Set a few years after ADWD.
Blood-stained hands
She stared down, breathing heavily, at the man with his slashed throat. Dead, like all those before him, so easily at her hand. Her blood-stained hand. She imagined the Kindly Man in Braavos looking at her disapprovingly. "When one gives the gift, it shall be clean." There goes another rule I broke, she thought.
"For Winterfell," she said quietly. "For House Stark." She sheathed Needle and stood, waiting for satisfaction to sink in.
Once, revenge felt good. Now, she just felt cold.
x
Looking into the fire, Arya sighed. By habit, she whispered the names to herself. Valar morghulis. With each day, the list was getting shorter - and names were starting to sound just like names. She'd been praying for these deaths since she was ten years old and it was what kept her going. Now she was starting to wonder what would keep her going once they were all dead.
You couldn't kill a dead man twice. Which was unfortunate.
x
The Kindly Man had asked her for the last time, "Who are you, child?" and she had responded, "Arya. Arya Stark." She had been so confident, then. And now...
All these years she'd been running away from who she was, but now that she finally accepted it - what good did it do? Part of her regretted ever leaving House of Black and White. When she was no one, at least it didn't hurt this much. She didn't belong with the Faceless Men, but where did she belong? Winterfell was still there but her home was gone. Mother, Father, Jon, Robb, Bran, Rickon, Sansa... She tried to picture their faces but it was like trying to grasp water. If I can't remember them, it's like I dreamed them all. And if they didn't exist, then how can I exist?
She looked at the sky, already darkening. The days were shorter and shorter now, the nights longer and longer. Winter was coming, and she was all alone. A lone wolf, and destined to stay that way.
Arya wanted to cry, suddenly, which she hated. She'd never felt both so old and so much like a child.
x
Somewhere out there, she thought she heard a wolf howl.
x
That night she had feverish dreams. No, nightmares. All the people she had killed appeared one by one, their faces ghostly pale. They didn't look angry or bitter or hateful. They just looked afraid, and they eyed her like she was a monster. Then one of them turned into the Kindly Man, who asked her, "Who are you?" "Arya. Arya Stark," she said in the dream, and the Kindly Man smiled and showed her a mirror. She looked in and saw a person with no face staring back at her. "You are no one," the Kindly Man whispered.
She woke up screaming.
She was lying on her side, shivering. Her fire had gone out. Needle was clutched in her numb hand. What had Jon once said, what felt like a lifetime ago? That when spring comes, they'd find Arya's dead body, holding Needle? Am I going to die? If I'm dead, who would care? No one even knows I'm still alive.
She was so cold. If I die, would I still feel cold?
In surrender she closed her eyes. But instead of getting colder and colder until oblivion took over, she slowly began to feel warm. Somehow she was running through the woods, running freely, heart thumping. Where she was running to Arya didn't know, but she knew it was to a good place. To see an old friend.
When she opened her eyes again, that was what she saw: an old friend.
"Nymeria," she breathed. Hugging her direwolf close, she broke down into tears. Arya Stark, crying. She was glad only wolves saw.
When she stopped crying and wiped her eyes dry, Arya felt stronger. If Nymeria remembered her, if Nymeria came to look for her, then that meant nothing was made up. Everything was real. Her family was real, still out there somewhere... the dead ones still awaiting vengeance, the living ones - while not necessarily waiting for her - still needing her. Just like she needed them.
No, she wasn't going to die. She had a place to belong to. As long as she still breathed, she would find a home to return to. That was what would keep her going.
Beneath the blood-stained hands, she was still who she was. She existed, and from now on she would wear only one name.
"I am Arya Stark," she said. Nymeria regarded her with calm, knowing eyes, and the wolf pack, as if understanding, howled to the dark moon.