Let me begin this by saying: be gentle with me. This is my first ASOIAF fanifc, and I do mean ASOIAF, though I have not read the books and only partially watched the show. And by partially I mean all seasons except for that shitshow of a final season. However, I have read a lot of ASOIAF fanfics on both Fanfiction and AO3, so I feel more partial to the book series than the television series. However, this does mean that this is probably going to be a bastardized hodgepodge mashup between GoT and ASOIAF. So... read at your own risk.
Anywho, I love Arya Stark with my whole heart, and I love the fics of her as Queen in the North or something similar. So, that is where this story will be going. Spoilers, I guess lol. However, I find that I struggle with writing her character. Writing as if I am angry with the world is something that does not come easily to me, so my portrayal of Arya is going to be more of a "cold killer who is disinterested and disillusioned with the world" type. Though, cold killer is not exactly the vibe I'm going for either... Either way, please don't judge me too harshly or be mad at me for not following the plot lines correctly.
Arya Stark steps off of the Shy Maiden–the ship that had taken her from Braavos to White Harbor–along with all the other passengers. Though the only true city of the North has nothing on the cities she's seen throughout her travels, the familiar glimmer of snow that covers both the ground and icy waters alike warms her heart in a way the heat of Essos never could. She remembers visiting the city twice with her lord Father, and the city is still stunning in its wintry beauty. It is clean and well-ordered, with wide straight cobbled streets that allow for dozens of people to walk down a single street shoulder to shoulder. The houses and the Keep are built of whitewashed stone, with steeply-pitched roofs of dark grey slate dusted with a powder white snow that sends pangs of nostalgia throughout her chest.
To be back in the North after all these years is almost painful. Nothing is the same and yet everything is. Mother and father are gone, Robb is gone, Bran and Rickon are gone, Sansa was married off to the Lannister imp, and Winterfell has been sieged twice that she's heard about. And yet everything is the same. The small folk who wander the streets look no more lively, the snow has not stopped falling, and the peaks of New Castle in the distance do not seem diminished.
She casts a discerning gaze over White Harbor's busy port as her feet carry her forward through the throngs of people and shouting vendors. It had taken around a fortnight for the Shy Maiden to cross the Narrow Sea, and, in those days filled with nothing to do but talk with the other passengers, she had learned as much of Westeros as she could. Which was difficult considering how vehemently she had avoided Westerosi gossip in the past years–something not easy to do when a girl was no one and not supposed to have any biases.
In the years she had been gone, Winterfell had fallen into the hands of the the Greyjoys, by the work that turn cloak Theon, and then the Boltons. Or, perhaps more specifically, Ramsay Snow. Theon and the Boltons had killed Bran and Rickon after taking them as hostages to use against Robb, and Ramsay had apparently taken Arya hostage and made her his wife.
She supposes she simply must go and visit her lord husband, then, mustn't she?
A quick, winter breeze whips across her back through the thin Braavosi cloak she wears, and a shiver rolls through her body. She looks around in mortification to see if anyone noticed before ducking into a nearby tailor. If she is going to reclaim Winterfell for the Starks, she cannot be seen shivering like some weak Southron flower.
A seamstress dressed in a finely embroidered woolen gown hurries out from the back of the shop, her arms full with fabrics and her plentiful bosom jiggling with her every step. The woman pays no mind to her, her thick and grey hair held back from her face by a simple Northern braid. She waits expectantly for the woman to turn her attention onto her, but the moments drag on into minutes and the seamstress still has not taken her eyes off of her sewing.
Arya clears her throat, "Uh-"
"You are not good at subtleties," the woman cuts her off brusquely without turning from her work. "We do not serve vagrants, sells swords, or whores here, girl. Get out."
Arya's first reaction is to laugh. She has been pretending to be all of those things for so long that the sting of being called one is practically nonexistent, "My lady, I am not-"
The woman raises her head to meet Arya's eyes for the first time, "I see that sword at your hip and the Braavosi clothes you wear. You came in on that ship, did you not? It was filled with sell swords and whores. I'll bet everything I have that you are one of the two."
Arya's eyebrows fly up at the woman's hostile gaze and words, her hand drifting to her hip to brush at Needle's hilt. She is not offended–far from it. She has long since learned that vagrants, sell swords, and whores have their place in this world, even if people would rather they not. To wear her own face and be mistaken for one, however, is an odd feeling. Arya must look more rough than she feels.
Arya raises her hands and backs away, "Yes, my lady. I will find hardier clothes elsewhere."
Turning on her heel to make a quick exit out of the shop and away from the unnecessarily hostile woman, she runs bosom first into another woman who had just entered the shop. The new woman lets out a delicate noise of surprise and Arya hurries to step back out of her cushiony chest. The woman's hair is long and fair, and her face has a healthy plumpness to it that is vaguely familiar. Arya squints up at her for a moment in confusion before recognition hits–it is Wylla Manderly. The granddaughter of Lord Wyman Manderly.
Her gentle and slightly plump face peers down into Arya's kindly, her caring blue eyes not too different a shade from the ice that coats the water of the harbor. Arya brushes back her long, dark hair from her face impatiently and she moves to step around the girl. Though it would be nice to greet the kind girl, Arya Stark is supposed to be a hostage bride of the Boltons, and she does not know with whom House Manderly's allegiance lies.
Wylla, however, seems to have different plans, "Arya? Is that you?"
Despite her reservations, Arya turns back to face the kindly girl. Though the Faceless Men had put her through years of training, to be called by her own name is more of a shock than she had expected. She remembers how sweet Wylla had been as a young girl–much kinder than Arya ever was. They did not get along much due to their differences, but Wylla was kind to her in ways even her own sister was not.
At Arya's lack of response, Wylla takes a step towards her and extends a faltering hand, "It is you, isn't it? Arya Stark?"
Darting a look towards the rude seamstress who had jerked back with shock at the words of her liege lord's granddaughter, Arya smiles tightly, "Hello, Wylla."
Her sweetly plump face trembles with emotion and she steps forward to pull Arya into a tight embrace, bringing Arya's face back into her bosom, "How did you escape from the Boltons? Why are you dressed so lightly? Those look like Braavosi clothes–were you in Braavos all this time? The Boltons said they took you for a bride and seized control Winterfell in your name! By the Seven, they lied! When I tell my grandfather he's going to be-"
A gasp rips itself from Wylla's throat and she pushes Arya away from her chest to peer intently down into her face, "You must speak with my grandfather!"
Arya grimaces and tries to extract herself from the girl's grasp as gently as she can, "You need not worry Lord Manderly with this. I must be on my way–the Boltons must pay for what they did to my brothers."
Her hands grab onto Arya's arm with a surprisingly tight grip for someone who appears so gentle, "Please, Arya! You will not regret this! We can help you take back Winterfell–there is only one Warden of the North, and they are named Stark!"
Though she tries to fight it, Arya can feel her expression darkening into something far more threatening than the other girl is used to seeing on her companions faces at the reminder that Roose Bolton is now Warden of the North, "I will not need assistance in retaking my home."
Arya brushes past Wylla and hurries from the shop, the cold winds burning her skin in the fierce way only a bracing Northern breeze can. Her mind goes to the nearly empty coin pouch at her hip and she eyes a passing mare with interest. She will not be able to afford much more than a mule with what she has left, but she supposes thieving is always an option. It would not be the worst thing she has done over the years.
"Arya! Arya, wait!" Wylla's harried words call out from behind her, her shouts sounding out of breath and her voice getting more distant with every step Arya takes. "Please! You cannot possibly take back Winterfell on your own! It will be your death, Arya!"
She turns back to face the other girl and Wylla comes to an abrupt stop in the face of her furious glare, "You have no idea of what I am capable of. Do not pretend to know me just because we meet as children. I have killed for far less."
Wylla purses her lips and takes a brave, but wavering step closer to her, "Stay just for the night, then. I will find you some warmer clothes and a horse, and you can be on your way in the morning. Please, let me do this for you, my friend."
Arya's scowl falters in the face of her genuine kindness, "You think us friends?"
Wylla tosses her blond hair over her shoulder and gives her one of her gentlest smiles, "Of course I did! It's hard for the daughters of lords to find true friends–at least I could be certain you were not pretending to be kind to me because of who my grandfather is."
Arya smiles back bitterly, "That is kind of you to say, but I was not a sweet child like you were. My mother and sister told me so enough times that I know it to be true–I was a mean-spirited, unladylike wildling of a girl."
Her smiles softens even further into something almost fond, "That does not mean you were not kind. When a girl said my mother must have been a pig because of how fat I was, you punched her right in her spiteful little face. The best part was that no one could do anything because you were Lord Stark's daughter."
"For true? I have no memory of that."
She nods firmly, her eyes glazed over with remembrance, "Yes, I am certain. You punched her and then jumped atop a nearby mare and fled so quickly it was as if you were one with the horse!"
A brief smile flashes across Arya's face, "That sounds like something I would do."
Wylla steps forward and threads her arm through Arya's, linking the two of them together and leading her up Castle Stair–a street of a low incline made up entirely of large steps that make one long stairway that leads directly towards New Castle. Wylla's fur cloak brushes up against Arya's shoulder and the woolen sleeve of her beautiful dark green gown rubs against her arm. Arya fights off one more shiver as another frigid breeze moves through the city, and she is abruptly reminded of her house's words.
As if she could hear Arya's thoughts, Wylla speaks–her gaze on the distant and cloudy vista, "Winter is coming. Another a few years and it will be upon us. Grandfather is worried that with all those wars no one is properly preparing."
Arya follows her gaze to the cloud ridden horizon, "When I get Winterfell back, the first thing I will do is restock the food stores. I have a feeling this winter will be a harsh one."
Wylla's expression turns grim, as all Northerners do when speaking of winter, "We are summer children, Arya. We have yet to truly know winter, but soon we will all be well acquainted. If it is truly going to be harsh then we will have to be harsher."
Arya eyes Wylla in surprise, she had not expected to find such grit within such a gentle girl, "I cannot agree more."
They arrive at New Castle and, with a friendly nod to the men that guard its entrance, Wylla leads her inside with a gentle hand. The inside of the castle is just as starkly white as the outside and carvings of sea creatures decorate its walls. Wylla takes a few turns and then a few more and, if Arya did not know any better, she would say Wylla is leading her in circles in an attempt to confuse her. Arya peers up in her sweet, guileless face for reassurance and sees no signs of deceit within her kind, blue eyes.
Reassured, Arya turn her eyes back to the corridors and realizes that they are in a corridor no longer. They have come to a stop just within the great hall–to either side of the room are long wooden tables with dozens of chairs and at the front of the chamber, up upon a raised dais, is Lord Manderly himself. He is seated within a wood carved, ancient looking seat, his belly bursting above his belt and his greying beard resting upon it gently. The walls, floor, and ceiling of the hall are made of wooden planks notched cunningly together and decorated with all the creatures of the sea.
"Wylla, my dear girl," calls Lord Manderly in greeting, his old voice warbling welcomingly, "what brings you here?"
A wooden smile appears on Arya's face as she turns her gaze onto the girl still bravely clutching at her arm. Though, instead of the gentle and friendly touch as it had been only moments before, it is now trembling and firm. As if Wylla expects Arya to try to flee.
"Yes, Wylla?" Arya asks pointedly, vaguely displeased with the turn of events, "What brings you here?"
She flinches under the force of Arya's icy glare and bravely keeps her gaze forward, locked onto her grandfather at the other end of the hall, "Grandfather. May I present Lady Arya Stark of Winterfell. She has just returned from Braavos."
Lord Manderly pauses, his confusion visible from across the hall, "Braavos, you say?"
She nods firmly, "Yes, Braavos."
He pauses yet again before speaking, "Bring the girl forward, granddaughter."
With a jerk and pleading look, Wylla begins leading Arya towards her grandfather. Arya's eyes search the profile of the other girl's face for a reason for her deceit, but her expression appears as guileless as it had only moments before. She either must truly believe that forcing Arya to speak with her grandfather is not deceit or the training the House of Black and White had given her is not as effective as she was lead to believe.
The two come to a stop before Lord Manderly and his old, watery blue eyes peer down at Arya in disbelief, "By the Seven, you look like Lyanna come again!"
Arya frowns at him, "Father's sister?"
Lord Manderly smiles down at her, his jowls quivering with the movement, "Yes, she was a true Northern beauty if I ever saw one. How old are you now, my lady?"
"Six and ten."
"And you were truly in Braavos all this time?"
Arya frowns as memories of the Brotherhood without Banners and the disgruntled face of the Hound flits through her mind, "Not entirely. I spent a while in the Riverlands after I escaped from Kings Landing after Father was…"
He mirrors her frown, "Yes, it was a shame what happened to your father. The entire realm has been in upheaval ever since, and at such a terrible time."
She nods solemnly, "Winter is Coming."
A brief smile lifts the Lords lips in agreement, "Winter is Coming."
There's a short silence as each of them are lost in their own thoughts–her mind drifting back to her days in the Riverlands. The days of bickering with Gendry and then, later, the Hound, along with the nights filled with terror that she would be found or discovered as being a girl. After she had left the Hound to die, she had tried to put her time spent with them out of her mind. However, being in Westeros is making it more difficult to keep the memories away than she had anticipated–the bad and the good memories alike.
"Arya is going to take back Winterfell, grandfather," Wylla breaks the silence, her voice imbued with false cheer and a fake smile carved onto her mouth.
"Oh?"
She nods firmly and Arya watches the other girl from the corner of her eye, "Yes, and she asks we not interfere."
His grey, bushy eyebrows raise at his granddaughter's words, "She does?"
Arya nods firmly, "I do. If I cannot retake what is rightfully mine without the help of others, then I do not deserve it. Winter is coming and the North needs someone who is strong and capable to lead them through it."
Lord Manderly peers down at her, his expression caught between thoughtful and hopeful, "And if that someone is not you? Would you let the throne of the North rest in the hands of the Boltons? The hands of those at least partly responsible for the honorless murder of your mother and eldest brother?"
Arya gives a full, genuine smile for the first time in a long time. The full force of her grin turning her lips upward into a sharp, fierce smirk that makes both grandfather and granddaughter flinch, "Not while there is still blood in my veins and breath in my chest."
He grins down at her and pushes his large body up out of his seat into a deep bow, "Now that is a Stark I would not mind following. House Manderly is yours, my Lady."
Then, before she could grace his offer with a reply, a man dressed in mail beneath a red surcoat and a scarlet cloak clasped with a silver brooch in the shape of a mailed fist bursts into the great hall with a great clamor. All three of them turn to face the harried man who hastily straightens himself up and bows before Lord Manderly. Lord Manderly frowns at the interruption but motions for the man to speak regardless.
"Apologizes for the interruption," the man coughs, clearly out of breath.
Lord Manderly waves the man's apology off, "Lord Glover. Tell us what news is so urgent you could not wait a moment more."
"Ser Davos Seaworth has returned from Skagos."
The Lord straightens with sudden interest and attention, "And has he returned with what he was sent to retrieve?"
"He has."
"Then bring them here, Robett. Bring them here at once!"
Wylla and Arya exchange a confused glance as Lord Manderly retakes his seat, his large jowls practically quivering with excitement. His attention seems to be entirely fixated upon the large doors that mark the entrance into Merman's Court. The almost enthusiastic anticipation within his gaze fills her with the anxiety of a woman who has seen betrayal one too many times. Arya's hand squeezes the length of Wylla's forearm where it rests and the other girl pats her hand comfortingly in response. Arya takes comfort in the knowledge that Wylla, at least, did not have any plans to betray her. It would be such a shame to kill her grandfather in front of her, though. Arya hopes, for Wylla's sake, that it won't come to that as she watches Lord Manderly get more anxious by the moment.
At long last, the doors to the great hall reopen once again. The same lord is now leading a motley group of people headed by a slight, portly man of greying hair that can only be the famed Onion Knight. Following him are what looks to be a pair of wildings, their bodies covered in grime and their movements cautious as if expecting an ambush at any moment. Behind them stalks a large, ferocious looking beast so familiar that tears spring to her eyes.
The smaller of the pair is a red headed, scowling child of what looks to be about ten years old who stands beside a tall and lean woman. She has a hard face, shaggy brown hair, and a flat chest. Her body looks to be covered in many scars, her appearance not dissimilar to Arya's own lean, flat chested, and scarred body. The boy's Tully blue eyes glare at everyone from behind a curtain of curly auburn hair–his features all eerily similar to Robb's.
Arya's heart beats so hard that she feels as if it might burst from her chest, but she tries her best to keep herself under control. Only allowing herself a single step toward the haggard looking group instead of a leaping bound like she so desperately wishes to do. Trying fruitlessly to not get her hopes up, Arya calls out falteringly–her heart in her throat, "Rickon? Is that truly you, little brother?"
So, I hope you like that! Feel free to give me suggestions of where you want this to go, though I kind of have an idea already. Also, if you aren't familiar with my other fics, I am kind of renown for not finishing anything. So, don't get too attached to this story. Though, my final semester of undergrad just finished so I kind of have the whole summer to work on this before grad school starts... Regardless, don't get your hopes up lol