This Is Home
3rd POV
If you looked into the old, tall trees of the Wolves Wood, you wouldn't see much, except of the dead, fallen, crisp leaves from the trees, before the cold winter, fading out into the fog. If you ventured into them however, that was a different story altogether. There have been stories, ancient old stories, of before Bran the Builder, who
resurrected Winterfell from the stone, cold grounds of the North, of wolves, but not just any wolves. Wolves the size of small garrons, huge beasts, named direwolves.
Hence the reason it being called the Wolves Wood, but in these woods, was a small pack of six direwolves, one as black as night, as wild as a…well a wildling, his eyes as yellow as the sun. One as white as the freshly fallen snow, quiet as a ghost, eyes as red as blood freshly spilt. One with a mix of both colors, almost lady like, her eyes a caramel. One a dark russet, calm but adventurous, his eyes were a guarded brown. One as steel grey as a freshly smithed broad sword, regal but strong, his eyes were a yellow. Then there was one that was bigger than the rest, a mix of all the colors, her eyes a molten gold, with flecks of brown, grey and red in them. Standing back from them, her eyes glancing over the surrounding trees, for any dangers to her pack and her ears flickering, catching sounds farther away than one would think a wolf could.
They were making their way back home, to their masters and mistresses, in Winterfell. The mixed one let out a bark as she thought they had rested enough and the other five followed their pack leader, towards home. One let out a howl.
A girl that sat in the roof, of her chambers in Winterfell, her steel, stormy eyes far older than they looked, closing and stretched her ears, blocking out the sounds of the noisy village below, heard the sounds of paws padding quickly at a run through the forest, one, two, three, four, five…six. They were back.
She was up as silent as shadows, slipping in through the open window, and racing down the warm halls of Winterfell, grabbing her Needle like sword and with callused and scarred fingers, she tied it around her waist. She ran through the village to the gates, her wolf hearing her mistress and pushed to her full potential. The girl knocked her family members to the side and threw her arms around her best friend's neck.
"Oh Nymeria, you're back." She whispered into the dense outer ruff into the fluffy inner coat, her wolf's head going around her neck and nudged her closer. Her family didn't understand why she was so close to her wolf. The girl, pulled back and looked into her wizened eyes of her dire, they both closed their eyes and pressed their foreheads together. The others hadn't had to go through years of not seeing each other. The girl herself had only gotten back home about two months prior. She stood back and Nymeria, pressed into her side, her natural heat, warming it as she wound her fingers through her coat.
The town looked on with warm filled hearts, as the two best friends reunited with each other, after being leagues upon leagues away from one another, for many years. Some wondered why, the mixed she-wolf was taller than the rest, and one smithy and cook –who also had been a companion to the girl for years-looked on with smiles on their faces,
"The spirit of the Northern She-Wolf has returned, finally, eh Hot-pie?"
"Arya deserves it though, Gendry. She's been on the run since she was 9, she's seven-and-ten now. That's what, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. Eight years, and she only got back two months ago. She's seen worser things since Harrenhal and when we left her."
The smithy flinched at that last bit, he didn't mean to leave her, it was a stupid and drunken mistake, and he had regretted it ever since. He slowly had started to earn back her trust though. Slowly but surely, he would get the sarcastic, witty, agile slip of a girl, he knew six years ago.
She had matured quite a lot since then, her voice had a slight Braavosi twang, from speaking the language for so long, she kept her hair short, still, much to her sister and mother's demise, cutting it with a knife. She NEVER wore dresses now, like NEVER. She spoke less than usual, but when she did, you couldn't help but listen to what she had to say. She was toned, after the eight years of learning water dancing, she was pretty fit, she didn't look like a boy away more, nor a girl but an seventeen year old woman grown, who had seen more blood than a knight.
Arya felt his stare and glanced up, smiling small at him, she acknowledged her friend. He grinned back, and said with his eyes, that she had learned to read so well, "I'm glad you're happy Arry."
She glanced around, her brothers and sister along with her parents were safe and fawning over the wolves being back. She was home safe and sound. Nymeria was home safe. Gendry and Hot-pie had apologized and she was slowly starting to trust them again. Yes, she was okay. More than okay, actually, she was content.
Winterfell was around her. This was where she belonged. With her family and pack. May all the gods, old and new try to move her. This is home.
Right, sorry its so short and a bit of a sappy ending, I just wanted to say, I don't own A Song Of Ice And Fire, that belongs to the fabulous George R.R Martin. It's not really Gendry/Arya more of post ADWD, though half the Starks ain't dead, as you've probably gathered. I don't know why I did it in the style I did, probably just cause it sound cool as I re-read it.
ANYWAY …please review, I'd greatly appreciate it.
TFS
:D