It is good to see Westeros again. She did not expect to feel this way, but she has been at sea for so long, and now her heart longs for home. It is a comfort, then, to see the familiar shores of the North drawing ever closer with each breath. They're forced to go slow, the harbour treacherous with ice; Arya suspects that she wouldn't have been able to return sooner even if she'd wanted to, such is this winter.

It's clear when they finally manage to land that winter is still plaguing the country, the flakes falling thicker and faster than any northern summer snow could. Even so, Arya's never seen a winter before, but the very fact that they could land must mean that they are nearing the end now. The road to Winterfell will be hard, but they should manage it.

She tells the harbourmaster to do what he wants with the ship. It served her well in the west, but she has no use for it anymore. People need firewood these days, or someone else can go sailing if they want. She doesn't care. He thanks her, then directs her to an inn she can stay in, and though Arya wants nothing more than to keep going, she longs for warm food and a bed.

People stare as she wanders through the city, some with respect, others simply with mild curiosity. She'd hoped that the ongoing winter and her less than ladylike appearance would help her to keep a low profile, but she supposes it was a foolish hope. Still, she cannot say the attention is all bad; she is more than grateful for the bath the innkeep has drawn for her, and the bed she is provided with. It has been all too long since she had a decent rest, and she knows she will need it for the road ahead.

It's only natural, then, that her dreams refuse to let her be. She stands in the godswood at Winterfell, the winter chill whipping around her, sharp and hard. Snow clouds her vision, and blue eyes leer at her, too many to count. She tries to fight them, but they wink out of existence as soon as she lunges, only to reappear in another spot. Then a hand closes around her throat, lifting her off the ground, choking her and freezing her to the bone.

The Night King tighten his grip on her, his smile and bright blue eyes etched into her vision even as she starts to lose her breath and black spots appear before her eyes. She wants to struggle, but her limbs weigh her down and she's going to die, she's going to die -

A howl splits the air and the hand around Arya's throat disappears, dropping her to the ground. She coughs, sucking in grateful gulps of air, squinting to see her rescuer. Two large creatures loom above her, and all the breath goes out of her again.

It's Nymeria, intelligent golden eyes studying her carefully. And next to her… Next to her stands the largest stag Arya's ever seen. It has blue eyes, but not blue like the dead. It's an unmistakable shade, one that could only belong to one person.

Arya struggles to her feet, reaching out - to Nymeria or to the stag, she doesn't know. But, before she can touch either of them, they turn away, walking off into the wood side by side. Arya watches them go, her arm dropping limply back to her side. Nymeria howls once more, just as the morning sun begins to break through the storm, blinding her as it glances off the snow -

Arya wakes gasping, one arm raised to her throat. It's cold in the room, the fire having burnt out hours ago, so she immediately goes to relight it, trying to banish the chill from her limbs. She dresses quickly and packs her belongings, heading downstairs as soon as she's ready.

It's still dark outside, the sun just barely on the rise, but the inkeep is in the hall anyway. Arya curses; she'd hoped to leave unnoticed, but that's off the cards now.

"Thank you for the room," she ventures, wincing as the innkeep startles. "Sorry."

"I didn't intend to survive this winter only for you to frighten me to death," she grumbles, a hand on her chest. Then, seeming to remember who Arya is, "Beg pardon, milady. You gave me a scare, is all."

"Sorry," Arya repeats, hovering awkwardly. "I'll be off, then."

The inkeep turns to her, hands on hips. "Not on my watch you won't, milady. It's two days' ride to Winterfell, and I won't have you showing up on Her Grace's doorstep frozen and starved to boot." She takes Arya's arm and steers her to the nearest table. "Now, you'll sit there, and I'll get you something to eat. Then you might be able to think about leaving."

Her tone brooks no argument and so, much as she wants to, Arya doesn't argue. So she sits, and thanks the innkeep for the food, and pretends not to notice when she slips some bread and apples into her saddlebag.

"Thank you," she says again, when she's finally on her horse. "Thank you…"

"Jana," the innkeep says, smiling up at Arya. "And it's no matter, milady. Good luck."

Arya smiles, then tugs on the reins, a strange, warm sensation settling in her chest. It was comforting, she realises, to have someone look after her. It reminds her inexplicably of her lady mother, though Jana neither looks nor sounds like Catelyn Stark. Where her mother had auburn hair, Jana has yellow; where Jana is loud, Catelyn was quiet. Still.

A pang of longing and grief hits her, so she quickly brushes away the tears that have formed in her eyes and spurs her horse on, forcing her mother from her mind.

It's a little more than two days before she finally makes it to Winterfell, snow and wind slowing her down. It was frustrating to say the least, but all her anger melts away as soon as she spots Winterfell on the horizon. It's changed since the last time she made this journey, but of course it has. That was before the dead destroyed it all, before they had to build it back up from scratch.

The castle is bigger now than it ever was, or so she thinks. It makes sense; now that Sansa's queen, they would have to make provisions for a court. And yet… It's still Winterfell. Still home.

The courtyard of the keep is bustling when she enters, only the guards at the gate recognising her for who she is. One of them ran off to find Sansa, but she didn't stick around to wait. She sits on a stump and takes a breath, closing her eyes and letting the sounds and smells of the North surround her. It's the same as it always was, and yet somehow so different. Hopeful, she thinks. Happy.

But she cannot stay here. People are starting to look and stare, and she knows it won't be long before her arrival ceases to be secret. There is a place, though, where she can be at peace, and she knows that Sansa will find her there. She is the only person who would.

And find her she does. It takes longer than Arya was expecting, but in truth she is not sure how long she's been here. Long enough to be sure that no dead are going to appear from the trees, at least.

"You could have told me you were coming," Sansa says. "Or at least that you were back in Westeros."

Arya shrugs, turning to face her sister. Sansa is older, but just as beautiful as she's always been, and she wears a circlet around her head, the point fashioned into a direwolf. She looks every inch a queen, and so much like their lady mother.

"Apologies, Your Grace," Arya says, bowing her head ever so slightly. Sansa is silent for a moment, then laughs breathlessly and hugs Arya tight.

"It is good to see you, sister," Sansa murmurs into her hair before they separate. They stare up at the heart tree together, its bloody eyes as empty as ever, yet they seem to bore into Arya, demanding something from her. You cannot lie in front of a heart tree, they say.

Arya drops her gaze, feelings somehow guilty. She thinks of everything she's kept from Sansa since she returned the first time, thinks of the vow she made herself long ago in King's Landing. She has to tell her everything, she knows this, and now might perhaps be the only time she can.

"Sansa?"

Sansa turns to her, a smile on her lips that drops as soon as she sees Arya's face. "What's wrong?"

Arya hesitates, then tugs Sansa over to the pool. "Sit down. I need to tell you some things."

Sansa doesn't interrupt as Arya tells her about everything that happened, about how she became first Arry the orphan, then Weasel, Nan, No-One. How she is trying to become Arya again. And, like Jon before her, when Arya is done talking, Sansa hugs her and starts her own tale.

They stay there for a long time, until the guards Sansa posted at the entrance to the godswood come looking for her. They leave together, arms linked, but Arya spares a glance back at the tree as they do.

See, she thinks. I did not lie.

The tree does not respond, but its eyes look a little warmer, and for a moment she sees her father in them. She hopes he would be proud of her.

A week after Arya's arrival in Winterfell, she finds herself in Sansa's solar after night has fallen and the castle has gone quiet. They sit around her fire, a pot of tea cooling between them as they stare into the flames.

"I expected it to look more...queenly," Arya says eventually, craning her neck to look around the room. It's strangely bare, for a queen's chambers - the entire castle is, in fact. Oh, Sansa's rooms are bigger, and the Great Hall has been expanded, but it is more or less the Winterfell she knew as a girl.

"I couldn't bring myself to change too much," Sansa admits. "Besides, we are Northerners, Arya. We have never had a taste for the extravagant."

Arya shoots her a look. "You did, once."

Sansa laughs. "True enough. But all of that was nothing, in the end. A pretty mask. Much better to lay everything as it is, then things are less complicated."

Arya hums in agreement. She can understand that, at least.

"Do you remember our lessons with Maester Luwin?" Sansa asks after a moment. "When he taught us which House ruled where, and their castles and lords bannermen?"

"I hated those," Arya says. "I never saw the point in any of it."'

"You always were a poor student," Sansa agrees, shaking her head. She sighs. "Arya… All of that, everything he taught us - it's all gone now. We haven't just been rebuilding Winterfell. We've been rebuilding the entire world."

Arya looks sharply at her sister. In the glow of the fire, Sansa appears lovelier than ever, but there is something in her eyes, something sad and almost old. She is tired, Arya realises, and guilt churns in her stomach. Five years, she's been gone - five years in which Sansa was alone, trying to rebuild their home whilst also ruling over a land ravaged by the worst winter in centuries.

"Sansa, I -"

"Arya." Sansa levels her gaze at Arya, and suddenly she's back to being the Queen in the North. "I don't blame you for leaving. We managed. Besides, you would have hated the northern court; it is nothing like the one in King's Landing, yet somehow just as tedious." She purses her lips and sighs, turning back to the fire.

Arya frowns. "What is it?"

A beat passes before Sansa answers, her voice tight and carefully controlled. "The men want me to marry. I've been able to put them off these past years; this winter hasn't been as long as expected, but it's more than made up for it in how hard it's been. Marriage should have been the furthest thing from our minds, especially after we lost contact with the south. But now it's coming to an end."

Her jaw clenches, and her knuckles are white on the arms of her chair. Arya wants to comfort her, but she doesn't know what to say - actions have always served her far better than words. But, before she can say anything, Sansa shakes her head, all the anger leaving her at once.

"They're right," she says quietly.

"What?"

"They're right, Arya." Sansa's voice is firmer this time, and now Arya really doesn't know what to say. "The North needs an heir, and I can't afford to put my own feelings above the survival of the kingdom."

"What about Bran?" Arya demands, though even she knows it's a foolish question.

"You know full well that Bran cannot have children," Sansa says, as though reprimanding her. "Besides, what sort of king would he make?"

Arya nods, conceding the point. "Still, you don't have to -"

"I do," she says. "I do. And it won't be like Joffrey or Ramsay, not this time. I'll find someone kind, someone who won't mind our children having my name, who can care for me and I for him.

"I don't want to do this, Arya. But I have a duty, and I won't neglect my people."

Arya stares at her sister, and, in that moment, for all Sansa looks like Catelyn, she can only see their father. "Alright," she murmurs. "I understand." Then, "How's Jon?"

Sansa smiles wryly, not missing the deliberate subject change. "Well, last we heard. The winds became too harsh for ravens three years ago, and trade was impossible not long after. But, before all that, he seemed to be doing fine. I don't know that he's happy, but I'm sure it will do him good to see you."

"What do you mean?" Sansa's right; Arya doesn't plan to stay in the North, but she hasn't told anyone about that yet. Unless… "Bran told you, didn't he?"

"He didn't need to," Sansa says, smile growing. "I never expected you to stay, Arya; this isn't your home anymore."

Arya falls silent, protests dying on her lips even as she thinks them. Winterfell was her home, long ago, but even if the castle hasn't changed all that much, she has. She'd thought, after her return from Braavos, that she could learn to live here again, and she'd almost made it work, for a time. But then the dead came, and tore the last remnant of her childhood to rubble, and she knew coming back was impossible. And…

And Gendry. Stupid, bull-headed Gendry. When she'd gone to him that first night, she hadn't expected any of this. She'd just wanted to lie with someone she knew, someone she trusted, before she died. But then she hadn't. And neither had he.

Gods, it's all such a fucking mess. She barely understands these feelings, unexpected as they are. All she knows is he makes her feel safe, and that's worth a lot these days.

Sansa clears her throat, smiling knowingly at her. "Do you think Jon was the only person I wrote to?"

Arya flushes, refusing to look at her sister, but Sansa is undeterred.

"As far as I know, he remains unwed, and his councillors are apparently just as frustrated over it as mine," she says, as calmly as if they were discussing the weather. "That was a long time ago, of course, but something tells me that his situation has not changed."

Arya scowls at her, but Sansa just laughs before getting a sincere look in her eyes. "I understand, sister," she says, laying a hand on Arya's arm. "I hope he makes you happy."

Sansa's gaze is unrelenting, horribly open and honest, and Arya shifts uncomfortably. She looks pointedly at her arm and, eventually, Sansa gets the hint, rolling her eyes and releasing Arya.

"There's something I wanted to ask you before you leave," she says. "I know you've been training with Brienne, and she agrees with me - well, in truth it was more her idea than mine, but -"

"What is it?" Arya interrupts. Sansa shoots her a look, but continues after a brief pause.

"She wants to knight you. And I agree with her."

Arya's eyes widen, and she stares at Sansa in shock. "Sansa, I, I don't, we don't have knights in the North."

Sansa raises an eyebrow. "But you're not going to be in the North, are you?"

"No, but -"

"Arya, you deserve this. You're the only fighter I know who can even match Brienne, let alone beat her, and I know you've done that so don't try and pretend."

"What about the men?" Arya challenges. Men, she's found, tend to have something to say when a woman finds her own way in this world.

"Brienne is commander of my Queensguard," Sansa reminds her. "Jonelle Cerwyn is one of my closest advisors. You saved us all. The North remembers, Arya."

Arya swallows, then looks back at Sansa and nods, pride blooming in her chest. "Alright. Thank you."

Sansa beams. "I'll have preparations done. There'll be a feast - which you will attend, Arya - and I'll get the bards to sing your song."

"My what?"

"'Lightbringer', I believe it's called," Sansa says, clearly amused by the horror on Arya's face. "You've been away too long, Arya, we've all got songs now, although yours is a particular favourite of any bards who wander this way."

"You must love that."

"It does get tedious," Sansa admits, "but I'm not jealous, if that's what you're thinking. I would have been when we were children, but those things aren't important anymore."

Arya hums in response, thinking on it all. She had often played at being a knight when she was young, Jon and Robb humouring her even after Mother told them not to encourage her. She had never thought that she might actually become one, though. And now… Well. The world had changed indeed.

The fire sputters, and Arya reaches to toss another log on, but Sansa catches her arm. "Leave it. We ought to retire; it's getting late."

Arya nods and stands. "My Queen," she mocks, laughing when Sansa rolls her eyes. She loves her sister, loves Winterfell, but she won't find Arya Stark here. And, for the first time, she thinks she knows where she will.

Arya kneels before the heart tree, head bowed, as Brienne places the flat of her sword on her shoulder.

"Arya Stark, do you swear before the eyes of gods and men to defend those who cannot defend themselves, to protect all people, to fight bravely when needed and do such other tasks as are laid upon you, however hard or humble or dangerous they may be?"

She breathes in once and looks into the eyes of the heart tree. "I swear."

Brienne slides her sword back into her sheath. "Then arise, Ser Arya, a knight of Westeros."

Arya rises, her heart beating hard in her chest. Sansa and Bran stand witness, alongside a small gathering of lords and ladies who happened to be at Winterfell.

"Ser Arya!" one of them shouts, sword raised to the heavens. "Lightbringer!"

The others take up the chant, their voices blurring together as one. Arya looks over at Sansa and Bran - he smiles at her, something akin to pride on his face, and Sansa has tears in her eyes, though Arya knows that she won't let them fall in front of her people. Brienne claps her on the shoulder.

"Congratulations," she says. "I'm honoured to have known you."

Arya nods at her. "Likewise."

As the chants die down, Sansa begins to lead their little group back to the keep. Arya lingers a moment; she has promised to go to the feast, but there is something she must do first.

She kneels, and places a hand in the snow, feeling the cold even through her gloves. The heart tree watches her as she closes her eyes and remembers.

She remembers summer snows, playing with her brothers and sister even as they risked Mother's wrath.

She remembers practicing archery in secret, and the looks on the boys' faces when she shot Bran's target before he could.

She remembers a girl named Arya Stark, who once lived a life here, and the death of that life.

Winterfell was her home, once, but nothing can bring back her childhood. This place is where the past lies; the future is a long way south, and she knows she has to get there. So she spares one last glance at the heart tree, breathes in the crisp Northern air, and lets go, feeling lighter than she has in years.

The vow Arya swears was pretty much copied from the ASOIAF wiki, except I changed 'to protect all women and children' to 'people' and got rid of lines about obeying a liege lord and king etc. One more chapter to go!