If you are familiar with my Fanfiction account, then it should be no surprise to you that I have already uploaded a second chapter. If you are not familiar, then it may be a bit surprising. I have a habit of writing until all of my inspiration dries up, which is something that sadly happens quite quickly most of the time. I'm hoping this bout of inspiration will last longer, but there really is no way to tell. I still need to write two final essays before I am completely done with undergrad and may be using this as a way to procrastinate so you all might get a few more chapters out of me. After that, who can tell how long this will last. So, what I'm trying to say here is, enjoy it while it lasts.

The auburn haired boy's scowl does not lift and he presses himself closer to the tall, lean woman's side. His Tully blue eyes narrow in on Arya in open hostility, his ragged appearance reminding her distinctly of herself during her days spent in the Riverlands. Both he and the woman he has pressed himself against for comfort stare at her in open distrust.

"Who are you?" Rickon growls.

She shakes off Wylla's comforting hand and takes a few steps closer to the ragtag group, "It's me, Rickon–Arya. Your sister."

His glare does not waver, "No, you're not. My sister has hair like mine."

"Sansa." She nods in agreement, taking yet another step closer to Rickon and making the wilding that accompanies him reach for her weapons, "she looks like mother. Do you remember our mother? Our father?"

When father, Sansa, and her had left for Kings Landing, Rickon had been little more than a babe at only three years old. Then, just a little while after that, mother and Robb had left to wage war in father's honor. Sad may it be, it does not surprise her how little he remembers of their family. He must remember Bran, at the very least.

Rickon's scowl lessens into a frown as he tries to remember, "Mother was nice and Sansa was, too. Father was tall and strong, I think."

Then his face collapses back into a scowl once again, "But then you all left me!"

She tries to keep her expression neutral despite the despair so plainly visible on his face, "They all left me, too, Rickon. But what happened to Bran? Did you escape from Theon without him?"

Her little brother bares his teeth in anger, "He left! He went beyond the Wall with Meera and Jojen–you all left me!"

She falters in shock, "Beyond the Wall? Bran cannot walk, Rickon."

He rolls his eyes at me, "Hodor carries him."

"But why would he go beyond the Wall?" She presses in concern, closing the few steps left between her and her youngest brother swiftly as her eagerness gets the best of her, "What reason does he have to go so far North?"

Rickon reacts in fear to her quick approach much like a startled animal would, flinching back from her almost violently. Shaggydog reacts to his master's distress and lunges towards her with teeth bared in an attack. Reacting as quickly as she can, she slams her mind against the wolf's aggressively and wargs into his body to halt his attack before it could happen. To all the others, it would look as if she had stopped the dire wolf in its tracks with a simple look, but she can tell that Rickon sees the action for what it really is.

Her little brother stares up at her in wonder as his wolf flinches back from her stoic form with a high-pitched whimper. Rickon's expression loses all of its hostility at once, shifting over into curiosity and awe swiftly. She can see that with a dire wolf on his side, he has been left to do as he pleases and, like any child left to do as they want, he has become arrogant and self-indulgent.

She stares down at her youngest brother impassively, "You do not attack family, Rickon. We do not attack pack–I will not tolerate that again."

There's a brief moment of silence as the rest of the room marvels at her show of stoicism. Rickon and her maintain eye contact, her icy grey eyes holding steady and his own brilliant blue gaze wide with wonder. All the plans she had made on the Shy Maiden's voyage across the Narrow Sea are now suddenly moot. She will not be leaving behind another member of her pack–the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.

The silence is broken by Ser Davos, the Onion Knight's, gruff voice, "Well, I suppose any doubts of the girl's parentage are absolved–no one but a Stark could stop a dire wolf with a single look."

She barely spares the knight a glance before turning her attentions back to Lord Manderly who is still sat in his seat at the other end of the hall with Wylla still stood before him. "I appreciate your support, Lord Manderly, and will be taking your offer of room and board for the night. In the morn, my brother and I will make for Winterfell."

Lord Manderly gives a deep nod, "Of course, my Lady. House Manderly stands with you and the Starks."

Turning back to her younger brother, she notices that his naturally angry countenance is now more on the confused side. Both he and the tall woman he seems so attached to seem terribly unsure of what to do, their gazes flickering from herself to Ser Davos to Lord Manderly and back again. She eyes Rickon critically, taking in everything from his haggard appearance to his seemingly perpetual scowl to the way his hand twitches towards his belt at the smallest bit of unexpected movement. He reminds her so very much of who she used to be before the House of Black and White took her in–angry, scared, aggressive, wild–that she makes up her mind to do for him what she so desperately wanted someone to do for her when she was his age.

She grabs her little brother by his dirt covered and probably flea-ridden fur cloak and begins striding out of the great hall. Rickon's protests and near feral sounding growls of dissent fall on deaf and pitiless ears, and the wilding woman follows after them uncertainly. Faintly, she hears Lord Manderly instruct a guard to show them to where they will be staying before Rickon's shouts and snarls become too loud to hear over. It's when he reaches for whatever weapon he has on his hip, however, that she is forced to deal with his violent fit in kind.

Pulling a small, wicked looking dagger out of a sheath strapped to his hip, Rickon jerks himself from her hold and grasps his little knife with his two hands like a larger man would a great sword. She watches as the blade rushes towards her in a nearly perfect ark and his feet shift back into an admirable stance for someone his age, the dark metal of the dagger glinting in the low light of New Castle's dim corridors. If she were anyone else, the blade may have even found its mark within her stomach.

However, she did not spend two years of her life training every hour of every day to be felled by a boy of only nine years and a crude dagger.

Plucking his little blade from his hands and sidestepping his charge deftly, she catches him once again by his cloak. Tucking away the crude dagger, she peers down into his furious face. His checks flush an indignant red, incensed that she had disarmed and subdued him so easily. She tries to mirror the stoic and disappointed expression father used to give her whenever she had done something uncouth or taken teasing Sansa too far. She knows from experience how much guilt an unwavering pair of grey eyes can bring to an unruly child and hopes that her gaze has the same effect on Rickon that father's had on her.

"What did I say about attacking our pack, Rickon?"

He scowls up at her through his shaggy auburn hair, completely unabashed, "I dunno."

She crouches down before him so that her head is lower than his, his brilliant blue eyes watching her every move warily, "We do not attack our pack. No matter how angry you get or how frustrated you feel, we never attack our family."

"I have no family–you all left me!"

Frowning, she reaches up to set a hand on his slight shoulder, "No one wanted to leave you, little brother. I was wroth with father for weeks after he dragged me away from Winterfell–away from my home. Father used to say that the when the lone wolf dies, the pack will survive. We are pack now, and I will never leave you again."

His face does not become any less unrepentant, but he offers no words as a rebuttal, and she takes that as an acquiescence. She straightens back up from her crouch and is faced with the curious gaze of the tall, lean woman who Rickon had clung to in the great hall. The woman watches her with interest, as if she can't decide whether to kill her or keep her.

Then, without warning, she speaks, "I am Osha."

She eyes her critically, "Arya."

"You're quick. He would've got most people with that trick."

Arya's eyes narrow at her, "Trick? You taught him that?"

Osha jerks up her chin, "I did. The little lord needs to be able to protect himself when I'm not around. You Southerners have been trying to kill him since before he could talk proper-like."

She gives her a firm nod, pleased that her little brother had found someone to defend him and teach him to fight like she had. And yet even more pleased at the shocked expression her approval brings to the wilding woman's face.

"Good."

By the time the sun had risen the next morning, she had found a mare to ride and some warmer clothes to wear. Rickon sits precariously atop his own horse, his little body slumped in his saddle drowsily and a fresh fur cloak wrapped securely around his shoulders. Osha and Shaggydog stand beside Rickon's mare, the dire wolf alert and peering into the trees that line the wooded path they travel and the wilding woman claiming she prefers to walk.

White Harbor still looms over them, its shadow stretching on and on along the path before them like a great mountain. Lord Manderly asked she send a raven to White Harbor once she regains control over Winterfell so that he could send provisions along after them. She finds herself more grateful Wylla had chased her down out of that seamstresses shop by the moment. Without Wylla, Rickon and her may have never been reunited and she would not have the support of House Manderly behind her.

Arya sends a glance at the small, disjointed band that follows along behind them. Leading the ragtag group is the Onion Knight himself. Though he claims his allegiance lies with Stannis Baratheon, she senses a fondness within him for her youngest brother. She sees it in his eyes when Rickon snarls and snaps about something or other, when he stumbles over his words, and when he asks innocent questions about things little boys know not of. Behind Ser Davos rides Wylla Manderly. She and her grandfather both had insisted on her presence on their journey to Winterfell, claiming her presence would be a pledge of goodwill between their houses. Beside Wylla is Lord Robett Glover, the man who had brought the news of Ser Davos and Rickon's arrival in White Harbor to Lord Manderly. He is large man, with a deeply-lined face and greying hair that Arya can tell was once brown by what little color remains. He wears chainmail beneath the same red surcoat he had worn the night before, and his crimson cloak flutters behind him in a frigid breeze.

Whatever plans she may have had to reclaim Winterfell before are now completely useless. She thought perhaps she could steal a face or two, creep into the Keep in the night, and murder the Boltons in their beds. Now, however, she fears she will have to siege Winterfell with war tactics and strategies. As a young girl, she used to dream of being allowed to learn strategies with Robb, Jon, and Bran but now that she has witnessed the wonders of working alone, the idea of including others in her plans makes her feel ill with worry.

Abruptly, Lord Glover's horse pulls up beside hers and she raises her eyes to meet his dark, steely gaze, "Lord Glover."

He inclines his head to her, "Lady Stark."

A grimace pulls at her lips before she can stop it, "Lady Stark is my mother. Call me Arya, at least when there are not other lords about to hear."

A wry grin tugs at his battle worn and weathered face, "Very well, Arya, and you may call me Robett, if it pleases you–when there are not other lords about."

An uneasy silence falls between them as they ride onward along the bank of White Knife river, and she recalls the last time she had seen Robett Glover. She was disguised as Lord Tywin's cup bearer in Harrenhal when Robb's war had only just started, and Lord Glover and his companions had been brought in as prisoners. Arya had freed him and his fellows from Harrenhal's dungeon, but he had left the keep before she could decide if she could trust him enough with her true identity.

"You look better than you did in Harrenhal's dungeons."

The Northern lord turns swiftly in his saddle to stare at her, his mouth open wide with surprise, "Pardon me?"

She flashes him a quick grin, "You don't recognize me? I was the one who freed you from your cell–I think I told you to call me Weasel."

"M-My lady!" Lord Glover exclaims, his brown-grey mustache quivering, "Why did you not tell me who you were? I would have escorted you back to King Robb without delay!"

She sighs and shrugs, looking away to the trees that line their path, "I was unsure of where your loyalties lie. I debated telling Lord Bolton, as well. I am grateful I did not reveal myself to him."

Robett nods, but still looks troubled, "Yes, that would have been a terrible mistake."

They fall into another uneasy silence, the Lord of Deepwood Motte appearing deeply troubled at the revelation that Arya had been at Harrenhal under the noses of who many consider to be the cleverest minds of the realm. She, too, has often marveled at her luck in those days. She could not have planned for the events to unfold better than they had–she thanks the Gods every day that she made it out of that cursed keep undiscovered.

Ser Davos directs his mare to Arya's other side, clearing his throat inelegantly to catch both her and Robett's attention, "King Stannis was pleased to hear of your pledge, Lord Glover. I trust our agreement stands? I retrieved the young Lord Stark from Skagos and now you will swear your loyalties to the Baratheon forces."

Robett falters and sends an odd glance in her direction before looking back to Ser Davos with a queer look on his face, "My apologies, Ser Davos, but with the return of the Starks I cannot swear fealty to any others houses in good conscience. Please extend my sincerest apologies to Lord Baratheon."

The Onion knight does not look pleased with Lord Glover's declaration, but says nothing in response to Robett's change of heart. He falls back to ride beside Wylla who immediately greets him warmly and begins a discussion about the weather as if she were back within her grandfather's court. Arya sends a glance over to Rickon who is chatting happily with a smirking Osha and sighs to herself tiredly. Somehow she finds herself missing her days spent in Braavos, pretending to be whoever she was told to be by the Faceless Men. It may have been an honorless way of living, but at least she had not needed to worry about anything beyond becoming no one.

Their party rides on for the rest of the day, sometimes a conversation fills the silence and sometimes the quiet is allowed to stew. By the time night has fallen, however, Rickon had fallen asleep in his saddle and Osha had hopped up behind him to guide his mare, Lord Glover and Ser Davos had gotten over their disagreement a little after midday, and Wylla had joined her shortly after to talk her ear off about the very latest Westerosi gossip.

Apparently, Tommen Baratheon had married Margarey Tyrell and now rules over the Seven Kingdoms relatively peacefully. Cersei Lannister still rules from the shadows as the dowager Queen, and Petyr Baelish has been named the Lord Protector of the Vale after her Aunt Lysa's death until her cousin, the young Lord Robert Arryn, comes of age. Wylla tells her of how her grandfather had faked the execution of Ser Davos in order to convince the Lannisters to free her father–Wylis Manderly–from Harrenhal and send him back to White Harbor. They released the Onion knight after her father's return and sent him to Skagos for Rickon. Stannis Baratheon has taken shelter in Castle Black and is trying with little success to win the loyalty of the Northern houses to gather support for his claim to the throne. His main campaign making use of the disapproval many feel for having a Bolton named as Warden over the North after Ramsay Snow had wedded "Arya." The wedding of which Lord Manderly had both furnished the wedding feast and sent a host of men to show his support of the union. Though, according to Wylla who was urgent to reassure her, he never truly supported the Boltons and everything he gave was to keep them from coming for White Harbor next.

They decide to make camp on the banks of White Knife River a little after the sun has set and darkness has fallen. Osha makes quick work of a fire, and Rickon curls up beside Shaggydog to sleep for the night. By the time Arya had settled the horses and sat herself in front of the fire, Wylla has finished a hardy Northern stew for them to share.

"Are you excited to see Winterfell again, Lady Arya?" Ser Davos asks her once he had finished his stew. "I admit I've never visited before."

She smiles briefly at the Onion knight, "I will be more excited once we have removed the Boltons, Ser knight. It is a shame you've never had the chance to visit before now, I fear Winterfell will not have fared well after two sieges and countless battles. At its glory, Winterfell is a sight to behold."

He smiles back warmly, "I'll have to take your word for it."

"What is your plan to retake the Keep, my lady?" Lord Glover questions worriedly, "We have no men, Lord Manderly offered us no reinforcements, and-"

Robett's next words are cut off, however, by a piercing howl that echoes through the woods that surround them. Rickon jerks up into a sitting position at the earsplitting noise, and Shaggydog even raises his head to peer into the woods. The howl soon multiples into dozens and then the dozens multiply into what sounds like hundreds, the noise so loud and deafening that her ears ring from the might of it.

Arya rises to her feet warily, unsheathing Needle with one hand and pulling out a dagger with the other. The howling fades out into an ominous silence as Ser Davos and Lord Glover both rise to their feet, as well. A tingle unlike anything she has ever experienced before tickles at the back of her mind, and she squints into the darkness. The hairs at the back of her neck raising at the eerie sensation, and she tenses up before turning to the two men.

"Both of you, stay with Rickon and Wylla," she snaps, barely sparing either man a glance despite the immediate protestations that begin spewing from their mouths.

Arya stalks into the dark woods, the ominous feeling only growing the farther from the light of the fire she travels. Something is hiding within these woods–Old Nan's stories of snarks and grumpkins come flooding back into her mind and she straightens her spine. She is within a Northern wood, and she is a Stark of Winterfell. She has the blood of the First Men within her veins and there is nothing in these woods that she cannot conquer.

Suddenly, a pair of yellow eyes so bright they almost seem to glow within the darkness of the night appear before her. Arya takes in a sudden breath at the eyes appearance and raises Needle up defensively, her mind racing as she tries to think of what the beast could be. It is obviously large enough to have startled all the wolves into a howl and smart enough that she could sense its attention when she was sat at the fire.

The beast lets out a low, threatening growl and she releases a swift, apprehensive breath. She has slayed larger beasts and felled more terrifying monsters than this–the Waif and the Kindly man had trained her to kill anything. The Many Faced God holds no biases and mongers no fear, but he will always have his due. That she has learned above all else.

Then, as if some instruction had been given that she could not hear, the beast ceases its snarling at once. Its large, yellow eyes blink at her from between the trees before moving forward to approach her. After only three steps from the beast's long legs, she has dropped her weapon and fallen to her knees. Tears spring to her eyes and stream down her cheeks freely, and a wet, cold nose nuzzles itself against her shoulder tentatively at first and then more firmly.

The beast whines a familiar pitch and flops over onto her side, her long pink tongue lolling out of her mouth and past her large and terribly sharp teeth. Arya's hands move without her permission to rub at the large wolf's stomach, and the dire wolf begins to pant happily, the noise bringing back happy memories of her childhood. She remembers when her father had given her to Arya and asked her what she would name the pup, and, with only one look into her amber eyes, she knew her answer.

"Nymeria."

Hope you guys liked this chapter as much as you liked the first. Once again, feel free to leave suggestions as to where you want this to go or how you think I should go about writing something. As of right now, I am heavily relying on the website A Wiki of Ice and Fire for the past information and relationships between characters but I am always open to suggestions and advice!