It's been a hot minute since my last update, geez. Between real-world stuff like long-term illness in my family and total chaos at work, and the difficulty of this chapter, the last thing I wanted to do was be at my computer when I didn't have to be. But it's finally finished! So for the 3 of you who still remember this story, welcome back!

Previously, on AtD: Rise and Fall:

At the Wall, Jon and his Northmen, Edd and his Black Brothers, the Brotherhood Without Banners, and Jaime and his band of Westerlanders are fighting off the Army of the Dead. At this point, two of the four breaches have been sealed, and the men are clustered around the other two (Long Barrow and the Nightfort). The men have been trapping wights in wooden cages, which they will send down to the other kingdoms as proof of what is going on. The next Wall chapter will be a Jaime POV.

At Winterfell, Sansa survived a clumsy assassination attempt by Cersei. She is honing her warging skills and using her dog to gather intel, as well as overseeing the repairs paid for with Jon's Targaryen inheritance. Bran is still using the Weirwood net to look for solutions, and insists that the collapsed tunnel in the crypts needs to be dug out, claiming that the ancient Starks have some kind of protection down there.

At Oldtown, Euron Greyjoy's fleet has been utterly decimated by Dany's dragons, but he has summoned a kraken with blood magic. Drogon is injured, Yara is dead, Theon is a captive, and Samwell is on his way out of town with the Hightowers and a treasure trove of books of magic.

Finally, Arya has made her way into Riverrun wearing the face of Ser Whalen Frey. Her allies waited outside as she slew the lord and lady of the castle, and this is where we begin.

Arya III

An hour before dawn, Arya slipped back into the guest room Lame Lothar had given her. Swiftly, she removed the black clothing and weapons from her person and concealed them, then used a handy rag and basin of water to wash the sweat from her skin.

Once she was clean, she pulled a simple linen nightshirt over her head and climbed into bed. It was the plumpest, comfiest feather bed she had seen in a long time, a world away from her servant's cot at the Twins, and just for a moment, Arya wished she'd spent the night in it.

She closed her eyes and counted, seeing splashes of red behind her eyelids.

One, two, three, four, five…

Riverrun was awfully quiet in the early morning. It was jarring after the constant bustle of Braavos and the overcrowded Twins, and the diverse noise of the deep woods. But it would not stay quiet for long. Her night's work would see to that!

Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen…

Arya breathed in and out as she counted. The handle of the dagger she'd concealed under her breast bindings felt cold against her skin.

Twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight…

Then, far below Arya's chamber, a maidservant screamed, shattering the peace.

Arya kept her eyes closed as the doors began to slam, counting the thundering steps and calculating where her targets were from the noise they made. She pretended to be asleep even as Lame Lothar burst into her room.

"Whalen!" he gasped, breathless and wild-eyed. "Get up, quickly!"

Arya sat up, and pretended to rub the sleep out of Whalen's eyes. "What is it, Lothar?" she rasped.

Lothar had not remained idle. He'd reached into her packs and was throwing clothes at Arya, not caring if they matched or where they landed. She ducked as a belt flew past her head.

"Tywin is dead," he told her, and Arya racked her brain, trying to remember the massive Frey family tree, and her victim's exact relation to Lothar and Whalen.

"Emmon's grandson?" she asked finally, hoping her confusion appeared sleep-induced. She took the trousers Lothar had thrown at her and pulled them on under her nightrail, then pulled on socks and boots.

"Yes. One of the laundresses found the boy on a pile of starched linens, with a dagger at his throat. But there's more," he hesitated, only continuing when Arya raised her eyebrows. "The dagger is Westerlands steel. It came from a Lannister."

Arya fought a smirk. The dagger the Greatjon had taken from the scout had improved on her original plan, and the look of confusion on the hapless Tywin's face would stay with her for a long time.

"What will we do about it?" she asked Whalen. He opened his mouth to respond, when another shout, this one much closer and more masculine, put an end to the conversation.

"MURDER!" cried Edwyn Frey.

Lother swore under his breath. "The half-wit could not have said that any louder!"

He limped out of Arya's room, and Arya followed in her half-dressed state. The shout had come from the Lord's chamber, where they found a pale-faced Edwyn Frey, barefooted and shaking, staring mutely at the deathly pale corpses of Emmon and Genna Frey.

Black Walder came in next, raising an eyebrow at the dead but saying nothing. Raymund entered a few seconds later, followed by three sleepy, Frey-faced squires.

"Dear gods," Edwyn said weakly. "Emmon and his heir, murdered in one night. Who would possibly—?"

"It was Lannister steel that killed little Ty," Lame Lothar told his family. "I saw the dagger myself."

There was a short, pointed silence after this announcement. Each of the Freys were uncomfortably aware of how many Lannister men had stayed in Riverrun.

"I think it's clear," Arya said carefully, "that the Lannisters heard our news last night, and decided House Frey would be too busy squabbling over the Twins to guard Riverrun properly."

She waited for one of them to take the bait.

"They knew you three were leaving today," Lothar obliged, pointing to Edwyn, Black Walder, and Raymund. "Now Riverrun is without a lord until little Willem can be found, and we all know what happens to child-lords with too many ambitious uncles. Besides," he added, gathering steam, "the only reason Emmon and his brood got this castle was Tywin Lannister, and the old bastard has gone and died. The fate of Riverrun is no longer the old lion's to decide."

"Speak for yourself, Lothar!" Raymund said darkly. "I had no intention of killing a child. Nevertheless, Whalen has a point, this stinks of the Lannisters. We must respond with strength; we fought too hard for this castle to lose it now."

"I say the Lannisters have no business here anymore, now that the golden pig is dead and the war is over," said Arya, looking disdainfully at the dead Lady Genna. "We are the Riverlanders, and the murderous golden shits can give up the killer and return to their own lands, or they can feed the fish."

The weak-chinned Edwyn Frey swallowed hard, but nodded in agreement.

"We must ensure that no one leaves until we've found the murderer," he said. "Raymund, check each of the gatehouses and question the sentries. Walder, Raymund, I will need you to interrogate the Lannister men."

"Shall I send news of this to the Twins?" Arya offered.

"No!" cried Black Walder sharply. "Tell Brennett that we've been delayed due to illness, and the Silent Sisters must preserve Father's corpse a while longer. Say nothing of this; it would make us look weak."

"Very well," Arya agreed. She had almost killed the ravens last night, but decided against it. It was better to have full control of the information that left the castle, and if anyone but her attempted to use the ravens, the little bow the Greatjon had given her would bring down the bird. Or mayhaps she could control the bird, and fly it into Nymeria's powerful fangs.

"Who knows about the Lannister dagger?" Edwyn asked. "Is it widely known?"

"No," Lothar replied. "I had Alyn bar the doors to the laundry and stand watch. I didn't want the bastards knowing that we know."

"Well done, Lothar," replied the new Lord of the Crossing. "Then let us go down to the hall and eat, and act as though everything is normal. We'll take the Lannisters in small groups. And let's give them a larger ration of ale than usual. I want them well-oiled for questioning."

Normal? thought Arya, amused. You woke up half the keep screaming murder! The men-at-arms down in the barracks may not know, but the servants will spread the word.

"And these two?" Raymund asked, pointing to the dead Emmon and Genna.

"Lock the doors for now," suggested Black Walder. "Say that Lord Emmon took ill from last night's supper, and Lady Genna is looking after him."

"Do you think the same man killed all three of them?" asked one of the squires, looking at them through watery eyes. "Are we all in danger?"

"We can't know that for sure," Lothar answered firmly. "From now on, trust no one but those in this room, and Alyn."

"What of Maester Vyman?" asked another squire.

"Stranger's tits, boy!" cried Raymund, making the squire jump. "Have I taught you nothing? Maesters are not family, and they serve the castle, not the lord. Trust them with ravens and taxes, mayhaps, not plots of this magnitude!"

"Let us dress and break our fast," Edwyn Frey told them all, "and then we'll see what there is to see."

The Freys dispersed, and Arya returned to her guest room. So far, all of her work had paid off. The death of Emmon Frey and his grandson had created uncertainty in the stolen castle, and the situation would only worsen from here.

She swapped her nightrail for a clean shirt and doublet, then armed herself with her remaining daggers and poisons. Then, she pulled on Whalen's traveling cloak and slipped downstairs, catching up to Lame Lothar as he crossed the godswood.

"I don't like this at all, Whalen," Lothar told her. "I've half a mind to slip out before it gets worse."

"You'd only draw suspicion to yourself," Arya responded. "In any case, the killer went after the heirs. If I had to guess, I'd say Edwyn is next."

Lothar snorted. "That is nothing new. If I hadn't seen the dagger with my own eyes, I would have accused Black Walder of this business...and I'm not ruling him out entirely, mind you. He's cunning enough to do the killing himself, and pin it on the Lannisters."

"I'm sure he is," Arya replied. "But even Black Walder's ugly arse can't sit in two different great halls at once. He'll have to choose one castle to steal."

Whalen's older brother laughed heartily at this. "I've missed your humor, Whalen," he said, wiping a tear from his eye.

"I don't think it was him," Arya said practically. "If he wanted to be Lord of the Crossing, all he had to do was wait until he and Edwyn had left for the Twins. A simple riding accident would have taken care of things. Did we not speak of it yesterday?"

"Yes, I know," sighed Lothar, clearly unhappy.

Arya supposed it must be a difficult thing, to be unable to trust your own family. She might have felt sorry for Lothar, had he been anyone but a treacherous, rat-faced, guest right-breaking Frey.

Valar morghulis, swine, she thought.

They reached the hall, making further discussion impossible. Upon entering, they found Lannister and Frey men-at-arms cheerfully gorging on ale and porridge, while stone-faced Frey lords watched from the dais. Some attempted to eat despite the chaos around the castle. Maester Vyman was still abed, they said; the old man tired easily.

Arya hardly noticed what she ate, reaching for the nearest platter and ignoring the jugs of ale. She watched the soldiers below the dais with interest. The barrels of ale at the end of the hall had a small cut in the shape of a star; she had placed the marks last night. And by offering the men extra ale from those barrels this morning, Edwyn Frey had played into Arya's hands and made her work easier. She wished her companions were inside the castle already, so they could share the joke.

It began slowly, not at the low tables as Arya had expected, but up on the dais. All of the Freys were drinking heavily of the tainted ale, and as usual, an argument had broken out between Black Walder and one of the others. This time, it was Lame Lothar. Arya had not heard the beginning of the quarrel, but both men were becoming louder with each word.

"Don't play me for a fool! We all know what you are!" Lothar shouted, rising to his feet and glaring down at his half-brother.

Black Walder stood as well. "And what is that, brother?"

"A liar," Lothar answered, "and a seducer; a schemer and a murderer!"

"Lothar, what are you DOING?" whispered Edwyn, watching the men-at-arms nervously. "Sit down and be silent, both of you!"

"Oh, shut up!" Black Walder responded viciously. "Don't pretend you had nothing to do with this, Edwyn!"

"What?" cried Edwyn, shocked by the attack.

"You've been quaking in your boots for years, waiting for the moment when I stab you in your sleep. Now you send Lothar to accuse me, so you can execute your own brother and keep your conscience clear."

"You're utterly mad," Edwyn answered in a half-whisper, disgusted. "In case you've forgotten, we need to find the Lannister who killed Emmon, and we will never do that if you two keep shouting our business for the world to hear!"

Arya speared a piece of fried fish and ate it, enjoying the mummers' farce taking place before her eyes. The fish was well-seasoned and quite tasty, but it could never satisfy her as much as a good plan, well executed. Several arguments had broken out at the lower tables, and three or four Lannister men-at-arms were exchanging punches and kicks near the double doors.

On the dais, the basilisk venom in the ale was doing its job as well as Arya could have hoped. A mouse would attack a lion after tasting a drop of the venom, or so the Waif had taught her. A man might take on an army. And apparently, a single drop in a barrel of ale could start a Frey civil war.

Black Walder had leapt out of his chair, and tackled Lame Lothar to the ground. The brothers traded vicious punches, kicks and elbows as they rolled around, bumping into the tables and ignoring their family's cries.

"Lothar, get up!" Arya said curtly, remembering that Whalen should care about his useless brother. "Now is not the time for this!"

The other Freys were torn between cheering on one of the fighters, or trying in vain to stop them.

"STOP!" shouted Edwyn Frey, looking around the hall in horror. It did little to stop the chaos. Slowly, the venom-induced madness spread like a plague, and the meal had become an all-out brawl. In the center of the hall, two graybeards had turned an argument into a battle, and one had stabbed his opponent in the eye with a fork. Near the double doors, a group of younger men had drawn their weapons, drawing attention to themselves with the clash of steel.

The time was now. Arya pushed her chair back and left, with an exclamation of disgust that no one heard. She made herself as small and unimportant as could be, and edged around the room to the doors. Whalen's family were too busy to notice, and the brawling men at the lower tables didn't care.

She sprinted to the western walls, grateful that her mother's home was tiny compared to Winterfell. Up the stairs she went, then into the nearest watchtower along the wall. Gasping for breath, she caught the attention of the six Frey men keeping watch, and waved them over.

"Ser Whalen?" asked the nearest guard, confused. "What ails you?"

"It's madness," Arya replied, wide-eyed. "Lannisters murdered two of our own, and now they're killing us in the Great Hall. We need help!"

The men paled, and ran down the stairs she had just climbed. Not wasting a second, Arya looked out in every direction, and saw no one. She looked around for the lever that the Greatjon had told her of, the one that controlled the northern sluice gate that turned Riverrun into an island. She would need to close the gate and drain the ditch outside the western wall, to let her helpers in.

She found the lever, and pulled it with all her might. This part of the castle was in good repair, unlike the decorative elements, and Arya watched with relief as the gate far below her moved. Then, she ran along the curtain wall to the southern tower, where the man-made river drained into the Red Fork.

There was only one guard in the second tower, and he was still half-asleep by the looks of him. Arya crept behind him, silent as an alley cat, and sent him to the god of Death with a swift slice across the throat. Once she was alone, she went to work on the next lever, which would let the water out.

When she had completed that task, Arya peered carefully from the tower. She could hear shouting in the distance, coming from the Great Hall. But so far, no one had noticed her work along the Tumblestone; there were no alarm bells ringing or troops running in her direction.

She sat on the floor, satisfied, and reached out to Nymeria.

I'm ready, she thought, and made her wolf write it with her left paw for the men, who mounted their horses at once. All around them, Nymeria's pack waited, ready to hunt. Come to the Water Gate.

Arya descended from the tower, and made her way to the gatehouse. There were only two men left in it, which was unusual for this time of day.

"Here, why are there so few of you keeping watch?" Arya barked at them, making them jump.

"The rest were called away to the Great Hall, ser," replied the younger of the two. His bright emerald eyes told her in no uncertain terms that he was a Lannister man. "There's some trouble there, a brawl or some such."

Arya pretended this was news to her. "Is there any sign of danger from outside?" she asked mildly.

Both men shook their heads.

"Then get to the Great Hall, quickly! You may need to hold your fellows back, before they do something we all regret," she said darkly.

The younger man ran off, but the older man hesitated. "But ser, what of our watch?"

"I will stay here and keep watch," Arya promised. "No one will enter the castle without my knowledge; you may be sure of that."

It wasn't even a lie, Arya thought to herself, amused.

The old man ran off to the Hall to join in the brawl. Arya turned to the gate instead, and began the great effort of opening it. In a great big castle with enormous gates like Winterfell, she never would have managed alone. Fortunately, Riverrun's strongest defense came from the water surrounding it, not the gates, and this one was the smallest. Her arms burned from the effort, but slowly, the portcullis rose out of the water.

Her watch began. She sat against the wall and warged into Nymeria to see where Ser Wylis and the Greatjon were, and rejoiced when she saw the West Gate from her direwolf's eyes. Arya hoped they'd arrive before Black Walder and Lame Lothar killed each other; she wanted them for herself.

The drained ditch outside the gate was muddy; it slowed Nymeria's pack down, and Arya felt her wolf's impatience. But soon enough, the massive, mud-splattered direwolf was leading the others into the gatehouse, and Arya stood to welcome them. Nymeria allowed the girl to stroke the fur of her back.

The two Northmen dismounted, not bothering to hide their disbelief.

"You are a law unto yourself, Princess," the Greatjon told her in awe. "The gate is open, the sluice gates are closed, and there's no one watching from the watchtowers. What are these fools doing?"

"I may have started a massive melee in the Great Hall," Arya replied casually. "We should hurry, or there won't be any left for us to kill."

Ser Wylis put on that sad face he always made when Arya spoke of violence, but he didn't object. He had, after all, agreed to the plan.

"And I'll do it as myself," Arya added, peeling off Whalen Frey's face and tossing it aside.

"This will be one for the songs," the Greatjon said, nodding at her in satisfaction. "Princess Arya Stark returns from the dead with a wolf pack to avenge her family. It will be a privilege to assist, your grace, and give these whoresons what they deserve. But first, let's ensure they can't escape."

Together, they closed the gate once more. It was far easier with two grown men to assist. Then, they piled up crates and any other item they could find in front of the gate, to slow down anyone attempting to leave.

Once this was done, the Greatjon clutched his greatsword with a feral grin.

"Nymeria," called Arya. "Let's go."

As one, the wolf pack ran out of the gatehouse and into Riverrun, howling in a way that had Arya shivering with anticipation. The startled cries of Lannister and Frey men were music to her ears, and their looks of terror were thrilling. At least thirty wolves had followed Nymeria into the castle, and they attacked anyone in their path, Lannister or Frey. Most men were not fully armored this early in the morning, making them sweet, juicy prey for the hungry wolves.

When the wolves cornered a terrified kitchen maid, Arya intervened.

"Girl, this fight doesn't concern you, or the other servants. This is between Starks, Lannisters, and Freys. Take the others and barricade yourselves in the cellars, the servants' quarters or anywhere you please. We'll let you know when it's safe to come out. Do you understand?"

The servant whimpered, her blue eyes staring at Nymeria's fangs in horror.

"Do you understand?" Arya repeated over the sounds of steel and howling wolves.

"Yes...yes!" she responded, finally snapping her gaze from the direwolf to her mistress.

"Then go, and spread the word," Arya ordered, pointing with her dagger. The woman scurried away, leaving behind her basket of fresh eggs.

With that message shared, the princess ran to rejoin the wolf pack and the two Northmen. They had run into a large group of guards from the main gatehouse, all Lannister men by their armor. The wolves were making short work of these men, though Arya had spotted at least five dead wolves, and the Greatjon was sporting a fresh wound on his arm. Nymeria crashed into the fray, pouncing on the balding commander and sending him to his gods.

Arya had dreamed of being a knight and fighting in real battles once, as a small girl who idolized Robb and Jon. But what she saw—what she did—felt less like the glory of old songs and more like plain butchery, an ugly job that needed doing. She followed as Ser Wylis and the Greatjon cut down grown men and young boys, armed and unarmed, rat-faced or golden-haired...it mattered not one whit who they were. These men weren't the ones who had murdered her family, but they protected those who had.

Valar morghulis, she thought, stabbing a gangly squire in the neck from behind. Nymeria finished the job.

Valar morghulis, she repeated, piercing a half-dressed boy in the heart with her poisoned blade.

It could have been minutes, hours, or years before she reached the Great Hall with her group; Arya didn't know which. Ser Wylis was breathing heavily, but his eyes were brighter than they'd ever been in the dungeon at the Twins.

"Ready, your grace?" Lord Umber asked, watching her carefully.

Arya nodded, daggers at the ready as the big man opened the door.

"Mother have mercy," whispered the lord of White Harbor.

The hall had descended into pure pandemonium. Arya had expected as much, with the Freys giving everyone a larger portion of poisoned ale to loosen their tongues.

The Greatjon had other ideas. "Mercy for these treacherous shits? I don't think even their false gods would give 'em that after breaking guest right."

The Northmen raised their swords, and stepped into the hall with Arya. Nymeria followed with her pack.

Arya ignored the fights at the lower tables, trusting her men and Nymeria's wolves to finish them. Many men had already succumbed, and lay on the floor, on the benches, or slumped over tables. She had never seen so much blood. Yet the corpses of the men-at-arms were of no interest to her. Her gray eyes were fixed on the dais, where she could see the remaining Freys.

Edwyn was dead. That didn't surprise her; he had always been weak. But Lame Lothar was still alive, which was quite surprising for a man who had fought against Black Walder. She saw several dead or dying Freys, but not Black Walder or Ser Raymund. Lothar spotted the newcomers heading his way and tried limping toward the side door. His wounds made that difficult, and Arya sent Nymeria to stop him.

"Who are you?" the man asked in alarm, watching the direwolf with wild eyes.

"And who are you, the proud lord said," Arya responded, singing terribly off-key, "that I must bow so low?"

Arya stepped onto the dais, still holding her bloodied daggers, and grinning at the fear in Lothar's beady eyes. He tried backing away, and collapsed under his twisted leg. Nymeria stalked around the man, trapping him.

"Only a rat of a different coat, that's all the truth I know."

"Please," Lothar begged, keeping his eyes fixed on Grey Wind's litter-mate, "that wasn't my idea, it was my father's orders—"

"In a coat of gold or a coat of red, a liar still has claws," Arya sang, now standing over the trapped Frey.

"I swear, it wasn't me!" he screamed.

Arya answered him with a stab to the heart.

"And mine are long and sharp, my lord, as long and sharp as yours," she continued over his scream, using her daggers to mark the beat of the song.

"And so he spoke,"—stab—"and so he spoke,"—stab—"that lord of Castamere,"

"But now the rains"—stab—"weep o'er his hall"—stab—"with no one there to hear."

Arya couldn't see. Her eyes were stinging with tears as she half-sang, half-sobbed that hateful song. She lost count of how many times she repeated it, on her knees, still stabbing the monster who had planned the slaughter of her family. Faster and faster she went, until she was scarlet with Frey blood and Nymeria gave her a hard shove to the side, knocking her over.

"Apologies, your grace," the Greatjon said from behind her. "We weren't sure how to reach you, but your wolf found a way."

"He's dead, Princess," Ser Wylis said gently, "It's done."

Arya blinked. Lame Lothar had looked terrible from his earlier fights, but she had left him unrecognizable.

It was too much. She retched and stumbled to her feet, making it only a few feet before she lost her breakfast. Still shaking with sobs, Arya startled when a gentle hand patted her on the back.

"It happens to us all, your grace," the Greatjon consoled her, offering her his water skin. "We all imagine ourselves as great warriors when we reach manhood; then we kill our first man and find it's not so simple after all."

"He wasn't a man," Arya replied shakily. "He was a Frey. And he's not my first kill, not by far."

"Aye," the old man answered. "But I'm sure it's different when you wear your own face. You fought with the fury of a thousand generations of Starks, crying out for vengeance by your hands. It's a bit much for a slip of a girl."

Arya couldn't help it. She sank to the floor and laughed. What she had done made no sense, and what the old man said didn't either. There was nothing funny about the situation in the hall, but she laughed and cried and laughed some more, took a few swigs of water, and finally calmed when Nymeria barked questioningly at her.

"Where are the others?" Arya asked hoarsely. "Black Walder and Raymund aren't here," she pointed out, looking again through the corpses.

"They haven't left, certainly. We'll have to search for them."

Arya warged into Nymeria, and had the wolf sniff the chair where Black Walder had eaten his breakfast. For the direwolf, it was no chore at all to find a scent.

"Nymeria will lead us," Arya shouted, already running after the speeding wolf. "Let's go!"

The men and smaller wolves followed Black Walder's trail to the stables, where the surviving Freys had attempted to escape. Unfortunately for them, the basilisk's blood was in their bellies, and Nymeria's sharp ears picked up the sound of fighting men, when most of the castle had fallen silent. But as they approached, the sounds of fighting ceased.

Arya had come to Riverrun to avenge her family. Despite her fit of madness in the Great Hall, Ser Raymund Frey was part of her prayer, and she meant to see her mother's murderer rotting in the river. So she could not help the disappointment she felt when she found him sitting against the stable wall, already dying from a nasty gut wound.

He looked up at her, hazy with pain and confusion. Arya knew he had but minutes to live, and as painful as gut wounds were, he would never suffer enough for what he had done.

Arya knew the words. Her father had taught them to her once, long ago in a summer-cloaked godswood, when she had asked him why the Lord of Winterfell must kill. After all these years, she still remembered.

"In the name of Jon of House Stark, the King in the North, by the word of Arya of House Stark, I do sentence you to die," she said. Then, lacking a sword to swing, she made do with her dagger. One quick slice across the throat, and he was gone.

Valar morghulis.

Ser Wylis and Greatjon Umber nodded approvingly. Nymeria had no time for human niceties; she had found her prey and ripped out Black Walder's unprotected throat. Now she sat, queen-like, as the smaller wolves approached and sniffed at her kill.

"Is it over?" Arya asked, leaning against a wall and feeling more ancient than Old Nan.

"Aye," Ser Wylis told her, peering out of the stables and seeing no one. "I can hardly believe what I've seen today, but it seems you've taken the castle, your grace."

"Let's go to the dungeons, then," Arya ordered. "We need to free Patrek Mallister. Nymeria, you can stay up here and rest."

The great direwolf gave her mistress a look that was almost human. Rest? She seemed to say. I need no rest! But she had no interest in the caged men, so she stayed put. The other wolves, realizing the fight was over, searched for the tastiest bits of meat among the slain.

Down in the dungeon cells, the Northerners found a thin, ragged-looking Ser Patrek, as well as other Riverlords. They looked at their rescuers in amazement and fear as their shackles were loosed, and Arya nearly started laughing again when she remembered that she was covered in blood. It wasn't the best impression a princess could make!

"My lords," Ser Wylis spoke up, noting the awkwardness. "This is Princess Arya Stark of Winterfell, sister of the Young Wolf. It was she and her pack of wolves that led this rescue."

The men bowed, wide-eyed at the blood-spattered, slender girl.

"The Freys and Lannisters are dead," Arya told them simply. "Riverrun is free once again, and will be held by loyal Riverlanders until we can free Uncle Edmure. Come away from your cells, my lords, and I will have proper food, baths, and clothes prepared for you inside the keep."

Slowly, as though they couldn't believe their luck, the men got to their feet and left their cells. As each one passed, the Greatjon or Ser Wylis introduced the Riverlord to Arya.

Ser Patrek Mallister was the last. He bore signs of a recent beating, as did Ser Marq Piper, but he stood straight and proud as he made his bow to Arya.

"Ser Patrek, I hear you're a true friend of my uncle's."

"I am, your grace," he responded firmly, looking into her gray eyes and not at her bloodied clothes.

"Good," she replied. "I will speak with you later."

The Northmen waited until the former prisoners had all climbed the stairs. With the battle-fever wearing off, the steep stairs out of the dungeon looked as daunting as the Wall. Very slowly, Arya and her men climbed them, and then informed the cowering servants in the kitchens that the fighting was over. Cleaning up the castle would be long and grim work, but the Greatjon made it clear that the servants had nothing to fear from the Northmen or the released Riverlanders.

"Well," said Ser Wylis, swaying slightly on his feet as he looked around the courtyard littered with bodies and satiated wolves, "what now, your grace?"

Arya caught his hesitation. "We'll give these men a hot meal and a good night's sleep, and then we'll either leave Ser Patrek in charge, or send for his father," she replied easily. "Our work here is done; it's time to go north."

"Oh, thank the gods!" the Greatjon exploded in relief. "For a moment I thought you'd go to Casterly Rock next, to free Edmure; quite frankly, your grace, I'm getting on in years. Taking the Twins and Riverrun is enough for me."

Arya Stark grinned. She had never looked more wolf-like.

"Perhaps next time, Lord Umber. But not today."

Ser Patrek had sent a raven home at once, reassuring his father of his identity and freedom, and begging him for men-at-arms to hold Riverrun. Lord Jason Mallister had come himself, sailing down Ironman's Bay with favorable winds, and marching his men from the shore to the Water Gate of Riverrun at a punishing pace.

A fortnight after the battle, the Seagard men entered a different Riverrun to the one Arya had taken.

The dead had been buried in mass graves across the river. The spooked servants had scrubbed away the blood from the floors and tables. The poisoned ale had been dumped down the privies. Repairs had begun, and the Tully trout and Stark direwolf hung from the walls once again. The wolves had returned to the forest except for Nymeria, who sat lazily near Arya's left boot.

The Mallisters made an odd pair, thought Arya. Perhaps once upon a time, they would have looked alike, as fathers and sons often did. But now, the old lord looked the very image of an aging knight; tall, strong, well-armored, and fierce, with his eyes darting to and fro, looking for an ambush. And waiting for him stood Ser Patrek; thin, scarred, dressed in clothes that hung loosely on his frame, leaning on a walking stick, and missing several teeth.

But Lord Jason did not care. Once he saw who was in the castle (and who wasn't), he ran to his son and embraced him, making the younger man wince in pain. Their audience forgotten, the two men sobbed with joy and relief.

That might have been me, thought Arya. I could have been home by now, with Jon and Sansa.

Ser Wylis placed a gentle hand on her shoulder.

"You've done this, your grace," he told her, smiling down at her. "Those are good men, reunited because you willed it so."

Arya fought the urge to shove his hand away. Ser Wylis was so very kind that it made her uncomfortable. He knew what she was and what she'd done, and still he treated her like a gently born lady—like one of his daughters.

I didn't do it for them, she thought rebelliously. I did it so I could kill the Freys who murdered my family!

As Arya watched the Mallisters, she wondered if she knew how to be in a family anymore.

Before she could sneak away from the happy reunion to ponder this terrible thought, the lord of Seagard spotted her and Nymeria.

"Princess Arya, as I live and breathe," the man said, approaching Arya and kneeling before her with a clanking of steel. "You have the look of your father."

"Thank you," Arya replied. "Please rise. Welcome to Riverrun, my lord."

Lord Mallister rose. "Your grace, I owe you a debt I will never be able to repay," he said tremulously. "You have freed my only son from his captivity. If there is anything you or your brother desire of me, name it and it shall be done."

"I haven't seen or spoken with my brother Jon in years," Arya admitted. "But I will travel North immediately, and if there is anything the king would ask of you, I will send word. For now," she added, "hold Riverrun in the name of House Tully. The Freys are no longer in a position to harm any Riverlander, and the Lannisters have other problems, as I'm sure you know."

"Aye," Lord Jason agreed. "Trading vessels from the south brought us the news; a Targaryen is in Westeros again, and with dragons!" He shook his head. "I was hoping we were done with war."

Greatjon Umber appeared behind Lord Mallister, and gave him a hearty slap on the back that nearly sent the man sprawling.

"Jason!" he roared, embracing the armored knight. "Good to see you, friend."

"Jon!" the Riverlander answered, his eyes widening in pleasant surprise. "I feared you'd died at the Twins!"

"Never!" Lord Umber responded. "Princess Arya took the Twins and rescued us, me and Wylis here. Those wolves are something else," he added, shaking his head.

The Lord of Seagard turned to Arya.

"Your grace," Lord Mallister said solemnly, "I humbly accept the charge Houses Stark and Tully have bestowed upon me. But before you leave, I hope you have time to share your story; I'd dearly love to hear how you captured the Twins and Riverrun!"

The Greatjon let out a booming laugh. "There is always time for that!"

Arya nodded in agreement. What were a few hours, after weeks of self-imposed detours and delays?

"The castle is yours, my lord. Lead the way."

This chapter was brutal to write and sat half-finished for ages. Getting into the mind of someone as traumatized as Arya isn't easy for me, and I hope you were left at least a little disturbed and conflicted. She has crossed the moral event horizon by killing innocents, and I have no intention of taking the show's "You go, girl" attitude about it. The way she killed Lothar was a deliberate callback to how she killed the Tickler ("is there gold hidden in the village? Is there silver? Where is Lord Beric? How many men were with him? How many, how many, how many?" etc.)

When I was planning this part of the story, back in ye olde Stone Age, I found an article about child soldiers, and how being forced to fight for some warlord as children messes them up for life, skewing their perception of right and wrong, sending them into a sudden rage for little things, leaving them too isolated to deal with people after the war, and all sorts of emotional damage. Arya was a child in a death cult rather than a child soldier, but I incorporated some of that into her story. Do I want her and her family to have a happy reunion? Yes. Will she fit right in, like she never left? Impossible.