She was back at Winterfell.
All was quiet outside, save for a few animals skittering about. Indoors, the rooms were cold and empty. Though she wandered about expecting to hear the echoes of brotherly laughter or the clatter and rustle of house-servants at their work, smell the tang of northwood-fed fires and the bundles of lavender fragrancing the air, there was nothing.
It's a dream, Arya. It's not real. There could never be nothing at Winterfell.
But Robb was descending the stairs.
She looked up at him, unsure whether to feel hopeful, to smile, unsure whether he was angry. All this time had passed, and she had not even sent word to let them know she was safe and well. As well as she could be. Still searching.
Still lost, in her own way. Though she was an adult now, with sixteen namedays behind her.
"Mother's dead," Robb said.
He stopped at the bottom of the stairs, a few feet from where she stood, close enough that she could see tiny lines around his eyes.
"I'm sorry," she said, not certain where the apology came from. Sorry for not being here, perhaps. Sorry that she hadn't had the chance to say goodbye.
Is it a dream?
He wouldn't tell her if it was or not.
"Why did you come back?"
"It felt like it was time," she said, as honestly as she could. He deserved her honesty, this brother who was lord of Winterfell now.
She noticed someone drifting into view at the top of the stairs. He followed her gaze to the woman standing there, in a grey gown.
"My wife," he said, and in those two words there was neither pride nor distaste, just a calm statement. "Nyssa, formerly of House Frey."
The woman was pale and plain and said nothing.
Robb did not complete the introduction. It had been so long since Arya had declared herself that for a moment she didn't know what to say. She was not Arya of House Stark. Not really. It would be presumptuous to say so.
"I am Robb's sister," she said finally. The woman called Nyssa didn't acknowledge her, just continued to stare without expression. Arya wondered if the woman were simple. She looked back at Robb. He had done his part. He had kept their mother's bargain. The choice was to be respected, since she had not been able to.
"Where are the others? Sansa, Bran, Rickon?" She kept her voice level.
"They are gone," he said, with a trace of a humorless smile.
"Gone," she repeated stupidly.
"Like you were gone."
"Robb," she said uncertainly, "I don't want to play this game."
"It's not a game."
This dream. I don't want to be in this dream.
The screams from the crowd, blood-hungry, Yoren grabbing her, the birds scattering overhead...
No, that was another dream.
When would she find something to stop the dreams?
That reminded her.
Gendry.
"Where's Gendry?" she said, suddenly with more urgency.
"Who?"
"No, Robb, you remember. My blacksmith. He made weapons for you. He was in the winter town. He must be there. He is still there, isn't he?" She could feel a touch of panic winding its way up from her stomach, into her throat and creeping out through her words.
"You're worried?" There was that smile again. It scared her. This was not unfolding the way she wanted it to.
This might not even be Robb.
"No," she said, more calmly.
"Why do you need to know where this person is?"
Honesty with this not-Robb, after all? She couldn't be sure. The look in his eyes suggested he'd know if she were lying to him.
"He means something to me."
"More than your own family?"
"Maybe," she said, feeling the tightness in her chest increase. "I don't know."
"Go look for him, if you must. Search the land. As others have searched for you."
His tone was menacing. She backed away, glancing upstairs. Nyssa looked imperious now. Lady Nyssa of Winterfell.
Catelyn was dead. Her brothers and sister were dead? Gendry was...
She couldn't think it.
I don't want to be in this dream.
She repeated the sentence over and over, willing herself awake. She was freezing. The blanket had been kicked off the musty bed in the tiny White Harbor inn room.
Ridiculous to fear going home. Home would be as she left it. Everyone would be where she had left them. She grabbed the waterskin from the floor, drinking its contents down by immense gulps, though it did nothing to quell the dry ache in her throat. Too much ale the night before, perhaps, although that usually helped to keep the dreams away...it hadn't worked this time.
Someone banged on the door of her room. She slid both feet off the bed quicker than thought, her hand on Needle, her heart sent into an erratic double-time from the unexpectedness of the sound. "What is it?"
"Breakfast, m'lady."
The appellation so familiar, and yet from so long ago, the voice of a man, but not one she recognized. She stalled for a moment outside the door. Surely she should not answer.
"I didn't send for any," she said at last.
"Went to some trouble to bring it to you," was the reply.
After a little longer she unbolted the door, weapon at the ready.
It was an elderly Stark bannerman, one she'd seen at table in Winterfell a number of occasions, a cautious smile of greeting on his square good-natured face. "Thought it was you, m'lady."
Arya decided it was best to let him in and close the door again. It was unnerving to be back in Westeros only one day and to be known for who she was. Perhaps she had not changed all that much? She had let her hair grow, and there was never much in the way of food, so she had remained somewhat scrawny. It pleased her anyway to be able to hide in men's clothing the figure that she had. Certainly she was taller, though she didn't expect to ever match Sansa's graceful height.
Barden was his name, she recalled. "Have you come from Winterfell?" Arya asked, showing him to the table.
He shook his head. "I've not been there in months."
"Are things..." She wasn't sure how to phrase what she meant. "As they were?"
"You were gone a long time, lady Arya," he hedged. "I don't know if it should be me the one to tell you."
"You must," she said, with instinctive, long-suppressed authority. "Whatever you know, I must know. Please," she added, as an afterthought.
He fidgeted, big hands in his lap. "I am very sorry, but your lady mother passed on. It's been some time..."
He looked at her rather helplessly. She stared back, able only to think of the dream, trying to go back through it in her mind, order and organize it so she could remember. Had it been a vision of some kind? Could it still be true, even now, even in the light of day?
No.
"My siblings?"
"They are well as far as I know. Your brother Robb is the lord now. Married a Frey lass shortly after Lady Stark's passing."
She closed her eyes momentarily.
"I'm sorry," he said again. "Must be a shock to you. Any way I can help? Send a message, or..."
She tried to concentrate, and when she looked at him again she had summoned up the ability to speak calmly. "I need coin. I spent my last on shipfare."
"I'll give you what I have, not much, but will get you safely home. I would bring you back myself if I could." He hesitated. "Perhaps I ought."
"No. I will be fine. Thank you. I'll see you repaid as well. I will go home."
"I'm glad to hear it," he said.
She bade him not apprise anyone of her return, saw him out and was left blessedly alone again. The bread he had brought sat untouched while she stayed at the table, trying to marshal her thoughts. Till now she had been in no particular rush to reach Winterfell; it had been enough just to make the journey from Essos, to find herself back on home shores. Then she had thought she would see how fate led her. But the dream, and its partial confirmation, had shaken her up. Now her instincts urged to hurry. That perhaps something or someone was waiting in the balance.
She stole a horse for the journey from White Harbor to Winterfell. She was not proud of the act, but the coins she had gotten from her kinsman would not have gone far enough; they only furnished her with food and a few extra supplies. While living overseas, she had fallen into a pattern of necessary thievery, since a woman of no name had only one currency and she'd had no intention of using that if she didn't have to. Learning how and when to steal what she needed had been the hardest test initially, requiring discipline of a different kind. Once you became proficient at something, using it at the first impulse was hard to fight against. She had intended to put that behind her in Westeros; it belonged to that part of her life, but now that she was going home, she needed to make a new start.
Or so she had told herself. But she had known she couldn't spend a month or two on a trip that only needed to take a fortnight—not when there was that uncertainty of what awaited her in Winterfell driving her on. Grimly riding north, she sent an unspoken apology to the mare's true owner, promising herself this truly would be her last act of theft.
She was relentless, pushing the horse well beyond its normal ability most days, often rising well before sunup and not stopping for the night until after it was dark. Neither she nor the mare were used to such riding. In Essos only her feet had conveyed her everywhere she went. For the first few nights Arya curled herself into a blanket bundle and fell asleep to the singing of the wind and the aching of her backside and legs. She didn't bother with a fire or hot food unless she was chilled beyond bearing. Though she looked after the animal as well as she knew how, she feared the punishing terrain and their madcap pace might do it irreparable damage. For that, too, she apologized wordlessly.
Loneliness assailed her at times, catching her off guard as she traveled, for though the shape of the land was familiar, though all she encountered—and avoided—were her own countrymen, she felt inexplicably out of place now, in a manner she had not felt across the Narrow Sea. She couldn't explain this sense of isolation even to herself, but once, in front of the only fire she constructed, when the journey was at its halfway point, she spoke aloud into the night. Spoke to the horse, who whuffled uncertainly, unused to hearing her voice. Spoke to the stars when she could see them, and to the bare trees. For it was still winter here. She talked about the things that had happened in her time away, both good and bad. She couldn't imagine telling anyone some of those things, but it was comforting, somehow, to say them into the night, into her northern skies.
Arya Stark—because that was who she told herself she was again, now, repeatedly—reached Winterfell with a spavined horse and a troubled spirit, in just under the fortnight she'd planned for.
Reassuringly, her ancestral home was normal in appearance, from a distance at least. There were animals in the fields, and along the road, people (some of whom might have recognized her if she hadn't been careful to keep her hooded cloak up, and not slow down).
Inside the castle itself, no one seemed to know what to do with her at first. Robb was not at home, nor was his lady wife, though they were expected back within the next few days. Arya realized she was grateful to be surrounded only by concerned retainers, most of whom she still knew. It gave her the chance to be escorted first to her old rooms, which had been kept spotless, though all her personal effects had disappeared from them. A fire was lit and a bath was drawn and the serving-women lingered nervously, asking her if anything else was needed. Clothing, she told them gravely; but no dresses. One of the older women hastened to find her appropriate substitutions for her own things: trousers, shirt and tunic.
When she asked after her other siblings, she was told that neither Bran nor Sansa was well and she could not be admitted to see either of them without Robb's presence and permission. She didn't object. Rickon was apparently somewhere about, if he could be found; wilder than ever after their second parent's death, it was implied.
At least they were all alive.
Arya took her hot bath, her first in a long time, soaking meditatively by the fire. There were still questions, there was still someone to be inquired after, but night was drawing near and she was exhausted from the travel. She was brought a dinner she couldn't eat half of, her stomach being unused to such elaborate castle fare, and then she climbed into her old bed which they had piled high with new furs and bedding. And she watched the fire until sleep overtook her, which wasn't long at all.
She woke even before the break of light, as had been her habit while on the road. She dressed in her new garments and spent some time sitting on her bed brushing out her hair, working out the knots and tangles until it fell smooth. She wasn't sure if her reflection was pleasing or not. All she could see was her fatigue-pale skin, dark brows, distrustful grey eyes looking back at her.
I want to look well. But I look scrawny. He'll say so. Like he said the last time I saw him, on that last day: "You're as skinny as a scare-crow. Aren't they feeding you? Or aren't you eating?"
He's angry. He'll be angry. No, worried.
Where's Gendry?
Who?
He's fine. He'll be fine. He'll be there, turning horseshoes, just like before. She could even hear the clang of stone and steel, feel the heat from the blazing fire. But...two years. Nervousness settled in her stomach and stayed there all the while she slipped out of the keep, through the gates and down to the winter town.
It was still early. Smoke puffed from chimneys over the rooftops and lazily into the sky. The plaintive howl of a hungry dog echoed in the distance. She stood outside his gate. The house seemed a bit run-down to her perceptive eye; parts of the thatching were falling out, and stone was crumbling. But it wasn't abandoned. Here too, smoke emanated from above. Arya took a long breath of the cold wood-scented air, filling her lungs with it. She tightened her hands into fists and relaxed them again. She was not here for a fight, not here to thieve and run. She was here for...an old friend. Her only friend. That was what he was. What he still was, she hoped. Of course he would be distant at first, considering how she had left him—though I did warn him. I did.
She sidled towards the door, both drawn and hesitant, feeling a little like a bitten direwolf.
"Who's there?" A woman's voice, sharp with wariness, came from within.
No one. She heard her pulse thundering in her ears. "Arya Stark," she made herself say.
A pause. Then the door slid open a space.
They recognized each other. It was the girl—the woman—of the streets she and Gendry had met on the day they'd been late coming back to Winterfell. The other woman was beautiful. Tired, in a dirty gown, with a wary tilt to her head, but with lush dark curly hair not bound under a cap, a naturally red mouth. She opened the door a little more. "I remember you," she said, her voice softening somewhat. "Can I help with something?"
Arya tried to swallow the tension out of her throat. She had to speak, it was ridiculous to stand and stare like a simpleton. "May I come in?" She didn't want to come in, she wanted to run away.
The door widened to admit her. She stepped through, spotting almost at once a child's toy on the floor, a roughly-carved wooden horse with a length of twine. Other than that the main room was neat. A modest fire burned in the hearth and several garments, some tiny, were draped over a rack nearby to dry.
"I'm Rona," said the other woman, after closing the door against the outdoor chill. "You remember me too. Don't you?"
Arya nodded. She caught the inside of her cheek with her teeth and bit. The pain felt good. Punishing.
Rona watched her before gesturing at the table with its one bench. "Will you have some tea?"
She knew better than to refuse. The small-folk had little enough to offer; they disliked having it flung back in their faces. And she'd already identified herself as noble blood. There was no way to face each other as equals.
"Yes," Arya said, and sat, accepting the mug of brew. It smelled like mullein leaves. She inhaled its warmth, noticing how the liquid inside shook while she tried to control the trembling of her hands.
"I suppose you're looking for him." Rona's manner was matter-of-fact.
Who?
Oh. Gendry. She imagined giving a casual laugh. I suppose I am. Be sure to mention I stopped by. I should be on my way. Thank you for the tea.
Seven hells, Arya, get control of yourself.
"You have a child," she said, not meaning to. But she couldn't drag her eyes off the wooden horse. Had his hands made it? Could you see something of the maker in such an object?
"I do," Rona said with a slight smile. "A boy."
"Who does he look like?" Why would she ask that? What kind of stupid self-inflicted torture was this?
"Like me."
Arya drank from the tea. It was so bitter she thought she'd gag. She forced herself to swallow. Punishment again. What for? For running perhaps. This was her dream. A version of it, anyway.
Rona crouched by the fire and laid another stick in the coals, blowing gently on them until they flared up.
She said, "He's not the father, if that's what you're thinking."
"It doesn't matter," Arya said, quickly, although it did, of course. "Where is he?"
"My son? Or—"
"Gendry," she said. She hadn't spoken the name aloud in so long.
"Gone south to the Riverlands," Rona said. "More than a year ago. He wanted to be involved with some sort of...brotherhood. I told him to go. He would have stayed if I insisted."
She watched Arya through dark lashes. Perhaps there was a touch of malice in her tone but it was hard to tell.
"But he left you alone?" Arya asked distantly.
"He provided for me, and the baby. He left us the house to stay in, with permission from your lord brother. It was more than I had before. And after, I made my living as I always have." She shrugged a narrow bare shoulder, revealed by her low-cut gown.
A wail issued from upstairs. Rona rose and went up, carrying down a nap-tousled toddler of indeterminate age on her hip. Arya couldn't help from searching the tiny face for features she knew. Black hair. The boy did resemble Rona. Beyond that it was impossible to say. He put two fingers in his mouth and tucked his head under his mother's chin, staring at Arya from the corners of his eyes.
"He looks healthy," she said. It was the only thing she could think of to say.
Rona set the toddler down on the floor by the wooden toy, which, after a moment, he hauled off to a corner, therewith to play. "And what about you, Arya Stark?"
"What about me?"
"You look—" The comment was altered, delicately: "You seem tired."
She said nothing to that.
"Your family must be very happy to have you back."
"Yes." Suddenly it was enough, she couldn't sit there any longer. She swallowed the tea to its dregs and set the mug down. "I must go."
"Do you mean to look for Gendry?" Rona followed her to the door.
Arya glanced back, but the other woman's gaze was direct, free of spite. "Would it trouble you if I did?"
Rona shook her head. "He is part of my past now."
Part of your past. The dismissive observation made Arya want to say something hateful, but she knew that she couldn't. As painful as the interview had been, it still seemed that Rona could have chosen to make it even more difficult, had she wished. For that she had to be grateful.
"If there's anything you need, either of you," she muttered, stepping outdoors, "let us know."
Rona watched her walk down the laneway.
But Arya couldn't look back. She didn't think she would ever come to the winter town again.