Winterfell was just as imposing and stately as it had been when I was a little girl. Sixteen thousand years (a conservative estimate, according to my dear Old Nan) of Starks had thoroughly colonized the place and the moment the porter hauled the enormous gates open to let the car through, I felt at home.
"Why, it's hardly changed at all," I said to Jon, bracing myself against him as I stuck my head out the window to give a look around.
He snatched up my lopsided hat before it could fall and hauled me back in with the collar of my coat. "If you could behave yourself," he said, which I immediately interpreted as a plea not to fall out of a moving vehicle.
But his hand on my hip was still gentle, so he wasn't truly wroth. I shook him off and scrambled to the other window, leaning over Pia, who merely huffed, and craned my head back to look up the high curtain walls.
It was a short look, since Jon summarily fetched me back into my seat. "You are worse than Nymeria," he huffed and restrained me with an arm across my shoulders. "Sit still before you do yourself any harm."
"I hardly planned on bounding out the window," I huffed back, but settled against him.
Father, hands on the wheel as he maneuvered carefully-and wasn't that just the sort of man Father was, to employ three chauffeur but insist on driving himself everywhere-said, "Arya," in a mild tone that immediately put me in mind to stay firmly seated.
I wasn't of mind to take a scolding at my elderly age of twenty-two, but parked myself down more firmly to avoid the scold all the same. Some people stay children to their parents for ever, even when they've been to war and back, and I was apparently one of them. The displeasure was unending.
"You can scramble about soon enough," Jon said consolingly into my ear. "It'll certainly make it harder for Aunt Catelyn to yell at you if she has to catch you first. I imagine between the age and the lungs, you two would be humorously matched."
I managed to turn my laugh into some verisimilitude of a cough at the very last moment. "Wretch," I hissed back.
"Aye, but you love me anyway," he said and the way he put it, so plainly, let me know at once how nervous he was too.
"I do," I said firmly, and caught his hand up in mine. "We shall weather it together, darling, by which to say, I fully expect you to trip my mother so I have a running start."
The car came to a stop before he could respond, which was probably for the best. But Jon's face was distinctly amused as he helped me from the car and then extended his hand to Pia. He still looked on the verge of smiling as he hied off to the second car.
I left him to it, assuming he could wrangle the wretched dogs between himself and Peck, and told Pia grandly, "Welcome to the fine old pile, my good woman."
She craned her neck back to look up Winterfell's enormous, craggy face. After a moment, she said in her most placid, deferential tone, "Wonderful, m'lady. Harrenhal hardly holds a candle to it."
"Oh, Pia, you unromantic wretch," I said fondly. "We'll get you acclimate soon enough, and before too long, you'll be staring out the windows of our latest accommodations positively pining for Winterfell's majestic walls."
Her face was still distinctly unimpressed, so I gave it up for a bad job and turned away. Nymeria and Ghost had sprung free of their automobile and were dashing about shoving their noses into anywhere they could find, disrupting several men at work in the process. The distant lack of screams at their massive forms was particularly refreshing and the short row of servants standing at attention near the doors looked completely unperturbed.
"Shall we go inside?" Father asked, passing off the keys to one of the numerous, nervous chauffeurs. "Everyone is waiting in the hall for you."
"We might as well," Jon said with only a little flagging in his enthusiasm. "Peck, see to the beasts, would you?"
"Of course, sir," Peck said. Pia was already bustling off, speaking quickly to a woman-good gods the housekeeper Mrs. Mordane had gotten old-no doubt enquiring about the state of the dusting in the place and how quickly hot water could be available if I needed a sudden dose of something foul. There was nothing to do but let Jon take my arm and start to steer me up towards the grand stairs.
And I say start, because at that moment came a shouted call behind us. I'm not too proud to admit I was startled into stillness, but Jon being perpetually preoccupied with ensuring my continual health and existence shoved me behind himself with a look of alarm just before an enormous red-haired giant crashed into us.
He was skinny as a stork, with oddly broad shoulders that gave him a regrettable scarecrow look, but I knew without a doubt it was Rickon who rapidly released Jon and let out a whoop like an air raid siren.
"A respectable assault," Jon said with an edge of a scold. "You almost knocked your sister right over!" But as he said it, he was bending Rickon over a little and making an absolute mess of his hair with a friendly knuckling, so I doubt the poor boy took it too hard.
"Rickon!" I said. "Good gods! What in the seven hells have they been feeding you?"
"Whatever we can't keep him out of," Father said from behind us. "Rickon, did I not tell you to wait inside?"
"Couldn't," Rickon said, beaming at us. "Sorry, Da, but my pacing was driving Sansa mad."
This was normally about the time I said something clever and cutting about the state of my dear sister's mental acuities, but having just patched up my relationship for her, I endeavored for a nicer sentiment. "The poor dear," I said.
"I'm poor too!" Rickon protested. "Sansa got to see you and I didn't! She said you told her the most frightful stories and I am dreadfully jealous. I want a story a night, Arya! I positively demand it!"
And there was the snotty little ten year old I remembered. "I don't remember telling Sansa any particularly interesting things," I said after a moment. I raked my thoughts.
"We scarcely talked about the war," Jon said with a concerned frown.
"Pray don't-" Father began, seeing something on Rickon's face but he was too late.
"Ghost stories!" Rickon cried. "Who cares about the war? That was ages ago. No, Sansa said you had the most chilling ghost stories!"
"Ah," I said, caught unawares. I gave Jon an alarmed look that attempted to convey both, How in the world are we to deal with this, and also, I am going to strike her dead at once.
"Rickon has taken an interest in the obscure," Father said, pained. "It's hardly dinnertable conversation. Rickon, pray, go inside and tell your mother your sister is here and that we will follow shortly."
He went with a familiarly stubborn look and I lost all hope the subject wouldn't come up again. The moment he was gone, Father said, "He's gotten rather involved in this spiritualism movement and won't stop going on about it. I told your mother that Robin was hardly going to be a good influence, but she wouldn't hear a word about it. Arya," this said to me with a look, "I ask you don't encourage him further."
Panic mounting, I attempted an admirable defence. "I've no idea what you're talking about!" I said quickly. "I hardly have anything to do with the matter."
Lurking behind Father's shoulder, Jon gave me an extremely unimpressed face. I used my eyebrows to convey the thought, You try and do better, but he sadly didn't get a chance.
"If I remember correctly," Father said with a look that spoke to how much he didn't want to be amused by this, "you were rather involved in that sort of thing before the war. Spent your pocket money on one of those talking boards they kept selling."
The panic abated. "Yes," I said. "I remember."
I didn't, but it sounded like something I might have done on a lark to scare Sansa. Probably I'd find the dratted thing kicked until my bed and covered in a healthy layer of dust.
"Say no more, Uncle," Jon said easily and came around Father to offer me his arm. "We'll find some other type of gruesome thing to fill his head with."
Father looked relieved. I looked relieved. Jon looked amused.
I thought it to be the end of the matter entirely until we passed into the Great Hall and saw all of the people arrayed there. There was Mother, of course, and Bran in his new chair, and Robb, and Loras-the poor chap-and Sansa who sprung up to embrace me at once. But it was what I saw through her veil of fly-away hair that struck me.
There was a woman, tall but slight, with her arm looped through Robb's. She was pretty in an unremarkable way, and looked like she had a kindly disposition. She was plainly tired, but if she was going to be the next Lady of Winterfell, that could be expected. I might have passed her over entirely if it wasn't for her other companion, who was giving her such a look of poisonous hatred that I was taken aback.
And then Sansa let out a delighted squeal, still holding me firm, and that same companion turned her look to me.
This look was less hatred than disgust and she narrowed her eyes wickedly before disappearing into thin air, taking with her all my hopes for a relatively quiet Year's End.
A/N 3/31: Last ready update for a while, caught corona virus, still recovering from that