A/N: So...I'm really sorry about how long it's been. I'm not usually one to make excuses, but everything possible that could have kept me from writing on a regular basis happened between now and when I posted the first chapter. But, circumstances are currently slightly in my favor, so I'll be working on the rest of the first 'set' over the next few weeks. That being said, there are a few notes for this chapter. First off, this is where I explain the weird narration that I mentioned at the end of Ice and Fire. Since Arya has now turned herself into Arry Snow, who is, as far as everyone else knows, a man, there are times, usually when she is being addressed by someone other than herself, that she may be referred to with male pronouns (his, him, he, etc.). However, I don't think it's too confusing to follow, so, you should be fine with that. Just giving a heads up. Also, for people who don't know Skyrim, Unblooded is the lowest rank in the Stormcloak army and Ice-Veins is one rank above that, and, the Throat of the World is a mountain. A very tall mountain. Anyway, enjoy reading, and again, I apologize for the wait. Many thanks to my beta reader (and sister) GrowlingPeanut. Reviews are appreciated.

Disclaimer: Everything belongs to Bethesda Softworks and George R. R. Martin.

Rating: M for language and some sensuality.

"I do swear my blood and honor to the service of Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm and true High King of Skyrim. As Talos is my witness, may this oath bind me to death and beyond, even to my lord as to my fellow brothers and sisters in arms. All hail the Stormcloaks, the true sons and daughters of Skyrim!"

And so it was with these words that Arry Snow became the newest addition to Stormcloak's army. He spoke the oath, donned the armor, and then, while sparring in the training yard one day with a fellow soldier, was called upon to test his mettle.

"Snow!"

It took a moment for Arya to remember that she was the soldier in mention now and she hastily moved to stand at attention as Robb approached. It wasn't any easier now than it was when she had first arrived in Windhelm to stand before her brother and pretend that she was someone else. She longed to run to him and throw her arms around him as she had done back in Winterhold when life was simpler, but instead she stood stiffly and stared above his head so that she wouldn't have to meet his gaze and risk giving herself away.

"Yes, Stormblade?"

"I have a job for you, Snow," Robb began, his bright blue eyes roaming over her carefully schooled features and then giving a look of dismissal to her sparring partner. When he was gone, Robb continued. "This is your chance to prove yourself to Jarl Stormcloak, so I hope that you perform your best."

"Of course, ser." The fact that her scrawny figure—by male Nord standards—made all of her fellow Stormcloaks see her as inferior was beginning to irk her, considering that she could easily beat any of them in a fight, so the chance to prove herself was one that she would eagerly accept.

"Just between the two of us, I have a bad feeling about Ulfric's trip to Falkreath, and if it had been successful, we would have heard word already, so I'm sending you with the squadron of men who are to assist in the capture of Falkreath if assistance is indeed needed."

Arya nodded and with that, Robb was gone again, no doubt burying himself in the maps that were spread across the tables in the back room of the Palace of Kings as he seemed to so often do. It took only a moment before she was approached by a fellow Unblooded soldier of the Stormcloak army.

"So, the Stormblade's willing to talk to the likes of you? There could only be one reason for that. You coming with us to Falkreath then?"

She looked over at the blond Breton and nodded when she realized that his comment had been made in jest. "Apparently so. When do we leave?"

"An hour hence," he replied with a frown. "I guess we don't deserve any more advanced notice than we got." He extended a hand to introduce himself. "Lommy Greenhands." As she shook his hand she noticed that his surname was accurate to his appearance and he explained himself without prompting. "I joined the Stormcloaks less than a moon ago, and I was a dyer's apprentice before that. The dye hasn't all washed off yet."

Arya nodded politely in response. "Arry Snow. Bastard from Winterhold."

"Bastard? Well, don't let anyone give you grief for that. Half of the men here are bastards from one place or another, and not even all from Skyrim. Jarl Stormcloak and Lord Stark are the only ones who are anything special."

Lord Stark...No, Lord Stark was my father. Robb is just...Robb. When she didn't respond, lost in her own memories, Lommy shuffled his feet in obvious discomfort. "Well, I'll let you go get ready then. See you back here when it's time to go." He waved his farewell and then walked off, leaving Arya alone in the training yard.

After a moment, she began walking toward the Palace of Kings and when she entered the main hall, she made her way toward the Stormcloaks' main tactics room. Robb didn't so much as glance up when she entered, so she kept her gaze turned to the floor and hurried toward the door to the upper level of the Palace. In an unbelievable stroke of luck, she had arrived just as the barracks were being expanded for the quickly growing Stormcloak army and as such had been given an individual room for the time being in the wing that was usually reserved for the city's nobles, and of course, that housed the Jarl's quarters. Keeping her true identity a secret would have been a far harder task had she been forced to share the barracks with her fellow soldiers, so this small form of assistance was a godssend.

Climbing the first flight of stairs, she turned toward the alcove that housed her room, but hesitated at the bottom of the steps that led to Ulfric's private chambers. Though muffled by the heavy oak door that kept the room out of view, the sound of quiet sobbing could be heard, still as heartbroken as the night that it had first begun. Although she had arrived after the wedding, it hadn't taken long for her to hear about what her older sister had endured at the hands of Ulfric Stormcloak and even though she and Sansa had never been close, it was hard for her to leave her alone in her time of grief. After all, Arya knew what it felt like to lose the man she loved.

Dragging herself away, she continued down the short hall and into the room she had been given. Closing the door, she removed her Stormcloak armor and set it aside as she stripped the rest of the way and sat down on the edge of her bed with a heavy sigh. Though she had never been one to walk around naked as Sansa had always been when they were growing up, she had finally reached the age where her breasts were just large enough to be unbelievably sore after having been bound with linen each day, so her time without the need for clothing had become infinitely more appealing.

Stretching her arms high over her head, she gave a small sigh of pleasure that faded as she caught sight of her reflection in the looking glass on the wall opposite her bed. Getting up, she padded over to it on bare feet and stood for a moment staring at the stranger that met her gaze. Arry Snow was an unusually small man for his age and race, given the typical brawn of Skyrim's native inhabitants, with short dark brown hair, a long solemn face (the very same face that had earned her the nickname of Arya Horseface as a young girl), and a dark haze of stubble that remained perpetually over his jaw, effectively hiding of the growing femininity of 'his' features. Only when he bathed after a long day in the training yard did Arya return, and only then until she woke up the next morning and picked up the lump of charcoal on the table beside her bed. Never having been overly fond of her gangly form and unimpressive features, Arya hadn't thought that she would someday miss seeing herself when she looked into the mirror, broken and scarred as she was.

Exhaling heavily, she turned away and gathered a few things from her pile of belongings before re-donning her armor and returning to the training yard. A few of her fellow soldiers had already gathered there when she reached their designated meeting place, and she quietly slipped into the group beside Lommy, though her efforts to go undetected were met with failure.

"You the one we were waiting on?" The man who spoke—seemingly the one in charge by the way he stood apart from the other soldiers—was a heavyset Nord with a large flat nose that only served to further the general unattractiveness of his overly fleshy features. When she nodded, he snorted in obvious displeasure. "Why in Oblivion did the Stormblade send a scrawny runt like you with us? Mayhap to get you killed, eh?" He laughed loudly and while he was distracted by his own mirth, Lommy leaned over to whisper in Arry's ear.

"That's Rorge. He's the biggest arse I've ever met, and believe me, I've had the pleasure of meeting a good many over the years."

Arya snorted in amusement.

"As I'm sure you know," Rorge continued, "We're being sent on a very important mission, so discretion, and success, are key. If any of your fellow soldiers ask, this is nothing more than a routine scouting mission, understood?"

He seemed pleased by the resounding chorus of "yes, ser!"s, and at his command, they marched from the training yard and out past the city gates into the fluffy drifts of snow that were beginning to collect along the sides of the well-traveled road.

Under Rorge's command, their trek seemed long and slow, though in truth, they made good time across the snowy landscape, avoiding the travelers that would have been met along the path to Helgen for the sake of speed and, as their commander oft repeated, 'discretion'.

They passed Kynesgrove early in their journey, and by the time Masser and Secunda had found their places among the stars, the small band of Stormcloak soldiers had made it almost three-quarters of the way to Whiterun. Pleased with their progress, and unwilling to continue moving farther past sundown for fear of an Imperial ambush, Rorge stopped them in a small clearing at the base of the Throat of the World and they set about making camp. Once a fire was started and the wineskins were removed and passed around between the men, the hush of the past few hours faded and tongues began to loosen.

"I'd give anything for a woman right about now," the man beside Arya said in a whine after taking a swig of mead. "It's too damn cold up north—wouldn't mind the heat to be found between a woman's thighs."

Arya's heart leapt to her throat as he turned to look at her, and it took her a minute to realize that he was merely seeking confirmation and hadn't deduced that what he was looking for was lying no more than an arm's length away. Taking a long pull from the wineskin she had been passed to calm her nerves, she nodded and offered him a noncommittal grunt.

His comment was met with a brief moment of contemplative silence before another soldier—whom Arya had heard Rorge refer to as Hjornskar—grinned and added his two septims. "The last lass I had was a tavern wench. She was a little thing, but feisty. It took me a good minute to get hold of her. Slippery as a horker, that one was. But boy was she worth it..." The wide smile that crossed his face at the memory was met with a few chuckles and Arya barely suppressed a weary sigh. She would never understand the propensity that men had for sharing the tales of their escapades in the filthy back-rooms of seedy taverns.

As the men continued sharing bawdy stories around the fire, Arya quietly slipped away from the group and settled down against a log that barely remained within the light cast by the crackling flames. Once she was sure that no attention was being paid to her, she pulled a well-worn piece of parchment from her knapsack and absently ran her thumb across the charcoal drawing that covered its surface.

Though she had never been one for the lessons in how to be a proper lady that she and Sansa had been forced to endure at the hands of Septa Mordane when they were young, she had taken a liking to the art of simple sketching as she had grown older and the past few weeks had found her carefully recreating a familiar set of features on the worn sheet of paper.

It had started with the eyes that still haunted her dreams, and the large crooked nose and playful grin had followed soon after. However, she had noticed recently that unintentionally, the ears of her former lover had a slight point to their slender tips, and the strong, stubborn jaw had transformed into the sharp chin and high cheekbones that so often welcomed a gracefully enigmatic smirk.

Sighing, she smudged out one of the ears that poked out from the strands of long dark hair before deliberately rounding it and thickening the war paint that masked his ghostly eyes. It seemed as though with each passing day, his features faded further in her mind and that realization was one that she loathed, nay, feared to face.

After studying the drawing for another long moment, she turned to put the parchment away, but the snapping of a nearby twig sent her hand flying to the blade at her hip and Rorge slowly rose to his feet, sword in hand.

"Who's there? Show yourself."

The voice that answered was deep and seemed to carry with it a natural air of command. "Is that the way you speak to your lord, Ice-Veins?" The man stepped into the light of the fire and the regiment before him swiftly assumed the appropriate position of respect.

He regarded their subservience with obvious satisfaction then looked over toward Arya, who was still crouched over her belongings. His eyes narrowed at her obvious, if unintentional, lack of respect and he straightened up to answer the question that had been asked of him.

"It is I. Ulfric Stormcloak. The lord of Windhelm, and the future High King of Skyrim." He hesitated for a moment and then added gravely, "And I bring troubling news from Helgen..."