I'm back early! I have officially finished all my finals for my undergrad degree and am out for the summer before I return for grad school! It feels weird to be done, to be honest. I feel like I still have work to do, but I've done everything. It's kind of crazy! Anyway, here's the next chapter and it's another long one. Like the last chapter, this one breached the five thousand mark. I hope you like it!

Though it would have been pleasant to have been given time to adjust to becoming the Lady of Winterfell, it was not to be. Not even three whole days after she had retaken her home and sent out the ravens demanding her vassals pledge their fealty, do the letters begin to fly in. She had managed to convince Hothor Umber to be Winterfell's temporary maester as he had trained for a while in Oldtown, and, already, she can see that he is regretting his acceptance.

There seems to be an endless stream of ravens flying into the rookery, and an endless stream of letters that she must respond to being delivered to her solar. Arya remembers her father spending days on end within his solar–the very same room that she now spends her days and nights camped within–and wondering what he could possibly be doing in there. Now, she knows exactly what it is he was doing.

At first, most of the letters were for Lord Bolton, but were nothing of any interest. Then, a few days after the ravens she had sent out must have been delivered, a flood of letters came soaring in all at once. Some were just formal pledges of loyalty, somewhere warmer and offered hearty felicitations for her return home, and some–more worrying letters–warned her of the Baratheon host that is marching for Winterfell.

Setting down the latest letter reporting on the Baratheon army wearily, Arya summons Lord Glover and Ser Davos Seaworth to her solar, as both of the men have had contact with Stannis Baratheon. She also requests Rickon be found and brought to her, as well. She has been neglecting her little brother these past few days–having to refuse his every invitation to spend time together. She wonders how her father managed to balance his lordship with a wife and six children so well. If she had some husband to fret about or so babes to watch over, she would be able to get nothing done.

A knock at her solar's doors snaps her from her musings and Nymeria–who had been lying before her fireplace–raises her head, one of the servants who had been fusing with the books on her father's selves rushes to answer it. The servant pokes her head out of the door before duking back in and turning back with a wavering curtsy that Arya waves off impatiently. The North should not be tied down with such useless courtesies, in Arya's opinion–it is bad enough that she must submit to being called a lady every time she speaks with someone. At the very least, she should be able to speak with her servants without them falling over themselves in an attempt to keep up useless Southron traditions.

The girl hurries out of her curtsy and clears her throat, "It is Lord Glover and Ser Davos. Do you wish for me to let them in, milady?"

She smiles the affirmative tightly at the servant girl, realizing belatedly that she does not know the girl's name, "What is your name, girl?"

The girl ducks into another graceless attempt at a curtsy, "Lya, milady."

Arya eyes the girl for a moment before nodding, "Very good. Let the men in, then, Lya."

Lya is quick to comply and opens the door wide to reveal the intimidating frame of Lord Glover, and the slighter, more hardy silhouette of Ser Davos. Both stride into the room quickly, and Lya bows before hurrying from the room and closing the doors after her. Arya motions for the two to have a seat on the arm chairs offered before her father's desk with a tired smile.

"My lady," the two greet together, both seating themselves before her.

"Lord Glover, Ser Davos," Arya sighs, "thank you for coming so quickly."

"It is my pleasure, my lady," Lord Glover professes solemnly.

Ser Davos nods to her, "Of course, Lady Stark."

Arya picks up one of the many letters she had received over the past few days and passes it to Lord Glover, "I have received several reports from various lords that Stannis Baratheon is currently marching on Winterfell through the Wolfswood. The snow from the storm has slowed his progress significantly, but the majority of his host are now Northern men so the weather has only slightly hindered their progress."

She turns to Ser Davos with a frown, "What do you know of Stannis Baratheon's plans for Winterfell?"

The Onion Knight shifts in his chair nervously, "I'm afraid I know not of the King's plans for Winterfell, Lady Stark. I'm am sure, however, that he does not mean to take it for himself. The last I spoke to King Stannis, his aims were to take King's Landing back from Cersei Lannister's bastards, not to establish himself in the North."

Lord Glover glares at the Southron knight, his next words taken straight from her own mouth, "Then why is he marching on us?"

Ser Davos swallows, "I am…not sure, my lord."

Arya looks between the two men before settling her gaze upon Ser Davos. She knows he is telling the truth, but that does not absolve her worries. That the knight–who is their only true connection to Stannis Baratheon–has no idea of why his King could be marching to Winterfell so urgently that he was willing to risk traveling within a snowstorm does not bode well.

She turns her attention onto Lord Glover, "And what say you, Lord Glover? I know you promised to swear your loyalty to him if Ser Davos returned with Rickon. Did you have any correspondence with him at all?"

Lord Glover shakes his head, "No, my lady. I do not think I have ever even met the man."

Arya sighs again and rubs at her forehead which aches with a dull pain, "Then, I-"

Before she could get her thought out, however, Rickon bursts into the solar with Osha and Shaggydog following after him. Shaggydog immediately goes and lies down beside Nymeria, and Osha reclines back against the doors as Arya's little brother storms towards her. His young face downturned into an expression so indignant that it almost looks humorous on a face so small.

"You said you would never leave me again!"

She frowns at him, "I have not gone anywhere, Rickon."

Rickon bares his teeth into a snarl, his little form bristling with anger, "Just because your body is here, does not mean you are! You have left me just like all the others!"

Arya looks to the others in the room–Lord Glover and Ser Davos have averted their eyes, Osha looks disinterestedly around the solar, and Nymeria and Shaggydog watch their two masters with soft, intelligent eyes. With yet another sigh, Arya motions for them to leave as discretely as she can and watches as they all file out one by one until the only two left within the solar are Rickon and herself. She turns her attention back to her youngest brother and meets his furious blue eyes steadily.

Moving slowly as to not spook the wild boy, she pulls him closer and tucks him into her side so that they are sharing the large chair their father had placed behind his desk. "I have not left you, little wolf. I am right here."

At first, Rickon sits rigidly beside her, but she can feel the tension he is holding within his body fleeing by the moment. "You did! I have not seen you in days!"

Deciding that she would not keep news from him as news was kept from her when she was his age, she reaches to grab a letter from the desk–the one she selects is from Alys Karstark who is at Deepwood Motte which is the home of the Glovers. She claims that her uncle, Arnolf Karstark, is only feigning loyalty to Stannis and, in truth, he sides with the now dead Boltons. The letter is in response the ravens Arya had sent out announcing her return to Winterfell, and Alys states that her loyalty to the Starks have never wavered. She, along with all the other letters, warns that Stannis Baratheon is marching on Winterfell. Alys estimates that the army is most likely camped within Crofter's Village–a village only a little less than a three days ride to Winterfell.

Arya gives the letter to Rickon, and he grasps it tentatively with his small, grubby hands, "Did you ever learn your letters?"

He shakes his head, still slightly angry, "No."

She smooths down some of his curly auburn hair, "You will have to learn, then. A large part of running Winterfell is reading and responding to letters, that is why I have been within this room for as long as I have."

He frowns up at her, "So, you will always be this busy?"

"Not always–no. I am sure once the North has been settled some more, less letters will come and I will have more time to be with you."

"Will you have time for me soon?"

"I am afraid not, little brother. This letter says that there is an army on its way to Winterfell. That was what I was talking to Lord Glover and Ser Davos about when you came in. We will have to be prepared for another battle."

Rickon's face, which had been slowly relaxing, folds back up into his familiar, feral snarl, "Why can't everyone just leave us alone? Who is coming to fight now?"

Arya takes the letter from his hands and sighs again, "Stannis Baratheon. He wants to be King of all of the seven kingdoms, and thinks to use the North to do so. I am not sure if he is coming here to take Winterfell from us, to rest on his march further South, or to demand our help in taking the throne for him."

"So, what will you do?"

She stands from her chair, taking Rickon with her, "We will prepare for battle. Fortunately, we still have about five hundred Manderly men and about five hundred more Starks at our command."

Rickon looks up at her with large, trusting eyes, "And that will be enough?"

She sets a hand on his shoulder, "It will have to be."

Arya rises from her seat in the Great Hall and the eyes of every person supping turns to her in an instant. As a Lady is supposed to, she ignores the dining smallfolk to turn to her left and place a fond hand on Rickon's shoulder before giving nod to Osha in farewell. Her brother does not bother raise his head from stuffing his mouth as she turns to leave, and all the smallfolk return to their supper as she exits the Great Hall.

She crosses the castle's yard and into Winterfell's main courtyard swiftly, wrapping her fur cloak further around herself to fight off the chill. She traverses the busy courtyard and enters into the maester's turret where Hothor Umber's elderly body is hunched over a table piled high with letters. His hand works quickly across the parchment, but pauses once he realizes who had opened his door.

"Lady Stark!" The old Umber rushes to stand from his seat to greet her, but she motions for him to remain sitting. "What can I do for you, my lady?"

"I've come to ask if anymore ravens have arrived with information about Stannis Baratheon's march."

Hothor frowns, "I'm afraid not, my lady, but I expect him to arrive soon. The last letter we received was from Lady Alys Karstark from Deepwood Motte last night. It would have taken the raven about a day to fly the distance and it has been a day since we received the news, so it should not be long before the Baratheon army is upon us."

Arya nods grimly, "I thought the same."

Lord Umber sighs wearily, "Have you prepared the men for battle?"

"Yes, I spoke with both the Stark men and the Manderly men around midday and informed them of the situation. The smithy has been working all day to make as many weapons as they can, and to repair any pieces of armor brought to them."

He rubs his head resignedly, "Then all we can do now is wait, my lady. If someone had told me I would be fighting as many battles as old as I am now, I would have spit in their face for wishing such bad fortune upon me."

A stab of guilt shoots through her, "I apologize for dragging you into this, Lord Umber. I would like nothing more to be able to send you back to Last Hearth, but I cannot afford to have no maester right now. Not with a battle on the way."

He lets out a rough chuckle, "I am no maester, my lady. You will see how little of a maester I am when you bring home the dead and the wounded for treatment after the Baratheon army is defeated. These old bones don't move as swiftly as they used to and nor do I remember much from my days in Oldtown."

The door opens up behind Arya, and both her and Hothor turn to look. Wylla Manderly enters into the maester's turret briskly, and shuts the door firmly behind her. When the girl turns around to face the room, Arya can see her eyes widen in surprise.

"Arya! It's so good to see you–we have not had a chance to talk in days!"

Arya gives a small, but warm smile, "Hello, Wylla. What have you come here for?"

"Oh!" Striding forward to link her arm boldly with Arya's, the girl smiles brightly at Hothor. "I was wondering if there has been any news from White Harbor? We wrote days ago telling grandfather we had retaken Winterfell and his reply should be here by now."

Lord Umber rises faltering from his seat at the table, "There was a letter from White Harbor brought in earlier today, but I set it aside in favor of more urgent letters. I will go find it at once."

The elderly lord hobbles away from both the table and the two girls without another word, and she turns to look at Wylla. The elder girl looks much better than she had when they had arrived in Winter Town a few days ago. Her checks now hold a lively hue, the dark circles beneath her eyes have been wiped away, and her hair glows a lustrous shine from within the Northern braid she had tied it back in. Arya feels a brief spike of envy at the other girl's neat braids and runs a hand over her own loose hair. She had never mastered the art of braiding much to Sansa's consternation, preferring instead to let mother or Sansa braid her hair for her.

"How has Winterfell been treating you, Wylla?"

Wylla smiles down at her cheerfully, "Wonderful! Though, I have been a little lonely since we arrived. I know no one here other than you, your brother, his wilding caretaker, and Loder Glover and Ser Davos, and you are all so busy."

Arya frowns and pats her hand, "I'm sorry, Wylla. I have been so busy lately, and now I will be doubly so until Stannis Baratheon's army arrives."

The other girl gasps, her face paling dramatically, "An army is marching on Winterfell?"

"Aye, there is. The last report has the host at Crofter's Village–only a three days ride from here. They should be on us soon."

"So soon? We've only just recaptured the castle!"

Before she could respond, Hothor returns with the letter from White Harbor and a weary smile. "Here you are, Lady Wylla. This letter came from your grandfather this morning. Would you like to read it or shall I?"

Wylla turns her attention back onto Lord Umber, "Oh! Please take a seat, mu lord. I will read it, there's no need for you to trouble yourself any further."

Lord Umber returns to his seat without protest as Wylla unfurls the letter and begins to read. Arya watched her eyes flicker back and forth across the page for a few moments before the tension in her shoulders releases entirely. She hides an amused grin as Wylla looks up from the letter cheerfully and hands the parchment back to Hothor.

"Good news?"

Wylla beams at her, "The best! Grandfather is sending more food, lumber, and men for you up the White Knife as he said he would."

Arya nods, "Good."

"But that's not all! My father will be leading the men and will be here within less than a fortnight! It will be so nice to be able to see him again. The last I saw him, he still looked sickly from his time spent in Harrenhall. If grandfather has agreed to let him travel to Winterfell, he must have made a full recovery."

She smiles at the girl's excitement, "I'm happy for you, Wylla."

Then, as abruptly as most battles begin, a great clamor of noise erupts from outside the maester's turret followed by the mighty resonance of the belltower. The low timbre making the turret shudder with the its vibrations. A small servant boy rushes in the door, out of breath and panting heavily.

"The Baratheon banners were spotted–prepare for battle."

The boy runs off without another word–probably to inform others of the army's arrival–and she turns back to face Lord Umber and Wylla. Arya watches as both of their faces crumble in terror, and straightens her spine in determination. She will not let Stannis Baratheon take the castle even if it is the last thing she does. The people within these walls are hers to protect.

"Stay with Lord Umber, Wylla." Arya orders sternly, already turning and beginning to stride from the turret, "It will be safer here."

With that, she runs out of the maester's turret and across the courtyard for the armory. As much as she loves Needle, she knows that it will not do her much good within an actual battle where blades and bodies will be rushing about. Arya needs something sturdier than Needle's deft, but flimsy blade for this fight.

Men of all sorts are hurrying about the courtyard, gathering their fellows and preparing their arms for battle. She bursts into the armory and rushes over to the rack of swords on the furthest wall, taking the first one she spots from its place and testing its weight. After a few controlled practice swings, she concludes that the blade will do its job and slides it into her belt. Knowing she has little time left for dallying, she quickly slides into the smallest set of boiled leather armor she can find and slips a mail vest over it all.

Deciding that what she has on will have to do, Arya hurries from the armory determinedly. The courtyard is still in chaos–men and women alike are sprinting in all directions and shouting at the tops of their lungs. What few children remain are crying over the din, as the men curse and drink their anxieties away.

It occurs to Arya rather belatedly that it falls onto her shoulders to organize the people and to give them reassurance about the battle ahead. A pit of nerves settles in her stomach at the thought of commanding such a large amount of people and she presses a hand to her gut before gritting her teeth. She is the Lady of Winterfell, whether she wants to be or not. Now is not the time to be second guessing herself.

With renewed determination, she climbs the stairs to the battlements only halfway, until she could get a good view of the entire courtyard. No one pays her any mind, and she casts a discerning eye over the crowd. From her newly elevated position, she can see Lord Glover, the Manderly men, the wilding group of mostly women she had apprehended on her first night back in Winterfell, and even her little brother. She takes a deep breath and clears her throat in preparation.

"Quiet!"

The bellow roughs her throat as it erupts from her mouth, but she pays the pain no mind as every eye within the courtyard below falls upon her. Another bout of nerves rolls through her body, but she grounds herself as best she can. She meets her brother's eyes from across the courtyard and jerks her chin up.

"I am Arya Stark of Winterfell, and I will have had to fight two battles just to return to my home. Outside these walls awaits Stannis Baratheon and his army, yet another person who wishes to take my home from me. But Winterfell is not just my home, it is your home. I ask you not to fight for me–I will never ask you just to fight for me–I am asking you to fight for your home. Our home! The Baratheon host has laid waste to the Northern countryside, and the North is my home, as well. So, I say fight for the North and fight for Winterfell! What say you?"

A resounding cheer booms throughout Winterfell's walls–the men, women, and children alike answering her question with shouts of praise and determination. Arya raises her hands to ask for silence once again and the crowd slowly quiets down enough that she can speak.

"Men who wish to fight with me, wait by the Hunter's Gate. The women who want for safety, make your way inside the Great Keep and into the cellars. When all is done, I will come for you."

She hops down from the battlement's stairs as the much calmer people of Winterfell divide themselves into two groups–one filing towards the stables and kennels, and the other hurrying into the Great Keep. Turning to follow the men, Arya is blindsided into a tackling hug that almost knocks her to the ground. Tucked beneath her arm and head buried into her small chest is Rickon's slight form, his face pressed firmly into the hard, boiled leather and chainmail that protects her chest.

He mumbles something incoherent into her armor and she smooths down his unruly red hair fondly, "What was that, little wolf?"

Rickon tilts his head back to look up at her, his blue eyes filled with tears, "Take me with you! I can fight, too!"

"Oh, Rickon," Arya sighs, "you are so very much like me. I cannot take you with me, little brother. You are my heir, if something happens to me you will be in charge of protecting Winterfell."

He scowls, "But you took me with you last time there was a fight!"

"You were captured last time, Rickon. And that was before we had anything to lose. Now, we have everything to lose. You have to stay here and defend those who are staying behind. If anyone from the Baratheon army gets in, I will be relying on you to stop them. Can I trust you to do that, little brother?"

Rickon hesitates before nodding, his face still creased with displeasure, and Arya dips down to press a firm kiss to his forehead. When she pulls back, Osha has appeared at Rickon's shoulder with a scowl on her face. She gives the older woman a questioning look and receives a familiar eyeroll and scowl in response–well, now she knows where Rickon got that habit from.

"Why did you not tell me Mance Rayder is here?"

Arya's eyebrows raise, "Oh? I didn't realize you knew him."

"He is what the crows used to call the King-Beyond-The-Wall, and he planned to lead us South to escape from the Others. I left before him, though. Looks like we ended up in the same place anyway."

She frowns at the wilding woman, "The Others? Who are the Others?"

Osha visibly shivers, "The white walkers. Things that were dead but aren't any longer. They are the reason so many of us free folk are trying to get over the Wall–you're the ones who built the damned thing. Don't you remember why you built it?"

Arya blinks up at the woman in shock–for the first time in a long time she is completely and utterly taken aback. Others? White walkers? Those are creatures straight out of Old Nan's tales. A flood of emotions washes over her before she shakes herself. Now is not the time to be worrying about things that are far beyond the Wall. There is an enemy at her gate that she needs to deal with before any other enemies are addressed.

She meets the wilding woman's eyes and pushes Rickon into her arms, "We will talk about this when I return. Take care of Rickon."

Pushing thoughts of the Others and white walkers from her mind, Arya marches through the gates that leads to the kennels and stables with Nymeria following at her heels. The throng of battle-ready men splits as she and her dire wolf stride through, and she holds her head up high as she marches towards Hunter's Gate. She meets Lord Glover by the gateway with a nod and sends her gaze back over the crowd.

"Where's Ser Davos?"

Lord Glover clears his throat, his crimson cloak like a spot of flame within the throngs of the greys of house Stark and the greens of house Manderly. "I had him remain in the Great Keep with the women and children. The battle presents a conflict in his loyalties."

She nods, "Good thinking."

Turning back to the throngs of men, she takes a deep breath in preparation for another bout of shouting, "At your ready, men! We ride to our first battle in defending Winterfell. The Baratheon army has been weakened by the cold and the journey, so the battle should not be a harsh one. Prepare yourselves."

Hopping up atop Nymeria, Arya slides her longsword from its sheath and holds it aloft above her head, "For Winterfell!"

The gate begins to roll up and the draw bridge lowers as the host of men behind her echo her cry, their horses racing after her as Nymeria bounds through the gates with a snarl. In the distance, Arya can see the banners of the Baratheon host on the horizon–a blackened stag encased in red flames bordered by orange. She looks back just in time to see her own banners rising–a grey dire wolf on a white canvas–along with the banners of house Manderly and Glover.

Lord Glover rides to her left, his mare slightly nervous with Nymeria so close and his face drawn down into an expression of grim determination. Arya takes a deep breath to steel her nerves and cards her fingers through the long fur at Nymeria's neck for comfort. Despite all the fighting and killing she had done, she had never participated in a real battle before. There will be dozens, maybe even hundreds of her men that will not see the end of this battle–men that are under her protection.

Arya slows to a stop a good distance away from the approaching army and raises an arm to signal the men behind her to slow to a stop, as well. She can see the Baratheon host come to a halt in tandem and quickly dismounts from Nymeria, Lord Glover following her lead. He comes to her side and crosses his arms, frowning at the army in the distance sternly.

"Will we approach with the terms of their surrender, my lady?"

She considers it briefly before nodding, "Aye. We would be without honor to do anything less."

Arya turns to a nearby Manderly commander, "Keep the men in line while we are gone. Be ready to charge when we return."

With that, Arya begins a brisk advance towards the opposing army–flanked on either side by Lord Glover and Nymeria's intimidating frames. She sets her expression into a dour scowl and throws her shoulders back. Though she knows she will never be as feared as a dire wolf or a large man, she hopes one day to be able to instill a fear in her enemy's eyes as easily as Nymeria can.

Approaching from across the field, she can see the Baratheon army's commander marching closer–Stannis Baratheon. Stannis is a large man–tall, broad-shouldered, and sinewy. He has dark blue eyes and a heavy brow, his head has only a fringe of black hair, and he has a close-cropped beard across his large jaw. The would-be King's face has a tightness to it like cured leather, and he has hollow cheeks along with thin, pale lips.

Flanking him to either side are two women, one is draped in red with long hair the color of deep burnished copper, unsettling red eyes, and unblemished pale skin. She is slender, graceful, and taller than most knights, and Arya identifies her immediately as a priestess of the Red God–R'hllor. The other woman is short, chunky, and muscular with big thighs, breasts, and hands. The ringmail she wears is visible beneath her furs, and the boiled leather visible under that. She looks to be a Northern woman, but it is odd that a Southron man like Stannis Baratheon would allow a woman to walk beside him like she is.

The two parties come to a stop only a couple of steps away from the other. There's a moment of stony silence before Stannis clears his throat and looks to Arya pointedly, clearly hoping she would speak. She hides her amusement behind an impassive and dour expression, once again channeling her late lord father.

As the silence drags on, Stannis finally decides to speak, a tinge of impatience coloring his tone, "I am Stannis Baratheon the First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and the Protector of the Realm."

Arya allows for another beat of silence before she speaks, "I am Lady Arya Stark of Winterfell, Warden of the North. Why have you come here this day, Stannis Baratheon, and what do you want with my home?"

As you can see, I kind of threw in a hint about what my direction for this story will be with Osha's mention of the Others. Let me know what you guys think about that. I know this isn't exactly a canon portrayal of Arya–she's more controlled and decisive than she ever was in the books or the show but that's how I want to write her. This is where we really start to go off of the canon material, though, as we're reaching the end of G.R.R.M.'s last book A Dance with Dragons and I really don't want to follow the path the show laid out. Please leave a review and tell me what you think! I basically live off of reviews, nowadays. By the way, I have my commencement ceremony Friday morning, so the next chapter probably won't be until either that night or Saturday morning.

Oh! And, also, let me know who you think Arya should be paired with in this. Or if you think she should be paired with anyone at all! I'm game either way, honestly. See ya next time!