Three days later the return of Lord and Lady Stark to Winterfell was announced. Arya lingered at the top of the great stairs so she could observe them for a moment, before they actually had to meet. It reminded her uncomfortably of her dream, only their positions were reversed. She watched them from above. Nyssa Frey was plain enough, to be sure, although she seemed less the dumb creature from the dream and more in possession of a personality; she had a smile for her attendant maids gathering about her, taking her cloak, dusting off her skirts.

Robb looked as Arya remembered; her handsome brother, a bit older, the lines on his face no doubt due to his inherited responsibilities with the passing of Catelyn. Or perhaps the acquisition of a wife. It was impossible to tell from here what sort of relationship the two had; in front of the household, they were both smooth, collected, speaking neutrally. That was as it should be. What went on behind closed doors Arya didn't presume to care about, but she hoped uneasily that Robb was happy, and of course she had no ill will towards the Frey woman. Her new sister-in-law.

Robb was shaking off his furs, making a genial request over his shoulder of someone, and placing his hand on the stair railing to come up. When he saw Arya he halted nearly in mid-step.

She tried a tentative smile.

"Gods be good. Arya, is that you, or a visitation—" His voice was hoarse.

"It's me."

He bolted up the steps then, stopping just a few away. She was aware of all stilling below, Nyssa's eyes on her, everyone's eyes on her, a general murmur, Nyssa speaking coldly to those nearby.

She focused on her brother.

He took her arm, not roughly, but with a grip more steel than gentle, and ushered her away from the stairs, down the hall to the first available room.

"I cannot believe it," he said after a moment, when they were alone. "How long have you—"

"Only three days. I just got here."

"I was away a month. Why didn't someone ride for me as soon as you were seen? I would have come at once."

"You would have left your wife behind?" She tried to say it lightly, hoping to sense from his reaction the kind of feelings he had for Nyssa. His expression didn't change. "Don't blame anyone, Robb. I don't think they knew what to do."

"They should have known what to do. Seven hells, we'd gone over it enough times in the last two years—" He put his hand to his forehead for a moment, as if to conceal his expression, and she felt a pang of unexpected remorse. She hadn't meant to bring grief to him, to any of her family, and yet it seemed feeble to say so, since that had obviously been the result. She gazed down at the floor, just listening to the silence for a while. When he looked up at her again his face was ragged. "You know about Mother?"

Arya gave her head a tiny nod. "How did it happen?"

"She just—gave up. And now I see Bran going, because of not being able to walk, and Sansa, with what happened to her...This family is falling apart."

"I'm sorry."

He looked her over, head to toe. "And you. You're not a child any more."

"I wasn't a child when I left," she said quietly, "not really."

"I suppose you weren't. Did you find whatever you were looking for?" He sounded bitter. She couldn't blame him for that.

"Sometimes I think that I did. Other times I'm not certain."

He held out a hand towards her, almost in resignation, as if he wanted to be angry, but could not manage it any longer. Arya took it. His fingers wrapped around hers, and he smiled, though there was constraint behind the expression. The old Robb would have embraced her, swept her around in the air with abandon.

There was too much to forgive, perhaps. Or he just needed more time.

"I need you to introduce you to someone," he said. "My wife. You'll take dinner with us? And we will talk more."

She murmured an assent, though her stomach hurt, she wished for neither food nor the lights of the great hall. Here so short a time and she was already thinking longingly of her bedroll outdoors and the dark sky. But this evening must be endured.

Nyssa Frey was cool but gracious enough at the time of introduction. She did not ask any awkward questions of Arya, remaining a quiet presence on Robb's other side at the table in the hall. Arya followed Robb's lead in the conversation, which dealt almost exclusively with future events, and general remarks on the state of Winterfell. She did ask him, with some diffidence, how long he had been married, and was told almost a year. She dared not inquire about offspring, but assumed that had a niece or nephew been born, it would have been mentioned by now. Looking surreptitiously past her brother at her new sister-in-law, Arya determined that Nyssa's figure was slim, with no indications of gravidity. She supposed that someone in the household would probably know the truth of the matter, but the idea of pressing one of them for details was irksome and felt beneath her, if she was not truly desperate to know.

Robb was convivial through the meal, as if to send the impression to all that Arya's return was simply a happy occasion, not to be questioned, but she knew he would have plenty to say to her in private. She was steeling herself against that.

When dinner was finally over and the fires were lowering, and Nyssa smoothly claimed fatigue and excused herself, Robb and Arya were left to themselves. She knew Robb would have let her go if she similarly protested her exhaustion, but it seemed preferable to get through this, all of it, as soon as possible.

The others were gone except for a lad sweeping up in a distant corner. Robb was taking a final swallow of his beer before setting down the mug and looking at Arya. She tilted her head sideways a little defensively.

"How did you live?" he said softly. "You left with nothing."

That wasn't strictly true; she had left with gold, though it had run out soon enough. She turned her palms upward on the table, uncertain what to say. I learned how to steal what I needed. I didn't eat for days at a time. I slept in...street gutters, horse barns, dark holes in the alleys.

"Perhaps I'm more resourceful than you thought."

"Perhaps you did things you don't want to tell me about."

She accorded him that with an inclination of her head.

"And I can't make you. I don't want to make you. I just want to understand, and I don't think I ever will."

"It's behind me now," she said, awkwardly. "Behind us. I am home. If I am welcome, that is."

"You could never not be welcome here, Arya." Something in his voice reminded her of their father. "But you should know that the Freys have not forgotten about the other half of Mother's promise."

She was silent, staring at the lines in her hands.

"Did you think that they would?"

"I didn't think about it at all." After a pause she said, lightly, "I suppose now that Nyssa has seen me I can't very well be dead, can I?"

"It's a matter of honor," Robb said. "This may be the price you must pay for your two years of—"

"Freedom," she supplied.

"I won't make the decision for you," he said, somber. "I will not try to keep you here, or drag you there. You understand? You're my sister. I don't want to sell you to the Freys. I never wanted that. I won't have you under lock and key. I don't think it would hold you anyway."

"Stop, Robb." Arya laid a hand on his arm. He was getting upset, while she felt herself oddly serene. "I understand. We must keep our word."

"I didn't want to marry her," he said, so quietly she had to guess, for a moment, at what he'd said.

"I know you didn't." He had had a lot to drink, she realized. "But is it—all right now?"

He made a funny sound in his throat. "We have no children."

"You are both still young," she said, mordantly amused by the idea of such words coming from a little sister. "Surely children will come."

"In the meantime." His eyes were red.

"You should go to her," Arya said. "It's getting late."

"She doesn't want me."

"I'm sorry," she said, inadequately, though he had sounded more matter-of-fact than self-pitying. "Goodnight, Robb."

He stood up.

"I will make preparations for travel to the Twins," she added. "Whenever you say."

He seemed uncertain now, scanning her face. Perhaps he thought she was jesting, although she was quite serious. Eventually he muttered his own goodnight and took his leave.

Arya stood in the hall a while longer, watching the boy sweep up the hearth and scraping the woodchips into the glowing embers, where they smoked, refusing to burst into flame.

In the afternoon, she made a pilgrimage to the godswood, wandering through to its heart where the weirwood tree stood, lingering there until misty twilight began to settle. She did not move, but thought. This was where she had last seen Gendry, this was where she had angrily left him.

Oh, why couldn't you still be here? Why couldn't I have been granted the chance to say a proper goodbye, if the gods and promises demand it? Now it is unfinished, not right. She sat uneasily, wanting to draw comfort from the ancient place, but the trees were reproachful in their silence, not a wind stirring to distract her from her own thoughts. Your father is dead; your mother is dead. You have nothing but a pledge to tie you to them; dismiss it and they will be gone from you forever. And she had given her brother her word now, too. Odd how a future she had resisted two years ago seemed less horrible than inevitable now. There were worse things than marrying a lord and living in a castle.

That's not me, her younger-voice protested still.

But the passage of time had taught her there were worse things.

I must do it. I am bound to do it.

Why aren't you here?

There were no answers in the trees. At last she unwound herself from the bench. Standing up felt like plucking roots from the ground. This too, would she ever see again? Was she not saying goodbye tonight? Her childhood was over.

She lost her temper with Robb only once in the days after that. A week or more had passed at Winterfell, and while having a quiet early breakfast together, Robb told her (with some diffidence) that he was preparing to send a raven to The Twins with the message of her return, and wait for further notification from the south. She asked why he was reluctant, when she had given her word; and he said they might yet do some thinking on the matter. This angered her, for she considered herself good as given to that household—it was only a matter of her physical transfer, and did he think she meant to run, this time? What would running serve, unless she wanted to hide forever, or risk vexing the Freys with losing her twice? Robb did not answer heatedly, but still counselled that they adopt a position of caution. It seemed like worrisome teasing to her, and she told him to inform the Freys that she would come at once.

"Unless you're implying," she said, spearing a chunk of roast venison on the end of her knife, "that they don't want me any more."

He looked uncomfortable. "I did not say that."

"No. You didn't. But the only other reason you hesitate is because you think I might not be ready. And I told you I was. I've had two years to be ready. If you don't mistrust me, you mistrust them."

"You're family," he said. "Of course I trust you...more. The truth is, we haven't had much contact with the Freys. Neither Nyssa nor I have visited yet, nor have any of them come up here. It is a long way to travel just to pay social respects."

Easily a two months' journey with a retinue. The distance will still be as great, Arya thought, once I am there. I will not be able to visit you, nor will you be able to leave your responsibilities at Winterfell to see me. Her younger self might have said this aloud. Now she held her tongue. But it bleakly amused her to see that he seemed to be having his own doubts about the arrangement.

Robb opened his mouth again and closed it, then he avoided her eyes.

"What is it," she said, patiently. "If you must know, then ask."

"If something...if they should claim you are unsuitable—"

"Should the Frey not want me, I am sure he can find a reason to dispose of me. But I will tell you now; I go to them untouched." She knew her voice sounded somewhat hollow. It was, after all, scarcely the sort of conversation one expected to have over breakfast.

Robb looked vaguely shamefaced. "I don't think—a woman's value...depends on that alone."

"Well, that is very open-minded of you," Arya said, with a touch of asperity, "yet I have a hard time believing you would be so understanding had your own wife come to you with anything other than complete inexperience."

Her brother choked on his drink. After he had recovered he managed: "If we were low-born, it wouldn't perhaps matter so much, but we aren't, and it does."

"Well," she said. "It is as I told you. Send the raven."

So the conversation had finished.

She assumed that he had done as she'd requested, and life went on quietly enough for the next while. When the time was judged right, she was granted access to see Bran and Sansa, but their juxtaposed conditions only served to spur in her a deep, ineffable sense of pity. Bran's mind was sound, but his physical state deteriorated to the point that he was, as Robb had said, giving up; and Sansa was well enough in body, but not quite in her head. It was easy to see, after these visits, why Robb felt more than ever burdened with the responsibility of providing an heir for Winterfell.

There was nothing of any significance for Arya to pass the time with, since she considered herself between houses now; she was unable to bring herself to visit any of the outlying cottages or peoples she had been so friendly with before. There was reading, but she could not concentrate. She slept late into the mornings, and in the afternoons took long walks around Winterfell, choosing paths she knew to stand the least chance of bringing her in contact with anyone. She tried to eat well, and on the days her walks were longest she did have a decent appetite, and yet, whenever she caught her reflection somewhere it told her she looked ghostlier than ever.

She felt, too, that she ought to make some effort at getting to know her sister-in-law; but practically, it seemed a waste, when they would scarcely see each other again. For now, she encountered Nyssa only when they ate communal dinner every night. It had occurred to her to ask Nyssa for some details as to what sort of man she was engaged to, but it was almost irrelevant. Good or bad (or something in between, as most men were) her future husband already was whatever he was, and knowing about it couldn't alter that.

Robb showed her the return message when it arrived, handing it to her without a word.

The Freys bade her come, with no effusive expressions of goodwill or details of wedding plans. Arya rather preferred the simplicity of the summoning, but she could see Robb remained ambivalent. He told her he wished he could accompany her himself, but that it would have him too long away from Winterfell. In the end he selected half-a-dozen of what she knew were his most trusted men to be her companions, charged with her care and safe delivery to the seat of House Frey. Arya knew she could make the journey faster on her own but there was no point in even suggesting it. Even had Robb tacitly admitted that the past two years had proved her ability to survive alone, a high-born lady did not simply show up, unattended, on her fiancé's doorstep.

They said their farewells on a cool grey morning. The horses, eager to be on their way, stamped and snorted in the courtyard.

Composed, Arya settled her new fur cloak around her shoulders and fastened it at her throat.

Robb's smile was strained. "Send word once you've arrived. And again once you've had some time to settle in."

"I will," she promised.

**Author's Note: The following chapter (Chapter 10) will be a very short (400 words) and non-explicit flashback describing a non-consensual experience that happened to Arya in the time away from Winterfell. I've posted it as a stand-alone, as some may find it triggering and/or choose to skip it. It's not necessary to understanding the story, except to know that it occurred.**