Summary: It has been seven years since the war of Five Kings. Queen Daenerys has recovered the Iron throne from the Lannisters, and the war has been over for almost a year, yet no one can exactly call it peace. The dragons are unruly, the Dothraki and the Unsullied have nowhere to go and Daenerys' true people are too frightened of her. In the north, Winterfell is being rebuilt and the Kings of Winter have sworn fealty to the new Targaryen. But Cersei Lannister and Stannis Baratheon lurk ever in the fringes, Melisandre's shadows have darkened the lands, Dorn and the Ironborn are stirring, and the Wall has been breached by the Others. This is what Arya Stark comes home to.

A/N: Yes, no Arya, I'm sorry. Although I will reiterate this will be mostly Arya's story, I thought it would do well to feature the other characters that will play a part as well as to imitate the original series. It may seem spread out at first but in the future this pack of wolves will unite. Arya will make sure of that. Please note that this may also have some Arya/Otherpairings, perhaps a bit of incest, age differences, lesbians, gays, dark morbid stuff... I won't focus on it, but just as a warning.

All works are rightfully George R.R. Martin's, and this is only a humble creation of a nameless, unworthy fan.

II. The Bastard and the Snow

JON

"Lord Snow, do you still think this is wise?"

Jon turned stiffly, or as much as his black leather armor would allow. His companion Kormick was almost blue in the face, shivering fool that he was in the snow. Jon studied him closely. Even from afar, it was clear Kormick was not born to be part of the Night's Watch. He was a potter's boy, slim and frail, with a thin, sickly face and stringy black hair that fell long and loose against his jaw. He was about four years younger than Jon, always fretful and so obviously a craven. It was surprising that he hadn't shat his way out of being a troops' man, what with this kind of mission.

Jon had to admit, it was a dangerous, deadly mission. Even from his tall horse he could feel the unforgiving cold of the snow underneath them. The ice had even sent prickles of pain to his very bones. He had to grip the reins of his horse tighter with his gloves just to feel that he hadn't lost any of his fingers yet.

Jon watched tufts of white breath drift from his mouth onto the miserable night above them. It had been days of nothing but this- the bleakness, the white expanse of silence and the woodlands reeking of stillness and death. But they hadn't come across the Others yet. He shuddered, hoping that his men- some being the last few Crows and the others Bran's own bannersmen, had not seen it. He was commander, and it wouldn't do to have the Lord Commander quivering at the feet of despair. Even without Jon's fear, they were already close to breaking, having had three nights without any decent fowl, forced to eat nothing but bark, frozen mead and snippets of leather. They were close to drinking their own piss, he knew, and still they hadn't found a trace of that goddamn village.

Ghost's white flank flashed against the dark wood beyond them for just a moment, red eyes slinking back into the whiteness that was the snow. Jon hurried onward, Kormick at his side.

They had been following Ghost for almost three weeks now, and though the direwolf was moving stronger than ever, many of Jon's men began to mutter that it might have been easier to follow a real ghost into the abyss. Jon knew the mutinous looks when he saw them. It was clear they wanted very badly to break out and return home to Winterfell. But Ghost acted like he was pursuing a very heady trail. And Jon would not hear of turning back.

"The Wolfswood is a den to the wolf," he said lowly to Kormick, "Ride on, I say."

He could feel Kormick's bulging eyes even if he wasn't looking. The man fretted, "But the men are cold, sir—"

"—Do you think I don't know that?" Jon snapped, "Who is your Lord Commander? Do as I say."

Kormick bit his tongue and looked away. Jon kept his face expressionless. He was used to his commanding voice now. Perhaps a few years ago, when Jon was still green, he worried about whether or not his men would like him. But he knew now that having an iron fist in the situation was more important than his men simply liking him. If he couldn't show them his own strength, courage and certainty-(no matter if he didn't feel strong, courageous or wise) then they had nothing to hold on to. His harshness was necessary to bring out their own courage and strength. He would only have to endure the blatantly murderous looks from time to time.

He wasn't worried— he could live without their love.

A murder of crows rustled through one of the trees and flew high above them just as a chill ran down Jon's spine. Ghost turned to him, his red eyes gleaming, before stalking forwards again.

The Others were close. Ghost could feel it and so could he, that strange heavy feeling and the disconcerting knowledge that they were being watched. The winter blanket was like an assassin's expressionless face, waiting for their traitorous vulnerability to strike at.

One month ago, Bran's scouts had lost track of the Others that flocked far into the Wolfswood. There were a few towns a ways off the edges, fortified by the houses Glover, Ironsmith and Locke who were duly warned. They had gathered their armies around them and crafted stronger palisades, built to rebuff the dark horde with the special instruction of Maester Samwell in Winterfell. But across the Wolfswood was the small isolated town of Greybark which had no noble house behind them. They were a simple folk, only having traded with the neighboring Bear Island for the past two winters and the summer before. They were still Winterfell's but were practically defenseless. Ravens had been sent to warn Greybark of the danger despite no knowledge of scholared men in the area, and true to suspicion, none had deigned to reply. The north lords in the surroundings gave only ill news about the fate of the village, with their dwindling supplies and their sparse, unfriendly and plain folk. Having the Others roam freely in the woods was not going to make their lives any easier.

"Lord Snow!"

Jon pulled the reins and came to an abrupt stop. He heard his forty-odd men gasping and muttering behind him, and looked on with a tight frown.

They had finally come to the village. It had been buried waist -deep in a deep red-brown frost. The blood, and there was plenty of it, spread and splattered all across the village in large unrestrained patterns on the snow. Some wooden houses had been torn off or caved in, half buried, with several of the doors on its last hinges. A few sturdy doors looked like it had been dragged across town. Bruised and battered stalls and boxes and barrels had all fallen lopsided. Carriages and pushcarts filled with frozen fruits lay discarded among the ruin. A boy's wooden knight lay crushed by the foot of Jon's horse.

"No men," muttered Kormick under his breath, "no women no children. Nuthin's here, nuthin's movin', my lord. Nuthin' but ghosts."

The only moving thing was Ghost himself, watching them eerily as they came towards the silent town. But what Kormick said was not necessarily true. Nothing was moving, but plenty of small, discarded limbs and body parts poked out from underneath the ice.

"Be silent," warned Jon. He swept through the wreckage with his eyes. What unnerved him the most were the lack of actual corpses.

There was a clearing at the center of the village, but it was bare and empty. Perhaps the Townshall had once stood there, but now only the frame and stone foundation was all that remained. Jon saw a movement by the stones. A young boy began crawling, his lower half underneath the red frost.

"A survivor, mi'lord," said Jansenn Noose, of Winterfell.

Jon nodded, "Men holding lit torches must be evenly spread out amongst us. Kornick, take fourteen other men and search the perimeter. Be wary of anything. Jansenn, take ten men and search the ruin. Look for any useable materials and survivors. Look for food," then he kicked his horse to a gentle trot, "The rest of you, with me."

Jon rode carefully around the rubble and the stained frost. His horse was being difficult, stamping its foot and refusing to go any further into the ice carnage. The other horses were making neighs of distress. Jon had an uncanny feeling about it, but it couldn't be helped. He'd need some supplies for his men, and as his duty, he had to at least check if the boy would make it alive.

Jon tucked his furred cloak under his chin and swept down his horse.

The trapped boy was meters away from him and he was something strange. He kept moving, and crawling as silently as ever. He was maybe five, with straight dark hair and a pale complexion smattered with blood. As Jon came closer he realized the problem. The boy was not buried. He was moving and gesturing like a dying worm because his lower half had been cleanly torn off. His bloodied torso stained the ground with gel-like substance. Jon reached for Longclaw on the flank of his horse just as the boy looked up, mouth wide in a silent scream, with blazing white-blue eyes glowing.

Jon lopped his head off cleanly with his sword. The torso continued to wriggle, his rolled head continued to scream.

An unimaginable cold spread amongst them all.

"Call the men back together here," Jon ordered instantly as he hurried back on his saddle, "Take out your torches. Regroup! Drop what you're doing and regroup, damn you!"

He slid Longclaw back into its scabbard and drew out a torch. It was of a different design, longer and leaner almost like a sword, but strung with several more oilcloths for more firepower. The other men began to ride towards them, their torches all lit. Behind them, in the darkness of the woods, Jon could faintly see shapes and shadows with their blank blue eyes.

"Sh-shit!" yelled Kormick.

The horses began to act up, neighing and rearing. Jon took iron control of his own horse, with an almost brutality that rivalled his fear. "Master your horses, men!"

They've been waiting for us, Jon thought to himself. It was uncanny, how the Others seemed to be planning more dutifully than a deadened corpse had any right to. But here they were, stalking towards them from all angles, corpses that had been the very men in the village. Jon's own men began yelling at him, asking him what to do, yelling to shut up, to come closer, to run.

"Light what's left of the village on fire," called Jon instantly, "It will keep them at bay. Find the ale, pour it all— all of it! Now!"

He spotted an opening in the Others' formation where the woods was a bit wider and the dead men far too few, but he knew the horses would never run towards them in that fashion. He'd have to break them up some other way.

As the Others began closing in, Ghost bounded to the front, snapping and snarling.

"Ghost!" Jon yelled loudly, a warmth spreading to his very veins, and with no hesitation the direwolf attacked.