Hello, everyone! I'm back! I had a final Friday morning I had to study for, so I did not have time to finish this chapter Thursday night and then did not finish writing this until really late last night when I was too tired to edit. So, I edited it this morning and am uploading it now! Anyway, this is where we begin to diverge off canon. And by "off canon," I mean other than Arya being in the North. This is where the real fun begins! Oddly enough, I still have a lot of inspiration for this story, so I think you're going to get a bit more out of me.
The six of them arrive in Winter Town within a little less than a fortnight, everyone besides Rickon, Osha, and herself appearing significantly more haggard than they had when they began the journey. Wylla, in particular, has been having a hard time the longer they travel–her eyes now have dark, heavy circles beneath them, her clothes appear threadbare and worn, and her hair has become more disheveled by the day. It is Wylla who spots Winter Town on the horizon not long before the sun is due to set on the eleventh day, her relief almost palpable in the air.
Arya sympathizes with her. Even though she had never been as sheltered as the youngest Manderly granddaughter is, she had felt similarly when she had first been forced to travel from Kings Landing to the Riverlands disguised as a boy. When men are not concerned about a girl's lord father's feelings, their care becomes significantly rougher.
Rickon and her ride atop their dire wolves, and Nymeria and Shaggydog walk so close together that Arya's leg is pressed uncomfortably against her brothers. With two horses available after Nymeria had returned, she had decided that it would be best to construct a makeshift cart for the horses to pull. Remembering the destitute smallfolk she'd encountered in her travels through the Riverlands, she had instructed the group to gather as many fish and as much game they could catch.
Most of her concern lies with the smallfolk of the North–to those who have taken the brunt of the damage the recent wars have wrought. Without a proper lord to care for them, the smallfolk of Winter Town would have been left to fend for food and other necessities themselves. It falls onto Rickon and herself, as the heirs to Winterfell, to provide for the people who live here and undo what the Boltons have done.
The six of them–Arya, Rickon, Osha, Wylla, Lord Glover, and Ser Davos–enter into Winter Town unabashedly, her head held high and shoulders thrown back with Rickon following her lead. Memories of the days she'd spent as a child running through these streets are fresh within her mind as her eyes take in what little has changed. The town has rows and rows of small and neat houses built of log and undressed stone. Its streets are muddy and the market square, which has a well at its center and a few wooden stalls for produce and goods, is located just before Winterfell's eastern gatehouse. The local inn and alehouse is called the Smoking Log, and Arya remembers Robb, Jon, and Theon often leaving supper early to come down here to drink themselves dumb.
Rickon lets out a heaving sigh from atop Shaggydog as the smallfolk on the street stop to stare at us as we ride past, "Why are they staring?"
She gives him a grin, "They don't often see people ride in on dire wolves, little brother, and some of them might even remember us. I remember running through these streets like a wilding when I was your age–I used to want to run away to beyond the Wall."
Osha's eyes gleam up at her from the other side of Shaggydog, "You wanted to be a free folk?"
"Of course," Arya's eyes sweep over the town as they come to a stop outside of the Smoking Log, the wintry air becoming charged like it does before a large storm, "all I ever wanted was to be free."
She slides off of Nymeria as Rickon throws himself off of Shaggydog with abandon, "I think you would have been a good wilding! We could have run away to be free together!"
Without her volition, a fond smile spreads across her face that she would not have wanted to stop even if she could, "That would have been nice, Rickon."
Lord Glover approaches her once the horses have been placed within the stables, "What have you planned, my lady? The Boltons will soon know we have arrived."
Arya meets her brother's eyes before turning back to Lord Glover, a slight cunning smile curling her lips, "Rickon and I will meet them at the Eastern Gate with honor and offer them a peaceful surrender before we do anything–as our lord father would have wanted."
Lord Glover baulks, his whole body recoiling with horror, "I truly must advise against this–the Boltons are a house without honor! They will take you both as hostage and the North will be without a Stark once again!"
Rick and Arya exchange another glance and he rolls his Tully blue eyes in irritation. With the return of Nymeria, Rickon had begun to warm up to her presence almost immediately. Throughout the nights, they warged into their wolves and wandered the Nothern country side together. During the days, they would ride side by side and talk about anything that came to mind. It is with this that she discovered Rickon's rather cunning and wrathful mind–he has an affinity for strategy that would have filled our father with delight. It was he who devised the plan to retake Winterfell and, try as she might, it was one that she could poke no holes into.
She smiles diplomatically at Lord Glover, "We appreciate your concern, my lord, but it is needless. By dawn the Starks will have taken back Winterfell from the traitorous Boltons, and the North will be ours."
Ser Davos cuts in, his old and weathered face crinkled in worry, "And how do you plan to retake an entire castle with just the two of you?"
"That is not for you to know, Onion man!" Rickon snaps irritably.
"Onion Knight," Arya corrects him firmly, careful to hide her mirth behind a serious expression and turning to address Ser Davos's question, "We do not wish to put any of you into unnecessary peril. Instead, all we ask of you is to open the Northern Gate at our signal."
Lord Glover's eyebrows fly up into his hairline, "And how do you expect us to do that?"
Osha frowns, her eyes narrowed in thought, "What signal?"
"Oh, Arya!" Wylla throws herself onto Arya in a tight embrace, "You mustn't go! It is too dangerous–please, let the men take care of this and stay in town with me!"
Arya pats her back as comfortingly as she can, motioning for Osha to pry the larger girl off of her after the embrace turns painful. Osha shakes her head and Ser Davos jumps in to guide the sniffling girl away from her gently, his cheeks flushing when Wylla throws herself at him tearfully. Their eyes meet over her blond head and Arya eyes him critically before determining him to be of no threat to the other girl and giving him an approving nod.
Turning away from the look of relief that passes over the knight's face, she addresses Osha and Robett's questions, "I will leave the how up to you. There will be no mistaking the signal as anything but a message from a Stark, I assure you."
Ignoring their dubious expressions, she sets a hand on Rickon's shoulder and notices how his back straightens with pride at her touch. She knows how unnecessarily risky it is to bring Rickon with her in retaking the castle. How could she not? If she is the Lady of Winterfell, then he is her heir. To risk him in such a way is unprecedented and needlessly perilous–that much she knows.
However, the way he acts under her praise and full attention–so completely different from the mostly feral boy Ser Davos had brought to White Harbor–is entirely worth the risk. Arya has no plans to marry or squeeze out any babes anytime soon, so Rickon is and will be the heir to Winterfell for the foreseeable future. The savagery in him needs to be tamed just enough to allow for his mind to have a say in his actions–not just his wild heart.
Unfortunately, it seems the only way to tame the untamable is through action.
Lord Glover tries to hide his uncertainty behind a tight smile, "As you say, my lady. We will await your signal."
Arya nods to the lord and then the knight before turning to address Osha, "You will help the men open the gates and serve as a guide as you know Winterfell better them either of them."
Sending the wilding woman a glance out of the corner of his eye, Lord Glover does his best to hide his disdain for the taller woman unsuccessfully, "Ser Davos and I can open the gates, my lady. Lady…erm, Osha should stay back to guard Lady Wylla."
Arya feels Rickon tense beneath her hand and she gives his shoulder a squeeze, hoping fruitlessly to temper whatever words he would spit, "Osha can fight better than a dozen of you, old man!"
Both men turn their eyes onto Arya as if expecting consternation and she frowns, "Osha has my complete faith. She has raised my brother, provided for him, and protected him for over half a decade now–she is an honorary Stark."
Despite her good intentions, the words have the opposite effect than she intended. The Northern lord turns an ashen grey at the thought of a wilding being named a Stark and the Southron knight frowns quizzically. Osha is of no help, either. She smirks at the two men in her aggressive way, the smile more a baring of her teeth than an expression of joy.
Arya clears her throat and looks down to Rickon who has narrowed his eyes at Lord Glover suspiciously. His gaze darts between the lord and Osha, clearly having picked up on the hostility between the two. Nodding her farewells towards the rest, Arya uses her grip on his shoulder to steer her little brother away from the others before he could act on his growing suspicion, motioning for Nymeria and Shaggydog to stay with the group.
After a few steps, Rickon shifts his body to walk beside her more naturally and they stride down Winter Town's only street together, the wind picking up and tossing snow into their faces. To either side of the road are plies of snow taller than some of the houses, the once pristine snow soiled with the dirt from the path. The two of them hurry through the market square, past the wooden stalls and stone well until they are stood before the surprisingly unmanned east gate.
They pause before the crossed iron bars of the gate and glance at each other in confusion at the lack of guards–this is not a part of their plan. They stand there dumbly for a few moments in the thickening snowfall before a great clamor of clanking armor and men's voices can be heard approaching over the sound of the rushing water from the moat contained between Winterfell's walls. Lunging the side, Arya drags Rickon after her and presses the both of them as flat against the cool stones of the outer wall as she can. They crouch down behind a snowbank as the drawbridge is lowered over the moat and a large host of Manderly men march out of the gates–identifiable by the Manderly sigil on their lofted banners and the tridents they carry in place of spears.
It takes a few moments for the entirety of the host to pass by their hiding place–none of the guards even sparring a glance to where the two of them are crouched. Arya's mind whirls a league a minute as she tries to find a reason for Lord Bolton to be sending the men under his command away from Winterfell but can find none. Though, before she can think of a way to adjust Rickon's plan to the new circumstances, a loud scream pierces the air and something even she–who has witnessed resurrection, learned from men who can wear faces, and warged a cat to see when she lost her sight–could not believe falls into the snowbank they are crouched behind.
Arya blinks at the odd pair incredulously, "Is that Theon and Jeyne?"
Rickon scowls, "I remember Theon–he let the ironmen in. We should kill him."
She glances down to her sneering brother before shaking her head, "Not just yet, Rickon. We have to change our plans a bit, little brother. I need you to go find Wylla and tell her to convince the Manderly men that just marched past to join us."
He frowns at her, "And what will you do?"
She motions with her head towards Theon and Jeyne who have begun to pick themselves up from their fall, "I need to capture those two. I'm relying on you, little brother. We will need those men if we want to keep Winterfell once we take it back."
His frown grows deeper as he considers her words before nodding, "I will do it."
Rickon runs off without a further word, his lithe form darting over and around banks of snow as he sneaks behind the Manderly men's raucous marching. She watches him go until she can no longer see his silhouette through the falling snow before turning back to Theon and Jeyne's still hunched over frames. Moving as silently as the crunching snow allows, Arya employs the teachings she had received from the Faceless Men to approach the two undetected.
"Hello, Jeyne." Arya greets coolly, as if they had just run into each in the great hall of some lord or other before dropping all cordiality, "Theon."
Both of their faces pale at once and then differ entirely–Jeyne's face crumpling into relieved sobs and Theon's already pale and gaunt features becoming even more pronounced. Lurching from Theon's arms into hers, Jeyne buries her face–wet with tears and rough from what looks to be dried patches of blood–into her neck. Theon, who also looks much the worse for wear, stands before her falteringly. A mixture of an ashamed and a fearful expression displayed vulnerably on his face.
Over Jeyne's blubbering, Theon speaks, "A-Arya?"
Arya narrows her eyes at him, a distant stirring of anger welling in her gut over what he has wrought unto her home, "Yes?"
"How are you here? I thought you dead! Everyone thought you dead!"
She withholds an eyeroll, "I was never dead."
"Then where did you go after-"
A sudden uproar of shouting can be heard from within Winterfell's walls, and Theon and Jeyne both flinch from the sudden commotion. Squinting up into the darkness, Arya can see a few figures peering down at them through the heavy snowfall before disappearing back over the wall again. Making a swift decision, she grabs her nearly empty coin purse from her hip and thrusts it into Jeyne's chest as she shoves the other girl out of her arms and back into Theon's.
"Get to the Smoking Log," she snaps at the two, her eyes still gazing up at Winterfell's turrets and battlements. "Find Lord Glover, Wylla Manderly, or Ser Davos Seaworth. Stop nowhere and trust no one else."
The two just stare at her for a few moments, the snow picking up and eclipsing their view of all else but each other. After another few moments, Arya runs out of patience, "Go!"
They run off into the snowstorm and she watches them go for as long as she can see them–which is not a very long time–before turning back to face Winterfell. She watches as a head peaks over the wall once more before making another swift decision. Taking a running start and leaping at the wall, Arya begins scaling up the stony barrier with only the use of her quickly numbing fingers and the flimsy leather boots that cover her feet.
After what seems like an eternity, Arya heaves herself over the wall and lands in a quiet crouch behind a small ledge. Further down the wall is a broad, bearded man surrounded by five or six women. The group all seeming twitchy and anxious, constantly looking over their shoulders and flinching at the slightest of noises. The woman are all dressed for battle, and seem to be debating with the man as to what to do next. They do not seem like typical women–neither Southron or Northern–both their speech and their actions seeming completely foreign to her.
Realizing that if she does not move from her place she will soon be found and captured, Arya rises from her crouched position and slinks towards the gathered people as stealthily as she can. She times her footsteps with their movements and, when Arya gets close enough, her breath with their breath.
Arya grabs the closest woman to her–a rather unkempt young girl with unwashed saggy blonde hair and pouty lips–and presses one of her daggers to her throat. The groups hushed conversation comes to a screeching halt with a combination of horrified and infuriated expressions. As they all freeze, Arya gets her first good look at the group.
The lone man is slender and of middling height, but broader in the chest and shoulders. His long brown hair has gone mostly to gray, and laughter lines are visible at the corners of his mouth. He has a sharp face with shrewd brown eyes that bore into hers with the fury of a man frightened for someone he cares about. The woman to his right is tall and skinny, just a bit too lean and leathery to be called pretty but with long legs and red-brown hair. The girl to the other side of the man has mousy brown hair and large front teeth vaguely reminiscent of a hare or squirrel. Another woman has a long black braid and a lame eye, another has a thick waist and enormous breasts, and the last is gaunt with long and stringy, grey hair.
Arya licks her lips before speaking, the frigid air drying them again instantly, "Who are you sworn for?"
The man holds up his hands placatingly, "The Manderlys."
Her eyes narrow at him, "The Manderlys have all left–who are you truly sworn for?"
One of the women–the tall one with reddish brown hair–steps forward to snarl at her and the rest rush to hold her back, her eyes darting down to the knife Arya has pressed against the blonde's throat, "Why don't you tell us who you are? We've been here for days and have not seen you once!"
She grits her teeth as she makes yet another swift decision–this one with a significantly higher chance of regret in the near future, "I am Arya Stark, and Winterfell is mine by the right of inheritance. I am here to retake my home."
The girl with the too-large front teeth blinks at her bewilderedly, her voice soft and her tone smooth and soothing, "Arya? You can't be–we just sent Arya over the wall."
"You thought that girl was Arya Stark?" This confrontation is becoming more confusing than she had anticipated. Why would they think Jeyne is her?
The man attempts to regain control, "We will not play your games, woman. We have freed Arya Stark from the Boltons as we were sent to do. Now, you will release Holly, or you will die. There is nothing else to discuss."
Arya smirks at the man, "That is very amusing. You think you can command me–men much more frightening and crueler than you have tried and failed to instill obedience in me. What makes you think you can succeed where they failed?"
The woman with the lame eye cuts in before the man could speak, "If you claim to be the Arya we seek, who was it we send over the wall?"
She eyes the strange woman, the woman's black braid whipping around her head with the winds of the winter storm, "You sent over Jeyne Poole–the daughter of the steward. The Boltons may have claimed to have married me, but I assure you I have not seen a Bolton since I was a young girl, and my lord father was still alive."
Her words seem to have an effect on the group, and their defenses drop the smallest amount. Only the man remains unreceptive, "You do not act like a Southern woman. How do we know you are who you say you are? We have already been fooled once."
"There is no way I can prove to you who I am–you will just take to believe in my honor as a Stark. And I do not act like a Southern woman because I am not a Southern woman. My blood is that of the First Men."
The eldest of the women scowls at Arya, her weathered, gaunt face drawn down in a similar way to how Nymeria's lip draws up, "You're all Southerners below the Wall."
With the old woman's words, Arya finally understands. The odd and stilted way the group pronounces some of their words and the strange phrases they use, the outlandish ways the women dress and act, and the unsure way they had lied about which house they were sworn to all points to a singular thing she could not be sure of until now. No Northerner would ever refer to another as a Southerner, and there is only one place further north than the North–beyond the Wall.
A smirk of satisfaction curls her lips, "You are wildings."
The tall, leathery woman spits at Arya's feet, her brown eyes glinting dangerously, "We are called the free folk. You Southerners named us wildings because you are too weak to understand our ways."
Arya's lips lose their smirk and tightens into a sneer, shifting her grip on the blonde girl she still holds a knife to, "Do not call me a Southerner."
"Alright, alright," the man speaks up again, a sudden and charming smile cocking his lips, "perhaps, if you would release Holly, we could introduce ourselves and start over? My name is Mance Rayder, and this is Rowan, Holly, Squirrel, Willow Witch-eye, Frenya, and Myrtle. It is true we are from beyond the Wall, and it is true we were sent here to retrieve Arya Stark. Whoever that may be."
She pauses a moment to consider before shoving the young, blonde girl away from her and tucking away her dagger, "I am Arya Stark of Winterfell, and I am here to reclaim my birthright from the traitorous Boltons."
The man–Mance–smiles another cocky grin, "That, at the least, we can agree upon. The men lording over this castle are not right–they take too much joy in harming their enemies and too much pleasure in the pain of others. We will help you, even if you are not Arya Stark, to rid this place of those monsters who wear the faces of men."
She nods her agreement. It is always good to have more allies in a battle. Though, she can feel Rickon's plan slipping further from her grasp by the moment and feels a flash of remorse at the loss of the brilliant scheme. How could they have ever predicted discovering Theon and Jeyne along with a stray group of wildings?
Then, abruptly, a great hue and cry erupts from behind them within Winterfell's walls. The piercing shout of a young boy followed by the deep, manic laughter of an older man echoes through the snowy night. A sense of dread sweeps through her body and she lunges to look down into the small courtyard below them, within the space between the guard halls, the armory, and the great keep.
Through the heavy snow Arya sees a flash of dark, red hair and the sharp glint of a longsword before the deep and familiar soft-spoken voice of Lord Roose Bolton calls ominously out into the snow-ridden gloom.
"Come out peacefully and no harm will come to you or the young Stark. I swear it upon my honor as a Bolton."
Arya's knees almost buckle out from beneath her as a wave of heavy rage rushes through her. She lets out a silent snarl as she turns back to face the man, him and all his wilding women flinching back in the face of her fury.
"You think that he is the monster here? You have not seen a true monster yet, Mance Rayder."
Alright, so that's the chapter. I really hope you all enjoyed it! I'm going to be busy for the next couple of days with my last two final papers for my entire undergrad career, so I don't think I'm going to be able to upload for a while. Don't worry, though! I still have plenty of inspiration, and currently have no plans of abandoning this story! I should be back with another chapter either next Wednesday, Thursday, or Friday. I'll see you then!