This fic can now be accessed in audio format on the YouTube channel 'Anywhen'!
Winterfell is a dark smudge on the white landscape but you'd know it anywhere. It's a couple hours ride away, less if you go fast enough, but there's something that makes you pause for a moment on that hilltop. Looking across the snowy expanse at your home feels surreal and part of you wonders if it's real, or if it's just a mask like the ones you spent months trying to wear. It looks real enough (so did they) but your fears follow you across the frozen paths anyway.
...
You've tied your horse to a tree so that you can escape if Hot Pie was wrong and the Boltons somehow still have Winterfell. But you're walking up to the gates and you can see the Stark banners hanging proud against the castle walls, and you feel some tension drain out of your body, even as the guards begin to walk towards you. One of them is wearing a helmet like the ones you used to steal as a child and a small smile tugs at your lips at the memory. You were wearing one the day that King Robert arrived, you remember. Your father had tugged if off your head, and Robb had smiled fondly at you, and none of you had known that everything was about to fall to pieces. You don't know the guards' faces, and it's clear they don't know yours by the sneers and the way they tell you to fuck off.
"This is my home," you tell them, and the word sounds strange on your tongue. You haven't had a home since the day you left for King's Landing and when they cut your father's head off you knew - or thought you knew - that you would never have one again. But now you're here, standing outside of the gates of the one place you'll be able to feel safe, and they're denying you entrance. You really don't want to have to force your way in, but you're running out of options, so you take one last chance at reasoning with them and you know it works when their smug faces change to fear, and they beckon you inside.
...
You let out a breath you feel like you've been holding since the moment you left Winterfell all those years ago. Everything looks so much the same, and you're suddenly glad you didn't have to see it burnt down or under the Boltons like your brothers and sister. This way you can pretend that nothing ever happened, if only for a moment. Of course, nothing is the same; your parents and oldest brother are dead, and suddenly you know where you need to go now.
...
There's two tombs in the crypts that weren't there last time you were here. One of them is your father's, you know because of the statue. But the other doesn't have a stone figure to guard it so you curiously stride over to it. 'Rickon Stark' it reads, and a wave of sadness washes over you as you wonder how your youngest brother was killed, when it happened. He would have been eleven this year, but you've been gone so long that you can only picture him how he was when he was six years old and clinging to your mother's skirts.
You move back to your father's tomb and stare up at his face. It looks wrong, like the person who carved it had only ever heard of him. Still, coming here brings back memories of simpler times in Winterfell, and even King's Landing before Robert died. Footsteps scuff on the stone and without turning you know that it's Sansa. If anyone could find you here, she would. You weren't sure how it would feel to see her again because you were never on the best of terms before. But talking to her, seeing her smile, intensifies the feeling of being home. Whatever animosities were between you back then, you hope you can forget now. Still... You can't quite bring yourself to tell Sansa you weren't joking about the list, because you refuse to destroy the hope you see in her eyes that everything can go back to normal.
...
Bran's home, and something's wrong.
...
Bran smiles at you, but there's no warmth in his gaze. He tells you things he shouldn't know and Sansa sounds almost afraid when she talks about the visions. Somewhere in the back of your mind you wonder if Sansa was right when she told you that everyone who knew your father's face is dead. Bran isn't Bran anymore, that much you can see, and Sansa is Lady Stark now, a title that had once belonged to your mother. She had been a silly little girl the last time you had seen her - you both were - and the only thing she seems to share with that girl is the name and the face. And you spent so long trying to forget Arya Stark that you can't be sure she hadn't died in Braavos. Or Harrenhal. Or The Twins, with your mother and brother. Point is, Arya Stark died at some point over the years. All the Starks did.
...
You separate when you return to the castle, and you find yourself watching the female knight who beat with The Hound train someone in the courtyard. You've forgotten her name. She's good, and you know immediately there would be no one better to hone your skills with. She compliments your new dagger, which weighs surprisingly heavy on your hip. She's reluctant to train with you at first, but you eventually convince her and she seems amused by your persistence with Needle. You'd take it over any heavy broadsword, though; it's survived with you over all these years. Your one keepsake from the before days.
...
She's impressed. You tell her that no one taught you, and it's true. You'll never forget Syrio's teachings, and The Hound had his input over your travels together. You learnt more still in Braavos with the Faceless Men, and your fighting style's a mix of all three. You want to stay and talk with her more, but then you notice her upward gaze and follow it to the balcony. You see a flash of your sister's hair disappearing round the corner before you notice the look in Littlefinger's eyes. Your eyes narrow distrustfully as he bows slightly and you consider adding him to your list. He hasn't done anything yet, but you know it's only a matter of time and you find yourself looking forward to the moment.
You are Arya Stark of Winterfell, this is your home, your family. And no one is going to take it from you ever again.