"Songs speak to us through the years… of the night in the White Wood, where supposedly the children of the forest emerged from beneath a hollow hill to send hundreds of wolves against an Andal camp, tearing hundreds of men apart beneath the light of a crescent moon." - Maester Yandal, 'A World of Ice and Fire'


All those who live and breathe in the Whispering Wood hear the howl of wolves echo through the trees. These lands are known to have wild animals, and while wolves are rare, they are not unexpected. A few of the superstitious men wonder further, for the army they march against is that of the Young Wolf, the red-haired Stark rumored to ride into battle on a direwolf from Beyond the Wall. These men also know the price of desertion, and none leave the ranks of the Lion.

All living men hear the wolves before the battle starts.

All living men feel the presence of something, of them when they rush onto the battlefield. The deep, instinctual fear cuts through the adrenaline of war. There is something there, watching them as a predator does its prey.

When the warning howls once more cut through the sounds of clashing steel and dying screams, however, it is those with the blood of the First Men that see them. That see her.


As strong as the Faith of the Seven is throughout the South, as numerous as the descendants of the first Andal invaders are, the First Men did not all die out and disappear into the annals of time. Some held strong, like the Brackens and Blackwoods. Some assimilated, like the Hightowers. Some hid their origins, like the Gardeners and Tyrells after them.

There are some from families like these who stand in the Whispering Wood and see the army of wolves when they first appear amongst the trees, their eyes glinting ominously in the moonlight. They are the first to break and run, to shout of the Old Gods and children of the forest come to seek revenge for the North and their true believers.

The warrior maiden tips back her head and howls in tune with her wolves, her face already streaked with dirt and blood. It is not clear until later that her pack has already decimated the flank of the Lannister forces. There are many who see her sat astride her direwolf and still do not see her as the main threat, focusing instead of the beasts that have leaped into the fray around them. It is not until her sword is covered in the blood of dozens of their brethren that she is seen as the one to target.

And by then, it is too late for the lions. The wolves have won the night.


Arya is small and covered in dirt and blood. For men who have never seen even a drawing of a Child of the Forest, Robb can see how they were confused in their fear. Her eyes though… they are grey but shine like silver when the moonlight hits her eyes, her entire eye turns silver in the light. She is older than he last saw—has it really been so long? —but Robb knows deep in his bones that this is his sister. She cocks a brow at him, half in question, half in mockery as she always had.

"King in the North," she calls him when she nods her head. It is not a bow and not a kneel of submission, but Robb never wanted that from any of his family. (Ned Stark—Eddard Stark had knelt and it cost him his head. Robb will never have another Stark kneel.)

"You never need call me that," he says, drawing near her. He is the only one to do so; the men that have all circled around them fall to their knees, some even muttering prayers of old.

"Either we all do or none will, Robb Stark." Her voice is amused and scolding all at once, but there is something impossibly old underneath it all, causing her every word to rumble with truth. Perhaps it is the weight of what has happened this night, perhaps it is the return of his sister to him where she is his savior, and he has not opened the gates of King's Landing to free her… perhaps it is something else. But Robb is not one to question this gift, not now.

"Come back with us to camp. I wish for you to meet with our lords of the North and Riverlands—and with mother, of course," he adds sheepishly. He may be Eddard Stark's heir, the undisputed lord of the north, but Robb Stark, firstborn of Catelyn with her red hair and Tully blue eyes, has always been his mother's son.

Arya Stark has only ever been that of her father.

And yet, when her wolves surround them in an honor guard to lead the way back to the Northern encampment, Robb sees his mother in the way Arya holds herself tall like a queen.


The lords do not know what to make of her.

Most of the lords have not seen Arya Stark for years, if they ever have. It is mainly Robb claiming her to be his sister that convinces his men, except for the hill clans. they stare at her in awe before kneeling, something they even rarely do for Robb, as they are more wildling than king's men. They followed Robb first for justice and now for respect, but never for the belief of titles simply being hereditary.

That they kneel for this tiny girl dwarfed by her own direwolf is something entirely different.

Arya Stark watches them all with an impassive expression, but Robb recognizes the gleam in her eyes and knows she is holding in laughter.

The whispers begin to spread in her wake as she makes her own way to Robb's tents as if she has walked the path a hundred times before. "The warrior of the crescent moon. The moon's champion. Moonwarrior." Each is spoken more devotedly than the last.

Robb shakes his head and goes to fetch his mother.


It is true, he is young. But Robb is an experienced warrior now, and he is not blind to the way that Arya's eyes trail along Catelyn Stark's neck. He'd awoken her from slumber and thus their mother was hurriedly dressed in a robe, so there was no jewelry hanging around her throat that could be the focus of his sister's gaze.

The tingling sense that something is… not wrong, but certainly not right, comes back to him.

Arya still grimaced at her mother's hug as she always has, but she nevertheless accepts the embrace, going as far as to return it. A flash of longing crosses her face. Robb understands. They had been separated for so long, and he knows he longs similarly to see the rest of their family.

He looks up again to see that Arya is now watching him. He is the first to turn away.


The first group of men to return with prisoners and the walking wounded has news that is brought straight to him and the Starks.

Jaime Lannister was found unconscious, his sword arm showing evidence of mauling by a wolf, his hand missing.

A weirwood was found on the slope overlooking the valley where most of the fighting took place. It was young for certain, but larger than a newly planted sapling.

The second group to return reports the tree has a carved face, as all heart trees do. It is smiling.


He has their mother leave the tent. While she has a loyal lady Stark to the north… there are many, including him, who do not agree with the way she forced her faith of the seven on Winterfell. She will not hear his words with a clear mind.

Arya's eyes track his as he paces within his quarters. They are both wolves, have always been. But the way she watches him now… it leaves him feeling small. Hunted.

It reminds him of his prayers before the heart tree in Winterfell.

"Did you do it," he asks.

"Do what?" She has never been one to simply give answers. Robb has learned there is always a cost for information.

The weirwood in the whispering wood, he snaps, all authority. "Did you do it."

She raises a brow and Robb nearly shouts in frustration. "Quite a thing to charge me with."

"This is not a coincidence. Arya, the men are frightened. First the wolves, now—"

"Which men?" She interrupts.

"What?"

"Which. Men. Are frightened?" She bites out each word carefully.

Robb hesitates. It is enough for them both to know she has made her point. "The Riverlanders, mostly."

The tilt of her head is triumphant. "And what are you?"

He clenches his jaw. "I am the king in the North and the Riverlands."

Her laugh is derisive. "How do you think I am here?"

Robb frowns. He has been so caught up in the battle and her return that he has not stopped to wonder. You escaped kings landing with Nymeria and made your way north. Word had been sent of Lady's execution and Nymeria's disappearance, and Robb now knows the connection between them and their wolves is- is something special. He would not be surprised if Nymeria had tracked her mistress.

Arya's face settles back into its impassive mask. "Jon always paid attention to old nan's stories more than you," and Robb wonders if she has chosen the cruelest way to say so on purpose. "Perhaps you should ask some of the lords. Maybe they will own true to our words: the north remembers."

Robb knows a dismissal when he hears it.


He goes to see chieftain Hugo Wull. If anyone in the North will remember what Arya alludes to, it will be the northern mountain clans who shun the frivolities and pettiness of the South.

That, and he remembers how these men fell to their knees in Arya's presence without complaint.

'Big Bucket' Wull looks down at him in poorly hidden contempt. "You do not know what she is?"

What, not who.

Robb squares his shoulders. "She is my sister."

Wull snorts. "Maybe once, but not now. She is something greater than just a princess."

"What does that mean?"

"You may be a green boy, but that is no excuse to not know the history of your people, Lord Stark." He sneers at the words. "Or should I say Lord Tully, for all that your mother's Southron influence has done to you?" He laughs when Robb reaches for his sword. "Your anger proves you weak, and proves our fears right."

"What's this?" Owen Norrey stomps up to their huddle, stroking his beard when he notices the fury in Robb's taut form.

"Why did you kneel to my sister?" Robb finally spits, not wanting to be further distracted from his quest.

Old Norrey observes him calmly but with bitterness. "So it is true. You do not know." He sighs deeply when Robb opens his mouth to speak. "King you may be, but boy you are. Shut your mouth and listen from elders of the North who do remember."

"The Andals came and slaughtered us. They came with their steel and our bronze could not stop them from killing whole families and villages. They chopped down the weirwoods and forests that were home to the children, breaking the peace we had forged with them. The children fought back, for they were protecting their homes.

"The night in the White Wood, the children called upon the Old Gods. Their prayer was answered, and the Gods sent them a pack of mighty wolves that fought beside them as they defeated the Andal host. They were victorious, for a time, but the Andals have never forgotten the night they were crushed under the crescent moon, or the fear the howls of a wolf pack brings."

Robb glanced up at the lightening sky above their heads. The crescent moon twinkled, as if the Old Gods themselves were taunting him with a wink.

"And now she comes with a wolf pack under the crescent moon against a new Andal host…"

Chieftan Wull laughed, his large belly shaking. Aye, and it's not something they'll soon forget!"

"And the weirwood?" Robb blurts. What of it?

Old Norrey's grin reminds him of a bear's snarl. "A reminder. So this time, the South will remember."


Arya is laid out on the furs atop his cot when Robb returns to his tent, twirling a knife between her fingers. It is a milky black, so unlike the steel he bears, and Robb cannot remember its name but knows it is important.

"What are you?" She asks again.

"The King in the North and the Riverlands."

She hums, neither disagreeing nor agreeing.

"What are you?" He shoots back.

"A warrior. An omen." Arya laughs. "A forgotten sister. No one, really."

"Don't say that." It cuts him deeply.

Arya freezes with her knife held between two fingers. "You do not get to say that when you know not what I speak of."

"Then tell me!"

"Not today." She smirks as if she's told a joke. "Look at me, Robb."

"I clearly am."

"No, really." She leaps to her feet in one smooth motion and crosses the room to stand before him faster than he can register. "Look at me, Robb Stark."

He does. He cannot look away.


Her eyes flash like gray steel on steel, like lightning across storm clouds. They are the silver of molten Valyrian steel, the shine of his direwolf's fur in the moonlight, of thin ice over a deep lake.

Her face has lost all its childhood fat, filling out and lengthening to balance out her features. she has a scar along her right jawline, no hollows to her cheeks to show signs of hunger. her stature has hidden this from him—she is not the child she was.

She is impossibly old for the time they have been apart. She must be his age, or even older.

"How?" He gasps. "What are you?"

"A girl with a death sentence. A girl returned to life. A bit of both."

"Who are you?"

She smiles. "Arya Stark, of course. And I have come home."