

“As is Lord Roose,” Sansa nods.  She feels sick , and the longer she sits here the worse she feels.  “By Ramsay’s own hand.  Lady Walda and her boy are dead by his hand, as well, and Ramsay is dead at the hands of a Faceless Man.  By line of succession, this castle and lands are now mine, by order of the King.”  

Her King sister, not the false King of the South, though these men did not yet need to know that.

“Awfully convenient, m’lady,” the first guard scoffs behind Steelshanks, and Sansa arches an eyebrow.

“I’m sure Ramsay thought so when he sought to ensure he was the only viable heir for his House, yes,” Sansa said archly.  “The fact that his depravities were well-known enough to warrant a visit from the Faceless Man in question are simply the consequences of his own actions.  If you would take a seat, and tell me of this castle?”

It’s a question, but she is not asking.  She is Sansa Stark of Winterfell, and she will be reforming this hellhole of a castle.

Uncomfortably, Stallshanks takes the seat in front of her desk, eyes flicking to Arya and Brienne.  They flick back to Arya curiously for a moment, as though he knows her face and cannot place it, before returning to Sansa.  “What do you wish to know, Lady Bolton?”

“Stark,” Brienne corrects him for her sharply.  “Princess Sansa outranked her former husband, and thus retains her own name.”

“Princess?” the guard scoffed.  “Robb Stark is dead !”

“By Roose’s own hand,” Arya says with a wolfish, knife-sharp smile.  “I know.  I was there.”

And didn’t that burn, every time Sansa heard it?  That, were it not for Sandor’s quick (if violent) actions, she could have lost her little sister as brutally as she’d lost her mother, big brother, sister-in-law, and unborn nibling.  

“You’re Nan!”  Steelshanks said suddenly, looking hard at Arya.  “The cupbearer from Harrenhal – you went with Lord Roose to the Twins, after all?”

Arya smiled rather ambiguously, then, but only said something like that, I suppose .  Well, she had always been a brat, Sansa thought.

The two men relaxed at this, as though Arya were a loyal member of the House that they ought to trust.  Sansa felt an Arya-shaped headache forming, and swore that at the next earliest moment of peace, she would get the full story of Arya’s days in Harrenhal from her grace.

But, not now.  Arya’s new habit of saying something ambiguously enough that one could draw up to five different meanings from her statements was frustrating when used against Sansa, but against these Bolton men it certainly had a purpose.

“You were telling m’lady about the castle?”  Arya prompted.  She had always had a way with people, even as a girl – Arya Underfoot, Father and the Winterfell staff used to call her, always talking to people no matter their background, always wanting to know the whys and whats of the world – and it was good to see that even though so much about Arya had changed, this at least had not.

Steelshanks told them about the staff currently employed at the castle, the numbers of men-at-arms that were still here, the way the castle usually operated on the day-to-day with and without the Lord present.  A pot of tea was not brought to the solar, but Sansa was sure by now that she could not have stomached it if one had been, anyway.  When Sandor finally joined them, one of the many knots within her belly seemed to loosen, but there were still a thousand-and-one that yet twisted over and under each other, that it was a small relief.

“I would like to tour the castle,” Sansa said at Sandor’s barely-there nod.  She stood and shook out the skirts of the midnight-blue wolf dress she had fashioned herself whilst at the Wall, and then arched an eyebrow expectantly at Steelshanks, and the guard who still remained nameless.

Both scrambled to their feet, and rushed to get the door for her.  She exchanged a quick look with Arya when their backs were turned, and Arya’s wolf-mind brushed against Sansa’s own.

You’ve got this , Arya’s mind voice said proudly, but then her ‘wolf’ brushed more firmly against Sansa’s.  Are you alright?!

You cannot feel it?   Sansa thought back, pulling her face back into her most polite court mask and stepping towards the door.  Our dead h o w l .

I can feel the death here, certainly , Arya agreed, falling into step with Sansa, with Sandor in front and Brienne behind.  But I cannot feel the particulars, just that this place is steeped in blood.

Sansa’s back and feet feel drenched , and she pushed the sensation across the link to Arya, who almost imperceptibly flinched at the feeling.

Fuck me , Arya breathed down the mental link, soft as dawn fog.  Her ‘presence’ drew away from Sansa’s own mind, which Sansa tried not to take offence to – it was a horrible feeling, and it was bad enough that Sansa was feeling it without her sister having to experience it too.

Steelshanks and the other guard took them about the castle, offering a running commentary.  The other servants seemed to fall into two categories: terrified and cowed, or hungry and waiting .  When Sansa tentatively reached out to brush Arya’s wolfmind with her own to point out this observation, her little sister grimly informed her that she had seen it, too, and that the pack would deal with them.

When they were introduced to the steward, an incredibly timid man named Harwin Dewe, Sansa raised her hand to interrupt.  “Harwin, are there specific days that laundry is done in this castle?”  Steelshanks and the guard shot her thoroughly unimpressed looks, and even Sandor raised an eyebrow at her.

“General linens are done on the third day of the week, my lady,” Harwin said, voice just loud enough to be heard easily.  It seemed as though it cost the quiet man to speak so, though, so Sansa assumed he had been instructed in what volume to speak at by the Boltons.  “The Lord’s clothes were done on the fifth day or as required.  Staff laundry is done on the seventh day.”

Sansa hummed.  “It is the fifth day today, and there is no lord – would it be too much to ask that the linens of the Lord’s chambers, and wherever Ramsay slept, be washed today?”  

Harwin stuttered, panicked, and Sansa offered him a small smile.  “If it is easier, the furs can be washed and the linens burnt, instead.  I am not particular, I would just prefer not to sleep in the same sheets as a monster any more than I already have.”

Harwin froze and turned white, his eyes flicking between Steelshanks and the guard.

“How dare you speak about Lord Ramsay like that!”  the guard snarled, stepping forward menacingly.  Sandor stepped in front of her with his hand on his sword hilt, but Arya was already there with Needle at the guard’s neck and a wolf smile on her face.

“How dare you threaten your Lady?” Arya asked softly.  Brienne shifted behind Sansa, and she turned to look at Harwin again.

“If you could see to the rooms for me, Harwin, I would be appreciative.  Firstly though, if you could also gather all of the staff in the main hall for me, please?”

Harwin’s wide eyes turned back to her, blinked quickly, and he stuttered out a quick yes my lady! before running off.

“If you would lead the way to the main hall?”  Arya asked the guard sweetly, blood starting to well at Needle’s tip.

The guard swallowed, whimpered, and slowly started to walk for the hall.  Steelshanks, after an arched eyebrow from Sansa and the slow rasp of Sandor and Brienne partly drawing their own swords, followed in solemn silence.

Wylla Manderly
Finn of the Harbour

The Mermaid’s Tail sluiced through the waters of the Narrow Sea in the grey of pre-dawn.  This was usually Finn’s favourite time of day and way to spend it, but they couldn’t help feeling disconcerted.  Their return to White Harbour had been brief, and their report on the happenings of House Stark and the impending Long Night were as succinct as they could make it for their own House, in the short hour that they had had with Wynnie, Mother and Grandfather before they had gathered their crew to ready their ship.  Mother and Grandfather were to stay and prepare White Harbour and the surrounding areas, but Wynnie was to go to Braavos with Yorko to ensure that the Braavosi would keep to the deal between the Northern Crown and Yorko’s company, and to gather what intel she could on the fast-approaching Dragon Queen in the East.  

Finn was headed south.  Finn had been charged with three duties by Prince Rickon, which was why they had had to ask their older sister to join Yorko’s expedition and play at diplomat, even though White Harbour was hers .  Finn was tasked with infiltration and rescue , which they were infinitely better at than Wynnie, and thus why Finn was going South and not East .  They did not like this, not one bit!

But, Wylla Finn had sworn loyalty to the Northern Crown and the House Stark; if Prince Rickon was asking this of them, they would deliver it.  Besides, Wynnie had a guard and a “handmaiden” to attend her, both of whom Finn had trained with for years, and knew could protect their sister.  Mother and Grandfather were both more than capable of running the city, the Harbour, and their Network without either Wynafryd or Wylla, anyway.

“Heavy thoughts, cap?”  a teasing voice asked at Finn’s elbow.

“Nothing I can’t carry,” Finn teased back, flicking their eyes to look at their quartermaster.  Beatrys Woolfield had the same yellow hair as her aunt Leona, the Lady Manderly, though her eyes were the golden of her Lengii father.  Lady Manderly had been the eldest of three girls, and fortunate to have a baby brother who was now the acting Lord Woolfield; her youngest sister, Beatrys’ mother Bellona, had caused the family scandal when she’d married a ship’s captain and one-time Braavosi slave.  The carefully-cultured public distance between Ladies Leona and Bellona meant that Beatrys was free to serve as Finn’s right-hand and closest confidant when Finn needed a ship, and as the ship’s captain the rest of the time.  It meant that Lady Bellona and Captain Faraji were free to act (in secret) as the North’s eyes and ears across the Narrow Sea.

It also meant that Beatrys was far too comfortable calling Finn’s bullshit, the bitch.

“Share with me anyway, my theydy,” Bea teased, eyes sharp.

Finn scrunched up their nose.  “How do you always know ?”

“You don’t go to the effort of putting the wig on if you don’t have to, if you’re feeling Wylla for the day,” she shrugged easily, gesturing to the brunet wig they had donned before leaving their cabin.  

Finn huffed, and turned their eyes back to the horizon.  “I’m not a miner, and I’ve never met any Baratheons before.  How am I supposed to confirm the size and location of obsidian mines on Dragonstone , and rescue two Baratheon bastards?”

“Well, technically it will only be the one bastard,” Beatrys said easily.  “When Stannis stopped at the Harbour on his way to the Wall, the little princess of his was sure to mention how horrible it had been that her “sweet cousin” had had to flee to Lys in front of your Lady sister, and was considerate enough to drop the name of the ship that delivered him.  Lady Wynafryd instructed Papa to look when he went to trade for the latest round of window panes, so there’s a good chance that young Edric Storm will be waiting for us at the Harbour when we return, if we don’t get to see them at King’s Landing.”

Thank the Seven for Faraji, they supposed.

“That doesn’t help me find out where the other bastard might be, nor does it help on the mine front!  I don't know why the prince had given us these missions when he will be travelling south in the next few weeks, himself!"

"Prince Rickon is impatient, by your own measure, " Beatrys shrugged.  "Perhaps he wishes to shave off time for his own missions by having you assess beforehand?"

"Probably," Finn sighed.  “The second bastard, the smith – think he might know anything about mining?”

“Probably not,” Beatrys shrugged easily.  “But at least it’ll be another set of eyes to search the island for dragonglass, so we can worry about Dragonstone on the return trip, yes?”

“Aye,” Finn sighed, running a hand down their face.  “No point worrying over something I can’t change, I suppose.”

“What could go wrong!”  Beatrys laughed, tugging at Finn’s elbow to lead them towards the galley to break their fast.  

“Do you want my list?”  Finn snorted back, and ducked the swipe Beatrys took at their head.  The two cousins laughed as quietly as they could so as not to disturb the rest of the crew, ate together in companionable silence, and returned to the deck to watch the sun come up over the horizon fully.

Kings Landing greeted them on the far horizon, currently little more than raised bumps on the otherwise flat coastline.  As they grew closer, a frisson of tension ran like a riptide through the crew.

“Remember,” Finn called, pulling themself partway up the mast via the rigging rope so that they could be seen by all of the crew, despite their short stature.  Beatrys, with her Lengii blood, wouldn’t have had to bother, but not everyone could be a six-foot-tall, leggy blonde with unblemished teak skin, Beatrys .  “We say nothing of her grace, the prince or the princess.  We speak not of the North, we gather whatever supplies we can, and we see if we cannot find the Baratheon boy Gendry Waters – discreetly !”

“Aye, Captain!”  the crew all called back.  Finn, Beatrys or Lord Wylis had trained all of these men to serve the Northern underground themselves, and were assured of the loyalties of the crew.

“They say the Spider has left Westeros for the Dragon Queen, but that doesn’t mean that his operatives aren’t still reporting back to him,” Finn continued, tightening their grip on the rigging so that they remained at a forty-five degree angle from the mast.  “When you ask about the boy Gendry, lead by saying you’re looking for Arry’s friend, that should endear him to us, hopefully.”

“He’ll likely have black hair and bright blue eyes,” Beatrys added.  “The King named him tall, but she’s even shorter than Finn, so that might not mean much – ow!”

Finn scowled at their cousin and took their foot from her shoulder to plant it back on the mast again.  “ Thank you ,” they growled, before casting their eyes back to roam the (struggling not to laugh , arseholes ) crew.  “If he questions how you know Arry, you make sure that you won’t be overheard calling yourselves loyal to the Northern crown, understood ?  Everyone is making it back to this ship alive , or I’ll kill you myself!”

“Aye Captain!”  the crew cheered.  They were still an hour away from the harbour, and thus should be unheard by any unwanted ears.  

Praise to the Gods Old and New, Finn hoped they could pull this off!

Arya Stark

Sansa has taken a seat at the head of the top table in the main hall, ghost white beneath her crown of auburn braids and the flickering firelight.  Arya is leaning against the wall to her left, carefully keeping Needle at the guard’s jugular.  Considering the careful drip of blood from where the swordtip digs into his skin, it’s unlikely that he will try anything, but Arya flicks her eyes over him every so often as a reminder.

The hall fills quickly, and when finally the steward, Harwin Dewe, closes the hall doors behind him, Arya s m i l e s .  She stretches her mindsense to Nymeria, and the Dreadfort echoes with the howls of the great Northern Pack.

Sansa stands regally.  “House Bolton is dead.”

There is outcry from some of the guards, stunned disbelief or even desperate relief on many of the other servants, and blank masks on the rest.

“Ramsay ensured that he was the only member of his House shortly after I escaped Winterfell,” Sansa continues.  “He was later executed by King Arya Stark for his many crimes and depravities against his fellow men, his kin, and his liege.”

Arya is careful to clock those who cannot hide the rage upon their faces, and sends their images across the link to Nymeria.  The wolves will deal with them soon enough.

She moved quick as a snake , lashing out at the guard’s temple with Needle’s hilt.  After he had crumpled to the ground, she carefully wiped his blood from Needle’s tip, and moved to stand at her sister’s left shoulder, putting Sansa on her right.  

“Winter is Coming,” Arya told the gathered servants calmly, sheathing Needle and folding her arms behind her back.  “and the Dead march with it.  My sister will be the Lady of this castle thanks to her marriage, and I will be providing additional protection to ensure that no one has any ideas about avenging the monsters that were House Bolton.  Classes will be conducted in archery and spearwork for all able-bodied people between the ages of fourteen and forty, and dragonglass will be provided as defence.  Those who do not wish to serve my sister and myself may either join the Watch, or die now by my hand.  Those who think to wait for my return to Winterfell to strike will die slowly .”  She locked eyes with those men (and the odd woman) that she had already flagged as possible problems already, giving a moment of silence for her words to be absorbed.

Nymeria brushed against her mind, sharing the sensation of the drawbridge beneath her padded feet.  The wolves were the first to enter the castle, and were followed quickly by the Free Folk who had snuck up to the castle on foot, faster and less noticeable than the Vale Knights.  The hooves of the Vale Knights drummed on the ground, but as yet none of it could be heard within the Dreadfort proper by the humans before Arya.

“Murderer!”  Snarled one of the men.  Arya smiled back.

“Really?” she asked.  “I killed Ramsay out of vengeance and justice for my House.  He killed countless people for fun .  I feel like there’s a difference between the two of us.”

“How peaceful this transition between lords will be is up to yourselves,” Sansa says calmly.  She somehow looks even paler than she did in the minutes since Arya last looked at her.  “Arya Stark has avenged the Red Wedding, and House Stark.  She prepares for the coming Winter, and for the enemies to the North.  She has crafted treaties that will keep our people safe until the Lannisters prove themselves oathbreakers once more.”  That was a bit of a stretch of the truth, but Arya wouldn’t say anything if Sansa didn’t.  “I would accept oaths of fealty to myself as the Lady of this castle and my sister as our rightful King now, if you please.”

People have always liked Sansa, have always listened to her in a way that they had not always listened to Arya Underfoot.  Arya is grateful to her sister now, as she watches Harwin the steward carefully make his way around the room, and drop to one knee in front of the high table.  Sansa steps forward to accept his oaths, and Arya steps around the table quickly to intercept the angry guards who move forward.  Sandor steps with her, and Brienne moves closer to Sansa.

Sandor and Arya are quick and efficient, and by the time Harwin has stuttered through his oaths, there are five guards, an undergaoler, a kennel master, and a scullery maid dead on the ground.  Arya has Needle at the throat of the Maester and is smiling the Waif’s bloodiest smile.

“I thought that Maesters were meant to hold their loyalties to the Citadel?”  she asked archly.

“I’m sure that the Citadel would welcome him back,” Sansa mused, having helped Harwin back to his feet. “Thank you, Harwin.  If you could see to the room for me please?  Leave the door open on your way out.”

Harwin stuttered a thanks and scurried from the room, and Sansa cast her eyes about the rest of the room with a sweet smile upon her face.  She looked like a candle, her face was so pale and her hair so bright.  Arya made a note to get her out of the castle as soon as possible to see if that might help.

The Vale Knights clattered into the main courtyard, loud enough that the people in the hall twitched.  It was at this time that Nymeria stalked in through the now-open door, flanked by Tormund Giantsbane and backed by the Pack and the gathered Free Folk.

Tormund and Nymeria came all the way to the front of the hall, whilst the rest of the wolves and Free Folk fanned out around the edges of the room.  “You forgot this!”  Tormund laughed, handing over Robb’s crown.  Arya took it with a grateful smile, pulling it on, and thanked him.

She turned back to the Bolton servants, and said cheerfully, “Make your choice – House Stark, or the afterlife?”

Translations

dreki – dragon, Norse

eggn – eggs, Norse

Chapter Text

Rickon Stark

This is the stupidest idea you’ve had yet , Della signed angrily.

Not even , Rickon signed back, double-checking that the coast was clear before ushering her and Reney through the door of the Crypts.  This is a fantastic plan, right Reney?

Reney’s blue eyes were wide in her face, what little Rickon could see before he closed the door behind Shaggy and cut off the light.  Taking both girls’ hands, Rickon carefully led them down the winding stairs until they reached the first level, where he lit one of the torches they had brought with them.  Shaggy took the end in his mouth carefully , so that they could still sign to each other.

You’ve had better plans , Reney said apologetically; Rickon stuck his tongue out at her.

This is as much your idea as mine! he snapped.  Irene was the one obsessed with dragons, and it was she who had asked Rickon to get Bran to find out the truth for them.

She frowned at him reproachfully.  It wasn’t my idea to come into the Crypts in the dead of night, though!

There’s no way we would have been able to get Bran down here, and Jon wouldn’t have wanted to leave him out, Rickon explains again.  Jon would insist on waiting until the girls are back from the Dreadfort, and that’s just too long to wait!  By the time they get back, we should be hearing how successful the envoy to Braavos is, and won’t have any time spare to come looking for eggs that might not even still be intact.  Now’s the only time .

Della sighed longsuffering.  How far down do we have to go?

Rickon grimaced.  Starks had been at Winterfell for something like eight thousand years, and there were many levels to the Crypts.  Vermax was here some two hundred years ago, so, we’ll need to look at least two levels down, if not more.

Della gave an even bigger sigh, somehow.  Maybe we should have worn trews? she signed to Reney ruefully.  Rickon laughed, and at a look from Shaggy took the torch back.  Shaggy slipped ahead of them, intending to join the wolves that Rickon had snuck down here earlier in the day in their search of the deepest sections of the Crypts.  Rickon and the girls walked through the Crypts in companionable silence, until they reached the section of the Crypts that housed Cregan Stark, the Old Wolf, and his children and grandchildren.  Rickon placed the torch in a bracket on the wall, and signed,

They should be somewhere here onwards.  Cregan was the Stark in Winterfell when Jacaerys Velaryon visited with Vermax.  These are the graves of his blood who passed before him, children and grandchildren alike – they named him the Old Wolf because of his great age when he passed.

Have the other wolves found anything yet? Della asked suspiciously.

We wouldn’t be looking still if they had , Rickon shrugged, glancing around.  Shaggy’s mind brushed against Rickon’s, showing where the wolves had already checked.  This way, my ladies .

Rickon and his pack searched the Crypts for another two hours, until Jon’s shout interrupted Rickon’s wriggling into a tight crevice that he was sure was about to provide something .

“Rickon, I know you’re down here!”  Jon’s next shout echoed, clearer than the first call had been.  “I can see your torches!”

“Whoop-di-doo!”  Rickon called back, inching further into the crevice.  Maybe if he contorted like this …?

“Rickon!”  Jon shouted.

“Della’s the Deaf one, not me!” Rickon snapped, hissing as his hip caught on the strange jut of the crevice wall he was trying to twist around.  “Ow!  I can hear you fine, I’m just ignoring you.”

Irene’s beleaguered sigh came from somewhere on his right.  “My prince .”

“Yđr eiskaldi,” Rickon snapped at both of them, now thoroughly wedged into his crevice.  Something … not quite shimmered just inside of the thickest shadows.  He needed a light, or to still be a tiny six-year-old.  “Ugh, Jon, did you bring another torch with you?”

“Are you stuck?” Jon demanded, his steps coming closer and his irritation rolling off of him in waves.

“I need a light, I think I’ve got something!”

Jon sighed, but continued to come closer.  The shadows flickered, and Rickon twisted some more so that his left arm was poised and ready to reach for whatever the shadows might reveal.

“Mistress Weaver, please get off of that statue,” Jon said morosely, torchlight bouncing into Rickon’s crevice to reveal – jewelry ?  Well, that was boring!  “Where’s Lady Della?”

“She fell asleep a half-hour ago,” Reney said after jumping down from whatever statue she’d been climbing.  “Rickon, are you stuck?”

“Nah,” Rickon said boldly, carefully trying to squirm backwards.  “... maybe.  Jon, can you…?”

“I should leave you here to learn your lesson,” Jon threatened, by the sounds of it giving the torch to Reney to hold before carefully pulling Rickon out by his feet.  Rickon only grunted when he caught on that bloody jutting piece of masonry once again, trying not to hiss at the scratch he could feel opening up on his belly when his shirt rode up.

Freed from the wall’s captivity, Rickon scowled up at Reney.  “There’s jewelry back there, but I can’t fit any further to grab it.  Can you?”

Reney shook her head at him with a smile, giving Jon back the torch and crouching to have a look into the crevice.  “What’s that, just inside?”

“Fucking sharp,” Rickon grumbled.  “I kept catching on the hauknefr.”

Reney sighed.  “We really should have worn shirts and trews for this!”  She scrambled in much more gracefully than Rickon had; even though Reney was five years his senior, she was tiny , and so had more room to maneuver around.  She gasped, and Rickon smelt blood.

“I told you it was sharp!”  Rickon snapped, crouching down to try and see what had happened.  “Are you alright?”

“Fine, my prince, I just didn’t expect it to be quite so keen – did you knock some of it off when you were in here?  It feels sharper than it ought to be, had you tried to get past it!”

Rickon frowned.  “Could’ve,” he shrugged, looking up at Jon and then back to Reney’s wriggling body.  She was in to her shins when she released a small noise of victory, and very carefully started to shuffle backwards.

“Got it!  Looks like the remains of a cloak, with a silver pin and some necklaces laced with dark gemstones.  I think some of these might be dragonglass!  Ooh, this rock – Rickon, can you take these?”

Rickon reached into the crevice and took the bundle Reney passed him.  It was heavier than he was expecting from her report, and it looked like the tattered cloak was wrapped around something lumpy.  Rickon offloaded the pile into Jon’s other hand, and carefully helped pull Reney out.

She had him stop when she was at eye-level with the now-sharp protrusion, and asked Jon to bring the light as close as he could so she could see more clearly.

“Oh, it’s warm ,” Reney breathed.  “I think, if I – just … got it!  Rickon, pull me out!”

Puzzled, Rickon did as requested, and shouted when he saw that the outcropping that he had been struggling around had been an egg as large as a small pumpkin.  It was gold veined with black, and smeared with both Rickon and Reney’s blood.  “We did it!”  Rickon crowed.  “You did it!  Shaggy, wake Della up!”

Reney was beaming at the egg, her hands reverent around the colourful scales.  “I didn’t know that the scales on these would be so sharp !  And it’s so warm, I didn’t notice before.”  Rickon and Jon both reached out their hands, but neither felt that the egg was any warmer than the surrounding masonry and stone, whilst Shaggy gently stirred Della from her nap.  Rickon signed the whole thing to her excitedly when she came over, Reney still staring down at her find.

“We should keep looking!”  Rickon exclaimed.

“You’re all going back to bed,” Jon said firmly.  “You’ve found one, you’ve confirmed that there are eggs down here, and now you need to rest before your duties on the morrow.”

“But Jooooon ,” Rickon whined.  Jon raised an eyebrow, unimpressed, and Rickon huffed.  Turning to his ladies, Rickon asked-and-signed, “Well, Reney?  What are you going to do with it?”

“I’ll keep it, if it pleases m’lord,” Reney demurred.  Rickon made sure Jon couldn’t see his front, and pulled a face at her for that.  Della’s hands giggled.

“We can discuss it further in the morning,” Jon said, clapping a hand on Rickon’s shoulder and spinning him back up towards the entrance.  “Shaggy, call off the pack and get out!”

Della grabbed their torch, Reney cuddled her egg, and Rickon made sure to grumble enough the whole way back that Jon would be distracted.  It wouldn’t do for his older brother to question what an apprentice weaver would want with a dragon egg.  The fewer people who knew the answer to that little particular, the better.

Arya Stark

Arya slept in the freshly-made Lord’s bed with Sansa their first night in the Dreadfort; the bed was large enough that Brienne bedded down with them, too.  The Hound had attempted to take up a guard position outside (as had Pod, and an amused Tormund), and Arya had promptly sent them back to the rest of their forces.  Nymeria took the apparently-coveted position of guarding Sansa’s door that night, with the two wolves that have claimed Sansa for themselves sleeping beneath the windows.  Sansa had renamed them Page and Cheeky, and somehow they both answered when she called them thus, the rats.

Brienne dropped off to sleep immediately in the soldier’s way, but Ayra knew that her sister often struggled to sleep.  Reaching down Nymeria’s connection to Lady’s shade, Arya brushed against Sansa’s psyche, and struggled not to wretch: Sansa felt terrible , as though she had been bathed in blood and had her skin sliced to ribbons on glass.  

Are you well?  Arya demanded, despite the fact that she was pretty sure Sansa wasn’t .

Are you?   Sansa returned.  

Sansa!

There is nothing to be done, it’s just how this castle is , I think.  I’m surprised that you do not feel it more strongly.

Maybe it is your wolf gift that makes you pick up what I am not?   Arya offers.  Your connection to the pack, and Lady being a spirit – perhaps that is why you feel our dead so strongly?

Perhaps , Sansa conceded.  Did your Faceless Men ever teach you anything about a place like this?

A cursed place?   The selfimage Arya put forth in their shared mental wolfspace shook her head.  I know there were texts on it, but I never read more than a line or two – I was training as an assassin first, not a priest.  I imagine prayer and fire would be the best guess?

We can hardly burn down a castle right before a major battle and an extended Winter, Sansa said grimly.  I’ll be fine.  I’ve lived through discomfit before .

Arya had been a prisoner of war at Harrenhal, travelled the woods of the Riverlands on foot and with only a vague idea of how to survive, been a blind beggar on the streets of Braavos, and suffered through the tortures of the Faceless Men’s training.  She would not describe how Sansa felt across the mental connection as a discomfit .  

Arya tugged her older sister into a tight hug, feeling as Sansa’s muscles relaxed inch by tortured inch.  We’ll figure something out tomorrow , she promised Sansa, and felt as the elder girl drifted into sleep.

What a shitshow.

Arya could sense the death that laced every cobble and smothered every drop of mortar, easily and without stretching her House-trained senses even slightly.  Sansa, her wolfgift that of the sense of the Pack, felt it even more intimately.  The histories said that the Red Kings had worn cloaks of Starkling skins, of Winter Kings and princes and princesses and direwolf bastards.  If that were true, then likely those ancient Starks had been tortured before their deaths, in ways that Sansa was no doubt familiar with, after her disastrous marriage.  How to free those spirits, and all of those that House Bolton had practiced their knifecraft and their depravity on in the centuries that the Dreadfort had been theirs?  Arya didn’t even know where to begin.  Maybe one of the Free Folk that travelled with them would know?  She would ask Tormund in the morning.

Decision made, she made herself drift off to sleep.

Come morning, Sansa was a pale shadow of the woman who had first entered the castle.

“What the fuck,” Clegane demanded the moment he saw her, grey eyes snapping with protective fire.

“The castle does not agree with me, I fear,” Sansa chirped prettily.

“Tormund, would anyone who travelled here with you have knowledge on cleansing a place of trapped spirits?”  Arya asked calmly, Kings Face firmly in place.  She couldn’t leave her sister to suffer any further than she already had at the hands of this horrible House.

The ginger frowned.  “Aye, one or two – you spirit touched as well as touched by fire, princess?”

Sansa smiled politely.  “Something like that.”

“Well, you look like shit right enough,” he added cheerfully.  Brienne puffed up indignantly, as did Podrick Payne and the Hound, but Tomrund steamed on.  “I’ll ask around, and see what I can find, eh?”

“Thank you,” Sansa and Arya said together.  

“While he’s doing that, we might see what sort of state these fighting men are in, eh, old wolf?”  Arya asked the Hound cheekily.  Brienne would be more than capable of protecting Sansa, but even still Podrick, Sally, and Olyvar were charged with staying at her side today, as well.  Arya’s two squires would better benefit from time in the training yards with Arya and the Hound, but Sansa needed the protection far more.  

Best Arya could tell, almost all of the female servants seemed more than happy to swear their allegiance to Sansa.  Non-combatants, like the steward Harwin Dewe, were also quick to paint themselves Stark men and mean it.  Those who had believed in House Bolton – those of ill-repute, those who were morally horrible or revelled in others’ pain, those who had been fighters and precious little else – were the ones that Arya was keeping the closest eye on.  She would ensure that they would fall at the hands of the Nights King, if it came to it, or suffer “accidents” if it didn’t.

“King,” Tormund says softly at her elbow, as she is walking up and down the rows of drilling men-at-arms.  “This is Ahnah.”  A girl walks beside him, no younger than seventeen and no older than nineteen, Arya would guess, with four dogsled hounds at her feet.  She is tawny skinned and dark haired and dark eyed, taller than Arya, with tattooed lines on her cheekbones and chin.

Arya stepped back slightly, trusting Clegane to keep the men in line.  “Hello,” she said, curious.

“You wanted someone who knows spirits and healing,” Tormund offered.  “Ahnah’s the best we’ve got with us – but, her Common is only basic, so I’ll stay to translate.”

Arya nodded at him.  “Thank you.”

“King,” Ahnah says, mouth awkward around the Common word.  “Problem?”

Arya nodded back, and flicked her eyes to her sister and back again.  “My siblings and I are wargs who have wolf gifts.  Sansa knows where our pack is, almost always.  Her direwolf partner is long gone, but the shade lives in her, and has allowed her to sense the deaths of our House that line these halls.  I want to cleanse this place, so that she isn’t in any further pain.”

Ahnah nodded slowly, and asked what sounded like translation questions of Tormund in her own language before she finally spoke to Arya directly, one hand in the ruff of her sole yellow sled dog.  “The spirits hurt your sister?  The – castle, hurts your sister?  Living hurt your sister?”

Arya clicked her tongue, musing.  “I think it is what was done to those long-dead Starks that hurts her the most.”

Ahnah sucked on her teeth, asked something of Tormund, and looked up at the sky.  “Is word for, for times of year when spirits … come?”

“When the veil between the Living and the Dead is thin?”  Arya offered.

“Yes, like that!”

“I know the word in Valyrian, but not in Westerosi,” she said apologetically.  “I don’t know if we have a word for it, in the Common tongue.”

“What do they call it?” Tormund asked.  

“Anthesteria, the flower festival.  It’s mostly for the rich and nobility to get drunk and fuck around, but the common folk and slaves would pray to their ancestors, and sometimes they’d get answers back.  What’s it called in your language?”

“Different Clans have different words,” Ahnah shrugged.  “His people say Jól, another’s say Samhain, another’s say Nos Calan Gaeaf, mine say Quviasukvik.  Is … same same but different, yes?  Wandering spirits need – drink, food, stories, memories, honour.  We do this, might help sister?”

Arya chewed on her lip, nodding thoughtfully.  “Will it be enough, for such tortured souls?  The Boltons have been hunting and torturing Starks for centuries, and the walls of this castle bleed with it.”

Ahnah spat to the side in disgust.  “Will need spirit gate, show bound dead the way out.  Will need … find where most deaths, most painful deaths, happened and … pray.”

“We can do that,” Arya agreed grimly, catching Clegane’s eye and signing that he was in charge.  “I’ll leave Brienne and Podrick with Sansa, and grab my squires.”

Ahnah shook her head.  “Your sister help.  She hurt, she finds hurt, yes?”

Were it anyone but her sister, Arya probably would have agreed immediately.  As it was, she pulled her Kings Mask on firmly, and cast her mindspace over to Sansa’s, brushing against her sister’s psyche to pass the last five minutes across in a burst of memory.  Sansa, watching the training from her gaggle of protective squires and wolves, cast blue eyes from her sewing to Arya and back again quickly.

I’ll come , Sansa said firmly, packing her sewing back into its bag, and buckling the pack in place on Cheeky’s flank.  We will erase every mention of House Bolton from the history books, starting with the cursed spirits that haunt these halls.

Wylla Manderly
Finn of the Harbour

The smell hit them first, once they had docked and paid their due to the harbour master.  

“Never known a harbour to smell like a spitroast before,” Beatrys tried cheerfully, batting her lashes at the Harbour Master’s scribe.  “However did you manage it?”

The poor sod stuttered and stumbled his way through what might have been a sentence, but the Harbour Master spat out the tobacco he’d been chewing and growled, 

“Don’t go askin’ about it once you hit the town, if you want to leave Kings Landing.”

Beatrys gasped appropriately, hands flying up to clasp between her bosom.  Her low-cut blouse drew the eye, causing the scribe to become even more flustered.  

“Sounds scary!”

“Aye,” the old man growled at her, attempting to loom even though Beatrys was nearly a foot taller than him.  Finn sympathised.  “Baelor’s Sept went up in wildfire, and don’t you ask noone ‘bout it unless you want the gold cloaks to take you in!  They’re trying to find whoever set the fires what killed the Queen and her House.”

“Cersei is dead?”  Finn demanded, almost unable to control their response.  

“The Queen Mother was spared, thank the Seven.  No, Queen Margaery and most of House Tyrell went up with the Sept, but they say that Tommon took his life without his Queen, which makes the Queen Mother the new Queen.  What a fucking shitshow.” 

“Quite,” Finn said slowly, eyes casting up to the skyline to notice that, yes, Baelor’s Sept no longer stood out above the rest of the buildings.

“How terrible!”  Beatrys said breathlessly.  “How many dead?”

“They’re still c-counting,” the scribe managed to stutter out.  “Wildfire tore through the streets around the Sept, and they’re not sure yet how many were caught in it.”

“Seven Hells,” the cousins breathed together.

“We won’t say a word in the Capital!”  Beatrys promised, and the two of them left the Harbour Master’s office briskly.  Over her shoulder, Beatrys gestured once to the Mermaid’s Heel , the agreed-upon signal to tell the others that they were good to land.  Everyone’s jobs had been determined the night before and reconfirmed when Kings Landing had first appeared on the horizon; half the crew would stay and look busy aboard the Heel , three members were to haggle the best deals of their lives to try and stock up on as much food as possible to take back north for preserving, and the rest were to try and find the Baratheon bastard, split up in pairs for safety.  Finn and Beatrys were first to meet with any northern informants that, hopefully, still lived, and the Thief King, and then would join the search efforts.

“Heard you’ve had a spot of bother,” Finn drawled when they finally tracked down the Thief King.  

“Fuck off,” Alayaya scowled at them, pouring a cup of the Summer Isles hibiscus tea her mother’s brothel favoured.  “Like you haven’t, with Ramsay Bolton as your liege.  Rumours of his deeds have reached us too, don’t you worry.”

“No need to be nasty,” Finn said lightly, accepting a cup and offering one of the oat biscuits they had had the cook make last night in the Northern style for this information exchange.  “If it helps, we didn’t hear anything until after we’d docked, so you’re doing a great job of keeping information inside of the city.”

Alayaya spat something in her own tongue.  “You know that it is not me keeping that information secret!  You know that I would have spread such things from the grave to the gods, so all would know the Queen who now seats the Iron Throne.  Bah, I should not even be King yet – I would have held this seat within the year, but the last King wanted a front row seat to Cersei’s trial, so he went up with that Sept.”

Beatrys whistled lowly, accepting her own teacup and offering a flask of Neck Moonshine.  “That must be galling.  A lot of work would have gone into preparing your coup.”

“Do not patronise me slave-daughter.”

Beatrys was the one to snarl now, and Finn took her elbow gently as a reminder.  “We are all friends here; let’s get back on track.  What do we need to know about the state of things?”

“The State is fucked.”  Alayaya said plainly.  “Cersei will run the country into the ground, unless the Targaryen woman does not see her out first.  Either way, people are talking of leaving the capital for better pastures, if only they knew where such things might be.  There is Euron Greyjoy for the Master of Ships, thus we have no proper Trade deals for the ports, and every man and his dog has taken to the streets thinking himself a thief or a catspaw.  Brothels are even more heavily taxed than they were before, but only if they are in Kings Landing or Lannisport.  The castle is fed, but we below struggle even more than before – we didn’t think that was possible.”

“We would offer what we can, but we’re preparing for a Winter War and a Long Night,” Finn said apologetically.  

Alayaya waved the apology away.  “I thought something must be happening, to hear nothing from you for months and then have both of you arrive to pay tribute to the Thief King.  Tell me about this Long Night, and then ask what you came to the King to ask.”

Finn always liked how no-nonsense the Summer Islander was, and obliged her.

Once the cousins had finished explaining the Long Night and the Marching Dead coming from the Lands of Always Winter ‘as told to them by the nine hundredth and ninety-eighth Lord Commander of the Nights Watch, Jon Snow’, Alayaya leant back in her seat with a whistle.  Biting the knuckle of her right index finger, she leant her seat back until it was on two legs and stared up at the roof, calculating.

“Tch, what a mess you bring before me!”

“We know,” Beatrys sighed, offering the flask of moonshine once more.  

Drinking deeply, Alayaya finally sighed.  “I can’t do anything to help with this – you know that, yes?”

“We tell you as a favour between friends, and a heads-up,” Finn shrugged.  “It won’t do for the South to lose due to a lack of knowledge, should we fail.”

Alayaya cursed in her mother’s tongue, and made another pot of tea.  

“I hope that whatever gods hold King Robert and your Lord Eddard, they thrash them thoroughly for the world that their actions have created.”

“That’s a bit ingenuine, to thrust all of the blame on them, don’t you think?”  Beatrys snorted.

“I am a whore and the Thief King, I’ll thrust as much as I want,” the other woman laughed.  “Well, friends.  Do you have anything else to tell me, before you return to your frozen wastelands?”

“Nothing else to share,” Finn said; knowledge of King Arya wasn’t for sharing with any that were not Northmen, Stark men, or Gendry Waters.  “But, we were asked to check on a friend of Davos Seaworth’s for him.  A young smith with blue eyes?”

“Clovis?  Aye, I know him – took his maidenhead myself.  Good enough man, if pining for some lost lady love.”

“Ooh?” Beatrys smiled sharply.  “A Lady?”

“Bah, no!”  Alayaya laughed.  “Some feral girl in the woods, I think.  Arry, he called her, lost to the Rape of the Riverlands.  Need a message passed to him?”

“Nah, we’ve got time to kill before we cast again – where can we find him?”  Finn uncoiled from their seat, twisting one way than the other to stretch out their back.  Beatrys finished her cup of tea while Alayaya gave them directions, the cousins committing the instructions to memory before thanking the Thief King and taking their leave.

“What a shitshow indeed,” Finn breathed to Beatrys in Lengii as they squeezed down a tight back alley.  “Her Grace will not be happy.”

“We grab her man and get back to the ship, aye?”  Beatrys confirmed.

“Aye, and whatever he can spare in the way of weaponry, by the sounds of things.  If we get Dragonglass for the dead and steel for whatever foolishness Cersei sends North, we’ll be laughing.”

They daren’t say anything of note after that, swapping jokes and discussing their “preferences” of whores at a regular volume in Common, in case they have any tails looking to eavesdrop on the Northern sailors.  By the time they finally reach the Street of Steel and locate “Clovis”’ shop, it is nearly time for them to make their way back to the ship again.

“I’ll keep the door,” Beatrys said lowly as they both duck into the shop, just loud enough for Finn to hear.  She leans against the door with a louder phew! , making a show of waving air into her face with her left hand; the right was full of small Yi Ti throwing stars her parents had gifted her for her last birthday.

“Can I help you?” the dark-haired young man at the anvil snarks.  Finn likes him already.  

“I’m Finn, captain of the Mermaid’s Heel , from White Harbour,” they smirk.  “Arry sent us to see if Ser Davos spoke true, when he said you yet drew breath.”

The young man freezes, before anger lights up his blue eyes.  “Arry died at the Red Wedding.”

“Arry’s brother, mother, and good-sister all died at the Red Wedding, true,” Finn nodded, voice soft.  “But she escaped, and made her way to Braavos and back.  She’s now reclaimed the title her brother left her, and she and her remaining siblings work to protect their home.”

“I heard someone else had taken her home,” he growled back.

“ Valar Morghulis ,” Finn shrugged.  “She took it back.”

Gendry staggered back, and leant against the wall by the fire.  “... She’s alive ?”

“And invites you, once again, to join her family,” they agreed.

Gendry drew in a sharp breath, looked around his workshop, and nodded decisively.  “Give me fifteen minutes, and I’ll be good to go, Captain Finn.”

Shireen Baratheon
Irene Weaver

She was meant to be heading to the dining hall to meet with the pack early – they had agreed to last night, before they’d ever even made it to the Crypts – but the mottled gold and black dragon on her bed said otherwise.

“Seven Hells,” Shireen Irene whispered, staring at the creature.  It was only as big as a cat, long of tail and of neck, with the forelegs doubling as it’s wings, a spike on it’s nose and a mane of tiny spikes running down it’s back, like the pictures of iguanas she had seen in one of Maester Cressen’s books.  She had discovered that it liked being scratched under the chin, as Shaggy Dog did, but unlike the direwolf it did not like to be scratched behind the ear.  Belly rubs were tolerated, and despite her best efforts she could find neither evidence of sword nor sheath, and thus had no idea if what had hatched was male or female.  It chirped, slightly more reptilian in nature than a chicken would have, and it sneezed smoke.

It was adorable, and she had no idea how to keep it a secret.

Running a gentle finger from nose-horn to tail-tip, she whispered, “We’re going to have to give you a name, won’t we, sweetling?”

If she had been able to tell the sex of the little creature, she might have called it either Orys or Argella, for the start of her House, but … maybe something a little more subtle?  Maybe she could call it Durrandon?

Oh, she was in so much trouble!  She hadn’t even thought last night, so excited by the fact that they had actually found one of Vermax’s dragon eggs(!) that she hadn’t even considered that it might still be capable of hatching!  But why would she , House Targaryen hadn’t successfully hatched any eggs since the early reign of the third King Aegon, why on planatos would an egg hatch for her?

The dragon hiccuped.  She tried not to giggle hysterically.

“How do you feel about Durrandon for a name?” she asked the little hatchling.  It squinted at her.  She cast her memory back to the named dragons of Westerosi history for another yellow dragon.  “Syrax?  Or, um, Syraxes?”  The squinting became more pronounced.  Maybe something more Stormlander?  “Tempest?  Maelstrom?  Squall?  Typhoon?  Monsoon?”  None of these seemed to meet the little lizard’s high standards.  At the last suggestion, they snorted smoke, unimpressed.

“Well!”  She scolded it.  “My Theydy is a bossy little thing, aren’t we!”

A forked tongue flickered out, nonchalant.  

“Historia?”  She tried.  “Antiquity?  Valyrae?  Morghul?  Shrykos?  Dawn?  Daybright?  Dohaeris?”

The dragon’s belly rumbled, and a moment later so did hers.

“We’ll think about names after breakfast, maybe.”  She smiled down at the little creature, and tried to determine how she would sneak it into the dining hall – in a bag under her cloak, maybe?  And lined with her gloves and muffler, so that the poor thing wouldn’t catch cold.  Nodding to herself, she quickly emptied an over-the-shoulder pack and stuffed it full of the items that would best keep her dragon safe, and then the little hatchling itself.  This was fine.  It would be fine!

She tried not to flinch or jump, or otherwise act in a way that might draw attention to herself as she bustled from the room she shared with Della (who had long already left to offer prayers in the Sept and the Godswood) to the dining hall.  She had learnt quickly, when first she had survived her father’s flames: walk with purpose, and none would question you.  She had read about it in a book, some fable about a rogue or another, and found it to be true in practice, as well.

The dining hall was otherwise quiet, so early in the morning – just Rickon, Jon, Della, and Osha seated upon the dias, splitting their duties for the day and making sure everyone was of the same understanding.  

“Good morning,” She greeted them cheerfully.  Rickon’s nose was the only thing that could give her away, and as good as it was, she was seated furthest away from him with her dragon ensconced firmly in her pack.  She’d be fine .

The rest of the table greeted or grunted at her in response.  Jon Snow looked at her disapprovingly, but she met his gaze; a weaver’s apprentice had no business correcting a prince, and the prince’s bastard half-brother had no business telling her off for following the prince’s lead.

(nevermind that she, too, was a princess – was the rightful heir to the Iron Throne, even, the legitimate Queen of the South)

((anonymity was much safer than royalty, by any stretch of the imagination, anyway))

She was to be paired with Della and Osha again today, running drills with the children that the Spearwife was training in the art of the staff.  Rickon and his brother were answering correspondence with Prince Bran, who may or may not yet even join them, and then afterwards they would run drills with the Eastern forces that Petyr Baelish had brought to “serve” Princess Sansa.  Rickon was halfway through begging his brother to let them go back into the Crypts for another look around, when a draft breezes through from Irene to Rickon.  Oh no .

The Northern prince’s nose scrunched up adorably, and he released a dramatically loud sneeze the likes of which she had never heard him make before in the weeks that she had been his companion.

“Are you alright?” She asked, passing him a handkerchief via those others sitting between them.

Rickon sniffed, disgustedly.  “There’s some kind of reptile upwind, it stinks!”

Oh no .

“Oh?  Stinks how?”

Rickon sneezed explosively again, shoving her kerchief over his nose with a scowl.  “I dunno, it just stinks !”

“Must be one helluva reptile,” Osha frowned, “to survive these dropping temperatures.  Or is it dead?”

“Must be alive, I don’t smell rot with it,” Rickon said thickly, sneezing thrice quickly and so viciously that his eyes ran and his head jerked with each explosion.

“Are you alright, Rickon?”  Lady Meera arrived, pushing a wheeled wooden chair for Prince Bran.  Osha and Jon Snow both rose to help lift the prince up onto the dias.

“He’s allergic to dragons,” Prince Bran said calmly.  “Like how hay makes some people sneeze during the harvest, dragons make Rickon sneeze.”

“There aren’t any dragons here,” Lady Meera began, as though soothing a child who thought they had seen something that wasn’t there.

Irene felt Jon Snow’s pale eyes lock onto her, saw Rickon’s turn to her blown wide with shock and wonder, saw the confusion of those others at the dias, and felt Prince Bran’s blue eyes turn to her lap, where her little dragon nibbled at her fingers for more of the fried egg she had just slipped it.

Prince Bran only hummed at the Lady Meera, and reached for a slice of bread and the pot of jam.

Osha reached over to tug on Rickon’s ear.  “You didn’t ,” she growled under his breath.  “Tell me you didn’t go looking for fucking dragon eggs in the Crypts last night, after you said you wouldn’t!”

Rickon blinked blearily up at his adoptive mother stoutest servant.  “I told you I wouldn’t lie to you, Osha.”

Osha cursed colourfully and creatively – were her Onion Knight here, and not off at the Dread Fort with the King and Princess, no doubt he would have been impressed.  

How did you get it to hatch?   Della signed, curious.  

I woke up with the hatchling in my arms , Irene shrugged back.  It was a good thing that Della had already left to pray when she had.

“Have you – named it yet?”  Rickon asked-and-signed excitedly, breaking off to sneeze again in the middle.  

Irene tried not to frown too obviously at her lap.  “I offered a few names this morning, but I don’t think they liked it.”

“They?”  Osha cocked her head.  “You hatched more than one?”

“Oh, no, I just couldn’t tell their sex, and didn’t want to offend,” Irene answered quickly, before rattling off the names that had already been rejected.  “I was going to try some more after this meal though?”

“Can I help?”  Rickon grinned brilliantly, as though he hadn’t named his direwolf Shaggy Dog .

Before Irene could come up with a diplomatic way to say ‘no’, the new Lady Dustin joined them at table, and all talks of dragons were promptly dropped.  It wouldn’t do for rumours to circulate around the camps about an errant dragon, after all.

Della, Osha, and Irene rose to go start their jobs for the dayas soon as they had all finished, and Rickon offered to walk them to the training grounds with his most winning princeling smile.  Jon Snow is left to hide behind Meera and Bran in an attempt to dissuade Lady Dustin’s advances.  Irene would wish Berena luck, had she not said such horrid things about Della or Rickon’s honour.  As it is, Jon Snow does not know how to respond to the Lady’s advances, and so has a tendency to run away at the first opportunity.  Irene cannot blame him.

As soon as their party of four are out of sight of everyone, Rickon begs to see the little dragonet.

Cute , Della says.  Osha looks at her disbelievingly.  Rickon has twisted two ends of Irene’s handkerchief and shoved them up his nose in an attempt to block out the hatchling’s smell, and is gently scritching under the black-and-gold chin.

“Dagsbrún,” Rickon offered.  One gimlet eye opened immediately, staring at Rickon as though the dragon had never seen him before – and, well, it hadn’t.  Rickon grinned, and translated for Della and Irene.  “We prepare for the Battle of the Dawn – may as well name them for it, since they’ve hatched just before it.”

“Dagsbrún,” Irene repeated quietly.  The dragon’s golden eyes flicked to her face now, staring intensely.  “Yes, I think you like that, don’t you?”

The little dragon chirped at her, forked tongue flickering out to taste the air.

How will you hide them?   Della asked, curious.

Irene held up some boiled eggs.  Feed a baby until it’s sleepy is a time-honoured tradition to allow caregivers time to do other things, yes?  D can stay in our room, and I’ll check on them in between jobs today.

If you’re sure, Della signed back, sceptically.  If D destroys anything in our room, you’re fixing it all, Princess.

Rickon laughed at them, and with a final scratch to Dagsbrún’s chin, he scuttled back to join his brothers for the day’s tasks.  Osha sighed, irritated and unimpressed, and sent Irene off to put the dragon away.

Translations:

Yđr – Norse, you, plural

Beiskaldi – Norse, bitch or gripe, 

Hauknefr – Norse, hawknose

Dagsbrún – Norse, dawn, first light of day, red light of dawn

Jól – Old Norse for Yule, the Winter festival

Samhain – Gaelic festival marking the end of the harvest and start of the “dark” period, a time to appease or communicate with spirits

Nos Calan Gaeaf – a Welsh spirit night before Winter (similiar to Samhain/Halloween)

Quviasukvik – Inuit winter feast and placation of roaming spirits (please correct me if I got it wrong though!!)