DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN A SONG OF ICE AND FIRE/ GAME OF THRONES, I DO NOT PROFIT FROM THIS WORK
Hello readers, I know you're probably thinking I've abandoned my other work, but I couldn't resist the temptation of starting a new story. I'm sure you have noticed that this one is NOT a Harry Potter one like usual, but as a nerd and resident bookworm, I am also a rabid fan of George R Martins A Song of Ice and Fire. This story will be pretty super long, and Gendrya is end game, so if you don't like it, there are lots of other wonderful places you can go to read fics that are ten times better than mine! Seriously, go, read them *urges you*. As always I am always open to constructive criticism, and if you have any ideas please feel free to let me know, but please be polite, as I won't tolerate any meanness. This fic is a mixture of the books and the tv series, so the timings and dates are not necessarily compliant to either, but it is relatively similar, mostly everything up until the beginning of this fic is the same as it normally would be. Any questions, please feel free to ask, and I will do my best to explain. As always, happy reading, I hope you enjoy STMS, Over and Out!

Mickon grunted as he ran his sword through a Wildling's chest, closing his mouth as blood splattered his chin and neck, hot against the cold air. He pushed the twitching body off of his blade, barely noticing when it thudded softly into the snow, its brilliant red blood leaking into the sludge, before ducking, and running his sword through another's neck. The noise of the battle was deafening, a noise he had hoped never to hear again after the war. Despite the freezing cold, the air seemed to hang heavy with blood and sweat, smelling even worse due to the shit left behind as men died. Not that Mickon noticed it too much; he had grown accustomed to the stench.

Hastily he wiped sweat from his brow; the battle was ending, each side at an impasse- already some Wildlings were running off into the Haunted Forest, and some of the nightswatch men were retreating as well. He span around as a yell came from behind him, and lifted his sword, but relaxed when he realised it was not aimed at him; a wildling, smaller and more elegant than he had ever seen, danced around a black brother, almost as if playing a game with him, before ending his life swiftly with the smallest blade Mickon had ever seen. He watched almost mesmerised as this strange wildling cut down man after man. Surely it was no man under that grey cloak? Mickon had just raised his sword to go after the hooded killer, when the hood fell, to reveal long, thick, dark hair, and a strikingly beautiful face. He watched captivated as the girl, who was surely far too young to be there at all, whistled, and to his horror a huge, hulking Direwolf stalked from the forest, galloping to the girl, who ran at it in return, grabbing the fur of its ginormous neck and swinging herself up on it, as if it were a horse.

As she rode away, cutting down each Black brother in her way, and the battle slowed to a halt as both sides retreated, Mickon was struck with a sense of familiarity. Even at a distance she had looked somewhat familiar, and Mickon had only ever seen one other person call upon a Direwolf that way.

It was crazy to even think such a thing... she was supposed to be dead, after all. Besides, what would she be doing out here, beyond the wall? His mind reeled as he staggered back to the now opening tunnel to Castle Black. He would have to write to his old Lord Commander. If that girl was who he thought she was, then Arya Stark was finally found.

A pounding at the door roused Jon Snow in the middle of the night. Ghost growled in warning at the noise from where he lay by the fire; it was an unusually stormy night that night, and even though he had thick fur, Jon had invited his familiar into the warmth of the castle. Jon groaned, and wiped his hand roughly down his face. He hadn't slept well since he left Daenerys in Kings Landing three weeks past. He flipped the covers off of him, and went to the door, opening it tiredly.

"Yes?" He said, his voice slightly raspy, "What is it, Maester?" He asked, once he saw the kindly old Maester at the door. He clenched his jaw, praying that it was not unsavoury news about his intended. He was still uneasy about leaving her alone in Kings Landing, despite the fact that she had the best guard to keep her safe.

"I'm sorry to wake you, my Lord," the Maester said, "but the Lady Sansa insisted that it could not wait until morning." Jon frowned; his sister- or his cousin, rather- had become of the habit of staying up late. The news must be important, as she would usually just wait until morning.

"I'll be down momentarily," Jon said, as the master nodded and walked away. Jon closed the door, dressed hurriedly, and left for the small hall, Ghost trotting at his heels. His mind filled with all of the bad things it could be, otherwise she would not feel the need to summon him. Perhaps Bran had taken ill, or Daenerys had been attacked. Maybe the Iron Islands had taken up open rebellion as they had been threatening to do, or even the wildlings had somehow breached the Wall.

Jon had only just got Winterfell under control again, now that the army of the dead would not be a threat again for another thousand years. It had taken a lot of work, needing repair not only to the castle but the surrounding lands. His banner men would no doubt raise up arms against whatever the threat was for him, but most were still recovering, and not in any place to take on another rebellion.

He stalked through the doors into the meeting chamber, pushing them closed firmly behind him; Sansa was standing stiffly at the hearth, the fire in which lit the whole room. She turned around as she heard him enter, parchment clutched in her fists. Jon searched her face, and as surprised to see that instead of afraid or panicked, she seemed calm, and even slightly hopeful.

"Sansa," He greeted, as he moved to stand beside her, "What is it?" She did not reply, but to hand him the parchment. Jon took it, and turned to the fire to better read what he now recognised as a letter.

"Lord Snow,
Castle Black continues to fight the wildlings as Lord Commander Hastings ordered, though many of the brothers are reluctant to fight those who once fought with us rather than against us. It was in one of these fights that something unusual happened, and I thought that you would want to hear as soon as possible.
I believe I saw her, fighting with the wildlings. I couldn't be sure, but she looked familiar, and rode a grey Direwolf. If it is her then send us word on how to approach the issue. We know you have been searching relentlessly for her, but it seems that Arya Stark is not to be found south of the wall.
Awaiting your reply,
Mickon, Brother of the Nightswatch"

Jon could not think, his mind raging as he stared at the letter, reading it over and over again. His baby sister, running with the wildlings? Jon almost chuckled; it was so unexpected, so outrageous- so utterly Arya. Yet he didn't want to get his hopes up. In the midst of battle Mickon, one of his former brothers, could have easily mistaken some wildling girl for Jon's long missing sister.

"It's Arya, Jon," Sansa whispered. "They've found Arya." Jon closed his eyes and opened them, unable to believe what he had just read. He looked down at Sansa; she looked hopeful, if a little wary. This would not be the first time they had heard that someone had seen the mysterious Arya Stark. It had been eight years since she had gone missing at the age of eight- indeed, she had been missing since before Ned Stark was murdered all those years ago. Jon recalled the tale of how she had gone missing; she had been there at breakfast one morning, and had gone off to a dance lesson- though Jon had doubts about what she really did in those lessons- and hours later, several guards had been found dead, and Arya had fallen off the face of the earth.

Of course, tales had popped up about her a few times since then, but apart from then, people did a little double take when her name was mentioned. After all no one had seen her since she was a child; she would be six and ten now, almost a woman grown. No one could picture her face anymore, for when they did they saw her only as she had once been. Apart from one man, a man to whom Jon had become friends with...

Some of the stories that Jon had heard seemed crazy; stories of an orphaned boy called 'Arry, of being captured and taken to Harrenhal. Stories of a mouse, and a ghost, and a girl called Nan, with a strange alliance to a murderer; tales of Salty, Cat of the Canals, and Beth; tales of a girl called no one...
Jon hoped that the stories behind these aliases were not true; to think of his baby sister living through all of that...

Jon's eyes snapped up to Sansa's; she looked hopeful as she awaited his response. He sighed, and rolled up the letter. "Sansa..." he began warily, not wanting to be the one to upset her, "I know how you feel, Gods know I feel the same... but you must know that it is not likely true." Sansa's face hardened at his words, and Jon forced himself to continue. "Sansa, how many false leads have there been? I hate to admit it, but the truth is that Arya Stark is nothing more than a name whispered around campfires. People barely remember her as a child, and Mickon never even met her-"

"Then what of the wolf, Jon?" Sansa interrupted. "He said a grey Direwolf- that has to be Nymeria!"

Jon swallowed; he couldn't deny her argument. "Sansa, the wildlings could have their own Direwolves by now, and many wolves are grey... it doesn't mean she is Nymeria. Besides, Nymeria disappeared years and years ago, before even Arya did."

"But it could be her," Sansa whispered. "It could be." She looked up, and Jon's stomach clenched to see tears in her eyes. "Please Jon, if there is any possibility, I beg of you... please, ride to Castle Black, and see for yourself." Jon sighed, and braced his hands against the mantle of the fireplace.

He knew he had no choice; if there as any chance that this girl was Arya, then Jon knew he had to go. He thought back almost a year, to a night so similar to this one.

It had been stormy, and Jon had been sat with Sansa in the exact room they were in now. The war had been over for only a few weeks, and people were still grieving their loved ones. Jon had indulged in wine, something he rarely did, and his mind had been hazy to the drink.

"At least we're all together now," Jon had said. "Rickon and Robb are at rest, and we are all home again."

Sansa had downed a glass of wine herself before speaking. "Not all of us, Jon," she said. "Or did you forget you had another sister?"

Jon had flinched at her words; it had hurt, mostly because in that moment, Jon HAD forgotten. There had never been closure on Arya, and Jon hadn't really known much about it when she went missing; Robb's death had been famous around the whole of Westeros, and he had seen Rickon's first hand. But Arya had never been reported dead; no one had really found out she was even missing until weeks after Ned Stark's death, as the Lannister's had kept it a secret, hoping to draw Robb in to save his sisters.

As much as he knew he shouldn't, Arya had always been his favourite sibling; whilst Robb had always been his friend, he never felt equal to him, and Robb knew it too. Sansa had always been cold towards him, even a little rude sometimes, at least until they were older. Bran was preoccupied with his own friends, and Rickon too young; Arya, however, had always loved him, and never treated him as beneath her as a bastard. Besides, while all of the other Stark children favoured their mother, with reddish hair and blue eyes, Arya had favoured her father, just as Jon had. Jon had even thought for a time that Arya might be a bastard too.

Jon was brought back to the present sharply when Sansa placed her hand gently on his arm. "Jon, I know you don't want to, I understand; the idea of getting there only to find that it isn't really her... it would rip you apart. I feel the same. But if it could be her, if there is even a small chance that our sister is out there, alone... shouldn't we go to her?"

Jon stared into her sapphire eyes, and sighed. "Of course I will go to her, Sansa. I couldn't not. But don't get your hopes up. And if it isn't her... I don't think I can keep searching for a girl who died eight years ago. If this isn't her, then we will put a few of her possessions in place of her body down in the crypts. I can't keep looking for her only to be reminded of how she was taken from us." Sansa stared into his eyes, and nodded.

Many miles south, Gendry Baratheon took his first view of his ancestral home; the great fortress of Storm's End was situated near the cliff overlooking Shipbreaker Bay, and from atop the surrounding mountains Gendry could see just why it was named such; the sea crashed into the rocks violently, and Gendry was sure he could see a storm rolling in luminously. He had heard of the magnificent storms in the area, only made worse by the heat there, and how people frequently caught ill from wearing sodden clothes, unbothered due to the warmth, quite forgetting the dangers of wearing soaking garments.

Despite having grown up in the slums of Kings Landing, where rain was such a rarity that small children grew quite excited by the notion, Gendry was well accustomed to the perils of wet clothes, having spent the last eight years of his life either on the run or travelling. It had been quite the surprise to hear of his real inheritance, and Gendry was still unsure as to how he felt about it. While he knew he was a good leader, Gendry had missed out on lessons on how to run a castle and its surrounding lands- and Storm's End's surrounding lands were immense; rather like he was.

Gendry had heard tale of how large Robert Baratheon had been in his prime, standing at just over seven foot tall, and strong enough to wield a war hammer with ease- yet it seemed his son had surpassed him, standing at eight feet of pure strength and muscle from blacksmithing and fighting. He kept his jet black wavy hair shorter than most, but long enough that it hung in his brilliant blue eyes, and instead of the fancy cloaks and outfits most Lords wore in the South, Gendry preferred britches and leather.

"Are you pleased, m'Lord?" Teased Anguy the Archer from his side. Gendry huffed out a snort.

"Well, it's better than anything I ever had before," he joked, referring to years spent camping outside, and before that a blanket on the floor of a black smiths. But despite his joking, Gendry still couldn't believe his lot- this kind of thing simply didn't happen to people like him. He had already been drilled on the expectations, and the first thing on his list was not something he was looking forward to; a bride.

Gendry was not inexperienced when it came to physical love, but what with constant fighting and war Gendry had never really thought about it, not since... no, he would not think of her. She was dead, and thinking of her would only hurt him, and drive him to drink.

Yet Gendry understood his duty; after all, he would need to have someone to leave in charge when he was away, and he must have heirs to continue the line. Besides, as a new Lord, just raised from being a bastard, many other Lords were going to need to see that he could be just as good as they were at ruling a castle; he would need to form alliances as soon as possible, and the best way to do that was to take a wife. But still. He didn't have to look forward to it.

Lord Commander Hastings looked up as a man he recognised as Mickon stepped into his office. He expected that it was news on the wildlings, either that they were attacking, or that they were preparing to attack. It seemed non stop these days, and he missed the days when Mormont was in charge, and the work was somewhat less life risking. Life had been easier then.

"Yes, Mickon, what is it?" he asked warily, standing from his chair.

"A raven, Lord Commander," Mickon said. "From Winterfell."

Hastings looked up at that, surprised; whilst he was aware that word had been sent to Jon Snow- or rather, Jon Targaryen- pertaining the suspected appearance of Arya Stark, he had not expected Jon to reply with such haste. He held out his hand and took the parchment, reading the letter carefully.

He looked up to Mickon, who looked on with interest.

"It appears our old Lord Commander is coming to visit."

Ok, just me to say that I hope this uploaded alright, it's my first time using , so I hope there are no mistakes!

I have another account on Quotev, feel free to look me up there under Violetsarepurplenotblue, but all of the stories on there will be coming on here too! Please review and let me know what you think, it really does help!

Hoping you enjoyed this first chapter, Over and Out xox